Consequence (9 page)

“You walk?” Phillips said without looking away from the window.

Richards nodded and took a sip from his glass.

The pub was empty. Richards had never been inside before and had been given directions from Phillips. He could hear commotion past a doorway next to the bar -- looking through a glass panel in the door he could see a few small pool tables, a large television screen and a gathering of customers.

The area where Richards and Phillips were seated was quiet and small. There were only two tables and three bar stools and they were the only customers.

“Been here before?” Richards quizzed.

“Once,” Phillips replied distantly. “I was seeing a girl not too far from here, big arse, but she had a decent set of tits on her. We came here one weekend for a drink. Through the door,” Phillips motioned to the source of the commotion, “there are a few pool tables, bigger bar, television…not a very exciting place but the drinks are cheap. Had some fun in the toilets too,” he added with a dry smile.

Richards shook his head in disbelief, “Is there anywhere or
anyone
you haven’t fucked?” he quizzed jokingly. “You get more action than the
A-Team.
We’ve been friends for, well, nearly forever; you’d think that would work in my favour,” Richards paused and took a sip from his glass. “Last fuck I got was from a drunk slut I met at a nightclub six months ago,” he explained, “she walked me to her house, we spent half an hour fucking…she passed out, then she woke up in the morning asking me who I was and telling me to get the fuck out of her house.”

Phillips shifted his eyes away from the window, turning towards his friend, “Yeah. I remember you telling me that,” he laughed. “You came home with stiletto wounds on your face and scratches all over your neck.”

Richards nodded, “The first thing that came to hand,” he explained. “I wasn’t even fully awake when I heard her screaming. Next thing I knew, she’d picked up her fucking heels and was slamming them into my face,” he laughed meekly at the recollection.

“You always manage to find the crazy ones.”

“Yeah…
anyone
would do at the minute,” he mumbled. “I’m getting so desperate even
you’re
starting to look attractive.”

“Get a hooker or something,” Phillips offered lightly.

“Nah, fuck that, I aint paying for sex.”

“Well, you aint getting it for free either are you?”

Richards shrugged and changed the subject, “So, how much did we get?”

Phillips looked cautiously around the bar before answering: “Four grand,” he smiled broadly.

Richards nearly choked on his pint. The action caught the attention of the sour faced bartender but he quickly lost interest and continued to clean glasses. “Four K? What the fuck was in the van?”

“Paving slabs mostly, we had to clear those out of the way to get to the good stuff.”

“Which was?” Richards jumped in eagerly.

“Allcross was working on two landscaping jobs in the area, I found the receipts in the glove compartment. Up on Hedgefield drive, all those posh fucking palaces. Fuck knows how a lowlife like him got the job.” Phillips seemed to perk up somewhat, “Marble stones, a couple of little fancy fucking fountains, silly fucking cherubs, gnomes, fairies and a ton of equipment. All looked useless to me but I think I caught Simon in a good mood.”

“He was stoned again?”

“Completely out of it.”

“What about the cards?”

“Five hundred. Dumb fucker probably won’t get that much when he sells them on but that’s his loss.”

“That’s a lot of money for one take. So why you looking so down?” Richard wondered.

Phillips shrugged his shoulders, paused and then answered, “I just want something...bigger.”

26

James Roach twisted the car through tight roads. Semi-detached houses lined each side of every road; no matter where he turned, the Victorian edifices glared out at him as he manoeuvred through the small town.

They drove past a crowded fish and chip shop, it was small, no larger than a simple corner shop, yet people were queuing halfway down the road to gain access. Darren Morris glanced inside the building as the car struggled on at a slow pace. There were more than a dozen people inside, all crammed together, waiting to be served one at a time by a buff and sweaty woman in white.

“Must be something they put in the sauce,” Roach said, watching his friend’s bewilderment at the capacity of customers.

Morris nodded and turned his attention further down the line. Teenagers and young adults gathered towards the back, wearing baseball caps and hoodies to shelter themselves from the breeze. They were drinking cans and bottles of beer and chatting loudly; their antics clearly annoying an agitated elderly couple in front of them who seemed too scared to say anything.

