Wayne sat on the chromium stool at his marble kitchen island, staring down at the mobile phone in front of him. Beside it was a crumpled sheaf of paper with a phone number on it. Ever since Mikhail had handed him the envelope, he had been trying to make the call. But he kept finding he was too much of a coward. What exactly was he afraid of?
It was a tricky question to answer. But as soon as he reached for the phone, or let his eyes focus on the sheet of paper for too long, he felt the same all-conquering dread he had been feeling throughout his life, in one form or another. Sitting alone in the mansion that was really his father's property, it just seemed too good to be true. That the very thing he had been pining for all these years might finally be within his grasp.
He thought about Chloe. He had carried a torch for her for most of his life, and now she was dead. And not just dead – obliterated. Wiped from the face of the earth. No matter how he tried to rationalize it, he couldn't bring himself to accept Mikhail's assertion that slaughtering the Linleys was the best and only option. Rob, yes. But the others, no. Wayne closed his eyes and replayed in his head that final brief meeting with Chloe on the doorstep of the home that would soon become the scene of her savage murder. He couldn't stop thinking about how differently things might have turned out if only he'd shown a bit of backbone. But he had let her slip away. And now there was no going back.
Then of course there was what happened to Ronnie Vincent. Ronnie was a cunt; a fucking useless waste of space who'd ruined his career and his life for the sake of a payout from the Popovs. But had he really deserved the prolonged torture and gruesome death that had befallen him in Spain? When Wayne had received the news, he had initially felt a rush of elation. But it had quickly passed, like the ecstasy of an orgasm. Before long he was left feeling hollow and depressed. Like himself, Ronnie Vincent had been little more than a pawn in a larger and more complicated game. His death was meaningless.
Wayne couldn't bear the thought of anything like this happening to his mother. He was afraid to lose her, as well. If he picked up that phone and dialled, he knew it was irrevocable. He was putting his mother and himself in terrible danger. Particularly if his dad found out. Now there was a worst case scenario. If David got wind of the fact that Wayne was in touch with his mother, he would know that he'd been engaged in a bit of double-dealing with his father's enemies. After all, who else would have dared to give him the information that David had gone to such extraordinary lengths to hide?
Wayne thought about the Linley wake. He had waited until Max wasn't around and then bribed his way past security into the chapel. Standing there alone with those four coffins, the reality of this sordid business – this wicked, wicked life – was inescapable. He was responsible for those deaths as surely as if he had pulled the trigger himself. And worst of all, he couldn't even convince himself that he hadn't known what was going to happen. He knew what the Popovs were capable of. He'd always known. But in his frustration and rage, he had ceased to care.
It was getting dark outside, but he made no effort to turn on the lights. As the dusk enveloped him, he merely sat there and stared at the outlines of the phone and the paper on the counter. Earlier, he had managed to coax himself into picking up the phone and keying in the first couple of digits, but then a wave of panic had swept over him. This was getting ridiculous. He was supposed to be a man, wasn't he? He gritted his teeth and grabbed the phone, but at that moment it began to ring in his hand. He looked at the screen. Dad.
With a quick, distressed sigh, Wayne jabbed the 'answer' button.
"Hi, Dad."
"Alright, Wayne?" David was evidently in a matey sort of mood. He spoke in that jocular way he had when he was keen to mask what he was really feeling. "How are you? Haven't spoken to you for a bit."
"Yeah, I know, I've been busy... media stuff, you know."
"Ah. Well, I'm sorry. Thought I'd put that right."
Silence on the line. Wayne began to get nervous. Eventually, he felt obliged to say: "I saw the protests on the news. It's getting a bit ridiculous, isn't it?"
David laughed a little louder than his son's derisive comment deserved. "Yeah, it's ridiculous alright. But it's made me think. And I know that I did wrong by you, Wayne. And I want to say I'm sorry."
"That's alright, Dad."
"No, I mean it. I really and truly mean it. I'm sorry for all of it. I'm sorry I let you get hurt. Sorry I didn't stand up for you when it would have made a difference. Sorry I never gave you a chance to do something with your life."
Was Wayne imagining things, or were there tears in his father's voice? Were they having a 'moment'? He opened his mouth but no words came out.
"Anyway," David continued, "that's why I'm calling. I want to make you an offer. I think you'll like it. At least, I hope you will."
"Go on."
"I want you to be CEO."
Wayne almost dropped the phone. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm not kidding, son. I think you've got it in you to do a damn good job. And after all, it's best to keep these things in the family. I had thought Jason, but I’d rather it be you."
Wayne could only imagine how furious his sister's husband would be when he found out. After all, David had been grooming him for a position high within the organisation for a long time now.
"What about him? It's not Jason's decision to make. It's mine. And I've seen what a mess things can turn out to be when you're forced to rely on outsiders. I mean, just take that cock-up with Silvertown. So I want somebody I know I can trust. And that's you, Wayne."
"Well, I... I don't know what to say..."
"You can say yes, Wayne. That's all I need to hear. And besides, I know I'm getting on a bit. I won't be around forever. And I need somebody who'll be able to take the reins when I'm gone. Somebody who'll be able to walk the walk, as well as talk the talk."
Wayne's head was spinning. It was what he had wanted all along. Could it really be as easy as this? Was the top job simply going to fall into his lap, after all the machinations and conspiracy? All the backstabbing and bloodshed?
"I'll do it, Dad," he heard himself say. "I'll do whatever it takes."
He could hear the grin in David Carter's voice as he said: "I know you will."
But there was more. "Before I give you the job, Wayne, there's a couple of other things I need to know."
