The Confessions of Paul Davis ( Part 2).

He heard a noise outside the room. A shuffling noise. Someone was coming , but moving very slowly. He took no notice. Closed his eyes and regained his thoughts.

He remembered the conversation he had with George about their “arrangement”.

“I need to keep as far away from what you do as possible. Understand?”

“Sure George.”

“Sean will call you. You’ll meet up somewhere and he’ll give you an envelope with all the details in it. How you do it is up to you. But try to make as many of them as possible look like an accident or something. “

“How do I get paid?”

George smiled at him.

“What, you want paying as well?”

They both laughed. George continued.

“Every Friday at three o’clock, go to the Duke Of Kent pub in Kilburn. Ask for Tony the barman. He’ll give you your wages. Don’t worry, you’ll be well looked after.”

“Thanks George.”

“Just remember, only contact me in an absolute emergency and even then do it through Sean.”

He remembered his first assignment. Steven Briggs.  A local publican who had been talking out of turn. One of George’s men overheard him saying that the Kelly family were just a load of pikeys with no class. George wanted him gone as quickly as possible.

Briggs was dead within a week. Hung himself in the pub cellar. Even left a suicide note.

Shortly afterwards there was Tony Palmer. A local face who’d caused George a few business problems. He got drunk and decided to take a swim in the Regents Canal. It was four weeks before his body surfaced. Even the Police hated Tony Palmer and very quickly determined that the cause of death was by “miss-adventure”.

But his addiction was getting worse and the hunger had to be fed. The more you get the more you need.

He started going out late at night to find the homeless. He knew the area well, knew where they hung out. He’d offer up a bottle of whiskey and sit drinking with one of them. Once they were relaxed he’d slowly and calmly put his hands round their throat and watch as their sad life drained away. He found it satisfying and fulfilling. There was nothing sexual about it, he didn’t get turned on by it, he just needed it. There were nights when one wasn’t enough and he’d go to another part of town and do another one. Those were the nights he went to bed a happy man.

The Police couldn’t be bothered investigating the death of the homeless. It was just assumed that they killed each other, probably over a bottle of something. They were a nuisance anyway, he felt as though he was performing a public service.

Then he remembered 1984. His favourite year. The year George sent him to Ireland. George was livid about the assassination attempt on Gerry Adams and promised to help with reprisals any way he could.

He was told to make his way up to Liverpool docks. He was met in a bar by an Irishman called Malachi. There wasn’t a big exchange of words. They both knew why he was going across the water. He was smuggled aboard an old fishing boat and arrived in Donaghadee in the early hours of the next morning. He stayed with a cousin of George’s, a captain in the IRA.

He loved the Irish. They had a passion, a commitment that was rare in England. They knew what they wanted and would do anything to get it. He recognised himself in these people. He did three during his time in Ireland.

The first was a member of the Garda Siochana. It was thought he had contacts with the Ulster Freedom Fighters and had helped in the Adams shooting.  It was here that he showed his worth to the Irish. He showed no panic, no fear, no apprehension. Just walked up to the man and shot him twice at point blank range. Then calmly walked back to the waiting car and was driven away.

Then in September he was driven to County Tyrone. Two well- known members of the Ulster Defence Regiment were drinking in a bar just outside Omagh. He smiled to himself as he remembered the look in their eyes as soon as he walked in. It was as if they knew what was about to happen. One of them started to stand up. He shot him first. Twice. One in the chest and the second in the head. The other guy panicked and fell backwards in his chair as he tried desperately to get away. He fired three shots into him. The bar cleared in seconds. Once again he calmly walked back to the car.

After ten weeks in Ireland a call came from Sean. George wanted him back. He had a big job for him. The Irish were sad to see him leave. They loved the way he did his work, cold, unattached, professional.

He arrived back in Liverpool late on a Thursday evening. Booked himself into a cheap hotel then out to wander the back streets until he found what he was looking for. Three in ten weeks wasn’t enough to quench his thirst. He was in desperate need of a fix. It didn’t take long to find it. A drunk man in his sixties, staggering down an alleyway with half a bottle of scotch in his hand. He smiled as he passed him, the old man smiled back. It would be his last smile.

Back in London, he picked up the envelope from Sean. Jack Carroll and his brother Frank owed George money. A lot of money. The deadline for payment had come and gone twice. There wouldn’t be a third.

But this was different. This job wouldn’t be easy. Jack and Frank were very rarely on their own. They had men that “looked after” them. Hard men that would be armed. This would take careful planning.

His thoughts came to a stop. The shuffling outside his room was getting louder. He could hear whispers. It sounded as though there were many people gathering outside now.