Waging War To Shake The Cold

by Wild Wolf Publishing

  “Kats, you can be sure of it. You neednae put anythin’ on any kind of tube, Isa and Linda are safe. Honest. I’ll personally make sure of it.”

  “Right. Remember what I said DJ. There’s bullet in this chamber with your name on it.” He nodded to Badger and they both left the room.

  “That was a bit of fun boyo, you’ve not lost your touch.”

  Kats laughed, “Yeah, I have to say I did enjoy that.”

  “You think they’ll stick to the agreement?”

  “Hard to know, but short of murdering them there wasn’t much more we could do. There comes a point with these guys where you break through the anger or fear or whatever it is that is driving their violence, and all yer left with is a daft wee boy.”

  “You been on a psychology course then Kats?” They both laughed at that. “Do you reckon there will there be any comeback from the boss man for shooting off that other one’s toe?”

  “I can’t see him being pleased about it. But I was more worried about Boots than DJ to be honest, so he needed a bigger fright. Besides, the boss only told me he wanted his boy back in one piece, he never said anything about Boots.”

  They chuckled again.

  “What now then Kats?”

  “Well, I need tae get away from here, that’s for sure. Not just because of Big Davie, there’s that poor old biddy that died as well. I’m a marked man here now. I’m going to go to Spain first and then on to Central America somewhere. I’ll need until tomorrow tae get away, so don't call Big Davie tae come get them until then, okay?”

  “Right, that’s not a problem.”

  “Where will you leave them?”

  “Oh I’ll find somewhere, that won’t be a problem. They haven’t seen my face and they got here at night. Can’t see them finding their way back even if they wanted to, and I’ll be gone next week anyway. I’ll patch up his foot so he won’t bleed too badly.”

  “Thanks Badger, I can’t thank you enough man.”

  “Don’t be daft Kats; you would do the same for me.”

  “Aye. That I would.”

  Chapter 44

  She was in a foul mood. She decided when she woke up this morning, for the umpteenth time, that she couldn’t take another second on that bloody checkout.

  Her boss, Terry, was always ogling her tits, and the rest of the people who worked there were brain dead. She’d go in tomorrow and tell them to stick it, that’s what she’d do. But she knew she wouldn’t, in fact she couldn’t. They needed the money.

  The car was in the garage again with something that sounded terminal, they were three months behind with the mortgage, and Pete drank or smoked every penny he could get his hands on. She was sick of working herself to the bone for nothing, but his army pension wasn’t enough to keep them going, and Pete needed so much care and time that she needed a job which offered flexible hours.

  She understood well enough that Pete was clinically depressed. She’d nursed him for long enough now to understand only too well that he’d lost more than his legs in Iraq. His confidence, his drive, and his motivation, had also gone, amputated just as cleanly and clinically as his wasted limbs were.

  He had constant guilt as to why he was still alive when he hadn’t even been injured in real fighting. He’d told her, more than once, he wished he’d been one of the lads killed in action.

  She’d rocked him in her arms and shushed him through the worst of it, like the child they’d never had, but even she couldn’t reach deep enough into his heart to ease the hurt. So she had allowed him to self-medicate, in the hope he would eventually find himself and rejoin the world, like the wheelchair bound Vietnam veteran in the movie ‘Forest Gump’.

  Thank God Kats has gone.

  She’d put up with him being there purely for Pete’s sake, but she hadn’t taken to the man at all. He was secretive and uncommunicative, especially with her, a real cold fish.

  On the surface he was always polite and friendly, but his smiles never got as far as his eyes, and he watched everything and everyone as if he was studying a new species.

  She’d gathered from what little Pete had said, and by keeping her ears open, that he was involved with some mobsters in Glasgow and someone was killed by accident somehow, and so she wasn’t at all comfortable having him around.

  But Pete insisted he had to hide him and while he was there Pete had relaxed and was more like his old self. The two of them rabbited on incessantly about the Army, and at first she’d been jealous of Kats because Pete rarely, if ever, opened up to her in that way about his time over there.

  Eventually she’d realised it was this catharsis that was improving Pete’s mood, so she wisely let them get on with it and had been content to pick up what snippets she could from them. As well as that, having Kats there allowed her to change her hours at the supermarket and had gotten her away from Terry-Trouser-Snake, he of the roving eye and wandering hands.

  At least Kats paid his way, and the money had come in handy. If it hadn’t been for that she’d never have been able to clear at least some of the mortgage arrears, plus he paid for Pete’s booze, and that had helped too. Now he was gone it looked like it was back to the grind.

  They had moved back to their own place after the fracas had temporarily driven them out. Pete had made some calls and it seemed to be sorted, at least for now.

  She got off the bus and headed up the street, frowning and scowling in her temper as she bustled along. She passed a Hobbs store and enviously looked in the window. There it was.

  There it was: this gorgeous little black cocktail dress that she’d been eyeing up for weeks. It was on sale now, 25% off, for one day only. Not that she’d ever get a chance to actually wear it, far less afford it even now that it was on sale. But she’d just love to be able to go in there right now, try it on, and buy it there and then just for the sheer decadence of being able to do something for herself for once.

