by A P Bateman
“I know; I’ve already heard it.”
The smaller man stopped in his tracks and frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’ve heard it,” the larger man paused. “The grave digger says, I know but I had to have somewhere to park my bike…”
“Sod off Dave!” The smaller man snapped, his expression turning from anger to a childish sulk. “I went through the whole of that joke for nothing.”
“Yeah well, you missed a bit out.”
“Bollocks!”
The large man started lifting the wrought iron manhole cover to expose the drain. He stood back in disgust, then glanced at his companion and swept a welcoming hand towards the open hole.
“No way!” The smaller man shook his head defiantly, still sulking. “I went down the bastard hole yesterday!”
“Tough,” he replied, then tensed his arm to reveal a bulging set of biceps. “Looks like you’re going down today as well.”
McCormick smiled as he watched the smaller of the two men protest. He glanced at his watch, then replaced the net curtain and walked over to the television set.
“Ah, shut that shit off Matt! What the hell do yer want it on so early for anyway?” Patrick padded across the lounge on his way back from the bathroom, wearing only a faded pair of cotton boxer shorts. He picked some of the material out of his arse crack and let out a belch. “Who wants a brew?”
McCormick nodded. “Breakfast news. I want to see if they got a good picture of me at the service station,” he paused, switching to another channel with the remote control. “There was bound to be a camera somewhere.”
The big Irishman let out another belch and scratched his bare stomach. “Aye, well they won’t mention her. The bloody bitch was intelligence; they’ll not say a bloody thing. If you’re not mentioned, then we’ll know MI5 were on to us for sure.” He walked around the side of the breakfast bar and opened the refrigerator door. “Bloody sodding cheek! I thought Neeson was going to stock this place up? Lazy, fucking bastard!”
“Aye, I can really see yer telling him so.” McCormick laughed. “As big as yer are, and as fucking butt-ugly as yer are, you’re scared shitless of the bastard.”
“Too bloody right I am! And you’re not I suppose?”
Matthew McCormick didn’t answer. He picked up the remote control and switched to another channel. Patrick was probably right. The intelligence services would undoubtedly cover up the incident. Bad press was never needed, especially as the British government continued with the peace agreement charade. They needed a calm sea, plain sailing until the agreement was signed.
McCormick stood up and threw the remote control on the sofa, and walked back to the window.
“Will you calm down? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you’re making me nervous! We’re well in the clear. We lost our tail at the service station, just relax.” Patrick walked back towards the bedroom, letting out a prize-winning belch as he closed the door behind him.
McCormick pulled back the net curtain and stared outside again. The street was residential, therefore reasonably quiet, as most of the inhabitants had already left for work. The two workmen had covered up the open drain with a red and white striped weather cover, looking much like a large tent. He watched the larger of the two men carry what appeared to be a battered metal tool box into the weather cover, then fasten the opening behind him. McCormick replaced the net curtain and walked back to the television set. He flicked over to The Jerry Springer Show. A woman was about to ruin her husband’s life with her confession to an affair with his brother. He watched animatedly. You never really knew what people were up to behind your back, he reflected.
“Hello, Control, this is X-ray Delta One, message, over.”
“Control, send, over.”
“X-ray Delta One, in position, out.”
“All right Dave.” The smaller of the two men kept his eyes on the monitor in front of him. The image showed McCormick replacing the net curtain opposite them. There would be a two second delay at this distance, the camera was using VHF radio frequency to the hub unit connected to the monitor. The man patiently waited for his colleague to replace the handset, check the fastening to the opening of the work tent, then he grinned. “I’ve got another one - this time, tell me if you’ve heard it before I go round the houses. A camel without a hump goes into a vasectomy clinic…”
“Heard it.”
“Bastard!”
