The Running Game (Reachers Book 1)

by L E Fitzpatrick

  “What if she's already left the city?”

  “She can't move that fast on foot. She'll have gone to the train station. Not the closest one to her.” He clicked his fingers. “Trinity, she could walk there quick enough. She won't have the money to go south, north is out with the winter coming. She'll be westbound.”

  John pulled back onto the road. “What if you're wrong?”

  “When have I ever been wrong?”

  “Do you want the list?”

  “Fine, drop me off. You head to the hospital, then her flat, make sure she isn't there and keep an eye out for Pinky's boys. We don't want them thinking we're involved in her disappearance.”

  9

  The afternoon daylight whipped at Roxy's eyes. His tuxedo was scarred with debauchery and torn at the sleeve. He scratched at his mop of yellow hair and scanned the bleary faces around him. Despite the hangover, the vomit stains over his trousers, and his missing socks, it had been a very profitable night. He was poor of pocket but rich with information. He fished out a packet of liquorice cigarettes and ran one under his nose. Breakfast; the most important smoke of the day.

  He checked his phone as he meandered down the street, looking for an update from his beloved mother as she recovered in hospital. The burns to her arms and legs weren't as bad as some of her girls, but broken pride was difficult to mend. She'd left him just one message, some filth about one of her doctors. Roxy sent a quick text back, telling her he was close.

  It wasn't his usual line of work, but his play at being a detective had paid off. A few days poking in the right places had spooked out the identity of the bastard who planted the bomb on his mother's doorstep and once he knew the man the rest of the plot fell into place.

  Donnie Boom had been a name from the past. By the time Roxy took to the strip the Scotsman was an urban legend; the man who had taken down Frank Morris and then disappeared into the sunset. Only now he was back, or at least he was rumoured to be. And the mad Scotsman was scratching at old wounds again, stirring up the forgotten history between his dear old mum and the Morris family.

  Seven years had done a lot to suppress the tension between Lulu Roxton and Pinky Morris. The feud was long over, or at least it had been until Donnie Boom started living up to his namesake again. Now Roxy's mum was laid up in a hospital bed and somebody was going to have to pay. One way or the other Donnie was going to pay. The only thing Roxy didn't know: who was Donnie working for?

  He skipped through the traffic on his way to Pinky's club. All he needed was the go-ahead from Pinky and the status quo would resume. And why wouldn't Pinky authorise the killing? Donnie had blown up his brother after all, hell he'd probably pay Roxy to do it.

  Roxy turned the corner and stopped mid-step. He couldn't believe it. Two men were walking out of the club. Two men that he never expected to see in S'aven again. Roxy sidled back into the shadows and watched the Smith brothers leave. An unusual stirring of emotion started to build in him. It had been just over a year since he'd last been in the company of his old team and the taste in the back of his mouth was still bitter. There were no coincidences in this world, only opportunities and if the Smiths were back then he might just be in luck.

  He waited until their car turned off and resumed his swagger. He didn't have an appointment, but he knew Pinky would be expecting him to drop by at some point. He took the main entrance to the club, greeting the staff as though he owned them. Everyone knew Roxy; the penniless, the millionaires, he was everybody's friend, until of course he ripped you off.

  Pinky's boys were clustered around a table counting the takings in front of the empty cage. Roxy smiled to himself, Pinky's boys – they were all old enough to be his father. And any one of them could be. Fat Joe noticed him first. He nodded, wobbling the jowls of flab dangling from his face. With that the others stopped counting the wads of cash.

  Joe wheezed, about to stand up. He was Pinky's bookkeeper, the Morris money man and Pinky's cousin on his mother's side. His business was Pinky's money and the mere sight of Roxy's sticky fingers made him more than nervous.

  “What do you want?” he panted.

  “Just a word with the boss, don't stress yourself Joe, it's not good for the arteries.”

  The office door opened behind him. Stiletto heels struck the floor.

  “Well look what the cat dragged in,” a voice called from behind.

