by Paul Jones
‘So do you wanna drink?’ he asked.
‘Yes I do,’ she purred. ‘I’ve been watching you all night just waiting to get you away from your mates.’
Morris looked dumbfounded. Was this for real? Whatever, he couldn’t wait to show his mates what he’d pulled. And he had only been out on the town for about an hour too, not bad.
‘So do you want to join me and my mates at our table then or what?’
The woman inched closer, her come-and-get-me eyes, and the whiff of her Gucci Envy Me perfume causing a twitch in his trousers.
‘I’m afraid I don’t do groups, but I do a very good one on one,’ she panted.
Morris’s face scrunched painfully. ‘I just can’t leave my mates, not tonight.’
She leant a bit closer. ‘Tell you what then, meet me in the Cottage Loaf around the corner in ten minutes. And then you can buy me that drink, and then I’ll decide whether or not to take you back to my flat later.’
She turned around and wet his beak by brushing her pillow-soft arse cheeks up against his semi-hard on. As she left, she rolled her hips from side to side, and used her proud succulent backside as if to say suck on this. Overpowered by his boiling hormones, he almost grabbed the bar man by the throat to get his order in as quick as possible. When the tray of drinks were finally ready, he threw the bar man a tenner and didn’t even wait for the change – not that there would have been much anyhow.
By the time Morris had sprinted back to his table without spilling any of the drinks, he already had his excuse ready. Hastily, he plonked the tray down, and the glasses tinkled together. ‘Listen lads I’ve just got to pop around the corner to pick up some weed from someone. We’re gonna need some smokes later aren’t we?’
His mates already supping on their pints, looked up at him dubiously. One of them spoke up. ‘Don’t be long then, or your gonna miss the next round.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he replied and followed his dick out of the rear exit of the building. Outside, he marched over towards the thrumming beat of the Cottage Loaf pub, passing the side road that lead back to the front of the Wetherspoons. Half way across the road, he heard a woman’s voice call out to him, Morris turned to find the blonde woman waiting half way up the side street smoking a cigarette. As excited as a school kid, he scuttled over to meet her. Standing waiting, she watched him like a hawk and chimneyed smoke out from her mouth. When he reached her, she flicked her head towards the dimly lit, back alley.
‘I’ve found a quiet spot so we can work up a thirst for our drinks afterwards.’
Morris grinned like a Cheshire cat, and led her by the hand down the grubby passage way. Seconds later, he had her pinned up against one of the yard walls, and was feverishly trying to ram his slug-like tongue down the back of her throat.
The whacking clump to the back of his head brought him down to his knees. Heavy duty adhesive tape was stuck over his mouth, and his muffled cries of agony, and bemusement were ignored. Next, he was held down on the cold gritty tarmac, with his hands held behind his back and his legs restraint.
Morris’s glazed eyes bulged like billiard balls as they ran up the length of a tall black figure standing in front of him. Just like a trapped animal sensing extreme danger, he began to struggle frantically. The large looming figure took a step back, and that’s when Morris realised exactly what he was in for. He tried to scream for help, but his muted cries were drowned out by the thumping music coming from the Cottage Loaf.
As the first kick came at him, he tried to turn his face away, but it caught him flush, and it felt as if a car had just ploughed into him. The second boot stunned him so much that he hallucinated he’d fallen out of his bunk bed back in the prison cells, and he almost pissed his pants. The final kick completely numbed his senses and filled his head with scary demons that dragged him down a metal spiral tunnel into a pit filled with mutilated bodies. Fortunately for Morris, he was now unconscious and spared the savage beating. When it was all over, Morris was left dumped in the grimy alley like a bag of rotting food. Slowly he began to rouse from his concussed sleep. His body moving in spasmodic jerks, he scrambled on to trembling hands and knees. Get up! Get up! The voice pounded in his head, as he fumbled around like a newly born foal trying to climb to its feet. However, on his third attempt he made it, but the world suddenly tipped forward again. He spewed vomit and blood from a mouth swollen as if it had a tennis ball in it, and wiped the dripping gunge with the sleeve of his white shirt.
In his head, a jack-hammer was going off, and he gripped his skull as if to try and stem the pain. Somehow, Morris was able to get back to his feet and manoeuvre his cumbersome, jerky body towards Goddaeth Street, the main road. There under the exposing orange street lights, the full extent of his facial injuries were displayed to passing members of the general public. At first glance, it looked like someone had plastered his face with a plate of lasagne. One reveller even thought he was masked up for a monster fancy dress rave.
Yet as he felt the black curtain of unconsciousness draw over him, Morris reached out a desperate hand for someone to help him. Then he collapsed, and was rushed to hospital.
As it turned out, Jonathan Morris survived this brutal attack. However, the road to recovery would be long and painful, and would require some corrective facial surgery, and wiring to hold his lower jaw together. The following week, the attack itself was reported in the local newspaper and used to highlight the shocking face of today’s yob culture.
But as Morris recovered in hospital with a headache that would blight him every now and again for the rest of his life, he must have wondered what had happened to his blonde bunny girl? Did she get attacked too? Or was she a part of an elaborate set-up?
