Richards rose slowly, sighing heavily as a stabbing pain wrapped around his lower back. He shot a worried gaze at his friend. “You need to watch what you’re doing Johnny, we
will
get the shop, we just need time. If we start rushing, we start fucking up.” He wondered into the kitchen, carrying his empty mug with him.
Phillips sat motionless on the sofa, deep in thought.
16
Richards shifted uneasily in his seat. The hard upholstered pub bench did little to aid his lower back.
Ahead of him, beyond the empty oak table which hid his feet, a game of pool was ensuing between four men, two of which were around Richards’s age -- sporting casual sleeveless shirts and similarly unkempt jeans -- the other two were clearly a lot older, one wore a creased suede jacket which matched his age-torn features whilst the other wore dirt splattered overalls.
Dinner time at the
Holly and Apple
pub always enticed a mixed crowd. Beyond the pool table, across from the long stretched bar, stood a row of six dinner tables, only three of which were occupied.
Richards eyed the customers with intrigue. At the table closest to the bar sat a young couple, they ate their meals heartily and steadily drank beer from half pint glasses. He noted how the man constantly lifted his eyes from his plate to gaze longingly into his partner’s eyes. Every time he paused to take a drink he would gawk with great lust at her as she gracefully ate her lunch. He noticed a diamond engagement ring twinkle on her finger when she took a small sip from her glass.
The table next to the two young lovers was empty. Ceramic place mats, knives, forks, spoons and a single red rose in a thin glass vase had been neatly set on the polished oak for the ghostly customers. The flower hung over the rim of the moisture smeared vase, its petals fading and darkened; its stem browning in the dissipating water, waiting for nourishment whilst reaching out for company. None of the other tables donned such romantic flora, and he could only hazard a guess why this one did.
The next table was filled with laughter, loud conversation and complaints. A couple, a few years older than Richards, sat at opposite ends of the table, but, unlike the lovers two tables away, their attention wasn’t fixed on each other. At either side of the table sat two young boys. The eldest of the two dug into his food with an awe of mystery, poking through a mass of vegetables with the bewilderment of an archaeologist stumbling across a lost civilisation; the younger child complained to his distressed mother, throwing random arguments and tantrums her way. The father seemed humoured by his child’s antics, almost encouraging the youngster.
The next two tables were unoccupied. No silverware decorated the oak. A half empty, unwanted glass of pop had been left on one.
On the final table, tucked away in the corner of the room, sat a middle aged man slowly feasting on a plate of chips. He looked well-presented but reeked of nervousness. His hair had been gelled and combed hours earlier, but sweat and humidity had unsettled the fair strands of black. Despite the heat and the indoor conditions he wore a long trench coat with the collar flicked up to hide his neck.
Richards watched the man with interest. He ate with great secrecy. Instead of bringing the fork to his mouth he moved his mouth to the fork, a strange act which brought his head inches from the plate. After stuffing some of the fried potatoes into his mouth he would then lift his head up whilst he chewed, staring at an empty chalkboard next to the bar.
After every other bite he gently laid his silverware down on his plate, moved his right arm across the table to grasp a glass of orange juice -- inches from his motionless left hand -- untwist himself, and then slowly take two small sips before ducking into the movement again and placing the glass back on the coaster.
Richards smiled in bewilderment at this strange ritual.
“What the fuck are you smiling at?”
Richards shook himself out of his trance, taking his eyes away from the nervous mystery man.
“Nothing,” he watched as Johnny Phillips moved his body around the table, arching his back and twisting his midsection as he wove himself around the stained oak and sat next to his friend.
He regarded the gathering around the pool table suspiciously, shooting a threatening glare at one of the younger players who had followed his movements with a conspicuous stare.
“Eyeing up the lass?” Phillips questioned as the intimidated youngster looked away.
“What?” Richards asked.
Phillips shook his head, a smile edging his lips. In each hand he held a pint of beer; he took a sip from one and passed the other to Richards.
“The one with the blonde hair and small tits,” he explained motioning towards the young engaged couple.
“No,” Richards replied blankly.
“Seems like your style, you like them flat chested don’t you?”
