Parallel II - The Gift

by Paul Rice

  Red’s face had gone white and his eyes bulged obscenely from their sockets. The shocking rush of truth had completely stunned him. He looked rather like a school bully, one who had been confronted by someone much bigger and much smarter than he was. Someone who, without compassion, was going to give him the hiding of his life, Red looked about ready to weep as he spoke his final words; a begging rant would be a more accurate description. “No… please don’t send me! I can be more o’ a help to ya’ll, I can change, it was them others made me do it! They said yoo were full o’ sheeit, said I should get the device, they made me do it!” The awful sound of George’s dry laugh sent Red into despair – he screamed: “I know thangs! I kin help, yoo caint send me nowhere!” Fat, greasy tears burst their dam and rolled down his cheeks, they mixed with the blood that became a crimson river, running across his chin, and his frantic breathing caused tiny red bubbles to froth in the corner of his quivering mouth.

  George looked disapprovingly at him. “You know nothing, Red, nothing at all!” And then, with a casual flick of his left hand, he sent Red into the Rip. Bright light surrounded the vehicle and in a blink it was gone. Jane was sure she heard Red utter a long gurgling scream, it sounded like a small, lonely child who was trapped in the bottom of a very deep well. It was an awful wrenching plea, and one that went unanswered. As the silver screen before them began to darken they heard George’s voice once more. “And so the World turns…” With that, the tall screen shimmered once and then dissolved back into the machine from whence it had appeared.

  Mike turned to them and said, “And that, ladies and gents, will be the end of Red, and you’ll be happy to hear, the end of the Rip. In that particular line of events this is how it will all end?”

  Ken was ecstatic. “Bloody hell!” he said, “What an ironic way for him to get the good news, I’m really glad that we’re on George’s side!” He shook his head in amazement, or horror, or both.

  Jane didn’t quite know what to say, so she asked if they would like a drink and without waiting for an answer, stood up and made her way into the kitchen. She was amazed by what she had seen, but was also pleased as she now knew for sure, one hundred percent, that Ken was fine. Previously there had been a tiny shadow of doubt in her mind. “Maybe the injury has sent him nuts?” That particular thought had now jumped on the first plane ride out of her mind. “And don’t come back either!” She whispered. Now she knew that he was definitely OK, and that was just fine by her, they were together and along with Mike they would be able to make sense of this. Reaching up to the cupboard, she bought the best bottle of brandy down, thinking out loud, she said, “I think we could all do with a good shot of this!” The words made her smile as she switched the kettle on and reached for some fresh mugs. In the dining room she heard the two men laughing. Jane closed her eyes and offered a silent prayer of thanks to their Guardian Angels for bringing them home to her. “I hope you lot have got plenty of overtime left,” she joked with the winged ones, “It looks as though you’re going to need it!”

  Chapter 7 - Honey Trap

  It had been a while since the kid had been killed. “Nearly two years?” Stevo guessed. To be honest, he didn’t care how long it had been, or about the kid, but it just so happened to be that it was all over the news again and some dumb blonde reporter was gabbing-on about the case once more. Gazzer had put in another appeal, reckons he was unduly punished, crying that his sentence was too stiff. “Whining little prick, he’d pulled the trigger hadn’t he, fucking shithead should have made sure he had hit the bastards he was aiming for then, shouldn’t he?” Stevo threw the remote at the TV. The thin plastic case exploded on impact and sent the AA batteries rattling off the wooden unit, sending the Sanyo’s volume into a speaker crackling crescendo. He groaned: “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Rising to his feet, he reached over, hit the off button and headed for the fridge, as he walked across the lino covered floor, a thick coating of spilled beer, and other unmentionables, sucked at the soles of his black Nike trainers. Grabbing himself a can of Special Brew from the otherwise empty fridge, he slammed the door shut and cracked the ring pull. The frothy liquid burst forth and Stevo stooped to capture most of the foam in his open mouth, he let the rest of it escape to run across his chin and spatter in amongst the rest of the filth below. He chugged half of the tin in one go, then lowered the can and burped loudly. The cold alcohol cleared his head slightly, the hangover from the previous nights excesses were still banging against his temples, the leaden taste of whiskey and marijuana still coating his mouth with their slimy fur. He coughed and then expelled a mouthful of brownish spittle into the sink, leaving the phlegm to run down the side of a greasy plate – it slithered down, like a slug, dangled for a moment and then glooped into the dirty water of the overflowing washing-up bowl.

