Breaking Point (The Point Series: Book 2) (2 page)

From the hallway, Tony could see the top of his caller's head through the window in the door. It looked like Malachy was wearing a hood, which didn't fit in with the slick businessman image he'd been trying to pull off in recent months. Malachy had been a bit of a scruff when he first got into the game, strictly T-shirts, jeans and scuffed Converse high tops. But ever since he'd moved up from street hustler to wholesale supplier, he'd been buying suits. Nothing as grand as Armani, but they certainly weren't off-the-rack sale items, either.

So why go back to the casual look all of a sudden? Was he incognito? Hiding his face in case a witness happened along?

Tony took another slug from the Buckfast bottle. And another. Malachy rapped the door again. No more stalling. Tony hitched up the elasticated band of his Chinese silk suit trousers and rolled his shoulders. He was empowered by the various noble animal forms he'd studied. His Tiger Claw could tear out a throat, his Crane Kick break jaws and his Monkey Fist would punch through a ribcage and vaporise internal organs. Here we go, then.

Tony filled his lungs with a calming deep breath before he tugged open the door. Then he skipped back a few steps and held his bottle in front of himself like a vampire hunter's cross.

The visitor stepped into the hallway and eased the door shut behind him. Then he drew down his hood and whistled a low note through his teeth.

"It's Baltic out there."

A Belfast accent.

It wasn't Malachy.

Tony lowered the Buckfast bottle and squinted at the dude. Barry, Brendan or Brian... he couldn't remember which. Played it safe.

"Right, lad? Any craic?"

"Nah, mate. Just looking for a twenty-bag of green. Sorry for calling down so late. Just ran out."

"Is it late?" Tony checked his watch then realised he wasn't wearing one.

"It's close to midnight, like."

"Yeah? No worries, man. Come on through."

Tony led him to the kitchen.

"You want to sit down?"

The Belfast boy shook his head and slid his hands into the big pocket on the front of his hoodie.

Tony looked him up and down. The lad was a bit standoffish. But Tony needed the company. His nerves were wrecked.

"Take a seat, man. I've got something special for you to try out. Ever smoked Blueberry Cheesecake?"

"I usually just stick to green, mate. It does the job for me, know what I mean?"

"If I were you I wouldn't pass up the chance to try this. I don't get it in often and it's a real crowd-pleaser. Lifts your mood then lays you to sleep. Proper sleep too, not just passing out."

The Belfast lad seemed intrigued. "How much can I get for a score?"

"Just a little under two grammes. And that's dirt cheap, man. I got a good deal on it."

"May as well give it a go. I'll take a wee ten-bag of green as well, just in case."

"No bother, my brother. No bother."

Tony went to the fridge, reached in behind it and grabbed the bag of Blueberry Cheesecake. The digital scales and some loose baggies were already laid out on the counter-top. He was about to break off some bud when the window opposite the fridge shattered and a spray of burning liquid trailed behind a spinning bottle.

A chorus of voices cheered from Tony's back garden. One husky voice cut through the chorus.

"Drug dealers out!"

––––––––

O
wen Donnelly gave up on sleep. His ear hurt. Or rather, the place that his ear used to be attached to hurt. It was time for another co-codamol and whiskey. He rolled off the table/bed and went to the cupboard. The caravan floor protested under each foot stomp. Owen stomped a little harder then kicked one of the thin walls. He pulled the attack to protect his bare foot, so there was no damage to his toes or the aged wood panelling. It didn't make him feel any better.

He'd forgotten how shite these low-rent caravans could be. No heat, no electricity, no joy. It was a shelter, and barely even that as the previous day's rain had proved. A glance at the strategically placed pots, bowls and buckets darkened his mood further. And since looking for Brian Morgan in the middle of the night was futile, the only thing he could do to remain half-sane was seek oblivion.

Owen sneered at the cardboard box that advised him to avoid mixing the pills with alcohol. It had warned him that codeine was addictive after three days but he'd ignored that too. So fucking what if it was addictive? There was no shortage of the shit.

He washed the co-codamol down with Tullamore Dew. Fuck it...

