by Paul Jones
‘Thanks very much,’ Jameson said in return, and watched her clack back out of the store.
Once she had gone, he stood there musing until another customer approached the counter. With renewed enthusiasm, Jameson gave him a big, happy smile.
*
Relaxing, in front of his 32 inch screen TV Tom took in an increasingly bored sigh and sank even deeper into the couch. Just as he was about to flip over the channel to relieve himself of the torture of listening to some whinging teenager on the Jeremy Kyle Show in walked Karen White, his girlfriend.
‘Hi, hun?’ She sighed dropping the bulky envelope onto the seat next to him and breezing through to the bedroom.
‘He paid-up alright then?’ Tom asked, not even bothering to take his eyes off the TV.
Karen’s voice sounded muffled coming from the bedroom. ‘Yeah, no problem, I told him if he gets anymore hassle from those kids he’s to get in touch. He already has our number.’
Satisfied with that, Tom lay his hand flat on the envelope as if he expected it to try and escape from him. Thinking to himself, he began to realise that this secret vigilante service with his accomplices, Charlie and Nigel was proving to be a good little earner. Even more so, now they were going to get extra help from another close friend and colleague. Tom huffed to himself at the irony, never thought in a million years that he would want to get involved, Geoff would go bananas if he ever found out. Tom was especially glad that he’d got his girlfriend, Karen in on it too. She had always possessed a no-nonsense, go-getting approach when it came to money. Either that or she was just a gold digger. But, that aside, she was perfect as their debt-collecting representative. Karen then reappeared in her pink-towelled dressing gown and went to plonk herself on the settee next to Tom. Tom quickly yanked away the envelope before she sat on it and watched as she aimed the remote control at the TV.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Repeat of Home And Away is on.’
That was it, Tom grabbed his envelope and leapt to his feet, he knew it was a waste of time arguing with her over the TV. He would have more success at cutting off one of her fingers than he would at changing the channels while one of those dreaded soap-operas were on. As he lumbered off to the bedroom he heard her mutter after him, ‘don’t forget my split.’
‘Bloody gold digger.’ He shook his head.
*
It was the beginning of December, the countdown to Christmas had begun, and with the start of this festive month there was the usual expectant tinge of goodwill in the air. Except that is, if you were a police officer on route to a bit of a domestic fifteen minutes before your shift was due to finish. It was 7.46pm and Phil, hissed at his bad luck and began moaning that he probably wouldn’t get back home now till at least nine.
Beside him in the patrol car was PC Davies, a 27-year-old woman from South Wales, whose eye-catching features closely resembled the singer Danni Minogue. PC Davies yawned. ‘Hope we can wrap this one up quickly, and then go home. My bloody feet are killing me.’
Phil took in a lungful of air. ‘Just be our luck if it turns into an all-night siege.’
PC Davies rolled her eyes at him, and made a call to the control centre to let them know they were arriving at their destination.
‘Seagrove apartments, this is it,’ Phil alerted his colleague, and stopped outside. Both officers disembarked and marched up the footpath to the old three-storey house that had been converted into one-bedroom flats.
They stood outside the apartments in their standard police officer kit, which consisted of a stab vest and duty belt containing a radio, speed-cuffs, an ASP extendable baton, and incapacitating CS spray.
Phil tried the main entrance door, it was unlocked so they entered. Inside, the dank odour of decaying wallpaper and decrepit carpets almost made them want to sneeze. In front of them was a dimly lit hall and stairway leading up to the other floors. SMASH! From above, they heard what sounded like a wardrobe crashing to the floor, accompanied by shouting and wailing.
Immediately, the officers leapt into action, and tore up the stairs, adrenalin surging through their bodies. On the second floor, a young couple from one of the rooms stood in the hallway, alarmed and concerned they pointed towards number 8.
‘It’s been going on for hours now,’ the fleshy young woman told them.
