Breaking Point (The Point Series: Book 2)

by Gerard Brennan

  Owen looked around. He hadn't been spotted. Good. He retrieved the girl's phone and adjusted the driver's seat before planting his ass in it. Mirror, signal, manoeuvre. Owen drove out of the town square and parked in a space in front of the kung fu club. He'd read online that they'd be done by half past eight. Only ten minutes. His skin tingled with anticipation.

  Eye for an eye, ear for an ear? Fuck no. The little fucker was going to burn for what he'd done. Burn, burn, burn.

  A big engine revved behind Owen. He checked his rear-view mirror. A black and chrome monstrosity had pulled in, bull-bars reflecting the orange of the setting sun. It was a Land Rover, a motor used by cops and gangsters alike. This one didn't look like a peeler model; windows tinted but lacking the sheen of bulletproof glass. A dubstep bass-line throbbed from jacked-up speakers. The modifications were drug money financed, no doubt.

  The 'music' died and the driver's door popped open. A man in a sharp suit hopped out. Then a much bigger man in a much duller suit got out of the passenger side. Brains and muscle respectively. Owen figured there was something complicated going on. He didn't like it. Complications could get in his way.

  The gangsters moved towards the kung fu club. Owen couldn't let them hurt Brian Morgan. That was to be his pleasure alone. He cursed and got out of the Avensis. Time to turn on the charm.

  Performance Enhancing Drugs

  Brian couldn't believe that Tony managed to pull it off. After a shaky start with the poorly prepared warm-up and some mumbled complaints, the class picked up. Tony demonstrated the self-defence moves he'd rehearsed with Brian earlier that day. Then he let the students have a crack at it, again warning them to take it slow until they got the hang of it. And then they were hooked.

  Tony got right into the thick of it, giving advice and correcting technique. Brian hovered around the periphery of the mass of wannabe masters. Sifus, as Tony had taught him. Brian was a Si-Hing, apparently. He didn't really know what it meant, but had a feeling that he'd not really earned it. Not yet, anyway. But sure, maybe it was only a matter of time before his skills caught up with his claims.

  Tony checked the time on his 'work' phone, frowned and shook his head.

  "All well?" Brian asked.

  Out of the side of his mouth, Tony said, "Tell you about it later, man." Then he addressed the rest of the class, "Okay, lads. We'll wrap her up there."

  A couple of them actually looked disappointed. The guy in the Bruce Lee T-shirt was straight out the door along with his training partner. Brian assumed those two were friends. The heavy guy, red-faced but looking proud of himself, left with three more lads. The others lingered. The guy with the steel wool afro took the initiative.

  "All right, Tony?"

  "This the hard core?" Tony asked.

  The four of them moved a little closer as one. Steel 'fro spoke again. "Hard done by, maybe."

  "Oh?" Tony rubbed the back of his neck. "What's wrong?"

  Brian studied Steel 'fro, hoping to get a read on him. He'd stand by Tony for as long as he could, but in fairness, he hardly knew the guy. A free bag of weed and a couple of self-defence lessons did not an arse-kicking buy. Brian didn't know enough about these guys to properly calculate the odds. He would assume the worst and imagine all four had knives. And that was the worst case scenario in his mind. He'd rather be shot than stabbed any day of the week.

  "Call off your bodyguard and I'll get a little more chatty."

  "Bodyguard...?" Tony looked from Steel 'fro to Brian and back. "He's an assistant instructor. Ah, mate. You know me better than that. Sure I'm a pacifist. He's not going to attack you."

  "I'll buy you as a pacifist. This guy? I'm not so sure."

  It almost hurt him to do it, but Brian forced himself to speak up. "You know these lads, Tony?" It came out gruffer and far more Belfast-y than he intended.

  Did these eejits really think Brian was a tough guy?

  "Smile, boy. It won't hurt." And then Steel 'fro laughed. A short sharp bray. "We just want what you promised us, Tony. Free drugs with every class, so long as we made you look good."

  "I know what I promised. This was a free introductory class. I'll be out of pocket if I give you free weed tonight."

  "We don't mind, do we, lads?"

  They nodded, hee-hawed, nudged each other.

  "Right so," Tony said. "Open the window please, Brian."

