Grounded
Tony felt pressure on his eyes. His lids were pulled open. Light flooded his brain. Brian's face floated in front of his.
"Jesus, thank God," Brian said. "I thought you were dead."
"You came back for me?"
"Sort of... Can you move?"
He tried. "No."
"You have to. I need to get out of here."
Tony doubled the effort but got the same result, with added agony. "Jesus, they've done a real number on me, haven't they?"
"Tony, come on. Move!"
"I really can't."
Brian pulled at Tony's hoodie. His back flared. Every nerve screamed. "Fuck!"
"Oh, shit. He's getting up. I have to go, Tony. I'm really, really sorry."
"What...?"
Brian was gone. Tony heard a car door clunk shut and then the ground underneath him started to vibrate. He put a hand out to steady himself. Felt like he was moving without moving. Was that what concussion felt like?
The ground seemed too smooth. And then he was sliding. The darkening sky spun away from him. He bounced. Bounced again. Rolled. This time he really was on tarmac. He could feel every little crack in it. An engine roared. Tony watched a car drive off. He began to figure out what had just happened.
Brian had run off on him. Again.
He still couldn't move. The pain was a distant thing. Not complete agony just yet. He knew it was coming, though. Maybe he should just lie there and sleep for a little while. Hopefully when he woke up, he'd be in a hospital bed.
He drifted.
And got snatched back to reality.
Tony felt like he'd been dropped from a plane onto a giant trampoline. His brain rattled about in his skull. He couldn't figure out what way was up. Hands pulled at his cheeks. He opened his eyes.
An ugly one-eared thug stood over him.
"Do you know where Brian Morgan lives?"
Tony stared at the missing ear. The impropriety earned him a couple of slaps.
"What's Brian Morgan's address?"
Tony got one arm moving. He pawed at the man. The action did little to improve his situation. He gasped.
"Yes, yes," Tony said. "I know where he lives. Stop hurting me."
"Tell me."
Tony gave up the information gladly. It was the only thing within his power that he could do to the yellow bastard who threw him to the wolves. Twice.
The man with one ear disappeared. The world pulled up its anchor. Tony retreated into the darkest corner he could find.
Oblivion.
Go, Go, Go
Brian kept the pedal pressed to the mat on the way back to Dundrum. The Toyota's flanks practically heaved with effort. He couldn't stop. The panic would set in. Better to speed. Get the fuck out of there.
He drove past the Dromara Road, the turn-off for Dundrum.
Then his mammal brain kicked in. He couldn't leave Rachel behind... Well, he could. But he wouldn't. Fuck's sake.
Handbrake?
Fuck no. He hadn't gone on a joyride in years.
And didn't he hear screaming from the boot?
No, man. Keep driving. Rachel first. Everything else later.
He used his mirrors, his indicators, his foot brake. Seven-point turn.
Realisation hit. Why hadn't he phoned Rachel to tell her to start packing?
Brian shoved his hand into his hip pocket. Wriggled in the driver's seat to get into a better position. Almost missed the turn-off again.
"What is wrong with you?" He thumped the steering wheel. Jarred his already aching fist. Took the corner too wide.
The car's nearside carved a groove in the ditch. Brian wrestled with the steering wheel. Directed the car into the offside ditch. Another wrench and he righted the Toyota. The screamer in the boot had reached fever pitch.
Fuck.
One of the headlights was busted.
He couldn't drive the battered motor all the way to his door. May as well call the cops on himself. He left the car at the side of the road, about fifty yards away from the entrance to his street; jumped out and eased the driver's door shut. The screamer graduated to wailing like a banshee. He'd call in an anonymous tip. Just as soon as he could.
He ran.
Home Security
Rachel heard the scrunch-scrunch-scrunch of a hurried approach along the gravel path leading to her door. She took no chances. Opened the upstairs bedroom window and lobbed a dumbbell out onto the front yard. She heard the clank of metal on stones.
"What the fuck!?"
It was Brian's voice. But she took the chef's knife with her anyway and moved to the top of the stairs with caution. The front door juddered open.