Suffice to say, she was the very least of his concerns, as he was unlikely to see her ever again. She was not his bit of skirt, and nor was she a true blonde.
The money she had received for playing her part in his assault went very nicely towards a plane ticket to Copenhagen to meet up with some comrades involved in another illegal organisation.
But while Mr Morris winces in great pain as he tries to suck up his tomato soup through a straw, he also might want to think about something else? How did it feel being on the receiving end of a senseless, barbaric pasting for a change?
And as for the vicious yobs who had beat him up, were they now wearing his blood as a badge of honour, just as he did after he put some poor chap in a coma back in a chip shop three and a half years ago?
No probably not! To the authors of Mr Morris’s grief, (Tom, Charlie and Nigel with the paid assistance of one of Karen’s former escort mates) the beating was simply a job they were paid to do, and next week they may be paid to do it to someone else. Nevertheless, justice had been served once more, and this time, it was sent with the compliments of Mr Roy and Reggie Evans.
*
Donna McMurphy (the loan shark victim) held out a piece of paper with a name and phone number scribbled on it. She paused for a moment then told herself that it had to be done. Fretfully, she tapped in the number on her mobile and waited for the call to connect. While the phone rang, she could hear a voice within saying to her that she still had time to change her mind.
The line clicked open.
‘Yes, hello, is that Karen White?’ Donna asked, as her palpitating heart rocked her body.
‘It is.’
‘This is Donna McMurphy I don’t know if you remember me?’
‘Yes I do, Donna, what can I do for you?’
Donna hesitated, and had to force herself to speak. “That bit of business we talked about a week or two ago, I’ve decide to accept your services.’
‘That’s fine, Donna, welcome aboard.’
Yet before she signed up for her club membership card, she first needed to know the cost of this so-called service. ‘Exactly how much is the charge for your services?’
A price was relayed down the phone, and she rolled her eyes with dismay. It was ex
pensive but weighing it all up, she figured she was still saving a fortune compared to what the loan shark wanted. Donna sealed her eyes to steel herself ready for such a committed decision. ‘OK, I’ll do it.’
Miss White got down to business. ‘Great, can you spare me ten minutes of your time?’
Donna sat back in the couch and breathed a little easier. ‘Yes of course.’
Over the next ten minutes, Donna imparted the necessary information including how much they owed the loan shark, and how much they had already paid. Plus a possible business address of the alleged loan shark, what day he usually called, and what time, and last but not least, could she get another loan as soon as possible?
By the time Donna had put down her mobile, she felt as if she had just completed an insurance quote. Drained, she flopped back in her couch, and wondered once more if she was doing the right thing?
The answer came right back at her: When you are clinging to the edge of a cliff and someone throws down a hand, take it.
*
His name was Simon Lewis, and he had been operating as an illegal money lender for about four years. He stood about five feet five inches, wore jam-jar glasses that made his eyes grow to the size of a bugs, and he always wore baggy tracksuit bottoms, to hide the balcony of blubber from all those late night takeaways. Simon was thirty-three years old and lived with his mother in a semi-detached bungalow in Abergele.
Because of his short size and be-spectacled appearance, he always felt that he never existed in the eyes of the female species, and in that respect, was as a bit of a loner. At school they used to tease him by calling him Penfold, after the character from the kiddies programme, Danger Mouse.
In his mid twenties, he used to work in a supermarket warehouse until an accident with a fork lift truck crushed his pelvis rendering him unable to work.
Of course, he ended up suing the company and received around twenty-five grand in compensation. It was with this tidy sum of money that he began sowing the seeds of his illegal loan-sharking empire.
Over the years, the majority of his clients were basically the weakest links in the chain, old people, junkies, or careless spendthrifts. Or, as he would describe them in his own callous way the easy pickings who can’t fight back.
With intimidation and fear now his allies, he showed no remorse whatsoever when looking into the pleading eyes of an old woman handing over her heating money from her trembling liver-spotted hands. No pity whatsoever in seeing the pasty white fear in the face of a dried up junkie when he and his cronies came to collect. Yeah, try and call me Penfold now, you bastards. He would snigger as he swanned around in his brand-new BMW, or when his £300 pound-a-night hookers would sit on his face.
Saturday afternoon, shoulders back, chest out, arms splayed and not forgetting the gum, he swaggered over to his BMW parked in the Sainsbury shopping mall. Heading towards him was an attractive young mother pushing a pram, and as she passed he made a loud kiss so she could hear. To the young woman, he didn’t even exist, or she simply pretended that he didn’t.
Simon huffed smugly, and thought he could do better anyhow. He checked the time on his gold Cartier watch knowing that he was due to pick up his two gorilla-minders ready for a collection. Today, it was some dozy middle-aged woman and her gambling idiot husband who were well overdue for a bit of leaning on.
Reaching his car, he pressed the remote control alarm as conspicuously as he could so people would see the expensive motor he drove. The car bleeped, and blinked back at him like a devoted pet pleased to see his master. Simon opened the door, and squashed his ball of a belly down into the car, but before he had time to close the door, three more men dived in. Simon’s face froze with outrage. ‘Hey, what the hell?’
