by Mark Newman
Chatter from a young couple passing by close to the hut distracted Garrett. He turned, watching as they neared the hospital reception. ‘Yeah, well that’s...’
Garrett never got to finish the sentence, as the transistor radio smashed into the side of his head. His knees gave way, the attendant’s full weight slamming into him.
He was down, the ringing in his ears excruciating, his vision blurred.
Bill laid into him, his steel toe capped boots finding purchase along Garrett’s torso. ‘You come in here thinking you can dish it out...’
Garrett tried as best he could to protect himself from the worst of it, he had to even the odds and quick. He used his arms and shoulders to deflect the worst of the blows, then threw his weight into the attendant’s squidgy gut. Feeling him crumple, Garrett projected himself upward, catching the attendant’s chin with the top of his forehead. He followed it with a shove. The attendant stumbled, losing his footing on the loose carpet tile. Garrett watched in slow motion as he continued to fall backwards, the back of his skull connecting with the corner of the metal filing cabinet, before dropping to the floor unconscious.
Shit. Garrett scurried across the car park back to his own vehicle, got in, and slammed the door. He checked left and right for potential witnesses, fortunate that the car park was all but empty. He caught his reflection in the rear view mirror. The cut to his eye had reopened, Bollocks. He looked down at his hands, the adrenaline surging, his left knuckles red and swollen from the altercation in the pub. He took a deep breath and gunned the ignition, he had to get out of there and quick
Chapter 9
The flashing blues on the radiator grill reflected in his rear view mirror. Garrett cursed under his breath, ‘fuck it’. He’d taken that last corner just a little too fast, piquing the interest of the unmarked Volkswagen Golf hiding up on the elevated slip road. The fading light his camouflage, a predator just waiting to pounce.
Garrett decelerated, keeping his eyes fixed on the Golf. Panic surged as he flitted to the dashboard clock. Calculating that at least six hours had elapsed since his last drink, he told himself to relax, confident the alcohol count per milligrams of breath to his blood count would render a negative reading. He exhaled just as the stabbing pain in his chest struck, what if this was about the fight in the pub, or the incident with the parking attendant?
Locating a suitable pulling in spot, he flicked the indicator, slowing to a moderate twenty-five mph in the forty zone. Coming to a halt, he switched off the engine and stuck two gum sticks into his mouth, watching as the hypnotic blue lights danced left to right across the Golf’s grill.
The occupant from the unmarked police car waited a few seconds—checking the Audi R8’s details with Control before alighting the vehicle. The yellow fluorescent hi-vis jacket approached, seeming to float in the darkness. Garrett knew the drill well enough, this his third stop inside a year. He opened the window and waited. Conscious of the swelling to his left hand, he hid it from view.
‘Can I help you, Officer?’
No response—silence, the police officer playing the mind game before speaking. ‘This your vehicle, sir?’
‘It is, yes.’
‘Would you mind stepping out and accompanying me to the patrol car.’ It was a flat routine statement rather than an invitation.
Garrett knew if he declined he’d get dragged from the car and cuffed at the roadside. He told himself to remain calm, he needed to control the situation, he couldn’t afford to let paranoia get the better of him.
‘Is something wrong?’
The officer opened the door to the R8. ‘Just take a seat in the back of the patrol vehicle, sir.’
Garrett complied. Releasing his seatbelt, and removing the keys from the ignition, he extricated himself from the Audi. The officer took a step back, allowing Garrett free access, but remaining close enough in case his prey decided to bolt. He followed Garrett to the car then opened the rear door for him. The patrol officer was standing close, almost intimate, as he climbed in to the rear seat. ‘Mind your head there, sir.’
The officer made his way to the front of the car and positioned himself in the driver’s seat, engaging the automatic locking system as he sat down.
