Howard Carter dressed for work in his usual white shirt and dark tie. He checked his tie in the mirror. He straightened his tie. Perfect. He patted his slicked back hair. That was exactly the look he was going for. His eyes wandered to the paperback book on the coffee table. It was the latest book on the notorious Manchester gangster, Ronald Morrissey. On the cover the black and white photo showed the gangland boss in his prime back in the late 1980s.Howard had been fascinated by the villain since seeing a TV documentary almost a decade ago. The gangster had controlled his vast criminal empire from his modest Salford home. Howard had been instantly fascinated. Ron Morrissey seemed to be everything he was not, but everything he wished he could be.

He was confident, witty, charming, handsome and powerful. Oceanically confident. Howard whispered the phrase to his reflection. The term had been used about Morrissey during his lengthy court trial. The gangster had been jailed in the 1990s for a string of gang-related activity. A charismatic and suave figure, Morrissey had enjoyed the spotlight that being in court presented. He would show up at court every day dressed immaculately. The newspapers reported how he was like a movie star arriving a film premier. He would pause on the court steps and speak to the gathered journalists. He would laugh and joke and provide the next day’s headlines.

He had been sentenced to serve a minimum of thirty years. It was commonly believed that he would never be released. Over the years, Howard Carter had become obsessed with the gangland boss. He had read and re-read all the books written about him. He had watched documentaries online about Morrissey and his exploits. He looked up to him the way he had looked up to Indie rock stars in his teens. He found the powerful, violent inspiring somehow. There was just something mesmerising about him. When shyness and insecurity threatened to overwhelm him, he would focus on the man who had been the boss of the Manchester underworld. He tired to emulate him in style, attitude and dress.

He had even written to the gangster. A few years ago one documentary had mentioned the prison he was currently being held in. That evening Howard had written a long letter telling him how he was his hero and how much of an inspiration he was to him. He had signed off asking if there was any chance of an autograph.

Needless to say, he had never received a reply. That did not matter too much to Howard. He was happy in the knowledge that Ron Morrissey will have received the letter. The gangster, being in prison, would have definitely got the letter. As far as Howard was concerned his writing to the gangster meant something, that was their connection.

He had been dressing for work in white shirt and dark tie for years now. And he always gelled his hair. In the photos in all the books and magazines, Ron had always been similarly turned out. By styling himself in such a way, maybe some of the villain’s magic would rub off.

Howard would recite lines he had memorised from Morrissey’s autobiography. He would quote the lines out-loud to himself as though it was a mantra. He knew a lot of the lines and would recite them the way people quoted the Shakespeare’s couplets.

Howard even drank Morrissey’s favourite brand of whiskey. Ardennes was a Scottish whiskey despite the Continental name. Rumour had it that the brand of whiskey had been founded by a bloke called Dennis and the name was a play on Our Den’s. Either way, it was a lovely drop of whiskey. Howard would always raise a glass in silent toast to his hero.

As Howard was having his tea and cornflakes one morning the radio station had breaking news. When he heard the bulletin he dropped his spoon, spilling milk across the table. Gang boss Ronald Morrissey had been released from prison. Howard dashed into the living room and flicked on the television. He gasped as he saw the reporter standing outside the prison gates. He listened intently as the reporter announced that the gangster had been released just after seven o’clock that morning.

Howard was thrilled. His hero was free at last. He hoped that the villain’s profile would rise now that he was out. With a bit of luck there would be more newspaper coverage, more books, and maybe even public appearances. Despite having never met the criminal he felt elated that his hero would be out walking the streets of Manchester once again. Who knew, maybe he’d even meet the man himself at a book signing. Whatever happened it was such good news that Ron Morrissey was a free man.

He stopped for a newspaper on the way to work that morning. He devoured the pages about Morrissey. There was page after page describing the nefarious activities of the gangster in his heyday. Howard revelled in the renewed media interest and spent his lunch-hour online reading about what the news websites had to say about it all.

That evening as he watched a BBC special there was a knock at the door. Howard was puzzled. He wasn’t expecting anyone and he was not in the habit of having unexpected visitors. At this time of evening the only person likely to knock on his door was the pizza delivery guy.

