Consequence (3 page)

The house itself stood out like a diamond in sun drenched water. The garden revolved around the beautiful three story edifice. Every flower, bush and garden ornament was more of a declaration to the beauty of the house than an addition to it.

On entering the house -- stepping across a pine-scented threshold where a succulent and pleasant warmth greeted him -- a sweetly tone voice beckoned him.

“In here Howard.”

Walking into the kitchen he saw his wife standing by a tall, sleek fridge. She was arched over one of the kitchen counters, slowly chopping vegetables.

His eyes traced her body from foot to head. Her long, slender, toned legs were wrapped snugly in softly shaded tights. She wore a short black skirt which hung just over her thighs, her firm buttocks protruded seductively through the material. A thin and short silk blouse delicately housed her upper body, when she bent over it lifted to reveal the soft, browned flesh around her lower back. He could see her supple skin through the material.

When she turned Howard saw that she wore a red apron with the words ‘Hot Stuff’ embroided on it.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Elizabeth Price queried with a smile, knowing where her husband’s eyes had been travelling.

His smile twisted into a grin. The apron covered her body, allowing his vision no access to the sights of her supple form from the front, but he was just as happy to stare at her face.

She wore makeup as she always did, but not too much, it was never too much. She speckled her eyebrows with a green tint which brought out the beauty in her deep blue eyes. She also wore a light shade of crimson lipstick, slightly glossed, giving them a sweet and sticky appeal.

She always managed to look beautiful, from the moment she woke to the minute she fell asleep. Howard often found it amazing how she could pull off such a feat; even when she was ill or drunk and violently vomiting she still managed to shine.

Everyone admired her, men wanted to be with her and, because of her great, warm personality, women wanted to be her friend. Howard had been her first and only love, they had met in a nightclub, she was seventeen and he was twenty-five, the first time he laid eyes upon her he wanted her, and if there was something he wanted, he always took it.

“Well?” She said with a smile.

Howard returned the gesture. He walked up to her, kissed her and then wrapped his arms around her. He closed his eyes and sunk his face into her thick blonde hair. He sucked in a deep breath and filled his lungs with all the flowery fragrances lingering there, before releasing her from his grip.

“What are you cooking?” he asked, looking past her at the mass of chopped vegetables.

“It’s a surprise,” she replied.

Howard raised his eyebrows quizzically, “Surprise? Your cooking’s always a surprise darling,” he joked, receiving a light thump on the shoulder.

“You’ll like it, trust me.”

Howard nodded blankly and sat down at the kitchen table. He picked up the local newspaper from the surface and began to stare blankly at the articles.

“This must be a record,” she said looking at a sleek metallic clock above the sink.

“What?”

“You’re on time for once,” she smiled widely at him but he didn’t return the gesture.

“You look shattered,” Elizabeth said after a moment’s silence, a hint of concern in her voice.

Howard dropped the paper on the table and slumped lazily over it.

“I am,” he confirmed. “I always am.”

“Maybe you should take a few days off,” she offered. “There are plenty of qualified people who can run the place without you there.”

“I feel better when I’m in control.”

Elizabeth nodded.

“How was work today?” he added after a deathly silence.

“It was fine.” Elizabeth paused and smiled, a look of reminiscence flickering across her eyes. “You know little Peter?”

“Not really.”

“You know, short kid with a lisp, very quiet. His dad owns the local newsagents.”

Howard merely shrugged.

“Well, anyway,” she continued, undeterred. “We were painting today, I told them to paint something they had seen recently, something in their minds, their memories. All the other kids were drawing their houses, pets, parents, you know: the usual. Whilst Peter…well his was a little more pornographic.”

“What?” Price said, shocked. “He’s what? Four, five?”

“I know but it wasn’t like that. He had drawn a bed and what looked like two matchstick men getting a little...heated.” Elizabeth smiled. “I asked him what it was and he said it was his parents last night,” she laughed. “The poor kid said he went in to ask if he could watch television because he couldn’t sleep, but they seemed
‘busy’
so he went back to bed.”