Behind the door, they could hear a man yelling at the top of his voice. The officers sensed danger. Phil’s heart thumped at the thought of a physical confrontation as he banged on the door with the palm of his hand.
‘Sir, Sir, this is police, open the door.’
Either the order hadn’t been heard, or was simply ignored, but the shouting continued.
Again, Phil pounded on the door, and repeated the command. This time the yelling ceased, and a woman could be heard whimpering. Phil glanced at PC Davies and saw apprehension in her eyes, but nevertheless duty called and she took over. He knew that in these type of situations a female voice can be found to have quite a calming effect on a raging maniac.
‘Sir, can you please open the door?’
In the room the man growled at his woman. ‘You see? You see what you’ve caused now, you silly cow?’
PC Davies repeated her request, and they could hear the sounds of shuffling, accompanied by the man snarling “don’t you dare open that door.” There followed the sound of a vicious clout, and the woman shrieked in pain.
Phil took over again, while PC Davies radioed for back up just in case.
‘Open the door or we’re going to break it down.’
They listened for any response and it sounded like the woman was making another attempt to let them in. Unfortunately for her, this seemed to spark off one more brutal attack. In the room, they could hear the woman yelping like a tortured animal, and it seemed to Phil that she was being pinned to the door. The force of the blows she received rocked the sturdy oak against the lock and frame. And the rhythmic thumping they heard was evidently her head bouncing off the door. The vicious bastard must be booting the shit out of her, Phil thought to himself.
Fearing for the woman’s safety he decided that he couldn’t wait for back up, he had to do something now. He nodded to PC Davies as a signal to ready herself, and they both felt their teak batons. Phil took a step back, lining himself up to kick down the door. In his mind he could hear Geoff’s instructions on how to execute the front kick correctly. Bring your knee up, push your hip through, arch your back.
Phil slammed his foot into the door, which sounded like a cannon being fired. It didn’t budge, so he tried again, and this time the lock snapped open.
But with the added weight of the woman slumped behind it, both officers had to heave their way through. Inside the room which reeked of spliff smoke, the ponytail man in a white vest was still beating his girl, oblivious of the two officers. He just managed to get in one last boot to the side of her head which sounded like banging two football boots together. Enraged by this, Phil went straight for a rear choke hold using his baton to apply the pressure. The man evidently under the influence of drugs, roared and struggled like a wild animal. He backed Phil up, and slammed him into the far wall. Phil felt the wind crash out of his body, and his grip weakened. The man seized the baton wedged to his throat and a battle of strengths ensued. However, PC Davies saw her chance and began hacking at the man’s legs and knees to try and disable him, but he seemed impervious to the pain.
Desperately, he kicked out at PC Davies trying to make it harder for her to get in her blows. This diversion gave Phil the chance to re-establish his grip on the choke hold and finally the two officers began to overpower the raging lunatic. Gasping for breath, the man dropped down to his knees, Phil continued with the pressure, while PC Davies put down her baton to reach for the speedcuffs. However, by the time her hand got anywhere near them, she was clunked repeatedly with her own baton.
The woman who they were trying to protect had picked up the baton and like
a screaming witch, she let fly at PC Davies catching her across the forehead with sickening whacks. PC Davies reeled away and tried as best as she could to defend herself. Concerned for his colleague, Phil had no alternative but to release the man, so he could help her. Seeing his chance, the man thought only of himself and bolted off like whippet. He was out of the door before Phil even had the chance to react. Furiously, Phil grabbed hold of the woman and swung her into a disabling arm lock, forcing her to drop the baton. Incensed by the woman’s ingratitude, the two officers now treated her like any other criminal and slammed her down to the ground. Phil, using one knee to secure her, quickly handcuffed her.
‘You OK, Mandy?’ he called to his fellow officer who dropped on to the easy chair, nursing her battered head.
