Consequence (11 page)

“That’s the name of my supplier.”

“I need to find these ‘
gangsters
’” Morris demanded.

“No one knows ‘em.”

“You said there was
one
guy.”

“He’s like a shadow. People only speak to ‘im through phone conversations. Apparently ‘e sends the drugs using a delivery company. They set up the company just to shift the drugs. Even the drivers don’t know what they’re shifting; these guys run a tight business. They’re dealing all across the UK.”

“If they’re so tight, how do you know about all of this?”

“Word gets around.”

“Bring some of it my way then would you?”

“I’ve told you all I know. Look, these guys are big business, they’re untouchable.”

Morris sighed and looked across at Roach who merely shrugged his shoulders.

“I need the address of this supplier,” Morris ordered.

“I can’t.”

The wall felt the impact of Pearce’s face.

“OK!” he spat. “I don’t know his address though, we don’t deal like that. I phone ‘im and we pick a place to meet.”

Morris nodded. “Phone him.”

Pearce couldn’t resist, resisting so far had given him two bust lips, a broken nose, half a dozen cracked teeth, a voice that could barely speak past the blood and eyes that could barely see past it.

“My mobile is in the living room,” he said.

Roach was already leaving to collect the device before Morris looked his way. Seconds later he returned with a battered old Nokia.

“Number?” Roach quizzed, already flicking through the phone.

“It’s under Jimmy,” Pearce said, surprised slightly by Roach’s voice, having forgotten there was another man in his house besides the madman intent on disfiguring him.

“I want you to tell him to meet you at The Dog & Bull on Anderson Street,” Morris instructed.

“He doesn’t normally come this far up; ‘e meets on
‘is
patch.”

“It’s not like you’re asking him to fucking drive to Scotland, I’m sure he can make it. Tell him you want to make a big deal and you’re unsure about shifting all of that cash down south.”

“He won’t do the deal in a pub.”

“Just fucking meet him there okay? You can tell him you’ll both come back here to do the deal and have a cup of tea, some hobnobs, a line of coke -- just get the fucker here okay?”

“When?”

Morris took some time to consider this. There was no chance the dealer would want to make the deal tonight, even if he could make it. Furthermore, Morris didn’t feel like running anymore errands tonight.

“Tomorrow night,” he said after a short pause.

Pearce nodded and Morris realised his grip on the scrawny man. Roach handed him a phone, the correct number readied on the display.

The assassins watched as a weary Wayne Pearce waited for the line to be answered.

“Hey, Jimmy,” he said when the line was picked up. His eyes were boring into the two assassins as he spoke.

He spent the first few seconds talking pleasantries and explaining away his blood spattered voice. Morris urged him on with a push and an angry look. “I need some more gear,” Pearce said into the phone. “I need you to come up ‘ere, do you know where the Dog and Bull is? Meet me there at...” Pearce looked at Morris. Morris held up eight fingers. “Seven, meet me there at seven, then we’ll move somewhere a little more personal.”

“
Eight
fingers you fuck,” Morris snapped when the conversation had ended. “I held up eight fingers.”

“I’m fucking blinking blood here, I can’t see shit!”

Morris shook his head. “What does this guy look like then?” he wanted to know, “What does he drive?”

“You can’t miss ‘im,” Pearce declared. “He’s about six foot five, and built like a brick shit house. He always wears short sleeve tops and both arms are covered from neck to finger in thorn tattoos. He’s completely bald; got a snake tattoo on the top of his ‘ead. He drives a red--” Pearce paused. “Why do you want to know? I can pick ‘im out for you.”

Morris shook his head and glanced at Roach. They both nodded and then grinned at Pearce.

“What?” the beaten dealer said worriedly. “I did what you told me to do.”

Out of the addicts eye-line Roach flicked out the blade from the shaving knife.

“That you did,” Morris agreed. “And for that I thank you.”

Roach grabbed him by the hair, lifting him up by the frail strands and yanking his fragile skull backwards.

“We can’t take any risks I’m afraid,” Morris told him. “And I don’t like you.”

Roach raised the knife. The polished steel reflected the fear in the addict’s eyes as the blade was driven across his throat.

