Shifting Sands, page 26
‘Yep.’
Winston’s arm has closed round Tim’s throat. He pulls his head back and stares down.
‘He doesn’t look much,’ he says. His arm tightens until Tim’s eyes start to bulge and he kicks out his legs. ‘You think I should break his neck or just strangle the fucker?’
I think Tim might need a change of underwear if Winston carries on like this. For someone who cries at sentimental films, he’s doing a pretty good impression of a tough guy.
‘Not here,’ I say, doing my best to play the mob boss. ‘We don’t want some innocent bystander catching a glimpse.’
‘I’ll take him down the old quarries — those deep pools, you know.’
‘Yeah, no one will find him down there. Fossilise him.’
Tim’s struggling becomes frantic, and I start to worry that someone might see us. This is like a scene from The Godfather. I’m Al Pacino, and Winston is a dark version of the guy who ends up sleeping with the fishes. I’m almost sorry for Tim.
Almost.
But not enough to stop just yet.
‘The guy who beat me up the night after we met — a friend of yours, was he?’
He goes even paler, and he’s trembling like a blancmange in an earthquake.
‘I just wanted...’ he gargles.
‘Yeah, I thought so. You figured it’d scare me off if you set your thug mate on me.’
Winston looks from me to Tim and back again.
‘That was this weasel?’ he asks, and he inserts a range of expletives and imaginative threats which are vast, even by his standards.
‘He’s all yours, Winston,’ I say, and I start to climb from the car. That sets Tim off again, kicking and grunting and waving his arms about like a demented puppet, but he’s going nowhere, not with Winston’s arm locked around his throat.
I shut the door behind me, but as I disappear into the house, I glance back to see Winston clambering into the passenger seat. He looks up briefly, and, through the misted window, I see this huge, silly grin on his face. Winston is enjoying himself.
Tim isn’t.
When Winston climbs from the car ten minutes later, Tim has done everything except wet himself, and I feel no sympathy — none at all. Winston isn’t the violent type, but if you want to beat a victim to death with words, Winston’s your man. His vocabulary in settings like this is as vast as an ocean.
By the time we walk back to the flat, we’re both feeling pretty good, and Winston has a grin on his face as wide as the car park.
‘What a shithead!’ he says.
‘Indeed he is, Winston.’
‘You going to write about him?’
‘I doubt it. Liz says I should use words as if there’s a price on them. He’s not worth a paragraph.’
‘You’ll tell Heather?’
‘Not me — that’s up to Wendy. She may want to leave him living in fear. I would.’
‘What are you going to say to Mel about all this?’ he asks as we reach the stairs.
‘Oh shit,’ I say. ‘Mel!’
Chapter 43
I’m sitting at Slattery’s bedside. Judging by his mood, I’d say he’s getting back to normal. The doctor says it’s the first transfusion he’s done where he added a bottle of scotch to the blood just to keep the balance right. He’s only half-joking.
‘Have you seen the food in this place?’ Slattery complains. ‘It’s designed so you don’t have to chew. You could eat it through a straw. They warm it up by putting it on a windowsill. Do they think I’m going to choke or burn myself to death?’
‘Makes you want to get better and leave,’ I tell him. ‘Food aside, how are they treating you?’
‘Like an invalid.’
‘When will they let you go?’
‘As soon as we can,’ a voice chirps up from not far away. It’s one of the nurses.
‘Can’t even have a private conversation,’ Slattery snaps. ‘And I haven’t had a cigarette in weeks. If you want to smoke in this place, you’ve got to take a bus ride to the precinct.’
‘Maybe you’ll give up?’ I see the look on his face. ‘Yeah, maybe not. Winston’s coming later,’ I tell him.
‘Winston? What does he want?’
‘He thinks you’re are big buddies now you’ve shared an adventure — friends for life.’
‘In his dreams. Shit, Phil, what I’d give for a decent fry up and a pint of Guinness.’
Like I say, he’s on the mend.
‘What about you and Mel?’ he asks, changing the subject. ‘How’s that going?’
‘Going, going, and gone,’ I tell him. ‘I’m relieved, to be honest with you. We were good together for a while, you know; but I’m an out-of-work, poverty-stricken, homely idealist. I want to stay here in Sefton and grow old with friends around me, familiar streets, familiar faces, and maybe someone to share it all with. She’s not. She’s ambitious — London, Paris, New York. She’d already met the equivalent of a spotty git with a car, only, this time he was a senior executive with a Porsche.’
‘Story of your life.’
‘Yeah, but I guess the writing was on the wall after everything that’s happened — and Wendy.’
‘How about you and her? I always figured you’d be a good mix.’
‘Yeah, we’re good — better than good, but she’s been through a lot. It’ll take time.’
