Mark Pearson - Blood Work

Delaney eyes flew open in panic, he tried to breathe but couldn't. Then the man standing over him, dressed in a white doctor's coat, released the grip on his throat slightly and Delaney gulped in hungry swallows of air.

The man grunted, letting Delaney breathe but keeping an iron grip on his throat, keeping him pinned to the hospital bed. 'You got a good reason why I shouldn't kill you here and now?'

'No. But you have.'

'That a fact?'

Delaney shrugged as calmly as he could under the circumstances. 'Seems to be, Norrell.'

Norrell glared at him and finally grunted again. 'I'll make a deal with you.'

'Go on.'

'I'll let you live and I'll even tell you who was behind the petrol station job. Who it was that got your wife killed.'

'The shooter.'

Norrell shook his head. 'The shooter was just a tool. You want the man who set the whole thing in motion.'

'And in return?'

Norrell shook his head. 'Nothing.'

'Nothing?'

'You're a loaded gun, Delaney, I'm just pulling the trigger.' Norrell took his hand off Delaney's throat. 'It was Mickey Ryan.'

Delaney rubbed his sore throat. The man really did have hands like hams. 'How do you know?'

'He came to me first. I turned him down.'

Delaney was impressed. People didn't turn Mickey Ryan down. He was as close to an organised crime godfather as west London had. From a small-time drug dealer, he had built his empire up over the years like a Richard Branson of sleaze. Serious crime had been after him for years, but he was clever, his money was invested offshore. Put into holding companies. Shells. It made sense he was behind the property deal in Pinner Green. Never mind the downturn, as far as Delaney was concerned property prices were still the crime of the century. No wonder scum like Mickey Ryan was involved.

'Why'd did you say no?'

Norrell shrugged. 'My dad used to work for him when I was a kid. He treated my mother like a piece of shit.'

'Right.'

'I mean she was a piece of shit. But…' He shrugged again.

'So what do you expect me to do?' Delaney asked.

'Do what you do best.'

'Which is?'

'Fuck people's lives up.'

Norrell looked at his watch and winked at Delaney. 'This place isn't good for my health. I'll see you around.' He strode out of Delaney's private room.

Delaney thought about pushing the alarm button by the side of his bed, then discarded the notion. He knew why Norrell had just volunteered the information. He might just as well have put a gun to Mickey Ryan's head himself. There was a contract out on Norrell and if Delaney removed Ryan he also removed the contract. Delaney didn't like the idea of being used by Norrell, but in the end, in the grand scheme of things, he didn't much give a shite either. Mickey Ryan was a dead man walking. That was all that mattered. It was time to cut off his feet. Delaney lay his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes, strangely peaceful. The waiting was over.

He had taken the day off and so had plenty of time to prepare. His lizard-skin cowboy boots had been polished to a high shine. His black jeans had been neatly ironed, as had his white shirt. He held the shoestring tie in his hand and snapped it a couple of times. Form and functionality.

He had just had a long bath and was planning to have a nice relaxing morning. He was going to need plenty of energy tonight. He lay back naked on his bed and flicked the leather tie at his penis. He immediately started to stiffen and he flicked it again, harder this time. His hand moved down and he held himself for a moment, and then took his hand away. It was all about release. It was all about control.

Delaney groaned, his eyelids twitched and then fell still once more. He was in that halfway stage, not quite awake, not quite asleep, when you know your dreams have hold over you, but you are powerless to let them go.

The smell was universal. The noises in the dark. Hospital. Other hospitals.

Jack Delaney was nine years old. He was walking back from school alone. His best friend Rory had been off sick with measles and he was forbidden to visit him. Jack was okay with that. He had seen kids with the measles right enough and he could do without them. He'd catch up with Rory when he was well.

Like Jack, Rory was big for his age, bigger even than Jack. Everyone said when he grew up he'd either be a policeman or professional wrestler. It was their joke. What Rory wanted to do when he grew up was be a carpenter like his da. Heck, his ma always joked, sure enough he could just pick the trees out of the ground, he'd have no need for lumberjacks for his raw materials. Rory took it in good humour, you had to keep the women on your side.

Jack agreed with him on that one. He didn't know what he wanted to do when he grew up, though. They talked about it often enough but he couldn't fix himself on anything. Fireman one week. A soldier a few years back before the Troubles had flared up in earnest. Sometimes he secretly dreamed of being a priest. Jack could see himself standing up there in the pulpit, holding everybody in awe as he railed and castigated. He was not so hot at the academics, however, and he saw how the black crows knew everything about everything, and that must take an awful lot of book studying and the like.

He bent down to pick up a pebble form the path. He threw the stone high in the air to clatter down on the salt-crusted stones on the beach below, when he heard the cry. And he recognised the voice.

He rushed down the path and around the corner. And there, sure enough, was Liam Corrigan, his cousin. Liam was a couple of years younger than Jack, a few inches shorter, and was surrounded by four older boys with mischief on their faces and sticks in their hands. Jack could see that Liam had tears in his eyes and a small trickle of blood running down his nose.

Jack knew the other boys. All MacWhites. All trouble. Like the family had always been. Jack turned to the eldest. 'Brave of you to be taking on the one boy.'

Barry MacWhite looked at Jack and grinned, strolling over to him. 'You want to join in, do you? Do you want some of-'

But he never finished the sentence as Jack had smashed his fist furiously and suddenly into the older boy's nose. The boy dropped squealing to his knees, Jack snatched the stick from his hand and turned to the three remaining MacWhites.

'Come on then, ya gobshites.'

He waved the stick in front of him and pushed Liam towards the road. 'Get out of here, Liam.'

And as his young cousin ran off the road for help, Delaney turned and faced the others, an anger beyond his years burning in his eyes and the other youths circled him as warily as a pack of dogs would approach a wounded wolf.

Had help not arrived when it did, things might have gone a lot worse for Jack than it did. But that was just the first time he ended up in hospital because of his cousin Liam. On that occasion it was for a fractured wrist. On the second occasion it was for something far more serious.

'He's coming round.'

Jack heard the voice and tried to open his eyes. He felt as if he had been run over by a herd of cattle. Every muscle in his body ached. But most of all there was a stabbing pain in his side.

'God bless you, Jack. You've done a marvellous thing.'

Jack blinked his eyes and could just about make out his aunt looking down at him, smiling gratefully.

'Is he going to be all right?' he asked.

'Yes, Jack,' his aunt said, taking his hand and patting it. 'He's going to be just grand. You both are.'

The fact that she crossed herself immediately after saying it might have given others cause for concern, but Jack Delaney was sixteen years old and invincible.

'You've saved his life, Jack. You've saved his life,' cried his aunt, bursting into tears.

Jack shrugged. 'Sure, it was only a kidney.'