  And why shouldn’t she have it? Pete wanted for nothing, everything Pete wanted, Pete got. Why shouldn’t she have something for herself as well? After all, she was the only one doing the work. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d bought new clothes for herself, especially from a shop like this.

  She chewed her bottom lip and then steeled her nerve.

  Right, I want it and I am damn well going to have it.

  They had no credit cards anymore; they’d all been maxed out a long time ago, so she’d have to use cash, and she already knew she didn’t have enough in her purse to cover it. She’d have to find a cashline.

  Looking around she saw a Lloyd’s branch on the other side of the road. Hurriedly, before her nerve broke and common sense tripped her up, she crossed the road.

  The machine ate her card and she entered the PIN number. She nervously bit her fingernail as she looked at the options, doubts assailing her, but she dismissed them and selected “Withdraw Cash”. One hundred pounds. God, what was she doing? One hundred pounds, or more correctly, their last one hundred pounds.

  “Sod it,” she said, and punched the accept button.

  The machine whirred, she took the card and then waited whilst the hundred pounds, the last of their money, was counted out and presented for her to collect. She snatched it up quickly and then took the balance receipt as it printed off.

  She stuffed the cash and the receipt into her purse and re-crossed the road, heading straight into Hobbs on a mission. The sales assistant came towards her, smiling helpfully, and she asked to try on the dress.

  It fitted beautifully and her heart soared at the touch of the fabric. It was gorgeous and clearly worth every penny, if only because she looked stunning in it. Even Pete would see that, how could he not?

  “I’ll take it,” she said happily, beating down the tendrils of guilt with the extravagance of the moment.

  She couldn’t wait to get home now, to shimmy herself into it in the bedroom and then walk in to the lounge and give Pete the thrill of his life. A warm glow permeated as she changed back into str
eet clothes. She fished in her purse and counted the cash onto the counter, loving the feel of the crisp notes and not regretting a penny.

  As the assistant wrapped and bagged the dress she picked out the balance enquiry from her purse and looked at it while she waited.

  “Oh my good God almighty…” was all she said as she clutched the counter in stunned disbelief.

  Chapter 45

  Nick couldn’t feel his fingers; a combination of the blood having been restricted by the cable ties and the chill seeping into the caravan.

  The skin at the top of his back and neck was agony from where the boiling water had scalded him. He was struggling to breathe because his mouth had been secured with duct tape before his captor left.

  He’d pressed at it with his tongue and dribbled saliva to try and loosen it, but nothing worked; and he’d only succeeded in feeling as though he was drowning in his own spit. His earlier attempt at escape had ended in miserable failure, only making his predicament worse.

  After waiting for an hour or so, he’d tried to work his way towards the door. Inch by inch he’d wiggled along, one chair leg at a time, painfully slow but he was getting closer. He was almost there when one of the chair legs caught on the edge of the carpet and sent him toppling over.

  He’d tried to correct things by throwing his weight to the opposite side, but he over-did it and was suddenly propped precariously against one of the kitchen benches, hanging at an uncomfortable angle.

  Then he tried to swing himself back upright, but once again balance eluded him and he fell backwards with a heavy crash, still attached to the chair. This was how he now lay.

  What he would have done had he reached the door wasn’t clear to him, it just seemed important to try something, anything. Now he wished he’d just stayed put.

  He’d lain there on his back all night, visited by ghosts.

  When he was about ten years old, his mum took him to live with his aunt for a while during the school summer holidays. It was never clear why it had just been them on their own, without his father, but in later years he came to suspect his mum had left his dad for a period. His Aunt Molly was already divorced from her husband; something almost unheard of in those days.

  She lived in Whitechapel with her kids, Neil, Penny, and Jude. Things were cramped, but he and mum had squeezed into the box-room under the stairs. Penny and Jude were very young so Nick hadn’t bothered with them much, but Neil was a similar age and they’d struck up a friendship.

  Neil was a quiet lad, easily led some would have said, whilst Nick was loud and brash, even as a child. He’d quickly established superiority over Neil and made all the major decisions that dominated their summer days.

  There was a local market every week and they would go there to watch the hawkers sell their various wares, chatting up the housewives shamelessly and flirting with all the old dears until they got the price they wanted for whatever bric-a-brac they had for sale.

  Nick loved the noise and buzz of the place, and he and Neil wandered between stalls for hours on end. Sometimes, if they were lucky, they’d have enough coppers to buy candy-floss or a toffee apple. They’d spend ages on every mouthful, postponing the point for as long as they could where the woody taste told them they had reached the end of what was edible, yet still they’d suck the last traces of sweetness from the sticks before starting an impromptu sword fight with them.

  One of the stalls drew Nick like a magnet. It was run by an old man, a war pensioner, and he had a huge display of medals from previous conflicts. Nick liked to look at the rows and rows of medals and wonder who they’d belonged to, how they’d been won, and why they were now for sale.

  But one, more than any other, caught his eye. It was a World War One Distinguished Service Order. It was a beautiful white cross with a royal crest in the centre hung from a red pendant, edged with blue. Nick used to stare at it and imagine he won it fighting off a horde of Huns single handed.

