“What the fuck is going on? That could have been a disaster. You’re lucky my guy was there to clean up your mess. One of your own staff too,” said the man venomously down the phone.
“It was an oversight, and I am dealing with it. What did your guy do?”
“He dumped her at her flat—it’ll look like a burglary gone wrong. Her boyfriend works off-shore and isn’t back for another six days, fortunately for you. Had to thoroughly clean underneath her fingernails as she had pieces of that fuckin’ Tangoman’s face underneath them. I suggest you send him on holiday, somewhere far away and I mean today.”
“You’ve made a mistake,” said the medical professional. “One of the latest—the one picked up by the canal—was some famous climber. He will be missed, and his name may make the media.”
“Your side have been the ones increasing the demand. If you want an omelette, then a few eggs will be broken.”
“I was not notified of his stature until his organs were removed.”
“You can have a higher supply, or you can have a stringently checked supply—you can’t have both. If I were you, I’d choose the latter.”
“I am surprised. I thought you’d be on the side of the former since money is your master?”
“And it isn’t yours?”
“My goal is to give the gift of health and life to those who won’t squander it.”
“Funny that those people happen to be very wealthy. Not that I am complaining.”
“Funny how those who work hard in life acquire money isn’t it?”
“Frankly, I do not care about what your motives are. What I do care about is you calling me to complain about a couple of bad apples in around thirty. Thirty bodies that’s generated millions of pounds so you can continue giving the gift of health and life,” said the crime boss with the sarcasm dripping from his voice.
“I am just asking you to be more careful. Until there are certain people in line shall we say, we will have to be very careful.”
“I agree. But you’ll have to accept a smaller supply in the meantime.”
“If that is a necessity then, of course, I will accept it.” said the voice. “The footballer you sent to see me has an ACL injury. He’s in with my orthopaedic consultant now.”
“I appreciate it.”
Ciara hung by the door waiting for Connor to come out of the toilet. He joined her a couple of minutes later, and they spilt out on the street and began the walk back to the hotel.
They had paid for two rooms. One in their names. And another directly across under aliases, which was the one they occupied.
“Good to go?” Ciara asked, as she took off her heels and exchanged them with the flats, taken out of her handbag. He nodded.
She threaded her arm through Connors and gripped his bicep. When he flexed it, they looked at one another and smirked.
They maintained their counter surveillance duties as they walked. The air had a delicate coolness, and the amber-lit streets were sparse barring a few other night-time revellers making their way back to their homes or hotels.
Ciara felt a warmth from the alcohol within her. She enjoyed his company too. He was funny without being overbearing. He had a confidence about himself, both intellectual and physical, that she liked.
He seemed a little tense—a little expectant.
“I like this city,” she said.
“I like it too.”
“You might find it more difficult to come here as freely post-Brexit.”
“Because of the ETIAS.”
He surprised her with how fast he processed things. ETIAS was an acronym for the European Travel Information and Authorisation System which was being developed, and that British nationals entering the EU would be subject to post BREXIT.
“A headache,” he replied, “but only the dead have seen the end of problems. A bit of Plato for you there.”
“I am pretty sure that’s not quite the quote.”
“I was paraphrasing.”
“So you consider BREXIT to be an omelette? You agree with it?”
“A bit heavy after an evening’s drinks isn’t it?”
“I don’t do small talk that well.”
He gave her a sideways glance. “I think it’s dangerous to be a part of something where its leaders aren’t made accountable to ‘the people’. Plus, there are around three of the fuckers— European Commission president, European Council president, European Parliament president—and the man on the street doesn’t know who the fuck they are because they don’t have a say in their appointment. In the seventies, a trade agreement with Europe, especially with the old Soviet Union rattling its sabres, would have seemed reasonable but now it’s grown arms and legs.”
“So you’re not the typical ‘they’re coming here, and taking all our jobs’ sort of person?”
“Nah. If you’re a Romanian who’s got himself a job, and his wage has been deducted for tax then, in my opinion, you’re more British than Tracey, twenty-three, from a council estate of Manchester who’s never worked in her life, instead she’s shat out around six multi-coloured kids expecting everyone else to pay. More British than Rupert, who works in the City, makes millions from insider trading and evades tax by funnelling his gains through off-shore accounts. That’s my opinion on immigration. People are too precious about it just because they happen to be born here—something that they had no influence over.”
She shook her head. “Quite a way with words you have—‘shat out multi-coloured kids’—that’s something you’d hear out of the mouth of a Far-right group member.”
“All I meant, was a woman—or man—who has loads of kids without much thought to who the other parent is, and only intent on making the government pay for them.”
“Don’t you think that the EU has given us a lot?”
“Like what?”
“Like a convention on Human Rights?”
“Sir David Maxwell-Fyfe guided the drafting of that in 1949, and he was a British lawyer, so it’s kind of a moot point.”
She looked at him in surprise, and he said, “I am not just a pretty face.”
“You know that three million British jobs are linked to the EU? And we won’t have the influence we once had?”
