Seven Daze

by Charlie Wade

  Caffeine Nights Publishing

  Seven Daze

  Charlie Wade

  Fiction aimed at the heart

  and the head...

  Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2013

  Copyright © Charlie Wade 2013

  Charlie Wade 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.

  Published in Great Britain by Caffeine Nights Publishing www.caffeine-nights.com

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-907565-40-3

  Cover design by

  Mark (Wills) Williams Everything else by

  Default, Luck and Accident

  Acknowledgements

  It would be impossible to name everyone who has helped or encouraged over the years, so I’ll give a general thank you to everyone. However, special thanks go to Karen, Nick Quantrill, ‘H’ and Darren at Caffeine Nights.

  Seven Daze

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Part Two

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Jim looked again. They didn’t look like killer’s eyes. Brown surrounded by bloodshot white. Pale eyelids that flickered. Shifty, nervous as hell. Yeah, they were hiding something; something dark. But they weren’t killer’s eyes.

  He turned from the mirror. The bedside clock still read six fifty-five a.m. It hadn’t changed since his last look. He briefly wondered if it was broke, but digital clocks didn’t freeze or go slow. When they break, the display just blanks.

  Moving, he sat on the hotel bed. Bouncy. Springs long gone from illicit overuse and age. He knew he shouldn’t be feeling like this. It was the first day of his new job for fucks sake. He should be happy. It definitely shouldn’t have made him throw up. After all, it was the chance to meet new people. The start of a new adventure.

  He wondered if that was the problem with contract killing. The only new people you met, you killed. The display changed. Six fifty-six. Waiting was the problem. No one had mentioned that. It was all glamour, high risk and money. He’d spent last night checking and double checking everything. In hindsight that had been a mistake. There was nothing left to do but wait. Just clock-watching, daydreaming and waiting.

  His stomach gurgled. That wasn’t helping either. God knows what muscle it was, but it had perfected twisting and spinning. He looked back at the clock. No change. Should he leave now? Despite all the planning, maybe something had been missed.

  There was the other reason too. It kept filling his head. The room was too small. Walls everywhere; you couldn’t walk without being next to one. It reminded him of the cell. Occasionally the walls would creep in and pin him to the bed. First his hands, then his face would feel hot. He’d need to stand. Opening a window didn’t help. He had to get out.

  Standing, he shook his head. He had to get a grip. Walking the four steps to the bathroom, he took the top off the toilet cistern. Fishing out the floating polythene zip-bag, he dried it with a towel. His gloved hands fumbled with the seal before it opened. He breathed out while looking at its contents. A pistol wrapped in another waterproof layer. This was it; no turning back.

  His hands hacked at the sellotaped seam. The gloves were useless; fingers and thumbs worked against each other trying to rip it. The seam wasn’t giving. All that planning and he couldn’t unwrap the gun. The walls moved in again. The heat came back with a vengeance to his neck. His armpits felt wet. So much for the earlier shower. The hotel room was just like the cell. Even the windows had bars. It was too much. That was where this had started. That cell.

  He’d been inside many times. The last stretch was never the last. It was never his fault though. He’d just been unlucky. His home life hadn’t been easy, but that wasn’t an excuse. Maybe he’d been too greedy. When the older kids on the estate asked him to sell cigarettes at school, he just hadn’t thought it through.

  Of course it spiralled. Cigarettes became other things: electrical goods, phones, whatever needed getting rid of. Not just to schoolkids either. After being caught, he didn’t take the hint and stop. When school ended, his criminal record saw no other options existed. The only option was to keep selling stolen goods. Caught again and again, he did a stretch in a Young Offenders that turned him from borderline scally to hardened criminal. Release was followed by all he knew: selling stolen goods and more prison.

  A lucky break was needed to end the circle.

  Picking at the tape he found a seam and peeled. The clock now two minutes to seven, he panicked. This had set him back. It was going to go wrong.

  Cursing, he peeled some more. The worst of the tape gone, it rolled off like a banana. The gun exposed, he checked the barrel and silencer; just as he’d wrapped them last week. Though the ammo clip was wrapped, he made short work of it. Snapping the clip home gave a satisfying click. Holding it, he looked in the mirror. For a moment he barely recognised the suited gun-wielder staring back.

  The suit looked good. Off the shelf, but still the best he’d ever worn. This was London after all, and he needed to fit in. He looked up the mirror towards his face. His eyes shifty and uncomfortable. Out of their depth. He’d seen enough killers inside to know what their eyes looked like. He looked at them again. Still a touch of innocence. He tried to remember the look; he might not see it again.

  As breaks go, Jim wasn’t sure if his was lucky or not. His cell mate for the past two years, “Fingers Harry”, had changed his life. He didn’t know if it was for better or worse.

