by Jay Gill
“The only downside,” said Jenny, “is the morning sickness. There are some days it seems to last all day.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Monica, her brow furrowing. “You poor thing.”
“I thought I should warn you,” said Jenny.
“If it gets too bad, just kick us out,” said Rayner. “Jen and I can stay at a hotel.”
“You suggest anything like that again and you’ll be staying in a bloody hotel,” I joked. “Jenny’s not going anywhere.”
“I have an idea,” I said. I put the cork back in the bottle of red wine and got out another bottle of fizzy apple drink. “If the women aren’t drinking alcohol, then neither are we.”
“No,” said Jenny. “Not on my account.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Monica. “Rayner’s on holiday.”
“That’s right,” joked Rayner.
“That’s a really sweet gesture,” said Jenny. “You boys don’t need to do that.”
“I’m with Hardy,” insisted Rayner. He winked at me. “Not every meal though, right?”
Jenny gave Rayner a playful punch in the arm. We were all high on excitement and laughed loudly.
“Are you sure this big fella is ready to be a father? I mean, he’s barely house-trained,” I said.
Jenny reached up and wrapped her arms around Rayner’s neck and gave him a kiss. It was wonderful to see them so into each other.
“I’m getting there,” said Jenny. “After nearly seven years of marriage, he puts the toilet seat down and has also learned how to cook a roast dinner.”
“Ha ha, very funny,” said Rayner, giving Jenny a squeeze. “I’ve also mastered a first-class cheesy beans on toast.”
I poured us all a glass of fizzy apple juice and we toasted Jenny and Rayner’s fabulous news. “To Jenny and Rayner, and to Little Bump.”
“To Little Bump!” everyone repeated.
It could have been a trick of the light, but I was sure Rayner had tears in his eyes. “Did someone say something about food?” he boomed. “This baby-making machine is famished.”
“Oh, my,” said Jenny in mock dismay. “Perhaps you’re right. Is there any chance this beast in man’s clothing will learn etiquette?”
Chapter Six
Fischer looked up at the clear blue sky and basked in the late spring sun as it caressed his skin. A smile spread across his face like a river bursting its banks. In that moment, he remembered what freedom felt like.
Fischer waited in the yard with Prison Officer Farley. Their hands were cuffed together, meaning that each time Fischer winced and doubled over in pain, Farley’s arm was suddenly yanked sideways.
Farley gave him a sideways glance and said, “Are you sure you’re going to be all right? I don’t want you throwing your guts up in the back of the car. It’ll be muggins here who has to clean it up. I can call an ambulance.”
“Nah. An ambulance is a glorified hearse with lights. Anyway, I don’t feel sick anymore. It’s the shooting pains again. Deep down in my guts.”
Eventually, the unmarked car, a white Renault, appeared and pulled up in front of them. Nessie, got out and opened the back door.
Fischer got in first. He groaned as he slowly moved across the back seat to make room for Farley. Once they were inside, Nessie slammed the door and jumped into the front seat.
The journey to the hospital would take no more than twenty-five minutes. Nessie was hoping there wouldn’t be too much mid-morning traffic and they’d get there in under twenty. He put the car in gear, waved to the officer on the gate and inched the Renault out into the road.
“You look like shit, if you don’t mind me saying,” said Nessie, glancing at Fischer in the rear-view mirror. “You don’t sound much better, either. If you’re going to vomit, use this bowl.” He passed a plastic bowl into the back. Farley took it and put it on Fischer’s lap.
Fischer nodded, then continued staring out the window.
Nessie started picking at his back teeth with his finger. He dug out a piece of breakfast, examined it and ate it. He glanced in the rear-view mirror to look at Fischer again. “You know, you’ve lost a ton of weight. Skinny as hell. I remember when you first arrived, all brawn and no sense. Spitting hellfire day and night. Now look at you – you probably weigh less than the dump I took this morning.” Nessie slapped the steering wheel and chuckled at his joke.
Fischer wasn’t listening. He was focused on the streets and shops and the people going about their morning.
“Nobody loses that much weight, and that quickly too, unless it’s serious. You should have seen a doctor sooner,” added Nessie.
“Give it a rest, will ya?” said Farley. “Leave him alone.”
