clothes, there’s a ten-inch double-bladed machete, a luminous-green water pistol full of ammonia, and a hammer.
Not that he’s spotted any police so far, mind, and he doesn’t really expect to round here. So he won’t see those items again until he reaches the house he’s heading to, on the edge of the Fairfield estate.
Kramer leaves the main street and heads down a ginnel, lined on either side with tall wooden fences. It’s the quickest cut-through. A few bends and he’ll be out on to the edge of the waste ground, then just across to the estate beyond. He’s been there before, from time to time, calling up debts. It’s certainly the place for them: a maze of grey one-storey blocks, with lots of little alleyways in between; all feral kids, barking dogs, and bins lying in the middle of the streets. The whole place is one big fucking debt.
He doesn’t think too much about what he’s going to do when he gets there. It’s pointless to get ahead of yourself. Knock on the door. When it opens—or if it doesn’t, kick the fucking thing off its hinges—go in. A faceful of ammonia to put anyone down, then it’ll be hammer in one hand, machete in the other. That’s as far as he’s thinking, because when you get hung up on a plan, you get strung out when the plan goes wrong. He’s seen it with traditional martial artists on the door. In the dojo it’s all straight lines, but there aren’t any straight lines when you’re rolling around on the fucking pavement. You need to adapt.
But he knows this: a message needs to be sent.
The first time it happened on the doors, it was some dealers trying to muscle their way in, figuring they were fifteen strong and the door team were five. Trevor explained to Kramer what would happen and asked whether he was cool with it, and Kramer said he was. They picked out the main guy and, the next morning, staged a little home invasion: smashed his knees and elbows with a hammer and put the machete up his arse. He didn’t die. Didn’t tell the police either. But most importantly, he didn’t turn up at the club again. None of them did.
The difference tonight is he’s doing it alone. But that’s okay—and even if it wasn’t, it’s the way it needs to be, because the slight was personal: the black bodybuilder, Connor, mugging him off in front of everyone last night. Making threats, fancying himself. Kramer isn’t the biggest guy, and probably looks like an easy mark to make for a guy on the up. Of course, anyone who’s anyone knows Kramer behaves badly out of hours. Maybe Connor has been told since, as he didn’t turn up at the club tonight. But that isn’t good enough.
All it took was a few discreet enquiries to find the guy’s address.
He steps out of the end of the ginnel.
It’s four in the morning, so the wasteland looks deserted. The ground is pale and dead-looking; what isn’t open is just patches of shivery grass and larger clumps of night-black bushes. Even a dumping ground like the estate needs one of its own. The wasteland is the kind of place you find burnt-out cars and illegally tipped rubbish—piles of counterfeit CD cases and ragged bags of old torn clothes. Kramer picks his way carefully along one of the makeshift paths that leads across its heart. He can see the sprawl of the estate in the background, the houses as dull grey and dead as teeth in the dark.
His breath still fogs, but he can hardly see it now. His trainers crunch softly on the gravel and dirt. At his side, the bag rustles.
Kramer follows the path through a cluster of bushes. Up close, the leaves are almost invisible in the darkness. The branches are skeletal. In front of him, it’s difficult to see—
He stops.
There is someone a little way ahead of him.
He starts swirling the saliva around his mouth again. The figure is about ten metres away, but it’s impossible to make out any details. Not big, not small. Little more than a silhouette of a human being against a silhouette of
Not that he’s spotted any police so far, mind, and he doesn’t really expect to round here. So he won’t see those items again until he reaches the house he’s heading to, on the edge of the Fairfield estate.
Kramer leaves the main street and heads down a ginnel, lined on either side with tall wooden fences. It’s the quickest cut-through. A few bends and he’ll be out on to the edge of the waste ground, then just across to the estate beyond. He’s been there before, from time to time, calling up debts. It’s certainly the place for them: a maze of grey one-storey blocks, with lots of little alleyways in between; all feral kids, barking dogs, and bins lying in the middle of the streets. The whole place is one big fucking debt.
He doesn’t think too much about what he’s going to do when he gets there. It’s pointless to get ahead of yourself. Knock on the door. When it opens—or if it doesn’t, kick the fucking thing off its hinges—go in. A faceful of ammonia to put anyone down, then it’ll be hammer in one hand, machete in the other. That’s as far as he’s thinking, because when you get hung up on a plan, you get strung out when the plan goes wrong. He’s seen it with traditional martial artists on the door. In the dojo it’s all straight lines, but there aren’t any straight lines when you’re rolling around on the fucking pavement. You need to adapt.
But he knows this: a message needs to be sent.
The first time it happened on the doors, it was some dealers trying to muscle their way in, figuring they were fifteen strong and the door team were five. Trevor explained to Kramer what would happen and asked whether he was cool with it, and Kramer said he was. They picked out the main guy and, the next morning, staged a little home invasion: smashed his knees and elbows with a hammer and put the machete up his arse. He didn’t die. Didn’t tell the police either. But most importantly, he didn’t turn up at the club again. None of them did.
The difference tonight is he’s doing it alone. But that’s okay—and even if it wasn’t, it’s the way it needs to be, because the slight was personal: the black bodybuilder, Connor, mugging him off in front of everyone last night. Making threats, fancying himself. Kramer isn’t the biggest guy, and probably looks like an easy mark to make for a guy on the up. Of course, anyone who’s anyone knows Kramer behaves badly out of hours. Maybe Connor has been told since, as he didn’t turn up at the club tonight. But that isn’t good enough.
All it took was a few discreet enquiries to find the guy’s address.
He steps out of the end of the ginnel.
It’s four in the morning, so the wasteland looks deserted. The ground is pale and dead-looking; what isn’t open is just patches of shivery grass and larger clumps of night-black bushes. Even a dumping ground like the estate needs one of its own. The wasteland is the kind of place you find burnt-out cars and illegally tipped rubbish—piles of counterfeit CD cases and ragged bags of old torn clothes. Kramer picks his way carefully along one of the makeshift paths that leads across its heart. He can see the sprawl of the estate in the background, the houses as dull grey and dead as teeth in the dark.
His breath still fogs, but he can hardly see it now. His trainers crunch softly on the gravel and dirt. At his side, the bag rustles.
Kramer follows the path through a cluster of bushes. Up close, the leaves are almost invisible in the darkness. The branches are skeletal. In front of him, it’s difficult to see—
He stops.
There is someone a little way ahead of him.
He starts swirling the saliva around his mouth again. The figure is about ten metres away, but it’s impossible to make out any details. Not big, not small. Little more than a silhouette of a human being against a silhouette of
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