No Way Back, page 6
part #7 of Sam Pope Series
Sam didn’t want to invite that attention to Jess’s doorstep, and with his new life of simplicity and calm, he too didn’t want the hassle.
As he walked, Sam stretched out his back. The slow ache of a vigorous weight session after work had started to take effect and he could feel his muscles wrestling for space. Now and then, he would feel a wince of pain in his spine, with his mind flashing back to his brutal fight with the Hangman of Baghdad, where Sam had his back sliced open.
Farukh didn’t survive.
Sam had.
He always survived.
That pain, along with the rest of the injuries he had suffered through his war, was becoming less frequent with every week. Sam was under no illusion that most of it was in his mind. His brain was reaching back to his former life, sending messages to Sam that there was still a war to be fought. But by dedicating himself to the youth centre and keeping his body and mind in the best shape possible, Sam was doing well to ignore the call.
As he walked past the first block of flats that comprised the estate, he could hear the murmurs of an argument, a woman’s voice bickering with peril. Sam quickened his pace, rounding the building until he arrived at the courtyard that separated the large decrepit block from the next.
Lily.
Jess’s daughter gesticulated at the gang before her, their smug grins causing Sam’s fists to clench. It was clear that she was trying to leave, but the young man she had become increasingly more enamoured with was refusing to let go of her arm. To hammer home his control, three of his friends had stood around her, their hoods up and their chuckles ringing loudly.
‘I want to go home.’
Lily pulled back again, trying her best to wriggle free from the boy’s grasp. With a nonchalant shrug, the boy let go of her sleeve, and she stumbled back before losing her footing and crashing backwards onto the hard pavement.
She yelped in pain.
The group laughed loudly.
Sam tried his best to keep to his new path.
But it was no use.
‘Hey!’ Sam called out, his deep voice echoing off the surrounding concrete and sending the whole scene silent. The four boys turned in a mixture of surprise and annoyance, with the ringleader snarling angrily as Sam stormed towards them. The others adjusted their positions, standing behind him, all of them doing their best to convey the amount of danger that Sam was walking toward. As he approached, Sam noticed a few twitches of apprehension among the gang. Still wearing his gym clothes, Sam knew that his muscular frame was daunting, and he stomped towards Lily, who was trying to scramble to her feet. Sam leant down and offered his hand.
He could see the humiliation in her pretty face, but her eyes conveyed an anger at his intervention. With a disgruntled mutter, she took his hand, and he hauled her to her feet.
‘Let’s go,’ Sam said sternly. Lily huffed and turned, stomping away from the gang who hurled a few derogatory slurs in her direction. The leader of the group, the one who had sent her tumbling, held out his arm with a smirk, her handbag hanging from his ringed fingers.
‘Oi, bitch. Forget somethin’?’
The others laughed as she turned back, her eyes red with tears and Sam took a deep breath.
His fight was over.
He kept telling himself that over and over again.
As he watched Lily continue to walk away, her arms wrapped around her body, he turned back to the gang who were laughing among themselves. Sam took a few steps towards them, his eyes glued to the leader of the group. One of them noticed his approach and all of them turned, chests out and jaws straight.
An attempt at intimidation.
Sam stopped a few feet from the ringleader, catching them off guard by his lack of fear.
‘Give me the bag and that will be the end of it.’
‘Man, fuck you, white boy.’ The leader spat, kissing his teeth. ‘Do you know who the fuck we are?’
‘Man, fuck this pussy up.’
‘Yeah, Jamal. Shank this bitch.’
‘Jamal,’ Sam said firmly, ensuring the boy understood he knew his name. ‘Just give me the bag and I’ll go.’
With his crew egging him on, Jamal took a few deep breaths, psyching himself up to prove his toughness. Sam had already clocked the nerves and watched carefully as the young boy’s hand slid into the pocket of his hoodie, most likely for a weapon. Knife crime was a horrific plague upon the city of London, especially among the teenage gangs that felt they had no other options.
If the government wouldn’t help, they had to fend for themselves. As much as Sam deplored the idea of young kids carrying weapons, he understood that desperate people did desperate things.
Nervously biting his lip, Jamal stepped forward, stopping a few inches from Sam.
‘You’re in a dangerous place, bruv.’
Sam leant in. His voice cold.
‘So are you.’
Sam’s threat rattled Jamal, who quickly tried to re-establish control. As he withdrew his arm, Sam’s arm shot forward, his hand wrapping around Jamal’s forearm and locking it in place like a mechanical vice. The gang member yelped in shock and Sam shot his other arm out as if to strike him.
Jamal threw his other hand up to block the blow.
His surrounding friends jumped back.
But the blow didn’t arrive.
In his panic, Jamal had dropped the bag to the floor and Sam leant down and retrieved it from the floor. He waggled it gently at the gang, looking each of them dead in the eye as a warning. He released Jamal’s arm and then marched away, heading after Lily who had disappeared around the corner and was heading for their flat. As the gang watched Sam leave, Jamal hurled some abuse at him, calling him a dead man.
But Sam had heard a lot worse.
From a lot tougher.