“I’m just saying. What if it’s, you know...” Nessie mouthed the word cancer.
Farley looked across at Fischer, whose prison clothes were hanging off his skinny frame. “Just keep your eyes on the road and your mouth shut. Let’s get to the hospital and get this over with. The sooner these tests are done the better.”
Nessie didn’t appreciate being dressed down in front of a prisoner. For the rest of the journey nobody spoke, which suited Farley down to the ground.
Fischer continued to stare out at the people going about their lives. He felt lightheaded, tired and puny. He hated feeling weak. Despite feeling like crap, though, he was excited. He couldn’t let the guards see his pleasure, but this was a rare opportunity, and after more than four years behind bars, being out lifted his spirits.
As they approached the hospital Fischer leaned over and looked between the two front seats, scanning the hospital car park through the front windscreen. It was nearly full, and the prison had pre-arranged for them to park in a ‘disabled only’ parking bay at the front of the hospital.
“This’ll do,” said Nessie. “I’ll get the doors.” He jumped out and opened the back door for Farley and Fischer. Farley went first, and the still-cuffed Fischer inched along the back seat behind him, groaning as he moved. He put his feet on the pavement and straightened up, and as he did, he immediately grabbed at his stomach with his free hand. He doubled over and moaned loudly as he retched repeatedly. Nessie and Farley took a step back, worried he’d vomit over their shoes.
Fischer slowly straightened himself up. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Sorry, guys. I’m fine. Thought I was going to vomit, but I’m okay. False alarm.”
“Let’s get inside, quick,” said a worried-looking Nessie.
Fischer saw the car, but Nessie and Farley had been distracted and didn’t notice the white BMW M3 pull up behind them. By the time they saw the two figures wearing ski masks and carrying sawn-off shotguns, it was too late.
The first ski-masked figure ran around to the front of the white Renault and on to the pavement, where he immediately raised the gun over his shoulder and brought the butt down hard on Nessie’s nose. Crack. He then turned the gun and, pointing it at Nessie’s long face, said, “Do as I say, and you’ll live. Do something stupid and I’ll blow a hole the size of Piccadilly Circus straight through that ugly face of yours. Hear me?”
Nessie held his bloody nose and nodded.
Farley put both hands in the air, bringing Fischer’s arm up with his own. The second, smaller figure stood in front of him and pointed its sawn-off shotgun at his chest. A feminine voice said, “Uncuff him. Do it now. Quick.”
Farley dug around in his pocket and pulled out the keys. His hand shook as he released Fischer from the handcuffs.
As soon as his wrist was free, Fischer ran to the white BMW and jumped in the back. Farley’s eyes followed Fischer before returning to the barrel of the gun. He felt sure his time was up.
“Down on your knees. Do it,” said the woman’s voice.
Farley reluctantly did as he was told; his breathing was rapid. He closed his eyes, fully expecting the worst. “I’ve got kids,” he said.
“Look at me. Open your eyes and look at me,” the woman demanded. Farley did as he was told.
The woman then nodded to her accomplice. “Ready?”
“Uh-huh.”
The woman lowered the shotgun and sprayed Farley’s eyes with pepper spray. The man did the same thing to Nessie. As the two prison officers furiously rubbed their eyes, the masked pair ran back to the BMW, got in and, with tyres screeching, exited the hospital car park and disappeared into traffic.
Chapter Seven
Timothy Spicer and Faye Moon took off their ski masks. Spicer was driving. He headed out of town, keeping off the main roads, preferring quieter roads instead. He had the route all planned out. He’d driven it several times, on different days and at different times of day. Now, he punched the car roof and yelled.
“We did it, guys! We bloody well did it.”
Faye Moon unbuckled her seatbelt and climbed between the front seats into the back, where she straddled Fischer. “Of course we did it. No one could stop me getting my man back.” Moon wrapped her arms around Fischer’s neck and gave him a long, hard kiss. Fischer’s hands worked his way up Moon’s shirt. Timothy snatched a look in the rear-view mirror then got his eyes back on the road to focus on the job in hand.
Moon got off Fischer’s lap and sat beside him with her head on his shoulder. “I booked us into a nice little guest house. It’s a place I know. We’ll be fine there; it’s quiet. The landlady, Fiona Crabb, is on our side. I gave her a little extra to keep her mouth shut. She’ll be fine; she knows the score. Her old man is doing time for fraud.”
