James Craig - Shoot to Kill

‘Maybe I should,’ Carlyle replied, holding his gaze.

For a moment, they sat there in exasperated silence, both of them knowing that would never happen.

‘You’ve always played it so well,’ Carlyle said finally, keeping his voice low, ‘for a criminal.’

‘Thank you,’ Dom said tartly.

‘You know what I mean. You had actually managed to quit while you were ahead and now you’ve put yourself in the firing line again.’

Dom shot him an angry look. ‘You know what?’ he hissed, tapping the table with his index finger. ‘I was getting bored. Everything was too easy. There was no one to compete against.’

Carlyle frowned. ‘Who were you competing against?’

Genuinely annoyed by the question, Dom slumped back in his chair. ‘Everyone . . . anyone.’

‘It doesn’t matter what you do, Dominic. You are always on borrowed time.’ Carlyle wagged an admonishing finger across the table. ‘There’s always someone younger, prettier, richer, more driven.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’

‘Or in your case,’ Carlyle said grimly, ‘more ruthless, more willing to screw you over.’

Taking his time, Dom looked his friend up and down. ‘So, who do you compete against?’

Carlyle was puzzled. ‘No one.’

Looking genuinely angry, Dom snapped, ‘That’s bullshit. Don’t pretend to be so bloody soft.’

‘Seriously, who would I compete against? Only myself, really.’

Dom let out a bitter laugh. ‘You’re gonna make me puke.’

‘C’mon,’ Carlyle grinned, trying to take the edge off the conversation, ‘who would I compete against? Nobody in the Met. All of my peers-’ he nodded at Dom – ‘including you, have moved up or moved out. Why should I measure myself against them?’

Dom grunted but said nothing.

‘If I did,’ Carlyle went on, lowering his voice, ‘I could only conclude that I was fucked. Look – my card was marked by the Met a long, long time ago, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I can do a decent job, but it’s still just a job; if I think of it as anything more than that, then I’m a real mug, aren’t I?’

‘You should have come and worked for me when you had the chance,’ Dom said quietly. ‘You’d have made a packet.’

Carlyle lowered his gaze to the table. Back in the 1980s, not long after leaving the police force, Dom had offered him a job. Carlyle didn’t say yes; he didn’t say no either, he just let it slide. The whole thing had been a non-starter. Instinctively, Carlyle knew that, while he could live with Dom being on the wrong side of the law, it was not a move he could ever make himself. Not if he wanted to sleep at night.

‘That was a long time ago. And we both knew I wasn’t up for it.’ He looked up. ‘Anyway, we’d have probably both ended up in jail.’

‘Maybe.’ Dom laughed, easing the tension.

‘I don’t compete against you,’ Carlyle went on, ‘and I don’t compete against anyone in the Met. It’s the only sensible way.’

Dom’s eyes narrowed. ‘But you compete against yourself.’

‘Yeah.’ Carlyle was worried that he really was beginning to sound like a total plonker. ‘I want to be a good husband and a good father.’

‘Who doesn’t?’

‘Well,’ said Carlyle gently, ‘that’s another reason for not putting yourself into the middle of this mess.’

Dom grimaced. ‘Too late for that now.’

When Carlyle finally returned to the station, Angie Middleton was waiting for him behind the front desk.

‘Why haven’t you gone to Paddington Green?’ she demanded.

Carlyle gave her what he hoped was a confused look.

‘Commander Simpson wants to speak to you,’ Angie boomed, ‘ urgently .’

‘Okay.’

‘In her office.’

As he headed down the corridor, Middleton shouted after him, ‘There’s good news as well!’

‘Oh?’ Carlyle turned, but made no effort to move back to the desk.

‘The Everton’s guy,’ Angie explained. ‘Clive Martin. He’s dropped his complaint.’

‘That’s not much of a shock,’ Carlyle shrugged, ‘given that he didn’t have a bloody leg to stand on, but welcome news nonetheless.’

‘And,’ Angie’s face broke into a toothy smile, ‘there’s a message from Christina O’Brien. She says she’ll be working from ten if you want to pop round to Everton’s for your private dance.’

‘What?’ Carlyle scowled. ‘I thought she was being deported.’

‘Those charges have been dropped too. Martin’s brief came round earlier and we had to release her.’

That damn lawyer, Abigail Slater . ‘But she assaulted a police officer,’ Carlyle protested.

Amused by his annoyance, Middleton chewed the end of her biro. ‘PC Lea’s very happy about it. Everyone’s been taking the mickey out of him something rotten.’

‘What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?’

‘I’m just saying . . .’ Middleton began doodling on the pad in front of her. ‘The word is,’ looking past Carlyle, she lowered her voice, ‘that she was allowed to skate in exchange for Martin going away.’

Carlyle made a disgusted noise and turned back towards the stairs.

‘So,’ Middleton called after him, ‘are you going to get your dance?’

Walking away, Carlyle grinned and blushed at the same time.

‘Well?’

‘Maybe,’ he said, over his shoulder, ‘but only if she brings her Earth Angel.’

‘ Triste? ’

Tuco grunted. The smell of her sex permeated his nostrils, filling his heart with lust, but his dick was so soft he couldn’t even get it inside her. It offended his sense of self but maybe it was time to get some help.

Monica smiled sadly. ‘ Triste comme un jour sans pain . . .’ Taking his shrivelled member between her fingers, Monica began massaging it gently. Tuco watched in horror as it shrank even further. He tried to remember when exactly she had graduated from whore to mistress. After they had returned from Marseille, Monica had just moved in. He hadn’t suggested it, it had just happened. He felt old – too old to run his own household; too old to fuck.

Giving up, Monica idly scratched her left breast.

‘ Alain tu as comme ça .’

Tuco knew she was right. The situation with the boy was driving him mad. He needed to do something about it. Getting to his feet, he looked around for a pair of boxer shorts to cover his microscopic nakedness. ‘ J’ai besoin d’être seul. Je vais regarder un film .’

‘I’ve got some dope . . .’

Standing at the gates of City School for Girls, Alice pulled her bag over her shoulder. ‘I told you,’ she said firmly, ‘I’ve given up.’

‘But that was days ago,’ Olivia objected. ‘Weeks. This is good stuff; even my mother liked it.’

‘You get blasted with your mum?’

Olivia frowned. ‘It was strictly a one-off. It gave her something to write about for her next column. Anyway, do you want some?’

Ignoring the offer, Alice wearily took the first step on the long march home. ‘I’ve had it for today. Two hours with Sherwood is a killer.’

‘Yeah.’ Olivia nodded. Everyone agreed that Mr Sherwood’s French lessons were one of the most effective forms of torture that the Headmaster had ever managed to inflict on his pupils.

‘Are you Alice Carlyle?’

Looking up, the girls were confronted by a tall young man in his early twenties, dressed in trainers, jeans and a brown leather jacket. His long dark hair reached his shoulders and he had a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his chin. Although it was a dreary, grey day, he wore a pair of Ray-Ban Aviators.

Olivia let out a low whistle. ‘Whoa! Who are you ?’