Holy Island Trilogy 02 - Nowhere Man (9 page)

‘Doubt that’s ever gonna happen, bastard!’ he muttered on his way to the door.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Shelly stepped down from the cab. Feeling rather foolish, she thanked the driver for the lift. Gotta stop thinking everybody’s out to get me! God, all he did was accidentally brush my hand. But then, after all that’s happened, especially this last week, no one could blame me for being friggin’ paranoid.

‘It was my pleasure, love,’ the driver said with a smile. ‘Hope you get where you’re going safely. Take care. Bye now!’ He waved as he pulled away.

Shelly nodded and waved back. When he’d gone, she looked around. He’d said that the train station was at the bottom of this narrow back street, so with no time to waste she headed off in that direction. ‘Gotta be a bank somewhere near the station,’ she muttered.

The street was totally empty, apart from a black mongrel dog pissing up someone's back gate. I feel the same, she thought, as she passed. Who the hell paints their back gate pink?

Knowing she was letting her mind wander to stop herself from going mad, she concentrated on her plan.

She had to draw all of her savings out. She didn’t have a lot, but six hundred quid would tide her over for a short time. She knew that it would be traced-that’s what she wanted, figuring that they would think she was heading for London, when in reality she was going anywhere but there.

She would buy a ticket to London on her card, then pay cash for a ticket to where she really was heading, hoping against hope that it would put them off the trail. It was a plan, of sorts. Actually, the only plan she had.

At the end of the road, she stepped into a totally different world. Having never visited Manchester before, she was surprised to find a vibrant, busy city with wall to wall people, even this early on a morning. Spotting Oxford Road Station over to her left, she scanned the rest of the road. Nothing suspicious going on, no loiterers. The dog padded past her as if she didn’t even exist. Just looks like an ordinary day with ordinary folk going about their business.

Deciding to turn left, she walked on for a few minutes and spotted a bank just opening. OK, she thought, so far so good.

Nearly tripping over a shopping trolley wheeled by an old woman in a red coat, she apologised and hurried into the bank. Even though it was the old woman’s fault, Shelly didn’t want her making a fuss and drawing attention to them. The small queue quickly evaporated, and Shelly was looking at a bald middle-aged man in short sleeves and a black waistcoat that was far too tight.

After a few minutes, he squinted at her, then at the form she’d handed him, then back at the screen. After he’d done this twice, he shoved the form back through the space in the window and said,

‘Sorry, no funds.’

‘What? No, you’re wrong, there’s plenty in there to cover it. Well, enough anyhow. Please try again.’

Shrugging, he tried again, then looked at her and shook his head.

Shelly’s heart sank. Plan A buggered before lift off, she thought. Turning away from him, her heart fluttering wildly, she headed for the door.

She held onto her tears, wanting to cry, wanting to scream her frustration to the world. How could she ever have thought that she could outwit them in any way? They were way ahead of her. She knew that every corner she turned would be blocked. The hundred or so quid she had on her wouldn’t last long. Feeling pretty desperate, she started thinking she should just give up and let them do whatever they were going to do to her. Better now than after the God knows how many hours of anxiety she had to face.

Feeling a bit shaky, and guessing rightly that her blood sugar was dropping rapidly, she went into the first café she came to and ordered a coffee and a slice of chocolate cake.  Half an hour later, after going through numerous mind changes, she finally realised that there really was nothing else she could do but go for it, whatever happened. Better to try, at least, than just friggin' give up and fade away.

If I’m gonna die, might as well go down fighting the bastards!

Her resolve strengthened, she left the coffee shop and headed along the street to a chemist. After buying hair dye and a pair of scissors, she booked into a cheap hotel for the night. She was shown to her room by an old man wearing a blue and red striped hoodie. He huffed and puffed up the two flights of stairs, hauling himself up by the rail. By the time they reached her room, his face was as red as the stripes on his shirt. Taking the key from his outstretched hand, she thanked him. Out of breath, he could only nod in reply. She watched as, without looking back, he began the slow journey down the stairs.

