Tommy
Morgan hated his one-room bedsit. Undoubtedly, it had been a fine, large
bedroom for someone many years before, when the house would have almost certainly
have been occupied by a family of fairly substantial means, but as a living
room, bedroom and kitchen rolled into one, it served poorly.
Rented
as “furnished” accommodation, the furniture consisted of an old two-seater
settee and armchair, which Morgan presumed to be a match, though the pattern
was so faded and grimy it had passed beyond recognition, a rickety
tubular-legged coffee table with grubby, Formica top and a small wardrobe set
against the wall. The threadbare carpet covered only half the floor,
surrendering the rest to bare floorboards. A single bed was tucked against the
wall, adjacent to the wardrobe. A tatty, plywood partition cut off the kitchen,
which really was nothing more than an electric cooker, old enough surely to be
approaching heirloom status, and a small sink.
Morgan
shuddered despite wearing a thick, woollen pullover. The early November chill
easily overcame the meagre warmth thrown out by the upright paraffin heater,
his only source of heating. He lived for the day he would get out of this place
and that surely couldn’t be much longer. There had to be contact soon.
Morgan’s
apartment was one of two in the upstairs of the house, the other occupied by
George, a young man of questionable mental capacity, who had a regular Friday
night ritual, whereby he indulged himself throughout the evening in the local
pub to such a degree it became a race against time, on his return, to reach the
communal lavatory at the far end of the landing before bringing most of it back
again, an awful waste of good beer, Morgan always thought. To his credit,
George usually made it in time, but the accompanying sound effects that echoed
in the old house were something Morgan could have happily lived without.
Life
in this hovel did, however, have its lighter moments, provided mainly by
George’s inclination to sleepwalk around the house naked. There was one
memorable night when, wakened by the screams of the elderly spinsters who
occupied the only ground floor apartment, Morgan had flown down the stairs expecting
to find murder, rape or robbery in progress. Instead he found George, as naked
as the day he was born, standing at the open door, while the two women,
screaming heartily, cowered within. Morgan had carefully guided him back to his
room, but was never sure whether he really was sleepwalking or not. After all,
it had been a Friday night!
The
electric kettle clicked off. Dropping a tea bag in a mug, Morgan poured in the
hot water. As he fetched the milk bottle from the kitchen, there was a knock on
the door.
“Who
is it?”
“Electricity
Board, sir. There seems to be a fault on your meter.”
“It’s
downstairs, by the front door.”
“We
know where the meter is, sir.” There was no attempt to hide the note of
impatience in the voice. “We need to check some of the wiring in the flat.”
Morgan
cursed as he put the milk bottle down on the coffee table and crossed to the
door. Why did interruptions always come just when a cup of tea or a meal had
been put on the table? He had opened the door barely an inch before it was
shoved open with great force, sending him reeling backwards, tipping over the
coffee table to crash to the floor amid a scattering of hot tea and splashing
milk.
The
room was spinning. He knew he had to stabilise, clear away the fog from his
eyes. There was a vague image of two men as he was hauled to his feet. The
breath was knocked out of him as a fist hammered into his stomach. Another fist
followed up, smashing into his face. Blood flowing freely from his nose, his
legs buckled and he once more crashed to the floor. As the figure loomed over
him again, he lashed out with his feet, just about making contact. His
attackers stepped back, but the respite lasted only a moment. They came again,
skirting his lashing feet, to haul him up with a heavy thud against the wall.
Bleeding, hardly able to see and gasping for breath, he was powerless to resist
the fists pounding his body and face.
As
if by instinct his mind continued to work while his body succumbed to the
onslaught, searching for a way out. He needed a weapon of some sort if he was
to have any hope of fighting back. The milk bottle; where was the milk bottle?
The succession of blows taking their toll, he slid down the wall, clattering
again to the floor. Through the mist clouding his eyes, he could just make out
the blurred outline of the bottle lying beside the overturned coffee table,
about four feet away. It was his only chance. A desperate lunge through the
feet of his assailants and it was in his hand. Summoning all his remaining
strength, he brought the bottle down on the edge of the coffee table, smashing
the bottle in half. Sitting on the floor, he turned, clutching the milk bottle
neck as he pushed the jagged, broken edge towards his attackers. The two men
held back, giving Morgan the vital seconds he needed to clear his head.
