Breakdown (21 page)

Heated arguments, harsh whispers started up, and throwing the towel on the sink, I went into the living room and grabbed at Steve’s arm. “We don’t have time for this shit.”

“Jack,” said Carole, looking up. “Casey is asleep, you—”

“What me and Steve do, it pays for ninety-percent of this shit in here. It’s a little late to bitch over the backlash now, don’t you think?”

At eight months pregnant, Carole shifted the heavy weight of her kid from one foot to another as Steve pulled me away. “Leave her alone. You—”

“Yeah?” I said to Steve. “I need to get the plates changed on that motor out there. The sooner I do it, the sooner I’m out of here.”

Not taking his gaze off me, he whispered something to Carole, then we both waited as she headed back over to the stairs, throwing a hard look back at both of us. Steve kept his voice down. “Don’t give a crap about that car out there, Jack,” he mumbled, moving over to the phone. “You get caught again, you’re fucked.”

Giving him a glance as he started to talk on the phone, I went on through to the kitchen and started hunting out Steve’s tool box. He had to be the only trainee mechanic without a decent set of spanners. He’d finished his call as I made his kitchen table a worktop with my goods.

“Shelley is bringing some over.”

I nodded thanks, then headed out into the garage and started taking off the front number plate.

“What happened?” said Steve, leaning against the bonnet and folding his arms.

“Fucking cops showed up,” I mumbled, one spanner in my mouth.

“Cops?”

“Cutter was armed.” I glanced at him. “Did you know about his fucking armoury back there? I don’t do fucking guns.”

“No,” breathed Steve. “Christ, Jack—weapons? That’s serious shit.”

“Fuck.” I groaned, seeing the plate was attached with sticky pads, not screws. “You got a hot air gun?”

“What? No. Why?”

“Because I’ll pull the sodding paint off tugging at these unless I soften the adhesive, and that’s going to stick out like battered bollocks in a shop window.”

The weight of the car shifted slightly as Steve moved off, then he came back a moment later carrying a petrol can and a cloth. I looked at both, then Steve.

“Petrol will dissolve the adhesive,” he said, holding them closer. Giving him a smile, I took the petrol can off him. The dirty rag... that was something else. I knew I was staring, wiping the palm of one hand on my jeans.

“Jack,” said Steve, quietly, taking back the can and tipping petrol on the cloth. “You need to get help, mate.” A gaze flicked between me and the cloth. “Serious hel—”

“The back plate will be the same.” I pushed to my feet and let Steve take my place. “I’ll put the kettle on. I need a fucking drink.”

“There’s beer in the fridge.”

“Cheers.” Back in the kitchen, shivering a little from the cold, I pulled out two Carlings and flipped the tab. As I downed one, I tried to block out looking at the sink.

“First one’s off,” called Steve. “Check the street, Jack. I think I just heard Shelley pull up with the new plates.”

The beer went on the table and, making sure the lights were off in the living room, I went over to the window and tugged the curtain back a touch. Steve lived just a few streets from me, his row of terraced one-bedroom houses looking pretty comatose in the darkness. No cars lined the street to the left, and the right looked just as peaceful.

“Not yet,” I mumbled quietly, but the sound of the garage doors opening up had me frowning back as voices drifted through. I stayed still for a moment, ear tilted towards the kitchen in case it was the coppers, then as a scuffle broke out, I was moving.

“Jack.” Steve stumbled into the kitchen from the garage, or more he was pushed as Smithy came through, followed by Cutter and Smithy’s best fuck mate, Russ. As I stopped Steve from going arse over tit, a few others came in too. Smithy was cupping his shoulder, blood pouring through his fingers, but the real silence provoker was the gun in Cutter’s hand.

Cutter levelled it on Steve.

Humpty...

“Smithy,” said Cutter, gaze not shifting from Steve. “Go get sweet Carole down here too.”

Dumpty...

“Wai—” Steve went to push Smithy back and Russ moved in, grabbing him around the throat as Cutter put a finger against his own lips. “Shush.” Cutter looked at me. “A little funny how the first time he backs out of a job, I get fucked over by the police.”

I looked at Steve. He was shaking his head, then completely ignoring me and strangling out a cry as Carole was pulled into the kitchen by her hair.

Humpty...

