Keeping with Killers (The Salingers Book 1)

by Adam Nicholls

  The silver-haired man ploughed into the side of one of them, stopping instantly but with the car still intact. He felt badly beaten up. Everything hurt. His ears were ringing. Blake looked to his driver, who was glancing in every mirror, observing his surroundings.

  'Give in,' Blake pleaded, wheezing and whining. 'This has gone too far. Please.'

  The man seemed to pay no attention to him. He took one last look at the adjoining street to his left, and kicked the car into reverse. They pulled out, then swung the car around the destroyed police vehicles and continued to race on. It surprised Blake that the car would still move–it had taken quite a battering from the ride.

  They slowed down to take another corner, and Silver Hair slowly and casually pulled in between two already-parked cars. To the unobservant, they would just look like two ordinary people in an ordinary car, blending in with their environment. Up close, though, there were enough dents and scratches to set it aside from the others. Passers-by looked at them with confusion, excitement, and disgust.

  Blake's body was tense. It hurt when he looked over his shoulder. One police vehicle that had been pursuing them drove straight on by without a glance, their sirens screaming as if with panic. It seemed unusual that a team of officers so hell-bent on catching them should happen by without so much as a fleeting look at them.

  They obviously hadn't been paying attention. They couldn't have. If they had, they would have immediately noticed the smashed-up windows, the car's bonnet bent in two.

  Blake realised he was panting in unsteady gasps. What if they were just being tricked? What if a car came from every direction now, forcing them into a corner? This driver of his was good - there was no doubt about it - but there must have been some end to his talents.

  'Do you know where we are?' Silver Hair asked, craning his neck around slowly. His eyes stayed focused on the road ahead.

  Blake gawked mindlessly at the headrest in front of him, cracking his tensed knuckles.

  'Listen,' the man shuffled around and looked him dead in the eye, 'in under a minute, four or more cars will be coming along this way, and I'll have to draw them away from you. Here's what you're going to do: you're going to get out, change your clothes. Take your jacket off now–they will be looking for two men in black jackets, not one man in a plain white t-shirt on foot. Can you do that?' The sudden lowering of his tone was persuasive.

  Blake shifted his gaze to the man, unhooked the seatbelt and removed his jacket. It was getting hot in there anyway.

  'Good. Now, you'll need to get some new clothes on, maybe a hat to shadow your face.'

  Blake thought about that. He had left his possessions at the station. Everything he needed; wallet, money, keys. Even his mobile phone, which would have come in pretty damn handy right about now. He might have been able to contact Rachel, get some support. Maybe she could have helped straighten things out. 'I don't have any money.'

  'Then steal.' He said it with such confidence, as if it was nothing. 'As soon as you've done that, you need to go to The Blue Compass. It's a pub in Knightsbridge. Do you know where that is? Can you find it alright?'

  Blake realised that his hands were still shaking. He was about to answer, but as soon as he thought he heard something, he paused to listen closer. Sirens? Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe he could walk out with his hands up and just explain the whole situation.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  Nothing was certain.

  'Do you know where that is?' Silver Hair had not yet seemed vexed by any means, but now that he raised his voice, he became even more intimidating than before.

  'Yes. I know the place.'

  The sirens were getting closer.

  'Go in, sit in the corner, and wait for me there. But stick to the crowds.'

  It sounded like an okay idea. Whichever path he decided to choose, he would have a straight-forward option. He could turn himself in, or he could listen to the man, go to the bar, and try to relax for a bit while waiting for further instructions. He could trust this man to some degree–that is, he trusted his abilities. It was his intentions that were not quite clear.

  'Who are you?' he asked, finally looking up at his face.

  'We'll discuss that later. Now move.'

  Blake leapt out of the car, almost reaching to open the door that was no longer there. That would be called Phantom Limb if it were on a person. As soon as he was out, the tyres spun at a blinding speed, and the car almost knocked him down. The sirens were drawing closer as one police car came into sight and went speeding towards its target without noticing Blake.