  Despite his size and short-fused temper, Fingers Harry had become a close friend. Jim assumed Harry was missing his son who was destined to grow up fatherless during his twenty-five stretch. Harry had a way of glamourising his life that Jim could listen to for hours. His tales of scrapes kept their spirits up during those lonely nights.

  It was that cell and Fingers Harry that changed his life. Gave him his break.

  One minute to seven. Jim slipped th
e gun’s safety on and placed it on the bed. Picking up his new shoes he squeezed in his feet. Either his feet had swollen or the shoes had shrunk. Pulling on his coat, the stickiness returned. A thick coat in summer, he’d stand out a mile but he needed the bulk. The gun needed to be hidden inside the bulk. Placing the gun in his pocket, he fastened the coat and walked to the mirror. Did it show through the coat? Was there an outline, a bulge just above his stomach? He closed his eyes and told himself he’d been through this before. The gun couldn’t be seen. There wasn’t a bulge. His brain was playing tricks.

  He told himself again, no one will notice the gun.

  Throughout the stretch, Fingers Harry hadn’t been happy. One of Harry’s relatives had gone down because of a witness. This plucky member of the public had refused to be scared, intimidated or bought off. This, according to Harry, was a very poor show. “After all, what would happen if everyone witnessed crimes and all the criminals were locked up?” Harry would say. “Anarchy, that’s what it’d be.”

  During the lonely nights, Harry wanted one thing: the witness’s head. A contract went out and when some lag took the job Jim was amazed by the amount of money. Ten grand. Ten big ones for a few minutes work. Sure, it involved killing, but from what Jim had heard, it was no great loss; the witness would have drunk himself to death anyway. Rumours abounded he hadn’t witnessed anything; a bent copper had paid him to lie.

  Contract killing seemed so easy.

  The clock flicked to seven. He checked his pocket for the keys and money he’d placed there last night. Still there. One last look in the mirror at the suit bulge and he felt ready.

  “Gun, keys, money, phone.”

  Shit. Phone.

  He looked at the cabinet crammed between the bed and wall. Sat atop it, next to brochures for museums he’d never visit, was the Pay As You Go mobile. He grabbed and pocketed it.

  “Gun, keys, money, phone.”

  Two deep breaths later, he opened the door.

  Over the months, Harry had taught him about contract killing. He’d made it sound so glamorous. On Jim’s release he was given a contact, “Pistol Pete”, who lived in the Scottish Highlands. Arriving in the northern wastes of nowhere, Jim quickly learnt there was no youth training scheme or apprenticeship for contract killers. All you have is what comes from inside and what you learn on the job. Previous experience wasn’t essential, but useful. Jim hadn’t killed anyone, but he quickly talked himself into it. After all, how hard could it be? It only took a second.

  Pete taught him respect for firearms. Jim favoured the pistol over rifles after realising how hard long range was. Plus, if you missed you lost the target while reloading. Close up was easier, but with ease comes danger. The danger of being caught. The danger of looking into their eyes.

  Though the hotel was cheap and cheerful, he’d found the staff were just the former. Emerging from his room, he saw his neighbours walk downstairs. He classed them as both cheap and cheerful, and also too noisy in the bedroom department.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Morning.” Jim took his time locking the door, hoping they’d continue. They didn’t.

  “Off to breakfast?”

  He’d avoided three mornings of breakfast with them by missing it. “No, straight to work today.”

  They headed down in front of him. Jim wondered if the groaning stairs could carry all their weight and was surprised when they did. The pair attempted conversation at the foot of the stairs, but Jim couldn’t do it. His mind was miles away. Far, far away.

  Pistol Pete got him a job. A small-time coke dealer named “Bobby the Nose” was owed a small fortune by a city worker. The customer, Geoffrey Morgan, owed far more than he could repay. His reputation in tatters, Bobby the Nose’s other customers were taking advantage. A shock to their systems was needed. Jim was offered the job of restoring his reputation. Of course the money Geoffrey owed would be wiped out; unrecoverable. But Bobby’s supplier, the source of the coke and who in turn was owed a fortune by Bobby, was a particularly nasty east London gangster. He was more than prepared to take the hit to save their reputations.

  Jim had been told little about Geoffrey, bar his name, address and what he looked like. Pistol Pete had said it was easier that way. “It’s just a walking lump of flesh,” he’d said. “If you don’t know them, it doesn’t matter.” Jim spent many nights convincing himself Pete was right.

  Outside, the temperature was rising. The city that half-slept at night was cranking up its speed. Cars, vans and buses going nowhere clogged the streets, while busy, important people walked with determination and purpose. Jim kept his head down and joined them.