His throat burned in that beautiful whiskey way. A little cough and another generous shot shoved the medication all the way down to his belly. Now it was just a waiting game. He went back to the table/bed and lay on his back with his hands tucked behind his head. The old scene replayed on the backs of his eyelids. The one where Brian Morgan shot Owen's ear off with his own gun.

Hellfire burned in his guts and cooked up his cocktail of acid, booze and prescription pain relief. He'd have to look for a chemist and buy something for the heartburn in the morning. Right after he burned the caravan to the ground.

An image of Brian Morgan tied to a chair with electrical flex while a cheap-ass caravan incinerated all around him brought a smile to Owen's lips.

"Maybe I won't burn this bastarding thing down just yet. Not just yet."

He giggled, plugged one half of his headphones into his one good ear and let the sounds of a meditation app carry him towards oblivion.

––––––––

B
rian watched the petrol bomb roll to a stop at his feet. He stomped on the cloth fuse. Tony bounced about the kitchen screaming. Brian wanted to bounce and scream too but some reptilian part of his brain overrode the urge. The flames continued to burn into the neck of the bottle. Somehow the thick green glass hadn't cracked, but it wouldn't be long before the heat caused an explosion.

Without really understanding what he was doing, Brian pulled off his hoodie and dropped to his knees. Then he was suffocating the Molotov cocktail with it. Tony had gotten halfway back to his senses and was running the tap. He filled cups and glasses and tossed water at the flaming patches of countertop and linoleum.

Brian backed away from his smoking hoodie and prayed. He had no real faith so the prayer was a round robin affair to any deity that might care to listen and intercede.

"Holy good Jesus of suffering fuck. Please don't let me die."

Tony dumped a basin full of murky water and dirty dishes on top of the blanketed bomb. Then he rugby-tackled Brian and knocked him into the hallway. On the dusty laminate floor, Tony hugged tight and Brian fought for breath.

"Let me go, Tony."

"It's too risky. What if it blows?"

"We'd be safer outside, then, wouldn't we?"

Tony relaxed his panicky grip and Brian wriggled away from him. They got to their feet and edged towards the front door, as if heavy footfall might trigger a detonation. Brian reached for the door handle.

"Hold on. They'll be waiting on us out there."

Tony grabbed Brian's wrist and led him to the living room. Brian glanced over his shoulder at his ruined hoodie on the kitchen floor. It looked like there was little danger of it igniting. He went with the stocky weed dealer without a struggle.

The room was dark and Brian managed to crack his shin off something solid, maybe a coffee table. He barked.

"Are you not going to turn on the light?"

"Then the bastards will know where we are."

"Would they really hang about after hoofing a petrol bomb through your window?"

"Of course. They're trying to smoke us out." Tony giggled. "Smoke us out. Do you get it?
Smoke
."

Brian didn't really get it. Might have been a different story if he'd had a chance to get high.

"What are you going to do about that window, Tony?"

"Oh, aye. The fuckers broke it. Pain in the arse, like."

Brian's eyes adjusted to the gloom. He could see Tony slumped in an armchair. There was little indication that he would spring into action any time soon.

"Do you know who did it?"

"Not really. Probably the 'Ra." Tony shifted on the cushion. "Or vigilantes, maybe."

"Dundrum doesn't strike me as that type of town."

"You'd be surprised."

"Half the reason I ended up here is because I'm fed up with surprises."

"Shit one."

Brian sensed that Tony had lost interest in the situation. How stoned was he?

"Right... I think I'm going to head on, mate."

No reply.

"So, can you get me my weed?"

Tony grunted.

"I can get it myself, like. It's just... I should really be getting home."

Tony propped his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands in front of his mouth. He looked like a child praying. His back rose and fell slightly with each breath. Brian took his silence as consent and edged back out into the hallway.

"Be careful," Tony said.

Brian smiled, relieved. "No sweat, mate."

Stained net curtains billowed out from the broken window in the kitchen. Brian paused at the doorway, his head cocked. He held his breath and strained to listen out for prowlers outside. Dogs barked in the distance. A car engine droned. Nothing else.

Brian stepped over his hoodie and tiptoed to the counter. For a few seconds he considered pocketing the entire bag of Blueberry Cheesecake. It was enough to keep him supplied for months. And it wasn't as if Tony could go to the cops about it. But he decided against it. He felt scummy enough about buying weed regularly. Stealing it seemed like a new low.

