The Hit-and-Run Man Read online

  Returning home from work on a wet November evening in the dreary rush hour crawl, he looked around at the nose-to-bumper cars, the crowded double-decker buses, people scurrying along the pavement in the persistent downpour and the occasional lone maverick pedestrian who darted between the stop-start traffic. Somewhere out there was the man or woman he would be expected to kill. What was this person doing right now, at this very moment? What emotions was he or she experiencing? Was life happy or sad? Did this person really deserve to die? What did one have to do to deserve to die?

  Where was Julie at this moment, he wondered. This was a woman he had every reason to hate, yet it had proved impossible to completely shake the memory of that night in Barcelona. This shocked Greenfield and he hated himself for it. Even knowing the true reasons for everything she did that night couldn't stop his reliving the feel of her naked body in his arms or the ecstatic feelings she had aroused and so expertly satisfied. There were even nights when he lay in bed wishing it was Julie lying beside him instead of his wife. For all this he could offer no explanation, knowing only that it brought on feelings of great shame and guilt, which added to the heavy burden he already carried.

  Pulling his company-owned two-litre Rover onto the drive of his home, he switched off the engine and sat for a few minutes watching the rain fill in the arches cut in the windscreen by the wipers. There was no longer any joy in coming home. Tangled emotions of fear, apprehension, shame and guilt made him uncomfortable with his wife and daughter, subdued, moody and depressed. He lived in dread of the telephone ringing, hardly daring to answer it. The longer the waiting went on, the greater the anguish became. What a mess his life had become. His own sullen moodiness must now surely be threatening the very existence he wanted so desperately to preserve; may have to kill for, even. He began to wonder if his life would ever return to normal.

  That evening followed a familiar pattern. The meal was served and eaten without a word being spoken, the only noise being the scraping of cutlery on the plates, made to sound all the louder by the silence. When the meal was over, his daughter left the table, returning upstairs to her bedroom to finish her school homework. Normally Pauline would then begin clearing the table. Tonight, however, she remained sitting, staring at her husband. Locked in his thoughts, Greenfield was unaware of the change in routine until his wife's voice broke through the mental barrier.

  “We have to talk, Howard.”

  “Not now,” he replied wearily.

  “Yes, now!” she snapped.

  Greenfield looked up, startled by the anger in her tone. It wasn't like Pauline to raise her voice in anger. It was there in her eyes too, that looked deep into his. God knows, he sympathised with the stress she must be under, but he was helpless to do anything about it.

  “What's happening to us, Howard?” Pauline went on, regaining her composure.

  Greenfield sighed. “I know things are difficult at the moment. I've things on my mind, things I have to sort out. It will pass, I promise.”

  Pauline put her hand on his. “Howard, if you have problems, let's talk about it. Is it work? Is there something here at home? Tell me. Please.”

  If only it could be so. How dearly he would love to take her in his arms, hold her close to him, tell her everything, unburden his mind, ask her advice about the deadly dilemma he faced. If only…but it was impossible.

  “I can't tell you, my love,” he said. “It's something I have to work out for myself.”

  “Surely I can help.”

  “No, not this time. I'm sorry, you just can't.”

  Pauline drew her hand away. Her voice trembled, but she held back the tears.

  “What really happened in Barcelona?”

  The question hit Greenfield like a punch to the stomach. He struggled to gather together his thoughts, keep his composure. She couldn't know anything. Surely that was impossible.

  “Why do you ask that?” he queried with a forced air of calmness.

  Pauline was not impressed. “Oh, come on, Howard, don't treat me like a fool,” she exploded, the tremble in her voice giving way once more to anger. “You come back with a lump on your head the size of a golf ball. You don't talk anymore or take an interest in anything. You just skulk around with an end-of-the world look, moody, unsmiling. Don't tell me nothing happened in Barcelona.”

  “I explained the lump on my head.”

  “Oh yes, the fall on the steps. I didn't think much of that explanation at the time, Howard; I think even less of it now.”

