Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

‘You are a loose cannon. You are unstable and unpredictable. My boss is not interested in you. Just be pleased I met and listened to you today. Not many people have that privilege. This meeting is now over.’

‘Privilege, you twat!’ Turner’s fist shook angrily. Other people in the establishment were beginning to take an interest in proceedings. ‘Privilege? I’m gonna fuck you and your boss up good and proper, mate, you shitless wonders.’

The driver stepped up close behind Turner. ‘That’s enough. Behave yourself.’

There was a doom-laden pause during which Turner could have gone either way. Eventually he stood upright again, still glaring with ferocity. ‘You’ve made a mistake here, mister big-shot. I will screw your operation up, big style. You will regret this.’

The Spaniard pursed his lips pensively. ‘Mr Verner will take you back. Adios .’ He nodded at the driver, who nodded back with understanding.

They were in no rush to return. In fact Jo Coniston did not want to go back — ever. She did not want to have any form of interaction with Al Major, particularly after this evening’s very unsuccessful operation against Andy Turner, which, she was certain, would be put down to her. She would be Major’s scapegoat.

After the coffee at the motorway services, she and O’Brien drove east along the M61 into Lancashire. They came off at Chorley. Instead of looping back on to the motorway as they should have done, Jo — who was now driving — went towards Chorley down the A6.

As they circuited the town centre, she suddenly turned left and headed towards Rivington.

‘Fancy a little drive through the country?’ she said.

‘Seems I have no choice in the matter,’ smiled O’Brien. ‘Just so long as you don’t pretend to run out of petrol in the middle of nowhere and expect to have your wicked way with me.’

The withering glance from female to male told him there would be zero chance of that happening.

Verner knew what he had to do and did not dawdle. Turner stormed out of the restaurant ahead of him, his fuming rage apparent with every footfall. Verner followed as Turner went out and stalked toward the 4x4, amused by the antics.

‘Come on, get the car open,’ Turner demanded.

Verner pointed the remote and the doors unlocked with a squelching noise. Turner swung in and dropped on to the front passenger seat.

‘Who the fuck does he think he is?’ he insisted.

As he slid the key into the ignition, Verner said, ‘A very powerful man — and you should not have spoken to him like that.’

‘When I say he’ll regret it — he’ll regret it,’ Turner said dangerously.

Verner was fiddling with the ignition — apparently. Trying to get the key turned.

In reality, he was reaching to the small shelf under the dash on which loose change might normally be stored, though in this case a small revolver was resting on it. Verner’s hand slid over it, his fingers slotting into place around it.

He moved silkily, almost without speed it seemed, yet he was lightning quick. He sat upright, twisted towards Turner slightly and raised the weapon. It had a stubby barrel and was loaded with bullets designed to enter the heads of victims, ping around like a bagatelle causing massive brain damage and hopefully not exit outside the other side of the head. Turner did not see it coming. He was facing away from Verner, staring moodily out of the door window.

Verner put the muzzle against the back quarter of Turner’s head, just above the ear. As soon as he touched, he pulled the trigger — twice. The sound was dreadful in the confines of the vehicle, but no so bad as the damage caused to the inside of Turner’s cranium.

Verner’s wrist recoiled slightly with the power of the shots and he ducked quickly in an effort to dodge the inevitable back-spray of brain tissue and juice as Turner’s head twisted grotesquely and smashed against the window.

After a series of brutal jerks of his body’s nervous system, Turner’s whole being relaxed as he died.

Verner pulled him upright and drew the seat belt across his chest, then pushed him up against the door jamb and wedged him there at an angle. His head lolled down, chin on chest.

Verner set off with his dead passenger.

The roads around Rivington were dark and winding, often unlit by street lamps. Jo decided she needed a razz to get something fundamental out of her pent-up system. She floored the accelerator pedal and told O’Brien to hold on for the ride of a lifetime.

He did as instructed.

Jo threw the car around the unlit country roads, going for broke around blind corners and long straight stretches, braking hard, changing up and down, fast and accurately, pushing the car to its screaming limits.

She was thoroughly enjoying herself, though her companion had a look of abject dread on his countenance. Even without being able to see him properly, Jo knew O’Brien’s complexion had gone sickly grey. However, he remained silent, probably numbed by the experience he was having.

‘Yee-hah!’ she yelled as she roared down a forest road.

‘Jesus Christ — look out!’ screamed O’Brien, breaking his silence.

Ahead, just in the extremity of the main beam, was a big, black shape with eyes that were red rubies in the headlights.

A deer.

Jo wrestled with the wheel, cursing, slamming on the brakes. But she could not do anything to avoid hitting the stationary beast, which remained facing them, defiant in the centre of the road.

‘Oh no,’ uttered O’Brien.

Jo braced herself for the impact. O’Brien cowered and covered his eyes, instinctively bringing his knees up for protection, and waited for the deer to come crashing through the windscreen.

But with a mighty, unbelievably muscular and giant leap, the deer was gone into the pitch-black woods. It was as though it had never been there in the first place.

The car swerved to a halt, slewed at an angle to the road. The engine stalled with a judder. The new silence was almost tangible.

Jo sat there, hands gripping the wheel, knuckles white, breathing unsteady, feeling very ill. She stared at the road, unsure if there ever had been a deer there in the first place, whether it had just been a mirage.

Slowly she turned her head and looked at O’Brien. He was shaking visibly.

‘I need a fag,’ he said.

‘Me too.’

‘You don’t smoke.’

‘Do now.’

They climbed out of the car and leaned against it. O’Brien lit up and offered one to Jo, but she refused. Alcohol was what she needed really.

‘Sorry ’bout that,’ she said meekly.

‘Got it out of your system then?’

She nodded.

‘Let’s go back, nice ‘n’ easy and we might just be able to get to the pub for a drinkie-pooh if we’re lucky.’ He ground out his quarter-smoked cig.

‘Good speech.’

‘And I’ll drive,’ he said, rushing to the driver’s seat before she could argue the toss. Dragging her feet, she got in next to him. He set off more sedately. He drove past Rivington Barn in the direction of Horwich, a small town west of Bolton. He intended to cut back down on to the M61 and get back into Manchester that way.

The 4x4 passed them going in the opposite direction as they reached the motorway junction.

The dead man was annoying Verner intensely. He would not stay sitting upright, kept lolling about as though he was. . dead.

‘Sit the fuck up,’ Verner said angrily, pushing the drooping figure back into the corner of the seat, trying to wedge him by the stanchion. Turner was being uncooperative, even though it was not really his fault. Verner did not stop driving, but tried to keep Turner in place with his outstretched left arm, doing all the driving with his right.