Garrett scanned the interior. It was finished in a masculine, black leather trim. The thought came to mind that it was no more than a grown-up boy racers car. All that was missing was a rear-mounted boom box. The comms unit a Mecca of flashing lights. He guessed he was crammed in to the back of a Golf GTI. A fast response vehicle, more akin to lurking by motorway slip roads waiting for unsuspecting speedsters, not the standard patrol car for country back roads. Even so, it was still no match for his Audi, if he had the mind for it.
The officer reached over to the front passenger seat, retrieving a black lever arch file containing the standard issue paper work.
‘Did I do something wrong?’
The officer looked up from the file, his smile thin lipped. ‘Are you the registered owner of the vehicle, sir?’
‘I am.’
‘And do you have your driver’s license with you, or any other form of identification?’
Garrett fumbled through his pockets—still no wallet. He must have left it back at the pub, he prayed to God it hadn’t fallen out anywhere close to the parking attendant’s cabin. The last thing he needed right now was evidence to place him at the scene. ‘Sorry, don’t seem to have it on me.’
The officer nodded, before scribbling down some notes and running through the obligatory standard questions regarding full name, place of abode, and date of birth, trying to establish whether or not Garrett was in fact the bona fide owner of the roadster.
‘This is a forty mph zone, sir. How fast would you say your vehicle was travelling?’
‘I really couldn’t say—I was just trying to get home. All in all, it’s been a shitty day.’
‘Even so, we still have to abide by the legal road limits.’
‘I understand that. I suppose I was doing forty-four maybe forty-five, or you wouldn’t have bothered to pull me over.’
‘Lets take a look at the video footage shall we? See for yourself.’
The officer hit the replay button; Garrett watched a tiny, seven-inch screen, the Audi’s number plate visible, his speed recorded at the bottom of the monitor. The Golf had tailed him for more than a quarter of a mile, his average speed clocking forty-eight mph, accelerating in to the hairpin corner, the Golf’s camera recording his speed at fifty-two mph.
He’d been careless, caught on camera. Protesting his innocence or citing extenuating circumstances was pointless, he just needed to take his medicine and accept the fixed penalty.
The aching in his left fist began to throb; he placed his right hand over it, massaging the pain. It was all bullshit, he just had to go through the motions.
The officer noticed Garrett’s swollen hand. ‘Had an accident, sir?’
‘No, it’s nothing, I trapped it under the bonnet when I was checking the oil.’
‘That’s a nasty looking gash to the eye you’ve got there, been in the wars have we?’
Shit, Garrett had forgotten all about his eye, more concerned with his hand.
‘I took a tumble, that’s all. Clumsy of me I know, tripped over my own feet. I’ve never had very good coordination or balance.’
The patrol officer nodded, a sceptical look upon his face, before continuing with his notes. ‘Have you been drinking tonight, sir?’
Garrett answered a little too fast. ‘No, well yes, this afternoon, earlier than that really. More late morning—I had a couple but I felt unwell, so I slept it off. Look, Officer...’
‘And where was this?’
Garrett sighed, before reciting the details to the best of his knowledge.
‘Was that the effects of the drink or the illness that you slept off?’
Garrett read the officer’s name badge, trying to engage the human empathy approach, ‘Look, PC Reid, It’s been one hell of a d
ay, I received some bad news earlier today, life changing really, got told that I have...’
Reid was already preparing the roadside breathalyser. ‘If you wouldn’t mind blowing into this, sir, right up until when I tell you to stop.’ He passed the mouthpiece to Garrett, ‘take a deep breath.’
It was useless, there was no point in resisting the inevitable. Garrett took hold of the breathalyser tube and pumped his lungs, expelling as much air as he could in one blast. Que sera sera.
He watched the lights blinking as the digital display calculated the maths, the light stayed green. Garrett was below the safe, legal driving limit, much to the annoyance of the officer.
The comms unit burst into life, the voice confirming Garrett as the registered owner of the Audi R8. His story checked out, but the officer remained unconvinced. Without reasonable cause to detain him any longer, Reid issued the speeding ticket, instructing Garrett that he could either pay the fine or enrol upon the next drivers’ awareness course, to avoid additional points to his license.
