Morris looked across at Roach; a question of pure bewilderment filled his eyes. Roach merely smiled and shrugged, then, glancing in all directions to check the area was clear of midday shoppers, he turned his attention back to his colleague and nodded.
With a twinkle in his eye Morris turned to the taller man who was flicking through the cash. “Excuse me,” he said softly.
“What do you--” the man began, lifting his eyes.
He finished his sentence with an awkward grunt. Morris’s fist made full contact with his chin, sending him sprawling into his van. Somehow, despite the fall against the vehicle and the shock of being punched, he managed to keep a hold of the wad of money, tightly grasping it in his right hand as he brought both hands to his throbbing chin.
Morris reached forward and yanked the wad of cash out of his hand. He quickly stuffed it into his pocket and took a step past the wounded youngster who still clasped his hands to his jaw.
“Like I said,” Morris said to Roach. “They just keep getting younger,” both men smiled. Morris clasped the handle on the damaged door of the Mondeo and, just as the youngster pulled his hands away from his face, he yanked it open. It crashed into his body, sending him sprawling again. The jagged corner of the door slammed into his ribs, breaking one on impact. He bent forward as the wind gushed out of his body.
Quickly grasping the youngster by his thick matted hair, Morris eased his head into the open doorway.
He mumbled in opposition but his agonised body failed to respond.
“You think this is wise?” Roach said, interrupting his colleague’s activities as he held the youngster’s head in the doorway.
Morris paused and looked up, his eyes filled with indifference, “Probably not, but--” with his eyes still holding the gaze of James Roach, Morris slammed the door shut. The youngster’s skull took the whole force of the impact; it crashed hard against the door and the car, becoming sandwiched between the two. The door shuck violently after the impact and the younger man, now bleeding profusely from his head, collapsed to the floor. “Fuck it eh?”
Roach checked the car park for any onlookers as his accomplice dug his hand into the dead man’s pocket. “Just find the keys, dump him in his van and let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said blankly.
Morris did as he was instructed. As he lifted the limp body up and laid it down inside the van he checked the time on the youngsters wrist watch. “Come on,” he slammed the rolling door of the van shut. “If we get there now we might catch them before they stop serving lunch.”
18
Darren Morris walked through the rusted doors of the
Queen’s Head
pub with James Roach following close behind; his stature in bodyguard mode, ready and alert for any attack or confrontation.
The street outside was fresh and mild, a light breeze hung in the air. Opposite the pub stretched a long line of semi-detached houses; the large supermarket could be seen towering over the back of the Victorian structures.
The sounds from the pub brushed onto the roadside: light echoes of music dubbed with occasional laughing and conversation, but the roaring of the passing cars overpowered any coherence.
The combined stench of alcohol fumes, cigarettes and poorly cooked food greeted the hitmen as they entered.
A few feet from Morris two young men were playing darts, the implements aimed at an antique board which rested in a dark alcove like a forgotten work of art. A third man stood with his back against the tables drinking a pint; his deep grey eyes bore into the new newcomers over the rim of the glass.
Morris and Roach nodded politely at the youngster and he quickly turned his attention back to the badly played game of darts, spilling insults and mocking comments in between sips of beer.
The pub was small and the bar stretched half its length. To the left of the entrance stood a long bench, with small tables strategically placed in front of it. Past the bench two large tables took up considerable space, big enough to seat four drinkers -- currently empty.
Beyond the tables was a large snooker table, a blue nylon sheet had been draped over it and someone had dropped a white cardboard plaque on its surface declaring:
Out of Use.
Besides the three youngsters the only other customer was an elderly gentleman who sat alone, his pint, and a folded newspaper, resting on the table in front of him. His wrinkled features scanned the newcomers warmly; his eyes straining to see the two men who stood less than ten feet away.
They welcomed him with a warm smile and he mumbled an inaudible, friendly greeting to them before digging in his pocket and producing a pipe and a case of tobacco.
“He reminds me of my granddad,” Roach said softly as they walked up to the bar.
“He reminds me of
every
fucking granddad.”