She nodded back, but the trickle of blood running over her face indicated to Phil that she may need some first aid. After radioing for the paramedics, Phil stood up leaving the woman face down and sobbing into the carpet.
‘Mandy, keep an eye on her I’m going have a look for him,’ he told her and she nodded an OK.
Darting out on to the landing, he passed the young couple who had stood watching the whole time and hadn’t lifted a finger to help. Phil felt like saying to them thanks for your help, but couldn’t be bothered. Yet as he ambled down the flight of stairs he heard the man shout down to him “he went straight out of the front door.”
You don’t say, Phil muttered under his breath as he reached the ground floor and burst through the entrance. He sprinted down the footpath and reached the main road. He stopped, chest heaving in and out, and scanned the entire street, but couldn’t see anything.
His breaths started to slow, and he hissed with frustration just as the wailing sounds of back up arrived.
CHAPTER 12
Down at the local gym, Will was finishing off his workout with a couple of rounds of skipping, when he was interrupted by the sound of his phone beeping. Determined to finish off his set, he ignored it until he was finished, then hung the rope back on its nail and sat down on one of the weight training benches. Pulling out his phone he saw the text received symbol, and his first thought was that it might be from Stacey? If so this could be the moment of truth. Before reading the message, he sniffed the air to prepare himself then opened the text message.
REQUEST GRANTED, WILL BE THER @ 8 ON FRI – STACEY.
It was from her, and it wasn’t a rejection, thank God. Will looked up and managed half a smile. To say he was pleasantly surprised was an understatement. God bless the unpredictability of a woman’s mind, he muttered to himself. Inspired by the news, he began texting back without even thinking properly what he wanted to say.
GREAT! HOW ABOUT WE DISCUSS IT OVER A MEAL – MY SHOUT – NO STRINGS?
He sent the message back and waited. Beep, beep, came the reply, and it was a simple OK. Not wanting to push his luck anymore, Will left it at that, wishing that he could end every workout on such a high.
However, on his way back home to his flat, the froth on his bottle began to settle, and he realised that despite the encouraging news, it was still only a foothold on a precipice. There simply wasn’t any point in getting carried away with any romantic thoughts of a dream reunion, kiss and make up and all that.
This just wasn’t going to happen. In fact the truth, the whole truth may actually send her even further away. Hence, the main reason he had kept it all from her in the first place.
Will pulled down the edges of his beanie hat and told himself to keep up his defences, prepare for the worst, and anything else would be a bonus.
*
Friday night, 7.51pm, Will paced about in his flat like a caged lion. Everything had been set, he had booked a table for two in the Italian restaurant around the corner. He had even made the effort of throwing on something half decent to wear which for him certainly was an accomplishment. Yet to him, the most terrifying aspect of the evening was the fact that this was probably his last chance at Stacey. And the only glimmer of hope he had of maybe pulling this thing off was to try and make Stacey somehow understand about his darkened past, and why he had to do the things he did. And just as importantly the fact that he certainly wasn’t the person she had made him out to be.
Will furtively peeped through the side of the window to see if there was any sign of her. Would she walk? Would she taxi? Would she be driving herself? Should he have gone to pick her up himself? It was driving him mad. He checked his watch, it had stopped at 7.52. Will prayed that, that wasn’t a bad omen.
Outside his flat, a white taxi pulled up and he saw Stacey lean over to pay the driver. Will’s heart bounced up into his throat and he took a few composing breaths as if he was about to begin the ring walk for one of his mixed martial arts fights. On his way to the front door to greet her, he wondered why she had gone to the trouble of getting a taxi when she only lived a stone’s throw away.
Will opened the door and was treated to a dolled-up version of Stacey. The smart conservative clothes, the make-up – the works. Seeing her in make-up again reminded him why he had gone to so much trouble in trying to win her back. Somehow a touch of woman paint always seemed to give her a smoother more seductive appearance, but deep in those delicious brown eyes there was also poison, the clear warning sign, look but don’t touch. Like lying in a hospital bed and knowing that the only interest the obliging sexy nurse had in you was getting a urine sample to test if you had diabetes.
