all over the place. He couldn’t focus. Had North interrupted him in the middle of doing someone? He felt sorry for whoever it was.
‘There is no one watching the Pond House and we can’t contact Mason.’
‘They’ve probably gone home to bed rather than sitting out there wasting their time,’ he had begun to collect himself. ‘Mason sent me home. You should do the same and sober up.’
North disconnected the call.
Fucker.
Mason wouldn’t have left. He would have gotten shot of Scanlan because he would have been doing his head in. Somehow Rawlins must have gotten on his toes, got past them, and Mason and James had taken off after him, it was the only explanation. But why they couldn’t be contacted started him thinking up all manner of unhappy endings. He tried not to think of Denise Lumsden lying on her living room floor.
He focussed.
He had to go in there now. Mason and James may be depending on it. If anyone was in there then they had seen Rawlins leave, who with, how many there were and when. How many minutes had Mason and James been off the radar?
Fuck it.
His hand closed on cold, wet metal and turned. It gave and the hinges parted. He was glad he hadn’t lost the head and come at it gung-ho. It was a hefty piece of kit. He closed it and listened, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the deeper black. He couldn’t hear a thing and so couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was that had him convinced that there was more than one person waiting for him on the other side of the next door.
He was in a small room with a small pool table that needed a sawn off cue to make cushion shots. The door to the windowless extension was locked. Probably the storeroom. He held his breath and approached the door into the main pub. Listened. Still nothing. He pushed it open and the lights came on.
‘SURPRISE!’ they chorused.
North leaped like a scalded cat but fell into a defensive stance. Voices shouted and screamed. They were all still there. The atmosphere was relaxed. The tension that had existed earlier was gone and you could bet your balls that anything that had changed for their good was going to be to the detriment of his.
‘You like a rear entry then?’
‘He thinks he’s James Bond.’
He was still wearing the tux.
‘Maybe he’s come to referee a pool match.’
‘I don’t care how nice you’re dressed, you’re barred, so fuck off,’ said the bloke behind the jump.
‘Where is he?’ North’s voice was calm. He stood before them seemingly without emotion, not a trace of the tornado that had just touched down inside him. He took in the crowd. It had gotten bigger. There were faces that hadn’t been there earlier.
‘I said fuck-off!’
He was far too lairy. He felt safe. They all felt safe.
Rawlins had definitely gone.
‘Where is he?’
‘Fuck-off.’ A different voice. A bar stool scraped the floor. A pair of faded Doc Martens stepped onto the floor. The bloke in them had a web tattooed across his neck. He made fists of prison tattooed fingers. He was a big lad. Looked about forty. Still hadn’t grown up. Never would. Text book hard nut from the terraces.
‘Do him Vinnie!’ screeched the tramp stamped mutton dressed as lamb next to him.
North turned back to the barman, like Vinnie didn’t matter to him. The more riled Vinnie got the less control he would have.
‘Where is he?’
Vinnie charged like a bull. North stepped into him, brought the palm of his left hand crashing into Vinnie’s nose then his right fist up into his throat. The nose job was for everyone else’s benefit, not Vinnie’s. Vinnie could take it but there was nothing like a load of claret to keep those bystanders who were still in two minds erring on the side of caution. The blow to Vinnie’s Adam’s apple floored him like the sack of shit he was. He dropped to his knees, clutching his throat, struggling for breath. North sent him the rest of the way down. Put him flat out. Gave him extra to make sure he
‘There is no one watching the Pond House and we can’t contact Mason.’
‘They’ve probably gone home to bed rather than sitting out there wasting their time,’ he had begun to collect himself. ‘Mason sent me home. You should do the same and sober up.’
North disconnected the call.
Fucker.
Mason wouldn’t have left. He would have gotten shot of Scanlan because he would have been doing his head in. Somehow Rawlins must have gotten on his toes, got past them, and Mason and James had taken off after him, it was the only explanation. But why they couldn’t be contacted started him thinking up all manner of unhappy endings. He tried not to think of Denise Lumsden lying on her living room floor.
He focussed.
He had to go in there now. Mason and James may be depending on it. If anyone was in there then they had seen Rawlins leave, who with, how many there were and when. How many minutes had Mason and James been off the radar?
Fuck it.
His hand closed on cold, wet metal and turned. It gave and the hinges parted. He was glad he hadn’t lost the head and come at it gung-ho. It was a hefty piece of kit. He closed it and listened, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the deeper black. He couldn’t hear a thing and so couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was that had him convinced that there was more than one person waiting for him on the other side of the next door.
He was in a small room with a small pool table that needed a sawn off cue to make cushion shots. The door to the windowless extension was locked. Probably the storeroom. He held his breath and approached the door into the main pub. Listened. Still nothing. He pushed it open and the lights came on.
‘SURPRISE!’ they chorused.
North leaped like a scalded cat but fell into a defensive stance. Voices shouted and screamed. They were all still there. The atmosphere was relaxed. The tension that had existed earlier was gone and you could bet your balls that anything that had changed for their good was going to be to the detriment of his.
‘You like a rear entry then?’
‘He thinks he’s James Bond.’
He was still wearing the tux.
‘Maybe he’s come to referee a pool match.’
‘I don’t care how nice you’re dressed, you’re barred, so fuck off,’ said the bloke behind the jump.
‘Where is he?’ North’s voice was calm. He stood before them seemingly without emotion, not a trace of the tornado that had just touched down inside him. He took in the crowd. It had gotten bigger. There were faces that hadn’t been there earlier.
‘I said fuck-off!’
He was far too lairy. He felt safe. They all felt safe.
Rawlins had definitely gone.
‘Where is he?’
‘Fuck-off.’ A different voice. A bar stool scraped the floor. A pair of faded Doc Martens stepped onto the floor. The bloke in them had a web tattooed across his neck. He made fists of prison tattooed fingers. He was a big lad. Looked about forty. Still hadn’t grown up. Never would. Text book hard nut from the terraces.
‘Do him Vinnie!’ screeched the tramp stamped mutton dressed as lamb next to him.
North turned back to the barman, like Vinnie didn’t matter to him. The more riled Vinnie got the less control he would have.
‘Where is he?’
Vinnie charged like a bull. North stepped into him, brought the palm of his left hand crashing into Vinnie’s nose then his right fist up into his throat. The nose job was for everyone else’s benefit, not Vinnie’s. Vinnie could take it but there was nothing like a load of claret to keep those bystanders who were still in two minds erring on the side of caution. The blow to Vinnie’s Adam’s apple floored him like the sack of shit he was. He dropped to his knees, clutching his throat, struggling for breath. North sent him the rest of the way down. Put him flat out. Gave him extra to make sure he
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