“What the fuck makes you say that?”
Phillips laughed softly, “That last tart you fucked. Brenda.”
“Breena,” Richards corrected.
“Really?” Phillips questioned with his eyebrows raised.
“Yes.”
“What kind of fucked up name is that?”
“Her parents were--” Richards paused to search his mind for the right word but Phillips spoke before his brain finished cycling through the dictionary.
“Stupid?”
“They were intelligent.”
“And they named their kid Breena?”
“It’s unique I guess, maybe it means something else in a different culture,” Richards guessed.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Just--”
“OK,” Phillips agreed, reverting to his initial conversation, “She had tits like a twelve year old.”
“They were fine, they were actually kinda big, she just never wore padded or push up bra’s I guess,” he sipped the froth from the pint in front of him. “You had to see her naked.”
Phillips nodded and downed a large amount from his own pint as silence descended over the pair.
“Funny you should say that,” he said, releasing a long and pleasurable sigh as the cold liquid filled his tired body.
Richards looked across at his grinning friend, his features set in awe and anticipation.
“You didn’t…”
“Fuck her? Not a chance, I’d rather have a wank. I saw her coming out of your room one morning that’s all; you were still passed out in bed. She was on her way to the shower wearing nothing but a pair of your skinny arse jeans.”
“She never mentioned it to me,” Richards said.
“She never saw me,” Phillips explained. “I heard her heading out your room and I stuck my head through the door to sneak a peek,” he laughed as he spoke. “They were so fucking small at first I thought it was you.”
Richards nodded in agreement, succumbing to defeat. “Fair enough, but she was a good shag. Well…” he paused and pondered again.
“Whatever happened to her anyway?”
“Fuck knows.”
“She’s taken you know,” Phillips said.
“What?”
“The titless lass over there.”
“I know, I saw the ring. It wasn’t her I was looking at though.”
Phillips scanned the other tables, “The fat chick with the noisy twats?” he asked.
Richards suppressed a laugh at his friend’s persistence. “No, the guy in the corner there,” he nodded to the nervous individual who was still eating in a ritualistic fashion.
Phillips hushed his voice, “Found a score?” he enquired.
“No, not yet. We’ll not get much from that guy anyway. I’m guessing single, lonely, nervous disorder…maybe an ex alcoholic living in the hostel down on Newbank Street. Definitely a beggar.”
“I was away for five minutes and you got all of that?”
Richards nodded.
“The single and lonely part is easy,” Phillips said with his gaze fixed on the man. “No indication of a ring and he’s far too ill at ease in a quiet pub for someone who enjoys any social activity whatsoever. Nervous disorder is clear; maybe obsessive compulsive. Not sure where you got the rest from though,” he finished with a questionable glance at his friend.
“Look at his face and his glass,” Richards stated. “He’s shaved today; he still has the cuts to prove it, far too many cuts. He has the shakes; his hand is vibrating the liquid in the glass when he’s drinking.”
“Maybe that’s part of his anxiety.”
“No, his eyes are sunken, he doesn’t sleep much. His lips are dried, caked even, he keeps licking them -- he can smell the alcohol. He’s here for that. He wants to smell it. He looks dazed too; chances are he hasn’t been sober for long.”
Phillips looked impressed, his eyes captured each movement the lonely man made and confirmed the statements.
“What about the beggar part?” Phillips asked eagerly.
“Look at the bottom of his jacket, near the back.”
Phillips did as instructed and noticed a paint stained pattern, an imprint of blue and red on his coat.
“It’s a tag from one of the local gangs,” Richards said. “They spray the tunnels in the area. The council’s only concern is with the bypass, it’s the direct link to the town centre from the housing estates. They have workers down there every other day cleaning the graffiti, yet the taggers keep painting it; it’s a game to them. It means the paint’s nearly always fresh. It’s a hot spot for beggars and buskers; no one can get to the town centre by foot without passing through the tunnel. Looks like our lonely guy picked his spot too close to the tag.”
“But what makes you think he lives in the hostel?” Phillips asked.