  "You going to jump?" Brian asked.

  Steel 'fro and his three musketeers grinned at him. Brian guessed he'd made a joke. It wasn't his intention, but he'd roll with it. He attempted a wry grin; felt a little shitty.

  "Funny fucker," Tony said. "No, I'm going to skin up."

  Hanging on the Telephone

  Rachel watched another minute pass by on her mobile. The bastard was going to be late. It hadn't turned nine just yet, but she knew he wasn't on his way home. He'd have texted to ask if she wanted anything in the shop.

  There were three or four petrol stations nearby that stayed open until eleven – they both worked in one of them – but Brian liked one spot in particular. It wasn't attached to a petrol station. This one was a wee shop-shop that closed at nine. Never a minute later, often ten minutes earlier. Brian claimed it was the cheapest, though it wasn't. Rachel knew the teen till-jockeys were too complacent to be bothered with friendly conversation. They wouldn't raise an eyebrow when he ordered cigarette papers to go with his basket-load of munchie-fodder. And it was walking distance from the house so he could have a sneaky smoke while he dandered home. It had all got too easy for him. And she'd not pulled him up on it.

  "It'll be okay, Bump. I promise. He'll climb out of this rut. Just wait and see. As soon as finds out about you. I might even let him name you."

  She wouldn't let Brian name the child. Couldn't. He wouldn't take it seriously enough.

  "What the fuck is wrong with me?" Rachel asked.

  Bump wasn't going to offer an opinion.

  "You're as bad as your da."

  Fuck Brian. The burden. She'd look after herself, like she always did.

  Don't Get Higher With Your Dodgy Supplier

  It had to be a bad idea, but Brian couldn't turn down the first spliff. He felt okay about the second. The third... something whispered in his ear. Maybe. Or maybe somebody was fucking with him. He didn't know Steel 'fro or his trio of jackass cronies. Didn't even really know Tony. They'd spent a night and a day together. Why did he get so close to people so quickly?

  Because you've got nobody.

  That might have sounded like his dead brother. If he'd heard it.

  You can hear me, wee bro.

  Nope.

  Dope.

  Fuck off.

  Get out of here. Get out of here now. It's not safe here. You don't know these people. They've already made you feel uncomfortable. Even Tony. Especially Tony. Go, wee bro. Go.

  Staying.

  Brian closed his eyes. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He detected a slight whistle in his left nostril.

  Again.

  Definitely the left nostril.

  He didn't whistle through his teeth.

  "He's stoned to the wallabers."

  What the fuck are wallabers?

  "He's fine."

  "He'll whitey."

  "He won't. I smoked with him last night. He just gets quiet."

  He could speak for himself.

  If he could be bothered.

  Go.

  He couldn't go now. They'd think he'd gone to the toilet to whitey in private.

  "Everything's going to be all right," Brian said. Loud in his own ears. Whatever, whatever the others.

  "Ting?"

  "Wha'?"

  "We need music."

  "Got my phone."

  "Too tingy... no, tinny. Would rather have nothing."

  "This track sounds good tinny."

  It didn't. The music these guys liked would never sound good to Brian. These were not his people. He'd proved he wasn't going to whitey. Had proved
he wasn't unfriendly. They knew now that he chose to be quiet.

  "I like to think," Brian said. Louder.

  "We're not stopping you."

  Somebody was stopping him.

  The jackasses laughed. Brian couldn't stop himself. Stay or go? Giggle.

  It felt good. The chuckle, chuckles, chuckling. Warmed his chest. Chucky. Not the Irish word. He wasn't a rebel. Not in that way.

  Fuck.

  Brian stood up. It was like breaking the surface in a calm lake. He didn't even realise he'd been drowning. "I should head on."

  "Half a cup."

  "Dead on."

  "Don't let the door hit you where the good Lord split you."

  "Stupid."

  "Your ma."

  "Wallabers."

  "I feel good, Tony," Brian said. "Thanks."

  "See you tomorrow?" Tony's voice.

  Brian hadn't seen his lips move, but he knew Tony's voice. He spoke to Tony. Only Tony. "You'll be here?"

  "Sleeping on the floor is good for your back."

  "Right."