  More sirens screamed in the distance somewhere.

  Blake had to move, and it had to be fast.

  He got straight back onto the pavement, came to a hat rack outside a little souvenir shop, and tried on a green baseball cap with I love London inked across it. More police vehicles went on by, totally unaware of his presence. He felt safe, for now. Though the question he asked himself as he looked in the mirror, was whether he would go to the bar.

  Why bother, when I could just find a way to get in touch with Rachel?

  Blake glanced at the preoccupied shopkeeper, approved of his new appearance, and carried on down the street with his new hat on and his head hung low.

  Chapter 7

  Glasses clinked together on the other end of the bar. A group of women in business skirts sat up properly in their seats, hair straightened neatly and nails painted perfectly. They looked as if they worked on Wall Street and were celebrating something.

  It made Blake wonder… would he ever return to work? What would happen to his job now? To him, his future seemed limited to either being on the run until he finally keeled over or, in the unlikely event of vindication, spending his days trying to rebuild his reputation. Even in the best-case scenario, if he were proven innocent, he would always be known as that guy who killed his father and got away with it.

  'You're going to have to order something.' The barman interrupted his thoughts.

  Blake looked up at him stood over the bar; his grade-one haircut, one rotten front tooth, and a plain black t-shirt that showed off every contour of his body. There were tattoos all the way up his sleeves, though they were indistinguishable from each other. In other words, a bloody mess. 'I'll have a glass of water please.'

  'If you want to sit down, you'll have to pay for something.'

  What is this guy's problem? Sure, he had sat there for a couple of hours, but he didn't have the money to pay for anything, so what could he do? 'Actually, no,' said Blake, his hands beginning to shake. 'The law states that any registered businesses serving food or drink must provide tap-water free-of-charge if requested. So look, I'm having a bad day. If you could get off my back and throw some water into a glass, that'd be bloody wonderful.'

  There he was again, running his mouth. This happened far too often; he would wave his smartarse speeches around like they were weapons. He knew how much damage he was causing but it was always too late by the time he managed to shut up.

  The barman looked as though he was about to throw a fit. His eyes spoke in a rage-filled stare, his face turning red. His fists were clenched and a vein throbbed at his temple. And then a voice, coming from behind Blake.

  'Settle down, comrade.'

  Blake turned on his barstool, barely able to believe his eyes.

  I didn't think he would come.

  The man with the silver hair stepped to his side, grinning as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened over the past few hours. Like they hadn't put the lives of pedestrians at risk and broken ninety-nine laws in the process.

  'Get the man a water,' he told the barman. 'Try your best not to spit in it.'

  'Greg!' The barman's face changed entirely, from grouch to pal in nought-point-nought-five seconds. Their huge hands slapped together and they shook. There was obviously a past between these two, and it was clear that this barman respected Silver Hair. Certainly more than Blake did, anyway. 'I thought you were dead.'


  So, his name is Greg, thought Blake as he watched the two men get reacquainted. He felt a bit like a little boy, sitting quietly in his seat while Daddy ran some errands. The brief thought of a father figure entered his mind, saddening him again.

  'That's the idea, pal. I'm sorry it had to be that way.'

  The barman waved a hand, dismissing it. 'Nah, I get it.'

  'Hey, look, without your help I'll be dead soon anyway.'

  The barman tilted his head, and then a look of understanding crossed his face. 'Ah, I gotcha.' He turned his attention to the women in the corner. 'Alright, ladies! Bottoms up. We're closing down for the day.'

  They looked at him like lost little creatures. A feisty-looking brunette turned in her seat, the bright-pink drinking straw jumping off her lower lip. 'You're having a laugh. We ordered food. We paid–'

  The barman clapped his hands and stormed towards them. 'I said we're done.' He pulled her to her feet by her arm and shoved her towards the door. Seconds later, the woman's friends got up and followed, each with their own look of bewilderment–one with a small flicker of fear as she backed towards the door.