  Breathing fast, he tried to clear his head. A virgin assassin, that’s what he was. Ten minutes until his metaphorical cherry got plucked. What if it went wrong? What would he be? An attempted assassin. No, just a failed assassin.

  He stopped. Moving from the curb he leaned against a shuttered chemists.

  “Deep breaths,” he told himself. “That’s what Pete said. Deep breaths.”

  He checked his watch. Two minutes behind schedule. Sure he had some leeway, but this left no room for further mistakes. With another deep breath he continued. The only important thing was Geoffrey. He’d been following him for four days, spotting patterns in his movements. It was Geoffrey he had to think of.

  Geoffrey seemed regular as clockwork. At seven twenty he’d leave his luxury apartment and head for the seven thirty-seven train. He’d walk through the back streets and past the old cinema. Jim had picked the cinema as the quietest place on route. Only a few people took the short cut; those dark corners hid all sorts of low life. Also, as Geoffrey was known for his extravagance and money, Jim hoped it’d look like a mugging gone wrong. The back of the cinema was perfect. The police would think it was a drug related death.

  Technically, it would be.

  He turned into Market Street. The old cinema apparently disused for years was all but falling down. Its boarded up windows had at some point been breached, and its insides squatted before returning to an empty shell. Walking up the side alley, he stopped at a rubbish-strewn fire exit and knelt behind an upturned cardboard box.

  He waited.

  He’d been okay while walking. The rhythmic pulse of shoes on tarmac and the tracing in his head of Geoffrey’s route had kept him going. Now he could feel his heart pumping. Also his hands, they were shaking. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he breathed in and out. Staring at a damp patch of cardboard, he felt his heart rate reduce.

  With only a minute before Geoffrey would walk by, Jim pulled the gun from his pocket. He took another hard look before flicking the safety off. Waiting was the game now.

  Waiting.

  Chapter 2

  As his quarry came into view, Jim’s heart rate pumped up again; its bpm resembling a techno record. His stomach gurgled, having wound itself back into the elaborate sailors knot. Taking a deep breath, he saw the face of the thirty-something man approach. This was happening too fast.

  He went through the plan. Wait until he was two yards away, jump from cover, one shot to the chest. Bang. Falls down. Another to the head. Bang. Grab his wallet and phone; scarper. Finished. Finito.

  That was clear.

  What wasn’t clear was why Geoffrey had stopped walking. It was less clear why the colour had drained from his face and he was clutching a shaking hand at his chest. As he crashed to the ground, Jim broke cover. Pocketing the gun, he walked to the breathless figure on the floor.

  “What’s going on?”

  Kneeling, he saw Geoffrey struggling for breath. His lips turning blue, he seemed to be saying, “Help.”

  Jim shook his head. What was he supposed to do? Pistol Pete hadn’t crossed this bridge with him. They’d discussed a million things that could go wrong, but never the person you’re supposed to kill having what looked like a heart attack. Should he just whip the gun out and finish him off?

  He got as far as reaching for his pocket. Another sh
ortcut user; a smart-suited woman screamed as she saw Geoffrey on the floor with Jim kneeling beside. Jim knew he had to think fast. What would Pete say?

  His heart now resembling a Drum ‘n’ Bass record played at 78, Jim’s eyes met the woman’s. “Help,” he croaked. “I think it’s a heart attack.” Though her screams had stopped, panic had frozen her to the spot. Resembling a frozen turkey in a trouser suit, she opened and closed her mouth but no words came.

  That was a setback. He hoped she’d take charge, manage the situation. He appeared to have picked the wrong bunny. This one had got caught in the headlights. Options whirred round his head, but two stood out: Kill her then Geoffrey. Messy. Second option to save the life of the man he’d been paid to kill.

  “Quick,” he shouted, “get an ambulance or whatever.”

  Jim laid Geoffrey’s head back in an attempt to make him comfortable. He then did what Pete told him not to do: looked into his eyes.

  The hunk of meat, the walking money cheque Jim had persuaded himself Geoffrey was, had become human. A flesh covered and living - well dying - human being. How the fuck could he have thought of killing someone? He was Jim the lad. A crap thief. He wasn’t a murderer.

  Before his eyes, the woman defrosted from her ice-cage. Fingers and thumbs, she pulled a phone from her pocket. A latest model touch screen. Jim caught himself eyeing it in between saying, “You’re going to be alright,” to Geoffrey.

  “What’s the number for an ambulance?” Her cheeks were red and her shoulders seemed to move up and down involuntarily. He guessed it was shock.

  “Ummm,” said Jim.

  Though on the tip of his tongue, the number for the emergency services was hiding somewhere between his teeth. Thinking hard and deep, his mind flicked through his mental phone book. Scanning the A’s, he forced himself to concentrate. Eventually, the page found, the number stood out.