Price smiled, “And he didn’t realise?”

“Of course not, he’s four for God’s sake.”

“Well, I don’t know do I? You work in a nursery, you have an advantage. I’ve worked with rich idiots and adolescent wannabes all my life.”

“What about Lisa?” Elizabeth questioned.

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I’m her father, if she wants to ask questions about sex or babies…she goes to you,” he smiled.

Elizabeth also smiled, “That’s me finished with work for a while anyway.”

“I don’t know why you don’t keep it up. You’re good at what you do; you should be working more than one or two days a week. You enjoy it right?”

“I do, but I also enjoy looking after Lisa and the house. I prefer being home,” Elizabeth said warmly. “Plus I’ve got the next three weeks off work, I’m on my holidays.”

“You work two days a week and they still give you a holiday?” Howard said dryly.

Elizabeth smiled and shrugged it off. “Dinner is ready in half an hour darling.”

Howard stood, loitering, his eyes wondering, “Is the babysitter arranged for tonight?”

“Yes, darling.” She walked away from the counter and embraced her husband. “Ten years,” she said with a grin. “I hope you’re getting me something big…and expensive, I deserve it being married to
you
for
this
long.”

Howard laughed. “You’ll get it tonight,” he confirmed.

He held her tightly for a second longer, then let her go and kissed her gently on the cheek.

“Happy anniversary darling.”

7

Phillips rolled the Jaguar onto a sparsely populated car park, its tires screeched against the old tarmac, hitting divots, stones and shards of glass as he eased the car into one of the many empty spaces.

Next to the parked, stolen Jaguar was a silver Vauxhall Vectra owned by the pair. The car was five years old and had been bought by the two friends over four months ago, replacing an equally inconspicuous and cheap vehicle.

Richards hopped out of the car like an excited schoolchild, the money from his pouch now packed into a duffel bag. He sucked in the afternoon air, a smug expression filling his features.

Three teenagers gathered close to the ground floor of the large flat-block, surrounding an area made to store bikes. They were huddled together against the graffiti stained walls, nervously looking over their shoulders, alert to the sound of the approaching Jaguar. After moments of idle glances -- weighing up the two conmen -- they continued to talk quietly amongst themselves; pillows of smoke drifted out of the huddled circle.

Richards felt something slam into his leg, almost bringing him to his knees. The bag spilled out of his hands and he released a shocked moan as the money-filled sack dropped onto the floor.

He looked up to see four kids staring at him, aged no more than ten. They were playing football in the centre of the enclosure, using the door to an unoccupied flat as a goal. They were grinning widely at him, amused by his surprised reaction.

“Hey, throw us the fucking ball back you pussy,” one of them bellowed, bringing cheers of laughter from his friends.

Richards looked down to see that the item that struck him was a football, the stitching ripped and the panels worn.

“Give the little bastards the fucking ball back would you Mickey,” Phillips said as he clambered out of the car.

Richards looked down at the football, his heart still pounding.

“You fucking deaf?” another youngster added.

Phillips shot an angry glance their way, “Watch your fucking mouth you little shit or I’ll come over there and fucking rip you a new one.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” the kid stated unsurely.

Phillips glared at him and began walking towards his way.

The kid held up his hand and took an instinctive step backwards. “Sorry man, look… just give us the ball back,” he pleaded.

Phillips laughed, turned and began walking past the car and to a flight of stairs. “Give the little inbred fuckwit his ball Mickey,” he said as he turned a corner -- his footfalls bounding on the metal stairs in the distance.

When Phillips disappeared from view the youngsters continued to taunt Richards. The conman just smiled. He rolled the ball forward, clear of the car. Then, resting his foot on its rough surface, he flicked it up, juggled it between his feet and smacked it high and hard, past the entrance and into the road beyond.

He grinned as he heard the sound of the ball bouncing on the declining road.

The youngsters looked towards the entrance in surprise. They stood motionless for fleeting seconds then exploded all at once.

“What the fuck did you do that for?”

“Arsehole!”