  “I bet I would have won one of those back then,” he said to Neil one day.

  “Yeah, we both would!” said Neil enthusiastically.

  “You?” Nick scorned. “What could you do to earn one of those then? Bet you would have run at the first sign of trouble. The first shot would have seen you peeing yer pants. Cry-baby Neil, that’s you.”

  “No I wouldn’t! I would have been right out there. I can do what you can you know, you’re not the only one that can be brave.”

  “Oh yeah? Well if you’re so brave I dare you to nick that medal then. Bet you can’t you scaredy cat.”

  “No I’m not, I’m not scared. I could do that no problem.”

  “So do it then.”

  “I don’t wanna.”

  “Scaredy cat! Scaredy cat!”

  “I am not! I can so do it.”

  “Prove it. I double dare you.”

  Nick knew he had him. Neil couldn’t back down now, not on a double dare, not without losing what little shred of status he had left in the friendship. So they went back to the stall and Nick started to talk to the pensioner who ran it.

  “What’s that one then mister…no the one over there at the back…no the one next to it…what’s the writing on it say?”

  Whilst Nick kept up the distraction, Neil glanced at both of them, gulped, and reached out to pick up the DSO. As he reached for it, he paused and looked again at Nick. Then he snatched it up and turned to run.

  “Oi! What do you fink you’re doing!” yelled the pensioner. “Stop! Stop them somebody!”

  They ran, dodging around growling adults and expecting a chase at any second, but none materialised; they ran until they collapsed in a heap at the canal bridge.

  Giggling, they examined their prize.

  “Ok, gimme it then,” said Nick.

  “It’s mine, why should I give it to you?”

  “‘Cos it was my idea, that’s why.”

  “Then you should have taken it then,” said Neil.

  “If you don’t give that to me now I will tell Auntie Molly, and you know what that means.”

  “You wouldn’t,” said Neil, shocked.

  “Watch me.”

  Nick was confident. Aunt Molly was very strict. With no man in the house she meted out harsh discipline regularly with the back of a wooden spoon, and Nick had seen all her offspring get a walloping more than once. A pretty enthusiastic walloping at that.

  Neil looked at the medal in his hands, turning it over and over so it caught the light, then, with resignation, he handed it over to Nick.

  He held it in his hand and admired it for a few moments before slipping it into his pocket.

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I’m going to keep it of course.”

  But he hadn’t kept it. He’d gone to the local pawn shop and sold it for a quid, a small fortune to a ten year old. Later that week the cops had come to Molly’s house with the pensioner from the stall. He’d pointed at Neil and said it was him who’d stolen the medal.

  “Where’s the medal now then son?” said the policeman. “If you give it back it won’t go so hard on you.”

  Neil looked imploringly at Nick for support, but he’d kept quiet.

  “I didn’t take it.” was all he said in a quiet voice.

  The policeman sighed, and then he and Aunt Molly went into the sitting room. When he’d gone, Aunt Molly came in with a face like thunder. Nick sidled up and sat on his mum’s knee for protection as Molly rounded on Neil.

  “Where is it you little toe-rag?” Neil glanced over at Nick again, but Molly screamed, “Look at me, not him!”

  Neil snapped back to his mother and trembled, but said nothing.

  “Right. You are in so much trouble my lad…” she grabbed Neil by the ear and dragged him upstairs to the bedroom he shared with his siblings, and they’d heard the unmistakable sound of heavy thumps landing on a small frail body.

  It was a week before Neil was allowed out of his room, and by then Nick and his mum had gone back hom
e to his dad. He never saw Neil again.

  Like most people in periods of prolonged stress, when their past wrongs have a chance to catch up with them, Nick began to evaluate his life through the lens of his shortcomings. He now regretted that incident with Neil, and all the other Neil-like incidents that had come later in his life. His was a life built on the single-minded pursuit of the success of Nick, and to hell with who or what got in the way of that.

  The cold, and the loneliness, and the pain, had produced a sudden realignment of his thinking. It was too late to say sorry or atone for all the Neils, it was too late to give back the money he’d swindled and stashed in the Caymans, much too late, but perhaps he could do better from now on. It could be a fresh start, yes, a way out and a chance to start a new life.

  He could maybe do some charity or relief work. There had to be some disadvantaged kids or somesuch out there, and maybe he could use his business acumen to start a foundation for them, collect money from donors and distribute it to local schools or whatever. He could see it now: The Nick Crossan Foundation.

  Schools and youth centres would be named after him, and he’d be loved and revered throughout the island. This could be what he needed in his life; a new direction that would use his talents to their fullest abilities in a good, no, a great, cause.

  And, best of all, he’d be self-sufficient money-wise so he could give it his full energy. If he could just get through this night it would all be so very different.

  At last, as daylight crept into the sky, he heard a car approaching. It drew up beside the caravan, crunching on the gravel parking area. The engine stopped.

  Thank God, he would be free again soon. Obviously it meant he was over £2m poorer, but at that point he considered it was worth every penny.