Thorn In My Side (3 page)

Trust me,
and my fucking big mouth! Sounding off without any
real
proof.

I hope he
doesn’t do something stupid. It’ll be my fault if he does,
The poor kid trusted me. Must have been a flashback. It’s not
like I
haven’t seen him have them before.

He ran his hand
across his thick dark hair
. Tired, that’s what it is
I’m
too damn tired.

Damaged,
the sister’s words echoed in his head.
Smiler is the
most
damaged person I have ever seen.

Of course he’s
gonna have flashbacks.

Not paying his
usual attention to what was going on around him, Mike hadn’t
noticed the man who had followed him out onto the street. Just
another bloke hurrying home, mobile phone glued to his ear, he
stepped behind Mike to cross the road.

What Smiler had
said chewed at Mike’s conscience later as he lifted his weights.
Unable to concentrate, and after doing way below his usual count,
he put them away and took a quick shower. His eye on the clock, he
dressed – black jeans, black v-necked jumper, black leather jacket,
fake gold chain, his usual drug dealer front.

Satisfied and
giving his reflection a nod, he decided to get there earlier than
usual, protect his back by having a good look round.

Just in
case.

He laughed at
himself as he went down to the car. 'In case of what?' he muttered.
'A psychic vision? Get real.' He pressed the fob that would open
the car door.

Inside the car,
an unmarked maroon Ford Focus, on loan to him while he was in
London, he rummaged in the glove compartment, his fingers finally
closing around a hard metal object. Pulling his hand out, he looked
at the knuckledusters. The metal had a slight reddish colour that
was more than likely dried blood. It was the first pair he’d seen
in years, taken a few weeks ago off a stupid third-rate low-life
dealer who’d fancied his chances.
Well, the punk’s learned
a hard lesson.

Another
junkie peddler waiting for trial. He’d turned out to be a
good squealer though, and now the daft idiot expects a
deal
.

Fat
chance!

He’d put the
knuckledusters in the glove compartment to hand in. He was pleased
he’d forgotten now. No harm taking precautions, especially not with
this evil scum. Tonight should see them all in the bag. But there
was a niggle still in Mike’s mind, a niggle that said things were
much deeper than they looked on the surface. A niggle that wouldn’t
go away, a niggle that connected this business to the other one he
was working on.

He looked at
the knuckledusters, shrugged and slipped them in his pocket. Not
wanting to admit just how much Smiler had spooked him, he muttered,
'Won’t need them.'

A whole load
of nonsense, of course. Just Smiler’s brain trying to
rewire
itself
. He paused a moment before starting the car, his mind on
Smiler.
God, I’ve become so used to having him around, I’m
certainly going to miss the kid.

Hope he keeps
safe.

Sighing, and
putting Smiler at the back of his mind, he set off and reached the
high-rise parking lot nearly fifty minutes before he should have.
Parking on the ground floor, he took the eight flights of stairs to
the roof, the last two flights slowly and in dead silence. Keeping
to the shadows he crept around the perimeter, his rubber-soled
shoes making no noise, telling himself that he would have done this
anyhow.

Of course I
would.

Don’t I
always cover my back
? Shrugging, he smiled to himself.
Of
course I do, only just not this early.

A third of the
way round he heard a sound he swore was that of metal being dropped
on concrete, followed by a series of profanities in a man’s deep
voice that, although muffled, rang a bell in his head. But no
matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite place the voice.
Quickly he slipped behind a thick square concrete pillar, risked a
few quick looks, saw nothing and decided it was time to move.
Slowly, silently, using the cars to shield him, he wound his way to
the spot the sound had came from.

Lifting his
head above the nearest car bonnet he saw a man wearing a black
balaclava. The man was crouching down and assembling what looked
suspiciously like a submachine gun.

Christ
almighty!
Mike could barely believe his eyes. He ducked back
down, his heartbeat up and his blood feeling like ice as it coursed
through his veins. He pictured his body lying on the cold concrete
floor riddled with bullets, his blood draining into the gutters.
The bastard, he sure wasn’t gonna miss!

