Consequence (15 page)

45

Morris and Roach were awake and alert early the next morning. They had both slept in their own rooms, departing company late the night before.

At 7:00 they strolled downstairs, ordered their breakfasts and sat alone in the dining room, all the other tables were empty and the only noise came from the kitchen, where the clattering of pots and pans indicated that their breakfast was being cooked.

They sat opposite each other but avoided eye contact. Hardly a word had been shared between them all morning. They knew they had a big day ahead, a lot had to be done; a lot was at stake.

Morris took a sip from a hot cup of tea, served to each of them within minutes of sitting down. His eyes caught the fierce thoughtful features of James Roach.

“I’ll head over to see Linders when we’ve had something to eat,” he said, confirming their plans for the first time. “When I get there I’ll pick up the Beemer from him and head to the safe house, you go to the Price house to make sure everything is going as planned.”

“Planned?” Roach said, a hint of mockery in his voice.

“Enough planning has gone into this,” Morris persisted.

Roach nodded, his eyes staring deep into a cup of black tea.

“I should be at the safe house before you. Meet me there when you’ve checked out the school,” Morris said.

Again Roach agreed.

The dining room door flew open and a cheery faced owner, cradling two plates, strutted into the room. She put the plates down on the table.

“There you go lads,” she said happily. “Get that down ya, nothing like a good breakfast to start the day.”

“Thanks,” Morris said meekly as his looked over the brimming plate of fried goods with a questionable stare.

“No problem. If you need anything else just give me a shout,” her voice twinkled with pleasantness. Morris and Roach smiled at her and she left.

When the doors to the dining room slammed shut the room fell silent again.

46

Howard Price kissed his daughter softly on the forehead and embraced her briefly, feeding off of her warmth.

After being released from his strong arms, Lisa Price smiled at him and walked out the front door and into the garden.

Elizabeth soon followed, she also stopped at the doorway to kiss Howard. “I’ll cook you some breakfast when I get back,” she said after lightly caressing his cheek with her moist red lips.

He nodded and watched as Elizabeth strolled out into the garden, following her daughter.

As the front door shut Howard found himself deeply sighing. Boredom was already creeping up on him. He thought about heading into the living room to watch some television, but the image of happy-go-lucky, Prozac-pumped presenters eating up morning airtime was enough to put him off.

He thought about food. He hadn’t had breakfast yet, but he wasn’t hungry and he wasn’t much of a cook. Elizabeth would come back from dropping Lisa off at school and cook him anything from an omelette to a full English breakfast. Left to his own devices he wouldn’t accomplish more than toast or crumpets and he’d probably manage to burn even them.

He would wait for breakfast. He’d already drained two cups of coffee, and that was enough to keep his stomach from growling at him for at least another hour.

Sighing, he decided to phone work. He wasn’t working but it would be reassuring to make sure everyone else was.

Lisa Price skipped across the flower peppered garden, dancing to a beat composed by her imagination. The sun was out bright and early and its rays bore down onto her browning skin.

Repeatedly singing a verse from a sixties song she’d heard on an advert, she spun underneath the morning glare in a state of childish euphoria.

In the trees at the end of the garden birds sang merrily -- adding soprano to the child’s soft hum. In the flower beds -- ripened and glorious in the beaming sunshine -- bees swarmed over the pollen, their wings buzzing with a beat of simplicity.

Amongst the lines of foliage along the bottom border of the garden a squirrel scurried nosily, frantically sniffing the ground as it raced through the dense greenery; noisily flicking dried leaves and broken twigs as its tiny feet danced across the ground.

The distant roar of cars crashed into the air. The noise was spilt from the small road just beyond the garden and the adjoining dual-carriage way further afield.

Past the driveway, on the small road beyond the bushes, a car -- beautifully reflecting the sun from its silver surface -- sat idle. Muffled sounds of music escaped from the inside where a man sat with nervous patience.

James Roach tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He attempted to drum along to the beat of a song he’d never heard before, his attempts, unsurprisingly, failed.

