Haunt Dead Wrong by Curtis Jobling

Author:Curtis Jobling [Jobling, Curtis]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781471115806
Publisher: Simon & Schuster

SEVENTEEN

The Major and the Mission

‘Bummer of a deal, Sparky.’

The Major winced, ruffling his immaculate black quiff until it had transformed into a roadkilled crow. Dougie shifted uncomfortably against the wall outside the A&E. If anyone was looking to master the art of standing awkwardly with the weight of the world upon one’s shoulders, then my mate had just nailed it.

‘Sounds like your old man’s been stuck between a rock and a hard place since your best buddy here bought it. Jeez, I wouldn’t wish that guilt on my worst enemy.’

‘You could wish it on Bradbury,’ I said without hesitation. Neither of them disagreed. ‘What he’s put your dad through, Dougie . . .’

Dougie shook his head. ‘He doesn’t resemble the man who raised me. He’s a mess. And it’s all Bradbury’s fault.’

‘And he isn’t finished with him yet,’ I added.

‘How so?’ asked the Major.

‘He’s lined up Mr Hancock for another job. Apparently this will buy him his freedom from Bradbury.’

‘And he can’t go to the cops because every bit of evidence points to him being behind the wheel. Man, that blows.’ The Major sucked his teeth. ‘This Bradbury; what kinda guy is he?’

‘A very bad one,’ I said, doing the villain a great disservice in the description department.

‘He’s a career criminal,’ said Dougie, picking up the story. ‘Late thirties and never done an honest day’s work in his life, if what Dad says is true.’ I thought about my friend’s choice of words as he continued; did he doubt Mr Hancock’s version of events or was it just a slip of the tongue? ‘He was born in Liverpool and moved here as a teenager. Bradbury was a bad lad before he even got here and soon had his own gang running rackets across the borough: robberies, extortion, drugs and loan sharking. Seems there’s nowt he won’t do to make a few quid.’

‘Sounds like a real piece o’ work,’ said the Major, breathing life into his quiff once more with a few sweeps of his hands.

‘He dresses in a snappy black suit, white shirt, black tie. Fashions himself on those old East End gangsters from the Sixties. Or Reservoir Dogs. Wears his black hair slicked back.’ Dougie turned to the Major. ‘Not unlike yours.’

‘Back up, Sparky,’ said the Major. ‘I’ve been sporting this look since the Forties. Sounds like Bradbury’s all about appearances. He’s a cheap knock-off, a hokey imitation of a villain.’

‘There’s nothing fake about him,’ I said. ‘You can’t underestimate him. He’s put plenty of people in hospital – you’ve probably witnessed them rolling through those doors on gurneys – and he’s lost no sleep over what happened to me. He’s a gangster alright. He’s the Real McCoy.’

‘I don’t know what to say, boys. As you know, when it comes to matters of the heart, I’m your man. If it’s lady trouble, look no further. But dealing with killers? I’m striking out. That’s what the cops are for, ain’t it?’

‘Ordinarily, yeah,’ agreed Dougie. ‘But not when Bradbury’s got my old man’s knackers in a vice.

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