  “Riva, my darling, I think you get more beautiful each time I see you,” Roxy charmed.

  “James Roxton, as smooth talking as usual. What can we do for you?”

  Roxy pursed his lips. “How's about one of your specials?”

  Her smirk grew and she gestured that he follow her to the bar, swaying her hips as she walked. She was a damn fine looking woman and Roxy had almost forgotten what he came in for. She handed him a drink and watched eagerly as he tried it.

  “Absolutely divine, and the drink isn't that bad either.”

  “You here to see Pinky then?”

  “I'll settle for a seat here staring at you all day if he's not around.”

  She sighed. “You know I'm old enough to be your mother, don't you? How is she? I heard what happened.”

  “Oh you know mum, she'll bounce back. She'd be out of hospital by now except she mentioned something about a young doctor's backside that has caught her fancy.”

  Riva laughed. “Lulu's a hard woman to keep down. Give her my best won't you.” She gestured to the back door. “Go on, he's waiting for you.”

  Pinky was at his desk when Roxy walked in. He toyed with a cup of coffee, real coffee, not the stuff they tried to sell in the rest of the city. He didn't offer Roxy a cup.

  In the general scheme of things Roxy would have been more than happy to see Pinky Morris up to his knees in concrete and indulging in a bit of deep sea diving. He was pretty sure Pinky thought the same about him. But they were both mutual club owners, both men of a certain way of life and traditions. Even with thirty years between them they were more alike than most of the people in S'aven. And out of a truce eventually comes respect.

  “Roxy, take a seat.”

  “You know why I'm here?”

  “Yes, I heard about what happened at Lulu's,” Pinky said with an air of indifference. “How is your mother?”

  “Recovering.”

  “I should send her some flowers.”

  “She'd appreciate chocolates more.” As Roxy took a seat, he couldn't help but wonder whether he was sitting in John or Charlie's place.

  “So, I hear your man Donnie Boom is back in town.”

  “Who told you that?”

  Roxy checked his dirty nails. “Two of our girls spotted a man matching his description. Hideously scarred, red haired Scotsman with an enthusiasm for explosives. Not that I am ever one to cast aspersions, but you can probably follow my train of thought.”

  “Donnie dropped off the map seven years ago.”

  “I know. Right after he killed your brother. But I'm guessing, if you didn't take him out of the picture, there's a good chance he's back.” Roxy sat back, trying to work out what was going through Pinky's head. The guy was so difficult to read.

  “And you think that Donnie is back and is the one who blew up Lulu's?”

  “Unless you know another insane Scot missing an eye and half their fingers.” Roxy leaned forward. He wasn't a gangster, he wasn't even considered a dangerous man in S'aven, but Roxy had popularity and friends in the right places. He knew how the city worked and he knew the line he was walking was hairline at best. But Donnie Boom had put his mother in the hospital and there were some things men just couldn't be allowed to walk away from.

  “The thing is Pinky, I'm a suspicious man. Not outright paranoid I'll grant you, but when a man comes back from the dead just to take out my mum my first thought is why?” Roxy paused. Pinky wasn't giving anything away.

  “I'm curious, what did you come up with?”

  He shrugged. “I know about the troubles Mum had with Frank and I know
she wasn't entirely innocent in the conflict between you back then. I've got to ask you Pinky, face to face, because I respect you. Did you take a hit out on her?”

  “I have no problem with your mother Roxy. She's a good business woman. I have no reason to want her dead.” Pinky's hand flattened a beige file on his desk nonchalantly.

  Roxy sighed in relief. For a minute there he felt like he'd been walking along the edge of a full scale war. He started to laugh. “I'm sure glad to hear you say that, Pinky. We're happy with the way things are in S'aven, it would be a damn shame if things should come to blows for something that has been seven years forgotten.”

  “Not forgotten,” Pinky corrected. “Forgiven.”

  “You understand I've got to take Donnie out. He's got to pay. I'd really appreciate it if I could have your blessing.”