“That part is easy. They’ve implemented schemes for rehab patients in there. They allow them free food and drink and they put a roof over their head in exchange for a community reinstatement program, which, depending on the individual and his problems, can range from digging gardens and laying concrete to fighting fears,” Richards paused, his eyes studying the lonely man. “Such as social phobias and anxieties.” He took a congratulatory drink from his cold beer.
“Fuck me,” Phillips said. “You’re getting good at this shit.”
Richards smiled proudly.
“I’m impressed,” Phillips took a long drink, savouring the cold flavour. “Let’s see how you are with these other fuckers,” he motioned around the pub, his emphasis on the four people playing pool. “We came here to pull a trick, so let’s get started.”
17
Darren Morris squinted at the ruffled paper. The bright sun beamed a threatening glare through the car’s windscreen, spilling yellow spotlight over the scrunched sheet of paper.
He read the words aloud, hailing the attention of James Roach who was skilfully manoeuvring the car in between a large Transit van and a small hatchback.
“Joseph Steiner, eighteen years old.”
“Another kid,” Roach grunted in distaste.
“The fuckers are getting younger,” Morris said placidly. “It says we should find him, or someone that knows him, in the
Queen’s Head
.”
Roach nodded and brought the car to a halt.
Morris finished studying the sheet of paper that had been handed to him by his boss, crumpled it back up and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He had already run his eyes over its contents numerous times -- it displayed details and brief descriptions of a few local dealers and their likely whereabouts.
They failed to find a parking space near the pub -- a shanty-like dwelling dropped by the side of a boarded-up main street like discarded waste loitering near the base of a rubbish bin -- so parked in the car park of a large supermarket a stone’s throw away.
Sighing with a great deal of mental tiredness Morris pushed open the passenger-side door with a callous shove. The door slammed into the side of a white Transit van with a heavy thud, the sickening screech of metal against metal rang out from the impact.
“Shit!” he scrambled out of the car to inspect the damage to his own door.
Much to his surprise it had somehow escaped any real damage. He flicked away flecks of silver paint and examined a small dent around the handle with something resembling indifference plastered on his face.
Roach sucked in a lungful of air, “That’s bad,” he said to his colleague.
“No,” Morris disagreed. “Just a few surface scratches, here,” he beckoned “come have a look if you want.” He looked at James Roach who, at the other side of the vehicle, was out of sight from the damage.
“No,” Roach said. “I mean that,” he nodded in the direction of the transit van. With a look of confusion Morris sharply turned around and looked at the white van.
A laugh creased onto his lips as his eyes scanned the large dent and inch thick scratch along the rolling door of the van. “Certainly took the fucking brunt of the blast didn’t it?”
A shout broke their attention and removed his smile. “What the fuck is this!”
They both turned to see a man in his twenties storm up to the collision with anger flaring in his eyes. His clothes were stained with paint and ripped in numerous places. In his hand he carried a shopping bag from the top of which poked a large paint roller.
As he neared the van he dropped the bag, the sponge roller spilled out and rolled to Roach’s feet, the older man stood and stared at the instrument with an amused look of content.
“Is this your van?” Morris queried as the man brushed passed Roach and almost pushed Morris out of the way so he could inspect the damage.
“Yes it is my fucking van,” he shouted. “What the fuck have you done to it?”
Morris could feel his tiredness stabbing at the centre of his forehead. The distraught van owner was inches away from him, his strong, heavy set, beer bellied, structure bore down on him.
Roach took a step forward; Morris didn’t move.
“Just a little scrape,” Morris replied with a casual shrug.
“I fucking saw you, you better fucking pay for this, or else,” he roared with an intimidating glare. He was five inches taller than Morris and Morris could almost feel the heat of rage reeling out of his breath and down onto him.
Morris shrugged his shoulders and dug his hand into his pocket. He pulled out a wad of cash and began flicking through, counting as he did so. “Let’s see, twenty, forty, fifty--”
The man ripped the wad out of his unsuspecting grasp. “I’ll take it all thank you,” he said, the hint of a playground bully in his tone. “This should cover it nicely,” he added, feeling like he had the upper hand over the unresponsive hitman.