Don't... (40 page)

“Jan—” said Gray.

I’d pulled out the one from underneath and started to shake. “Gray. Gray what the hell is this?”

No message, the photograph simply showed five severed fingers, all lined in a neat little row, nails removed and aligned with the corresponding fingers. And to the left of all that, a set of keys.

“Are they...” I looked at the Merc key fob.

“A copy of,” said Gray. “Ben was given a copy of Jack’s keys in order to give him extra access to his office, house, and car for his particular training.”

“And the fingers?” said Jess. I looked at her unable to think beyond the keys,
unwilling
to think beyond the keys.

“I’m guessing Ben’s by the sorority ring attached to the second finger,” said Gray. “The university he attended is one of the finest, and their psychology department likes to announce that fact. There’s always the option that the ring was planted, but the keys say otherwise.”

“You didn’t take them off him?” I hardly believed that Gray would be that lapse, but I needed to ask anyway.

“The keys were reclaimed,” said Gray, not having taken offence, but then I doubted my digs were foremost on his mind. “But if someone had access to Ben during training....”

“But....” I finally took another look at the photo. “Why Jack?” Gray came and flipped the photo over.

Don’t...

...sub for me, Jack.

I looked at him. Jack had mentioned something about a twelve-year-old having his fingers cut off by Cutter for not stealing a car. “Is... It’s Cutter?” I went close. “You don’t let that bastard cut him, Gray. Not again. Fucking promise me that.”

“I have to find Jack first,” said Gray, his lips thinning. “And then for his shit here today, I may just cut him myself.”

The Marston Hotel looked like one of those classy golfing hotels, lots of parking space, rooms, only sand was its playing field, and holiday guests its clientele. The drive from central London had taken a few hours with the various stops I’d had to make, and I pulled up just in the outskirts of Thorpe Bay, a little seaside resort in Essex, touching close to eleven. Darkness made the Thames Estuary ink black, a moving creature of thick muscle that mumbled somewhere off in the distance. Kids were long since tucked in bed, or off with their parents in the main town, slipping money into slot machines. Which meant this hotel was open all night and still up for taking bookings when I’d called earlier. I’d already been given the history: a family-run string of hotels, which only added to my black mood. I didn’t particularly want
family feel;
I wanted a double bedroom, the company of Jacky D, and a big fucking glass to pour it into. Simple life and all that bullshit.

“Mr. Michaels?” queried the receptionist, and I nodded at her as she read down the list of names. “Yes. Room 56B. Are you paying by cheque or cash?”

“Cash,” I mumbled and put enough notes down for a week, with an option to extend if needed. I’d had no cash on me, so I’d had to stop at the garage to raid the float. I doubted this would class as an emergency in Steve’s books, but, hell, it was my money. Steve had done a good job with the office, although the words were still stretched across the walls.
Fuck it
, I’d thought.
It’s not like I hadn’t been under Cutter’s knife before
.

“Would you like a hand with your bags?”

It was so fucking tempting. The clothes I had were courtesy of Jan’s place, the single carrier bag I held them in was courtesy of the off-license I’d stopped at, which also now hid a bottle of Jack’s finest at the bottom. If she’d have looked up and not just checked-off a list in her head, she’d have answered that herself.

“No, thank you,” I opted for instead, theorizing the quicker I played along, the quicker I could get out of here.

“A bellboy will take you to your room, sir. Have a nice stay.”

The bell was far from any fucking boy I’d seen, pushing his late forties and an even bigger chip on his shoulder. I was graced only with the back of his head in the ride in the elevator, then silence as we made our way to room 56B.

“Anything else, sir?”

I stood looking around the room while he held the front door open for a quick escape. “No thanks.” And I think I surprised him by giving him a tip. Hell, he’d kept his mouth shut; that was a big tipper in my book.

I hadn’t asked for anything special, and I certainly hadn’t been given it by the look of things. A two-by-four living room, a little portable TV that hadn’t been let out in public to see its cousins of “Flats” or HD qualities, a little complimentary tray in the corner, a small fold-down table against the wall, and a cheap two-seater settee. The bedroom at least offered a double bed and soft lighting, and back by the front door, another room that no doubt offered the basic restroom needs.

Throwing the bag on the bed and peeling out of my coveralls and shoes, then socks, I padded back through to the lounge and grabbed a glass off the complimentary tray. It was just a little shot thing, no bigger than a thimble (maybe a little bigger), but to be honest, it just saved me from drinking out of the bottle and feeling like a right sad-ass. I went back into the bedroom and fell onto the bag-free side of the bed.

Tossing the clothes aside, I grabbed Jack D’s neck and poured me a good measure.

“Jan and Gray,” I said, giving a toast. “And all that fucking bullshit.” I downed it in one, then started on the second.

Before it had even touched my lips, I growled, scrambled off the bed, opened the bedside drawer, then folded the clothes neatly into their space. I could do fuck all about the creases in them and quickly shut the drawer before taking out my phone and switching it off. A brief close of eye, I dropped it on the bedside unit and let it go casual. After slumping back on the bed, I called on another shot from my friend. I think the phone lasted five minutes before I was straightening it and starting all over again.

