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“Where’s me fucking supper?”
“I’m sorry,” replied the female voice.
“You fucking will be! I ordered it over an hour ago.”
“What name?”
“Myers! I’m bleeding starving.”
“Very sorry, Mr Myers. Weather bad, not be long now.”
“I should bloody well think so. I dare say you’ll be knocking summat off for being late?”
“Very sorry, Mr Myers, be there soon.”
Myers replaced the receiver, irritated by their pathetic excuses. “It wasn’t snowing when I ordered it.” Back at the window, a peaceful solitude had presided over the street.
Myers returned to the middle of the room, slumped into the chair. A layer of dust sprayed outwards like a cloud of blowflies.
God, could it be any worse? It was all Summers’ fault. The sly bastard. If the man paid half decent money, I wouldn’t be in the mess I’m in.
Living in Beechtown was not Myers’ ideal position in life. No money, no car, no wife. The job he had wasn’t worth writing home about. Playing Santa Claus to a bunch of snotty nosed kids for a pittance.
Who the fuck did Summers think he was, anyway? What right does he have to dictate to me what I can and can’t do? Or how much I’ll work for?
But Myers knew exactly what right. He’d known for some time. He knew the hold Summers had over all of them. Thornwell and Plum had finally paid the price. He wondered if Summers had been responsible for their deaths.
Well, if he thinks he’s calling the shots anymore, he’s got another think coming. Fuck Summers! I’m not waiting around in this dump any longer for him to come and sort me out.
Myers had tried phoning Harry Clayton, but he hadn’t returned from his holiday.
You never know with Clayton. He’s as sly as the rest of the bastards. Maybe it’s him. Maybe Summers is using Clayton to sort out the rest of us. Come tomorrow morning, I’m out of here. Fuck the landlord, he can whistle for his rent. Fuck Summers, he knows what he can do with his underpaid jobs. From now on, it’s Frank Myers that counts. To hell with the rest of the world.
The sound of a car engine outside startled him from his thoughts. Once again, Myers heaved himself out of the chair, puffing and panting, grimacing from the pains in his knees as he hobbled toward the window. With a quick glance, he noticed the car had been parked half on the pavement.
“About fucking time.” Myers watched, impatiently. “Well, come on then, what are you doing?”
He noticed Jenny Price walk past the car. Bleeding whore! Aye, it were your bastard mate as done for me. Myers paused his thoughts, irritated by his hunger. “For fuck’s sake, will you hurry up?”
Jenny Price disappeared from view. Myers’ thoughts turned to her mate. Carol summat-or-other. What did it matter now? The bitch had died last year. AIDS.
Too much whoring around, I shouldn’t wonder. Before she’d died, she’d turned tricks for Myers. She was dirty, and it had cost him, but he had loved it at the time. Wasn’t so happy now.
Despite the low volume from the TV, he could hear the orgasmic groans, reminding him the tape was still playing. As he turned from the window, he noticed the driver’s door opening. He walked over and stopped the DVD, then returned to the window. The street was deserted. It was still snowing. A trail of footprints led to the front door of the flats.
Downstairs, Myers could hear the deliveryman taking the stairs, one at a time, slowly and deliberately. Chinky bastard! I’ll teach you to take your time. Myers reached the door as the knock came. He unlocked it, opening quickly, hoping to surprise his visitor with a mouthful of abuse before refusing to pay.
It all happened in the time it took him to blink.
Myers staggered backward, caught off-balance by the speed of the assault. “What the fuck have you done?” His eyes roamed down across his body to the source of the pain. It wasn’t really hurting, more of an irritation. Then he saw it. “A needle… fucking stabbed me!”
Something was wrong. He was slowing down. He tried to direct his right arm to remove the syringe, but it wouldn’t co-operate. Myers was suddenly aware that his body was traveling in a different direction. Backward. He was falling. His eyes finall
y came to rest on the ceiling.
His attacker came into view, staring down at him.
Myers lay on the floor, trying to rationalize what was happening to his body. His breathing was erratic. He could see. He could hear. But he couldn’t feel anything. His whole body was paralyzed. He couldn’t move a muscle.
