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According to Frank, the bikers had returned two nights after. And they were royally pissed off for missing their bounty. Frank said the newspaper reported that they’d tied Jake up. Frank reckoned they’d tried to get Jake to spill where the woman and her little girl had been moved to. Of course, he didn’t have a clue. So they shot him dead, afraid Jake would rat them out to the police.
Shaun’s mind was racing.
His instincts had been right. Those holes he’d seen sprayed into the living room walls, they were bullet holes. No wonder the Brits wanted to dispose of the place. Once the Cobras had rumbled the safe house, it was unusable after.
So, why had they given it to him? Was it no longer a risk now that things had calmed down, or had they simply thought that with his background that he could handle the Cobras?
Frank promised over the phone to keep a close eye on Claire, though they both convinced themselves by the end of the call that things were a lot different now and that Jake’s shooting had been a one-off, thank God. Still, Frank didn’t know about the contract that was out on Shaun. And he didn’t know that Claire had been tracked down halfway across Europe.
Shaun tried to think about it rationally. The Scousers were hardly the Mafia. And anyway, it was a bloody long way from New Brighton to New Zealand.
It was late in the evening when Claire responded to him.
Claire: Mr Cobain? Is that you?
His heart pounded when he saw the reply notification flash up on his screen.
Shaun: Call me Shaun, please. Have you recovered from your flight?
Claire: Yes. Though I’m still waking up wanting to eat in the middle of the night. Your place is amazing. It’s so tranquil here.
That was a relief. She liked the place. He thought about his response. What if he confessed to her right there and then? Admit to her who he was. How would she react?
No, he chickened out, he needed to keep in role for now. Until he was more sure about things.
Shaun: You ready for some work?
Claire: Yes. Of course. I noticed the bedrooms in one wing need repainting. Do you want me to start on those?
Shaun: Good idea
Claire: Any particular colour?
Shaun: You decide
Claire: You sure? Celia and I were complimenting your interior design skills. You’ve got a great eye for colours, so I’m super-nervous about getting it wrong
Shaun was puzzled. Most of the paint he’d used were neutrals and greys.
Shaun: You won’t. The pots I’ve used are in the barn. Use the same colours, if you’re not sure
Claire: I’m so grateful to my friend for sending me the advert for this job. Do you know Jason?
Dammit! Had she sussed him out?
Shaun: Jason?
Claire: Oh. Never mind. It was a long shot. He said that the advert was from a friend
Shaun: That’s possible, I sent it to lots of people
Claire: Jason’s an airline pilot. Says he’d like to come over sometime to visit if that’d be alright?
This was getting complicated.
Shaun: Sure. Once the bedrooms are painted, there’ll be plenty of space for guests
Claire: Great. He’s gay. And single
Shaun: You trying to hook me up?
Claire: No!
The typing paused. She was obviously embarrassed. What was going on in her head? Did she think that he was gay too? Where had that come from?
Celia. He bet she’d jumped to conclusions after he’d closed down her attempts at matchmaking.
Amused, he stretched back onto his single bed. Never mind, her assumptions might help ease things between them.
Shaun: Good night, Claire
Claire: Good night, Shaun. Thanks again for the opportunity
Chapter 12
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“Want summat to eat?”
Irish signalled over towards the prison officer for permission to move.
“Yeah, okay,” Tony agreed.
The guard gave them the nod.
Tony wedged the second magazine that his brother had got through security into the elasticated waistband of his joggers.
Together they made their way over to the hatch at the far end of the hall. Visitors could buy a cup of tea or a bite to eat there. And the time-served lags who manned it were doing ‘through the gate’ training for a national sandwich chain, their promised employment on release.
“How’s Mum?”
Tony’s eyes scanned around shiftily as they queued up at the hatch.
Irish sensed his unease. Even here, in full view of the guards, you had to watch your back. Especially now he was carrying thousands of pounds worth of psychoactive infused paper rolled up in his joggers.
“Fine. She misses you. Says she’ll come up in a fortnight and bring baby Leighton with her.”
“Ah, that’ll be nice. I can’t wait to see him again. Hope he’ll know I’m his dad.”
Irish sniffed.
“Don't be daft. ‘Course he will.”
It was the baby’s mother Tony needed to worry about. From the Snapchat pictures of her out clubbing, she didn’t look like she was missing Tony much these days.
He’d sent her a little warning though. The pinkie of the lad she’d copped off with in the club. It would be a memorable shag for that bloke.
“I’m starving. Wanna soup?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
He fixed his eyes on the balding man behind the counter.
“Whitey? How you doin’ la?”
The older man nodded back.
“Not bad, Irish. A bit of luck, and I’ll be out soon.”
He took in the logo on Whitey’s apron; ‘Sandwich Artist in Training.’
“You gonna be spreadin’ butties when ya get out then, eh?
“Summat like that.”
“Great career choice, Whitey. Plenty of dough in that, I hear.”
“Yeah, I see what ya did there. Very fuckin’ funny.”
The portly female officer by his shoulder coughed.
Irish nodded towards the large urn on the counter.
“What’s the soup?”
“It’s fuckin’ chicken.”
The officer cleared her throat loudly.
“John, we talked about this,” she reprimanded him. “You can’t talk to customers like that. It’s not fucking chicken is it?”
Whitey opened the lid and carefully studied the contents of the steaming pot.
“Sorry, Miss. No, you’re dead right. It’s not fuckin’ chicken.”
He gave Irish and his kid brother a cheeky wink.
“It’s fuckin’ tomato.”
Irish snorted.
“Two fuckin’ tomato soups it is then, Whitey.”
The officer humphed, and the men sniggered their way back to their table.
“Little victories,” he reflected out loud, sitting back down with his brother. “It’s the only way to survive this place. Don’t let the bastards get to yer, our kid.”
They sipped at the tepid soup for a minute or so.
Irish studied Tony’s face distorting into a frown. The way it always did when he was wrangling with something.
“What’s up?”
“Why d’ya call him Whitey? We all know his name’s John Cullen. He lives ‘round the corner from our Nan.”
Irish stared at his little brother. Was he always this stupid?
“‘Cos he drives the van. Does the deliveries.”
“Yeah, but… his van, it’s not even white?”
“It was once, alright.”
A sulky silence settled between them.
He looked back towards his brother. Tony wasn’t letting this go, he could tell.
“But… he had a black one. I know, ‘cos when I was a kid I robbed it.”
“Shut up will yer.”
Irish’s voice became a gruff whisper.
“We can’t go changin’ his name every single time he changes the colour of his
soddin’ van, can we? That’d be stupid. He’s Whitey, okay! End of.”
“Jesus, don’t do yer nut in. I was only askin’.”
“Look, I’m sorry, alright? Whitey owes me a favour or two. He’ll look after you in here.”
Irish met his brother’s eye.
“Sandwich artist, my arse.”
“Yeah,” Tony smirked back, “He’ll never live that one down.”
You need anything, our kid, if there’s any bother, you get word to Whitey, alright?”
Tony nodded.
“I will. Don’t you worry nutin’ about me.”
He was glad to hear that others from the firm were here somewhere. It made things easier, having associates in there, even if they were on other wings. And being Irish’s brother counted for a lot.
“You managed to track down the grass yet?” Tony asked him under his breath.
His eye twitched. He’d lost count of the dead ends and false sightings he’d fielded in the last few weeks. And now, since Mac had botched things up, Edwards’ bird had gone cold too. No postings. No nothing.
“Let it go, bruv.”
“Can’t.”
“Why?”
“‘Leave it, Tone. I can’t, alright?
His little brother was doing it again. Needling him. He always could call him out. Spot his weaknesses.
