Cog in the Machine

by Nigel Shinner

  “Do you think we could get Vinnie to come along?” Dom was hopeful.

  The mere mention of the name was enough to dent Bob’s new-found enthusiasm.

  “I haven’t seen your brother in a while, so I don’t think he’ll be able to come.” The weakest of fake smiles accompanied the statement.

  “He stopped visiting me after about a year inside.”

  “He’s stopped caring about other people. He just looks after himself.” The buoyant mood was all but gone. Anger flashed in the old man’s eyes.

  “Do you know if he’s still in the city?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care.” Bob took a glance at his watch. “What I do care about is the time and my watch says pub o’clock.”

  “Lead the way.” Dom quit his line of questions for now. He didn’t want to spoil what was supposed to be a good day, but one thing you learned in prison was the subtle changes of atmosphere when people were lying, hiding, when the ground beneath your feet had suddenly changed. Bob was hiding something.

  The pair headed out, buoyant mood restored, for now.

  Chapter 10

  Motorway services were all much of a muchness. They all had the same basic features – overpriced fuel, overpriced fast-food, overpriced coffee, and a WH Smith. It made all the difference if there was a greater variety of overpriced fast food to choose from. It made a stop slightly less painful for weary travellers, regardless of whether their travel was for business or pleasure.

  Vincent Carver thought that there could be no pleasure to be gained by stopping at services. A relief from a long drive, a coffee, a toilet break, a half tank of fuel but nothing pleasurable. He was there on business.

  He wasn’t travelling to a place of business. The services wasn’t a stop, the services was the destination where his business was to take place; a transaction at the far end of the car park. Not a contactless payment nor a chip and pin would be required, but there would be a casual exchange of goods for cash. No receipt. No refunds.

  Vincent, or Vinnie to his friends and associates, had followed the instructions, just like the last dozen times or so. Park at the far side of the car park, away from any other vehicles and wait – that was exactly what he did. This time he arrived twenty minutes early. Today he was at Strensham Services on the southbound side of the M5. Strensham had a KFC and Vinnie was hungry. He figured it would add to his cover, looking like a weary traveller stopping for a bite of lunch.

  He was just sucking the grease off his fingers when the van pulled up alongside. Within ten seconds the transaction was done and the van pulled away. It was that fast.

  The passenger in the van would have climbed into the payload area while the van was coasting through the one-way car park. Once parked, the side door had opened. A bundle of cash was tossed through the driver’s window. The driver had checked it quickly and then tossed a bag of merchandise back. The side door closed and the van pulled away.

  Easy.

  With the job done, all Vinnie had to do was to drive back to the city and give the cash to his boss – The Boss. He would receive his cut, which was usually generous, and that would be that for a few days. It was a simple life. Not ideal, but simple.

  He didn’t want to go the way of his brother, spending too many of his best years behind locked doors and barred windows. He made quick simple decisions that didn’t carry any significant risks, he hoped. And that idle thought of his brother reminded him that Dominic was coming out of prison sometime this week. He wasn’t sure which day. He might even be out already. Any good brother would have known. Any good brother would have found out the date and time and gone to pick Dominic up.

  He wasn’t a good brother. He knew it and he knew Dominic knew it too. What Dominic wouldn’t know was how bad a brother Vinnie had become in his absence.

  Chapter 11

  The Wetherspoon’s had almost taken its full quota for diners, but Dom had managed to find a table for two tucked into a corner well away from the bar. Sitting down, he took in the scene, making the same observation as he had on the train. Everybody of a certain age, teenagers up to thirtysomethings, had a mobile phone in their hands. There must be a reason for it. It was just another item to add to his list of things to learn about the outside world.

  Bob arrived back from the bar, two pints of lager trembling in his hands. He placed them on the table and took the empty seat.

  “Thanks.” Dom raised his glass and took a sizeable gulp. “I’ll treat you to the same once I have some money coming in.”