  “Would I lie to you, Pauline?”

  Silence fell as she considered her answer. It must only have been a few seconds, yet to Greenfield it seemed never-ending.

  “Up to a few weeks ago I would have said 'no',” she answered quietly. “Now I'm not so sure.”

  “So my own wife calls me a liar.”

  “I say what I feel, Howard.”

  He had to end this conversation, get out of the house. Without another word he went into the hallway to get his coat. As Pauline heard the door slam behind him, so the barriers that had held back the tears crumbled.

  At eleven o' clock she received a telephone call from the manager of the local public house suggesting she might fetch her husband rather than let him drive home in his condition. Not relishing the prospect of an unpleasant cleaning job, Pauline made sure she had a paper bag with her when she got into her brand new Rover Metro. She eased the car out onto the road, trying to remember if she had ever known her husband the worse for drink before. She collected him, as she felt duty-bound to do so. Not a word was exchanged between them on the way home.

  Chapter Nine

  Tommy Morgan began to think no-one was coming. An hour and a couple of pints since his arrival at the Mole With Two Heads, he still sat alone, beginning to wonder if he had got the right pub or the right day even. There was still some pain from the bruises and swelling on his face, but if he could pull this thing off, the suffering would be worthwhile.

  Another ten minutes passed before he spotted the hairy face emerging from behind a door marked PRIVATE – STAFF ONLY. When the Beard beckoned with his right hand, Morgan made a point of stopping to drain his glass before crossing the room to the staff quarters. The door was locked behind him.

  It was a small room, consisting of little more than a couple of easy chairs, a small table and a basic, two-bar electric fire. Waiting in there, aside from the Beard, were the two men involved in the fracas at the flat a week before, looking far from overjoyed to see him, plus one other. It seemed they had brought in reinforcements this time. Morgan allowed himself the briefest of smiles.

  “You have a sample of the merchandise, I presume,” said the Beard, holding out his hand.

  “Of course,” replied Morgan, making no move to produce the item, “but I thought I was dealing with the top man this time, not his chief lackey.”

  The Beard shook his outstretched hand impatiently. “Don't push your luck, Morgan. Let's be sure of what you've got to offer first. Then maybe you get to deal at the top.”

  Morgan handed over a packet to the Beard, who passed it to the man Morgan had not seen before. Without a word the stranger left, taking the packet with him. Their tests held no fear for the Irishman. The heroin was top quality stuff.

  “We've had a bit of an internal problem tonight, that's why we are running a little late,” said the Beard. “We're going to have to make a call. Unavoidable, I'm afraid. The tests will take a little while to run, so you can come with us now and after we have attended to our bit of business, we'll work our way back to the lab. Then we shall find out exactly what you are offering us.”

  Morgan sat in the back of the car very conscious of the bandage wrapped around the wrist of the man beside him; the Beard sat in the front passenger seat while the other man was driving.

  “It's time you were formally introduced,” decided the Beard, making no effort to conceal the grin that split the mass of hair around his mouth and chin. “This is Lenny, The gentleman dri
ving, believe it or not, is Horace. We choose to call him 'H'. Better for his image, we think.”

  No words of acknowledgement were exchanged, but then Morgan hardly needed confirmation that he wasn't among friends. He did, however, appreciate the point about the image. Despite the tension of the moment, it was an effort to stifle the urge to laugh. Horace the Heavy; it sounded like something out of a cartoon strip.

  When the car pulled up in the kerb, the Irishman tried in vain to pinpoint exactly where they were. Through the gloom of the poorly-lit street he could make out a row of boarded up shops, empty and vandalised, falling into a serious state of disrepair. Further along stood some multi-storey blocks and running away from them an open rubbish-strewn area.

  The Beard left the car to have a short meeting with a figure that seemed to materialise out of nowhere and disappear in much the same way.

  “Perhaps you would like to join us, Mr. Morgan.”

