the cradle and dialling.
After ten rings a weary voice answered. “Yeah.”
“Hi, Dad. It’s Matt.”
“You at home, yet?”
“Yeah. They kicked me out this morning.”
“So take a medical and walk. You don’t need to go back to it.”
“And do what, Dad? You know what it’s like. You were a cop.”
“I should’ve been something else. Maybe a plumber or a cabbie. You’re still young enough to get some sense and follow the money. You don’t get paid enough to be a target in a shooting gallery.”
“How’re you feeling, Dad?” Matt asked, changing the subject.
“How should I feel? I’ve not had a good night’s sleep since your mother died, God bless her,” His voice hitched. “I couldn’t get up to visit you in hospital, son. You understand, don’t you?”
“Yeah. You phoned. I appreciated that. How’s the ticker?”
“Still ticking, but it’ll get me sooner or later. Damn thing’s on bobbins.”
“You should quit smoking and get out more. Walking and fresh air would help.”
“You a cop, or a bloody quack?”
“You’re right. We all have to do it our own way. It’ll be a few weeks before the cast comes off my leg. When it does, I’ll drive down and let you buy me a pint.”
“Okay, son. How’s Linda? She making sure you rest up and give yourself a chance to heal properly?”
Now wasn’t the time to discuss it. “She’s fine. I’ll give her your love.”
“You do that. She’s too good for you.”
“I know. I’ll call you in a day or two. Bye, Dad.”
After racking the phone, Matt made coffee. The chat with his dad had not helped. He felt even more dejected than before. Arthur Barnes was a little remote, and always had been. He’d made sergeant, and then manned the front desk at Greenwich for the last fifteen years of his service, before retiring to a poxy flat in Hove that was set well back from the front on a narrow side street. The odd seagull sitting on a chimney pot or shitting down the window was the only visible clue to his being near the sea. And just twelve months into what should have been their ‘Golden Years’, Nancy Barnes had developed lung cancer and faded away within six weeks of being diagnosed. It was ironical. She had never smoked a fucking cigarette in her life.
Arthur hadn’t dealt with it well. And within six months of Nancy passing, he had suffered a massive heart attack and undergone quadruple bypass surgery. Now, he was just waiting for the end, impatiently, as though death was little more than an overdue bus. He’d told Matt that if you had nothing to look forward to, and there was no more you wanted from life, then you were just like an empty Scotch bottle; a complete waste of fucking space.
Back on the sofa bed, Matt fell asleep as he contemplated life and all its incongruous twists and turns. It was a rollercoaster, and he decided that all you could do was hang on tight and go with it. There was no getting off until it came to a stop.
“MAATTT!” Bernie’s voice, as once again Matt was in the bungalow, feeling secure and in control of the situation. The slim figure appeared, and he froze his dream to study the face below the peak of the I ♥ NY baseball cap. Saw the first explosive flash from the silenced muzzle. The scenario that followed was a fabrication. He reached for his gun, and like Dirty Harry, cut the figure down in a hail of lead. But dreams were like movies; any comparison to reality was purely coincidental.
Crying out, he reared up, bathed in sweat. It was as dark and quiet as a crypt. The panic ran its course and subsided, to be replaced by a searing anger. Purpose overcame all other emotions. Santini and his paid assassin were going down for what they had done. Tom was right, he was too close to the case. It was in his face; personal business. Only revenge would extinguish the fire that raged in his soul. And if he got his hands on the cop who’d sold them out, then he didn’t think he would be able to stop
After ten rings a weary voice answered. “Yeah.”
“Hi, Dad. It’s Matt.”
“You at home, yet?”
“Yeah. They kicked me out this morning.”
“So take a medical and walk. You don’t need to go back to it.”
“And do what, Dad? You know what it’s like. You were a cop.”
“I should’ve been something else. Maybe a plumber or a cabbie. You’re still young enough to get some sense and follow the money. You don’t get paid enough to be a target in a shooting gallery.”
“How’re you feeling, Dad?” Matt asked, changing the subject.
“How should I feel? I’ve not had a good night’s sleep since your mother died, God bless her,” His voice hitched. “I couldn’t get up to visit you in hospital, son. You understand, don’t you?”
“Yeah. You phoned. I appreciated that. How’s the ticker?”
“Still ticking, but it’ll get me sooner or later. Damn thing’s on bobbins.”
“You should quit smoking and get out more. Walking and fresh air would help.”
“You a cop, or a bloody quack?”
“You’re right. We all have to do it our own way. It’ll be a few weeks before the cast comes off my leg. When it does, I’ll drive down and let you buy me a pint.”
“Okay, son. How’s Linda? She making sure you rest up and give yourself a chance to heal properly?”
Now wasn’t the time to discuss it. “She’s fine. I’ll give her your love.”
“You do that. She’s too good for you.”
“I know. I’ll call you in a day or two. Bye, Dad.”
After racking the phone, Matt made coffee. The chat with his dad had not helped. He felt even more dejected than before. Arthur Barnes was a little remote, and always had been. He’d made sergeant, and then manned the front desk at Greenwich for the last fifteen years of his service, before retiring to a poxy flat in Hove that was set well back from the front on a narrow side street. The odd seagull sitting on a chimney pot or shitting down the window was the only visible clue to his being near the sea. And just twelve months into what should have been their ‘Golden Years’, Nancy Barnes had developed lung cancer and faded away within six weeks of being diagnosed. It was ironical. She had never smoked a fucking cigarette in her life.
Arthur hadn’t dealt with it well. And within six months of Nancy passing, he had suffered a massive heart attack and undergone quadruple bypass surgery. Now, he was just waiting for the end, impatiently, as though death was little more than an overdue bus. He’d told Matt that if you had nothing to look forward to, and there was no more you wanted from life, then you were just like an empty Scotch bottle; a complete waste of fucking space.
Back on the sofa bed, Matt fell asleep as he contemplated life and all its incongruous twists and turns. It was a rollercoaster, and he decided that all you could do was hang on tight and go with it. There was no getting off until it came to a stop.
“MAATTT!” Bernie’s voice, as once again Matt was in the bungalow, feeling secure and in control of the situation. The slim figure appeared, and he froze his dream to study the face below the peak of the I ♥ NY baseball cap. Saw the first explosive flash from the silenced muzzle. The scenario that followed was a fabrication. He reached for his gun, and like Dirty Harry, cut the figure down in a hail of lead. But dreams were like movies; any comparison to reality was purely coincidental.
Crying out, he reared up, bathed in sweat. It was as dark and quiet as a crypt. The panic ran its course and subsided, to be replaced by a searing anger. Purpose overcame all other emotions. Santini and his paid assassin were going down for what they had done. Tom was right, he was too close to the case. It was in his face; personal business. Only revenge would extinguish the fire that raged in his soul. And if he got his hands on the cop who’d sold them out, then he didn’t think he would be able to stop
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