Mike looked
around. The place was devoid of people, and only half full with
cars, probably just arrived for a night on the town, not cars whose
drivers would come from work to claim them at any minute, the rush
hour being long gone.

Unless there
were any unpleasant surprises, he figured that he should make it
over to the gunman in twenty seconds. Not long enough for him to
finish assembling the machine gun, nor long enough for the bastard
to get up and run.

His body poised
and ready, still scanning the space around him, he suddenly
froze.

Bloody
hell!
he mouthed silently, his dark brown eyes wide open in
amazement.

The car park
had wide window spaces. Through the space opposite him he could see
a huge billboard. On the billboard, posing seductively on a couch,
was a woman promoting perfume. She had long red hair and was
wearing a red dress and red shoes.

He felt spiders
crawl down his back, but only for a moment. Turning from the woman
in red, he rid his mind of her, of Smiler, and everything else.
Concentrating on the job in hand, he slipped the knuckledusters on,
pleased that they were a good fit. His eyes locked on the gunman
who was quite calmly preparing to blow him away. He counted down
from five.

Twenty seconds
had been a generous estimate. He reached the man, who must have
become aware of Mike by a disturbance in the air and certainly not
by any noise, in half the predicted time. The man turned. Bringing
his fist down hard, Mike caught him behind the ear in the exact
spot he intended. The man’s eyes had less than a moment to register
fear before they closed.

Quickly, and
constantly looking around, Mike shoved all the parts of the gun
into the shabby black sports holdall they had been brought in,
threw it over his left shoulder, then picked the man up and none to
gently tossed him over his other shoulder, before heading for the
stairs at a run, thanking God as he reached the first step that
they were going down and not up.

Pushing him
into the front seat of his car, Mike quickly yanked the man’s
trouser belt off and tied the would-be assassin’s wrists behind his
back. Without wasting another moment he ran round to his side of
the car, jumped in and, with the engine screaming, got out of there
as fast as he could. The man was more than likely working alone as
assassins usually did, but Mike did not intend to hang around long
enough to find out. Hitting the street, the first thing he saw
towering above him was the poster of the woman in red.

'No way!'

He made it to
the police station car park in thirty minutes. It should have taken
half that time, but he needed to assure himself that he wasn’t
being followed. He was tempted to go back and see if the contact
turned up, though he strongly doubted he would, and he had to get
this murdering bastard sorted first.

The main
thought he couldn’t shake was,
why would some one want
me
dead?

What – who? --
am I getting close to?

Parking as near
to the door as he could, he cut the engine, then turned to the man
who had been moaning and wriggling about for the last ten minutes.
A hard thump in his stomach from Mike quickly shut him up.

Then Mike
whipped the balaclava off.

'You! Bastard…
Lying fucking toe-rag.' Mike gritted his teeth, tried to control
himself, but it wasn’t happening. 'Bastard,' he said again as he
punched him, splitting the would-be assassin’s bottom lip wide
open.

The man
spluttered, spitting out a chunk of flesh and half a tooth.

Smiler shuffled
towards Westminster, his hands in his pockets and the hood of his
blue top hiding most of his face. The night was warm but he felt
cold inside as well as out.

I should have
known Mike was no better than the others.

Why would he
be?

What was the
first rule?

Trust no
one.

Why have I
broken it?

Why have I let
Mike in?

Fool. Stupid
fucking fool, that’s what I am, a first class idiot for
leaving myself wide open. Fool for thinking that I could have,
or even
deserve, a friend.

Got what I
deserved all right!

They’re all
the same, every fucking bastard one of them, out for
what
they can get. The only difference between fucking Mike Yorke and
the rest of them is that I just haven’t found out what Mike
wants
yet, and now I don't want to. I couldn’t care less,
Mike Yorke can go
to hell as far as I’m concerned, I
wouldn’t piss on him if he was
on fire.