“Get the fucking ball!”

With a smile spread wide across his face Richards picked up the bag, holstered it over his shoulder then headed for the stairs.

8

Rokers Court was filled with drug addicts, petty thieves, single mothers and uncontrollable kids. The thirty flats over three stories were circled around a large car park and a concrete play area. The stairs and lifts to access the higher tiers of the flat block were decorated with graffiti, cigarette butts, plastic bottles, burnt foil and the odd hypodermic needle.

In every corner of the play areas, in every niche and sheltered hole around the flats, addicts were shooting heroin, snorting cocaine, popping pills and drinking themselves to oblivion. Kids from the age of ten upwards were getting high in the bike sheds or on the balconies.

It had a law of its own. The residents rarely called the police, and the outsiders wanted nothing to do with the place.

Occasionally someone would be dropped off in the back of a police van or escorted to the station for violating probation or missing curfews, but the residents saw a lot more crime than police.

That suited Phillips and Richards. They wanted a safe place, somewhere to hide and somewhere to scheme. They had hooked up an elaborate security system to their flat, but, as of yet, no one had attempted to gain access. The flat was cheap -- rented for the price of a fix from an unscrupulous council-house tenant -- and expendable, nothing inside was linked to them.

Phillips climbed the final step and turned the corner on the second floor, passing three doors before halting at the one he sought. The door was covered in graffiti, burn marks, and flaked paint like the rest of the flats. It was like that when they bought it, and they had decided that if they were to fit in, they wouldn’t change the rotting exterior.

He stuck the key in the lock and turned to his friend, crossing the walkway noisily behind him. “I heard the kids shouting,” he said. “What the fuck did you do?”

Richards merely shrugged.

“Just be careful would you? We need to keep a low profile, these kids have parents…I think. It just takes one little runt to start spreading news and the next thing we know we have a group of junkies throwing bricks through our windows.” Phillips waited until Richards stood beside him then turned the key and allowed his friend to enter the flat first.

He glanced down both sides of the long, second floor balcony: two youths were smoking cigarettes and drinking cans of lager at the far end but took little notice of the con men. After studying them Phillips walked into the flat and slammed the door shut behind him.

Richards had dropped the duffel bag in the small corridor entrance. Phillips watched as his friend unhooked a landscape painting from the brown-tinged walls and revealed a keypad.

He jabbed at the pad, punching out seven digits. A digital beep sounded from the bottom of the two walls which led into the living room and the rest of the flat.

Richards replaced the landscape picture, picked up the bag and, with Phillips on his tail, walked through the corridor and into the living room. Phillips’s steps were slow and deliberate as he strode through the flat, his eyes on his feet as they made their way into a dingy room.

“Two years,” Richards said as he dropped the sack onto a beige sofa, “and you still watch your footing every time you come through.”

“It’s hard to get used to the idea of walking through a laser trip line attached to ten pounds of fucking semtex,” Phillips said.

“There’s nowhere near ten pounds in there.”

“I don’t give a fuck how much there is,” Phillips threw himself onto the sofa. “It’s still gonna blow me to shit.”

“It’s safe.”

“I don’t trust technology,” Phillips confessed.

“It was your idea,” Richards reminded him.

“But you set it up.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If it goes wrong, you’re to blame.”

“Fair enough,” Richards reached over and unzipped the bag. “When your brains have decorated the walls and your balls are halfway down the corridor, you can blame me all you fucking like.”

9

“Twenty fucking five,” Phillips mumbled, his eyes staring at the contents of the glass tumbler in his hand. He paused to take a sip of the
Jack Daniels
, sighing in delight as the liquid worked its warmth through his body. “Twenty fucking five,” he repeated, “and we still live together like we did when we were eighteen.” He looked across at Michael Richards who was taking a sip from his own glass -- half filled with
Coke
.

“Nothing wrong with it,” Richards said, slurring slightly. “If we lived with girlfriends or wives -- if we had any that is -- then we wouldn’t have gotten this far, we wouldn’t have been this effective.”