32

Howard Price shut the front door to his luxurious house. A fresh warming smell aroused his senses; his nostrils twinkled with delight as an aroma of fresh baked bread and hot pastry swarmed over him.

“Looks like we made it back in time for dinner,” he said to his daughter who had already kicked off her shoes.

“Do you want to play on my new games?” Lisa asked, seemingly oblivious to her father’s statement.

“After I’ve had something to eat darling.” The smell of the freshly cooked food had awoken his hunger.

Lisa nodded; she could also smell the food wafting from the open kitchen door.

Elizabeth Price stood facing the kitchen door as they entered, waiting for them with a broad smile etched across her chiselled features.

“Dinner is nearly ready,” she announced. “Did you have a good time?”

Howard nodded and tried to spy a look through the oven door. Lisa exploded with delight, she raced to her mother, kissed her on the cheek and began to speed through the details of her day. Howard took a seat at the kitchen table and watched his daughter cycle through the dealings of an eventful day.

Elizabeth listened with a smile. When the computer games were mentioned she shot an unhappy glare Howard’s way, reminding him with menace that they had agreed to buy her them for Christmas.

Elizabeth flared her eyes his way a few other times as Lisa told of the many items her father had bought her, but her menacing look -- which suggested he spoiled his daughter far too much -- soon chilled to a pleasant smile at Lisa’s enjoyment of the time she had spent with her father.

Howard always liked to buy things for her, he enjoyed seeing her smile and he loved making her happy. Money was no issue and he knew that despite spending a fortune on her, Lisa wasn’t a spoiled child. She never complained when she didn’t get what she wanted and she rarely asked for anything; she was also very polite and generous. She always went out of her way to buy her parents Christmas and birthday presents, taking care to pick out the gifts herself which she paid for with her own pocket money.

“Which newspaper?”

Howard looked up, he had been staring casually into space. Elizabeth was directing a question his way.

“Sorry?” he replied.

“Lisa said someone from a newspaper took a photo of you two outside the shopping centre?”

Howard nodded: “Just the Gazette, nothing important.”

Elizabeth grabbed Lisa by the shoulders and squeezed her tightly, “My little darling’s picture is going to be in the papers,” she declared with enthusiasm.

Lisa shook off the statement. “I’ve already been in the papers,” she said. “
Twice
. They took pictures of me and daddy at his work, then one at the house when they did a report on granddad,” she remembered. “And they were more important ones too, weren’t they daddy?” she looked across at Howard.

Howard smiled and nodded. He remembered both occasions very well. Lisa had been very excited for the first one: a nationwide newspaper had printed a two page biography on Howard, his family and his work, not long after his company had declared phenomenal profits over the financial year, making it the richest software company in the country.

For the second interview -- in a business and lifestyle magazine -- Lisa had been less excited, but still managed to smile and sweet talk her way into numerous photos and quotations. The interview itself had been about Howard’s father, and the family -- and money -- he had left behind.

Howard smiled at the memories of his daughter and her claims to fame, but rejected all recollections of his father that tried to creep into his mind. Feeling his eyes tire, he rose from his seat and headed for the coffee machine.

“It’s okay darling,” Elizabeth said, pausing mid-conversation with her daughter and reading Howard’s actions. “I’ll make you a cup.”

He smiled and sat back at the kitchen table.

“So, when is the paper due out?” Elizabeth asked, her question directed half at Lisa -- who was fiddling through the carrier bags -- and half at Howard.

“Tomorrow probably,” Howard replied. “It’s a daily paper isn’t?” he asked unsurely.

Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders.

“Five days a week,” Lisa said, providing the answer with her hands in the bags. “Monday to Friday” she added, confusing her parents.

“How do you know?” Howard wondered.

“Sarah Turnbull’s father works there, every time I go over for tea or to play, Mrs Turnbull is always complaining about him. He’s always late for tea, leaves the house a mess and never phones her.”

Elizabeth shot a glance across at Howard. “Sounds familiar,” she said.

“Here mummy,” Lisa said, bringing her hands out of the shopping bags. “We bought you this when we were out, you can add it to your collection.” With a proud smile Lisa handed her mother a porcelain teddy bear which was received with a grateful hug.

