The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) Page 8

  I round the bow, which is a bit more tricky, and involves letting go with my legs and hanging in space while I swing my body around the point to the other side, upper body strength well-tested. Safely on the other side, while giving my arms a momentary rest, I wait for Jack, and when I see him, offer a hand to lighten the load. I feel a champion, a specimen - ensured by a rigorous prison gym routine twinned with no alcohol and eating better than I’d ever done before. Prison was like a health camp, free from the temptations of the ‘have-it-all’ modern lifestyle and all it’s trappings. I don’t know whether that maneuver around the bow might be too much for Jack, and he takes my hand. I pull him around the corner, and we are right by the porthole. Jack gets comfortable on the rope, and has his own rest moment. I bring my index finger to my lips in a silent ‘shush’.

  Peeking up to the muck-covered glass, I look in, the soft bathroom light splashing my face. The bathroom is a white box, urinals on the far wall opposite, sinks and selfie mirrors to the left, toilet stalls to the right. At the farthest right urinal, a man stands legs well apart, rocking slightly, giving the impression he is having an improbably epic piss. He looks miles away, lost in a task he is obviously rather preoccupied with. I take the Swiss army knife from my jacket pocket, and use the flathead screwdriver to start work on the porthole screws, silently twisting the bottom ones away. When they fall loose, I don’t bother catching them, letting the thick screws tumble and plop into the Irwell. The man at the urinal is animatedly finishing off, and if more than a shake is classed as playing with it, then he’s damn well conducting a symphony in there. I leave the top fixing intact, so that, when we are inside, the window will slide back into place, covering our tracks.

  I wait for the man to finish his curious bathroom ritual, which now has involved some precision hair placement in the mirror. He heads out, presumably satisfied with his visit, strutting like a peacock with an empty bladder. He’s gone.

  I twist the plate of glass upwards, and the warm air from the bathroom gushes out - not to mention the stench of stale urine. I grimace, and hoist myself through, feet first. I land in the bathroom, with Jack poking his feet through almost as quickly as I land. I turn and catch him as he comes through, and steady him as he lands. I replace the glass with care, and we are in.

  Deep breath time. Take stock, for just a second. We are on enemy turf now, and if they have done the things we believe they have, they certainly won’t think twice of using deadly force here and now. We have committed the maximum affront - we have intruded, and brought the fight into their home territory. They won’t like that, but it will throw them. I gesture for Jack to stand behind me, as I edge my eyes around the open doorway of the mens toilets.

  A corridor. Dim lights, wood floors, art prints on the walls. Glimpses of modernity encased in an ancient dust jacket. Nobody in sight, but I can hear chatter, and music. The restaurant floor must be just around the corner at the end of the short corridor. We move, walking casually in case anyone should see us, as the murmur of voices increases in both depth and volume. At the end of the corridor, I edge around the corner. There are very fortunately placed potted lilies at the corridor entrance, which masks me little. It’s enough to give me a good look at the place.

  The first thing I notice is the barrels. The ceiling is obscured by huge, hanging, horizontally racked barrels, presumably used as containers when the ship was an active trade vessel, but now used decoratively. Actually, no, scratch that - on closer examination, they appear to have been converted. There are plastic pipes branching between them, and each barrel appears to have a tap system at one end. There is a metal unit attached at the head of each unit also, presumably providing scientific readings of the contents. Temperature, pressure and such. A suspended distillery.

  I’m actually rather impressed by that. Below the hanging moonshine factory sits the restaurant, and it’s a beauty. Never mind bring a date here - this is where I’d propose to her. It’s spacious, for a boat, with dark wooden surfaces, authentic Chinese ornaments and art, lush potted plants of varying species, all illuminated by soft tea lights on the tables and glowing lanterns overhead. You could lose yourself easily in here, an active imagination transporting the diner to another time altogether. Rows of intimate round tables, in varying sizes, with booths on the far left, with the entrance door on the far right. On the back wall, immediately opposite, is a well-stocked bar. It is a fantasy floating among the spoiled, polluted debris of an inner-city northern river, and they have done a great job with it.

