by Nell Grey
“We’ll pick this up later, when you get back.”
He ended the call.
He’d been looking forward all day to finally meeting Sion Edwards. Seeing the little piggy hauled in, strung up and hung upside down on a meat hook in the abattoir that at night was his domain. Watching him wriggling on the hook between the rows of carcasses. Squealing, like the double-crossing runt he was, when he set his eyes on the blade. When he worked out what was about to happen to him.
The stainless steel felt warm in his hand as Irish stroked it and considered his first slice. The straight razor had been his father’s weapon of choice. And now it was his. Like father, like son. Slashers both. A reputation carved from flesh.
People would talk about the faces that no longer had ears. The men with permanent smiles cut high into their cheeks. And the snitches silenced, their tongues sliced from their mouths.
His father was long dead. And Connor was known to everyone as ‘Irish’ now. He’d transformed the Scousers from a raggle-taggle bunch of scallies into the highest-grossing criminal gang in England. He was The General, on the ground running the operation. And to do that, it was vital he kept the fear and the respect alive. Sion Edwards was bad for his reputation.
Yes, he was going to enjoy carving that little piggy up. Sion Edwards, his trusted hitman, a feckin’ police grass.
He’d post it up online afterwards. Edwards with and without his ears. With and without his snout. And finally, photographed stylishly, his plums resting alongside his tongue on a silver tray.
No one messed with his family and lived. His dad had taught him that. Sion Edwards was the reason his brother Tony was locked away. Not to mention also the millions he’d wiped off the business when the police had raided. His delivery infrastructure was in tatters and his best men banged up. It was going to take months to get fully operational again.
And now, he’d sent his lads all the way to some unpronounceable place where a pub manager said he’d got him. All the idiot had to do was keep Sion Edwards there until they arrived. How hard was that?
Too hard, it turns out. The rat had made total chumps of them. Again.
Chapter 2
---------✸---------
The rain streams down the outside of the steamed-up taxi window. Wiping a patch clear with my hand, I watch him disappearing from view as we pull out from the police station into the main road.
The pain throbs in my neck like a pulse now the medication has worn off, and I’m dreading removing the dressing. The nurse’s face told me enough. The stitches stretch from below my ear to the bottom of my neck. The cut is deep and it’s going to scar.
I’ve been brave all day. But despite my best efforts tears have escaped and are rolling freely down my face matching the rain trickling down the glass.
My empty apartment freaks me out more than it’s ever done before and I triple-lock the door and slide the bolt across. Still, I find myself checking each room in turn, flicking the lights on, snapping each set of curtains shut. It’s going to take me a while to get over what happened today.
I’m in shock. I’m exhausted too and it’s late. But there’s no way I’ll be sleeping anytime soon.
My flatmate Courtney and her little boy are over at her boyfriend’s place again. Nothing’s been said but it’s only a matter of time before she moves in with him and then I’ll be looking for another place. Maybe it’s not such a coincidence that my filled backpack is propped up against my wardrobe door.
This morning I’d made up my mind to go with Sion into witness protection. To start a new life together. Now he’s gone forever.
After what happened in The Cross Keys today, staying is no longer an option for me either. I need to do it. Go on the world trip I’d been planning and saving hard for before I met Sion.
Met him, I was barely with him. We’ve done a lot of talking. Chatting over the bar. Online. One date. One kiss.
And yet, he’s affected me. He’s there all the time, swimming through my thoughts.
So confusing.
Serves me right, I suppose. I’d been daring to dream for a while that maybe I’d found someone special. Like Annie finding Jac again after all those years. But I should’ve known things like that don’t happen to girls like me, and Sion was only a fantasy.
And a fantasist? Was he really an undercover agent? He was certainly up to his neck in it with a drug gang. My wound still throbs. That was real enough.
The detective called Sion a murderer. But, Annie’s father? That’s the bit that makes no sense. He couldn’t have done it.
The sincerity of his face and my betrayal.
Even with my eyes closed, I can still see the way he looked at me. Hear the crack in his voice as he pleaded with me to go with him.
“We’ve got something, you and me. Something I’ve never felt before with anyone else. Tell me you don’t feel it too? Come with me, Claire. Why won’t you come? I’m innocent.”
And I hear my voice answering him. Its hardness slices through him worse than the blade on my neck.
“Because… I’m not sure I believe you.”
I can’t unsay it, and it cleaves us instantly apart.
It haunts me. Him standing by the police station entrance, watching as I climb into the taxi. As I drive away.
I pour hot water onto a camomile teabag. Taking the steaming cup through, I sit down on my bed, the last few hours replaying like a boomerang video in my head.
My body shudders as I feel myself held hostage again, gripped tightly by the hair. Head pulled back, the coldness of the metal against my exposed neck. Then, the vicious slash. Slicing into my skin as I struggled to break free. And Sion leaping on him from out of nowhere. Pulling me free. Overpowering the barman and tying him up… Saving me.
“Oww!”
Hot tea splashes onto my thigh.
