by Jay Stringer
It’s funny how these things keep happening.
I guess it’s all down to who you know.
Phil was worried about me, of course. Not about the bullet, because the doctors in the hospital had already told him it was a graze, taking away any chance I had to play it up. No, he kept saying that there still had to be a lot of crooked cops left on the force, ones who had been ready to side with Joe. Phil was convinced they would come for me, and he stayed by my side the whole time I was in hospital.
They never did.
I remembered Khan’s words.
I can keep you out of trouble for everything you’ve done so far, I think we owe you that. But don’t get up to any more.
Fergus didn’t visit. He never showed up as part of the police investigation, and didn’t try and contact me. Our last conversation remained the exchange at Anderston, me swearing, him apologising. I vaguely remembered mumbling something to him before passing out at Bridgeton, but I couldn’t tell you what I’d said.
I hadn’t hesitated in taking on a moving train to save him. I knew, deep down at first, then much clearer as the days wore on, that I wouldn’t have done that if I’d really wanted him out of my life.
But I still didn’t send him a message.
I didn’t know why. I thought about it, of course. Every other second. But I didn’t. I’d hurt him, I knew. But he’d hurt me. And then, well, gunplay. There wasn’t exactly a textbook for how to resolve the situation.
I followed the media circus surrounding the Pennan situation. Nobody knew what the hell had happened, but everyone agreed it was entertaining. I talked to the cops at Hanya’s funeral, those who could stand to be near me, and confirmed that none of them really understood it, either.
A couple of days after, a video made its way online, along with high-quality audio that must have been recorded on microphones or cell phones much closer to the action. The footage showed the confrontation between Fergus, Joe, Khan and her goons. The sound had Joe confessing, and then Khan effectively doing the same herself.
The cops and press both asked me something short of a million questions about it. I kept my mouth shut and denied any knowledge. The camera wasn’t mounted where Phil had been set up, and Khan would have known that.
Our denials kept us alive, but soon the press and public were all over the story. The Scottish government intervened to order an independent investigation, and a special police task force was sent up from London.
‘I guess coincidences do happen,’ Phil said to me, after the news of the video broke.
‘I guess there are always ways to win,’ I said with a smile.
Hanya’s parents almost adopted Phil and me while I was in hospital. They’d travelled up from London for the funeral and, seeing that we didn’t have parents of own, they stuck around and fussed over us.
I think all four of us got something out of that.
The only thing left was to figure out what the hell I would do next.
As fun as it was recuperating at home, watching the whole house of cards collapse on TV news, I needed to get back out into the world. I was famous for fifteen minutes for the second time in my career, and the clients would be lining up around the block.
Phil reported a huge bump in demand for the courier service, too. It seemed like everyone in town wanted to use the most heroic messenger company in the city. We weren’t going to argue.
On the day I was discharged from hospital, I found a package waiting for me at home.
A Blu-Ray copy of A Life Less Ordinary.
ONE HUNDRED AND SIX
SAM
June 20th
14:00
I was on my last day of bed rest when my doorbell rang.
I opened without checking who it was. I wasn’t feeling any threat. Khan had other things to worry about, even if she knew I’d been behind the video.
Fergus was stood in the doorway.
He was dressed in dark blue jeans and a T-shirt, and wearing the same vulnerable, fixer-upper expression I’d first seen on the video. He was holding a Blu-Ray player.
I started to speak, but he shook his head.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I’ve been practising this for a few days, I want to get it out.’
I stepped back and nodded with my chin, Go on.
‘So, I’m not sure what the rules are for contacting someone who saved your life,’ he said. ‘When she’s already made it clear that she wants nothing to do with you. Here’s the thing. If you hate me, if you never want to see me, I’ll walk away and respect that. But I think—’ He faltered and looked down at the player. ‘I knew I’d fuck this up. Look, Sam. I’ve got a lot of secrets. I’ve done a lot of things, and I think you’d hate me even more if I tell you about them. But I will, if that’s what it takes for you to trust me. I think, you and me? We could have something.’
He stopped speaking and watched for my reaction. Those eyes of his looked so nervous, so broken. My chest did something I’d never felt before. I wasn’t sure how to answer him.
‘Did I mention,’ he said, ‘that I’m stinking rich? I have friends in New York. I’ve always fancied New Orleans. There’s a ridiculously flashy sports car parked downstairs.’ He smiled. The confidence crept back in a little, maybe bolstered because I hadn’t shut the door in his face. ‘Fancy coming on an adventure?’
I pushed the Blu-Ray player aside and kissed him.
ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN
FERGUS
June 22nd
A whole other time zone.
You’re only as good as your most recent kill.
Frankly, mine was good.
I’m happy to go out on that. Turns out, I don’t want to be a hit man anymore.
That’s okay. There are plenty of other things I’m good at. And I’m in no rush to figure out which of them I should focus on.
I’m too busy focusing on Sam.
She smiles at me over her food. I’ve brought her to The Burrito Box in Manhattan. It’s a loving punch to the gut. Sam agrees, too. She says this is the best one we’ve had yet.
When her smile fades, I catch the little hint of sadness that keeps framing her moods. It’s always there, around the edges. She lost her best friend, and she’s left behind her brother, her job.
Maybe she’s wondering, How long can this last?
Does she see the same question in my face?
I stole millions from the cartel. We had shown them proof of Joe’s Babycham, but not of what Alex had done. It might take them a while to notice the missing money, but surely they will eventually? I’ve given most of it away. Sam calls me The Patron Saint of Whoever.
And every night I worry, as Sam drifts off to sleep, is this the evening that the dream wears off? Is this the night when she’ll wake up and remember her boyfriend is a killer?
I keep wondering, How long can this last?
We finish the food and head out onto 9th Avenue and walk hand in hand down the street, like every annoying couple you’ve ever seen.
Acknowledgements
This book comes out close to the fifth anniversary of my first deal with Thomas & Mercer. I’ve been thinking back to everyone I’ve worked with in that time.
Thanks to Andy, Jacque and Rory. They were the first three people I spoke to at the publisher, on a conference call when I hopefully didn’t sound as nervous as I felt.
Rory – you’re missed, buddy.
In the US, thanks to: Alan (best of luck, writer-man), Anh, Gracie, Timoney, Sarah, Tiffany, Terry, Patrick, Reema and Kate.
In the UK, thanks to: Emilie, Sana, Hatty, Eoin, Neil, Al, Deborah, Molly and Lisa (loved the Ways To Die cover).
To anyone I’ve forgotten on either list, I’m sorry. You guys know I’m an idiot, right?
Thanks to Jane Snelgrove for her passion and commitment to this book, and thanks to Russel D McLean for helping me get it across the line. (GO BUY HIS BOOKS.)
Emotional support through this writing process (I can throw a tantrum, baby)
came from Ray, Johnny, Erik, Luca, Eva, Nick, Matt and Dave. Tyler Dilts made me cry, because he’s an asshole. Thanks to Jim and Vern.
I wouldn’t have a career without the support of Stacia Decker. And thanks to my wife, Lis.
About the Author
Photo © John Keatly
Jay Stringer was born in 1980, and he’s not dead yet.
He was raised in the Black Country, in England, but now calls Glasgow home, and his loyalties are divided.
Jay is dyslexic, and came to the written word as a second language, via comic books, music and comedy. As a child, he spent his time dreaming of living in the New York of Daredevil comics and crime fiction, but as an adult he’s channelled those dreams into fiction of his own.
Jay writes hard-boiled crime stories, dark comedies and social fiction. His heart beats for the outsider, and for people without a voice. He’s coined the term ‘social pulp fiction’ to describe his style.