“Oooh,” said Cutter and he gave a whistle. “She looks ready to blow, guys.” Slipping his gun in his back pocket, he let a smile creep to his face. “By the time I’m done with her, what do you think? Normal labour?” He flicked out a barber’s razor, the blade flashing in the false light. “Or C-section?”

Carole cried out as Steve fought with tears running down his face, anything to get free now. “Didn’t do it” he cried. “Swear. Wouldn’t ever fucking—”

Russ pushed him to the side, then hit Steve, breaking his nose and blood... blood ran from Steve’s nose, flooding over his lips and—

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

Smithy was unbuttoning Carole’s top, and grinning in the process. “Got some milk in these yet?” he whispered, squeezing a breast as she struggled. “Can I suck it and see?”

Humpty... Dumpty...

“Fuck me,” sighed Smithy, exposing one of Carole’s breasts. “Look at the nipple on that.”

Levelling a gaze on Cutter and for the first time loving how life blurred at the edge, how the fight for control left behind such a cold, fucking calm, I kicked at Smithy’s kneecap, catching him on the side of the joint so the knee instantly snapped inwards. As he started to stumble, a fist to his temple, not meant for any kind of play, saw him go down a hell of a lot faster, and so much more fucking quietly now.

Cutter came in, knife pressed against my throat. “I know you’re not stupid enough to kiss the coppers, boy, but him—”

“Hey there, London Calling—how’s it hanging?” I said quietly. “That prick tell you it was Steve?”

Cutter went quiet for a moment. “That ‘prick’ is prison family, one I trust.”

Easing the knife away from my throat, I licked along the blade, base to tip, letting it cut my tongue slightly.

Humpty Dumpty—
“He sits on a wall, drinking his ale and watching shit fall.”

Cutter eased back slightly, eyes narrowing as somewhere in the distance,
the flick of a hazard switch went.

Giving a smile, I leaned back in and licked the traces of blood off the knife. “You don’t touch him, London. Nobody fucking touches him, ’kay? Otherwise—”

I lifted my head, let the knife trace over my jaw, down to my neck. Then pressed in close, letting a long moan escape as it cut my throat slightly. “You and me,” I breathed against his lips, “we’ll go play dominoes and watch how tonight’s fuck-up makes you fall.” Hand around his, I scratched the knife up and down my throat. “All the King’s men with all of those guns... Playing with the big boys, are we? Which means only one thing: you’re backing an arms’ deal with the IRA.” I felt his cock, enjoying his scent as I kissed at his cheek. “You don’t find that informant, they’ll cut off your dick, won’t they? Or strap it to some dynamite and watch you dance.” I chuckled. “Trust only one thing.” I wiped blood across his lips. “You’re treading way too close to my family. I’ll find the fucker responsible, not you.”

Cutter took a step back, gaze not leaving mine. There was a lot of thinking going on in those green eyes, but I just let my gaze slip over to Steve, to Russ and how close he was to him.

Another smile from me saw him drop his hold, just slightly, then completely back off a few paces, hands raised.

Fucking peach—quintessentially damn good, that.

A breath brushed my ear. “You going Smarty Martin on me, cocker?” A soft chuckle was given. “In the mood to really play now?” A stroke went to my neck, stopping a trail of blood, then a hand brushed my cheek. “Don’t disappoint. Find the cunt.” Wetness ran down my cheek, and life started to blur again, bringing with it a shivering that ran core deep. People moved and shifted, but mostly nothing more than strangers in a dense fog, then—

“Jack, you back with us, bud?”

I glanced at Steve, how he was hugging Carole as she sobbed by the door, hands shaking as she fastened her top. Things came into focus for a moment. Smithy was gone, him and his broken kneecap. Russ was nowhere to be seen, neither was Cutter... in fact, all that was left of Cutter was his barber’s razor on the table.

“Jack.” Steve pulled at my jacket sleeve, forcing me to look back at him, at Carole.

“Get her away from here, Steve.” I was back with the razor, but life was starting to slip again, the edges blurring, and I couldn’t stop it. “Shouldn’t have come here. Sorry.”

Steve laughed, hard, then tugged me to look at him again. “You... I, let me call your old man, Jack. Please. You...” He stopped, unable to finish, but more than able to jerk away when I looked at him. “You need to get away, Jack.” He came back in, a hand going around my neck. “What was all that fucking shit over the IRA? I thought you didn’t know about the guns.”

