It Wasn't The Bullet (2)
“There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.” George Carlin Chapter One “Hello Charlie” The kaleidoscope of gently revolving stars stopped turning. The tar macadam blackness surrounding the pin pricks of cobalt light became brighter until it was a dull translucent shade of grey. Charlie’s brain began to relay messages to his consciousness. He was apparently awake, after sleeping? There were faint scraping and squeaking noises all around, muffled sounds of speech, a smell of. …Charlie tried to make his brain search for the familiar aroma; he lay quiet. Gradually his systems came on line, he was almost certainly in a hospital, he was injured in his chest, it hurt to breath, and he was suffering from a definite time distortion. He could also sense someone else in this room with him. That someone was also listening to a tinny transistor radio. Charlie could just make out Michael Jackson being thrilling. He grasped at the sounds as the song faded and the DJ threw over to the newsroom. The miner’s strike was still going strong and Kinnock had an anti-Thatcher sound bite. So, Charlie thought, I haven’t been unconscious for that long. Charlie tussled with his memory, grasping at ghostly apparitions of the past. He could recall his rage and the drugs, the drugs to completely numb his feelings and channel his rage. He wondered whether he completed his task. After more futile ramblings to unravel his scrambled memory banks he decided to find out who the person in the room was. He could hear the turning of newspaper pages, and the low tut-tut's, and intakes of breath. Mind you, he had a pretty good idea what his job was, and why he was sitting there in the corner of Charlie’s hospital room. He attempted to open his eyes, an intensely bright fluorescent light directly above his pillow bore into his retinas and the shock caused him to swear out loud. The newspaper rustled shut, whoever it was stood up and the leather soles of his shoes slapped toward Charlie’s bed. Charlie forced himself not to sneak a peek and fought his eyes to remain staring at the Perspex light cover in the ceiling. “‘Hello Charlie.” Suddenly Charlie saw a snap shot of every time Green had ever said that to him. The first time nearly ten years ago, when he had just started in the business. He remembered the shock of being called by his name by a policeman he had never met, and mixed up in all the mental images was the last time. When Detective Sergeant Green said hello, the shit had truly hit the fan. “ I bet this is a bit painful, eh? “, as he spoke a volcano erupted in his chest and streams of molten lava ran down both sides of his insides, he fought with himself again not to say anything, to try and not give any indication of pain. He lost that battle quite convincingly and a river of expletives gushed from his lips, “Motherfucker, fuck you Green, Jesus Christ, fuck that hurts,” he imagined that his was screaming this but realised it was coming out like a gagged kidnapped victims pleas for help or mercy. “Thought it would. You sound thirsty, here have some water.” he sensed Green’s arm move toward the bedside table, he heard the rattle of glass on Formica and then a waterfall of cold liquid tumbled onto his face, his lips had been slightly parted with the expectation of water and now he started to choke as the detective continued to pour the whole contents of the glass onto his mouth and nose. Charlie coughed raggedly and the pain overwhelmed him, the curtain of unconsciousness drew closed again. All was black. Charlie realised he must have passed out for only a few moments because when he came back to the mortal world, Detective Green was still bent over his head holding the now empty glass. “Well Charlie, they did you up like a fucking kipper this time. Whoever shot you was so close that the bullet went straight through. Didn’t even touch a vital organ or a bone. Would you fuckin’ adam that? They dumped your body up in Chalk Farm, the doctor said that you had so much heroin in your system they probably thought you was dead and didn’t give one in the head for luck.” Green sniggered. “Yes Charlie, they dumped you under the bridge with all the meths drinkers and tramps, you know, where all the shit in this city eventually ends up. That’s how much loyalty counts, Charlie, they don’t care about you, they don’t care about no fucking body. They want you dead, Charlie. At the moment they think you’re dead, I haven’t told no-one you’re alive.” All the time Green was talking Charlie was thinking, I’ve never taken enough smack to kill me. He remembered the door and the rain. His rage crept up like an incoming morning tide, slowly swallowing everything until all that remained was his anger. With a monumental effort he threw his right arm in the direction of the detective and managed to grab a handful of t-shirt. He pulled with every sinew and slammed Greens head into the backboard of the bed, Green swore and lost his balance, crashing into the side table and overturning the jug of water, it smashed on contact with the floor spraying its contents and broken glass skidding over the floor. It must have been several hours before Charlie came round again because when he moaned and Green came to stand over him, there was a small red welt over his right eyebrow. They stared at each other for second before Green spoke, “Ok hard man, this is the fucking deal. It’s the same deal as before. Tell me the routes, give me the names of the importers, give me the distribution network and you can disappear to Spain or wherever you fucking creeps go and I won’t execute these warrants.” Charlie studied his adversary, if a man can say another man is handsome, and then Charlie considered Norman Green a handsome man. His short brown hair was beginning to sprout flecks of grey, the lines at the corners of his eyes betrayed the stresses of ten years of undercover police work, he hadn’t shaved for a day and the normally sickly scent of old spice was missing, replaced by fresh sweat over old. He still wore the beaten up denim jacket that he had had for as many years as Charlie could remember, underscored by a Gucci fashionably black t-shirt. Green was stroking his face with his left hand; his wedding ring was not in evidence, a small band of white skin in contrast with the brown. Greens offer was kind of a non-starter for Charlie, he wouldn’t give up anybody or anything, and there was too much history, too many close shaves, too many friends, dead and alive. He had chosen this work, he realised a long while ago that this was what he was good