Everything
drifted back into focus as he managed to lift himself shakily to his feet. The
blows he had taken to his stomach made him feel sick. Blood pouring from his
mouth and nose dripped off the end of his chin. He could actually feel his left
eye swelling. But he was ready for them now. The element of surprise was gone
and his makeshift weapon levelled the odds somewhat. Brandishing the broken
bottle in his right hand, he beckoned the two men forward with his left.
“Come
on, then,” he challenged. “Let’s see how brave you are now.”
“I
think we’ve had enough for now, Mr. Morgan.”
Another
man had entered the room, older than the other two, with hardly a hair on his
head, but a thick, bushy beard, as though all his hair was growing in the wrong
place.
“Who
the hell are you?” demanded Morgan. “Who the hell are any of you?”
“Most
people call me ‘the Beard’ for rather obvious reasons,” said the new arrival.
“Now do put down the bottle, please.”
“Only
if you call off Pinky and Perky here.”
The
two men reacted to the taunt, but as they moved forward Morgan lashed out with
the broken bottle, drawing the jagged edge across the wrist of the one nearest
to him. There was a startled cry as blood oozed from the severed skin.
“I
said that’s enough,” shouted the Beard.
Morgan
was unsure whether it was he who was being admonished or the two muscle men. To
the latter the Beard added, in calmer tone, “Leave us. Get that wrist fixed.
You’re bleeding all over the man’s floorboards.”
The
two men hesitated.
“Go
on,” insisted the Beard. “I’ll be all right.”
Seemingly
satisfied, they departed through the open door, leaving a trail of blood spots
across the floor. Shutting the door behind them, the Beard made a quick survey
of the cheerless room that passed for an apartment.
“God,
do you really live in this dump?”
“It’s
all I can afford.”
“Or
the Social Security can afford.”
“That’s
none of your bloody business.”
“Put
down the bottle, Mr. Morgan.” When he made no move to do so, the Beard added, “You’re
being very foolish. I am armed.”
He
opened his unbuttoned overcoat and jacket to reveal the butt of a pistol poking
out from under his armpit, secured in a holster clipped to a strap tightened
around his shoulder.
Righting
the coffee table, Morgan dropped the broken bottle on to the patterned top,
awash with a gooey mixture of tea, milk and blood. His nose was still bleeding,
though now reduced to a trickle.
“I
need a towel or something for my face.”
“Okay,
but don’t do anything silly,” agreed the Beard, wondering about the slight, yet
unmistakeable, hint of an Irish accent in Tommy Morgan’s speech.
In
the kitchen Morgan soaked a towel in cold water. Returning to sit on the edge of
the bed, resting his painful, battered face in the wet towel, he asked, “Now
what’s this all about?”
“You’ve
been asking questions, my friend. Too many questions in the wrong places.”
“I
don’t consider us to be friends and it would seem I’ve been asking them in the
right places.”
“Don’t
try to be too smart, Mr. Morgan.” The Beard dropped into the well-worn
armchair. “Your position is not a very healthy one. The people I represent
don’t much care for someone poking around asking questions. It draws attention
to them and they get a little edgy.”
“I
had to find a firm big enough to handle the deal we’re offering.” The towel was
now stained red, but the cold water had stemmed the bleeding completely. The
eye felt as though it was still swelling.
“Who
are we?”
Morgan
hesitated. Spotting the electric kettle, dented and upside-down on the floor,
he found himself wondering if it would still work. Why couldn’t they have
waited until he had drunk his cup of tea?
“We
are an army at war. We fight to remove the shackles of British oppression that
has blighted our country for centuries.”
“The
I.R.A.?” The Beard raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“I’ll
say no more. Draw your own conclusions.”
“Well,
well, well.” The Beard stood up to examine the curtains, once a bright yellow,
but dulled by years of accumulated dirt. “Christ, don’t you ever wash these?”