  It sounded like more an instruction then an invitation.

  Leaving Horace behind the wheel, Morgan was led away by the two others into the dark, open area, stumbling their way between dumped black rubbish bags, torn by animals so that they spilled their contents, old discarded car wheels, rusty bicycle frames and God knows what else.

  When he first heard the whimpering, he was unsure whether he had imagined it, except that, as they advanced, it seemed to get louder. It was pitiful, like the crying of a frightened, wounded dog.

  Morgan winced as the shaft of light from Lenny's torch carved its way through the darkness. The man lying in a pile of overturned garbage was surely no older than his early twenties. His whole body trembling in unison with the strange, agonised noise that filled the night air, he appeared to be in some sort of delirium in which he had scratched great, red gouges down his face with his own nails. The stench was overpowering as he lay in his own excrement.

  “Christ, what a sight,” gasped Morgan. “Who the hell is he?”

  “One of our distributors.”

  The Beard's reply showed no trace of emotion. It was a scene he had seen before and would undoubtedly see again.

  “You mean a pusher.”

  “We call them distributors. Has a more professional ring to it.”

  “Whatever you call him, if he needs a fix so desperately, for Heaven's sake give him one.”

  Morgan's plea was in vain. The Beard shook his head.

  “It's not that simple. He's not short of materials. He gets those as a reward for his services. His commission, if you want to call it that. His problem is getting it inside him. There are so many needle holes in him his veins have collapsed, all over. There's simply nowhere left to put a syringe.”

  “God, that's awful.”

  Morgan shuddered. The desperate cries coming up from this whimpering wreck of a man at his feet were getting through to his very soul.

  “We'll have to get rid of him.”

  Morgan couldn't stop himself reacting to what sounded like a death sentence from the Beard.

  “What the hell does that mean?” he demanded angrily. “This guy needs proper help and attention.”

  “Your compassion is commendable, Mr. Morgan, but not very practical,” answered the Beard in very matter-of-fact tones. “Although this man is of no further use to us, the last thing we can allow is for him to fall into the hands of the police. He knows too much, knows too many people.” Nodding his head in the direction of Lenny, he went on, “Stay with him. When we get back to base, I'll send out some help. And for God's sake shut him up. We'll have the whole bloody neighbourhood down here.”

  Lenny's fist crashed down on the man's jaw. The whimpering stopped, leaving the air filled with a sudden eerie silence. Morgan wanted desperately to intercede, but had to control his emotions. There was too much at stake. He was too close to blow it now.

  “There must be another way.”

  That weak, final plea was all he could allow himself. Even before he said it, he knew it would fall on deaf ears. It was really little more than a token gesture to help ease his conscience.

  “There isn't.” As the Beard turned towards Morgan, it was just possible in the torchlight to see the grin flicker across his face, trying to be seen through the mass of wiry hair. Pulling a revolver from inside his coat, he added, “Perhaps you would like to do it for us, Mr. Morgan.”

  You could almost reach out and touch the silence as the Irishman and the hairy gangster stared coldly at each other over the gun, which rested on the palm of the Beard's outstretched hand.

  “I'll not do your dirty work.”

  “But, Mr. Morgan, I would have thought this was right up your street, shooting a helpless, unarmed man in the back.”

  The tone was deliberately mocking, designed to fan the flames of hostility that already burned between them.

  “In Ireland we are at war.”

  “I see. So, in the name of war – your word for it, I hasten to add, not mine – you can justify gunning down an unsuspecting, unarmed man leaving church with his wife and kids, but our putting this wretch out of his misery fills you with pious revulsion.” The Beard returned the gun to its holster, hidden under his coat. “You're a bloody hypocrite, Mr Morgan. I don't like hypocrites. Neither do I have any time for the so-called cause you fight for. If it was up to me, I would tell you to peddle your wares elsewhere.”

  “But there's the rub, my furry friend, it isn't up to you is it?”