  The barman bolted the door and turned back to them with a big grin. When he realised that neither Blake nor Silver Hair were laughing, his smile dropped. 'What? I'm on my own today. Besides, that was for you.' He flicked his nose with his thumb, sniffed at the same time. 'I got a room upstairs. Let's go talk.'

  They followed him through the door at the back.

  Who are these people? Blake questioned whether or not it was safe. But if he had come this far in this man's capable hands, why would he hurt him now? Whoever he was, and whatever he wanted, Blake's wellbeing must have been one of his main concerns.

  There was a set of uncarpeted stairs, paint-stained and dusty, steep and with narrow walls. Blake was at eye-level with Silver Hair's feet as they ascended. If he wanted to he could run right now, though he had a feeling that they wouldn't let him get very far. But from the looks of it he was probably safer with these two than he would be if he went to the police.

  They came up into an open apartment, comprised mostly of dust and old, splintered wood. Beige blankets covered most of the furniture, and a thin, flimsy-looking mattress sat in the corner. There was a window - just one - but it was curtained by newspaper. The sun shone through it, printing text onto the floorboards.

  'Classy,' Blake said, as if not to notice that he had said it out loud.

  The barman turned to his friend, nodded sideways at Blake with an obvious intolerance. 'There a good reason little'un here is snapping at your heel?'

  'As it happens,' Silver Hair said, slapping Blake on the shoulder, perhaps a little too hard, 'there is. This here is Salinger's boy.'

  The barman recoiled, hesitated, like he didn't believe it. 'You're kidding?' He looked Blake up and down. 'But he's… he's a…'

  'A total pussy.' Silver Hair laughed. 'But a seemingly good chap.'

  Blake had never felt so insulted, yet, something told him that his opinion meant little or nothing in the presence of these men. 'You two knew my father? How?'

  'Don't look so surprised, kid,' said the silver-haired man. 'A total stranger obviously wouldn't have done all that for you–which, by the way, you owe me for. Big time.'

  The Barman snickered.

  'Thank you? Thank you?!' Blood raced through him, burning through his veins. 'If it weren't for you, the police would be filing my statement by now, and I would be in bed with a hot cup of tea and a bloody coconut macaroon!'

  Both of the men were looking at each other, a smile of knowledge being exchanged from each end. Silver Hair stepped forward, suddenly serious. 'If it weren't for me, you would be locked up and then killed in your cell. Those policemen were dirty.'

  Blake could barely believe it. Was he living in a movie? He unclenched his fists, tried to take a deep breath. 'Who are you? Why are you helping me? Did you kill my dad?'

  Silver Hair began to smile again, his grimace shark-like. 'Sit down, kid. We had better fill you in on everything. Starting with the fact that your old man is still alive.'

  Chapter 8

  He felt as though he had been punched in the gut, the wind knocked straight out of him. His head was spinning. He needed to sit down. It was a wave of relief mixed with the sickening anxiety that you get when big news comes your way–whether it be good or bad.

  'Alive?' He stuttered the words, imagining how stupid he would feel if he had simply misheard. 'Did you say my father is… alive?'

  The barman waved a hand, gesturing them to take a seat on the blanketed sofa. 'I'll get us a beer,' he said, and then disappeared into what looked like a box room. The door had barely had time to creep shut behind him when he returned with three bottles in the same large hand. He flicked the caps off with his thumb and handed them around.

  Silver Hair took is and sat down, sinking the beer too quickly.

  Blake wasn't a big drinker - never had been - but he found his shaking hand bringing the bottle to his lips anyway, chugging it down in big, sour gulps.

  'I suppose formal introductions are necessary,' the barman said, pulling up an empty drinks crate and sitting down. 'I'm Frank. The surname is not important, but what is important is that your dad saved my life more than once. Greg's too.'

  Blake glanced over at Silver Hair. 'I'm guessing you're Greg?'

  'Depends on where I am. In this establishment, I'm Greg. Head to Lower Clapton and I'm Lee. In Kensington I'm Jack. Back at The Agency… well, I'm someone entirely different.'