  “This fucking place sucks!” He thought as he reached for a roll-up and pulled a chair out from under the kitchen table’s scarred surface. Stevo brushed Jeanie’s make-up paraphernalia to one side with a curse, “Slut didn’t come home again last night, bitch!” He caught a glimpse of himself in the small makeup mirror that sat propped against the wall. Shocking blonde hair lay dankly across his pale, acne ruined forehead. Three day stubble spiked out from his thin cheeks and his dull blue eyes were outlined by red, almost raw, eyelids. He grinned at himself through a haze of Golden Virginia smoke, his crooked yellow teeth only relieved by the singular gold cap on the front left incisor, which matched nicely with the heavy chains dangling from his scrawny neck and wrists. He turned away from the mirror and reached up to drag his left hand across an unshaven face – he felt like shit, but he knew that after another two beers he would be back on track. “Nine thirty may be a bit early for a spliff, but definitely not for some more piss!” Stevo definitely liked that thought, and with a grin he gulped back the rest of his can and launched it towards the overflowing bin. It bounced angrily off the old pie wrapper and then spun its way under one of the kitchen units.

  After retrieving another two cans from the fridge and grabbing a slice of stale bread, in which he wrapped a thick piece of cheddar cheese covered in brown sauce, he sat back down and contemplated his day’s activities. “Get a few beers down, have a quick spliff and then hit the bookies.” It sounded just fine to him, especially since his benefit payment would be in the bank by twelve o’clock. “This is gonna be a good day Stevo lad, a very good day!” Just as he was cracking a second can, the TV in the sitting room suddenly boomed into life again, the unexpected noise made him jump and he coughed as a lump of cheese caught in his throat. Cursing, he walked into the sitting room and bent forward to hit the off switch, pausing momentarily to look down at the dusty fingerprint covered screen as he did so. The report still dealing with Gazzer’s case and the whole story was being shown again.

  He stood and watched, unable to help himself. He had been part of it… lived it… he’d been to court, suffered the jeers, and the cheers, lived through the endless packs of reporters as they jostled him, screaming for his attention: “Stevo, look this way Stevo – are you guilty… Stevo, Stevo!” He’d stood there, blinking proudly in his moment of glory as the flash bulbs flickered like strobes. Ultimately, he’d escaped justice and then they’d all gone crazy. Stevo had revelled in it. Yes, he knew every word of the tale, he’d seen almost all of the countless hours of media coverage, and yet it still fascinated him. The blonde woman was talking again and he watched the faces of the gang flash onto the screen… his amongst them… as she regurgitated their heinous crime, reiterated the sentences of those who had been convicted, and once more told the tale of how Stevo and the two others had been found not guilty. The kid’s parents were on again, talking of justice and of their hope that he and his ‘Not Guilty’ friends would suffer their shame and guilt forever. The couple were still pleading with the Police and the Government to put an end to gangs and crime on the streets, begging for someone to come forward with the rest of their names. Stevo sneered at the telly. “Blah fucking blah… sh
it happens, nobody meant for him to be hit, he was a civilian who just got in the way, it wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last, just look at a real warzone, lady, look at Afghanistan or sommat, that’s what you call casualties, stupid cow!” He stuck his middle finger up at the screen. “Shaddup whining, you’ve had your bloody compensation, what more do you want?”

  The child had been waiting outside the chip shop for his Dad when Stevo’s Gang, who were loitering outside the off-licence, had seen the members of another outfit who were trying to sell some shit on their turf. That was a big No-No, and without hesitation Stevo and his friends had opened-up on them. The gunfire had crackled down the litter strewn street and the rival mob had taken off like their arses were on fire, but the kid, that fucking kid… The stupid idiot had just turned in amazement and looked at them, standing there like some china doll, standing frozen, blinking at the sound of gunfire as it echoed down the street where only fifteen minutes before he’d been happily playing football. He’d taken one of Gazzer’s wayward 9mm slugs straight through the heart – the devastating impact of the bullet had killed him instantly. Then the shit had really hit the fan.