A barmaid in her mid-thirties, who had watched their every movement since entering, greeted them with a cold stare.
Morris held her in his gaze, running his eyes over her appearance as she in turn studied him. Her long multi-coloured hair dangled over her round face and past her shoulders, its wavy strands stopping just above her ample breasts. She was short; no more than five foot, but her body was compact.
She wore a sleeveless, tight white top which exposed her curves. Her skin was strongly tanned and appeared miraculously smooth and unmarked. Through the thin material of her white top Morris could see her large breasts protruding seductively.
“My eyes are up here mate,” she said.
“Can’t blame a guy for looking,” he said with a cheeky grin.
She smiled back, a hint of embarrassment peeled over her thick red lips. “I guess not. What can I get you?” she quizzed.
“Two pints.” He rested his elbows onto the wooden surface, taking some weight off his feet. Roach ghosted along by his side as the woman began fulfilling their order.
“What do you reckon?” Roach asked, nodding in the direction of the youngsters playing darts.
Morris didn’t need to follow his colleagues gaze; he had already suspected the same thing. “Possible,” he muttered, catching the eye of the barmaid. “They look about his age. If he isn’t one of them, chances are they’ll know who he is.”
19
The two hitmen watched as one of the youngsters disappeared through a door next to the bar, through which was a small corridor leading to the toilets.
They both acknowledged him and continued to sip slowly from their pints. The other two youngsters continued a game of darts, their minds set on conversation and laughter rather than the poorly played game.
The old man had sunken himself into the furniture, casually smoking his pipe as he read through the local paper; the barmaid chatted noisily on a cordless phone, trying to catch Morris’s eye, who made a point of refusing to acknowledge her.
“You want to go or shall I?” James Roach asked silently.
“I’ll go,” Morris said quickly. “If you leave me alone then that crazy fucking slut might try talking to me.”
“She seems all right.”
“I wouldn’t say no,” Morris agreed. “She’s fuckable, that’s a fact, but she’s probably been around the block more times than the paperboy.” They both looked at her as he spoke, she was still bellowing loudly into the phone. “Plus, her voice is giving me a headache.” He drained the remainder of his pint and headed for the corridor.
The door to the toilets squeaked awkwardly on un-oiled hinges as Morris strode through. A sickening onrushing smell of stale urine, vomit and cigarettes hit him like a wall and he twisted his face in distaste.
There was only one cubicle inside, the door to which had been violently torn from its hinges in a drunken rage, marks and slashes in the wood remained as evidence to the pointless attack. On the far wall a small window -- jammed shut and smeared -- obscured the view to the outside world; it allowed no air in and no stench out.
The youngster stood at the end of a urinal which stretched along the wall, he had seen the older man enter the toilets and had regarded him with little interest. Morris walked beside him and unzipped his jeans.
“Are you Joseph Steiner?” he asked placidly.
“What?” the youngster replied, taken aback.
“I was told he was the man to go to for--” Morris coughed with a fake notch of anxiety. “You know...”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about mate.”
“Come on mate,” Morris pleaded. “Do me a favour would you? I just got into town and I’m dry. I’m taking the lass and a few mates clubbing tonight, I just need a few pills, that’s all.”
The youngster looked at him suspiciously, his mind whirring with a strained process of deliberation.
“You gonna help me or not?” Morris questioned.
“Who told you about Steiner?”
“A mate of mine, he was out clubbing last weekend, said he scored some great pills off him.”
The youngster regarded Morris again. They both finished urinating and stood by the urinal, their gazes locked.
“You not a bit old for that shit?” the younger man questioned.
“When I take that shit I’m as young as I want to be, you know what I mean?” Morris stated, maintaining his feigned anxiety.
The youngster smiled and nodded silently to himself. He scanned the door of the toilets to make sure no one had snuck in undetected, then leaned closer to Morris.
“OK,” he surrendered, “you don’t look like a cop.” He paused, taking in a deep breath, “Steiner won’t be in here for a while but I can give him a ring. How many do you want?”