Will felt flattered that Stacey had made such an effort for him, and to show his gratitude, he could have picked her up in his arms there and then.
However, her steely defensive look soon reminded him of the task at hand, so he tried the friendly approach. ‘Alright?’
‘Yeah, great, shall we go?’ She said clacking her way back down the concrete steps.
High heels, ankle breakers, perhaps that’s why she got a taxi for such a short distance, he pondered. The walk up Chapel Street and around the corner to the Italian restaurant was mainly filled with polite conversation. Purposely, they avoided the main topic until later, or when the time was right for discussing all the nitty-gritty.
In the restaurant itself they placed their coats and jackets over the shoulders of the chairs and sat down to look over the menu. While Stacey was musing over hers, Will stole a quick peep at her over the rim of his menu board. To him it was clear she was trying very hard to keep her composure. Soon the young waitress arrived to take their orders, and they both made their choices.
Gratefully, the waitress took back their menus, and asked if they would like a drink while they waited for their meal. Both of them opted for a glass of red wine.
As soon as they were alone again, Will glanced concisely about the room half filled with murmuring folk, then turned back to Stacey who had her eyes firmly trained on him. Will placed his elbows on the table and balled his hands under his chin as if he needed the support to make his confession. Stacey glanced at Will’s Seiko watch.
Will spoke in a soft tone so only she could hear him. ‘Stacey remember when we first started dating I told you that I was into property developing, and a bit of entrepreneuring?’
Stacey eyed him warily.
Will continued. ‘Well that was true, but it wasn’t the only thing I was involved in. The work or the job I actually did included a much higher level of commitment, loyalty, and working many unsociable hours.’ He shifted forward in his seat. ‘I actually did a lot of work for a Serious and Organised Crime Agency.’
Stacey frowned incredulously.
‘Its main purpose was to tackle serious organised crime and the supply and distribution of drugs. I was one of the back-up team members who used to mind and protect the agents on raids, very dangerous indeed.’
Stacey snorted. ‘So what you’re trying to tell me is that you were some sort of secret agent?’
‘No, nothing like that, I had nothing to do with investigating and the planning of these raids, we were just the hired muscle.’
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br /> ‘Oh, yeah, and how in the hell did you manage to train for something like that then?’
‘It was because of my martial arts skills, my fighting skills. I had built up a bit of a rep as a mixed martial arts fighter, and someone thought those attributes might be better used to help with this agency. OK, we had a basic training in weapons, and procedures, but in the end we were just like their minders, or bodyguards. There were about twelve of us all together, and we were split into two or three groups and used for separate raids.’
Stacey wasn’t having any of it and looked on with utter scepticism.
‘I mean it wasn’t just martial artists like myself, they were ex-minders, ex-boxers, combat and weapon specialists. We had all been carefully selected and trained to go out with the agents, do the job, and get paid….’ Will stopped talking as the waitress arrived with their orders which were placed in front of them.
Both Stacey and Will said their thanks, and the waitress left them to it.
Will continued. ‘Once a month, sometimes twice but very rarely, we would get the call, and be picked up, and off we’d go.’
Stacey picked quietly at her plate of tagliatelle.
‘In all I worked for them for about six years, but when two of my mates were killed, I decided I wanted out. One was killed in a raid, and the other at home, somehow one of the drug gangs found out who he was and where he lived. That’s why I couldn’t risk telling you. If any those gangs had found out who I was, they might have come for you first. But after my mates died, I wanted to get out, and then you came along, and I knew I had to get out for the both of us. But then that thing happened with Georgie and the thugs, and I went to prison. And that seemed to solve the problem, because it got me out of the agency straight away.’
Stacey looked at him as if he was crazy. ‘You don’t honestly expect me to believe all that do you?’