  Pinky put his cup down. He leaned back in his chair – the master in the room.

  “Now you see Roxy, this is where we hit a bit of a problem. If Donnie is, as you say, back, then it's got to be me who is going to deal with him.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  Pinky didn't answer.

  “Then I guess it's first come first serve.”

  “If my men need dealing with I'll deal with them.”

  “So you'll take care of your man?”

  “If something needs to be taken care of I will do it.”

  It wasn't the answer Roxy was looking for. He regarded the other man suspiciously. There was more going on than Roxy knew. On the wall there were pictures of the good old days, when Pinky and his brother were terrorising S'aven like they owned the place.

  “Mum and Frank.” Roxy patted his legs. “That is some jaded history there. First she worked for him. He knocked her about. She stole his girls, set up on her own. Happened to do a lot better.” Roxy started to laugh to himself. “Do you remember when he sent his guys to smash up her place?”

  Pinky wasn't amused. “As I recall it was the week before he died.” There was a threatening tone to his voice, but it wasn't in Roxy's nature to back down.

  “Seem to remember that your brother was blown apart by one Donald Mac-crazy-Boom.”

  “That's what the people say,” Pinky replied.

  “Which makes me curious, given he's back in town with both his kneecaps functioning. Not to mention taking out old Morris grudges.”

  “Curiosity is a dangerous thing Roxy.”

  “What can I say, I'm an adrenaline seeker. The way I see it, Pinky, is I'm doing you a favour. Donnie Boom took out your brother, I end him and the situation is dealt with. You send Mum chocolates, she'll send you a fruit basket and we'll all go carolling at Christmas.”

  Again Pinky's hand touched the beige file. He was hiding something – protecting something.

  “How old are you Roxy? Twenty-eight, twenty-nine?”

  “Thirty-one,” Roxy corrected.

  “You're a youngster and I respect your mother enough not to kick you back into the gutter you crawled out of. I've seen you on the streets, you're a loner and eventually you'll end up riding the current to a watery grave. Guys like you burn out quickly, so quickly men like me don't need to give you a second thought.” Pinky rested forward on his desk. “You get involved in this situation and you will disappear Roxy, only unlike Donnie you won't be coming back.”

  Roxy started to laugh at the absurdity of the threat. “I guess there's nothing more to say then. I'm sorry we couldn't come to an understanding.” He offered to shake the other man's hand.

  Then Pinky struck. For an old guy he moved fast. Roxy didn't even see it coming. His hand was pinned against the desktop. All of Pinky's strength holding it in place; the gangster's wiry fingers pinching through the fleshy dips in Roxy's wrist. He knew how to make it hurt. Roxy was about to retaliate and that's when he saw the cleaver. Somehow the old man had got hold of it, or maybe it had been there all along. Either way it was hovering over Roxy's fingers.

  “Do you think I got here by taking shit off whoresons like you? You are just the product of my business. Your slag of a mother got stuck with you because she was on her back for me, you fucking pathetic bastard!”

  He rested the blade on Roxy's knuckles. It was heavy and sharp.

  “I heard a rumour you were musical Roxy, a bit of a piano player when the mood struck you. Do you think you'll miss it?” He raised the cleaver.

  Roxy squeezed his eyes shut. Pinky smacked him in the face with the back of the handle. He fell back on the floor, dragging most of the desk with him. His head was swimming but his hand was free and attached. He looked up at Pinky. The frail old man in the yellow cardigan glared at him with wild eyes.

  “You're going to leave S'aven for a while James. Take your mother away, come back after the winter. Or it won't be just pieces of you they find scattered across the city; there'll be pieces of her too.”

  Roxy clambered up off the floor. He was covered in papers. He brushed them off as he stood up and then stopped. On the floor there was a picture of a girl in scrubs leaving St Mary's Hospital. There was writing underneath the photograph and the hand was all too familiar.

  He glanced at Pinky and wiped the blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. There were times for cocky comments, but when the psychopath blocking the doorway was holding a large cleaver it was better to just play scared.