  Stevo remembered it like yesterday and he still didn’t get it. “The kid had nine years of good life, didn’t he? Like I said, shit happens!” Their griping pissed him off. “Get over it you losers!” This was a war for the streets, a war to control the drugs and the smack-heads who used them, if people got hurt then that’s just the way it goes. It was the business Stevo was in and he’d been smart enough to cover his tracks sufficiently well so as not to get caught. Oh sure, they knew he was involved, people had said he was and many had grassed him up to the Filth. But those idiots couldn’t prove anything and, anyway, Jacko had made sure the lawyer was a good one. “You didn’t mess with Jacko, no way!” Stevo knew that for sure. He and the two others had told Jacko that it was all good, the evidence was gone and they would keep their mouths shut.

  The big Londoner had simply looked at them and said: “It facking better had be ‘all good’ boys or you’ll be shut up permanently. One bit of this shit comes back to me and you’ll be in the Thames without your thieving little hands. Do you understand me, you facking stupid monkeys?” They understood all right, understood really well. Stevo had seen Jacko carry out his promises before. The four who had been nicked, understood, too. One hint of any grassing going on would mean prison hospital meals for a long time, that’s if they were lucky. Jacko meant what he said and Stevo admired that, it’s what he, too, wanted from life. “Fuck everyone else, get what you want and do whatever it takes to get it!” Well, that had been two years ago and no shit had come back to any of them, they had been pulled by the Filth a couple of times but those pricks had nothing on them, it was all just a scare tactic and Stevo had blagged his way through it. He knew he was safe. ‘Teflon Stevo’ is what the gang had taken to calling him. ‘Fuck all sticks to you, eh Stevo?’ Secretly, many of them despised him. Some even thought he was coward for not standing up to the Rap, but they also knew that Stevo had become one of Jacko’s boys. ‘Fuck with him and you were fucking with the Man himself.’

  Stevo flicked the finger at the TV once more, and then pulled the plug out of the wall before returning to the kitchen. Once there, he cracked another can and got out his makings. He sat at the dirty table and rolled himself a nice fat one, his yellow fingers shook a little and he guessed he just needed some more beer and a little puff of weed. “Yeah, that’ll fix me right up!” And, just be to be on the safe side, he popped a couple of pills as well, grinning as he thought: “I might as well do the job properly!” One hour later, and feeling somewhat wasted, he made his way down to the betting shop. His walk was the typical, overconfident bounce that all his type use, hood up and arms swinging, almost walking on his toes, safe in the knowledge the average person saw him as threatening.

  The one person who didn’t see him as threatening was seven year old Phillip John Rogers or: ‘PeeJay’ to his friends. Phillip lived in a mid-terrace house opposite the blonde haired man. He had seen Stevo with his sweets, when he’d asked for some, Stevo had told him that when he was older he would let him have them. “Ah, wait ‘til you’re ten, eh mate, they’re good stuff, but once you’ve had one then you’ll want more, and you need money for sweets, lad? I can’t give you them for free all the time.” Stevo had smiled at him and then laughed at the spoilt face, which the kid had pulled. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he could get him fixed up with some gear and that would be another nice steady source of income. The kid’s mother wasn’t shy when it came to spending money. Stevo had seen all the computer stuff when it was being delivered to their house. He wasn’t the only one who saw things. PJ had seen the sweets in their tinfoil wrappers and little plastic bags. He had seen Stevo put them in his pockets and had seen the dozens of people who came and got them from him. Yeah, he was gonna get some of those sweets when he was older. As he turned back to the computer, he hoped some of them were liquorice flavoured…

  His Mum had bought him the computer after the IT teacher told her that Phillip had something special. “He’s unbelievable!” PJ heard the half whispered remark that Mr. White had made to her at the last parents evening. PJ didn’t get what the fuss was all about: “It was only numbers, you put the numbers in and the programme did what you wanted it to, easy peasy?” He had said as much to his Mum as she’d stood smiling proudly at her only son. Forgetting about sweets, he turned back to the assignment he had been given. It was supposed to take him two weeks to finish, but PJ reckoned that if he gave footy a miss tonight, then he would be done by tomorrow. His fingers flashed across the keypad as he hummed his favourite pop tune, the inputted data poured in arithmetical reams across the flat screen monitor in reaction do his commands. If that particular model of computer had been graced with a voice, then it probably would have said something like: “Hey kid, slow down!” Most probably it would have.