PC Reid disengaged the locking mechanism and held the door open as Garrett alighted the Volkswagen before making his way back to the roadster.
It was a close call. All he wanted to do now was to get home, sleep, and forget all about it.
Reid sat back in the Golf drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. He watched as the R8 indicated before pulling off. Something wasn’t right. Garrett’s story had checked out, but Reid’s gut instinct told him different. Whatever it was he couldn’t put his finger on it, he just knew Garrett was hiding something.
The officer waited, counting to three before gunning the ignition. Garrett had a thirty-second lead, enough time to let him think he was safe. Reid shifted through the gears, accelerating in to the darkness. His destination, 9 Chantry Close.
Chapter 10
Garrett pulled up at the edge of the Close, letting the engine idle as he peered back towards the house. Nothing... Just the darkness, his thoughts caught somewhere in the void between the old and the new.
What did he expect? The Dear John had said it all. But still there was a part of him that would have welcomed her return. Reality brought the realisation that she’d fled to the arms of a faceless stranger. More likely his bed. Images of sweaty, heaving bodies entwined together invaded his thoughts. Gritting his teeth, he forced them out. Exhaustion and resignation in firm control, his wife’s indiscretions would have to wait for now.
As he entered the house, he flicked the light switch to the ON position. To the untrained eye, all would appear to be normal, but Garrett knew different. The absence of her address book, the one she always left on the hallway table with her keys, next to the triptych of miniature cacti plant, was conspicuous by its absence.
Shivering, he checked the heating thermostat, the LCD flickering half digits. Another job he’d failed to get round to. He tapped it with his finger and flipped the slider up and down trying to engage the manual override—nothing happened. Resigned to the fact that he’d need to call an engineer, Garrett made his way through to the open plan kitchen diner, Maria’s absence adding to the chill.
He opened the fridge, the depleted stock offering nothing more enticing than a pasta-based, microwave ready meal. He grabbed the solitary bottle of beer from the middle shelf and read the label, Sol. Some crappy Mexican lager, the kind she liked to drink.
What the hell, there was nothing else in the house. Garrett cracked the lid against the faux granite worktop and took one long, hard swig. It was gassier than he remembered, as he let out a loud burp, the kind that pissed off Maria if he ever dared to do so in her presence. Not that he needed to worry about that now, social niceties put on hold—his house, his rules.
Garrett moved on through to the smaller lounge area, switched on the TV, and stood with the remote in hand, zombified as he surfed through the hundred plus channels, wondering why he continued to pay the subscription. He made a mental note to remedy that. First thing in the morning he’d phone and cancel. He didn’t need a dish any longer, another of Maria’s insistencies that they sign up to the latest bullshit deal, tying them in to another eighteen-month contract. Come to think of it, why the hell did anyone need a dish? He could stream any choice of programme that he wanted, it was all there, readily available at the touch of a button. Better still; if he went to the right kind of sites, he could get it all for free.
With his dead man’s bones weighing heavy, Garrett slumped down into the leather armchair and kicked off his boots. He took another hit on the beer. Jesus, who actually drinks this shit. He placed the bottle down and rubbed at his eyes, tiredness and exhaustion causing them to burn. The throbbing of his left hand forced him to stop. Garrett inspected the damage, prodding at it with his right. The swelling had plateaued, beginning to subside with the help of a couple of paracetamols’.
His mind drifted back to the parking attendant, the guy was an arsehole, but he’d left him for dead. Now all he could do was hope it was nothing more serious than a concussion. He felt bad, but the guy had pushed his buttons. He’d snapped, there was nothing more to it than that.
Garrett forced himself up and made his way back into the kitchen area. Pouring the remnants of Sol away down the white, enamel sink, he reached down to the L-shaped base unit and stuck his arm around the corner, feeling his way past the array of pots and pans. Result, it was still there, he pulled it out by the neck. A bottle of Australian Shiraz, he poured himself a glass, raised it to his mouth, taking the time to let the delicate, sweet, spicy aroma fill his nostrils. He took a mouthful, the tang bringing his taste buds back to life. Been a long time old friend. It tasted good, too good. He replaced the cap and returned the bottle to its hiding place. Out of sight out of mind, if only it was that simple.