Out of the driver’s side window he could see the Price house in all its splendour. He daydreamed momentarily as he watched in awe, wondering and hoping that the future would bring him a large country house of his own -- his own private paradise.

The sunlight sang through the window and glared into his retinas, causing him to turn his head and blink away the light.

Through the top corner of the windscreen he watched, through cigarette burnt vision, as Lisa Price skipped merrily through the luscious garden. He could see her smiling features and he smiled back with a twinkle of wickedness escaping his deep eyes.

He saw Elizabeth Price call to her, beckoning her to an immaculate Porsche, the doorway of which she propped open with her hand. He watched her with admiration, eyeing her sun-drenched face and her petite, curvy figure -- pleasantly exposed when she bent down to pick up a set of dropped keys.

“Not bad,” he muttered to himself. His words were captured and drowned by the sounds of the local radio station and its sugar-coated pop music.

Under the watchful eyes of James Roach, Lisa exchanged friendly words with her mother before they both climbed into the car.

He continued to smile as the Porsche and its valuable passenger reversed out of the driveway, backed to a stop a mere twenty feet in front of him, and then pulled away down the quiet road.

Turning off the radio he waited until the Porsche turned a corner and vanished from sight, only then did he accelerate.

47

Johnny Phillips awoke in comfort. He had slept well and, despite craving carbohydrates and something to drink, he felt refreshed and in a relatively good mood.

Throwing on his clothes from the day before -- folded over a chair in his room -- he descended the stairs, his soft footfalls cushioned by the pliable, thick carpet.

In the living room he wasn’t surprised to see the television on with Michael Richards sitting in a dressing gown on the sofa, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the screen.

“You’re up early,” Phillips said.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Richards said nonchalantly

Phillips nodded and headed for the kitchen. Hungrily grabbing two slices of bread and jamming them into the toaster he flicked on the kettle and walked back into the living room.

“It’s past eight anyway,” Richards muttered.

“What?”

“It’s after eight, it’s not early, I’m always awake at this time.”

“I know,” Phillips agreed. “But I heard you scrambling around the house a few hours ago.”

“Sorry.”

“You didn’t wake me. If you did I would have come out of my room and helped your heavy stomping arse down them stairs a bit quicker. You clambered down the fuckers like a ten tonne zombie, I heard every step.”

“Sorry.”

“You look bleak this morning,” Phillips noticed.

“Just tired that’s all, laid awake for a few hours last night, thinking.”

“About how long it’s been since you’ve had sex and if you can still get it up?”

“Fuck off,” Richards joked with a sudden perkiness. “I was just trying to come up with some money making ideas, the usual shit.”

Phillips smiled and walked back into the kitchen. After buttering his toast, and layering it with lashings of jam, he poured a cup of coffee and returned to the living room.

“What you watching?” he asked as he munched away on the crispy bread.

“Fucking
This Morning,
” Richards replied with disgust. “Nothing else on. There never is at this time.”

“Turn the fucking thing off then,” Phillips said casually

“And do what?”

Phillips pondered this briefly as he chewed through his toast with great hunger. Eventually he shrugged his shoulders and sunk into the seat, his eyes switching to the television set.

48

Peter Linder was a decrepit being. He had spent the majority of his short life behind bars and the
whole
of his life committing crimes.

Arrested at the tender age of eighteen for his involvement in a gun smuggling operation, the skinny, humourless man had gone on to serve fifteen years behind bars. Time he had put to good use.

It was common knowledge that he had made more money under lock and key in Her Majesties confinements than he had in the free world. Using his outside links he had sold everything from drugs to hardcore porn whilst serving his time.

He had come before the attention of ganglord Peter Sanderson whilst serving his sentence. Sanders knew many men inside the prison -- his dodgy dealings had landed most of them in there -- and word of a youngster making a tidy fortune whilst being incarcerated had travelled fast to his low grounded ears.

