She feels him lean in closer. His hot breath on her face. His skin almost touching hers.
Her body prickles with fear as she wonders what he is going to do to her.
‘This is your only warning. Stop looking for information. Your father is dead, it won’t bring him back.’
Nancy was physically winded at his words, the little breath she had inside seeping out of her. This was about her trying to find out information about her father’s killer?
This was a premeditated attack?
Now she is petrified.
She wrinkles her nose in disgust at the strong whiff of rancid breath as the man continued speaking, his spittle landing on her cheek with every forceful word.
Helpless, all she can do is try and take in every detail: the size of his frame, the sound of his voice. Anything that will help her figure out who the fuck this man is.
‘We won’t tell you again. Stop digging, or we’ll bury you too!’
Feeling her hair pulled back for a final time, Nancy winces as her attacker grips the back of her head before slamming her down with great force so that her face whacks against the pavement once more.
The sound of her skull cracking against the rickety walkway floor is the last thing Nancy Byrne hears before she blacks out.
Chapter Two
‘That was the thing about my Jimmy. The stubborn fucker only did things his way. Even when he was a boy, he wouldn’t listen to anyone. Even told the headmistress of his primary school to fuck off once after she scolded him for not sitting quietly while she was reading the class a story, so he did. Only five years old he was. The mouth on him even back then.’ Shaking his head, Michael Byrne laughed to himself, before downing the last of his pint of ale. Blissfully unaware that he wasn’t fooling anyone, Michael was thoroughly enjoying himself now.
In his element at being centre of attention as he stood surrounded by a group of Jimmy’s friends and business associates that had come back to the house for Jimmy’s wake, he was getting a bit carried away with himself and the fabricated stories and memories of his one and only child, that probably hadn’t even happened. Who the fuck knew? Michael certainly didn’t. He’d left Joanie to do all the child-rearing bollocks.
The truth was that he and Jimmy had hated each other’s guts.
As far as Michael was concerned Jimmy had always been a horrible, obnoxious bastard especially when it came to their relationship. Jimmy had treated his own father worse than scum. Publicly too. He’d done nothing but belittle and berate Michael at every opportunity and the older and more powerful he had become, the worse Michael had come off.
Jimmy had hated Michael with a vengeance, and made no disguise of the fact. In return, the feeling was most definitely mutual. Michael had hated Jimmy too.
Only it didn’t bode well to talk ill of the dead, did it, and in his intoxicated state even Michael Byrne knew that. Especially seeing as most of Jimmy’s nearest and dearest were some of London’s most notorious faces.
Not only would it look bad on the family if Michael told everyone what he really thought of his spiteful narcissistic son, but his Joanie would have no qualms in stringing him up by his balls from the lounge’s light fittings if she heard him speak out of turn about her precious Saint fucking Jimmy. Especially on the night of the man’s funeral.
Only, that was the best thing about tonight.
There was no one around to keep tabs on him any more, was there?
He was a free man again.
His Jimmy was dead, and lately Joanie wasn’t in any fit state to distinguish her arse from her elbow. The woman had turned into a mute since she’d heard the news of their son’s death. Barely holding it together. Which had turned out to be a right result for Michael as it happens. All week, she’d hardly muttered a single word to him. To anyone, in fact. It was pure bliss. Michael Byrne could do and say as he pleased, and no fucker would stop him.
He grinned.
Draining his glass triumphantly, he stared around the room. Aware that he was surrounded by some of the hardest, most ruthless bastards in London. All of them paying their respects to his Jimmy, and in turn giving Michael the time of day because of his apparent loss.
‘That was his biggest downfall ’en all. He always wanted to be centre of attention did my Jimmy. He wanted all eyes on him at all times… The only person that one ever listened to was his mother. Making out to you lot that he was a proper hard bastard, but the truth was he was a right old mummy’s boy. Old Joanie loved that.’ Oblivious to the looks that were being shared around the group, he continued. ‘It was almost incestuous at times, those two. They were thick as bleeding thieves. You try living here with them two like that. From the day that boy was born I became the black sheep in my own family. Couldn’t do right for fucking wrong around the bleeding pair of them. It was always Jimmy and Joanie – those two should have fucking married each other. That would have been a match made in fucking Heaven.’
Unaware that he was showing himself up, that there was now an undercurrent in the room, Michael grinned jovially as he saw Jack Taylor walking towards him, but the expression on the man’s face told him everything he needed to know.
He’d crossed the line.
‘I think you’ve had enough, don’t you?’ Jack Taylor said, as he swiped the pint glass out from his hand. Aware of who was watching how this was going to play out, Jack kept his cool, his tone neutral as he spoke though the anger in his words was clear enough even for Michael Byrne to take the hint. ‘You better rein it in. This is a wake, not a fucking party. It would serve you well to remember that.’
‘Like I need reminding,’ Michael said, spittle around the corner of his lips as he spoke. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. ‘Remember?’ he blurted out, shaking his head sadly. ‘I buried my only son today. That isn’t something that I’d forget in a hurry.’
‘All I’m saying is if your Joanie sees you like this, you know she’ll lose her head.’
