Consequence (29 page)

“I can’t fucking believe it!” Richards bellowed, slightly out of breath.

“Start!” Phillips said, sharply ducking into another alleyway. He pushed his friend over. Richards fell with a clatter; his landing softened somewhat by collection of cardboard boxes. Phillips soon joined him, diving next to him onto the pile of boxes.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” Richards demanded to know.

“Need time to think.”

Nestled in the cardboard they were obscured from view by two large recycle bins either side of them. Ahead of them, a short jump into the darkness, past a tight squeeze down the side of one of the bins, was a small drop. In the drop was a door leading to a basement flat, lights flooded from underneath the door.

“What the fuck are we going to do?” Richards begged to know.

“We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Good plan.”

Two gunshots exploded into the quiet night, making both men jump. The warning shots -- fired into the skies -- were followed by more shouting.

“Then again,” Richards said, panting. “Maybe we should just give ourselves up.”

“Think what they’ll do to us if they catch us. If they find out our history they’ll throw away the fucking key. Not to mention all the cash we’ll lose.”

“You’re right,” Richards nodded, still in shock. “We need to get out of here.”

More shots were fired into the air and a final warning was issued.

“On the other hand...”

“Look!” Phillips snapped, roughly grabbing his friend by the collar. “We can get out of this. We’ve been through fucking hell to get this far, we aint going under now, okay?”

“Agreed.”

Behind them the police were separating and spreading out through the alleyways. Phillips put his finger to his lips, warning his friend to be quiet as the sound of slow footsteps encroached.

Richards felt like he was going to have a stroke, watching Johnny Phillips -- poised by the end of the recycle bin -- his heart and mind had run off course. A fun night out had turned into his worst nightmare.

The footsteps echoed louder on the pavement as the cautious officer approached their hiding place.

The tapping feet proceeded with a slow, deliberate pace. The conmen heard his breathing, heavy and fast -- clearly they weren’t the only nervous ones.

The sound of the heavy footsteps stopped short of the fugitives’ hiding place. Richards and Phillips exchanged hesitant glances as they both strained to hear the sound of moving feet.

Another step sounded and Phillips pounced. Like a fox in the night he sprang upon his prey, he grabbed the officer and twisted his wrists, forcing him to drop his weapon. After the semi-automatic pistol fell to the floor, he delivered a strong head-butt to his face.

The ambushed officer’s nose exploded from the impact and he screeched in shock and anguish, droplets of his blood sprayed from his wound and splashed onto the wet cardboard near Richards, who looked at it in revulsion.

Phillips grabbed his head with his left hand and swung at it with his right fist. His knuckles cracked the officer’s jaw, spilling teeth and blood in his mouth; he instantly coughed out a stream of saliva-soaked blood that coated Phillips’s jacket. With a soft mumble he fell from Phillips’s grasp, hitting the floor and crumpling up like a ragdoll.

Phillips reached down and picked up the gun. Checking down the alleyway he noticed an armed officer aiming a gun directly at him, in a flash and a rush of adrenaline he dived back to his position behind the bins. A shot exploded and slammed into the ground, skimming off the solid surface and chipping away at the concrete; missing Phillips’s flying feet by inches.

Three more shots fired into the direction of the invisible suspect. They all missed, screeching and rebounding off the floor and walls.

“They’re fucking shooting at us!” Richards screamed.

“No shit,” Phillips said, releasing the magazine cartridge from the pistol and checking the bullet count -- it was full. “Come on, we need to get the fuck out of here.”

Keeping their heads low they scraped past the bin and jumped down the drop. Phillips fell against the basement door awkwardly, his feet slipping from the tarmac above. The lock on the door cracked and the door burst open. He clattered to the floor inside the grotty kitchen of a musty crack house.

96

Richards looked around in distaste. His nose recoiled from a terrible smell that swam through the kitchen; its origin was a broken sewer pipe below an unused washing machine.

“What
is
this place?” he wondered.

“Crack house,” Phillips replied firmly, pulling himself to his feet with a grunt. “Kinda.”