Wayne's skin prickled. "Such as?"
"I need to be sure I can trust you, Wayne. I need to know we're on the same side."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means no more pissing about with guys like Pete Morgan."
Wayne could not quite mask his sharp intake of breath.
"Oh, you didn't think I'd find out, did you? Well, I did. But don't worry. I'm not angry any more. I'm impressed."
Impressed? Wayne's brain performed several quick computations. So David knew that his son had been involved in orchestrating the protests that had almost cost him his job. But he clearly didn’t know the extent of Wayne's involvement with the Popovs. He didn't know about the information Wayne had been passing to the Russians. He did not know the full extent of his son's treachery. So where was the weak link? It had to be Pete Morgan himself. He must have spilled the beans to David. But, fortunately for Wayne, Morgan did not know that Wayne's idea had been funded and co-ordinated by the Russians. So as far as David was concerned, Wayne's only transgression was the (largely justified) protest about mismanagement at Mile End. No murders, no destruction of merchandise, no ruining Silvertown. With that in mind, Wayne might just be able to turn this into a win.
"I hoped you wouldn't find out," he said.
"You should have known me better than that," said his Dad. "I always find everything out."
In spite of himself, Wayne laughed. David Carter, playing the big man once again. "Well, I'm sorry, Dad."
"Nothing to apologise for," David reassured him, "so long as we're both on the same page going forward. We've both got to pull together if we're going to turn this thing around. This is bigger than just you and me, you know. It's about the club itself. We've got to save Mile End."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, the club's in debt up to its eyeballs, for a start. And what do you think happened to Rob Linley? He didn't fucking die of natural causes, I can tell you that much. Then there's Silvertown – what a clusterfuck that turned out to be. My fault, of course. Nobody to blame but myself. But we need to put a stop to the decline before it gets out of control."
"You mean it isn't already out of control?"
David laughed again. "Oh, you're a good lad but you've got a lot to learn about business! It's alright. That's what I'm going to teach you. Lesson number one: it isn't over till it's over. You can always turn things around. But first you have to plug any leaks. And I reckon we've got a mole in the organisation. Somebody who's passing info to the Russians. First order of business, I want to know who it is."
"Okay," said Wayne, buoyed by his dad's enthusiasm, "it's got to be someone close to you. Someone who knows the ins and outs of the business. Maybe someone in your private office? Have you thought about Rochelle?"
"It's not Rochelle," said David.
"How do you know?"
"Because I just do."
"Alright. Well, how about..." then Wayne had a flash of inspiration. "I've got it. There's only one person it could be."
"Yeah? Who's that?"
"Max Linley."
"Max?" A lengthy silence. Wayne could picture his Dad chewing over the notion. "What makes you think it's Max?"
"Look, I know it doesn't make much sense on the surface, but when you think about it you'll see what I mean. He wants it all – control of the club, the business... everything."
"And you think he'd sacrifice his son to get it?"
Another brief but heavy silence. "Not on purpose. But you know what the Russians are like. Anything can happen. What if Rob was meant to hand over the merchandise in a fake hold-up. The whole thing was a set-up. But it got out of hand, the car went out of control... and Rob was killed."
"And how about his wife?"
"Chloe?" Wayne spoke her name without thinking. The feel of it on his tongue was like a shard of ice. "She was a loose end. Maybe she knew something. Either way, I don't think it rules Max out."
"You're talking a lot of sense, Wayne," said David. "Right little Sherlock Holmes, aren't you? So, if you were in my shoes, Wayne, what would you do?"
This was a test alright. Wayne's answer to this question could make or break not only his relationship with his father, but also his future at Mile End. Maybe even his life. He needed to choose his words very carefully.
"Only one thing to do," he said.
"Which is?"
"You want me to say it over the phone?"
"Very good," said David, and Wayne knew he had passed the test.
But did he really mean what he had just said? Was he willing to let Max Linley take the fall for his betrayal? And all to save his own skin?
Who was he kidding? Of course he was.
"It's a shame about Max," David was saying. "He was a good bloke. We had some laughs, and I couldn't have done everything I did without him. But everything comes to an end."
"He thinks he can take your place," Wayne observed.
"Yes he does," David said with a sigh, "but he's wrong. I've got to go now, Wayne. But we'll talk later."
"Talk later."
David hung up the phone and lit a cigarette. The hard part was over with. Now all he had to do was break the news to Jason. And Jason wouldn't give a fuck, so long as he continued to pocket a hefty wage for doing next to fuck-all. In that respect, he was like any other son-in-law.
And as for Wayne, he had pleasantly surprised David. The lad had shown an unanticipated amount of backbone when he roped Pete Morgan into his scheme. It was a shrewd manoeuvre that could have caused a lot of trouble for David. But all the same, David admired it as a strategy. It was the sort of thing he could have seen himself doing when he was a younger man. The sort of move that he might have employed to oust George McMinn.
So maybe – just maybe – Wayne had more about him than his father had first thought. Maybe they could make this work. Maybe.
And then there was Max Linley. Another problem to be taken care of. It was an uphill struggle these days, but for the first time in a long time, David could sense that he was moving in the right direction. Rallying the troops. And it made a kind of perverse sense that Max should be the mole. After all, who was closer to David than he? Who else had such an intimate knowledge of the workings of the business? Nobody. He'd always known Max the father, Max the friend, Max the confidant. And now at long last he had come face to face with the final shade of Max's complex personality: the backstabbing cunt.
At that moment, Rochelle came in with some contracts for David to sign. "Better put some coffee on, love," he told her. "It's going to be a long night."