  Back to business. The restaurant is about half full, which is entirely as expected. Chinese traditions often dictate a much later dining time, so this place will be bedlam by midnight. The barman opposite is a stocky Chinese man with a shaven head, and, like the captain of this vessel, he watches out over the restaurant with what looks like pride. I turn to Jack.

  ‘Let’s go for a drink’, I say, and step out from beyond the corner. Jack follows me, and we begin an unhurried stride across the centre of the restaurant. Nobody pays us any attention at all.

  As we walk, I take in the bar, the front door and the large windows over the booths on the left. Out best exit is that front door, as the gangplank seems to be the only dry route off here. We pass under the barrels too, and I glance up, out of interest as much as anything. A clear liquid is visible through the plastic pipework, and an idea strikes me. A sliver, nothing more - a scratched instinct. Before I can elaborate, we are by the bar, and I need to give the stocky man my full attention.

  I gauge quickly that this man, strong and intimidating, as he eyes us and tries to work out whether he had seen us come in, doesn’t recognize us. At least not yet. I make a show of ordering.

  ‘What are you on, mate?’ I say animatedly to Jack, perching on a barstool.

  ‘Umm, lager,’ says Jack, a bit thrown by this interlude but following suit.

  ‘Hi mate,’ I say to the barman, trying my best to swing him into a false-sense of confidence. ‘It’s a lager for my friend, and for me... Tell me, is that baijiu up there in the barrels?’

  He looks genuinely startled and I can tell I’ve caught him off guard good and proper. Truth is, I like new things and experiences, especially anything that will enrich me. It’s why I undertook parts of my training abroad. Expansion of the mind has always been something I’ve enjoyed, and trying new things while I’ve been away is one of them. I have a solid hunch that in those barrels is indeed baijiu - a very strong traditional Chinese liquor, about 110 proof. It is a drink that is increasing in popularity worldwide as China’s international powers and influence expands, and if all these barrels contain such a temptation, hanging above us is a liquid fortune.

  ‘Yes. Yes, it is,’ he responds in an authentic Manchester twang wrapped around a deep baritone.

  ‘Could I try some?’ I ask, cocking my eyes cheekily.

  ‘Of course,’ the man replies, keeping his eyes on me as he moves back down the bar. I see the door at the far end of the bar, presumably leading to the back room. The place we need to take a look in. The man flips the lager tap on and fills a taller than usual pint glass with crisp bubbling amber. He reaches down into the fridge for a chilled glass. I look back around the restaurant, to take in the employees. They appear mainly to be young girls and men - maybe international students, earning extra pennies. Nobody I would consider part of a security force for an underground criminal network. No - if this gang is on site, they are in that back room. And this barman will know either way.

  I’m handed a small cold tumbler of clear fluid. I sniff it, and even it’s redolence burns the back of my throat.

  ‘That’s £8.90, mate,’ says the barman.

  ‘Can I set up a tab?’ I counter. The man measures me with his stare. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Jack doing the same.

  ‘That depends on how long you were thinking of staying,’ the barman replies.

  ‘I’ll cut to the chase then,’ I bristle. ‘Sparkles Chu. What does that name mean to
you?’

  The man laughs heartily, launching his head back. It’s a dismissive gesture for sure, mocking me. I don’t like it one bit.

  ‘Is he here?’ I follow up.

  The man smiles and takes to wiping down the bar. ‘Finish your drinks and be on your way,’ he says, leering arrogantly.

  ‘That’s difficult for us, considering we have come to kill him.’

  The tone changes instantly, and the smirk is wiped from the barman’s face. He adopts a grimace that flickers, his eyes dancing with rage.

  ‘Why kill him?’ he growls. ‘What’s he done to you?’

  I put my glass down and lean in with a glare of my own. ‘We have it on good authority that he killed somebody. Somebody he shouldn’t have killed. And we are here to even the score.’

  The man thinks this through. Eventually, he lifts his t-shirt to expose his stomach - which is covered in small tattoos, each a variant on a theme. Little, crackling, point-edged sparks, about forty in total, spattering his torso. It appears we have been talking to Sparkles himself. At my fleeting recognition, he lowers his t-shirt, then walks over to the back wall. I stiffen, ready to reach for the gun in my waistband, but he merely reaches up and activates the wall mounted fire alarm. A bell sounds loudly, a continuous, droning note.

