by Keith Nixon
Dave began to cry; knew he was probably dead now. Deliberated for a minute whether to run or ring. Decided on the most sensible option. He wiped the salty tears away, pulled out his phone, tapped in a number. Connected.
“Do you know what time it is?” the voice heavy with fags, booze and threat. Frank McGavin, Dave’s dealer.
“I’ve been mugged.”
“You what?”
“Got caught out by a couple of guys. They’ve had the merchandise away.”
“So?”
“I just thought you should know.”
“Makes no odds to me, Rave. You’ve got a line of credit for another 48 hours. Then it’s my cash or your head. Simple choice.”
“But the drugs are gone!”
“As I said, not my problem. Two days. Maybe less if I’m feeling really miserable.”
Dave opened his mouth but would only be speaking to static.
Two days. What the hell was he going to do? He wasn’t a local, had moved down from London. To claim the dole while living by the sea. Since then sold a bit of gear to make ends meet. Used a bit too much of it himself though. A couple of sandwiches short of a picnic. But McGavin, he was a picnic short of a picnic.
Considered running again.
A Bit Of Charlie
Konstantin waited for the lift to arrive. Heard it clank way up the shaft, cables straining as it sank downwards. Questioned for a moment whether to take the stairs. Then decided not to. Wasn’t strong enough.
The doors opened, revealed a small metal cube. Graffiti covered; urine smeared. Stank. Reminded Konstantin of the cell he’d recently vacated. He couldn’t bring himself to step inside. The lift waited patiently for thirty seconds, then decided to shut up shop.
Konstantin jagged out a hand, halted the doors in their tracks. Retraced their steps with a squeak, stuck three-quarters open. He stepped inside, pressed the button for the floor he wanted. Didn’t like it, not easy to escape from a high rise. Wondered why this had been arranged as a safe house. It appeared anything but.
The cables took the strain, began to slowly, painfully, haul Konstantin up. It was hot in the confined space, made the stench worse. The acrid odour caught the back of his throat. He was used to smelling his own expulsions, didn’t appreciate that of others.
After a seeming eternity the lift shuddered to a halt, doors squealed, stuck again. He slid through, bag in hand. Onto a landing, corridor, doors – some numbered, most not. Konstantin looked for the one he wanted, banged on it hard. Felt pain in his knuckles where he’d hit Skinny. For a moment Konstantin couldn’t believe he was here, trying to access some run-down place to lay his head.
Nothing. Hammered again. Eventually movement within, locks unfastened, chain rattled, bolts slid back. The door opened a crack, an eye there. Bloodshot. Smell of sweet, herbal smoke and alcohol.
“What?” A hard voice, scraped through with a couple of tonnes of gravel.
“I sent by Lamb.”
A sigh. “Ah, bollocks.”
The door closed, but not completely. Konstantin heard the chain drop, opened up again, wide. A short man stood in the entrance. Stained vest, baggy trousers, unshaven but bald. Several double chins, hairy shoulders and a greasy sneer.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said.
Konstantin shrugged, couldn’t care less. Entered, pushed past him. Got a whiff of stale body odour.
The Russian combed the flat. Scrutinised the narrow corridor, small bathroom, two bedrooms and a living room.
The resident took the search with bad grace. Konstantin ignored it. Finally dropped his bag on the floor. Stared through his reflection in the large window that looked out over the sea. Lights on the water. Knew they were large container ships heading in and out of the Thames.
“What your name?” he asked.
“Charlie,” scratched an armpit, looked like a monkey suffering the onset of alopecia. “Look, how long you going to be here for?”
“I not know.”
“Well that ain’t really good enough.”
“Not my problem. Lamb said you debt to repay. This it. You not like, talk to him.”
Konstantin watched the emotions skitter across Charlie’s face as he considered his situation and possible consequences. Fear dominated. Mr. Lamb was not a man to cross.
“Okay. But not for long. All right?”
“I need sleep.”
“Your bed’s back here.”
Charlie led Konstantin along the corridor, pointed into a box room filled with junk and a stained mattress. The Russian exited, went to the other bedroom.
“No, this mine.”
“It ain’t!”
Konstantin swivelled his gaze onto Charlie. Shut the door in his face.
