James Craig - What Dies Inside

‘One or two,’ Dom admitted. ‘Wankers. They should have minded their own fucking business.’

‘So,’ Carlyle persisted, ‘did you jump, or were you pushed?’

‘I jumped.’

Carlyle raised an eyebrow.

‘No, really.’ Taking the packet of Embassy from the table, Dom shoved it back in his pocket, fishing out a couple of pound notes in the process. ‘There were some murmurings before I left, but no one got round to starting any disciplinary proceedings or anything like that. My discharge was perfectly honourable.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ Carlyle sniggered.

Dom waved the notes across the table. ‘The point is, what I do now is far more lucrative. I’m good at it and I’m my own boss. There was no point in hanging around being a hopeless plod for thirty years just so I could collect my pension.’ Pushing back his chair, Dom jumped to his feet and went over to the counter to pay for breakfast. ‘No offence.’

‘None taken.’ Carlyle smiled limply.

Out on the street, Dom turned in the direction of his flat. ‘I need to get going. Sam’s waiting.’

‘OK,’ Carlyle said.

‘What are you up to?’

Carlyle looked at his watch. ‘I’m off to the Cottage this afternoon; taking my dad to see Fulham.’

‘Oh yeah, who are they playing?’ Dom’s tone displayed a complete lack of interest. I wouldn’t be interested in bloody football either, Carlyle thought, if I was heading off to cavort with Sam Hudson. Belatedly, he remembered why he’d come over to see his mate in the first place. Pulling the flyer out of the back pocket of his jeans, he unfolded it and handed it to Dom.

‘Ever heard of this place?’

Dom looked at the picture of the bucking bronco and nodded. ‘Yeah, I know the McDermott Arms.’ He handed the flyer back to Carlyle. ‘It’s an Irish pub on Kilburn High Road. Not exactly home turf, but I’ve been known to do a little bit of business up there, now and again. Why do you ask?’

‘It just came up in something I was looking at,’ Carlyle replied vaguely.

‘Well, constable ,’ Dom chuckled, ‘be advised that the McDermott Arms is most definitely not the kind of place for a boy like you. Not unless you’ve got thirty mates from the Riot Squad with you, all tooled up and ready for a ruck.’ He gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder and started off down the road. ‘See you soon.’

‘Have fun,’ Carlyle mumbled, the words sticking in his throat.

Propping himself up with a pillow, Harry Cahill watched Rose Murray lean over the edge of the bed and unceremoniously spit his ejaculate into an empty coffee cup sitting on the bedside table. All passion spent, a vague sense of irritation washed over him. ‘Why can’t you just swallow it?’ he complained.

Wiping her chin on the crumpled bedsheet, Rose scowled. ‘What’s it to you?’ she said. ‘And, anyway, when was the last time your wife gave you any kind of blow job, full stop?’

Good point , conceded Cahill. Oral sex had never been on the menu at home at the best of times, and these were a long way from being the best of times.

Rose let an arm drop to the floor. Fumbling for a packet of John Player Special and a green Bic lighter, she placed a cigarette between her lips and offered one to Cahill.

‘Nah.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Lighting up, she tossed the packet and the lighter on to the bed and took a firm drag on the cig.

He watched her send a stream of smoke towards the ceiling and fall back on the bed. ‘So. . how are things going at the moment?’

‘Don’t try and make small talk,’ she admonished him, inhaling deeply for a second time. ‘I know the drill: all you want to do is fuck me and then pump me for information.’ Folding her arms across her breasts, she shook her head angrily, ‘Trust me to end up being blackmailed by some bent copper from Special Branch.’

‘Those are the breaks,’ he said, absentmindedly scratching his belly.

‘Thanks a lot.’ Taking a third long drag on her cigarette, she leaned over and dropped it into the coffee cup.

Staring at his midriff, Cahill wondered if there might be any life left down there. That was one of the problems of getting older — his powers of recovery were definitely waning. ‘As I’ve told you before,’ he yawned, ‘if you want to play at being a trust-fund terrorist, you’ve got to take the rough with the smooth.’

‘Fuck you!’ Lashing out, she smacked him on the arm, before jumping from the bed like a scalded cat. Standing at the end of the bed, hands on hips, tears mingled with the hatred in her eyes. ‘I don’t owe you anything, you bastard.’

Looking her up and down, Cahill felt a pleasant warmth spread through his groin. Rolling off the bed, he thrust out an arm, letting his hand tighten around her throat as he marched her backwards.

‘Ow! Get off me, you cunt!’ She tried to direct a kick between his legs, but he dodged the blow, pulling her up as she stumbled backwards and slamming her into the wall.

‘Now listen to me, you stupid bitch,’ he hissed, trying to conceal the level of exertion in his voice. ‘Just because you decided to disown your rich family in Knightsbridge and screw a bunch of mentally defective, sheep-shagging terrorists, that doesn’t make you Joan of fucking Arc.’ Squirming, she tried to spit at him but he tightened his grip round her neck and the saliva barely managed to trickle down her chin. ‘Trying to burgle your family home to raise funds for the armed struggle was one of the most stupid things I have ever seen in my life.’

‘We’re making a stand,’ she panted, ‘standing up to the power of the privileged elite.’

‘Yeah,’ Cahill scoffed, ‘and that doorman you hit over the head with a hammer will be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.’ She made one last attempt to wriggle free, but he could sense that the fight had gone out of her. That was the thing with rich kids, they had no stamina. She tried another curse, but all that came out was a fragile wail. ‘If it wasn’t for me,’ Cahill continued, ‘you would have got at least eight years in Holloway for what you did. You’ve got a fucking good deal out of me.’ Releasing his grip, he took a step backwards.

Rubbing her neck, Rose dropped her gaze to his waist. ‘It turns you on, doesn’t it, you sick bastard?’

Looking down at his restored erection, Cahill grinned. ‘I guess it does.’ He gestured back at the bed. ‘Let’s see how good you are at finishing me off.’

Feeling totally spent, Cahill watched Rose grab a pair of grey knickers from a pile of clothes sitting on a chair in the corner of the room. After a moment’s hesitation she tossed them on to the floor and fetched a clean pair from a chest of drawers in the corner, along with a sturdy-looking pearl-grey bra.

‘I’ve got to get going,’ she said, deftly stepping into her panties. ‘You know what it’s like — places to go, people to see.’

‘Sure.’ Cahill made no immediate effort to rouse himself from the bed.

Rose fastened her bra and reached for a blouse. ‘It would be good if you could make yourself scarce.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Cahill got up and padded across the carpet. ‘I just need to take a piss.’

When he returned from the bathroom, she was fully dressed. ‘I’m off,’ she said, coolly contemplating his still-naked form. ‘You can let yourself out.’

‘Just one thing,’ Cahill said quietly, standing in the doorway, blocking her exit, ‘before you go.’

Raising her eyes to the ceiling, she sighed theatrically. ‘What is it now?’

‘Gerry Durkan.’

‘Who?’ she scowled.

‘Don’t try and bullshit me,’ Cahill said sharply. ‘I know he’s one of your bad boy shags.’