My hands are shaking uncontrollably.
Gripping the mug I place it onto the bedside table and try deep breathing.
I’ve made a massive mistake.
Maybe, it’s not too late? Surely there’s still time to catch up with him, meet him in London before he goes? Say I’m sorry. Tell him I love him?
Reaching for my phone, I try a text.
‘I believe you. I’m sorry. Can I still come? Claire x’
The message bounces back. Three times. His phone clicks off when I call and there’s no voicemail. His social media accounts have vanished.
It’s too late. Sion Edwards is officially no more.
My silent tears turn into a full-on meltdown. Even though I’m still fully dressed, I wrap myself in my quilt, cocooning my sore neck in the soft pillow. A shiver runs through me. I was lucky to walk away with a cut, they said. But the truth is my heart’s completely broken. And it’s all my doing.
◆◆◆
The bunch of keys clattered onto the airport cafeteria table.
“So… Mr Cobain...”
He couldn’t help but catch the slight smirk that flashed across the British Consulate official’s face as he said it.
“Alright, don’t laugh, it was the first name I thought of. Look, I was under pressure to come up with something quickly.”
He’d persuaded them to keep his first name Sion with a new spelling, but then the choice of surname had completely stumped him. Until he remembered Claire’s favourite band, that was. And after that he was re-christened. Sion Edwards was dead. He was now Shaun Cobain.
Stifling a yawn, he picked up the house keys.
“So, where’s this place again?”
“Three hours up to Dargarei from Auckland and then another hour or so northwest through the forest and you’re there.”
Shaun clicked and rolled his neck. A four-hour drive was the last thing he needed right now after his mammoth flight. It was a good job he’d slept on the plane but he’d be kidding himself if he said that he wasn’t jet-lagged.
“There’s a car parked for you in the short stay. Don’t expect too much. Government fun
ding isn’t what it was.”
The civil servant produced a plastic bag from his briefcase and slid it across the table towards Shaun.
He examined inside then pulled out a set of car keys, a mobile phone and a charger.
“The address of the place is in your contacts under ‘Home’.”
Shaun grinned.
“Of course.”
The civil servant smiled back.
“We aim to please. And if you need anything urgently, then call the number under ‘Mummy’.”
“Sweet.”
“Aha! You’ve picked up the Kiwi lingo already.”
Shaun took out a brown envelope from inside the bag. He’d already been given a passport with New Zealand residency before he left London.
As he carefully tore the top open he could see that they’d given him a new UK driving licence too, plus a bunch of papers including his new birth certificate.
Shaun raised an eyebrow as he shuffled through them.
“A degree? In sport and fitness?”
“Granted, it’s a bit of a stretch, we figured you might need it to get work.”
“But I joined the army at sixteen?”
He’d promised himself that there’d be no more lies.
“Then, you’ve probably done a degree’s worth of training and fitness.”
That was true. But still, it didn’t sit right with him. He wanted to live his new life honestly.
Shaun produced another set of papers. This time, it was a land registry map stapled to the top of another document.
“The deeds to a house?”
Shaun flicked through the pages.
“And there’s land with it too?”
The consulate official shrugged.
“Call it a severance payment from Her Majesty. We don’t use it anymore.”
He added hastily, “Anyway, it’s been decided. It’s all yours, and I don’t mind telling you that you’ve landed yourself quite a bargain.”
Shaun studied the documentation. He’d never dropped lucky in his life before. An embassy residence. That sounded pretty fancy.
He pictured a large, white-washed colonial mansion with a wrap-around porch and a sweet-smelling climbing rose around the door. He imagined himself sitting on a swing seat with a bottle of cold beer watching the sunset between snow-capped New Zealand mountain peaks.
And there was land too. The map outlined a large parcel of ground stretching back behind the property. It didn’t show any detail but something like that must surely be worth a few pennies.
The civil servant was right though, it was the least they could do, under the circumstances. After all, he’d helped them clear the most notorious of all the Albanian gangs out of London. And thanks to him, a good chunk of the Scouser network that had moved onto the patch afterwards had been convicted. He’d passed on vital information about their logistics and how the Scousers used encrypted phones and sites on the dark web so that all their future communications could be hacked too. It was dynamite intel on England’s most sophisticated gang.
All in all quite a coup for the National Crime Agency. And he’d risked everything to give it to them. The Scousers were an unforgiving bunch of psychos. Sitting here on the other side of the world, Sion was paying the price. And Claire was too.
Claire. He felt an unfamiliar pang deep within him when he thought about her. He was gutted that she’d gone. Forever, she’d be thinking that he’d murdered Glyn Evans. Her friend Annie’s father. That hurt worse than any jab in the gut.
He’d gladly hand it all back to see Claire again. She’d made it clear that she didn’t want anything more to do with him. But, for some reason, even though they could never meet or speak again, convincing Claire that he was innocent mattered to him more than anything else.
“To get to the property, you’ll need to head north out of Auckland. Then pick up a few supplies in Dargarei on the way through. It’s your last town before you hit the forest. There’s been no one living in the property for a while so you’ll have to make do for a night or two until you get settled.”
