Bloodstorm by Sam Millar Page A

fingers moved from his arse to his face, and began to scratch a two-day growth.
    “I suppose there is some warped logic to what you’re saying, Chris.”
    Chris slugged back a mouthful of wine, rinsed his teeth, swallowed, and then extended his arm for Karl to see. It was moon surfaced, badly scarred with needle marks and sores. “Logic doesn’t come into it; cold facts of life do. Once an addict; always an addict. Addiction is the shadow that always follows. You look behind you and it’s gone. Except, of course, it’s never really gone …”
    “What is that place like now? Woodbank?”
    “Because of all the shit going on in there, they got rid of most – if not all – of the old guard. A new governor has been recently installed, by the name of George Hanna, but in reality, the place is actually run by a Principal Officer by the name of Lange. Y.M.P.’s is Lange’s choice of drugs, I’ve been told.”
    “Y.M.P.’s? What kind of drugs are they?”
    “Young Male Prisoners. He likes them beefy but smooth. Kind of like a sausage dipped in ice-cream.”
    “Very appetising. Must remember never to have that combo for lunch.”
    The nosey squirrel watched Karl watching it. Disgustingly, Karl noted, it was vigorously scratching its nuts.
    From his pocket, Karl removed three twenties, studying them for a second before stealthily slipping one back into the warmth of his coat.
    “Here.” He handed the two remaining twenties to Chris.
    Chris took them without counting. “You’re too generous. That’ll help me get out of Belfast, set up home in Portugal.”
    “You know what they say about Belfast? An easy place to leave, but not to stay away from,” replied Karl, checking his watch. “Time to depart. Sure you don’t want to go for a bite to eat?”
    “No. My diary is full. Must rush. So many people to meet and greet.” Chris’s smile could cut the skin off a turd. He took another brave slug of wine. “Your good deed is done for the day, so you can fuck off now.”
    Chris’s misery was beginning to tunnel right into Karl’s marrow, and because Karl has always deemed himself a man who never became preoccupied for long periods on what he considered debilitating emotions, he finally readied himself to leave.
    “We’ll, I’ve got a few clients waiting back at the office, Chris. It was an interesting wee chat …”
    “Sure it fucking was,” said Chris, tilting his head back, filling his throat with wine, before closing his eyes as if drowning.
    “Should you be drinking and driving?” enquired Karl, buttoning his coat to the neck.
    “Trying to be smart?”
    “I’m smart enough to know not to be smart.”
    “You don’t need a licence for a wheelchair, last I heard.”
    “What happened to your car, the one you got from the disability people?”
    “They took it from me.”
    “Why?”
    “Stopped me every mile at roadblocks. Said I was drunk all the time, and dangerous behind a wheel. Bollocks. Just another form of harassment from the fuckers.”
    “I can give you a lift home.”
    Chris ignored the offer. Patted Paisley’s head, instead.
    Karl thought about what Chris just said.
    “When you said ‘they’, you meant the police?”
    “You have a knack for asking questions to which you already know the fucking answers,” replied Chris. “It was a warning from them. They’re terrified I will say something about them, their methods, in my book.”
    “
Book?
” Suddenly Karl no longer felt the urge to go. “I didn’t knowyou were writing a book?”
    “It’s a memoir.” Chris nodded wearily. “I’ve completed a few chapters.”
    “Do you have a publisher?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s brilliant …” Envy was sticking in Karl’s throat. He wanted to spit it out, but it refused to budge. “Who?”
    “Burrger and Goldman.”
    Bastards!
“They’re big …”
    “Yeah. Look at me, Ma, top of the world. Let me do a jig for you – or a wheelie.”
    Karl ignored Chris’s biting sarcasm. All