  I glance behind me, as ordered chaos engulfs the restaurant. The waiting staff usher the customers confusedly from the tables, unsure of whether it is a poorly timed drill or not. At the door, I notice men appearing, looking far more serious. Four in total, all solid looking heavies. They help usher the people out. After a moment, the bell abruptly shuts off, and the restaurant is empty. Food still steams on plates. The four new additions approach us from behind. I need to swing the balance back in our favor.

  ‘Stay where you are or Sparkles finds karma,’ I shout, whipping my pistol out and training it on Sparkles’ spite-filled mug. Jack pulls his gun out also, and aims it at the encroaching men - who come to a stop. We are in control, for now.

  ‘I don’t know who you are, or how you got in here, but you need to get the fuck out, now,’ says Sparkles.

  ‘Not until we have the retribution this young man needs.’

  ‘I don’t know what it is you think, and I don’t care. You come in here waving firearms and pointing fingers. This has been an ill-advised, and ill-judged attempt at intimidation that is not going to work. You are both outmanned and outgunned.’ There is a matter of factness to his delivery that suggests he isn’t pissing about, and a horrible tremor to his voice that suggests a growing deep resentment. We have obviously offended him deeply.

  ‘Then avoid the bloodshed and explain it to us. All the details.’

  Sparkles doesn’t seem to want to entertain that, his hate for us unbending.

  ‘You don’t know me. I’m not like who you usually deal with,’ I say.

  ‘And who do I usually deal with?’ counters Sparkles. I don’t let it distract me.

  ‘I’m a soldier. A man of principal. I don’t have any interest in your business or your turf. I’m trying to help this man get a job done, and I’m bloody well going to do it.’

  This seems to ignite some kind of recognition in Sparkles, which is echoed by one of the men behind me.

  ‘He’s the bastard that did that to Channy...’, one of the men says. I can’t tell which one it was, but I’ll stake the contents of my dodgy bank account on it being the guy who was waiting for Channy in the car park at the Premier Inn. He must have been in a fairly bad state by the time he was found, poor son of a bitch. I give Sparkles a light nod to let him know that what’s been suggested is true.

  ‘He shouldn’t have been there, end of story,’ I say.

  Sparkles takes it in. He must be about 35 years old, with a sureness that belies his years. Just a couple of years older than myself. If Felix is a competitive soul, he won’t like this young upstart in the city centre making waves that ripple out to his little empire in the quays.

  ‘We acted out of protection,’ says Sparkles.

  ‘My hairy arse,’ spits Jack, as his rage fully gets the better of him, and he begins a move. He spins to face Sparkles, and fires a deafening shot as he does - but he fires too early in the maneuver and fires over Sparkles’ shoulder, as Sparkles drops instinctively to the floor. A liquor bottle shatters on the bar, glass tinkling.

  I’m livid with Jack, for blowing his cool and our position, but there’s no time to think, and I can hear guns being unholstered and safeties removed. I grab Jack by the shoulder and heave him up off his seat.

  ‘Over the bar!‘ I command, and we both dive over the countertop, dragging glasses and bar dressing, as the first shots rain over our backs. We land ugly and hard on the other side, glass and liquor flying, and as I try to get my bearings, I see Sparkles scrabbling on all fours through the door to the back. Jack is pulling himself upright, and I reach back up over the bar, to fire a couple of shots back at the men. Should keep them back for a moment, but this has gone haywire a bit sooner than I’d planned. But we are away now.

  I can’t see much of our assailants, and I don’t know whether there is a secret exit through the back room. It being a boat, I can’t picture there being one, but I can’t be sure. I need to take care of business out here first and avoid being trapped either here or through the back.

  And then I remember the earlier idea, which, if executed, could settle this situation. I lean back against the wall and aim high towards the roof. I unload a fine arc of 5 shots into the barrels over the restaurant, which splinter 5 holes in their curved wooden walls. A few drops begin to drip out of the fresh gouges, followed by stronger gushes, and before long there are five streams of fluid spraying neatly onto the restaurant floor.