  Phillip was good, really good.

  Further down the street, Stevo had his swagger off to a tee. “Yeah, life’s good, oh yeah!” His head swam with alcohol and barbiturates, a good blast of weed always made him horny and at this precise moment, Stevo felt as though he would be able to shag the crack of dawn, if it had hairs on it. He was twenty eight years of age and had never had a job. He didn’t need one. Floating within his own drug-induced reality, he made his way down to the betting shop on Bakerson Street. Stepping over the crap that had been blown into the doorway, Stevo pushed the bell, looked up at the security camera and then waited for the slight buzzing noise, which the electric lock made as it was released. Striding into the brightly lit interior, he said, confidently: “Good bloody morning, Malky!” The words came out slurred as he issued his standard greeting to the morbidly obese owner of the bookies.

  “Howdo Stevo, big win today is it lad?” The thick lenses of Malky’s spectacles glinted in the florescent light as he peered at Stevo from behind the steel mesh covering the payment counter. He hated the skinny, blonde haired little prick who had just swaggered into his business. “The little bastard thinks he’s a big man, walking about like he owns the friggin’ place…” He masked his silent thoughts and plastered a false smile across his fat jowls.

  Stevo looked pleased. “Yeah, you know me, a little bit here a little bit there. I don’t need a Lottery win, Malky – just a nice wedge from time to time does for me, my old son.” He checked the monitor mounted above the far wall. Grabbing the betting slips, he reached for the paper and took a roll-up from behind his ear. Malky’s fat faced smile hid his distaste. O’Hara was a loser and was usually too stoned or pissed to really know what he was doing; it suited Malky just fine as the kid’s dosh was the same colour as everyone else’s. He turned away and reached for his mug of tea, it was going to be another long day. After about an hour of trying to look as though he knew what he was doing, Stevo placed a pair of thirty pound bets on the two o’clock at Kensworth, he was going to go for fifty each way but had just rece
ived a text from Smack-head Pete. The guy had said he wanted some gear: ‘A lot of gear’, the text had said, and Stevo guessed that he might need some extra cash, so he’d kept the flutter small. The second nag had been at more than a hundred to one and it was worth the gamble? Sliding the cash and the slips under the grill, he waited for his receipt and then said, “See ya later big boy, I’ll be back for my winnings this evening!”

  Malky smiled sickly at him and entered the bets in his register. Looking up, he said, “Yeah, see you later Stevo.” The door was already swinging shut behind the departing figure as Malky allowed himself a loud: “Little prick!” comment, before turning back to his paper. Stevo never heard the parting remark because the door had already closed behind him.

  Stepping out onto the street, he looked at the fake Rolex and seeing that it was gone twelve, guessed that his benefits should be in the bank by now. He crossed the street and hit the cash point machine; sure enough, the payment was in. Extracting the sheaf of crisp bills, which the machine spat out, he pocketed them and said, sarcastically, “Thank you Mr tax-paying sucker!” Just as he was turning towards the pub to go and meet Pete, the shrill tone of his mobile suddenly rang out. Reaching into his pocket, Stevo dragged out the phone and glanced down at the flashing screen. The word ‘Jacko’ caused his bloodshot eyes to widen. “What the fuck does he want?” His pulse quickened as he pushed the green button. “Yeah Boss, what’s up?”

  Jacko sounded pissed off: “Meet me at the Jones’ warehouse, Stevo and bring all the gear that you ‘ave, all of it. Get those two cretins of yours to come too, oh yeah, and bring that facking gun!” His voice seemed to crack with anger.