Eventually, he caught up to Lily, who had regained her composure, and he slowed to a walk, accompanying her as they approached the street that their respective flats were on. Sam held out the bag and Lily took it, not even offering Sam a courteous glance in the way of a thank you. Sam walked silently beside her before opening the gate to their building and letting her step through. She stormed to the door that led to the small entrance and headed straight for the door of her flat.
Sam headed to his.
It was a Wednesday and he knew that Jess worked an evening shift at a local supermarket nearby.
‘I’m upstairs if you need anything.’ Sam shrugged, before slotting the key into the lock of his door and it clicked open. As he stepped through into his stairwell, Lily leant against the frame of her own front door.
‘Thanks.’ She practically had to force the words out. ‘Back there. Thank you for helping me.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Sam offered her a smile.
‘I thought he liked me, you know…’
‘Take it from me, Lily. If you spend your time with bad people, bad things happen. I know things are tricky, but your mum is out there, working two jobs to give you as much as she can. Just try not to make things harder for her, hey?’
Lily wiped her eye with her sleeve and took a deep breath. Judging from the look of contemplation on her face, Sam knew he had got through to her.
‘There are a lot of bad people around here,’ she finally said. ‘So why did you help me?’
‘Because it was the right thing to do.’
‘You’re all right, John. You know that?’ Lily finally smiled. ‘But be careful. Jamal can be dangerous.’
‘I’ll take my chances.’ Sam chuckled, knowing that Lily was unaware of who he truly was. With one final sigh, Lily turned back to the door and pushed it open.
‘Goodnight, John.’
‘Goodnight, Lily.’ Sam nodded and Lily disappeared into her flat and the door closed. Sam stood for a few moments, juggling with an unusual feeling. He closed the door and climbed the stairs to his own flat and as he entered, he realised that the strange feeling was one that had been absent for a long time.
He felt good about himself.
Chapter Seven
Daniel Bowker was a man of simple pleasures.
From a young age, he had never been one to toe the line, and his attitude had led to a failed education. With an absent father and a selfish mother, Bowker had grown up marching to the beat of his own drum. For fifteen years he had run roughshod over the estate in Lewisham. Mixing with the other tearaways, the only place Bowker had found structure was in the unrelenting code of the streets.
Several scrapes had moulded him into a tough kid and when he stumbled across a boxing club on his fifteenth birthday, he found a place to make him dangerous.
Every day, he hit the bags.
Bowker had always been a big kid, but by his seventeenth birthday, he stood at over six feet tall without a shred of fat on him. Soon after that, with his coach spurring him on, Bowker began to enter the local boxing circuits, amassing a terrifying knock out streak due to his relentless assault on his opponents. His ‘go for the throat’ tactics were unruly and drew the ire of many boxing aficionados, but the wins racked up and soon Bowker was being touted as a potential pro.
But boxing federations had rules and policies, all of which he had felt caged him from being the fighter he was destined to be. By the age of twenty-one, he had failed one drug test too many and was banned from competing professionally.
Instead of hauling himself back on track, he followed the cocaine further off the rails into the world of bare-knuckle boxing, where once again, he built a reputation as a man without a limit.
They nicknamed him ‘The Reaper’.
And for numerous opponents, he more than lived up to the billing. By the time the fifth person had died by his hands, he found invitations drying up, with the underworld wanting to protect their investments.
It was a backhanded compliment, but one that had left him without a steady income and more importantly, a sense of purpose.
There was no glitz or glamour to the life he had led. But soon, a crime boss named Harry Chapman reached out, needing a problem solved before an impending court date.
Bowker took the job, sent a clear message to a key witness by breaking her husband’s spine, and was paid handsomely.
No fuss.
Whatever the request, Bowker obliged.
Men.
Women.
Even children.
Had he had even the slight remnants of a conscience, maybe he would have spoken out, but Bowker didn’t care. He understood that rich and powerful people were willing to exercise both attributes in order to remain in their thrones. While beating a teenage boy was done by his hand, the order came from a moral-less bastard sat behind an oak desk in a fancy office, fawning for the public.
Bowker wasn’t the real villain.
He was just an instrument in ensuring the real ones were never caught.
While the money rolled in from his rich clients, Bowker had never been lavish. The flat he was sitting in was modest. Its furnishing bought from a chain store that offered quality relative to its prices. The wide-screen TV was a budget brand and was only ever used for boxing or mixed martial arts events.
There were only three items within the confines of Bowker’s flat that were reflective of the vast fortune he had amassed from the crimes he’d committed.
The punchbag in the spare room, the mattress on his bed, and the record player that sat proudly by the window in the living room. Beyond that, the money went either on his private security business, or his penchant for prostitutes.
Either way, Bowker had more money than he ever needed.
A man of simple pleasure.
What he truly desired was what he had when he had stepped between those ropes all those years ago.
Fear.
The fear of the man opposite, looking him in the eye and realising that his luck had run out. That no amount of training could ever prepare him for what Bowker offered.
That their time had run out.