  He couldn't help but laugh. 'So you're a spy.' He pointed his bottle at Frank. 'And you?'

  'We're not spies. We work–'

  'Worked,' Greg corrected.

  'Right. Worked.' Frank cleared his throat. 'We worked for a company that - for lack of a better term - solved problems. Val did too.'

  'He didn't,' said Blake. His heart was on its way to punching a hole through his chest. 'My dad is an accountant. He has been ever since I was born.'

  Greg shook his head, pursing his thin lips into a smile. 'A killer, since long before you were born.' He stood, began to pace around the room. 'Probably the best The Agency has ever seen, too. You know, we were partners once.'

  So that's why you looked so familiar. Blake must have seen him and his father together at some point; a random memory, the same way you somehow remember an individual sentence from a book you read years ago.

  This was too much. There was a searing pain in his head. He felt hot, shaky, and realised he hadn't eaten. But there was no way he would be able to keep a meal down now. He took another sip of the beer, winced at its taste. None of this made any sense. 'So you're ex-colleagues. And you both worked with my dad at some point. Am I right?'

  Frank nodded, gulped his drink.

  'Then where is he?'

  Greg stopped pacing, set down his empty bottle, glanced at Frank and then over to Blake. 'That's what we need you for. You see; Val wanted to leave The Agency, which meant faking his own death. That's just how it's done with the business–no loose ends. But in order to do that, we needed a fake body and somebody to pin the crime on.'

  Blake mulled that one over, putting down the bottle and pushing his hands into his face. What the hell is wrong with these people? Agencies and murderers and shady business. I feel like a Corleone. 'What about Marcy?'

  'Who the fuck is Marcy?' Frank asked.

  'My father's wife. Surely she would have recognised the body when they had her identify my father. She would have been the first one to raise an eyebrow, right?'

  Greg let out a breath. 'Kid, who do you think planted the evidence? She used the body of some junkie. Don't worry, he was dead anyway. All it took was a bit of bludgeoning to make the face unrecognisable, and her say-so that it was Val. Only thing is, she was supposed to pin it on one of our enemies. Guessing she wanted your share of the inheritance.'

  Marcy. How could you do this to me? It was strange what Blake felt then; a surge of anger and a feeling that ma
de him want to hurt her. He had never felt that way before. Not towards anyone. But this was pretty serious stuff. Were it not for Greg, Blake could be in prison right now. 'This doesn't make any sense. If it was arranged for me to be locked up without knowing why, what do you need me for?'

  'Val is in hiding. His life at The Agency is finished. What do you think is the one thing that could pull him out of retirement? I'll give you a clue; it ain't that old prune of a wife.'

  Blake couldn't quite understand why his dad would want to hear from him. It had been a while anyway, but now he was probably on a beach somewhere, what could he possibly want to do. 'We weren't that close. Anyway, why would you even want him out of retirement? Isn't he happy?'

  'He thinks he is,' Frank said getting up and leaving the room.

  'Right,' Greg continued for him. 'What he doesn't know is that half The Agency are on his arse. Nobody was like to forget the infamous Val Salinger. He made some enemies with that trigger finger of his.'

  My own dad, a killer. Blake pictured those moments growing up, at the park with his father pushing his swing, laughter and smiles all round. That was back when his mother was still alive. Remembering her made his heart drop even lower.

  'But you worked for this Agency. Why aren't you on his case?'

  'I left as soon as the hit was ordered on your daddy. There's no back-stabbing in my genes. I just ain't wired up that way. And now The Agency want me dead too. All for your skinny arse. Listen, we need you to help him understand, kid. Make him aware that he isn't safe on his own. Can you do that for us? Can you do it for him?'

  'I… I guess. But I'm no spy. I don't know how much use I could be.'

  'More than you think, I'd wager.' Frank moved across the room and soon returned dragging an old-looking oak chest behind him. From the sounds of the scraping across the wooden flooring, it appeared to be quite heavy. He dropped it with a thunk, confirming Blake's suspicions.