at. He was a criminal and he had killed people, he had imported serious drugs into the country, which had most definitely ended the lives of hundreds of junkies. He had stopped thinking of the damage that he and his cohorts were inflicting upon the lives of the drug taking culture. They never sold bad drugs, never cut the stuff with household cleaners or such like. It was not his responsibility that an overachieving cokehead bond trader has a psychotic episode and runs amuck, the junkies that died, died because they were dumb…. Green was talking at him again, “Charlie, you and Terry, best in the fucking business. I know you offed a few poor cunts, but the ones I know about fucking had it coming. Not like the fucking kids now, got their Mac 10s and go blasting at everyone. I’m scared to go on a bust now Charlie, I don’t mind telling you. Justin, Mikey, Terry and you, nah, you wouldn’t shoot a copper unless they were shooting at you. But Charlie, remember the thing up in Scotland? A little téte a téte with the Yardie Brixton crew?” Charlie drifted away, and in his minds eye he could see the stark hills of mid-Wales and Terry’s smiling face. He had been in a dark cave of emotions when Terry had taken him to the Black Hills, there was no light in his life, he was numb and when Terry gave him the present of a handgun he recalled the moment with great clarity, ‘What you’re holding is a Browning HP-35 9mm automatic pistol. It holds thirteen rounds in the clip and one in the chamber. This is a very powerful weapon, I was taught that no matter how good you think you are, always pull the trigger twice….’, and then his mind took him off to that cold shoreline in Scotland, the shadows stood up and he heard Terry fire twice, Charlie had already picked his target so all he had to do was pull the trigger, he did and the shadow jerked forward twice, like someone had attached two strings to it’s front and pulled each one really hard in quick succession….Greens voice pulled him back to the hospital; “Well, well, Charlie. So how the fuck do you think I know about this one fucking deal, out of the hundreds or perhaps thousands of deals that your merry little band did, how do you think I know about this one fucking killing. Well, Charlie, we got ourselves a brand new computer at Paddington Green. It’s very fucking clever and it has a long memory. We got hold of the bullet that killed Gregory Hamilton, and our egghead boffins did a test on your gun, and guess what Charlie? Do you WANT TO KNOW?!” Greens voice exploded in the small room. His frustration at Charlie’s lack of interest boiled over. He stepped back from the bed and walked over to the wall, resting the back of his head on the green painted door jam; he turned slightly and used his shoulder to support his weight. “Charlie, I’ll give you twenty-four hours to come to a decision. Then I’m coming back to arrest you for murder and trafficking.” It appeared for a moment that he was going to say something else; he shook his head, opened the door and disappeared into the corridor beyond. Charlie let his eyelids succumb to the weight pressing down on them and let his mind be led away back to the darkness. Chapter Two The Warwick Arms The next couple of days passed in a confused mixture of doctors and nurses, non-sequential memories and pain through his body. Green had not returned, he assumed that the hospital staff had told him the patient was too unwell to answer questions, and he also assumed there was a policeman sitting outside his door. Somewhere in his subconscious he had been planning, because when he awoke this time he felt a sense of permanence in his wakefulness, he knew what he had to do. Achieving it however was something he hadn’t been thinking about. He needed a telephone or some form of secure communication. He heard the door handle twist, and the slight hiss as it opened. He tilted his head forward so he could see, oh the lord, whoever she is, works in mysterious ways. “Hiya Samantha,” the words came out in a bit of a croak, but she looked at him and smiled. “Well Charlie, looks like you’ve really gone and done it this time. There are two policemen outside the door, and they look terribly fierce. Dr. Moncton had a big argument with their boss yesterday; he told him that you could not be questioned for another three days. Blimey, you should have seen his face; I thought we were going to have a code blue. Oh you look a little different from when the last time we met.” Samantha touched his hand, and Charlie grinned what he hoped was his best grin. “It’s good to see you Samantha. You look good. How’s your brother?” Her face changed from happy nurse to a sister who loved her brother. “He’s fine now Charlie. He went to live in Scotland, he has a new girlfriend; I think they’re going to get married. You just wouldn’t believe how much he’s changed. Can you imagine John working in a corner store, saying hello to all the locals and going for long walks!!!” She paused and when she resumed speaking her tone was as serious as life itself. “What do you need Charlie? I know I owe you my brother’s life. Whatever you want I will try to do. I don’t care if I lose my job or go to prison. You saved my brother.” Samantha looked piercingly into Charlie’s eyes, and he asked her one fairly simple request, and one rather more difficult. With a lot of groaning and, what seemed to Charlie, body origami, Samantha managed to place him in a wheel chair. He was sure the next bit was not going to so easy. She said very pointedly, “Be quiet, and let me talk to the policeman. Look ill and uncomfortable. “ “That’s not going to be difficult.” Charlie felt that he had the trace of a smile on his face for the first time in what felt like a long while. She pushed him to the door, looked into his eyes and smiled, oh no, Charlie thought, as he gazed back into the round soft face. Her green eyes had an intensity of purpose, two emissaries of her deep blonde hair were trying to escape the bonds of their captivity and her English rose complexion was flushed with a slight red hue. Charlie stopped right there. This was no time for thoughts of that nature, especially when it was quite possible this could end in complete disaster. She turned her head away and he supposed he saw a puzzled expression ripple across her face like the first wave of a new tide uncovers the sand. She manoeuvred herself around the wheel chair and opened the door. The uniformed officer, who had been sitting down on the harsh green plastic chair, fairly leapt up and started to splutter,
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