  “If you insist.” Bob raised his glass, clanking it against Dom’s. “Cheers, and congratulations on your release.”

  Dom nodded, the glass already at his lips again. Half of his drink had gone after only two gulps. Clearly he’d missed beer more than he had thought.

  “I’ll get you another pint when I order food.” Bob could see how much his would-be step-son was enjoying his first taste of freedom.

  “I’ve missed beer.” Another gulp - the glass was empty, the foam gently slipping down the sides.

  “What else?”

  “So much.” A wistful glance toward the window screamed regret. “I missed the freedom, of course, but do you know what I really would like to do? I’d like to go to the beach and stare at a whole load of sky. It’s the one thing I took for granted. It’s free and it’s right there - around you. You hardly notice it until it’s taken from you.”

  “You went outside on occasion?” Bob asked.

  “Yes, but it’s not the same. The horizon is walls and buildings – the place that I couldn’t escape from. I need to have an uninterrupted view of a sunset and I’ll be happy.”

  “We can do that on the next nice day.” Bob’s face was so full of promises, every one of them meant with love and support.

  They looked down the menu. Once they’d decided, Bob returned to the bar to order food.

  While alone, Dom watched the vibrant restaurant with curious eyes. He observed a group of three people talking intently. There were laughs and smiles from the two women and one man that seemed so natural, so honest, sharing thoughts and dreams. Forty-eight hours previously, he’d been in an environment where he didn’t want to share his, and the people he did talk to were not to be trusted. Trust had to be earned, and right now, the only people Dom trusted were himself and Bob.

  Bob was just making his way through a throng of lunchtime revellers when a man in his twenties, who was skinny and dressed in dirty sportswear, clattered into him.

  “Watch where you’re going, you stupid old cunt!” the man snarled in a London accent, thrusting his face into the bewildered old man’s personal space. The crowd cleared.

  “I’m s-so sorry,” Bob apologised.

  “S-So S-sorry! You fucking will be, you careless shite.”

  The man was clearly well oiled from a few too many chasers and had chosen who he was going to make trouble for.

  “L-Look, let me b-buy you a drink.” Bob’s face glowed with fear and embarrassment, his voice cracking under the weight of the adrenalin that was rushing through his veins.

  “You’d better buy drinks for my mates too. You wouldn’t want to leave them out, now would you?” The man gestured toward a table where three menacing looking men were sitting. Two had shaved heads; the other wore a baseball cap over his mid-length hair. They were all were wearing work gear, dirty jeans or cargo pants, t-shirts and hi-vis vests. They had clearly knocked off for the day and were making the best of it.

  Bob didn’t get time to answer.

  “Leave him alone.” Dom had covered the distance swiftly.

  “Who pulled your chain?” The man sneered at Dom before turning back to Bob. “Is this your fucking boyfriend, old timer?”

  “I said, leave him alone.” There was a rumble in Dom’s voice.

  Undaunted, the man squared up to Dom, their eyes just inches apart.

  “Why? Watcha gonna do?”

  Dom said nothing. His eyes burned into the younger man’s fa
ce, waiting for a reaction.

  “I think your clumsy cock-sucker needs to buy me, and my friends, a drink and you are getting in the way,” the man slurred.

  “I think you need to sit down and leave my friend alone.” The words were whispered but were heard clearly as the pub fell silent. All eyes were on the standoff.

  “Dom…” Bob tried to cut in.

  “Dom? Is that your name? I’ll remember that when I’m pissing on your fucking grave.” The man wasn’t backing down. And now all three of his cronies were on their feet.

  Dom remained silent. This guy was looking for a fight, and was hoping either Dom, or better still, the old man, would provide it. Dom was looking for resolution. He didn’t want to go back to prison after just one full day of freedom.

  “He’s not buying you, or your friends, a drink.” Dom gripped Bob by the arm and tried to lead him away.