‘Oh behave, Jack. That woman’s already lost the bleeding plot, hasn’t she? Her precious son’s dead. That’s enough to tip the woman over the edge, trust me. She lived for him and only him. She never gave a fuck about me.’
Jack looked thoroughly pissed off, and in the two decades the man had been a friend and business associate of Jimmy’s, Michael had never seen him look so angry.
Michael actually liked the man. They all did. As a well-respected detective inspector now for the Metropolitan police, he had helped the Byrne family out of a tight spot or two, many times over the years. The last thing he wanted to do was upset Jack Taylor.
‘I’m sorry, son!’ Michael said, doing his best to try and act sober as he played his trump card as the poor, grieving father. Making out that his behaviour was down to being riddled with grief. That he wasn’t in his right mind. ‘I’m not thinking straight, you know. I still can’t really believe that he’s really gone. That he’s never coming back.’
Jack nodded, though he felt anything but sympathy for the man before him. Michael was clearly too stupid or too drunk to realise that he wasn’t fooling anyone.
‘I’m hurting…’ Michael continued to sob, though as Jack searched his face, he could see there were no real tears there.
‘I know you are, mate,’ he said playing along, hoping to appeal to Michael’s softer side. ‘But you’ve already pissed off your Nancy. She stormed out about an hour ago, and if Daniel or Joanie hear you talking like this, there will be hell to pay…’
To his surprise, Michael nodded.
‘You’re right, Jack. You won’t hear another peep out of me,’ he said as he looked around the room at the group of men that had only minutes ago been huddled around him, hanging on his every word.
The group were dwindling off now. Glad of an excuse to get away from the man. Bored with his conversations and the fake niceties they had to bestow upon him.
People were beginning to leave.
He was glad.
From here on in, eve
rything about their lives was going to change, for better or worse. Though Michael couldn’t see how things could get worse, if he was honest. Certainly not for him anyway.
Watching as Jack Taylor made his way back in to the kitchen, he tried to hide the happiness that bubbled away inside him.
Life goes on as they say, and life for Michael Byrne was going to be a hell of a lot better now that his Jimmy was dead and buried.
Chapter Three
Chad Evans had been a nervous wreck when he’d first got in his punter’s car tonight, but he needn’t have been so worried.
His tip-off had been spot on.
If he wanted to get work here in London, then the derelict industrial badlands of King’s Cross was the place to find it. Or, as it turned out, the work would find him.
He’d only been walking York Way for a little over fifteen minutes when he’d been picked up by some guy in a swanky-looking motor. The bloke hadn’t said much, but then they’d both known that neither of them were there to do any talking. His first punter had only requested a blowie. Which was a right result and, even more so, when he hadn’t even argued when Chad had slid a condom on the guy. Another right old touch, especially after some of the stories he’d heard from his new boyfriend Joey.
In fact, thinking back to some of the horror stories that Joey had told him about his chosen vocation, it wasn’t any wonder that Chad had been crapping himself tonight.
His first night on the job, and all he could think about were the sick and twisted punters that got their kicks from hurting prostitutes. Joey had said how one poor sod had been kidnapped right here. A few weeks back now. How he’d been bundled into the boot of a car, before being badly beaten up. He might have been killed too, if he hadn’t managed to get away.
Still, Joey reckoned that was just a one-off.
He’d told Chad to trust no one. Not even the cops. They were the worst apparently. Picking prostitutes up for streetwalking, only to get girls and guys in the back of their motors and insist on some form of payment in kind to help them turn a blind eye to the offences they’d been pulled for. The officers knew that they could take whatever they wanted and there would never be any reprisals.
Chad was doing his very best to keep his wits about him. Though, so far, his job seemed pretty easy.
This punter had hardly spoken a single word in fact, clearly not interested in the conversation, which was fine with Chad as it meant he could get on with the job in hand, or in mouth as it were.
The easiest fifteen pounds he’d ever made. Then he’d be off to find his next punter, he thought as he bobbed his head up and down on his customer’s lap.
Giving a complete stranger oral sex for money wasn’t quite as awkward as he’d first imagined it would be, as long as he didn’t think about what he was doing too much. Instead, he tried to think of nice things, like his Joey.
It had been pure fate meeting him.
Chad had been in London just a few weeks, after running away from his home in Manchester, when they’d finally met each other. Though, London hadn’t turned out to be the magical place that Chad had expected. He’d been hoping to find himself a nice little job and a small flat somewhere and to make a fresh start for himself.
Only starting out again in London had been much harder than he’d anticipated. With no job and no money behind him, the small amount of cash he did have had gone in just a few days and he’d been forced to sleep rough on the city’s streets.
It was only by a chance encounter that he’d got talking to a man at a bus stop one evening. His Joey. The fact that he earned his money as a male prostitute didn’t bother Chad one bit, in fact, it only spurred him on to give it a go too. There was good money to be made after all.
Though, so far, it had been a lot easier than he’d imagined it would be. Chad had just blagged it up until now. Fake it until you make it, he lived by that. Pretending that he’d done this a thousand times before. He’d even managed to direct this punter down this quiet little lane which led to the disused railway arch they’d parked up underneath.