“Should be around here somewhere,” Roach said as the car rolled past the brimming fast food shop and turned a sharp right at a T-junction.

“Have you been to the place before?” Morris questioned.

“Heard of it. Supposed to be a right shit hole, the rest of the town is bad enough but it seems they dumped all the real fucking lowlifes in one street.”

They rounded a corner and the houses disappeared. The sides of the roads littered with teenagers and children instead of buildings. Ahead Morris could see a brimming cul-de-sac engraved into a half circle; after that there was nowhere to turn, the street was a dead end.

It felt like they had entered a different dimension as they pulled into the circular street. Kids were sitting on the side of the road smoking and drinking. A group of adults gathered around a battered Vauxhall; the windows and doors were open -- as was the boot -- and the stereo blared out a heavy drum and bass soundtrack.

Morris mused at the sight of the neglected car -- a car worth at least 10 times less than the pulse shattering speakers and subwoofers within. A group of kids no more than ten years old gathered around a bike shed openly smoking what was clearly a joint. Near them, youngsters not much older cradled cheap fireworks, plotting tricks and schemes as they hugged the explosive devices to their chests like fragile new-borns.

“What a fucking hole,” he grumbled as the car stopped.

He looked out at the houses; fifty year old terraces lined all the way around the street, bending into a semi-circle. The windows on most were boarded up and covered in the detritus of spray-paint and vandalism. Driveways sat in between every other house, but besides the Vauxhall in the middle of the street the only car in the area was a Morris Minor -- minus the wheels and dumped in one of the gardens.

Roach and Morris noted the intimidating glares they received upon entering the cul-de-sac, they exchanged a glance and a nod inside the car before stepping out simultaneously.

They ignored the questioning stares from the residents and headed straight for Pearce’s house.

The garden to number 32 Walker Street was sprouting into a forest. Inside the four foot clumps of weeds and grass a variety of junk and decayed rubbish nestled -- from a wheel-less mountain bike to a rusted lawnmower.

Morris could feel the hard grass rubbing against the tops of his legs as he headed for the front door. He reached for the blistered wood and paused, turning an ear to the door, trying to make sense of the incoherent mumbles beyond the skimpy wooden frame.

Roach slipped distastefully by his side, brushing at the bottom of his coat as if to dispel the decrepit garden air from its fibres. “If any of them fuckers even touches the car I’ll string the bastards up by their balls,” he said bitterly, glancing towards the street.

27

Michael Richards stared into the bottom of his glass. He had been cradling a pint of
Coke
for nearly an hour and the small amount of black liquid that remained seemed to be growing skin.

He downed the final drops. The drink had lost its fizz, which, combined with its dormant state, gave it an extra sugary kick. He lolled his tongue around his mouth as the sweet drink soaked his saliva glands and slid down his throat.

A door slammed loudly behind him and he turned his attention to the noise. Through the glass panel in the door opposite he could see Johnny Phillips emerging into view.

He watched with a sly smile as his friend struggled through half a dozen people, weaving in and out of the human slalom course. He inevitably bumped into a few but he was quick to apologise, but one man, at the end of the line, didn’t take kindly to his apology.

The drunken man turned towards Phillips with a ferocious stare.

Richards readied himself in his seat, waiting to see if the incident caused uproar. He listened to their conversation.

“Sorry mate,” Phillips said with a great deal of honesty.

“You should watch where you’re fucking going,” the man spat in alcoholic fury.

“Like I said, I’m sorry. Accidents happen,” Phillips relied placidly,

“You want your face fucking smashed in mate?” the man snapped, his mind clearly on a one-route track.

“Why would I want that?”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“No, of course not, how could I do such a thing? I’m absolutely petrified; humour is the last thing on my mind.”

“You think you’re better then me?” the man spat.

“I would hope so, yes.”

The man advanced, his drunken face raging with fury. He picked up a snooker cue from a nearby table and swung it at Phillips.

