hurricane had twisted through his mind and scattered his thoughts everywhere.
Every time he saw her the problem just seemed to get worse.
Chapter 1.4
Devlan felt a bit edgy being out in public again. Hidden underneath his hood he looked reasonably normal: a short and muscular body as sturdy as any tree trunk, his back forming into a slight hunch as though he’d been carrying a great weight most of his life. He wore blind man shades and woollen gloves; both were necessary to conceal his strange features. Without them he might blend in with the garish ghouls and monsters painted on the panelling of the ghost train that he stood beside.
Friday evening in late winter and most of the rides were either boarded up or covered in tarpaulin. The arcades were kept open all year so there were always people trailing through the grounds of Floyd’s Amusements: old age pensioners who would visit the coast at any time of the year, chronic gamblers, skivers. Nobody was paying Devlan any attention though, which was just how he liked it.
In recent years, Floyd had seemed quite tame and dispassionate as he’d laboured on with his business. The effervescence of danger seemed to have fizzed out of him with age. Devlan supposed that, at fifty-seven, Floyd was starting to get on a bit, starting to mellow and slow down, if indeed that was possible for a man like Floyd.
At first it had been plain bizarre to see him take on these amusements, but the story went that he’d acquired the business in a card game and quickly appreciated the money to be earned. Without such a quirk of fortune he’d surely be up to his usual tricks. Or he’d be dead by now.
‘Still busy then, Floyd?’ Devlan asked as Floyd crept up behind him.
It always unnerved Floyd how Devlan seemed to have eyes in the back of his head. ‘Yes, matey. Yeah, soon be getting the new rides. I’m expecting a busy summer.’
Devlan turned to face him and Floyd towered above him, all six feet and six inches of him. His beanpole figure had deceptive strength to it, as powerful as his coarse, bag-of-gravel voice. That voice of his could hit you as hard as a punch from his right fist. It was not enough to intimidate Devlan however; nothing ever did anymore.
The skin on Floyd’s face was rough like sandpaper, and his eyes were small and shifty, constantly jittering around so that nobody could focus on them. They were coloured a murky brown, like a stagnant swamp that would swallow you away.
He brought out a hand from his grey leather trench coat which he’d probably stolen from a Neo-Nazi, and stretched his long, bony fingers. They were inscribed with faded tattoos across his knuckles: ‘fear’ was written on this particular hand, ‘pain’ across the other. His hand was probably suffering a bit of cramp from the pen-pushing he’d been doing today, an activity that his hands were simply not meant for.
‘All right for some,’ Devlan said in his quiet, gruff voice. By habit, he rarely opened his mouth very wide when talking, and Floyd was automatically leaning in closer to hear him.
‘I’m sure you’ve looked after yourself, Devlan. Anyway, this new gig should keep you busy for some time.’
‘Go on then. Spill.’
A grin of self-satisfaction began to form on Floyd’s face. ‘You want to know the real reason you didn’t get in touch with Henry?’
‘What?’
‘Because he’s on the downward spiral. Everyone knows it. It’s not going to take much to push the bastard over the edge for good.’
‘So, what? You want him whacked?’
‘Too simple. Too pointless. You know, it’s taken me a while to learn what I was taught, but these days I think I’m finally getting it. Cat has a mouse, he likes to play with it.’
‘You sound so refined.’
‘And it doesn’t take a genius to know a bullet’s too crude an option.’
‘So, what do you want me to do?’ Devlan pressed.
Floyd twitched his head to beckon Devlan over towards the promenade. ‘You
Every time he saw her the problem just seemed to get worse.
Chapter 1.4
Devlan felt a bit edgy being out in public again. Hidden underneath his hood he looked reasonably normal: a short and muscular body as sturdy as any tree trunk, his back forming into a slight hunch as though he’d been carrying a great weight most of his life. He wore blind man shades and woollen gloves; both were necessary to conceal his strange features. Without them he might blend in with the garish ghouls and monsters painted on the panelling of the ghost train that he stood beside.
Friday evening in late winter and most of the rides were either boarded up or covered in tarpaulin. The arcades were kept open all year so there were always people trailing through the grounds of Floyd’s Amusements: old age pensioners who would visit the coast at any time of the year, chronic gamblers, skivers. Nobody was paying Devlan any attention though, which was just how he liked it.
In recent years, Floyd had seemed quite tame and dispassionate as he’d laboured on with his business. The effervescence of danger seemed to have fizzed out of him with age. Devlan supposed that, at fifty-seven, Floyd was starting to get on a bit, starting to mellow and slow down, if indeed that was possible for a man like Floyd.
At first it had been plain bizarre to see him take on these amusements, but the story went that he’d acquired the business in a card game and quickly appreciated the money to be earned. Without such a quirk of fortune he’d surely be up to his usual tricks. Or he’d be dead by now.
‘Still busy then, Floyd?’ Devlan asked as Floyd crept up behind him.
It always unnerved Floyd how Devlan seemed to have eyes in the back of his head. ‘Yes, matey. Yeah, soon be getting the new rides. I’m expecting a busy summer.’
Devlan turned to face him and Floyd towered above him, all six feet and six inches of him. His beanpole figure had deceptive strength to it, as powerful as his coarse, bag-of-gravel voice. That voice of his could hit you as hard as a punch from his right fist. It was not enough to intimidate Devlan however; nothing ever did anymore.
The skin on Floyd’s face was rough like sandpaper, and his eyes were small and shifty, constantly jittering around so that nobody could focus on them. They were coloured a murky brown, like a stagnant swamp that would swallow you away.
He brought out a hand from his grey leather trench coat which he’d probably stolen from a Neo-Nazi, and stretched his long, bony fingers. They were inscribed with faded tattoos across his knuckles: ‘fear’ was written on this particular hand, ‘pain’ across the other. His hand was probably suffering a bit of cramp from the pen-pushing he’d been doing today, an activity that his hands were simply not meant for.
‘All right for some,’ Devlan said in his quiet, gruff voice. By habit, he rarely opened his mouth very wide when talking, and Floyd was automatically leaning in closer to hear him.
‘I’m sure you’ve looked after yourself, Devlan. Anyway, this new gig should keep you busy for some time.’
‘Go on then. Spill.’
A grin of self-satisfaction began to form on Floyd’s face. ‘You want to know the real reason you didn’t get in touch with Henry?’
‘What?’
‘Because he’s on the downward spiral. Everyone knows it. It’s not going to take much to push the bastard over the edge for good.’
‘So, what? You want him whacked?’
‘Too simple. Too pointless. You know, it’s taken me a while to learn what I was taught, but these days I think I’m finally getting it. Cat has a mouse, he likes to play with it.’
‘You sound so refined.’
‘And it doesn’t take a genius to know a bullet’s too crude an option.’
‘So, what do you want me to do?’ Devlan pressed.
Floyd twitched his head to beckon Devlan over towards the promenade. ‘You
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