knew the safe deposit box and the codes. Mitch had walked in, gone through the security checks, asked for the private room and emptied the contents on the table. In seventeen years Ben had saved £4077 pounds sterling. A stupid idea at the time was now a lifesaver. No house, no bank, no salary. Four thousand in cash, and an address in London. There were no options. Mitch knew the timetable, at least the section relevant to now. He looked at his watch. He had an hour and thirty seven minutes to kill. He walked up to the seafront, a bag of clothes on his back and a bag of cash in his hand. The wind blustery at 5.30 in the afternoon, the promenade empty except a teenage couple linking arms, laughing and buffeted around as the sea spray splashed they happy faces. Mitch leaned forward and held his forehead in his palms. He smiled. A decision made, money in his pocket. London was where they were headed. The next train out. Second class, because 4000 is a lot of money only for a short amount of time.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jim had told him to have the balls when the moment came. Raucous hoped he would.
Raucous prepared the food. The empty kitchen, the clean surfaces the freedom to walk in or out as he pleased. No rules, no routine. A prison life ended and he still needed a timetable, a system to break up the day.
He walked to the basement and unlocked the door as he balanced the tray in his free hand. He pushed the door open and Jim wasn't sat in his usual place. Jim was not in the room at all. Raucous placed the tray down on the bed, the water spilt and steam rose from the hot mash. Raucous turned and walked out of the room as he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed the Turk.
"Where is he?" Raucous asked when the Turk answered.
"Come to my office," the Turk said.
Raucous walked quickly to the first floor. He didn't knock, he walked straight in. The dark room, wood and leather, the curtains drawn, the smoke that hung in the air and the fat man behind the desk believing he was a London Godfather.
"Where's Jim?" Raucous asked.
The Turk smiled and clasped his hands on the desk in front of him.
"He spoke. But don't worry; he didn't take any persuading at all. Came right out with what we already knew. Christian is alive, and he has always known. Seems I have been paying the boy's living expenses all these years too. Jim, it turns out, was a very generous man with the money I gave him."
"That's it?"
"He said we should kill you. Said you aren't to be trusted. Said it would be safer for everyone to eliminate you now from the picture."
"And you agree with that?"
Turk looked unsure.
"Some of it,” he said, "but not all. Certainly I don't feel enough fear from you to have you killed. I believe you are an asset not a threat."
Raucous stood silent, trying to filter bullshit from truth. He gave up, leave it for another time.
"So where is he?"
"Downstairs, in one of the private viewing rooms. Soundproofed so our customers can enjoy certain perks without bothering other clients."
There are always variables, in anything you do; some problems have a finite number, others infinite. Some speak of a butterfly effect, or destiny, or a life already written, everything happens for a reason. Well now this had happened, and Raucous had fucked up. Psychotic variables just couldn’t be predicted. Raucous hadn’t factored insane.
******************************************************************
“You don’t have the balls to do it.”
The phrase, Jim knew, would make Raucous do it. Raucous looked at that old man, cut up, in pain. He wanted out but he didn’t know if he could do it. He hadn’t killed a man for 13 years, and never with a gun. The old bastard was a hard man. Raucous knew that. Jim had taken some serious pain. But that phrase, the significance it had, the memory Jim knew it invoked meant Jim wanted death.
Jim was
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jim had told him to have the balls when the moment came. Raucous hoped he would.
Raucous prepared the food. The empty kitchen, the clean surfaces the freedom to walk in or out as he pleased. No rules, no routine. A prison life ended and he still needed a timetable, a system to break up the day.
He walked to the basement and unlocked the door as he balanced the tray in his free hand. He pushed the door open and Jim wasn't sat in his usual place. Jim was not in the room at all. Raucous placed the tray down on the bed, the water spilt and steam rose from the hot mash. Raucous turned and walked out of the room as he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed the Turk.
"Where is he?" Raucous asked when the Turk answered.
"Come to my office," the Turk said.
Raucous walked quickly to the first floor. He didn't knock, he walked straight in. The dark room, wood and leather, the curtains drawn, the smoke that hung in the air and the fat man behind the desk believing he was a London Godfather.
"Where's Jim?" Raucous asked.
The Turk smiled and clasped his hands on the desk in front of him.
"He spoke. But don't worry; he didn't take any persuading at all. Came right out with what we already knew. Christian is alive, and he has always known. Seems I have been paying the boy's living expenses all these years too. Jim, it turns out, was a very generous man with the money I gave him."
"That's it?"
"He said we should kill you. Said you aren't to be trusted. Said it would be safer for everyone to eliminate you now from the picture."
"And you agree with that?"
Turk looked unsure.
"Some of it,” he said, "but not all. Certainly I don't feel enough fear from you to have you killed. I believe you are an asset not a threat."
Raucous stood silent, trying to filter bullshit from truth. He gave up, leave it for another time.
"So where is he?"
"Downstairs, in one of the private viewing rooms. Soundproofed so our customers can enjoy certain perks without bothering other clients."
There are always variables, in anything you do; some problems have a finite number, others infinite. Some speak of a butterfly effect, or destiny, or a life already written, everything happens for a reason. Well now this had happened, and Raucous had fucked up. Psychotic variables just couldn’t be predicted. Raucous hadn’t factored insane.
******************************************************************
“You don’t have the balls to do it.”
The phrase, Jim knew, would make Raucous do it. Raucous looked at that old man, cut up, in pain. He wanted out but he didn’t know if he could do it. He hadn’t killed a man for 13 years, and never with a gun. The old bastard was a hard man. Raucous knew that. Jim had taken some serious pain. But that phrase, the significance it had, the memory Jim knew it invoked meant Jim wanted death.
Jim was
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