  The gunfire over our heads returns, barking at us like agitated dogs. I check the debris, for anything I can use. There is a shelf under the bar ahead of me, below the sink and countertops, and on it sits some cleaning products. I grab some j-cloth wipes and rip open the packaging, taking a handful and twisting them to a point. I gamble between bursts of gunfire, and grab up swiftly to any bottle I can reach. I feel glass, grip, pull down and am dismayed to find a bottle of Apple Sourz in my hand, which simply won’t do. I fire a couple of shots over the bar, to buy me time, and Jack does the same. I try fishing again, thrusting my arm upwards. I grasp another bottle and bring it down to check it, and this time find I’m holding a bottle of Sambuca. Perfect.

  I twist off the cap, and stuff the point of j-cloths into the top of the bottle. Jack passes me his lighter, and I light that sucker up. I take a second, as the flames lick merrily on the cloth, and imagine the perfect point to aim this thing. I turn to Jack.

  ‘Cover me,’ I say.

  Jack nods, and we both rise in unison. Looking out over the restaurant we see our bullets haven’t connected with any of the targets, nor have we caused much damage. The men are down low by the first row of tables, two of them getting rather soaked by the falling spirit. I take aim at the most central barrel, and throw the bottle like a baseball pitcher. It sails and arcs, time slowing to a crawl as the bottle tumbles end on end, higher and higher. It hits the barrel, shattering on impact and, with a loud, hot smash, fire sprays down onto the restaurant. The flames ignite the falling streams of baijiu, and suddenly I’ve managed to turn the place into a giant, floating, Molotov cocktail, the restaurant now engulfed in fire from ceiling to floor.

  Two of the men are now on fire, their clothes blazing like animated yellow and orange puffer jackets, and the remaining two are diving for the door. Consider the threat neutralized.

  We don’t have much time though, and my attention turns to the back room. I gesture Jack to flank the back door. I hear the crackling of fire and wood behind us - those barrels are not going to last, and I don’t really want to be there when they disintegrate and all that burning spirit comes down.

  I check the handle, clicking it ajar, before kicking the door sharply, which swings out into the room. I was expecting some gunfire,
or something to that effect. Definitely not the silence we are greeted with. Readying myself and my weapon, I spin into the room, firearm raised. There appears to be no human presence in here - but that doesn’t mean it isn’t extremely interesting.

  It seems to be part office, part chill-out room, part industrial workshop. There is a mahjongg table, an office desk with a phone and computer, then two tables arranged next to each other festooned with industrial equipment. There are two metal black boxes, hooked up to a central computer hub, thick wires linking the components together. The black metal boxes have transparent perspex sides, revealing a little plateau inside, doused in blue light. The air carries a funny sharp bitterness, which could be any number of things in this place.

  ‘Where is that prick?’ Jack shouts, as he peers over my shoulder. There doesn’t appear to be anything of immediate value lying around, and from back in the restaurant, I hear a deep groan, which echoes loudly over the crackling flames. We turn back to the restaurant floor, which is now engulfed in a series of smaller fires, separate from one another, but all fueled from above. The moan slows to a couple of creaks, as I realize it’s caused by wood straining under weight. Suddenly, one of the barrels bursts, wood cracking and splintering, and gallons of baijiu fall to the floor, catching fire as it goes, going up like a reverse waterfall of flames. The restaurant is swallowed and the whole boat is going up in smoke. Without question, we need to get out of here. Now is not the time to panic. Keep cool, Ben.

  ‘Where is he?’ shouts Jack.

  Just as I’m about to say I don’t know, I suddenly do know. Sparkles is running along the far wall past the main windows, ducking to avoid the spitting dragon fire. I was wrong. There must have been a secret exit in the back room leading straight out to the front. We set off in pursuit of Sparkles, hopping the bar like Olympic hurdlers but with far less grace. As we land, a second barrel explodes, showering inferno. I dive to my right (well, more like tumble end over end) and find myself by the windows. Sparkles is almost at the toilets now, but he too was knocked over by the blast, and is clawing his way back up to his feet.