“You’re a clever girl,” said Fischer.
“Timmy’s going his own way when we get there. He’s going to dump the car for us. Isn’t that right, Timmy?” Moon slapped Spicer on the shoulder.
“Damn right. I got a mate who is getting me out of the country. Short trip across the channel, and I’ll be screwing French tarts before you can say Vive la France.” The three of them howled with laughter.
“I owe you, man. I mean, big time.” Fischer put his hand on Timothy’s shoulder. “Soon as I’m straight, I’m gonna make it up to you. I promise you that.”
“I know you will, mate. Damn, it’s so good to see you. It’s just like old times.”
“How’s your mother?” Fischer asked.
“Still a cranky old bitch. I’ve been looking after her. Make sure she’s got everything she needs. You know how it is.”
“Good man. Nothing more important than family. Send the old cow my love.”
Spicer looked in the rear-view mirror at his friend. “I will do. She’ll be stoked to hear you’re out.” He didn’t want to tell Fischer the truth. For his mother, the end was close. The drugs she was on meant she spent most every day sleeping. He planned on going to France but couldn’t leave his mother right now.
“So how are you going to celebrate, now you’re out?” asked Spicer.
Moon jumped in before Fischer had a chance to answer. “Well, we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” Moon put her hand between Fischer’s legs and gently squeezed. “I’m going to have to feed him up. He’s going to need all the energy he can muster.” Moon ran her fingers up his body to his tattooed chest. “Look at my poor baby. He’s all skin and bone.”
“Yeah, but it was worth it,” said Fischer. “It worked like a dream. Starving myself and complaining of chronic stomach pain got me to the hospital. Then boom! You two show up, and here I am.” He leaned forward to answer Timothy’s earlier question. “How will I celebrate? Well, apart from my Moonbeam here, do you know what else I’ve been fancying?”
“Oh, Fischer,” Moon cooed. She kissed two fingers and planted the kiss on the back of Fischer’s neck. He reached back, took her hand, and cradled it.
“Soon as I knew I was getting out I’ve been dreaming about it,” said Fischer. “I’ve been fancying a Colonel’s bargain bucket with all the sides. Crispy coated chicken. Pepsi. Corn on the cob on a stick, all covered in butter. Gravy for the French fries. Beans and coleslaw. And those hot wings they do. A ton of hot wings.”
“That sounds great. Hot wings sound really good right now. You’ve got me feeling hungry,” grinned Spicer. “And what else?”
Fischer leaned back and put his free hand behind his head. “There are one or two scores to settle. But also, I’ve been thinking that maybe it’s time to, you know, settle down. I’m not going back inside, that’s for sure, and the only way to make sure that happens is to go straight. I need to put my affairs in order, then me and Moon here, we’re going to disappear somewhere tropical.”
“Amen to that,” said Moon. “You just know I’ll look hot in a tiny bikini, baby.”
“Sounds like you’ve got it all planned out. Good for you, man,” said Spicer.
“I’ve had a lot of time to think,” said Fischer. “And nothing else makes sense anymore. It’s time to do things differently.”
Moon started bouncing excitedly up and down in her seat. “But first, we’re going to have some fun. Then we’re going to settle some scores. Isn’t that right, baby?”
Fischer put both his hands around Moon’s face and pulled her to him. He looked into her eyes then kissed her passionately. He released her, looked at her and smiled. “Yes, we are.”
“Am I still your Moonbeam?”
“Yes, you are.”
Spicer drove the three of them through the night to the guest house he and Moon had pre-booked for her and Fischer.
At the guest house, they said their farewells and wished each other luck before Spicer went on alone.
Before going inside, Moon showed Fischer the car, a black Ford Galaxy. She opened the Ford’s back, then lifted a tartan blanket to reveal two black canvas bags.
“Our getaway money,” said Moon. “One hundred thousand pounds. I counted it. It’s all there. Less the twenty grand we agreed for Timothy. He didn’t want to take it, but I insisted. Said he didn’t want it because he owed you a favour, a big favour.”
“He’s a good man. Reliable,” stated Fischer.