“Fair enough, there will be an upheaval, but if we all pull together, then the UK will be fine. And as for the influence bit—I think we’ve got ourselves in a lot of trouble still thinking we’re an empire. Look at Switzerland, not part of the EU, never bother any fucker, and they are—man for man—a happy people. Do you know that if fifty-thousand of them sign a petition on a particular subject, then a referendum must be held? It’s called direct democracy—they banned the burqa recently with it.”
“Well I am sure all the Swiss Muslim population was pleased about that,” she said with the derision she felt.
“It wasn’t just Muslim women it offended.”
She looked at him puzzled, “Who else?”
“Ninjas.”
She chuckled, welcoming the break talking politics. It had threatened to ruin a perfectly good night despite their being there for professional purposes.
They took a short set of stairs and began walking along a canal.
After a time he slowed them at an embankment. “We’ll peel off here, it’s a shortcut.”
They climbed the bank and came to an empty industrial park. The few overhead lights threw ominous shadows across its floor.
“You sure about this? Anyone could ambush us here.”
“Anyone could ambush us along the canal, but you didn’t say anything then?”
She replied, “You only have to look behind or ahead with a canal.”
“It’ll be fine.”
They stopped talking as they cut through the darkness. She felt an awareness about her, like a part of her brain, was trying to tell her something but couldn’t quite express it.
A noise from behind made them both spin around. Six dark-skinned men appeared like apparitions in the dim light.<
br />
“You were saying?” she barked at Connor.
He didn’t even have the decency to look contrite. The thugs compressed the distance menacingly.
Ciara, her adrenal glands slamming her with Epinephrine, blocked the punch incoming from the side and fired a head-butt into the face. With other men crowding in on her, Ciara reached into her handbag, popped her switchblade—disguised as a lipstick applicator—and went berserk.
Furiously slashing and stabbing, blood from arterial cuts sprayed over her in the frenzied attack. It took a third ‘crack’ of a sonic boom to pierce her fight-induced deafness letting her know that shots were being fired. The men began falling like they were being flicked over by a giant’s finger.
She saw three tall, Caucasian men walking towards them with their pistols raised.
“Looks like we were not needed after all,” said the man in the centre. All four of the men stood regarding her. Only Connor smiled, which set her off,
“Why the fuck are you laughing? I told you we shouldn’t have come down here. All you did was fucking ‘Yes’ me.”
His voice remained calm. “Van Der Saar told me that we were going to be ambushed. That was the real reason he called me back just before we left his gaff. Hence why he sent his men.”
Connor pulled out a small beeper.
“So that was the plan? We were bait?”
“Yes.”
“You bastard. Not to mention unprofessional. Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded, catching the flick of his eyes to her blood splattered blade.
“I wanted to see how you’d react when faced with death,” he began to laugh while surveying the bodies. “I think it was a good idea we didn’t sample any of Van Der Saar’s E’s.”
Her voice cut through the men’s nervous chortles, “Well I think you better take me back to the hotel. Right now.”
He stopped laughing as his eyes met hers—she wasn’t angry.
20
Andrew Morrison sat hopefully in a waiting room that seemed simultaneously sterile but comfortable. As the owner of ‘Mercados’—a chain of discount stores throughout the south-east—he had recently become a billionaire.
It had come at a price.
The long hours and constant demands had sapped his willpower in other areas. A nicotine habit had resurfaced. Enjoying the respite that having to go outside to smoke afforded him, he refused patches or vaping. Also a liking for quick and easy snacks, translated into food full of sugar and high in trans fats. Gym sessions and swims were replaced with shifting through accounts and replying to emails.
The sixty pounds had insidiously crept onto his short frame over a period of just two years.
All this had led to a heart attack and a diagnosis of coronary heart disease at the age of forty-eight. The breathlessness and heart palpitations were affecting his work ethic and scaring him a little.
He’d been to several private hospitals. They all told him that they couldn’t tell him for sure how long he’d have to wait for a suitable donor.
However, Braeson Hospital had found him a donor immediately through their international connections. The heart they found had belonged to Brazilian man dying of a disease that Morrison hadn’t bothered to remember the name of. All he knew was that it did not affect the man’s heart.
There were expenses, however; the heart itself, the cost of bringing the man to the UK safely, the cost of transporting the man’s family, the man’s funeral expenses, all the bureaucracy involved would amount to around two-million-pound sterling.
Morrison gladly paid it.
Now he was waiting for the consultant to give him a specific date, but he had been told it would be in the next two weeks.
He’d have to reorganise his life after the operation—can’t keep forking out a couple of mil’ every time I get sick. He’d need a personal trainer and a chef. He kicked himself for not doing that as soon as it became financially viable.
The pretty nurse appeared, and Morrison surreptitiously smoothed over his red hair. She sauntered over to him, not unlike an exotic dancer in a strip club. The top layer of the skin on her face had peeled—one of those ‘lay in the sun and bake on holiday’ types. There was an abundance of pretty women working here—the perks of being a private hospital.