He opened the door and gasped. There was a gleaming flash car parked outside and standing on his doorstep was Ron Morrissey himself. His long dark overcoat swayed on the breeze. His silver grey hair was cut short and styled.

‘Evening. I’m Ron.’

‘I know who you are.’ Howard stammered.

‘You must be Howard.’

He nodded.

‘Are you gonna make an old ex-con a cup of tea?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

Unsure of exactly what was going on and feeling suddenly nervous, Howard showed him in. They went through to the small kitchen. As he waited for the kettle to boil he found himself staring at Ron. He couldn’t quite believe that his hero was here in the flesh. He looked every inch the aging villain. He had it all, the suit, gold watch and tie-pin. His frame was trim and his thick arms bulged at the sleeves. Ron had clearly been working out in the prison gym.

What was the notorious criminal doing in his house? He was partly enthralled by his visit. Ron was his hero, a legend. Here was a man who refused to play by the rules. He oozed confidence and seemed like a guy used to getting his own way. There was a seductive charm about him but also an underlying menace. As well as being thrilled to finally meet his idol he was also absolutely terrified. It was as though he’d been obsessed b a Bengal tiger only to suddenly find the wild beast prowling his house.

The kettle came to the boil. The click made Howard flinch. He poured the tea into two mugs.

‘Sugar?’

‘Four.’

Howard nodded and made the tea. He wasn’t about to tell the Ron Morrissey that sugar was bad for him. Indeed, that could be bad for Howard’s health.

He handed Ron his tea and they went through to the living room. Ron took the armchair while Howard perched anxiously on the sofa. Ron looked around the room the way a house buyer would eye a three bedroom terraced house in Eccles. Howard watching him in the lamp-glow, still unable to take in that this was actually happening. Ron took a sip of tea. He sighed in satisfaction.

‘Never could get a decent brew inside. You could get anything you wanted, but a proper cuppa, nothing doing.’

He pointed to the paperback on the coffee table. Ron’s face glared from the cover.

‘Good reading?’ Ron laughed.

‘I think you know how it ends.’ Howard dared.

‘Very good.’ He chuckled. ‘You sent me a letter while I was banged up.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘It was good of you to write. When you’re inside, its things like that that keep you going. I would have replied, but, you know, the screws go through everything.’

Howard nodded.

As the evening wore on, the two men from completely different backgrounds talked about life and put the world to rights.

Later on, Ron rubbed his hands together.

‘Have you got any whiskey?’

‘Yeah, I have.’

Howard returned with a bottle and two glasses.

‘Ardennes? That’s a lovely drop.’

Howard was tempted to say that he only drinks it because it was Ron’s preferred brand. He said nothing. He didn’t want the evening to get even weirder. He poured them both a large measure of whiskey. They clinked glasses, cheers, and took a hit of whiskey. Sitting there in his suit, glass of whiskey in hand, Ron looked every inch the gangster. He looked like he should be starring in a Martin Scorsese film.

Just before midnight Ron necked the last of his liquor. He leaned forward, fingers linked. He shot Howard a serious stare.

‘You know how I came to be in prison?’

‘Yes.’

‘Of course you do. You’ve read the books. One of my firm, Mick Jones, testified against me.’

Unsure where the conversation was headed and suddenly wanting to be alone, Howard said nothing.

‘Well, now that I’m out, I have one last score to settle.’

Howard felt sick. He did not want to know of anything Ron was planning. Howard could go to prison for just knowing about this.

‘And then I remembered your letter.’ Ron gave a shark-like grin.

Howard knew then how Ron’s victims felt back in his heyday. The intimidating arrogance, the menace, the threat, lying just under the surface.

‘If anything happens to that scumbag, then the finger will be pointed at me and my associates.’

No, Howard thought, surely not. He couldn’t possibly want him to commit murder.

‘But,’ Ron continued, ‘if you were to take care of him then nobody would suspect. A feller with no criminal record, not even a parking ticket, only someone like that could pull this off.’