33

Darren Morris firmly shut the door to Wayne Pearce’s house and welcomed the fresh air that flooded away the sickly aroma of excrement and blood. He wrapped his jacket around his body and buttoned it up all the way -- sheltering from the cold and hiding the smeared blood on his shirt.

In the street people still lingered, but their attentions were elsewhere. The heavy bass music still pounded out from the rundown Vauxhall, the noise and the attention it sought had distracted the residents from the brutal murder of their delinquent neighbour.

“I reckon the girl is going to be in for a shock,” Roach said as they made their way to their car.

“What girl?” Morris quizzed.

“The one half-naked and stoned on the sofa.”

“Ah,” Morris said with a callous shrug of his shoulders.

“She’s going to wake up from her heroin paradise with a lot more then she bargained for.”

“A house covered in blood and an addict lying dead in his own shit,” Morris mused. “Maybe she’ll be too fucked to notice.” He brushed past the long uncut grass with a grimace, “Or maybe she’s taken an overdose and is lock picking heaven’s door as we speak.”

“You’re a heartless bastard aren’t you?” Roach said light-heartedly. “She’s just a kid; she’s someone’s little girl.”

“Look around James. She’s no one’s little girl, these people are lowlife heartless addicts and criminals,” he gestured to a group of preteens sitting on the street opposite, smoking joints. “They don’t give a fuck what their kids do as long as they can get their
own
fixes every day.”

“Just because it’s a rundown estate doesn’t mean everyone’s a lowlife or an addict,” Roach bargained.

“Doesn’t matter either way,” Morris said tamely. “If you’re shooting poison into your veins before you hit puberty you’re just a drain on society. People like that would sell their own grandmothers for a gram, she’s a kid now, but she’ll be part of the next generation of shoplifters, muggers and--” Morris paused.

“Murderers?”

He looked at his colleague and nodded, smiling slyly, “Yes,” he admitted.

They entered the Ford and Roach started up the engine. They received a few intimidating looks from people in the street as he reversed the car and left the scene.

“Since when did you have a conscious?” Roach said when they were back on the road. “Since when did you even care about
‘society?’
”
“I don’t,” Morris replied bluntly. “The world’s sick and we’re part of the disease -- I agree with that. People can do what the fuck they like; addicts raping little girls, it’s no different to what we do, and, to be honest, I don’t care.”

“If we cared we wouldn’t do what we do,” Roach agreed. “It’s just...” he paused, struggling for words.

“Just what?”

“You seem different that’s all.”

“Different?”

“Bored I guess,” Roach pondered. “Fed up.”

Morris sighed heavily. “I am,” he agreed. “I told you, I’m sick of Sanders and his fucking games. I’m sick of running errands for a fat prick that can’t piss without someone holding his cock.”

“You’re right.”

“What?” Morris said, displaying his astonishment.

“Well, I’ve been thinking about what you said. We kill for a living and we’re the best, Sanders knows that and
we
know that, yet we get paid next to nothing for it.”

Morris turned to his colleague in sheer shock. He had been prepared to launch another attack on their boss, but Roach -- who Morris thought would never turn against Sanders -- was beating him to it.

“Top hitters get paid a fortune,” Roach continued. “As far as the game goes, we’re just thugs. We hit wannabee gangsters, drug dealers and pathetic addicts. The only problem is, that’s all we have. Sanders is the main man here, we don’t have any contacts.”

“We don’t need them,” Morris assured. “We don’t necessarily need to pull off a hit. We have the criminal knowledge and we can get all the equipment we need to pull off
any
professional job.”

“Like a robbery?” Roach said in a displeased tone.

“No. That’s too risky and not profitable, to make enough we’d have to hit a bank or something and we don’t have the man power or skills to do that.”

“What then?”

Morris sat in silence, shrugging his shoulders. “We’ll think of something, I’m sure,” he said eventually.

“So what about Sanders,” Roach asked. “We can’t just leave him, and if he finds out we’re pulling a job behind his back he’ll fucking kill us.”

“He won’t find out,” Morris said sternly. “He doesn’t follow us about does he? He gives us a job then sets us on our way. But for now--” he pulled out his mobile phone and began jabbing in a number, “--we’ll see if he’s going to pay us.”