2-17: The Long Night
Two Land Rovers pulled-up outside, severely denting the large and menacing car that was double-parked outside. The large and menacing men stepped outside to explain to the soldiers why it was parked in a no-standing zone, and were summarily kneed in their collective groins for their infraction and told to bugger off. The soldiers walked into Dannys and ordered the chicken-burger and a large chips. They stepped past Freddy McWarwickson, sitting up and cursing, with nary a backward glance. Fourteenth on the most-wanted list, decided Donnie, wasn’t a superstar role. He decided to exit stage-left and grabbed McWarwickson’s ear in a twist he’d been taught by The Cobbler called the Thumbscrew. He’d need to disinfect his thumb later, but as a way of getting McWarwickson to stand up, it worked a treat. They left the cafe, with Donnie still sipping his coffee-to-go and hopped into one of the Land Rovers. Donnie decided it would be McWarwickson that copped any punishment so had him do the driving.
‘Left at the lights,’ said Donnie. ‘And past the barbed-wire.’
McWarwickson grunted: I heard you. Donnie slapped him on the back of the head: Shut up and drive, arsehole.
The barbed-wire now behind them, they followed the crescent around to another set of lights, by way of the speed-humps graveyard — the most speed-humps per capita anywhere in the country — where the Land Rover was left to idle.
‘Out here fatso,’ said Donnie then tackled McWarwickson as he tried to escape, glad of the man’s morbid obesity when they fell to the hard concrete pavement. Luck was with them for a bank alarm began to scream, and gunshots were fired overhead as Gandhi’s Long-Arm-Gang held-up their fifteenth Manned Teller Machine this month. The teller didn’t stand a chance.
Grabbing at a couple of stray twenties as they floated down to the ground after the gang had made their escape with the booty, Donnie and McWarwickson pushed their way up to their feet and heard sirens fast approaching. The sirens weren’t alone: Four Land Rovers pulled-up at the scene, armed soldiers slipping from the doorways like well-oiled machines.
Donnie wasn’t surprised.
It was bright in the interview room that Donnie was seated in and he was, oddly enough, dying for something to eat. He should have waited for that first chicken breast before leaving to meet with Madame Pink. It wasn’t the first time Donnie hadn’t eaten enough before a job.
Donnie stared at the walls. Nice paint job. Shame about the ways out; there were none he could see. He considered what they might be doing with McWarwickson; they wouldn’t be pleased to have picked him up at this early stage because it meant more paperwork. They’d been hoping the community would have dealt with him instead.
Could be worse, thought Donnie as a panel in the wall slid aside and unsealed the room. It left a doorway in which a man stood.
Major Smith stepped into the room, a folder under one arm and an officer’s hat on his head.
‘I believe this is yours, Herr Penfolde,’ he said in faultless English accent. Quite easy given he was born and bred in London, England.
There are a few ways to describe one's self when effectively trying to mask the fact that you're a complete hermit and spend your entire existence behind a computer screen sipping hot tea and eating cakes. The first would be to suggest that you're somewhat introverted and avoid coffee. Another might be to suggest you're a fan of Apple Macs but are cutting-down from the 6 you used to have to an even two (Macbook and Mac Mini in turn). Finally you might choose to say that despite the massive pay-drop, this writing thing is quite a lark isn't it? Not to mention enjoying the creative life a lot more than mindless tedium in corporate jobs, working the 40 hour week to the drumming of endless meetings and political intrigue that would have made Machiavelli blush and hand his pen over to the corporate slugs that run companies these days. Enough said really.
