Cutthroat by Paul Heatley

Author:Paul Heatley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Down & Out Books

Part Three: Wooler, Newcastle, Hamilton, 1978 to 1979

Chapter Twenty-One

The wound across his neck was an ugly scar. Stray strands of stubble poked through the mangled, puckered flesh where he couldn’t get at them with a razor.

John washed away the leftover soap, studied the scar. He’d been bearded before the shave, leaving the hair on his face and neck to grow as the wound had healed. His hair had gotten longer than he’d have liked, too. He’d hacked it off. He was no hairdresser, but it was presentable.

John left the tiny bathroom, passed through the cabin into the bedroom, pulled on his clothes. A pair of jeans, a tatty old T-shirt, a thick jumper to protect him against the cold. The cabin was his. Hidden away in woodland on the outskirts of Wooler. A hideout for after hot jobs, or when he found himself in hot water.

The water was the hottest it had ever been.

He went outside, gathered chopped wood, carried it back in and stoked a fire. It didn’t take much to warm the cabin, but once the fire was dead, it would become freezing. The wind and the chill found its way inside through every available gap.

The snow had melted. It had been a few months since he’d been left to die in it, lying on the frozen ground with his hot blood running out of him. It wasn’t quite spring yet, but it was warmer than when he’d first got to the cabin.

He was biding his time. Healing. John could be patient when he had to be. Now was one of those times. His neck being slit from ear to ear necessitated his patience.

But it wouldn’t last. Already he was plotting his return to Newcastle. That’s what kept him going. That’s what had forced him to get up when he’d been left for dead.

Revenge.

He took a seat near the fire, warmed his hands. It was a scar now. Healed. It wouldn’t be long. Some push-ups, some pull-ups, a couple of runs, and he’d be fighting fit. He’d be going back for them, for all of them, and for the money they didn’t give him. The money owed, and then some.

No doubt they knew he was still alive. Or, at the very least, that his body had gone missing. Maybe they’d assumed he’d tried to crawl for assistance, had died elsewhere. A bin, maybe, seeking warmth and protection from the snow. Taken away with the rest of the rubbish when the bin man made his rounds.

He was sure they weren’t that stupid. John was a survivor, and they knew that. They’d have kicked themselves, hard, at the realisation his body wasn’t where it should have been. Told themselves they should have stayed behind, made sure it was done. Stick the knife in him again. Through the eye this time, or the heart.

That was Daniel’s mistake. He didn’t have a clue what he was supposed to be doing. Never killed a man, clearly. Too quick to walk away. Jock surprised him, though.

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