“What guns?” I frowned at him and he searched it. Giving a deep sigh, he rested his head against mine. “Don’t remember that bit, huh, bud? You... you listen to me now.” Hands cupped my face. “Screw what Cutter’s capable of—you, you’re gonna hurt someone someday, Jack. And in ways that will leave you scrambling around to fill in the details. For godssake go home, let Cutter do his own work. You see what he did? What shit he pulled with us just?” He tightened his grip. “Why he did what he did and called it smart-mart shit—Jack, what are you going to do for him?”

I pulled away, taking the razor off the table, not understanding why the hand wrapping around it barely felt its weight.

“Jack, for godssake, don’t—”

A finger was levelled against Steve’s chest as I tilted my ear, smiling. Loved the fucking sound of that word. Fucking loved it. “Humpty—”

“Jack.”

“—Dumpty....”

Next moment, I was outside in the darkness, a mist hanging around the night, making life more of a fucked up dream than anything. I remembered Steve’s kitchen, but not how I got out here. The blade felt good in my hand, and a huge part of me wanted to come out and just... play.

Mase. Pulling out Mase’s keys, I stared down at them. Fucking peach—quintessential. I gave a smile. Hadn’t seen it, but then Jack our lad always was a little slow...

Martin. Age 18

Pulling up outside of Mase’s father’s house, I took in the street. In the late hours of Saturday night, most normals in these little side vein streets of London were either out clubbing, or getting ready to go to kip. Mase had been warned to do the former, just get himself seen in case there was any kickback. Cutter usually wouldn’t have bothered with grunts like that, but he needed a regular supply of goods if he wanted to keep his IRA guys sweet. Ghadaffi had recently cut off supplying weapons to the IRA, so the latter were obviously after any which way to feed firepower and money back onto home shores. Knowing Cutter, he’d have his fingers in other pies; he kept numerous grunts like Rowan in shabby little houses, but his detached five bedroom joint had to come from somewhere. As there were never tax papers hanging about his home, well, it just let the mind wonder. One locker was always kept out of bounds to all but him and Smithy. Smithy had done a long stretch for drug smuggling, so that brought in whispers of the drug’s trade. But, to be honest, the unit was too big for that. There were far better things to do when it came to aluminium fraud. They could target foreign students who more than had their grubby little activists’ hands in backing the insurrection in Chechnya. Business, in general, was booming.

And with the Metropolitan Secret plod department stuck in turf wars with MI5, it meant the more organised Cutter thugs could go in and steal the Queen’s bedpan from underneath their noses, leaving the guys in suits and ties arguing over whose bollock it was that had been dropped on the floor.

Any wonder the country was in rack and ruin when it was backed by meatheads in suits who couldn’t figure out how to get their dicks out in the middle of an orgy?

Killing the engine on the Rover and letting it settle and pop in the night heat, I eyed up the car sitting in the drive as I pulled on some leather gloves. Mase’s mother had pegged it when he was a kid and his father had never gotten around to finding anyone else. Or that was the sob story that he told Mase. His father had to be getting his rocks off somewhere. You didn’t own all that alcohol just to drink the profits yourself. And either he was tucked up in bed here now, or he was on his own.

Didn’t bother me. Always was room for one more in my book.

Leaving the Rover unlocked, I pushed open the family gate, hearing it creak into the night. No lights came on in the house, but then I didn’t really expect them to either. From what Mase had moaned about, his father had long since given up on waiting up for him, instead opting for leaving the back door open. A key had been left under a pot on the few occasions, but Mase had taken great pleasure in saying how badass he was at making a noise and waking the neighbours up. Now his father always left the back door open.

Giving a gentle push down on the back door handle, it eased open into the blackness of the kitchen.

Keeping things none too quiet, I made my way through to the living room, a hand on the wall helping me ghost through carefully enough. The stairs didn’t bother me too much. He’d be used to Mase coming in at all hours, so keeping it normal was the order of the game. Upstairs, the bedroom to the right looked like your typical teen’s: rock posters on the walls, boxers on the floor, the black and white panda sat on the bed was fucking frightening, though, and I headed on over to the next room, ignoring the tie to youth. A gentle push at the door opened up into a bathroom and the strong stench of cologne hinted at pure male, so too did the state of the place and toilet in general. I inched the door shut, glancing at the room just out of sight down the hall and off to the left.