“Yeah, he is.” Fischer and Moon looked up as a pair of circling seagulls squawked and cawed. “We’re near the coast,” added Moon. “Southampton docks aren’t far from here.”
“That means we’re near the home of Inspector James Hardy.” Fischer closed the back of the Ford. “We’ll give it a day or so and then we’ll pay him a visit.”
“But right now…” said Moon. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. She started giggling and pulling him towards the front of the guest house. “I’ve booked us the honeymoon suite. Let’s go and test it out.”
Chapter Eight
It was a couple hours before opening at Moriarty’s cocktail bar in Edinburgh. At the owner’s insistence, the head barman and chief mixologist, Shane Flanders, had handed over the bar’s keys to two women for reasons he was told were best left unsaid. Shane would normally be at the bar prepping at this time, but instead he was two streets away eating a bagel and drinking espresso.
At the bar a meeting was taking place. The cocktail bar’s low lighting gave it a theatrical look. Bottles sat in a row front of a bar-to-ceiling mirror and were lit from beneath; the coloured bottles glowed like the chemicals of a mad scientist’s laboratory.
A young woman sat at the bar. Her long coat lay over the barstool next to her. She scrolled through the news on her phone as she sipped a gin and tonic. She knew what her role was and the importance of the meeting taking place behind her. From time to time she glanced in the mirror at the reflection of the table behind her, where the meeting would shortly reconvene.
Barton ran his fingers through his dyed black hair before resting his elbow on the arm of the low-backed black leather armchair. He slouched down in the chair and rested his head in his hand, legs outstretched in front of him, his burnished caiman cowboy boots protruding from beneath his tight pale-blue jeans. The woman at the table with him was Kelly Lyle. He’d heard stories about her being a psycho rich bitch businesswoman. He guessed the stories must be bullshit. She didn’t look much like a killer, he thought. She’s too damn
hot – fantastic legs and great tits.
The real prize, though, was the pretty young brunette perched on the bar stool behind Lyle. He guessed she and Lyle must be together, as in together-together. Oh, boy – now that would be something to watch. He’d love to be in the middle of the pair of them. His eyes, one brown, one blue, traced their way from the brunette’s blue-painted python-skin pointed-toe ankle boots up her legs, around her hips, up over her body until they reached her plunging V-neckline and rested on her soft white bosom. He sighed and swallowed.
Behind him, the door to the men’s room slammed shut. Snapping out of his trance, he looked up to see Lyle watching him. Realising his mouth was open, he snapped it shut and smiled awkwardly. He sat up in his chair.
Lyle watched as Donny Dodd, the man coming from the men’s room, flapped his hands back and forth on his jeans to dry them. He was complaining to himself in the high-pitched whiney way he did when he was annoyed. His skinny frame and long limbs made him resemble a six-foot-tall stick insect. Reaching the table, he pulled out a chair. Tilting it up, he brushed the seat with his hand. Inspected it. Sat down.
Donny Dodd smelled one hand and then the other. “Christ, I smell like pot-fucking-pourri. Soap doesn’t smell like soap anymore. Smell that.” Donny stuck out his hand and Barton backed away. “When I was a kid, soap smelled like soap. You remember? These days, after you wash your hands, you smell like a florist’s apron. I like flowers and fruit. They’re good for nature and all that. Bees and butterflies – where would we be without them? Yeah, I like flowers. I just don’t want to smell like one. I want to smell clean, but that’s not the same as smelling like a hyacinth or like that rhubarb-and-raspberry-scented handwash like I saw on a supermarket shelf the other day.” He looked at Lyle and then at the hot brunette perched on the barstool and threw up his hands in dismay. “It’s fine for ladies. I mean, it makes sense. I think women smelling fragrant is a beautiful thing. But for men it’s different. They should have a masculine smell. To my mind it doesn’t seem natural for a man to smell of wild fig and iris. Wouldn’t you agree?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Conspiratorially, he leaned forward in his chair. He looked first to Barton and then to Lyle. “I blame the whole liquid-soap revolution. Now we have liquid soap. Every time I use the bathroom, I end up dispensing liquid fucking perfume into my hands: jasmine, magnolia, eucalyptus, honeysuckle, lavender, grapefruit, even pomegranate. Do I look like the type of man who wants to smell like summer meadows or cherry blossom?”