“How the fuck do you know that?”

Phillips put his finger to his lips to hush his friend, “I used to date, well, fuck a crack head. She came here a lot; I came with her when I was pissed. It’s owned by a dealer who likes to
spread the love.
Through that door there,” he pointed to a door directly opposite the one he had just crashed through, “is the main room, probably a few people in there.” He walked to the other side of the kitchen and to another door, “Through here,” he said with his hand on the doorknob, “should be the hallway.”

He pushed the door open; it squeaked and brought with it another stench: decay.

It was a dimly lit, poorly kept hallway. The walls hadn’t been painted, papered or plastered. They were chipped in numerous places and adorned with poorly penned graffiti.

They could hear hushed voices coming from all over the flat, seeping out of the walls like the stench that turned their stomachs. They were unsure if the voices were the police or the occupants and didn’t want to wait around to find out.

Phillips quickly ushered Richards to another door. They opened it to embrace the open air again, this time on another, similar street. They could hear the noise generated by the mass of police two streets back, as they frantically searched for the suspects in the alleyways.

“Now what?” Richards asked, surveying the roads ahead.

“We wait,” Phillips said, pulling his friend out of full view of the road and the houses opposite.

“Wait for what? What the fuck are we going to do?”

Phillips didn’t answer; he watched and waited as a car slowly turned into the street. Its headlights picked them out as it slowly advanced towards them. Phillips pulled the handgun he had taken from the police officer into view, “Now we hitch a ride.”

The effects of the alcohol were strong in Howard Price’s body. He had left the house somewhat sober, but since embracing the fresh air and taking on the task of driving through the winding streets, the effects of the substance had become more prominent. He could feel his face getting flustered, his body tingling and his motor functions relaxing.

The streets were empty and he was still sober enough to drive, there wasn’t much of a fear that he would hit anyone. There was a good chance the alcohol would get the better of him and he would crash into a tree or a wall and kill himself, but he reasoned that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

The drive had helped to clear his head but it also allowed more thoughts to pass through. He thought about work, he couldn’t face going back there, not now. And the prospect of staying in the house scared him; Lisa was a part of that house. Maybe he would get away for a while; he and Elizabeth could travel to their holiday home in the south of France. He even pondered giving up work, investors had already enquired about buying the company, maybe it was finally time to sell.

Contemplating all of this, he continued to drive on at a steady pace, shocked when the figure of a man, standing in the middle of the road, was highlighted by his headlights. He slammed his foot on the brakes, his reactions were slow but he managed to stop in time.

Johnny Phillips smiled. Standing in front of the Mercedes, his gun lowered by his side, he squinted his eyes to strain out the beam from the headlights. His face -- bright in the yellow shine -- was obscured from the driver’s view, just as the driver was obscured from his.

He raised the gun, making sure it could be seen through the front windscreen by the invisible driver. Then, strafing carefully, he walked around to the passenger side of the car. Michael Richards appeared out of the shadows and ghosted near the same side.

Phillips yanked open the passenger door and pointed the gun directly at the driver, “We need a ride--” he paused. “Mr Price…” he said eventually. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Howard Price felt his blood boil, the man who had beat him and had a hand in killing his daughter now had a gun pointed at his face.

97

The engine of the expensive Mercedes burst into life on the quiet dark street, with rows of police officers and vehicles less than thirty metres away. It accelerated quietly before picking up speed further down the road; travelling almost twice as fast as it had before.

Howard Price drove with Johnny Phillips in the passenger seat holding a gun to his head. Michael Richards had slipped into the back of the car when his friend hijacked the vehicle.

“Head to Rokers Court,” Phillips demanded with the barrel of the gun still inches from Price’s temple.

“OK,” Howard agreed meekly. He tried to peer at Phillips through the corner of his eye but saw only the glint of the weapon. “And then what?” he wondered.

Phillips paused and thought for a second, “Just go there, we’ll keep an eye on you. There are a few things we need to pick up. You, my friend,” Phillips smiled and patted the driver on the shoulder, “can be our chauffeur for the evening.”