  A fist clipped Dom on the side of the head. It was a dirty punch. As he turned to retaliate, a fist came from a different angle, catching him clean on the chin. One of the bald companions had waded in. Dom dropped to the floor, the punch stealing his legs for a moment. Heavy leather steel toe-capped boots kicked at him as he struggled to get back to his feet.

  He raised his arms to cover his head but no other blows came. The bar staff had swiftly jumped in to break up the fracas. Dom was grateful.

  The workmen swore revenge as they were ejected.

  A hand pulled Dom from the ground. It was Bob.

  After a trip to the toilets to deal with his split lip, Dom returned to the table where fresh drinks had arrived, courtesy of the bar staff, along with the food. The medium rare steak smelled so good to him but the first mouthful stung his lip with the added salt.

  “Thank you for stepping in back there,” said Bob, tucking into a plate of scampi and chips.

  “No problem, Bob. Just some thugs looking for an easy scrap and you were the unlucky one who happened to be there.”

  “Yeah.” Bob didn’t say anything else about the fracas after that.

  They stayed for another hour and another two drinks for Dom, and then went back to the house.

  Dom couldn’t help thinking that Bob was unduly quiet for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe the incident at the pub had shaken the old man up more than he’d realised. Or maybe there was something else.

  Dom frowned. His instinct was itching.

  The instinct that had saved him from shower-room shiv fights and revenge set-ups for years.

  The instinct that was rarely wrong.

  He scratched the back of his neck, and the instinct soothed.

  Chapter 12

  Mark Innis staggered through the front door of his two-bedroom flat. Too many lunchtime lagers on an empty stomach would stop him going out to work that evening. And that meant lots of tenner-deal bags of cocaine unsold to the teenagers who hung out down at the playground drinking cheap cider and daring each other to do whatever was the latest trend in stupid shit.

  Collapsing into his ragged faux leather sofa, the surface material peeling to reveal the cloth beneath, he kicked his steel toe-capped boots off and put his feet on the cheap wooden coffee table, knocking a half-drunk can of Coke onto the floor.

  “Fuck it!” Reaching down and picking up the can, he flung it toward the overflowing waste bin next to the TV cabinet. He missed.

  “Fuck it!” A livener – that’s what he needed.

  Next to the sofa was a small bedside cabinet - the fact that it was in the lounge instead of the bedroom was lost on Innis. It wasn’t as if he lived in a branch of fucking Ikea.

  He pulled out the drawer and sank his hand in. Without sparing a glance, he felt around; there was nothing in the drawer. Sitting upright, he stared at the empty, grubby wooden box.

  “Fucking fuck it!” The drawer was where he kept the supply he was supposed to be selling tonight. He had to sell it to raise the money to pay back the Boss. Non-payment was not an option. One way or the other, the Boss always took his pound of flesh.

  Panic helped flush some of the alcohol from his system. He paced the threadbare carpet, talking his excuses out loud. Which one could save him? Truth be told, nothing could save him except producing the money.

  When you make a deal with the devil, if you can’t deliver your end, the devil takes your soul. Everybody knew that.

  The Boss was worse than the devil. He already owned your soul. If you crossed him, he took chunks of your body too.

  Through the swirling fog of booze and anxiety, an option popped into his head. Reaching for his phone, he punched the number he thought could be his lifeline.

  It rang.

  And rang.

  The call went to answerphone.

  “Fuck it!”

  He tapped another number.

  It went straight to answerphone.

  “Fuck it!” As his panic rose, his volume went with it.

  He tapped on yet another number.

  This one rang.

  The call connected.

  “Ry! How you doing, man?” Innis didn’t wait for a reply to his question. “Look, man I need a favour – it’s a big ’un – but I’ll see you right.”

  There was a tentative response at the other end of the call.

  “What do you want, Mark?” Ry had only just left Innis after they had been thrown out of Wetherspoons. He knew his colleague well enough to know that the question of money was coming.