“Hello, Mr Morrison?”
“Yes.”
“The consultant is available to see you now.”
With that, he followed the copper-haired beauty.
“I may have one for you,” said Jamie’s digitally distorted voice through the monitor. “I am sending you the information now.”
Bruce speed read through the file, highlighting the main points aloud for his and Jamie’s benefit. “Ryan Matthews. Climber extraordinaire. Loss of a hand in some kind of freak accident. Life spirals. Now missing. OK, got the jist—what details do I need to be aware of?”
“I am sending you the last known picture of him. It was captured by a bystander who posted it on social media.”
The screenshot of the picture came through. It had the caption—‘Three police officers move on a homeless drunk. Where were they when my mum’s house was robbed’.
“Let me guess, they weren’t police officers?”
“Nope. I checked and cross-referenced records. There were no units in and around that area at that time.”
“Anything come up on anyone’s facial recognition systems?”
“No. I think they’re either too low level, or the angle isn’t conductive to a complete analysis.”
“Conducive,” said Bruce correcting him.
“Thank you. Conducive. That’s all I have got I am afraid.”
“Send the picture out to my guys and see what they come back with.”
“Of course. That may be con-du-cive to us getting to the bottom of this”
Bruce smiled.
Ciara marched through the door and set her handbag on the desktop. She took out the baby wipes and began cleaning the remaining remnants of blood off her face and neck.
Connor stood watching her. She took her dress off and used a fresh wipe to remove the spots on the top of her chest.
She looked at him. “You put off by a little bit of blood?”
Connor smiled, then walked towards her. He gripped her by the arms and shunted her onto the wall. She gasped a smile, and they began kissing passionately. His hands gripped her from behind as her leg wrapped around one of his. His fingers gripped her knickers and tore a hole in them.
“You better make me cum, or you’re paying for them.”
She gasped as two of his fingers entered her. They continued to kiss. He gripped her by the throat, and his finger fucking got harder with her moans.
He flung her down onto the bed and removed her torn panties. His hands gripped the back of her legs, locking her in place.
Her hands gripped the duvet with the pleasure his mouth gave her.
As he took his mouth off her, she gripped his face and wildly kissing and licking her wetness off his face.
She cried out as he rammed himself into her. He gripped her throat again, straightened his arms to break her grip on the back of his neck.
Then he began to fuck her hard.
21
Connor had driven the ambulance for just over an hour to the Holland coastal town of Petten. Ciara rode shotgun.
In the back lay just shy of a quarter of a tonne of Ecstasy tablets.
As much as Connor tried to live his life by the mantra ‘Do not worry about things you cannot control’, he still prayed that it went off without a hitch.
He doubted that even Bruce’s influence would help him escape a lengthy prison sentence if caught with this amount. He had already had his liberty taken away from him twice now, albeit for relatively short periods of time.
The first time had been Borstal when he was sixteen years of age. The memory was still vivid. He had, the previous night to the incident that led to him being first incarcerated, boxed in the European qualifiers, winning and
thus booking his place in the tournament. After weeks of dieting to get himself down to the seventy-five-kilogram limit, he had decided to treat himself to fish, chips and gravy. He had stood in the queue behind two nattering women when two youths swaggered through the door and pushed to the front. They were a couple of years his elder and full of bravado.
“Lads, come on,” he had said, already knowing that words would be redundant.
The larger had sneered, “Who the fuck are you? What do you think you’re going to do about it?”
When Connor saw the fear the women and the old man who owned the establishment had of the pair, his indignation exploded in a fusillade of punching, headbutting and stamping. The two youths lay decimated on the floor just as a police car pulled up.
He ended up doing eleven months in Wetherby Youth Custody Centre as it was known back then.
After the first week in the induction wing, he had been moved to the ‘Drake’ wing. The next morning, they had been unlocked at eight o’clock. By nine o’clock he had already knocked out another prisoner.
After a week or two of adjustment, he had settled in and made the most of his time there. It took a couple of ‘nickings’—a recording of an offence leading to a punishment of some sort—before he had begun toeing the line.
He threw himself into the vocational training there, including electrics and motor mechanics. With the motor mechanics qualification, at least if worse came to the worst then he could find work in a local garage.
And he practised his Punjabi with some of the Asian lads doing time there.
He had been released on license for good behaviour after eleven months. He never wanted to go back again.
After going to Wetherby as a teenager, going to the Military Correctional and Training Centre—MCTC—in Colchester had been relatively tame.
He’d had to go there for ninety days on the charge of AWOL. It had been the only way to ward off future suspicions of why he left the Corps so suddenly. The true reason was that he had joined ‘The Chameleon Project’.
If a soldier, sailor or airman were given a sentence exceeding two years then he or she would go to civilian prison— ‘civvy nick’—not Colchester, or ‘Colly’ as it was known. As a result, there were barely any fights—the end of one’s sentence was always in sight and therefore hardly anyone wanted to risk the requisite extra ninety days for fighting.
Lessons In Blood Page 12