Once inside, she quickly locked the door behind her. Looking round, she was surprised to see the place was reasonably tidy. The pale blue sheets were clean, and the room smelled fresh enough, as if everything had just been polished. The carpet wasn’t sticky and looked like it had just been hoovered.

Could have been worse, she thought, moving to the window. Hiding behind the yellow flowered curtain, she moved the cream net covering the window and peeped up and down the street. Heaving a sigh of relief after five minutes of scanning the road in both directions, and seeing no one taking any interest in the hotel, she went into the tiny bathroom. Taking the scissors from her bag, she started to chop her long black hair.

Shelly remembered how she’d wanted to be a hairdresser, and how she had trained for all of three months before she got well sick of it and decided her true vocation was to be a reporter for a big newspaper.

‘That’s what got me into this friggin' mess,’ she muttered, watching her hair mount up in the sink. She kept on cutting until she had a really short urchin style. Running her fingers through, she spiked it up slightly on top and was pleased with the result.

Tomorrow, when I’m blonde, even the Brothers Grim won’t recognise me, she thought, as she watched the last strands of hair swirl and disappear down the plug-hole.

She dyed her hair, and left it on longer than it stated on the box. Going from black to blonde could be tricky. A friend of hers had once woken her up at six in the morning, begging for help because her hair had gone bright green.

A couple of hour later, satisfied with the results of her hair, she was watching the small TV. But her mind couldn’t settle. After another of her frequent trips to the window, she again lay down on the bed. Slowly her lids drooped and in moments she was asleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Danny Wilson lay sprawled across his settee, last night's untouched TV dinner still lying on the floor next to a cold bowl of tomato soup. He had one hand behind his head and the other holding onto his ribs, which seemed to be getting worse by the hour. After x-rays, they had told him at the hospital that his ribs weren’t actually broken, just  severely bruised.

‘To hell with what they say,’ he groaned. Again he wondered just what the hell he’d ever done to deserve everything that had happened over the last few weeks. He gently rubbed his hand over the worst spot. ‘The bastards seem fairly broken to me.'

In a semi-doze a few minutes later, he was suddenly wide awake when he heard a heavy banging on the door. ‘What the----?’ he muttered, struggling to sit up. ‘ Keep yer fucking hair on, I’m coming,’ he yelled, as the banging was repeated over and over.

‘For fuck’s sake, this better be good.’

He opened the door. It took all of his strength to stop it from banging into him and crushing him against the wall, as Shelly’s brothers burst in.

‘Ha’way, man!’ Danny yelled at the two men. ‘What do you think you're doing, yer thick pair of twats?’

‘Where is she?’ Gary, thickset, and built like a heavyweight boxer, yelled in his face.

‘Not you lot again, for fuck’s sake,’ Danny muttered. For a moment, he was thrown - it was a repeat performance of a few days ago, when the Brothers Grim, as Shelly called them, had just barged in and taken over.

‘What did you say?’ Gary demanded, while Shelly’s other brother, Liam, taller and much thinner, stepped forward, about to try, as usual, to placate him. Gary brushed him off before he had a chance to say anything, and glared at Danny.

‘Nothing,’ Danny sighed, turning from the door and thinking, no need to ask them in, seeing as the cheeky bastards are already in the flaming house.

Followed by Gary and Liam, who closed the door behind him, Danny hobbled along to the sitting room and eased himself down on to the settee. ‘I’m guessing this is about Shelly.’

‘Taking the piss, or what? Of course it’s about our Shelly. We’ve been to the hospital, and she’s gone walkabout again.’

‘Nowt to do with me.’

‘Yeah, that’s what you said the last time.’

‘That’s true, and look what sort of fucking mess I ended up in! So forgive me if I say I’ve fucking well had enough. Piss off, why don’t you?’

‘We need to know where she is. You know fine well she’s a diabetic. She needs her meds.’

‘Yeah, well-like I already said, it’s nowt to do with me. I for one don’t fucking want to know where she is any more. I couldn’t care less if I never see her again. And she’s got her stuff, I dropped it off last night. Got it? Now get out.’