  “Look, it’s just I’m a little bit short, man, and I was wondering if you could-”

  “You already owe me money. You borrowed fifty quid two weeks ago…”

  “I know, I know but I need the money. You don’t understand… Just, please lend me a hundred quid. I’m desperate, man.”

  “I don’t have it. Sorry.” The call ended.

  “FUCK IT!” The phone was never going to be a match for the concrete walls of the high-rise flat. It shattered on impact.

  What was he going to do?

  Pacing the room some more, he tried to put thoughts into an order. The sheer, pumping fear of his situation consumed any rational ideas. It ate them. It cut them into tiny, tiny - Standing still for a second, a hand slipped into his back pocket. The familiar touch of a small re-sealable bag grazed his fingertip.

  There was just enough product for him to cut himself two decent lines. Maybe the hit would jog his mind into thinking himself a miracle.

  Clearing away some beer cans to make a space on the table revealed a small mirror – perfect. He ran two lines of the powder and chopped them with a useless expired bankcard. He slapped his head. No money meant no banknote to snort with. Casting a glance at the overfilled bin, he spied a McDonald’s drinks cup. One quick rummage later and he had a straw. Clipping it in half, he lowered his face to the mirror, sniffing hard through one nostril, and then the other. He watched his own reflection as he took the hit. It wasn’t the glamourous lifestyle he sold on street corners across the city. Everybody was a fucking genius on the stuff, but there was no escaping it – in the moment of the hit, you looked like Scooby Doo’s cum-face.

  The instant euphoric rush cleared out the junk cluttering his tiny mind. It was like drinking ten espressos in one heroic swig, all the caffeine being delivered in an instant and your brain lighting up like a pinball machine. With his mind focused, surely he would think his way out of the predicament – maybe? Or maybe not.

  The pacing quickened. The thinking aloud increased in volume, words garbled by the speed at which they left his mouth, spittle-flecked and poorly formed. His eyes became laser-beams, darting about the room, searching for a solution. All his senses were firing at once as his temperature began to rise. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. While this was a high, it wasn’t an enjoyable high; it wasn’t a sit down, enjoy the experience high. It was a ‘Fuck me, I need to think or I’m dead’ high - the worst kind.

  The escalating noise in the tiny confines of his skull intensified. Thoughts, ideas, solutions all popped up for appraisal only to be rapid
ly expelled by other equally stupid suggestions. His brain was like an office full of morons, suddenly. The sun blazing through the window seemed so bright and large that it might have been going supernova. That would be a solution of sorts, the sun going supernova. Boom! No more Boss. No more debt. No more trying to explain. Boom. He could see the dust floating in slow motion in the room. His senses were pouring information into his brain instantly. Fuck Wi-Fi, man, this was High-Fi. High-As-Absolute-Fuck-Fi. So much so, he had missed something; the approaching heavy footsteps on the external walkway. Boom!

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  Fuck it.

  The rap on the door focused his mind to a pinprick – his eyes focused on the door.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  He could see the wooden frame move against the impact, the door flexing as though about to explode.

  He knew that hard, deliberate knock.

  Time had run out.

  Boom.

  Chapter 13

  After returning to his childhood home, Dom retrieved his bags and took the five-minute walk to his new home.

  The street was typical for Clifton; towering dwellings, wide pavements, narrow roads, and a tree outside every third house. There was also a tree outside the one listed on the scrap of paper he held. The property was a four-storey terraced house, untouched by paint or any kind of modern feature. The concrete façade matched the other houses in the row, but the windows and doors seemed to be original, or at least not modern. Dom hoped that the owner was a traditionalist and not just tight with their money. He couldn’t think of anything worse than a penny-pinching landlord.

  There was an old style brass doorbell on the blockwork. It didn’t work. Dom rapped his knuckles on the black-painted door. Paint flecks fell as he knocked.

  After what seemed like an age, a small old woman came to the door. She was dressed in a blue and white nylon printed dress and a thinning black cardigan. Her hair was dyed black, very badly, and scraped back into a ponytail.