  “Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I'll leave tonight.”

  Roxy could scurry like a refugee fleeing from a water cannon when he had to. He made a show of it for the men in the club. Let them think he was afraid and out of his depth. Let them think he wasn't a threat. Let them be surprised. The outside world hit him and the coward fell away.

  He swaggered up the road, humming to himself, the picture of the girl hung in his head. There was something familiar about her; he just couldn't put his finger on what it was. He lit up another cigarette and drew several drags hoping it would jog his memory. The girl remained a mystery, but the handwriting at least was a no-brainer. The Smith brothers were working for Pinky Morris. They would know who the girl was. Roxy licked his lips. And if Pinky Morris wanted the mystery girl Roxy would get to her first. This was the end of their truce. This was war.

  * * *

  Pinky gathered up the file as his wife joined him. She stood in the doorway with her arms folded. The meat cleaver hadn't escaped her attention and it was clear she didn't approve.

  “What did he want?” She asked.

  “Donnie Boom.”

  “Understandable given what Donnie did. We don't need Roxy causing us trouble.”

  “I shook the kid up, he's out of the picture,” Pinky replied nonchalantly. He was pleased with himself. It had been a long time since someone had looked at him like he was a genuine threat.

  “I still think you should cut Donnie loose, we don't need him.”

  “Not until we have the girl. And that won't be long. The Smith Brothers think they've found her.” He fished out Rachel's photograph and handed it to her.

  “She's got her sister's eyes,” Riva said regretfully. “Do they know about her powers?”

  “No, that's between us alone.”

  “Us and Donnie,” Riva replied.

  “Not for too much longer.”

  Pinky took the picture back. Things would be different, he promised himself. He knew where his brother went wrong and he wouldn't make those same mistakes. Roxy was scared of him, and soon the rest of the city would be too.

  10

  Rachel arrived in S'aven a month after her seventeenth birthday. As she shuffled off the train at Trinity Station her head had been an onslaught of naïve ambitions and excitement. The convent was gone and she was free. Soon she would be with her sister and the world would be theirs. But it never happened. Her sister was killed, and instead of liberation S'aven became just another prison; bigger, noisier and more dangerous.

  As Rachel waited in that same station, seven years later, watching the rats duel with the pigeons, she realised it would be the same wherev
er she went. The prison was countrywide because she was a prisoner on the run and that would never change. They blamed Reachers for everything; she was guilty by nature and no jury would ever say otherwise.

  Police marched up and down the boardwalk, shining lights on those huddled around their worn suitcases or battered sacks. They checked the faces of the men and women, even the children, looking for fugitives. People only left S'aven when they had to. It was the cops' job to work out what they were running from.

  She could see them questioning a couple, checking their bags over and over while the husband insisted they were just going to see family. His wife was pretty, and the cops were enjoying making her squirm. They made the couple turn, press their hands against the wall. They only bothered to search the wife, laughing as her husband protested their innocence. She was smart though; she told him to be quiet–a quick feel was better than getting shot in the head.

  “Do you want to know why we're leaving? Because of this!” The husband yelled.

  With other cops this would have been a step too far, but these two were in good humour. They released the woman, squeezing her backside as she gathered her things. Then they wished them luck – a couple like that were going to need it.

  Then it was time to move on. Their flashlights darted about as they headed towards the end of the platform. They passed two men in suits. There was no talk, the men held out a roll of notes, the cops took it and moved on. Rachel sat away from them all, she rested her head back and closed her eyes as they started to approach. They never even looked her way.

  The train was running late. There were rumours about insurgents commandeering the northern lines and taking passengers hostage. The longer the delays, the more people remembered what was outside the city walls. S'aven had civilisation and work and food. It was right beside London where people still had money and the world still ran like it was supposed to. But outside the border, beyond the protection of the rational south there was so much unknown. Rachel stared at the arched exit out of the city; for her at least, it was the lesser of two evils.