Taking the opportunity to break off the best of the bud, and leaving out the seeds and stems, Brian bagged a portion that weighed a little on the heavy side. He felt all right with that small liberty considering the fact that previous deals had gone the other way. There was no standard green in plain sight so he just pulled a twenty pound note from his wallet and slipped it under the scale to stop it from fluttering off in the steady draught.

Brian turned away from the counter and almost collided with Tony.

"Jesus, mate. You scared me there. Didn't hear you come in."

"Sometimes I forget how light-footed I am. It's the kung fu training, you see. Didn't mean to sneak up on you." He looked beyond Brian. "You got yourself sorted, then?"

"Yeah, man. The cash is on the counter. Just a score, all right? I didn't want to go poking about for the green. Seemed cheeky."

"Ach, I've nothing to hide." Tony snorted. "Unless you're a cop, like."

"I'll leave it for now, anyway. It's about time I was gone."

"Listen... Brendan, I've been thinking."

"It's Brian."

"Shit. Sorry, man. Anyway... I'm just going to put this out there." Tony rubbed a stubbly jowl. "I don't want to stay here tonight."

"Right, yeah. That's probably wise."

"So, can I stay at yours?"

Brian was momentarily stunned by the dealer's forwardness.

"Um..."

"I'll be no bother, like. Just want to put my head down in a safe place for a few hours."

"I don't know, man. My girlfriend wouldn't be delighted. She doesn't know you."

"Seriously, she won't even know I'm there. I'll kip on the couch and leave as soon as the sun comes up. I'm an early riser."

"Ah..."

"I'll do you another twenty-bag of that gear. Free of charge."

Brian clacked his tongue off the roof of his mouth. "And you'll be gone as soon as it gets bright?"

"Birdsong wakes me every morning, dude. Like clockwork."

Brian thought about Rachel, fast asleep and oblivious to his latest adventure.

"Fuck it. What harm can it do?"

"Thanks, Brendan. You won't regret it."

"It's Brian."

"Shit. Sorry, man."

"No big deal." Brian pointed at the broken window. "You going to do anything about that before we go?"

"No way. That's the landlord's problem, dude."

––––––––

R
achel sprang out of bed. She gasped for air. Choked on it. Panicked and coughed. She stood at the side of her bed, confused and scared. Her throat hurt from involuntary barking. She stumbled into the en-suite bathroom and turned on the cold water tap, cupped her hands under the stream and splashed her face. Another cough roughed up the walls of her throat. She drank from the tap then tried to get a handle on her breathing. Her heart stammered.

"Fucking hell."

Patchy memories of a nightmare bobbed in and out of her conscious mind. She'd been under water, sinking despite her frantic efforts to swim to the surface. Then somebody grabbed her by the neck, pulled her upwards and into the sky. It was Brian. He flew up, up, up; his face set in grim determination. Rachel tried to thank him but couldn't speak. His grip around her neck was too tight. From drowning to strangulation – frying pan and fire. He looked at her, his eyes coal-black and emotionless. Brian's features morphed. Then she could see Paul Morgan, Brian's dead brother. The man she'd shot in sketchy self-defence. She'd killed him and now he was the unspoken barrier in her relationship with Brian. And her life was in his iron grip.

They flew forever upwards until a cruel smile tugged at the corner of Paul's mouth. She could see Brian in his expression. Not a fraternal resemblance. More like Brian's face superimposed upon Paul's. She tried to talk again. Brian/Paul shook his head.

He let her go.

She fell and fell and fell.

The weightless sensation still tickled at the base of her spine. Rachel splashed more cold water on her face. Her breathing had returned to normal but she couldn't shake the panicky feeling. She wanted a hug. But there was nobody there to provide one.

Brian had gone downstairs again. Rachel didn't know how he managed to function on so little sleep. As far as she could tell, he'd not had a decent kip in over a month. She'd tried telling him that it couldn't be good for him, and that the beer and weed he consumed while he sat downstairs on his own weren't the answer to his insomnia. He only ever responded with that hurt look in his eyes and a shrug. What was she meant to do with that?