  Morgan knew that rankled. The Beard disliked intensely being seen to have something on his plate too big for him to handle, too important for him to be allowed the final decision. It was obviously a blow to his ego and his image with the men under his command. For Morgan it meant a weakness, the only one, so far as he could see, that he was able to exploit to maintain his position. It was probably the only thing that was keeping him alive.

  “You would be well advised not to think of me as your friend, either, Mr. Morgan.”

  The Irishman was first back to the car, leaning against the wet bodywork as rain began to fall, gasping in deep breaths of cold air. The Beard was only a few seconds behind him.

  “What would you like to see now, Mr. Morgan?” he said. “What about a woman? Do you fancy a woman tonight, Mr. Morgan? I could find you one that would do anything for a shot of heroin. And I mean anything. Perform any trick in the book and probably some that aren't. Mind you, you might come away with something you didn't have before you started.” He burst into a raucous laugh, which ended abruptly as he continued. “Or perhaps your taste is for the male of the species. I could find you a man who would be equally accommodating for the same price.”

  “Look, I don't want to hear this,” snapped Morgan angrily. “Can we get on and go wherever it is we're going?”

  “You shock very easily for one so actively involved in the slaughter of the innocent.”

  Morgan exploded. “Don't you dare to lecture me about the slaughter of the innocent. Not after what I've seen here tonight.”

  The Beard grunted derisively. “There are no innocents in this business, Mr. Morgan. The man you've seen tonight is a fool, but he is far from innocent. No-one forced him to put the stuff inside him in the first place. I don't do it. You don't do it. He chose to do it and that was his decision. But it's a habit that costs money. He got hooked beyond his means. The only way he could meet his needs was to deal for us. He knew the risks. Remember, we don't create the demand, we only supply it.”

  “Your false morality stinks. However much you care to dress it up, we are no different. Don't try to tell me some kid hardly into his teens who starts pill-popping, to experiment or because it's considered trendy, isn't innocent. From there it grows, doesn't it? If people like you didn't ensure the stuff was available, they wouldn't get started so easily. God knows where they find the money to line your filthy pockets. Steal, prostitute their bodies, what do you care?”

  “Remember Mr. Morgan, these people you feel so sorry for are going to be lining your filthy pockets. You are quite prepare
d to provide the means to keep your so-called innocents hooked to fund your campaign to kill and maim.”

  “Yes, just as the organisation you so dutifully represent is ready to pay to help us to kill and maim your so-called innocents, so that you can continue to get rich plying your filthy trade.” Morgan opened the rear door of the car. ”And you accuse me of being a hypocrite. You sicken me.”

  The car journey was dragging on, mainly due to the amount of turning Horace appeared to be doing, seemingly driving around in circles so that Morgan wouldn't know the exact location of their destination. They were wasting their time. He had no idea where they were anyway. The silence was becoming too overbearing for him. He had to break it.

  “You're an oddball,” he said to the Beard, who had taken the seat beside him now that Lenny had been left behind, “a contradiction. You seem educated, well-bred. It doesn't go with the job.”

  “You mean what's a nice boy like me doing in a rotten business like this?”

  “Something like that,” agreed Morgan, “but 'nice' wasn't the word I had in mind. You're a cold, ugly bastard.”

  “Well, you don't end up in a job like this by answering an ad. in the paper, that's for sure.” The Beard paused, looking thoughtfully at the rain that now hammered on the side window. What memories were stirring; how many ifs and what-might-have-beens? “Yes, I had an education, but you meet all types at university. I met what you would probably call the wrong type. I got into trouble, ran up some bad gambling debts; some friends, or so I thought at the time, helped me out. I had to do some favours in return that were not entirely legal. After that I could go only one way.”

  “You enjoy what you do?”

  “Not particularly, but I get well paid for it. There are plenty of people today doing jobs they don't enjoy for the same reason.”

  “Ah, the money in your pocket justifies all. The pain, the killing, the misery you and your wretched trade inflicts on its unfortunate victims.”