12
He depressed the clutch and shifted down into third gear, emitting a mighty, bellowing roar from the two cavernous exhaust pipes. He entered the tight corner, slowing on engine braking alone, then dabbed his left foot on the brake, as he kept the revs on the accelerator with his right foot. The car’s rear end twitched. Then, just as he was through the bend, he dropped into second and floored the accelerator. The rear wheels screeched loudly, letting out a bluish smoke and for a brief instant, the whole vehicle started to float as if it were on slushy ice. The car gently played towards the right, and then suddenly slewed sideways.
“Keep the throttle on, don’t take your foot off…” The man in the passenger seat said calmly, his hand hovering near the steering wheel. “Opposite lock, and more throttle. Now!”
Neeson responded accordingly, compensated the tail-slide and changed up into third. “That felt much better!” He caught sight of the look of excitement on his face in the rear-view mirror and tried to suppress the broad smile. Never in his wildest dreams would he have expected to drive such a car.
“You’re getting the hang of it now. Goes well, doesn’t she?” the salesman paused. “Best of both worlds, performance and reliability, which is exactly what you have to think about when buying a performance car. After all, you might be driving it every day, and can soon become tired of a specialist sports car. Sure, TVR’s are good to drive. Astonishing performance, but I guarantee that this will only ever see the inside of a garage for servicing. That is why this costs just over seventy-grand, and the TVR Cerbera which you said you liked costs only fifty. That and the fact in ten years’ time the TVR will be a tatty mess inside and this will still look like new.”
“Doesn’t feel as quick though,” he commented.
“Nought to sixty in just under five seconds, one hundred and seventy miles per hour! How fast do you want to go?” the salesman laughed. “All right, maybe so. Let’s face it, nothing is going to keep up with the four and a half-litre TVR Cerbera. Not even the lottery winner’s super-cars. Christ, even a Ferrari F40 doesn’t catch a Cerbera on acceleration, and it would cost you six or seven times as much. But most cars are compared to each other on paper. Let’s just say, if you put the Cerbera through that last bend, just like you did with this, then you would have been road kill. Did I mention our track days? We are giving all Porsche 911 buyers a day learning to drive fast down at Thruxton race track. It’s something we’re doing for the 996 new engine models.”
Neeson wasn’t listening. He was having too much fun. He downshifted again, taking the vehicle confidently into the approaching corner. He positioned the nose of the car through the bend, dropped to second, and then kicked the accelerator hard to the floor.
“No, watch it!” The salesman made a grab for the steering wheel, but it was far too late. The tail of the Porsche 911 went wide, too wide to be corrected, and under the influence of inertia and the weight of the rear-mounted engine creating a pendulum effect, slewed round one hundred and eighty degrees. The vehicle shuddered to an abrupt halt, the wheels smoking. A stench of burnt rubber in the air. “I told you to watch it! You’re a bloody madman!” The young salesman caught hold of the door handle. “Move over, I’m driving us back to the showroom,” he ordered, in a voice too scared and plaintive for any ring of authority.
Neeson grabbed the man’s arm and gripped firmly, forcing him to remain where he was. He looked down at him, and the man was instantly intimidated by the cold stare. At five-foot-ten Danny Neeson was not overly tall, yet he was thick set, two-days’ dark-stubble covered
his face, framing his cold blue eyes and well-broken nose. A thick scar ran from the corner of his left eye to the tip of his chin. Scars told stories, and you just knew the man who gave him that scar came off worse. The young salesman decided to hear him out.
“If you want to sell this baby, then you’re going to have to allow me to try it out thoroughly,” he said quietly, relaxing his grip. “After all, you wouldn’t take a woman to the altar without finding out what she’s like in the sack first, would you?” He smiled wryly. “I’m happy now, I know exactly how far I can push it, so just sit yourself back in your seat and enjoy the ride home.” The tone was calm yet firm, even though his soft Irish accent had an easy rhythm to it.
The salesman settled back into his seat and smiled, certainly seeming a little more relaxed. He was starting to see his commission. “Certainly, Mr Bircher, I was just a little shaken up, that’s all. This is a seventy-grand vehicle after all.”