Sunlight forced me to crack open an eye, and I groaned, rubbing at my head. Something dug into my side, and I pulled at the offending item, Jack D, by the look of it, and lifted it up to make sure. One eye open, one closed, I didn’t need a measuring cup to tell me I made a lousy drinker. Three quarters of the bottle remained, and I let the bottle fall dejectedly at my side and rested my head back on the pillow. Fuck-knows where the glass had gone.

My watch told me it was touching eleven, although the sun coming through the open curtains was a good guider from how bloody bright and warm it felt. Yesterday’s clothes clung to my body, adding an uncomfortable feel as it mingled with the smell of sweat as I baked in the sun. Running my tongue over dry lips, then along teeth, the fur lining my mouth made me realise I’d forgotten the basics: toothbrush, paste, deodorant, shampoo, painkillers (from how my head pounded—a must), and I groaned again.

How the fuck could I be so bloody stupid? I’d have to do some shopping, and soon, very fucking soon.

A quick shower helped, a little. At least I had clean boxers and loose fitting joggers and shirt. Luckily there was some complimentary shampoo and soap, the latter not containing anything I’d class as antibacterial.

I added that to my list of “to gets” before letting the phone go casual on my desk, then headed on out in to town. No one had bothered me for breakfast, which meant it was self-serve, and if you didn’t self-serve, tough. Fine by me. I wasn’t feeling particularly hungry, or social.

My first stop was a pharmacy, and I grabbed what I needed. Then came a few new clothes, nothing special, sweats, T-shirt, shorts, all except for a shirt that caught my attention, and I slipped that in for good measure too.

Ignoring all the grinning kids running around, their griping parents, and couples stupid enough to fall in love, I locked my load in the boot of the car and headed for the beach.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt sand between my toes, and it felt surprisingly good with the heat on my back. I took it slow down to the water’s edge, content to hitch up the bottom of my sweats and let the cool water run over my feet as I walked the length of the beach.

It must have been half-term because the beach was full of kids, running, screaming, flying kites (or trying to), burying dad’s feet in the sand, and mum’s picnic sandwiches in the process. Fresh scent of hot waffles drifted over, intermingled with fish and chips, and the odd donut stand. Waffles topped with jam and cream had been a favourite when I was a kid; the square oozing to sticky degrees that had driven my mother mad every time I’d missed my mouth and dropped hot jam on my shirt.

To add to the sights and sounds, a trail of kids on donkeys passed me by, all jingles and giggles, and I smiled down at my feet. It filled the void a little, being around families, being reminded of my own. It couldn’t have been easy on my mother, having a seventeen-year-old kid tell her to fuck off as he rearranged the kitchen shelves at three in the morning, especially after coming in from a car-theft spree. Christ knows what she thought about my later antics; the cuts I couldn’t explain, the bruises. I think my old man had known, but he’d never said anything. When Gray came on the scene, there was just this quiet acceptance, an unsaid agreement between both of them to ignore each other. Had my old man known Gray was always on the scene? Probably. He wasn’t soft, not over me anyway.

Maybe it was that selfish side that made Gray and Jan fit so snugly together. Jan came with barely any baggage, Gray the time to explore whether that was really the case with Jan. Who wouldn’t? They were both drop-dead fucking gorgeous. They looked really good together. And that’s what pissed me off; they
looked
as though they belonged together, all class, manners, and softly spoken voices.

I kicked at the sand, then regretted it when I caught a buried rock. I was doing exactly what I hadn’t come here to do.

Limping my way back to my car, I made a promise that this week was all about forgetting.

I was sick of my own company by the third night and opted for a night on the town. My new shirt was decent enough to get me into a club, and I’d had my trousers dry-cleaned just... well, because. Usually I didn’t do the club scene, but by ten, halfway through another bottle of Jack D, I was pretty much up for a different set of walls, and booked a taxi for the morning with a view of not coming back until I saw daylight.

Happy Jack’s sounded like a good enough place for me (hell, it had my name, even if it had fucked-up over the first part), and I tried to look as un-inebriated as possible as I passed the doormen. Music thudded in my chest, not too bad on its own, but the throng of partygoers acted like carwash brushes against me as I made my way to the bar, and it grated on me something deep. Several times I had the shout of
get the fuck off
stuck in my throat, quickly followed by the temptation to shove at a few shoulders just to get some breathing space.

The far corner of the neon-lit bar had a spare stool, and I made my way over and took a seat. On the third attempt I caught the bartender’s attention and had to lean over the bar to make myself heard.

“Two beers, three Jack D’s.” Thought I might as well settle in and not disturb the busy chap for a while.

“Coming up.”

I handed over some notes, enough to cover the tab, and more than enough to encourage the bartender over when I needed a refill. Then I settled into my corner, content to drink and feel a little life around me.

The guy and his missus next to me were out on their anniversary with a few friends, or so that’s what I caught from their conversation. Occasionally the woman would get an arm slipped around her waist and something would be whispered into her ear that made her smile. Her look was purely for her husband (according to the wedding band on her finger), his look for her. Sweet to start off with, but after a few beers, just downright depressing, and I started on my Jack D’s.

“’Nother beer?” shouted the bartender and I held up a glass. Just the one. It came over, earning me a few glares from patrons as I jumped the queue, and I smiled back at each one, making sure they looked away first.