  Steel 'fro and the others giggled.

  "Good night, girls."

  They giggled harder, longer... faster. Maybe Brian was getting funnier.

  Brian moved to the door. It was open. A big hand on his chest stopped him leaving.

  The stalker? Had to be.

  "Do I know you?" Brian asked.

  "God. I hope not."

  The guy curled his upper lip. Peeled it back from his dazzling teeth. Chased all the handsome from his face. Brian could smell aftershave. Or balm. Maybe it was just his deodorant. Probably expensive aftershave. This guy spent money on himself. You could tell by his suit and the diamond studs in his slightly oversized ears.

  "What are you staring at, fucko?"

  "A stalker?"

  "Stalker?" Mr Suit pushed Brian to one side. "Go home, fucko." He adjusted his shirt cuffs so they poked out of the sleeves of his jacket. "You're stoned."

  "Okay. Cheers. See youse."

  "Don't go, Brian," Tony's voice grated.

  "You've been ignoring my calls, Tony," Mr Suit said. "That makes me look bad."

  "Sorry, Malachy. I've been busy with the club. This is my idea."

  "A crack den for weed smokers?"

  "No, it's not that at all. It's a kung fu club."

  Steel 'fro stood up. "He told us there'd be magic mushrooms in October. We could use them to enhance our training."

  Mr Suit – Malachy – lashed out a boot. Steel 'fro dropped to his knees, hands cupped between his legs. He sobbed. The jackasses stayed where they were, holes glued to the floor, backs against the wall.

  "What the fuck, Tony?"

  "Sorry, Malachy."

  "You owe me money."

  "I know."

  "You're smoking weed you haven't paid for."

  "I know."

  "Problem is, now all the losers in this room know."

  That was enough for Brian. He slipped out the open door.

  The guy in the Bruce Lee T-shirt waited for him on the landing. He had a knife. A big one. Possibly a machete. A bigger guy, this one in a shinier suit than Malachy's, stood behind him. He looked like he didn't need a machete.

  "Brian, isn't it?" Bruce Lee T asked.

  "Yeah." What else could he say?

  "Go."

  "Thank you."

  Brian heard Tony call his name. He ignored the dealer. Didn't know him. Barely owed him. Sorry, Tony.

  Considerably sobered, he stepped out into the fading light. Dull in the summer. It had to be well after nine. Rachel would be pissed off. He'd make it up to her. Just as soon as he figured out how to get back home.

  There was a Toyota Avensis parked at the kerb beside him. A good size car for a taxi. But Brian couldn't see any taxi plates on it. No sign on the roof either. Couldn't trust a taxi without the official plates. He was about to move on when the tinted passenger window whirred open.

  "You looking for a lift?"

  He couldn't make out the man behind the wheel. Couldn't work out if the weed was creating the shadows that hid the driver's face. "Do I know you?"

  "Come a wee bit closer, mate. I'm deaf in this ear."

  Come Fly With Me

  Owen raised his voice, tried to get through to the gormless prick. "I said I'm deaf in this ear."

  Brian Morgan. He acted like he was deaf himself.

  Owen was face-to-face with him at last. And the bastard didn't even recognise him. Then he realised he was still wearing his hat low and his collar high. He whipped the woolly head-sock off his dome and pointed to his scars.

  "Dude. What happened to your ear? Did you answer the iron instead of the phone?" Brian clapped a hand over his mouth. "Sorry, mate. I'm stoned to... to... You're not a cop, are you?"

  Each word out of the gobshite's mouth was like a slap in the face. But Owen swallowed it down. He'd need to use the good indigestion tablets later. "I'm sorry, I can't hear you."

  "Oh, thank fuck," Brian said, mumbling at first and then bellowing. "I'll head on, man. I need to find a taxi!"

  "Do you want a lift?"

  "Ach, I wouldn't bother you, mate. Sure you don't even know if I'm going your way."

  "Where are you going?"

  "Ach, no. Forget it. There's a taxi firm just up the street. They'll sort me."

  "Get in."

  "You're not going my way."

  "How do you know?"