Once he’d forged his reputation, he had set up his own personal security firm. Throughout his life on the streets and the trail he had blazed through the underground boxing circuit, Bowker had met many like-minded individuals, all as gifted with their hands as they were vacant with their emotions.
He reached out.
Built a seven-man crew that were at his beck and call.
Clients stacked up.
Problems were solved.
Now, in his mid-fifties, Bowker didn’t even need to lift his own fists to handle a problem and cash a large cheque.
He only needed to lift his phone.
Simple pleasures.
As he sat back on his sofa and sipped his beer, he groaned slightly as the prostitute’s head bobbed up and down on his lap, pleasuring him for a hefty fee. The vinyl spun on the record player, the smooth jazz filling the apartment in its cool, off-the-cuff melody.
Simple pleasures.
All of it was interrupted by the shrill, piercing ring of his phone. With a sigh, he lifted it.
Bridges.
‘What?’ he grunted.
‘Mr Bowker?’ Bridges’ voice stammered. Bowker rolled his eyes. For all the slick talking and polish, Bridges was a weak man.
‘What do you want?’ Bowker looked down at the woman, indicating for her to continue. She obliged.
‘Umm… that problem we spoke about the other day?’
‘The reporter. Yeah. What about her?’
‘Did you read the paper today?’
‘I don’t read the papers,’ Bowker snapped. ‘Nothing about this world interests me.’
‘Well, it seems like the message wasn’t clear enough.’ Bridges paused, clearly scared of offering criticism. ‘Mrs Wea…’
‘Let me guess… you want me to send another message?’
There was a knowing silence.
Bowker smirked, waiting for Bridges to locate his balls before he could answer.
‘Yes. Perhaps a little stronger this time?’
‘That will cost more,’ Bowker said, taking a deep breath as his companion quickened her pace. ‘The bigger the mess, the bigger the clear up.’
‘Money isn’t a problem.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight?’ Bridges was panicking. Clearly, he had given his word that things wouldn’t get this far. ‘We believe she is preparing another article for tomorrow…’
‘I don’t give a shit,’ Bowker interrupted. ‘Consider it done. I’ll be in touch.’
Bowker cut off the call and tossed the phone onto the sofa beside him. A ripple of anger coursed through his body. The thought of his intimidation not working was insulting. Beyond the damage to his pride, it was an easily solvable situation. He would call his right-hand man, Benny Hicks and get him to dig up what they needed.
But that call could wait.
He tilted his head back, took a sip of his beer and let the jazz seep through him, as the woman brought him to the finish line.
Simple pleasures.
Sam stood at the back of the main hall; his muscular arms folded across his broad chest as he watched on with interest. He’d caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a window and barely recognised the man staring back. His hair was thick, pushed back over on itself and tucked beyond his ears. The usual dark colouring had been lightened with highlights that clashed with the thick, dark beard that was tinged with grey.
He was unrecognisable to the clean-cut soldier he had been, and while it was a necessity to live his new life, it always caught him off guard. Combined with the impressive physique his newfound gym addiction had moulded; it was like looking at a completely different person.
The hall was packed, with over fifty teenagers all shifting uncomfortably in the plastic seats he’d laid out in neat rows, their eyes transfixed to the front where Sean stood, talking passionately about the dangers of reliance on medication to deal with mental health problems. Dressed smartly in a shirt and chinos, Sam was impressed with the man Sean Wiseman had become. More impressive still was how, despite coming from a troubled background, Sean had pushed himself into a position where these kids trusted every word he spoke. Many of them came from similar backgrounds, whether that be through hard financial circumstances or broken homes. However it had happened, many of them had been let down with little option for a change.
In Sean, they had a role model. Despite everything Sam had done, the punishing fight against organised crime, he could never be the symbol of a better life that Sean was.
Watching Sean answer the concerns of the crowd, Sam felt a sense of pride. Judging from the look on Pearce’s face, who stood behind Sean with his hands casually in his pockets, Pearce felt it too. After Sam had destroyed the Kovalenko empire over two and half years ago, he’d sent Sean to Pearce as a way out.
Sean’s life had been hard, dragged along a bad path by the wrong people and Sam knew if there was one person who could bring him back from the brink, it was Pearce. As expected, Pearce did exactly that, but he didn’t just save Sean from a life of crime. He pushed him into a completely new one. And as Sean qualified as a social worker and took an active role in ensuring the children who relied on the youth centre never ventured down the same roads he did, Sam could see Pearce’s parental pride blossoming.
Although Pearce had been married in his younger years, he had never had a child. His commitment to his job of investigating corrupt cops had superseded his commitment to his wife, and they parted ways just shy of his fortieth birthday.
In Sean, Pearce had found a son.
In Pearce, Sean had found a dad.
Sam couldn’t think of a better role model for the young man, and for the kids in attendance, he couldn’t picture two better people for them to look up to. It made him shuffle uncomfortably on the spot, knowing the things he had done were so far beyond the line that he had to fake his own demise to lead any sort of normal life.
He had done bad things for the right reasons, but there should have been no way back.
Sam knew he was lucky to have his freedom and watched on with interest as Pearce stepped forward, his brow furrowed with authority as he addressed the room.