He sat on the bed, which sagged almost to the floor. Tired, but not from lack of sleep. He’d never felt so alone in his life. He was totally on his own now. Cast out, adrift and with only one immediate purpose in life. Someone he had to see. But she couldn’t be allowed to spot Konstantin, because he was dead.
But after that? He didn’t know.
Stayed awake for a couple of hours until the sun rose.
Distinguishing Marks
Konstantin stood under the miniscule trickle of water that was supposed to be a shower. It was one of those electric efforts. A couple of settings, including one that read ‘Power’. Not a word he’d have selected. ‘Slightly improved dribble’ was more appropriate. The bathroom was as cold as a fridge, mouldy as mature cheese.
He washed off the soap suds, the bar an ancient chunk as durable as rock. But Konstantin didn’t care; he’d been living in his own excrement for months.
For a moment he was back in the Lubyanka. Where most of the time he existed side by side with his own filth, hadn’t seen a toothbrush for weeks on end. Got washed off by the guards periodically with a hosepipe when the smell got too much. So frankly, this was bliss.
A quick towelling dry, didn’t bother to shave. Thought he might try out a beard.
Konstantin stepped into the corridor, naked. Ignored the initially surly, then embarrassed, Charlie leaning against the wall, waiting to enter his own bathroom. He scuttled inside like a crab, slammed the door.
Konstantin smiled, enjoyed irritating the other man. Hoped he’d had an uncomfortable night’s sleep. He dressed again in his same borrowed clothes. Decided he needed to appropriate a new set. Tugged several bank notes from a thick pile which he subsequently hid. He expected Charlie would be going through his possessions as soon as his back was turned, so left some of the wad he’d taken from Dave in the bag as a decoy.
Five minutes later and the Russian was outside in the early morning sunlight. The granite grey apartment block was to his back. It appeared a walk to his right would take him into town.
The streets were bereft of people. Plenty of seagulls though. Noisy, big bastards with beady eyes that were merrily ripping rubbish bags apart and spreading rotting waste across swathes of the pavement. Scavengers. The lepers of avian society. Konstantin took an instant dislike to them.
He walked the area for an hour. Past the amusement arcade, dim now in the sunlight, and funfair. The rides were silent, gates locked.
Into the shopping centre. Poorly built from cheap materials, mostly charity shops.
To the old town, which had a little more class, but had seen better days.
Onto the jetty which created a protective harbour for a few fishing boats. Konstantin could see the rotting stumps of what had once been a pier jutting up from the water.
Up the hill past the police station, a place to avoid in the future, and the Winter Gardens sunk into the chalk.
Kept walking along the cliff edge until the houses petered out, returned through the maze of narrow streets filled with terraced residences.
Konstantin felt surprisingly at home, liked the seedy, jaded atmosphere. The rough edge, the tired buildings, slight feeling of menace. It was his sort of place.
People were stirr
ing now. Curtains began to twitch, windows thrown wide open to allow cooler air to enter the house where previously they’d been closed to refuse access to intruders.
Konstantin was aware he couldn’t delay it any longer. Knew really he shouldn’t be going at all. Nevertheless, hailed a taxi, gave the man the address seared into his memory.
Sat back. Dreamt.
Other Novels By Keith Nixon
The Solomon Gray Series
Dig Two Graves
Burn The Evidence
Beg For Mercy
Bury The Bodies
Pity The Dead
The Konstantin Series
Russian Roulette
The Fix
I’m Dead Again
Dark Heart, Heavy Soul
The Harry Vaughan Series
The Nudge Man
The DI Granger Series
The Corpse Role
The Caradoc Series
The Eagle’s Shadow
The Eagle’s Blood
About The Author
Keith Nixon is a British born writer of crime and historical fiction novels. Originally, he trained as a chemist, but Keith is now in a senior sales role for a high-tech business.
Keith currently lives with his family in the North West of England.
Readers can connect with Keith on various social media platforms:
Web: http://www.keithnixon.co.uk
Twitter: @knntom
Facebook: Keithnixonauthor
Blog: www.keithnixon.co.uk/blog
The Silent Dead
Published by Gladius Press 2019
Copyright © Keith Nixon 2019
First Edition
Keith Nixon has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work
CONDITIONS OF SALE
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher
This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover design by James Webber.