’If I find out you’re lying----’

‘Just fucking see yourselves out, will yer?’ Refusing to move, Danny stared stubbornly at the fireplace. He didn’t even want to give them the time of day. He’d had more than enough, and still had not come to terms with the events of the last week, when a very good friend had been savagely murdered.

He’d been questioned relentlessly by the coppers from hell, more than once. Locked up in a drugs den and forced to work for the sick bastards filling little plastic bags with little yellow pills.

Had the shit kicked out of me.

More than once an’ all.

No fucking more.

If Shelly wants to get herself killed, chasing those friggin' loonies, that’s up to her.

Gary glared at Danny, while Liam tried to ease him towards the door. ‘Come on, you heard him.’

Danny still stared at the fire, oblivious to Shelly’s brothers. Where is she now? he thought.

Why the hell couldn’t she just stay put in the bloody hospital? There’s a funeral to go to in a few days' time-has she forgotten her best friend is dead, murdered by those bastards?

But that’s Shelly all over, selfish to the core. Evan could really do with seeing her.

Not that I want to, ever again.

But in his mind the words didn’t quite ring true.

He’d already decided through a sleepless night that yes, he still loved her, even after everything she’d done. But there was nothing he could do to help her, not in the condition he was in. It even hurt to breathe, for Christ’s sake.

He heard the front door slam and shuddered. Pulling a blanket over his head, he groaned. It was all he could do to keep the tears away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Standing outside the hospital, Mike took in great gulps of air as he tried not to be sick again. He wiped his mouth, tasting the bitterness, and sighed. What he had just done went right against everything he believed in. He was no stranger to violence, having used it on more than one occasion, but only when absolutely necessary - mostly in the defence of himself or others.

He told himself that this time he had done what had to be done. It was more than necessary, there were too many lives at stake. But his conscience niggled at him. The man had been helpless.

‘And so is the whole world. No one is safe anywhere,’ he muttered angrily, stepping away from the wall and moving off in the direction of the car park. He shook himself, and made a promise not to beat himself up any more. What had to be done, would be done. He had no choice.

Reaching his car, he jumped in and headed for Newcastle city centre. Managing to grab a parking spot in Grey Street, he walked up to the monument. He stood on the steps and looked down at what was once called-by someone he couldn’t remember - the best curved street in England. Where had that thought come from? He allowed himself a half smile. Of course, it was linked to Smiler. Wasn’t everything these days?

No doubt Smiler would know who he was, and who built the street, and probably the number of bricks it took. How many workmen there were, what they had for their meals and God only knows what friggin' else. He sighed, knowing that he would probably never see any of the others ever again.

Kristina, you’ve got damn good timing. Guess it's another time, another place, he was thinking, as he turned and headed in a brisk walk towards Pilgrim Street police station.

Twenty minutes later he was back in his car and driving towards Wallsend, with a three-month extended leave. He badly needed some equipment and knew a man who knew another man, both of whom owed him big time. He’d saved their skins a few years ago when, probably for the first time in their seedy little lives, they had been totally innocent of the crime they had been accused of. Mike could have had them both, Quinn and his right hand man, sent down for a long stretch, but it wasn’t the way he did things.

After parking the car, the pub he walked into had definitely seen better days. He was surprised, though, to find decorators inside scraping off years of old red and green flock wall paper. Hmm, with so many pubs closing down, these are obviously flourishing, he thought, propping his leg on the brass guard-rail that ran around the bottom of the bar, and resting both elbows on the bar top. He looked around. Three old men sat in the corner playing cards, while a couple of youths in jeans and t-shirts played the fruit machines. Another youth, sitting in the far corner with his hood up, sat staring into his drink.

‘Can I help you?’ asked the barman, a younger Boy George look alike. With a toss of his head, he looked Mike up and down while he flicked imaginary dust off the bar with his tea towel. Obviously liking what he saw, he smiled and winked.

‘Larry Quinn anywhere around?’

‘Who wants to know?’ he asked, his attitude immediately becoming defensive.

Knowing that Quinn was probably sitting in the office out the back, Mike replied, ’Just tell him an old friend of his is here to see him. Now.’