knew Jones would have no compunction about breaking his arm, or anything else come to that. Anderson wouldn’t care; he also knew that.
Danny’s left arm was trapped under his own body by his chest. He tried to move it out but Jones leaned more of his own weight forward to prevent this and reached his free hand down between Danny’s legs, seizing his testicles and squeezing hard and rotating at the same time. He’d known some pain in his life, but nothing remotely like this. He’d been kicked in the nuts before and that had been bad enough, bowel-churning, sickening pain, but this was worse and it went on, and on and on. He had always felt that things were never as bad as you might expect. Not any more. Now he knew that some things were exponentially worse than you could ever have imagined. The pain was excruciating. He thought he was going to vomit.
If Danny had known, he would have told him. Not only was the pain dreadful, so was Jones himself. There would be no point holding out against Morris Jones, no point at all. Not if you knew what was good for you.
‘Where is he, Danny?’ Jones’s voice was merciless in his ear. ‘Tell me what you know.’ Tears ran involuntarily down Danny’s face. Jones had a terrible reputation. Once Danny had unexpectedly walked in on him in the cellar of the Three Compasses. That was the name of the North London pub that the Andersons owned. He’d stammered an excuse and left, but not before he’d seen a huddled form on the rough concrete floor, covered by a blanket, and the bloodstained long-nosed electricians’ pliers in Morris Jones’s hand.
One naked foot, a man’s foot, had been poking out from the blanket. It hadn’t been moving. Jones had looked at Danny impassively. He’d been bare-chested, his shirt and suit jacket hanging neatly on the back of a chair. Danny had assumed he didn’t want to get them dirty.
The pupils of Jones’s eyes had been like pinpricks. Danny had heard the rumours about Morris Jones’s heroin habit; he guessed it was true.
‘I swear to God, I don’t know.’ More pressure on his arm and testes. He tried to resist, to push away, but Jones’s strength was terrifying. He felt a roaring in his ears and thought he was going to black out. Fleetingly he thought, If Jones is a junkie, he’s in bloody good condition.
Then he heard a voice saying, ‘Leave it, Mo, he’s had enough.’
Danny felt the remorseless grip slacken and stop. The weight disappeared from his body and he sank to his knees, coughing. The pain in his lower body was intolerable. For another long moment he thought he was going to vomit. He leaned forward on all fours, breathing deeply, willing the pain away.
‘Boss,’ said Morris Jones to Anderson. He moved back to the bar and replaced his teeth. He glanced at Danny incuriously. Danny hauled himself upright. His knees were trembling from the incredible ache in his pelvis. He retched drily and staggered to his feet.
Anderson stood looking at the silent figures on the sofa and Jordan’s head on the table.
‘Did you know, Danny, on average there are two to three murders per week in London? Statistics, eh, Jordan.’ He picked up his brother’s head gently and looked into the dead eyes as if seeking confirmation. Something about the face puzzled him and Danny and Jones watched as he gently tilted the head and, using his thumb and forefinger, opened Jordan’s jaws to look into his now open mouth.
Danny, his pain subsiding, watched his boss with awed fascination. Anderson was taller than Jones, gaunt, his hair hanging in its almost shoulder-length rat’s tails. His cheeks were sunken and the eyes glittered, as always, with a kind of unhealthy fire. With the severed head between his hands, he looked crazier than ever. He looked like an insane prophet.
He kissed his brother’s cold forehead gently, placed the head back down on the table and turned to Jones.
‘Check their mouths,’ he said. Jones nodded and went to
Danny’s left arm was trapped under his own body by his chest. He tried to move it out but Jones leaned more of his own weight forward to prevent this and reached his free hand down between Danny’s legs, seizing his testicles and squeezing hard and rotating at the same time. He’d known some pain in his life, but nothing remotely like this. He’d been kicked in the nuts before and that had been bad enough, bowel-churning, sickening pain, but this was worse and it went on, and on and on. He had always felt that things were never as bad as you might expect. Not any more. Now he knew that some things were exponentially worse than you could ever have imagined. The pain was excruciating. He thought he was going to vomit.
If Danny had known, he would have told him. Not only was the pain dreadful, so was Jones himself. There would be no point holding out against Morris Jones, no point at all. Not if you knew what was good for you.
‘Where is he, Danny?’ Jones’s voice was merciless in his ear. ‘Tell me what you know.’ Tears ran involuntarily down Danny’s face. Jones had a terrible reputation. Once Danny had unexpectedly walked in on him in the cellar of the Three Compasses. That was the name of the North London pub that the Andersons owned. He’d stammered an excuse and left, but not before he’d seen a huddled form on the rough concrete floor, covered by a blanket, and the bloodstained long-nosed electricians’ pliers in Morris Jones’s hand.
One naked foot, a man’s foot, had been poking out from the blanket. It hadn’t been moving. Jones had looked at Danny impassively. He’d been bare-chested, his shirt and suit jacket hanging neatly on the back of a chair. Danny had assumed he didn’t want to get them dirty.
The pupils of Jones’s eyes had been like pinpricks. Danny had heard the rumours about Morris Jones’s heroin habit; he guessed it was true.
‘I swear to God, I don’t know.’ More pressure on his arm and testes. He tried to resist, to push away, but Jones’s strength was terrifying. He felt a roaring in his ears and thought he was going to black out. Fleetingly he thought, If Jones is a junkie, he’s in bloody good condition.
Then he heard a voice saying, ‘Leave it, Mo, he’s had enough.’
Danny felt the remorseless grip slacken and stop. The weight disappeared from his body and he sank to his knees, coughing. The pain in his lower body was intolerable. For another long moment he thought he was going to vomit. He leaned forward on all fours, breathing deeply, willing the pain away.
‘Boss,’ said Morris Jones to Anderson. He moved back to the bar and replaced his teeth. He glanced at Danny incuriously. Danny hauled himself upright. His knees were trembling from the incredible ache in his pelvis. He retched drily and staggered to his feet.
Anderson stood looking at the silent figures on the sofa and Jordan’s head on the table.
‘Did you know, Danny, on average there are two to three murders per week in London? Statistics, eh, Jordan.’ He picked up his brother’s head gently and looked into the dead eyes as if seeking confirmation. Something about the face puzzled him and Danny and Jones watched as he gently tilted the head and, using his thumb and forefinger, opened Jordan’s jaws to look into his now open mouth.
Danny, his pain subsiding, watched his boss with awed fascination. Anderson was taller than Jones, gaunt, his hair hanging in its almost shoulder-length rat’s tails. His cheeks were sunken and the eyes glittered, as always, with a kind of unhealthy fire. With the severed head between his hands, he looked crazier than ever. He looked like an insane prophet.
He kissed his brother’s cold forehead gently, placed the head back down on the table and turned to Jones.
‘Check their mouths,’ he said. Jones nodded and went to
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