  Brian ran a hand over the top of his stubbly head. Owen thought the fucker looked tougher. Battle-hardened, maybe. Owen remembered a wide-eyed kid with an Irish afro and stooped shoulders who couldn't hold a gun straight. Brian Morgan had changed a lot in a short time. Probably not for the better. He was obviously high as a kite.

  Brian reverted to mumble-mode. "Could be doing without this nutter."

  "Who's a nutter?"

  Brian double-blinked, took an eternity to open his mouth and said, "Not much wrong with your hearing now, is there?"

  "It's better than your aim; I'll grant you that, Brian."

  "Ach, shite."

  The girl in the boot decided that that exact instant was the right one to wake up, scream and hammer on the lid.

  Owen roared. "Shut the fuck up! Bitch!"

  The banging and screaming stopped. Owen almost yelled a thank you. His never-ending migraine was spiking.

  Brian backed away from the car. He looked up and down the street. The stoner couldn't even figure out which way to run. Too easy.

  Owen pushed open the driver's door and slipped out of the car. He moved slowly, his arms spread wide as if he was cornering a small, skittish pet.

  "Come over here, Brian. I just want to chat."

  "There's nothing to chat about, man. You were there to kill me that day."

  "I was not. I was there to collect your brother for the boss. I'd no idea you'd be there."

  "You had a gun!"

  "Which you tea-leafed right out of my pocket and shot me with. My own gun."

  "It was meant to be a warning shot."

  "And what? Will that grow my ear back?"

  "You're nuts, man."

  "Get in the fucking car."

  Owen lunged. Something happened and a light flashed in the back of his brain. He stumbled backwards. Then he realised. The stoner was punching him. Owen hadn't expected a fight. The thought of it made him snigger. Brian pulled back his arm, priming a knockout blow. Owen stepped to the side and the fist whiffed through the air. The stoner's flank was open. Owen cracked his ribs with a hammer-blow body-shot. Brian grunted. His hands dropped. Owen bitch-slapped him. The stoner toppled.

  Owen towered over Brian. He had toughened up a wee bit. Not enough, but at least he'd had a fair go this time. Didn't resort to picking pockets. Owen bent down to slap him about a little more before he bundled him into the car.

  A window exploded and glass rained down on his back. He yelped and scrambled out of the downpour. Debris littered the footpath around Brian. Then he heard screaming. Loo
ked up.

  Somebody was flying through the air. But only a short distance. The flailing body crash-landed on the roof of the Toyota.

  The bitch in the boot started up her shrieking again. Owen switched his gaze to the busted window. A big man in a suit dusted his hands off, a huge grin almost splitting his face in two. The smaller suit, Malachy, stood beside him. Owen gave him a nod.

  "You scared the shite out of me there."

  Malachy winked at him. "Sorry about that, boy. Did you get your fellah?"

  Owen pointed to Brian, still huddled on the footpath. "Got him, yeah. Thanks for letting him through." He swept his hand towards the Toyota. "You got yours as well, then?"

  "Got him good. Sorry about your motor. My colleague got a bit overexcited."

  "It's a hire car. Don't worry about it. I'm sure it'll still run. Looks like cosmetic damage, just."

  "Well, sorry for the hassle anyway. We better head on. The cops will probably arrive in half an hour or so."

  Malachy and his heavy stepped away from the broken window. Owen nodded to himself.

  Pretty reasonable for a druggie gangster, like.

  With his good ear, Owen heard the shuffle and scuffle of Brian struggling to his feet. He figured he'd throw the wee stoner into the boot with the screaming girl. It'd be tight, but maybe a bit of company would calm her.

  "Right, Morgan. Come here."

  "Can't... breathe... help."

  Brian had gotten onto his knees, but he remained there hugging his own chest. Owen must have done a real number on those ribs.

  "Get up, you big girl's blouse."

  "Trying... to."

  More than a little pleased with himself, and eager to get moving on the rest of Brian's nightmare, Owen stepped up to the wimp and extended his hand. Owen saw the glint in Brian's eye just a second before he launched an uppercut straight into his crotch. His whole body convulsed and he bent at the waist. Then his ruined ear thundered with pain. The world went black and grey. He felt four or five blows to the side of his head before he dropped to the tarmac and curled up into a ball. His kidneys flared as they absorbed a kicking.