He knuckled
water out of his eyes and hated himself for even thinking that Mike
was different, for letting himself be fooled. He jumped in shock a
moment later as a guy wearing a black hoodie over a white baseball
cap stepped in front of him.

'Haven’t seen
you around for a while, Smiler… Need something to chill with? I’ve
got the lot, just ask.'

Looking closer
at the hoodie, Smiler recognised him as Snakes, a kid whose eyes
were nearly transparent, but turned to a shimmering green in
certain lights. He was also a thief and a liar and just about the
nastiest piece of scum around. Not one person that Smiler knew on
the streets liked Snakes or had anything good to say about him.
Mostly he was avoided like the plague.

Smiler judged
nobody – on the streets you did what you could to survive – but
Snakes was way past mean. He would do you a bad turn just for the
sake of it and laugh in your face. He’d dealt horse shit to kids
who had never come back up, never made it back to the living hell,
but who were locked forever in the burning hell that Smiler dipped
in and out of, and Snakes had never batted an eyelid. Even cracked
sick jokes about it. As far as Smiler and a lot of the homeless
clan were concerned, if evil had a face and was walking the
streets, it was Snakes.

'No, I’m cool…
Thanks.' He tried to keep the wobble out of his voice, but it would
have been easier to stop his heart from fluttering with fear.
Feeling anything but cool, he tried to step past him, but Snakes
stopped him.

'Whoa, Smiler,
hang on a mo. Got some new stuff here, blow your head off,
guaranteed, just down from the north. Man, is it special. Strong
enough to wipe every thing else off the market.' He giggled, an
insane sound that belonged behind a locked door.

'No.' Fear
trickling down his spine, backing away, Smiler shook his head.

Snakes stepped
closer. 'Come on… Try it… You know you want to… Need to.' He
grinned at Smiler. 'Come on, touch your new friend for the readies…
Good to you, is he?'

'What do you
mean?'

Snakes laughed.
This time it was a bitter hollow sound totally devoid of humour.
'You know what I mean. Got your self a cushy number there all
right, ain’t you, boy?'

'It’s not like
that.'

'Isn’t it… Pull
the other one.'

'He’s a
friend.'

'Yeah.' Snakes
nodded knowingly.

'Fuck off and
think what you want.' Surprising himself and amusing Snakes, Smiler
stuck his chin out as he went on, 'Mike’s a good bloke.'

'Ohh.' Snakes
laughed. 'Truth hurt a little… Stop fucking kidding yourself and
get wise, Smiler… Also,' he moved closer and Smiler could smell the
stink of fish on his breath, 'nobody gives a fuck what you do,
they’re all too busy earning their own readies… Here, try this and
chill. Come on man, you remember how good it is, don’t you, eh,
don’t you? Course you do… It’s not that long ago that you were
fucking begging for it… I swear, man, you are seriously gonna love
this. Here, have the first one on me… Go on… It’s like what you’ve
been chasing since your very first hit. The place you thought you’d
never find again.'

Smiler stared
at the small plastic bag in Snakes' hand. Yes, he remembered
,
missing days, missing nights, where the pain of living
and
the memories of horrendous abuse stretching as far back as I
can remember, disappeared on a magic cloud.
He hesitated.
It would be good to forget.

To go
away.

To the land of
no pain.

Mesmerised by
the small yellow pill, he slowly reached out.

'You fucking
dirty sly bastard.' Mike dragged the hitman up the stone steps,
giving him a hefty shake strong enough for his teeth to jar
together on every step. Into the police station, past half a dozen
giggling prostitutes milling about, obviously waiting for their
pimp to show, who would without doubt, with the help of a
do-gooder, talk his way out of the thousands of pounds' worth of
tax-payers money that it had taken to catch him and his stable.
Then, still dragging the man behind him, he ran the gauntlet of a
handful of drunks, all snarling and making threatening gestures to
each other. Now that was something he wouldn’t like to sort
out.

Sometimes Mike
wondered if it was all worth it.

'Hey there, big
boy, meet you later?' a tall leggy blonde shouted after him.