‘Still the story of your life. It’s not really your strong suit, romance.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘Still, got to keep trying.’
‘I suppose.’
I don’t tell him that Wendy and I are growing closer every day, that it’s like we’ve known each other forever, and that I can’t imagine my life without her. I reckon she feels the same. But she’s got a lot to work through yet, so I’ll just stay by her side, and one day maybe...
Yeah, I’m sure of it. One day...
The door behind me opens, and Winston interrupts my reverie like a football hitting the side of my head.
‘He’s dead,’ he says.
He throws a tabloid on the bed next to Slattery.
‘Who’s dead?’
‘Van-Doren. Page five. Cancer.’
Slattery picks up the paper, flicks through it, then folds it open. ‘I hope it was a painful end,’ he says.
Winston drops onto the bed and starts eating chocolates Jim Davey brought earlier.
‘Help yourself,’ Slattery says, ‘don’t stand on ceremony.’
He gets that grin Winston saves for moments like this.
‘When do you get out?’
‘I don’t know, next week maybe.’
‘We’ll go for a drink,’ Winston says, ‘and a Chinese. What do you say? A celebration?’
‘I’d rather eat with an eight-foot slug, is what I say.’
‘I’ll get it planned then,’ Winston continues. ‘You in, Phil?’
‘You couldn’t keep me out,’ I tell him.
Winston looks around.
‘I don’t like hospitals. They’re full of sick people. No offence,’ he adds to Slattery, ‘only you never know what you’re going to catch, do you?’
‘Dead right,’ says Slattery. ‘People die in these places. Have you seen the food?’ He indicates a half-congealed plate of mince and mash. ‘Looks like someone’s already chewed it.’
‘Pre-digested,’ Winston nods. ‘What are the nurses like?’
‘Tyrants.’
‘Doctors?’
‘Sadists.’
‘Other patients?’
‘Snore and fart all night; I can’t get a wink.’
‘I’ll plan a coming out party.’
‘Yeah, do that. It’ll give me something to look forward to.’
Something really weird is happening in my head. It’s like I’m swirling away, caught in some strange vortex; they’re way down below me and I’m just looking on. Winston and Slattery are talking like friends.
‘You okay, Phil?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.’
‘Looked like you were drifting there for a minute, man.’
‘Time I was going,’ I say.
I can’t admit the truth, not to Winston and Slattery. Only with Wendy can I open up because she understands, because she’s been there, and because she doesn’t think I’m losing my mind. Everyone else would.
‘It’s like Van-Doren got in my head, and he won’t go away,’ I tell her. ‘He’s buzzing in there like a fly in a jar. Sometimes, it goes away for days on end, but then something — a smell, a sound, even a few words — takes me back there, and, suddenly, I’m caught up in this spiral, like a tornado, and I can’t get out. I mean, I know it’s not real. I know that here, now, with you, sitting on this chair at your side, is as real I can ever feel or ever want to feel. I know that. It’s just... I don’t know... It’s just...’
‘A doubt,’ she murmurs, ‘a question. Am I really here? Is this my one true reality? Or is this all a dream manufactured in some clinic and fed by my own desires and imaginings?’
‘For a moment, I just don’t know. I think perhaps what Van-Doren said is true. Perhaps the clinic hasn’t closed, and it’s just my dream telling me it has. Perhaps those people are still out there, experimenting on more and more people; perhaps...’
‘Shh,’ she says. ‘Shh, this is real — here, now, you, me, everything we feel and share.’ She looks at me, and those blue eyes penetrate my soul. ‘Nothing else matters.’
And I know she’s right. She lays her head against me, and we sit in silence as the darkness slowly falls, and shadows cast by the table lamp flicker and stir like strange, unknown lives.
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Did you love Shifting Sands? Then you should read Rising Tides by Barry Litherland!
The Lucky Seven nightclub has a bad reputation. For decades, thecentre of Sefton's underworld, it is cleaning up its act, ready to bethe heart of a town centre development. Local journalist, Phil Tyler,is drawn to investigate and soon finds himself in a world ofconspiracy, corruption and crime where life means nothing. Book Threeof the Phil Tyler Crime Thriller series.
Read more at Barry Litherland’s site.
Also by Barry Litherland
Jenny's Stories
Jenny's Heroes
Jenny's Terrifying Tale
Phil Tyler Thrillers
Breaking Waves
Shifting Sands
Rising Tides
Standalone
The Hand of Ronan Hawke
Breakers
The Trophy Room
Watch for more at Barry Litherland’s site.
About the Author
Barry Litherland lives in the far north of Scotland. He writes dramatic, edge-of-your-seat crime and paranormal crime thrillers. He also writes novels for children and literary fiction.
Read more at Barry Litherland’s site.
Barry Litherland, Shifting Sands
