Winning the Game
April–August 2007
Manhattan
September 2007
He was a stocky, slightly rotund man, in his thirties or thereabouts, and he leaned against the van, looking perturbed. He took a long drag on his cigarette, wondering why Bart was taking so long. To his way of thinking, Bart should have done the job already and been back before now. And they should have been speeding away from the scene of the crime. He glanced at his watch; it was just a few minutes past four. They needed to be on their way. Heading back to London.
Wondering whether to go looking for Bart, he suddenly tensed, leaned forward, squinting in the sunlight coming through the trees. He listened acutely, frowning, wondering exactly what it was he had just heard. Scuffling? Branches breaking? Yes, that was it. And also a muffled scream? He wasn’t sure there had been a scream … but maybe there had.
He hoped to God that Bart wasn’t up to his old tricks. They’d be in the shit if he was. And really and truly in it. Like dead.
His impatience spiralled up, dragging with it sudden apprehension. Sam, for that was his name, made an instant decision. He dropped his cigarette on the dirt path, grinding it under his foot. Pulling the key out of the ignition, he shut the door of the van, and hurried down the path into the denser part of the woods. It grew dimmer, sky and sunlight obscured by the density of the trees that formed a dark canopy above him.
Within a couple of minutes, Sam was close to the clearing; sounds became more distinct … Bart cursing and hissing and breathing heavily … and then a female scream cut short by Bart. And more scuffling.
Sam cursed under his breath, began to run, shouting, ‘Bart! Bart! For Christ’s sake, stop it!’
Startled, Bart swung his head sharply, turned his body towards Sam, and in so doing left himself vulnerable.
The young woman pinned under him seized her opportunity. Bringing her right hand up, she bashed Bart hard on the side of his head with a rock, and did so with unusual force. Dropping the rock, she pushed him hard with both hands. Injured, blood spurting, Bart fell backwards.
Scrambling to her feet, pulling up her jeans, the girl ran away, sped deeper into the woods, shouting, ‘Gypo! Gypo! Come on, boy!’
Sam was still frozen to the spot, filled with shock at their failure. A horse whinnying, hooves thudding along the path, told him the girl had escaped. She was gone. They’d never catch her now.
Rousing himself, Sam ran over to Bart, who lay on his back, his eyes closed, his head and face covered in blood. Sam bent over him, found a faint pulse, heard even fainter breathing. Bart was alive. Well, for the moment. Stupid bastard he was, messing with the girl, trying to screw her. Served him right, it did.
Getting hold of Bart under the arms, Sam dragged him along the dirt path, pausing from time to time to catch his breath. He was sweating profusely. It was unusually warm for March. When he finally got him to the van he opened the back doors, managed to drag Bart inside. He hid him under a blanket, closed the doors, raced around to the driver’s seat, then backed the van along the dirt path until he came to the incline. Making a U-turn, he headed down onto the main road, began driving south. He didn’t know whether Bart was now dead or not. All he knew was that he had to get away from this area as fast as possible, before the girl raised the alarm.
His body was taut, his expression grim as he pushed ahead; after a while he began to slow his speed. All he needed was a local traffic cop on his arse.
Bloody hell, this was a disaster. Sam grimaced. The boss would have their guts for garters for messing up the way they had, for failing to eliminate the girl. No, hang on, it was Bart who’d failed. Not him. But understanding the way the boss operated, he was certain they’d both end up dead as a doornail.
Not if I can help it; not me, Sam muttered to himself. But what to do with an injured Bart or Bart’s body? How to deal with it? Dump it outside a hospital in another town? Leave it by the side of the road? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he had to save himself from the boss’s wrath …
Falling in Love August–December 2006
‘Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines, and silver hooks.’
From ‘The Bait’
by John Donne (1572–1631)
The young woman hurrying down Fifth Avenue was unaware of the stares as she plunged on determinedly through the downpour as though oblivious to it. She was, in fact, too consumed by her thoughts to notice passers-by.
They noticed her. They stared, nodded to themselves approvingly, or smiled with admiration. She drew attention for a number of reasons. She was rather exotic looking, with high cheekbones, black brows beautifully arched on her broad brow above large dark