“I
didn’t come all the way from Ireland to wash curtains.”
“Suppose
you tell me what you did come for.”
“To
make a deal. We need money urgently for weapons and ammunition.”
“Yes,
you’ve had a bad time lately, haven’t you?” The Beard detached himself from the
grimy curtains with a gesture of disgust. “Quite a few of your men killed or
caught, your secret weapon hideaways uncovered. Lost a few rifles too many,
eh?”
“We’re
talking much more than a few rifles. We have spectacular plans to intensify the
fight against oppression. We can win this war, but it costs a lot of money. I
put myself at considerable risk coming over here. I am not exactly unknown to
the police and security forces. I am not taking that chance for a few rifles.”
“All
right, Mr Morgan, just what is it that you are offering for sale?”
“Heroin.”
Morgan looked for a reaction from the Beard, but there was none. “Top grade
stuff, you’ll never be offered better.”
“Street
value?”
“Around
four million.”
This
time there was a reaction in the form of an audible gasp. For a few seconds
there was silence as the Beard stared hard at Morgan. Then he said, “Are you
telling me you have four million pounds’ worth of heroin tucked away?”
“Yes
and it’s here in the country. Within an hour of agreeing a price it could be in
your hands. Cash on delivery, of course.”
“How
the hell did you get your hands on that?”
“That’s
my business.”
“If
you want to deal, mister, you had better make it my business.” A note of menace
had crept into the Beard’s voice that made Morgan feel a little uneasy. “Now
where does a bunch of toy soldiers like you lay its dirty, little hands on four
million pounds’ worth of heroin?”
Now
it was Morgan’s turn to react. Standing up angrily, he stabbed a threatening
finger in the direction of the Beard and cried, “That’s enough of the insults.
I’ll not stand by and let you belittle the brave men who fight for the freedom
of my country.”
“Oh,
and what are you going to do about it then?” taunted the Beard, moving a
couple of paces closer to the Irishman. “Do you need to look in a mirror to see
what a mess your face is? Believe me, it wouldn’t take much arranging for it to
be made more of a mess. One of the reasons for this little demonstration here
today was to show you the sort of forces you are dealing with, but I have to
wonder if the message has got home. If you don’t want a repeat performance, I
suggest you tell me where this heroin has come from.”
Morgan
had little choice. The deal had to be made.
“Libya.”
The
Beard grunted in disbelief. “Gift-wrapped by Colonel Gaddafi, you’re going to
tell me next.”
The
Irishman was becoming frustrated. “What the hell’s the matter with you? We have
a lot of friends out there. Our men train there for active duty. It’s Pakistan
heroin obtained for us by our friends in Libya. I’m offering your organisation
a five-star deal and you treat me like shit.”
“You
are shit, Mr Morgan,” snapped the Beard, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean we
won’t deal with you. What sort of price are you looking for?”
“Three
million.”
“That’s
a lot of money.”
“And
a lot of profit.”
“There
are certain overheads to be met.”
“Bullshit!”
Morgan was adamant. “The price is not for haggling. Three million, not a penny
less.”
After
brief consideration, the Beard replied, “It’s too big for me to make a decision
on, I’ll have to report back. This one will have to be decided at the highest
level.”
“Then
that’s who I’ll deal with,” said Morgan. “I want to see your top man.”
“Impossible.
You’ll deal through me.”
“Then
it’s no deal. I want to deal with the man who can make the decision. I should
wait and see how impossible he thinks it is after he has heard what’s on
offer.”
“We
shall need a few days to consider what you say, Mr Morgan. Do you know the Mole
with Two Heads not far from here?” The Irishman nodded. “Be there a week today
about eight. We will, of course, require sample of the goods.”
“You
shall have it,” agreed Morgan. “A week today.”
The
Beard paused at the door. With one last sweeping look at the apartment, he
said, “You live in a pigsty, Mr. Morgan. It’s disgusting.”
Ten
minutes later Morgan also left the building and made a short walk to the
nearest phone box. When the number he dialled was answered, he said simply, “It
looks as though we’re on.”
It
hurt too much to smile.