Morris suppressed a smile: “Twenty,” he replied promptly.
He picked a mobile phone out of his pocket and began flicking through the phone’s memory to find the number he wanted.
Morris watched as the call was made. Few words were exchanged. Halfway through the conversation he asked Morris to show him the cash, Morris gladly pulled out a huge wad of notes from his pocket. The price was agreed there and then and Morris was told to meet Steiner in the local park in less than an hour.
20
Richards could smell the raw dirt that clung to the heavy fabric of the overalls sported by the man at least twenty years his senior. The smell was fused with an intoxicating mix of alcohol and tobacco and layered with a sickening stench of body odour.
The man took a turning past a narrow archway near the snooker table and glided through the toilet door that he kindly held open for Richards. They both headed for the line of stained-white urinals directly opposite the door.
“Nothing like a few pints before dinner is there?” Richards said, making polite conversation.
The man was bemused that Richards had picked the urinal next to his and had begun to make conversation, but he shrugged off any concerns.
“More like ‘
instead of
’ dinner,” he replied with a social laugh.
“Food in here that bad?”
“No, the food’s okay. It’s my stomach that’s the problem, aint been able to hold anything down for two days now.”
Richards nodded knowingly, “My lass is the same. I guess there’s a bug going around.”
“Nah, it’s the fucking kebab shop down Queen Street and the retarded fuckers that work there, had one the other night,” he explained in disgust. “Wasn’t so bad at the time but I was shitting through the eye of a needle the next morning.”
Richards laughed and finished urinating. He began to zip up his pants as he heard the door to the toilets creak open; shooting a look over his shoulder he saw Johnny Phillips enter and glance his way.
“Never been there,” Richards said sighing. “Thanks for the tip.”
He slid his left hand inside the older man’s right pocket, grasping a large wallet. Taking another glance over his shoulder he tossed the wallet backwards; Phillips caught it on his way to one of the cubicles.
Richards finished zipping up his trousers and walked over to one of the sinks near the line of urinals. He pushed down on the hot tap and watched as the water gushed violently.
“Finished so quickly?”
“I have the bladder of an eighty year old,” Richards lied as he shoved his hands under the warm water. “One fucking pint and I’m rushing off to the toilet every five minutes.”
Moments later the chain in one of the cubicles was pulled and the sound of rushing water filled the small space. At the same time the older man finished and, disregarding the sinks, he walked past Richards, flashed him a smile and headed for the door.
Johnny Phillips emerged from the cubical with the man in his sights -- his head low and his eyes aimed at the floor. He bumped into him, quickly reached out to steady the stranger who lost his footing, and then slipped the leather wallet back into his overalls.
“Shit, sorry mate,” Phillips apologised. “I didn’t see you there; I was in a world of my own.”
He acknowledged the apology with a disoriented smile and moved to walk away, but Phillips stopped him in his tracks.
“Harry,” Phillips said with surprised delight. “Harry Allcross.”
The man looked shocked. “I’m sorry, do I know you?” he asked, his features a contortion of bemusement.
“Philip Smith,” Phillips stated. “We took the same drink driving course.”
“Oh,” he uttered, bemused. “At the day centre?”
“Yes, don’t you remember? I lost my license the same time as you. I was doing ninety on a dual-carriage way with enough whiskey in my blood to kill a herd of elephants,” Phillips laughed and nudged the other man in a friendly gesture. “What were in you there in for again…” he paused, feigning recollection. Harry also waited. “You were driving for a gardening firm or something weren’t you? Pissed on the job in a transit van if I remember correctly.”
“That’s right,” he said, seemingly surprised. “That was quite a few years ago now though.”
“You still work in the gardening trade?” Phillips queried.
“I run my own business now.”
“The van outside is yours I take it? ‘
Allcross Gardening Services
’ I thought I recognised the name, but it didn’t click till just now.”
Silence fell over the pair. Richards watched on from behind them, a broad smile on his face.
“So what you doing with yourself then?” Phillips noted the lack of a wedding band or tan line on his finger. “Still not married?”