Howard grimaced and shrugged off the touch. It felt like a diseased hand groping him; the hand that had killed his daughter, the hand that had destroyed his life.

“Why did you do it?” Howard asked as the car pulled turned away from the spaghetti streets and hit a long country road.

“Money,” Phillips said simply, his mind on his next actions and the journey ahead.

Richards kept his gaze away from the pair in the front, choosing to concentrate with an agitated nervousness at the roads behind them, dreading a police car pulling into view and giving chase.

“How could you do such a thing?” Howard wondered.

“What?” Phillips said, distracted.

“It’s sickening, how could you do something like that?” He could feel Phillips’s breath, he could smell his presence and taste his evil thoughts, each passing second sent more bolts of rage through him.

Phillips ignored the comments. He was stuck in a void, as a conman all of his actions were usually plotted for him; especially when it came to avoiding the police and escaping with the money. Confidence tricks take time, practice and skill, the situation he found himself in required pure intuition and luck.

Howard struggled to maintain calm. He was sharing the same breathing space as the people who had executed his daughter without remorse, people who valued money over the life of a little girl,
his
little girl.

“You bastards,” Howard said again, spitting his words with ferocity. He turned to look at Phillips who was lost in thought. “You fucking bastards!” he growled, his mouth had taken on the form of a pit-bull; he was snarling with deep hatred. “You have no right--”

Phillips snapped out of his trance and straightened the gun; reaffirming his intentions. “Keep your fucking eyes on the road old man!” he warned.

Howard paid no heed to the words of warning. The car, touching onto sixty miles an hour, wobbled from lane to lane.

In the back seat Richards felt his body clench as his heart began to beat a multitude of warnings. He tried to offer his own words of warning to the driver but his meek voice was overshadowed by Phillips’s sudden outburst.

“Look at the fucking road!” he bellowed. His voice rocked through the car like thunder and the currents of threat that coursed through it even sent a chill to Michael Richards’s bones.

Howard relented momentarily and returned his attention to the road, settling the car back onto a straight line.

“Do not try to make this any fucking harder for me,” Phillips warned again, his tone much softer. “Or I
will
shoot you,” he pushed the gun against Howard's temple and held it there for a few seconds, hoping the older man would pay attention, even though he had no intention of pulling the trigger.

Vengeance continued to boil up inside Howard like some venomous bile. He pressed his foot down harder on the pedals and watched as the speedometer crawled past seventy.

“My daughter went through hell,” Howard spoke again, his hatred masked by a sombre tone. “She should be with me now, but instead you killed her, and for what? Money? Is money worth more to you than the life of a child?” the car continued to pick up speed, in the distance the large block of Rokers Court stood out like a grey blotch on a black canvas.

Phillips looked at him, baffled, “We didn’t fucking kill your daughter old man,” he bellowed.

“Fuck you!” Howard shouted, lost in anger. “You’re sick, she was just a little girl, she wouldn’t have harmed you.”

Howard turned the wheel sharply and dragged the car off the road. The suspension rocked as it bounced over thick grass, clumped mud and wet rocks.

Phillips screamed random obscenities and tried to focus the gun on Howard's head, but even when he had the shot he didn’t want to take it.

“You took her away from me!” Howard screamed as the side of the car stripped the bark from a tree with an aggressive screech.

“We didn’t!” Phillips shouted. “We didn’t harm her. Get back on the fucking road!” he pressed the gun hard against Howard Price’s temple, hoping to spark his reactions.

The older man ignored the weapon, brushing the feeling of cold steel away like a minor headache.

“She didn’t deserve to die,” Howard called with the gun now deeply imprinting the skin on his head “I hope you rot in hell!”

Phillips saw the large wall ahead and he was quick enough to see that the car was heading straight for it, the gun fell from his loose grasp as his mind scurried to find a survivable solution. Moving from his seat he tried desperately to dive across the driver’s side, he didn’t know why.