“No problem for an old soldier like me,” Shaun joked. “I’m used to bushcraft and surviving in the wilderness.”
The civil servant coughed nervously.
“Good.”
“And what about work?”
The civil servant drained his coffee and shifted in his seat, making ready to leave.
“We’ve fixed you up with something part-time in a school further north, up the coast. It’ll get you started. Give them a call once you’ve settled in. The details are on the phone.”
“But, I’m not a teacher.”
“It’ll be helping out, that kind of thing. Don’t worry.”
Great. The only thing he knew about kids was that he was one himself once. And a pretty messed up one, at that. He’d never much attended any of the three different high schools he’d been signed up for. His social worker had called him ‘schoolphobic’. At the time, he thought they’d made the term up.
Still, a job was a job and it would do until he found something else. Building work, plumbing or joinery perhaps? He’d done lots of that before.
Shaun rolled the keys in his hand. With a consulate residency in the middle of paradise, who cared? He’d do anything as long as he could have some time outdoors biking, kayaking, climbing.
The security services had told him from the off that they didn’t want to know about his undercover earnings, and his off-shore account had more money in it than he could ever imagine spending. So he wasn’t going to sweat about the school thing.
As he slid the documents back into the envelope he noticed a glossy photographic paper stuck to the inside.
“Who’s this?”
He put the photograph between them on the table. It showed a freckled, dark-haired man with a snub nose. Mid-thirties, he’d guess. The photo had been snapped of him in front of a pub. He had a cigarette in his fingertips and he was talking into a mobile phone.
“Ah! You’ve found him. That’s Connor O’Dwyer. Known on the street as Irish.”
Shaun bristled.
“Irish?”
It was the name of his Scouser contact. The contact that had tried to trap him before.
Seeing his face for the first time was strange. Irish looked quite ordinary. Hardly the ruthless sociopath he’d heard him to be. And it was obvious he’d never been arrested if this was the best photograph they had of him. That meant he was super-smart too.
“Why the picture?”
Shaun watched the pen-pusher squirming. There was something he was holding out on.
“It’s a precaution, that’s all. So you’ll recognise him.”
“Why do I need to?”
The civil servant sighed.
“He’s extended the contract on you. He’s made it international.”
Shaun weighed it up. He was far enough away not to be worried about that. He drained his coffee in one gulp.
“I promise, if I hear a scouse accent within a hundred feet of me, I’ll run.”
“We think it’s unlikely that he’ll leave the UK. But be warned, there are several criminal gangs over here and in Australia too who’d be very interested if they got wind of you popping up on their patch.”
Getting up to leave, the civil servant put his arms through his jacket sleeves, then reached for his soft leather briefcase.
“It should be safe enough out here. But, have your wits about you, Cobain. With global connectivity, witness protection isn’t what it was. O’Dwyer’s brother’s facing a ten-year stretch because of you. He’s a bitter man. You’ve hurt his family and he wants you dead.”
Chapter 3
---------✸---------
“So, you’ve got me dressed like a total nob-head. Made me spend a fortune on these sticks. What’s so important that you’ve had to drag me out here?”
Irish’s long-time friend and business partner Peter set the golf ball onto the tee.
“They’re cl
ubs.”
“What?”
Peter selected the driver from the bag.
“The sticks? They’re called clubs.”
Settling his feet square to the ball Peter practised his swing moving his hips fluidly as the driver arched into the air.
He squared himself up and then did it again. This time for real. It was how Peter Caruthers played everything in life. Precise with no margin for error.
Irish’s eyes followed the ball as it was sent in a perfect trajectory towards the flag on the far green.
“Not bad.”
The two of them had started their operation up as students. He had met Peter on his first day at university.
He’d booked a room in the halls of residence even though he lived a few miles up the road. The idea had been to get a bit of space from who he really was. Make a fresh start at university. Turned out, he’d been put into an accommodation block with a complete bunch of wankers who’d all been on gap years, jollying it up in Thailand and Bali. Hooray Henrys from posh private schools.
He’d nearly jacked it all in there and then. Business and Economics. His school had pushed him into it. What was he doing? The boy from Bootle who lived in a terraced house near the docks. The boy whose dad was spoken about in hushed tones.
And there, next door to his room, sitting on his immaculately-made up bed was Peter. Quiet and well-spoken, he’d smiled at Connor and asked him if he wanted to go with him to the Student Union that evening for a pint.
And that was that. By the end of the month Connor was sourcing and selling weed and blow to all the Hoorays, and posh-boy Peter was investing their cash into a diverse portfolio of start-ups and stocks. They were cleaning up. Big time.
It was in their second year that they cooked up their business model. County lines they’d called it. It was essentially a supply chain that got their drugs right across the country using dealer hubs, drug mules and text messaging. Simple, but no one had ever taken the street deal into carefully planned logistics before. And with their combined skill sets and Connor’s connections, they knew they could swing it.