After a day of relapses, Garrett realised he needed to quit while he was ahead. He’d fallen off the wagon but shit, if his diagnosis wasn’t a good enough excuse, then what was? He made a mental note to phone Derek, his sponsor, first thing in the morning.
Shiraz in hand, Garrett walked back through to the TV lounge. As he plonked himself down on to the sofa, his mobile kicked in to life, playing that fucking annoying electronic synthesiser ring tone his wife had loaded. He added it to the list of changes to be made. Looking at the screen, he didn’t recognise the caller ID and decided to leave it unanswered—probably just some automated voice telling him how he was entitled to shit loads of money for a supposed injury he’d never had.
He sank back into the cool, leather fabric. Closing his eyes, he exhaled long and hard, attempting to exorcise the demons—but they just dug their claws in ever deeper. Garrett blinked away the heavy eyelids telling him sleep was close.
The double bleep of the mobile bought him back to the present. He scanned the content, Karen, the barmaid from the pub. She’d found his wallet and wanted to return it to him. Garrett looked at his watch, 10:47pm. He considered his options, he needed his wallet to produce his license and documents at the police station and being realistic he had no plans to make the return journey to Al Tweedy’s place any time soon.
He texted back.
Chapter 11
The drive took Karen a little over forty minutes. The Satnav snaking through the twisted throng of back roads. She arrived wearing a tight, little black skirt, a matching lacy top, and four-inch heels. Just the right amount of appeal. Sirenesque rather than slutty.
Garrett opened the door, genuinely pleased to see her. She guessed his enthusiasm was down to her returning his wallet but she hoped there was more to it than her Good Samaritan routine.
An awkward moment passed between them as he hesitated, not knowing whether he should give her a peck on the cheek as a greeting or a formal handshake. He did neither, safer to opt for an invitation to enter the household. ‘Karen, thanks for coming over.’
She handed him his wallet as she stepped in from the cold, observing the décor. ‘Nice place.’
‘Thanks,’ he replied, not knowing how much longer he
’d be able to hang on to it for.
They made their way through to the open plan living area, Karen taking in the ethically reclaimed, mango wood furniture. All the time thinking that she liked this guy’s taste, acknowledging the nagging thought that it was most probably all down to his wife.
‘Would you like a drink? I know I’ve got a bottle of Shiraz kicking about somewhere?’
‘Shiraz is fine.’
Garrett ushered her to sit down on the two-seater sofa, while making busy with the drink. He released the cap and noticed the slight tremor in his hand. He pumped his fist, telling himself to get a grip, then he held the wine glass out towards Karen, conscious of the need to control the tremble in his hand.
‘You’re not having one?’
‘No, the head’s still a little woozy,’ he said, placing his hand to the ridge of his eye, ‘thought I’d lay off it for a while.’
‘What happened to your hand?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing. Looks worse that it is. Started swelling on the way home, it’ll go down in a couple of days.’
‘Not having a good day, are you?’
‘Something like that, but thanks for bringing the wallet, I’d be lost without it.’
She held his gaze, ‘least I could do, after today.’
Garrett rubbed at his hand. ‘Yeah, about that. Listen I don’t usually go around scrapping with young lads, but I couldn’t let it pass. Just his whole demeanour, and the way they both waltzed in like they owned the place.’
Karen raised her hand to gash above his eye. ‘Your cut, it’s weeping.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s just a scratch, I’ve had worse.’
‘Here, let me take a look at that.’
‘Honestly, it’s fine, really.’
Too late, Karen moved in fast. Her body pressed up against his, her smell intoxicating, her touch gentle. ‘This needs a proper clean; I didn’t do a very good job on it earlier. It’s beginning to scab over, but you don’t want it to get infected. It needs an antiseptic wipe or gauze applied to it.’