The place was perfect. With not a single soul for miles, there was no chance of getting caught by an unsuspecting passer-by, or worse still, Old Bill.
Maybe Chad had found his calling after all, he thought, suppressing his smile, his mouth still full.
He could feel the man beneath him building his rhythm up now. Thrusting inside his mouth, he was almost there, at the point of no return. Chad braced himself seconds later as the man shuddered. The thrusting stopping abruptly.
Chad sat up and wiped his lips, watching as the punter did his flies back up, and adjusting his hair in the rear-view mirror. Another perk of his first job was that the punter was actually quite a looker. Tall, dark and handsome. If he had met him in normal circumstances, the only reason Chad would have kicked this one out of bed, would have been to fuck him on the floor.
He was a bit quiet now though. Moody almost. Cool and composed, though the intense look on his face as he stared at his own reflection in the small mirror showed that he was really concentrating on something. As if he was thinking something through.
Chad wondered if he should ask him, just to make polite conversation, but then he remembered Joey’s advice and thought better of it. Always listen, but never, ever start asking the punters questions. They don’t take to that very well. It makes them suspicious. Makes them feel as if you are digging for information on them.
Speak only if you’re spoken to.
Well that was all well and good, only, so far, this punter hadn’t said fuck all to him. To the point that it was starting to feel awkward. Deciding not to break any of Joey’s ‘golden rules’, Chad stared out the window instead. Taking in the view of London under the hue of orange street lamps spilling out way off in the distance.
It was strange how suddenly London could appear so still. How he could feel so estranged from the city from here. As if they were a million miles from everyone and everywhere. Only they weren’t. They were parked up in the middle of the badlands. London’s largest building site.
Right in the heart of it all, amongst the old railway lines and disused warehouses.
Joey had told him that this was where the new Euro tunnel terminal was being built. Right here at King’s Cross. That big changes were coming. That people were flocking here in their droves. Yet the building work had only just started, and everywhere Chad looked were rows and rows of steely, half-finished buildings, all adorned with an armour of scaffolding poles around them. Accessorised with cranes and bulldozers, all left abandoned, motionless, under London’s darkened night skies.
The roads around here were completely deserted. There was no one around for miles, which felt strangely beautiful and eerie at the same time.
Creepier if Chad had been all alone, he guessed.
The driver of the car had gone completely silent now. Sitting and staring straight ahead out of the windscreen, not moving, and Chad wasn’t sure what to say or do.
He guessed the bloke was probably suffering from a bout of regret at what they’d just done. A closet gay who’d just lived out his fantasy with some strange rent boy he’d picked up while driving home late at night. Or perhaps he’s married? Or he’s got a boyfriend, and now he’s feeling full of guilt. Whatever it was, he was acting weird, and Chad just wanted to get back to the main road so he could scout out his next punter.
Proud of himself for going through with this, he was pumped. He’d done his first job and made his first bit of money. Though technically he hadn’t been paid yet.
‘You okay to drop me back?’ Chad asked. Then on getting no reply he quickly added. ‘I can walk. You can just pay me. It’s not far, I’ll make my own way back.’
Again only silence ensued.
The man didn’t move, didn’t so much as flinch. He gave no indication that he’d even heard Chad speak. His eyes remaining focused, his gaze fixed straight-ahead.
That steely silence in the car now filled Chad full of
anxiety. Not sure how to play this out. The man was starting to freak him out. His gut twisted at the sudden thought that something wasn’t quite right here. They were out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded only by darkness.
No one knew that Chad was even here. In this car. With this man.
Thinking back to the story he’d been told about the man that had been attacked just weeks prior, Chad started to feel scared. Convinced that he was just overreacting, being paranoid even, he decided that he was just going to cut his losses and get the fuck out of here anyway.
Looping his fingers around the door handle, he was going to put this job down to experience and not worry about the measly fifteen quid that he would have earned from it.
The man was still staring ahead. Not moving. Not speaking.
Chad eyed the door handle once more. Yeah, fuck it. It wasn’t worth the aggro. This bloke was starting to creep him out.
He pulled at the handle, getting ready to leg it as soon as the door pinged open. The door didn’t move. There was a loud click, telling him that the central locking was on.
A loud click that alerted the punter next to him that he’d tried to escape.
The man turned his head then. As if he’d just snapped out of his trance. His steely eyes boring into Chad’s. Full of loathing.
That’s when Chad felt the first real wave of fear sweep over him. The feeling replaced very suddenly with an almighty thud, as the punter smashed into the side of his face with his fist.
The punch caught Chad off guard, snapping his neck backwards, and slamming the side of his head into the glass of the passenger door.
His ears were ringing now. The blow knocked him senseless. He was still conscious, though he knew that he wouldn’t be able to fight back. Chad wasn’t cut out to fight. With few options, the only thing he could think to do was to just lie against the door where he’d landed and play dead. Hope that the punter would think that he’d knocked him out. Praying that it would be enough to deter this fucking psychopath from dishing out any more blows.
The Broken_A gripping thriller that will have you on the edge of your seat Page 2
