Free The Night the Rich Men Burned by Malcolm Mackay Page B

say. Chances are Stamford’s heard some variation of this before, and it meant nothing to him then. He’s wriggled off so many similar hooks, the words don’t matter any more. It’s all about tone. You have to sound threatening. You have to sound confident. You can’t afford to sound like you’re out of control. And you can’t afford to sound like you’re trying your hardest. He has to believe that you have several more gears of the tough-bastard routine to go through.
    Stamford’s taking a step back, which is good. Everything he says beyond this point means nothing. Point is, he stepped back. He’s not trying to push through. He’s accepted that Bavidge is controlling this conversation. It ends when Bavidge says it does.
    ‘You don’t know who you’re fucking with, pal.’
    ‘Not a pal. And I do know. Jamie Stamford. Slack-jawed piss ant for Alex MacArthur. Problem gambler. Using his boss to get off the hook. Not any more. This is a big debt and a big problem, Jamie. Twenty grand. You need to pay that money, before it buries you.’
    Can’t make it clearer than that. But with some people, you can never make it clear enough. Stamford is starting to laugh. Not the nervous laugh of someone trying to look strong in a weak position. The complacent laugh of someone who knows their boss is bigger than any collector in the city. Who knows he has enough standing with the boss to expect yet another bailout.
    Kill that complacency. Fast. A punch in the stomach and Stamford is stepping backward. Not a great punch, but he wasn’t expecting it, so it had impact. The second one’s better. Side of the mouth. It’ll definitely bruise, might even loosen a tooth or two. Always leave them something to remember you by. Always leave them with a mark they have to explain to others. Keeps reminding them how serious you are. It’ll bruise Bavidge’s knuckles as well, but he has no one to have to explain that to. Stamford still isn’t down. He’s set his feet well, ready to counter. But this is one of those rare occasions where Stamford is not the more experienced fighter. Bavidge is charging him. Catching him hard with his shoulder, right in the chest. Stamford is down. On his back, instinctively trying to get back to his feet quickly. Ignoring the pain in the back of his head where it hit the concrete to try and get vertical. Always stay on your feet. Golden rule. But Bavidge is on him. He didn’t go down in the charge. That was the point. Now he’s kneeling down. Putting his knee, and all his weight, on the side of Stamford’s neck.
    ‘You want to go running to MacArthur? Fine, you go running to him. I’ll let you up and you can mince off to him now. You can cry into his fucking lap. Tell him what I did to you. Every time you go to him, he thinks less of you. You do get that, don’t you? You understand that every time he has to rescue you, he hates you a wee bit more? The more he has to help, the less he wants to. That’s rule number one. Never beg from your boss. You’ve been doing that a lot, haven’t you, Jamie?’
    ‘Get off me. You’re fucking dead.’
    ‘Sooner or later,’ Bavidge is saying, leaning in closer and lowering his voice, ‘you’re going to have to clean up your own shit. Start with this one. Impress the world by doing your own dirty work for once. Get my twenty grand. If I don’t have it inside a fortnight, I’m coming back for you.’
    Bavidge is getting up now. Two people have come out of the gym. They’re standing close to the glass door, watching. Both dressed the same, so they must be staff. Must have seen it on the security camera. Bavidge is turning and walking back towards his car. He can hear the scuff of Stamford getting quickly to his feet. Waiting for the idiot to make a charge at him.
    ‘Is everything okay?’ one of the staff is shouting across.
    Bavidge is ignoring them. So is Stamford. Bavidge is at his car. Dropping into the driver’s seat, facing Stamford. He’s beside