‘Shut up, fat boy, and close the door,’ the man beside him ordered, while the others watched from the back seat.
The fact that they were all wearing beenie hats and sunglasses suggested that this was not a social call and Simon lurched sideways to try and get out.
Two pairs of hands grabbed his shoulders.
‘What’s all this? Get your hands off me.’
‘Shut up, Simon, and start the car, we’re going for a little ride.’
‘No we’re not,’ Simon cried, then felt the tip of a large hunting knife prod his fleshy abdomen. He froze.
‘I’m not going to tell you again.’ The man stared through the black lens of his shades.
Simon eyed the gleaming blade at his stomach, then hauled the door closed with a nervous sigh. ‘So where are we going?’
‘You drive and we’ll tell you,’ the man told him, and retracted the blade.
Simon gunned the ignition, gone now was the usual swagger, and back again was insecure old Penfold. He reversed out of his parking space, and headed towards the exit of the mall, the presence of these intruders muddying his concentration. Now his mind was racing at a hundred miles an hour and he wondered – how he would put it – what the crack was with these guys? Were they a part of another rival lending firm? Was it drug related? Or were they just up to plain and simple robbery? Or worse?
‘Drive over to Towyn beach and we’ll have that little chat?’
Simon cast a wary glance at him. ‘What about?’
The man stared straight ahead. ‘I’ll tell you when we get there, I don’t want to ruin your concentration and cause an accident.’
Simon wasn’t sure whether he should be worried or not, but did as he was told. Soon after, they drove as far as they could up towards the long stretch of Towyn beach. When they stopped Simon hand braked and switched off the ignition. The first thing he expected was to feel the knife at his stomach again, or perhaps this time they intended to plunge it straight in. A film of perspiration beaded his forehead and upper lip.
Sunglasses unbuckled his seat belt, and turned to face Simon, the springs under the seat creaking under his weight. ‘Right then, we know all about your dodgy loan-sharking business, Simon Harris, and the way you go about taking advantage of vulnerable people by giving them loans with ridiculously sky-high interest rates, and then profiting from their misery. Tut, tut, tut, very naughty of you.’
Simon’s blubbery jowls shook in dispute. ‘What’s wrong with that? The banks are doing it every day, it’s perfectly legal.’
‘Is it now? And is it also legal to intimidate old people, and threaten to burn down their houses if they don’t pay? The banks do that as well do they?’
Simon half-smirked like a school bully told off for stealing kid’s packed lunches. But his arrogance changed the mood of his captors.
‘Here’s the deal, Simon, a couple, the MacMurphys owe you two grand, and you’re asking for seven back, shame on you.’ Sunglasses shook his head patronizingly.
A padded white envelope was handed over from the back seat, and sunglasses took it.
‘There’s fifteen hundred in here, £500 less for our expenses.’ Sunglasses wagged it in front of him, and Simon snorted at the insult. ‘No way.’
‘Yes way, cos if not we’ll drive your nice BMW out into the sea with you tied in the boot, and we’ll leave you there. And what’s more you better pray that the tide doesn’t get any higher. Oh, and, yes…’
Sunglasses was handed a mini-camcorder from one of his associates in the back. He flipped out the small colour view finder, and angled it so Simon could see it.
‘Ah, yes, here we are.’ He pressed the play button.
On the playback it showed his two bloated minders sat in chairs with their hands tied behind their backs. Then the lens zoomed right up to their moon-shaped faces flushed with fear and alarm. In the background, someone could be heard telling them to speak.
‘Yes we are guilty of using intimidation, blackmail and violence to recover debt payments from clients. And we are employed by Simon Harris.’
Simon turned his head away, his lip curling with fury.
Sunglasses told him. ‘And after we leave you in the sea, this will b
e handed over to the police with directions to your whereabouts of course. With a bit of luck they might get here in time to save you precious car. But I can’t promise they’ll be able to save you too.’
In the back, his two associates couldn’t resist a tiny snigger. Sunglasses shook the envelope again. ‘The MacMurphy’s debt is now paid in full.’
Simon glared at his captors, then snatched the envelope out of his hand.
‘Good boy, and don’t make us have to visit you again, because next time, as they say in the Godfather, you’ll be sleeping with the fishes.’
All three men exited the car leaving Simon holding the envelope and looking like he had just removed a rather large bottle from his behind.
Once again, justice had been served.
CHAPTER 14
Arms folded, they all stood in a semi-circle watching the demonstration given by Geoff and Guy. The team were having their third training session, and this week they were covering knife defence.
First Guy was the attacker, and Geoff the victim. Guy circled him assuming the role of a thug stalking his prey and waiting for the chance to strike. Geoff with all his karate savvy and knowledge tried to keep at a safe distance by constantly moving and feinting. Whenever Guy would try to move in, Geoff would flick out a kick to his knee caps. Every now and again Guy would lunge at him and Geoff would continue to strike the knee, and simultaneously block the knife hand.
This they carried on practising a few more times, then they switched to allow two more students to have a go. As they did this, Geoff and Guy the two main instructors stood aside, ready to shout out instructions and make comments as they went along.