The Last Contract: A brooding thriller of espionage and identity by Philip Bentall

Author:Philip Bentall [Bentall, Philip]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ramsgard Press
Published: 2023-05-17T16:00:00+00:00

25

Billy’s Café was on the seafront; its specials and meal deals were written on coloured cards and stuck to the inside of the window.

The café’s owner, Billy, said to Sean, ‘I haven’t seen you for a while. Have you been on holiday?’

‘No, mate. Just busy.’ Sean wondered who else had noticed he’d been away.

Billy said, ‘The usual – full English, extra toast?’

Sean hesitated. ‘Yeah, cheers,’ he replied, his lips sticking together as he spoke. Maybe he should have gone somewhere they didn’t know him, he thought.

Billy smiled. ‘I’ll bring it over.’

Sean sat by the window and got out his phone. It was 8:28 a.m. He had no messages. He looked round the café. A couple of workmen in Hi-Vis jackets were eating fry-ups. An old man in an overcoat and flat cap sat in a corner, sipping tea. One of the workmen got out a copy of the Sun and Sean half-expected to see his picture on the front cover.

When his breakfast arrived, Sean ate without putting down his knife and fork. He mopped up the egg yolk with his extra slice of toast, then pushed his plate aside and took a paper napkin from the plastic holder on the table and wiped his mouth. Then, picking bacon from his teeth, he stood up and walked out of the café.

He went into the newsagents a couple of doors down and asked for a packet of ten Marlboro Gold. He had Tash in mind when he bought them. But leaving the shop, he tore off the cellophane wrapper and silver foil and put one in his mouth. He got out the lighter, which he’d brought with him to burn the telephone number on the beach, and shook it a couple of times, then cupped his hands and sparked up the fag.

Puffing on the cigarette, he stopped at the seafront and leant against the metal railings. To his right, some steps led down to the beach. He could get this over with now, he thought, go down to the beach and burn the phone number. He looked round. He saw a police car turn down a side street. Watching it, Sean puffed on the cigarette, seagulls squawking overhead. The police car stopped and two policemen got out and entered an adjacent building. He turned and looked the other way, hunching up his shoulders. He leant over the railings and spat, the wind blowing his phlegm against the seawall. Then he heard a couple behind him, debating whether to walk along the beach or keep going on the pavement. Sean glanced over his shoulder. The couple, arm in arm, couldn’t decide; they had a dog on a lead. What with the police car and now the couple, Sean decided the number could wait, and chucking the cigarette on the ground, he set off again.

He went into a Starbucks and ordered a skinny latte, telling the girl his name was ‘Justin’ when she asked him what to write on his cup. He used to

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