Neeson nodded and smiled amiably. “Understandable. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to return by a more scenic route,” he paused. “I want to get used to my new car.”
The salesman beamed. “Feel free. I’m only too glad that you chose German reliability and technology over rustic British performance.”
Neeson slipped the gearbox into first and pulled back into the road, heading back in the opposite direction to which they had been travelling.
After travelling about a mile, Neeson signalled left and took a sharp forked turning, away from what had passed as a main road.
The Hampshire countryside was certainly beautiful in early spring. The buds on the trees were shooting, and some had even burst open to release delicate early leaves. The grass was wet, still beaded with morning dew, which gave it a fresh look, contrasting strongly with the occasional field of yellow rape seed. With the neatly trimmed hedges and the uniform fields, it was very different from Neeson’s native Armagh.
He took another left fork, followed almost immediately by a narrow right-hand turning, which was shrouded by trees from either side.
“A bit out in the sticks, aren’t we?” The salesman looked at his watch and frowned. “We’d better be getting back, if we have to sort out the finance.”
“I won’t be needing any finance.”
“Oh, I see.” The salesman nodded. Cash sales were good, but finance sales gave him another commission. Times were changing in the motor industry. Facilitators for debt, was what the showroom’s managing director called his sales team.
Neeson slowed the vehicle and turned off to the left at a minor junction, then swung the car across the road and into a narrow lane on the right. The lane was pitted and muddy, and the front spoiler caught briefly on a piece of raised ground, scraping noisily underneath.
The salesman frowned. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing to be concerned about, the car’s as good as mine. Just relax, I have to check on something while we’re here.”
The Porsche was awkward at low revs, a feature of many high-performance sports cars, the torque effecting a shudder at not receiving enough throttle, forcing Neeson to ride the clutch to keep from stalling. After approximately half a mile, the lane widened. Ahead of them, on the left-hand side of the track, was a large flatbed removal lorry. The rear doors were open and two heavy-duty metal skids protruded down onto the muddy ground. The salesman stared at the metal skids, his mind suddenly working overtime. He made a move towards the door but stopped when he felt the cold metal on the side of his neck.
“No, son, sorry.” Neeson cocked the hammer of the pistol then removed it from the man’s neck and rammed it into his stomach. There was no escaping, no taking the weapon from him. It dug in deeply, a squeeze of the trigger and it would blow out the man’s liver.
“Oh for god’s sake!” The man stared in horror at the menacing weapon then looked up into Neeson’s cold eyes and started to shake. “Please, don’t kill me! It’s just a fucking car… Take it!”
Neeson remained silent but kept the pistol pressed firmly into the man’s gut. He looked back towards the lorry and watched the two thickset men, dressed in identical work overalls, walk purposefully towards them. The tough-looking Irishman looked back at his prisoner and smiled. “That will sort of depend on you,” he commented. He slipped the gearbox into neutral and engaged the handbrake. “All right son, out you get.”
The young salesman opened his door nervously and stepped out into the muddy lane. He shut the door, looked across the roof of the vehicle and fixed his eyes on the pistol, which was pointing directly into his face. One of the thickset men slipped effortlessly into the driver’s seat, while the other stood directly in front of the Porsche’s bonnet and started to walk backwards towards the lorry and up into the container, directing the driver with hand signals to keep the front wheels straight. He quickly stepped to one side, checked that the rear wheels lined up appropriately, then waved the other man forwards. The revs climbed, the rear wheels spun briefly on the stony ground before gaining traction, then in one graceful motion, the Porsche was aboard.
Neeson smiled. The frightened young man was still staring at the pistol. “Come with me,” he ordered, and walked casually across the lane to where a light blue Saab was parked, almost out of view in an offset gateway.