‘I’m-, I mean, I don’t think-’

‘I’ll provide the shooter. You will be fine. We’ll take the gun back once it’s done and get rid of it properly. It won’t be traced. And you’ll be able to sleep at night knowing you’ve helped your idol get revenge.’

‘I just can’t do it. I’m not a killer. I work in an office.’

‘You wrote to me, remember?’ Ron growled.

Howard stared in utter panic and shock. He had written to the villain hoping for an autograph. He had hoped for an autograph he could frame. And now here sat the gang boss, in his living room, asking him to kill somebody. Ron’s eyes burned in the soft lamplight. The clock on the fireplace ticked away each awful second. He couldn’t find the words, his throat was dry and sore.

‘You said I was your hero.’ Ron persisted. ‘And now your hero is asking for a favour.’

He glared at him. Howard flinched under his steely gaze. Ron gave a deep heavy sigh. He shrugged, his features softened. He picked at a loose thread on his trousers.

‘I tell you what, I’ll let you sleep on it. How’s that? How about you let me get my head down on your sofa and we’ll see how you feel in the morning?’

Howard took a well-needed sip of whiskey. He nodded.

‘Okay.’ He conceded.

Ron smiled and held out his empty glass for a top up. With trembling hands Howard poured another measure of whiskey. Ron changed the subject away from the assassination request. He regaled Howard with a story of how a teacher visiting the prison had become obsessed with him.

‘She was a right stunner. She would teach us about Charles Dickens and William Shakespeare. She would then keep me back for extra tuition, if you get my meaning.’

He gave a cackling laugh. Howard laughed along, glad to be discussing a more light-hearted topic.

Around midnight Howard yawned and stretched. Ron took the hint. He emptied his glass.

‘Been a long day.’ Ron said.

Howard agreed, unsure if it had been a question or a statement.

‘You okay on the sofa?’

‘Of course. Compared to my prison cell, your settee will be like a five-star hotel.’

Howard told Ron to make himself at home and headed to his room.

He closed the bedroom door and sighed. When he had written to him, he’d had no idea of the repercussions it would have. How could a fan letter lead to a request for murder? Mind you, the idol in question was an infamous gang boss not a teen pop star.

He crawled under the duvet and made himself comfortable. He lay in the midnight darkness, staring at the ceiling. His mind was racing. He knew that when he got up the next morning Ron would expect a full English breakfast and an answer. He wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. He was no villain. He was what they call a civilian. He would have to explain and make Ron see sense.

He must have drifted off to sleep as the next thing he knew he could hear birds singing and daylight shone through the thin curtains. He checked the time. 8:45 am.

Then came the sickening realisation that Ron Morrissey was still in his house. The memories of the previous evening came back to him. The knot in his stomach was like a punch.

He threw his dressing gown on and knotted it. He felt like a prisoner on the morning of his execution. Maybe he would be executed. It really depended on how Ron took the refusal. Howard had read enough books on the topic to know, chances were, it would not end well for him.

He took a deep breath and tied to keep his nerve. Ron could very well lose his famous temper and assault him. Ron was getting on a bit but he still looked like he could do somebody some serious damage. Maybe he should call the police. He shook his head. What would he say? A free man is in his house, at his invitation? If he told them about the murder request, Ron would simply deny it.

He had to get this over with. He would make a brew, exchange pleasantries, and then very politely refuse to commit murder. Maybe Ron would be okay about it. He could hardly be surprised at Howard declining the offer.

Hoping for the best, Howard yanked open the door with a trembling hand.

He went through to the living room. It was empty. He threw back the curtains. As daylight spilled across the room he noticed the sofa cushions were exactly as he’d left them. The sofa didn’t look like it had been slept on.

‘Ron?’ he called out.

He listened. The only noise was the birds outside.

Then he spotted the note. On the coffee table, under a whiskey glass, was a piece of lined paper.

To Howard,

Hope you see the funny side of my little joke.

Thanks for the whiskey,

Here’s the autograph you wanted.

Yours,

Ron Morrissey.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom