Breaking Point (The Point Series: Book 2) (4 page)

"It's not that."

"What then? Sure I gave you an extra bag of weed, didn't I? There's a hostel in Newcastle would have cost me less money than what I lost giving that stuff away. It's expensive, you know."

"Don't get stressed."

"Who's stressed?"

"Will we skin up, just?"

"You've barely opened your eyes." Tony shook his head. "And that pretty girl of yours thinks
I'm
no good."

Brian wanted to tell Tony the full story. Watch his pretend-friend's grin fade away. But the whole episode would take too many words. He simply couldn't be arsed.

"I guess she has bad judgement," Brian said. "Nothing to be done about it."

Tony seemed to roll his words around his tongue before he said; "Nah, man. I can't get behind that. We should arrange another night for me to call around. A night when your woman isn't working the next day."

"Sure, man." Brian figured he may as well agree. The wee pothead would forget all about it in no time anyway.

"So you're not working today or anything?"

Brian shook his head.

"Any plans?"

Brian looked at the bag of weed on the table and shrugged.

"Get stoned and play Xbox or something, yeah?"

"I don't play video games." Brian tried to adjust the defensive tone his voice had taken on. "Might go for a walk up to the castle or something."

"And get stoned up there?"

Brian shrugged again. He'd get sore shoulders if this guy didn't quit with the questions.

"You should take a day off, Brian. A week even."

"Do you not want my money, then?"

"Not everything's about money, man. You don't smile a lot, do you? Weed won't make you happy if you're not already in good form, you know? Something to think about."

"Not everything's about money? Dead on."

Tony pointed a finger in the air and opened his mouth to say something. But the words must have escaped him before he could spit them out. His shoulders drooped and he looked away from Brian. Cast his eyes about the kitchen.

"Is it all right if I put the kettle on?" Tony asked.

"Go for it. I'll take a coffee. Milk and two sugars."

"That shit's bad for you."

"Sugar?"

"Caffeine. Highly addictive and the stimulant effect barely works most of the time."

"There's caffeine in tea as well."

"I know. Good job I'm not touching that poison either."

"I don't have any herbal tea, like."

"No worries. I'm just having water."

"From the kettle?"

"Boiling kills impurities and helps get rid of some of the nasty chemicals the government pumps into our reservoirs."

"Of course, yeah." Brian had started thinking that Tony was on some sort of diet. It didn't take the guy too long to show his conspiracy theorist side. There was enough crazy in Brian's life; he didn't need to attract more.

"Where do you keep the coffee, then?"

Brian pointed to the cupboard closest to the kettle. Tony whipped the door open. Something teetered at the edge of the top shelf. Brian stood up but he was too far away to do anything about the tumbling jar. Then Tony snatched it out of the air and sat it safely on the countertop. It was an old jar of decaf Brian had never been able to stomach. No big deal if it had smashed, just a clean-up. But Brian couldn't be anything but impressed by Tony's reaction time. He'd assumed the dealer's brain was even muddier than his own. Evidently not.

"How'd you do that, man?"

Tony looked over his shoulder, one eye slightly wider than the other. "Do what?"

"You caught that jar."

"I'm like The Matrix. There is no jar."

Brian didn't get half of what this guy said, but his estimation of the tubby dealer's worth inched upwards.

"What are you doing after you drink your... boiled water?"

"I better head back to the house, make sure they didn't come back and burn it to the ground."

"You want me to come with you?"

Tony turned all the way around. Both eyes were as wide as portholes. If he were a cartoon his pupils and irises would have formed little heart shapes.

"Would you do that, Brian? Really?"

Would he?

Well the offer was out there now. He could hardly take it back.

"Yeah, of course. You might need..."
not back-up,
"...a wee hand or something."

"You're a true gentleman."

It seemed to Brian that he only ever got called a 'true gentleman' when he agreed to doing something he didn't really want to do. And he knew what that really made him.

A true fucking mug.

––––––––

O
wen tugged at the hem of his woollen cap. Its purpose was two-fold; to keep his shaved head warm and conceal his ruined ear. He drew enough attention by being taller and broader than the average Joe. No point making a police sketch artist's job even easier.

He stepped up to the automatic doors and they swished open. Warm air blasted down on him from an overhead blow-heater. The petrol station boasted a fair-sized supermarket with an off-licence and deli counter. And he could smell coffee in the overheated air. Owen followed his nose to a large vending machine and chose a latte. His disposable cup wasn't set dead centre under the stream and he burnt the back of his hand trying to slide it into place. He cursed and licked the stung skin.

The minor misfortune of the scalding made smiling a slightly tougher challenge, but he managed to stretch his lips into something bordering on approachable before he went to the till. The cashier was a pretty little chick: dark-haired, dark-eyed and somehow made the dark polyester uniform look good. Maybe a little on the pale side for his tastes. A small badge named her as Rachel.

He played his hand.

"Are you Barry O'Hare's daughter?"

Her dark eyes narrowed in catlike scrutiny. "If you're asking, you must be pretty sure I am."

"Ach, Rachel. He talks about you a lot. Misses you, you know?"

"No, I don't know. And I don't know you either."

"I did a little bit of work for your da recently."

"Right."

"Did he collect his insurance cheque yet?"

Her eyes narrowed further. Almost closed. She tilted her chin upwards.

"You know, for the fire at the timber yard?" Owen blew a flat note through his bottom teeth. "I heard there was an investigation. I'd bet good money that it was ruled accidental in the end, though."

"Do your lips always flap so freely?"

"Excuse me? I don't think I've said an awful lot, really."

"Yeah, you're wild cute."

"And here, what about that boyfriend of yours? He works here too, doesn't he?"

"You're asking a lot of questions you already know the answer to. Why don't you just tell me what you want?"

"I want to talk to Brian Morgan."

"He's not here."

"Can you tell me where he is?"

"No, I can't."

Owen stood still and silent for a few seconds. He wanted to see Rachel squirm. She didn't cooperate.

"Can you pay for your coffee, please? There are other people wanting served."

Owen looked over his shoulder, saw a couple of housewives with shopping baskets. Neither of them smiled at him. He pulled a pound coin out of his pocket and flicked it at Rachel. She caught it and sighed.

"Coffee's a pound thirty."

He rooted three ten pence coins out of his pocket and dropped them on the counter. Rachel eyeballed him.

"Thanks. Have a nice day." Her voice dripped with saccharine insincerity.

"I'll see Brian later."

"He'll be delighted, I'm sure."

Owen's headache thumped at his brain like a kick-drum. He wanted to grab her by the cheap uniform and drag her over the countertop. Toss her into a magazine rack. Stomp on her sarky mouth.

He smiled, gave her a little wave and strode out onto the forecourt. Stopped by the petrol pumps and took a deep breath of fumes. Told himself it'd be a bad idea to go back and ask for a packet of matches. There were cameras trained on every pump, mostly to stop chancers filling up and speeding off, but they'd work just fine to identify a man on foot.

"Maybe later."

"What's that?"

Owen looked to his right. A bleary-eyed dad-type looked over the roof of a half-junked people carrier with a hopeful smile on his face. His kids were in the back, fighting with each other. Poor sap. He looked knackered and the morning hadn't even got going. Owen almost felt sorry for him.

"Here, mate," Owen said.

The dad tossed him a lazy backwards nod.
Go ahead
.

"Fuck off, will you?"

––––––––

"W
ell, that's that ruined."

Brian held up his hoodie. It was scorched, soggy and smelled of petrol.

"That's a shame, man," Tony said. "But I appreciate the sacrifice."

"Enough to buy me a new hoodie?"

"I gave you free weed, didn't I?"

And you'll never fucking let me forget it.
Brian took a deep breath. "Right enough. Thanks for that."

"Hardly much point in cleaning up, is there?"

"Up to you, Tony. You're the one has to live here."

"The landlord won't be long hearing about this. I'm better off doing a midnight flit."

"In the morning?"

"Why wait?"

"You know you can't stay with me."

"Yeah, your missus made that pretty clear."

"Girlfriend."

"Same difference if you're living together."

Brian rubbed his head stubble. "Whatever."

"I have something sorted anyway."

"When did you do that?"

"Couple of days ago."

"Were you expecting the petrol bomb?"

"Of course not." Tony scratched a whiskered cheek. "Although, it's kind of an occupational hazard."

Brian wanted to draw his hood up. He'd have to buy a new hoodie immediately. Or stop hanging around with a dealer.

"So, where you going, man?"

"My dojo."

"Oh, right."

Brian wasn't sure he'd heard him right. "Wait, did you say dojo?"

"Yeah. Starting my own martial arts club, so I am."

"Thought you did kung fu."

Tony spread his feet and bent at the knees. His open hands whiffed through the air. They didn't seem to follow any pattern as far as Brian could see but he was a little impressed by the guy's energy. And he had to admit, the dealer moved pretty fast for a chubby guy.

"Yeah, man. I know kung fu. Animal styles, Hop Gar, Wing Chun... I'll incorporate anything that works into my system."

Brian didn't know a lot about martial arts but... "I thought those were all Chinese styles. Aren't dojos Japanese?"

Tony slipped his fingers into the waistband of his baggy black trousers. He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet. "I'm impressed, dude. Not many people would have caught that. There's no Chinese equivalent for that word. I figure that makes it okay to borrow the term from Japan. It makes for a useful shorthand, you know?"

Brian figured that Tony was probably pretty good at making shit up on the spot. The guy was a criminal at the end of the day. But for the life of him, Brian couldn't think of another word. Kung fu
club
...? Didn't sound right. Was it even really all that important? People got too hung up on silly wee things.

"Hey, are you interested in learning a bit, then?" Tony asked. "Would be good to have you along. Maybe you could be my demonstration partner?"

"I don't know, man. I was never really a fighter." Paul had always been on hand to help him out in that area.

But Paul wasn't around anymore.

"Ach, come anyway," Tony said. "Everybody gets the first class free so they don't feel ripped off if it's not for them. And at the very least I'll know I'm not going to show up at an empty room. I haven't spent much dough on advertising just yet."

"I suppose there's no harm in checking it out... Aye, fuck it. Sure I'll give it a go."

"Good lad, you won't regret it."

Tony did a little Tasmanian Devil-style spin; shot his legs and arms out at imaginary foes. He even made a noise that sounded suspiciously like "Hi-yah!"

Brian figured he might regret it a little.

––––––––

"I
'm away out for a smoke break," Rachel said.

"Thought you'd quit. Them things'll kill you. You know that, right?"

This from the supervisor, a fat bastard with too many opinions and nuggets of life advice. She wanted to slap him but was afraid of what might get knocked out of his stupidly long beard.

"I have quit. But I'm not giving up the breaks. I'll just go out for five minutes and get some air."

"There's no non-smoking breaks, Rachel."

"Hardly seems fair, boss. The smokers get rewarded and the rest of us cover for them? I don't think so. If anything, that would encourage me to start again. Do you want that on your conscience?"

"Well, no."

"And is it going to hurt business any if I'm outside for a few minutes? It's not like I'm running out on you at rush hour. This is the calm before the storm. I'm being super-considerate right now."

"I guess there's no harm..."

"Good. Back in five."

"Make sure it is five. Don't rip the arse out of it, girl."

"You shouldn't swear at your staff. I'm in the union you know."

The supervisor muttered something sweary as she dandered out the automatic door.

Rachel yanked her phone out of her front trouser pocket and picked her brother's number from the contact list. He answered on the second ring.

"I've told you before, Rachel. This is a business number. You can't tie it up. Especially during the business hour."

"Stop the whining, John. This is important."

"So's my business."

"Selling drugs from prison? You're hardly rescuing kids from a burning orphanage, like."

"Fuck do you want, then?"

She was conscious of her diminishing time and resisted wasting it with further uppity comments. "I need information on some prick that door-stepped me at work."

"You got a name?"