"Did you throw that?" Brian asked.
"Is anybody with you?"
"No."
"There's a bag in the living room. Grab it. We're leaving."
"You've packed?"
Rachel descended the stairs. "Hurry the fuck up. You've wasted enough time."
He didn't move. "What's with the knife?"
"Move now. Talk later." She got closer. Could smell the weed off him. Gave him a shake. "Please, Brian. I need you to get with it."
"If you'd seen what's just happened, you'd know I'm very fucking with it."
Despite the weed-stink on his breath, Brian's eyes were wide and clearer than normal. Something had happened.
"Was it a man with one ear?" Rachel asked.
"Did he come here first? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"How did you know?"
"Our John figured it out. He called me earlier."
Brian's eyes glistened. "We don't talk enough."
"We can fix that. If we get out of here."
"Can we?"
"Please, Brian."
"There's been too much left unsaid."
"Brian!"
"Okay. Okay. Let me grab a few things. There's a car we can use... maybe."
"Whatever. Just get moving."
As long as the one-eared psycho was out there, they couldn't rest.
Taxi Driver
Flagging a taxi had seemed like a good idea at the time. Owen figured the driver would be able to find Brian's address quicker than he could. At the very least, he'd have a Sat Nav in his car. Surely all taxi drivers had those?
But not this guy. The driver was new to the job. He had the look of a man better suited to working outside; craggy, weather-beaten and strong. The radio handset he contacted the depot on looked like a toy in his oversized hand.
"Mary, love, it's Shane in car... thirteen? I'm heading to Dundrum. Tell us, where's Murlough Mews?"
Owen paid close attention to Mary's static-riddled reply. He'd driven through the wee village a couple of times hoping to catch Brian Morgan or Rachel O'Hare on the street and had a good map of the place in his head. The housing estate names hadn't stuck with him but he knew exactly where Mary on dispatch was sending Shane.
"I'll give you twenty quid if you break the speed limit."
Shane looked at Owen, his face crimped by an uncertain grin. He snorted and shook his head.
"Seriously. I need to be there five minutes ago." Owen hooked a twenty out of his wallet, folded it and rubbed the two halves together. "Can you help me out?"
"Not on this road. The cops have the hairdryers out here all the time. I can't keep my job if I get points on my licence."
"Live a little."
"I said no."
Owen nodded and looked out the passenger door window. His damaged ear itched under the wool of his hat. The migraine poked at the back of his brain. He needed to get this guy to see things his way.
"Pull over, then," Owen said.
"Don't be a tool. We're halfway there on a country road. You'll not get another taxi to come out here."
"Pull over."
"So you can do me out of my fare? Fuck off."
Owen twisted the twenty-pound note into a tight fuse. He drew his faux-Zippo lighter from the breast pocket in his coat and snapped i
t open.
"You can't smoke in here," Shane said.
Owen shrugged, lit the banknote at both ends and dropped it into a box of tissues on the dashboard. He grabbed the box of flames and threw it at Shane's feet.
"Fuck ye!"
Shane slammed his feet down on the brake and clutch. Tyres screeched on the badly laid tarmac. The front of the car nudged the ditch just before stopping. Shane leapt out of the car. Owen clambered over the gearstick and handbrake to bundle himself into the driver's seat. He kicked the fire out onto the road. A cluster of dying embers danced around the pedals.
Shane's panic had receded. He tried to get back into the car. Owen swatted at the door lock but he wasn't quick enough. Shane grabbed a handful of Owen's coat and tried to haul him out of the car. Owen gripped Shane's middle finger and jerked it up and back. It snapped like uncooked spaghetti.
Owen sped off, Shane's howls echoing in his good ear.
Leaving is the Hardest Thing to Do
"Did you pack the passports?" Brian asked.
Rachel balled her fist, shook them at Brian and growled. "Passports, birth certificates, the cash you hide in your wardrobe for weed... I got everything, Brian. Let's go."