They had struck deals with each other. Sanders provided protection, corruption and an outlet for the convict’s money on condition that Linders bought all of his drugs from him. They had worked well together for years. They managed to fill one of the country’s most secure and populated prison with dozens of drugs, from Cocaine to Cannabis and Valium to Viagra (an unsettling notion for both men, but profitable nevertheless).

Peter Linder had used his time inside constructively, there was no doubt about that. He had walked into the prison an ill-educated teenager and, thanks to the recreational and learning activities offered to the modern day prisoner, he had left with a vast knowledge of electronics, car mechanics and computing -- all of which he exploited for illegal purposes when he was released.

He stood in front of Darren Morris grinning profusely. He wore mechanics’ overalls, and held a hand-rolled cigarette loosely between two fingers on his right hand.

“Nice little motor that is,” he said -- his voice croaking out of his feeble throat.

Morris nodded and looked past Linders, to the black BMW. It didn’t look up to much and it certainly wasn’t flash, but it would do the trick, they didn’t want to stand out.

“Here,” Morris said placidly, handing a brown paper bag to the scruffy man. “The money is all there.”

“I trust you,” Linders said, immediately stuffing the bag into his overalls. “You still work for that prick Sanders?” he asked.

Morris smiled meekly. After Linders had been released from prison Sanders had stopped all dealings with him. He said he didn’t trust him and Sanders didn’t work with people he didn’t trust. Linders immediately bore a grudge and even though he still did jobs for people who worked for Sanders, he always resented the man who rejected his business.

“Yes,” Morris replied.

Linders scowled and took a deep drag from his cigarette.

“The phone is in the back seat,” he said through a lungful of smoke. “It’s not completely untraceable, they never are, but it’s as close as you’re ever going to get.”

Morris used the keys given to him by Linders to open the front door of the BMW. “Where’s the car from?” he asked as he stood in the open doorway.

“You know I can’t tell you that,” the dishevelled Linders answered with a wry smile.

Morris nodded in agreement.

“It’s untouchable now though,” Linders added. “That much I can guarantee you. It’s had new plates fitted; a full respray and I even stripped and refitted the interior. The paperwork is in the back seat, should you need it,” he took another draw from his cancer stick. “Completely untouchable,” he repeated.

“It fucking better be,” Morris warned. “Or I’ll be paying you another visit very soon. And this time I won’t be so fucking friendly.”

“Come on Darren,” Linders said, a smile still etched onto his grizzly face. “When have I ever let you down?”

Morris stared him down -- both of their features unflinching -- before clambering behind the wheel of the car.

“And when have you
ever
been friendly?” Linders added with a smug grin as Morris revved up the engine.

49

James Roach kept his distance from Elizabeth Price’s Porsche as he cruised along the many roads that lead to the private school. The roads were busy, crammed with tired and irritated drivers rushing to their places of work or education, which allowed Roach to blend in perfectly.

He had kept a clean distance for the entire journey, keeping at least two cars and a hundred yards between them, but as the road turned sharply into a built up area he slowed his pace and drew closer to the gleaming Porsche.

The sides of the roads were peppered with young children and their guardians. Rolling along at less than ten miles per hour Roach watched a line of children walk along the street, accompanied by two middle aged women at the front. Further down from the walking group stood a chubby Lollypop Lady, wielding her ‘stop’ sign with great pride.

The Porsche rolled passed the woman and stopped further down, just as the school building popped over the horizon. Roach, keeping his steady pace, watched as the walking posse halted by the side of the stubby yellow woman.

The obese Lollypop Lady acknowledged the children and, with her head held high, she crossed the road, holding her sign firmly.

Roach looked past the orange-shaped, lemon-coloured woman and watched as Lisa and Elizabeth Price exited the Porsche further down the road, having found a parking space by the side of the school -- mere metres from where Roach and Morris had waited the previous day.

With his eye still on his target he watched the line of youngsters cross the road in front of him. A few looked through the window, some with blank expressions, some smiling. One, a happy faced young boy, caught sight of Roach and offered a friendly wave; Roach smiled deeply and shot the youngster a wink and a thumbs up.