Phillips casually moved out of the way and watched as the cue handle crashed into the shoulder of a nearby drinker. The man calmly grabbed the end of the cue and pulled it free of the drunken man’s grasp. He laid it back onto the table and rushed the drunk. Soon three people were holding him back as he struggled frantically to get free of their grasp, shouting abuse at Phillips.

“I think you better leave,” the bartender commanded. “He gets like this when he’s had a bit to drink.”

Phillips nodded and walked away from the babbling drunk. He noticed Richards standing by the door. “Come on Mickey,” he said. “Let’s get going.”

“The world is full of fucking drunks and arseholes,” Phillips said as they exited the stifled bar and braced the cool afternoon air.

Richards nodded and they continued in silence, walking to the back of the building where Phillips had parked the car. He stopped as they reached the corner, out of sight of the pub windows he leant against the wall of the building.

“What you doing?” Richards said, stopping and watching as his friend dug his hand into the inside of his jacket pocket.

Phillips pulled out a small wad of cash, “Took it off the drunken bastard,” he declared. “He was buying a round of drinks when I went to the toilet. I saw him pull out a bundle of notes and figured I'd score us some easy cash on our way out of the pub. Didn’t bank on the tosser trying to start a fucking fight though.”

“I saw it all,” Richards noted. “He was just drunk. It’s a good thing his mates didn’t join in.”

“I’d have been okay. I had my bodyguard waiting for me at the door didn’t I?” he grinned mockingly.

“Hey! I’m a decent fighter, I could have helped you out,” Richards assured.

Phillips smiled and counted the money before stuffing it in his back pocket.

“Fifty quid,” he announced. “Not great, but it’ll do.”

“Every little bit counts huh?”

28

James Roach was still staring at the youngsters gathering around his car when the door to number 32 Walker Street slowly creaked open.

A pasty and creased face appeared in the dimly lit doorway.

“What?” it asked through thin cracked lips, its voice harsh and laden with a chesty thickness and a sour touch of thirst.

Darren Morris smiled awkwardly at him. The door had been opened enough to expose the gaunt face of the man; his glazed, heavy eyes seemed to protrude from his skull, popping out from his tight skin in a comical and disturbing manner. He shifted the bloodshot orbs from Roach to Morris then back again, before catching a stroke of sunlight and recoiling like a vampire.

“Are you Wayne Pearce?” Morris asked as the pale figure ducked further into the doorway to shield his face from the vampire-vanquishing rays.

He continued to look the pair of assassins up and down, uncomfortable with their presence.

“Why?” he croaked in reply.

“A friend of mine told me to come see you,” Morris clarified. “He said you would be able to hook me up.”

He opened the door further and exposed his gawky, pasty figure. He wore a worn blue shirt which had been unbuttoned at the top, exposing a hairy chest. His ribs could be seen poking through his thin, neglected skin. A pair of jogging pants covered his lower body, clinging to his sunken form.

He glanced past Morris and looked into the street. He stared at the Ford parked just outside his house and recoiled into the confines of his doorway again.

“I don’t speak to fucking pigs!” he warned in a dry tone.

“We aint coppers,” Morris said calmly, rolling his eyes.

“Prove it!” the man demanded.

Morris shot a look of complete bewilderment at the pale figure in the doorway. “How?” he wondered.

He contemplated this for a few seconds. “OK,” the hermit continued, “let’s just say I
was
Wayne Pearce--” Morris could almost see a light bulb above his head as he tried to contemplate his options, “which, of course I
‘aven’t
said, I might not even know the guy,” the light bulb began flickering erratically. “But if I
was
, what would you want from me?”

Morris noticed that Roach had taken up a position beside him, completely blocking out the view of the doorway from the street beyond. If anyone was looking -- which they no doubt were -- their inquisitive eyes would see nothing but his broad frame.

“We’re just here to borrow a cup of sugar mate,” Morris said, grinning.

The pale figure began to contemplate the statement, but Morris’s fist moved a lot faster then Pearce’s mind ever could.

The right hook propelled him backwards, he lost his balance and crashed into a wooden shoe rack. He attempted to cushion his fall with his right hand but his movements were too slow and the appendage crippled beneath his weight, sandwiched behind the solid wooden rack and his own spine.