Brian looked around the bedroom one last time. He'd grabbed a couple of extra T-shirts, underwear and some jeans. Thrown them in a plastic bag. It'd be enough to do him in the short term.
He didn't want to leave his CDs and DVDs behind, but Rachel was freaking out about time. When they settled, he was going to buy everything again in digital format.
"Right, we'll go, then."
"Where's this car you mentioned?" Rachel asked.
"Just around the corner. I didn't want to park it too close to the house."
Rachel narrowed her eyes but didn't ask. She gestured towards the bedroom door with the chef's knife she insisted on carrying.
Brian thought about grabbing a weapon for himself, but he didn't fancy asking Rachel to wait again.
"Will you miss this house?"
"Fuck up, Brian."
They took the stairs at a good clip. Brian carried Rachel's hold-all bag and his own pathetic luggage. He wondered if they'd ever settle anywhere long enough to acquire and keep a normal amount of possessions. Maybe they were never going to be that kind of couple.
Should you even be a couple?
"That's that, then."
Rachel grunted. "Never liked this house anyway. It smells funny."
She led the way to the front door. Brian heard a car pull up out front. A normal occurrence in a housing estate. Nothing to be alarmed about. And yet... his skin turned damp and sticky with nervous sweat.
"There's somebody outside," Rachel said. "Sounds like they're coming down our path."
"Shit. Out the back. Quick and quiet."
Rachel reached out to turn the key in the Chubb lock. Brian dragged her away.
"No time. Come on."
They went to the kitchen and Brian tried to ease the patio door open. It screeched on its runner.
Something slammed into the front door.
Brian stepped back from the patio door.
"What are you doing?" Rachel asked. "You're going to get us killed for fuck's sake."
A second thump at the door. The night-latch would hardly hold up against another.
"He's just going to keep chasing us. I'm done running."
The front door exploded open.
"You go," Brian said. "This is my mess."
"Catch yourself on. I'm a better fighter than you."
Footsteps in the hallway. No point arguing. It was too late by then.
"Anybody home?" One-Ear's voice was chirpy and playful.
Brian dropped the bags and picked up a chair. The stalker entered the kitchen, his teeth on show.
"Brian Morgan, and the lovely Rachel O'Hare. Nice place you have here." He nodded towards the bags at Brian's feet. "Heading away, are you?"
Brian took a deep breath. He charged the intruder and swung the chair. One-Ear stepped back and pulled the kitchen door halfway shut. The chair bounced of the edge of the panelled wood. Shockwaves jolted Brian's arms. He dropped his unwieldy weapon.
One-Ear stepped back into the kitchen. He wrapped his big hands around Brian's upper arms. Tossed him over the kitchen table. Brian landed in a heap on the sticky linoleum. In a randomly mundane thought, he wished they'd been more house-proud. He tried to get up. His body protested. It was like moving through quicksand.
"Put down the knife," One-Ear said.
"No chance, freak-show," Rachel said. "He's my man. Leave him be."
"Have it your way."
Brian renewed his effort to get to his feet. He managed to drag himself upright by using the toppled chairs and then the table as support. Got a clear view of Rachel lunging at One-Ear. The creep slapped her wrist and redirected her attempt to gut him. Then he was behind her, wrestling to control the chef's knife. Rachel dropped the blade and kicked it towards Brian. It slid under the table and came to rest at his feet.
Brian wasn't sure he could even bend to pick it up. His spine had turned to jelly. But somehow he caught the handle in his sweaty grip.
One-Ear's arm crossed Rachel's throat.
"I'll choke her to death in front of you. Drop the knife."
Rachel twisted and wriggled but couldn't free herself from the psycho. She looked Brian in the eye.
"Brian. I'm pregnant. Kill this cunt."
Brian's vision narrowed and his breathing slowed. He felt a tingle in his lower back and his lungs tightened. His aches and pains faded away.
A baby.
Berserker blood pumped through his veins. He slammed the knife down on the table.
"Let's go, dickhead. I'll knock you out and fuck your good ear."