The young salesman stood beside the vehicle, his legs shaking uncontrollably. As he kept his eyes on the pistol, he lost control of his breathing as well. “Please, take the car, just don’t kill me!” he pleaded raggedly.
Neeson grinned and without warning slapped him hard across the cheek. The young man fell backwards into the muddy gateway. The Irishman stepped back a few paces, putting a safe distance between them. He turned around as he heard the lorry’s noisy diesel engine fire and watched the driver execute an admirable three-point turn in the narrow lane. The passenger held up a thumb and Neeson nodded an acknowledgement as he watched the vehicle move away. He looked back at the salesman, who was sitting miserably in a waterlogged tractor track. He smiled to himself, aware that the man had no survival instinct. He had simply given up, too scared to attempt to escape with his life.
“Please...” the salesman started to sob. “...Please don’t kill me!”
“How old are you?” Neeson asked, taking a thick bulbous suppressor, or what the inexperienced called a silencer, from his jacket pocket.
The man’s eyes were transfixed. “Twenty-nine,” he replied solemnly. His limbs were shaking violently and for a moment it looked as if he were about to convulse.
“Stop it! For fuck’s sake! Can’t you make this easy on me? I don’t want to kill you, but I have very little choice in the matter,” he paused, screwing the suppressor into the specially fitted adapter on the end of the tiny pistol’s barrel. “Standing or sitting?” he asked, then aimed the weapon steadily at the centre of the man’s forehead.
“What?”
“Standing or sitting? I’m giving you a choice. You only die once. I want to make it good for you, too.”
“Oh god, you’re sick!” The salesman scrabbled in the mud in an attempt to get up but his smooth leather soles slipped, and he was suddenly sitting once more. He looked up in hatred and despair and shook his head. “You’re out of your mind!”
“Or running?” Neeson shrugged. “It’s just another option. Come on, you can’t say that I’m not being fair, can you?”
The young salesman had tears in his eyes. “Just get it over with, you sick bastard!”
Neeson squeezed the trigger twice. The two 9mm bullets impacted just short of the salesman’s groin, spraying his astonished face with a spume of muddy water. The man screamed. “I was only trying to help!” Neeson shouted. “You could be more grateful. People don’t spend enough time thinking about their own death. We plan our lives, right down to the last detail, but not death. Isn’t that strange?” The salesman sobbed loudly, cupping his head between his hands. Neeson leant back against the bonnet of the Saab and lowered the pistol. “I’d bet that before today you’ve never even gi
ven your death a second thought. Sure, you probably told all of your mates that you’d like to be balls-deep in a Playboy model when the time came, but I bet you never even considered the possibility of it ending like this. On your arse in a muddy ditch with a bullet through your face.” He smirked as he savoured the young man’s situation. “I gave you the choice, standing, sitting or running. Clean through the head, or peppered with random fire. The choice is still yours.” He raised the gun and aimed it carefully at the man’s forehead. “Personally, I’d prefer it clean through the head, but then again, if you were running, you might not feel the fatal shot if you were high on adrenaline. Plus, you would have at least a tiny chance of surviving.”
The young salesman looked up at him pleadingly and shook his head in desperation. “Please...”
“For Christ’s sake, have some fucking dignity! Think of yourself as already dead. That way, it’s merely a matter of how it happens, not when.” He stepped forwards, the pistol less than a foot from the man’s face. “Come on Jason, it won’t be that bad.”
The sobbing ceased and there was a look of bewilderment on the man’s face. It was a blast from his past. He hadn’t gone by that name for five years. “How do you know my name?”
Neeson smiled wryly. “I know many things, Jason. Jason Porter. Actually thirty-one years old, live-in girlfriend called Samantha Jenkins, with a baby on the way. Or could it be twins, like your uncle and your father? These things tend to run in the family.” He stepped backwards then reached inside the open driver’s window and retrieved a large envelope. “The thing is Jason, you have a wee bit of a past, don’t you?”