One-Ear roared and shoved Rachel to the side. Brian climbed onto the kitchen table. He launched himself at the psycho, spitting and cursing. Barely had a second to regret his recklessness.
Mama Said Knock You Out
Brian's head collided with One-Ear's. The snooker ball thunk set off fireworks behind his eyes. They careened into the kitchen worktop. Unwashed cups and plates clattered to the floor. Brian tried to stay on his feet by wrapping an arm around One-Ear's neck. One-Ear took advantage of the position and attacked Brian's ribs. Again. Brian felt the bones shift under the impact. He sucked at the air to refill his lungs. A whiney gasp escaped his lips. His chest was fucked.
"Fight, Brian. Fight!"
It was Rachel's voice. Full of fury. He tried to feed off her anger.
Brian grabbed hold of his own wrist and cranked the arm that was wrapped around One-Ear's neck. He jumped up and put all his weight into a downward jerking motion. One-Ear took a couple of steps forward to keep his balance. Brian pulled down again and they both went to the floor, Brian in the more dominant position.
One-Ear's fists and knees battered at Brian. He took hits to his head, back and flanks. But he held on like a hangman's noose. It was a wasted advantage. He had control of the psycho but no way to make use of it. If he let go to hit him, the bastard would spring up like a Jack-in-a-box. But if he held tight, One-Ear would eventually wear him down.
Brian let go of his chokehold and reached for one of the fallen dishes. He smashed the dirty plate over One-Ear's head before the guy could get off all fours. Then Brian grabbed a mug by the handle. He swung it in a hooking motion and bounced it off the left side of One-Ear's face. Another swing and he caught the psycho square on his bad ear.
"I'm going to fucking kill you, Morgan!"
One-Ear pounced and caught Brian with a shoulder to the midsection. The rugby tackle knocked the wind from his already ailing lungs. They clattered into the table and Brian just about managed to stay upright. He brought the point of his elbow down on One-Ear's spine, once, twice, three times. One-Ear retreated, pain etched deep in his snarling face.
Brian swept up another chair, held it like a lion tamer. They stood for a few seconds, stared each other in the eyes. One-Ear
feinted to the right. Brian jabbed at him with the chair legs. He racked his brain for a fight strategy. If there'd been anybody judging this bout, Brian would have been miles behind on points. Rage could take him so far, but his lack of combat experience was starting to show. Everything that Tony had taught him had gone out the window.
"How can we settle this, man?"
One-Ear sneered. "I'm going to burn you. Then it's settled."
"For shooting off your ear? Whatever happened to eye for an eye?"
"Put the chair down, give up, and I'll let your girl go."
"Don't do it, Brian," Rachel said. "He'll just come for me later."
Brian shook his head. "Eye for an eye, ear for an ear. It's the only way to resolve this."
Brian reached behind him and pulled the chef's knife from the tabletop. He set the chair down slowly then reached up to grab hold of his left ear. With his other hand, he raised the knife to the side of his head.
"Deal?"
One-Ear pushed out his lower lip. His dark, predatory eyes twinkled. "Give me the knife. I want to do it."
"Brian, don't you dare give him that knife."
"Give me the knife."
"How do I know you won't stab me?"
"Give it to me." One-Ear moved closer, his right hand extended. "Before I change my mind."
Brian nodded and lowered the knife. One-Ear took another cautious step towards him. Brian filled his pain-restricted lungs. Then he darted forward and stabbed the psycho in the chest. He felt the blade sink through clothes and flesh, scrape bone and get jammed. His stomach lurched. He tried to pull the knife back to stab One-Ear again. The bloody handle slipped from his grasp.
One-Ear looked down at the injury, his hands opened at either side of the handle but not touching it. Bewilderment widened his eyes. Blood spattered the lino. He lurched forward, reached for Brian. Brian sidestepped and launched one last punch at the stalker's ruined ear. One-Ear toppled and his head cracked off the floor. Brian ran to the sink and puked his guts out.
Breaking Point (The Point Series: Book 2) Page 7
