Dirty Bad Savage(12)
“Seven hundred.”
“Seven hundred?! Are you out of your pissing mind?”
“I was desperate!” she hissed. “I owed Ben Brown nearly five.”
“How much now?”
“Twelve hundred last time I checked. You know what their interest is like. They want three of it by next Monday. I’m scared, Cal. Really scared. You heard what they did to Tina Ryan.”
I pulled her hands away from her face. Tears. I hate tears, they make me feel weird inside.
“If they hurt me who’s going to take care of Slay? Mam can’t have him, not full-time.”
“We’ll sort it.”
“How?” she cried, edging closer. “Not even you can take them on, Callum, they’ll cut you up.”
“We’ll have to find the money.” My foot started to twitch, adrenaline rising. No way I’d do that many small deliveries by next Monday, I hadn’t even hooked back up with the circuit.
“I thought about turning some tricks... I know a couple of guys who’d have me.”
I grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking some sense into her. She didn’t fight me, just juddered in my grip. “Don’t you fucking dare, you stupid cow. Think of Slater.” I looked down at Casey, so quiet at my feet. So much for an easier life. “I’ve gotta go, Vick, get my head together.”
Her hand was on my elbow, pulling me closer. “Sure you won’t stay? I could do with the company.”
I stood in answer, handing her a roll-up.
“Fine,” she smiled, sadly. “I’ll get your stuff.”
***
Sophie
I watched Eric Fletcher stomp across the office, knowing by his trajectory he was heading straight for my desk. He scowled over at me, flustered and grubby, cleaning foam splattered over his maintenance overalls.
“One pissing night, that’s all it took.”
“Sorry?” I quizzed, pushing my mobile out of sight.
“Callum bastard Jackson. One night before he sprayed holy shit out the place. Don’t know which fucktard let him out on early release, but I’ve a mind to have a word with them.”
“Graffiti?”
“A shit ton of it. Must have been at it all pissing night.”
“Definitely his?”
He shook his head, as though I was a bloody idiot. “CeeJay, same as always. Bold as pissing brass that one.”
“Where this time?”
“Down by Al’s chip shop and another on one of the skate ramps. Oh, and a big old spectacle down the garage block by tower one of East Veil. Took pictures for the file. See if you can get community support on it, hopefully they’ll lock him back up.”
He handed me a digital camera and I flicked through the images on the previewer. The one by the chip shop was dark. Jagged bars hiding a hunched figure, his hands on his head, twisted in a way that reminded me of ‘The Scream’. It wasn’t like the other graffiti I’d seen around East Veil. Most of that was a load of names, garish and amateur. This was something else. I zoomed in on the signature in the bottom corner. CeeJay.
“Told you,” Eric said. “It’s Jackson alright.”
I flicked along to the next.
A crime scene body outline had been sprayed onto the skate ramp. Cartoon-like but gruesome. East Veil kills. Again, there was the CeeJay.
“Quite good, isn’t he?” I remarked, carelessly.
“Good? It’s a bloody eyesore.”
“No security cameras?”
“He knows them. Didn’t catch a thing, even if they did, he wears a hood. Can’t prove shit. Seen the spectacle at the garages? Can’t make bloody sense of it, myself. Pissing vandal.”
I flicked forward a few more, pulse racing at the memory of that place. My blood ran cold as I interpreted the images, guilt and embarrassment and something indeterminable crawling through me. The picture was of Casey. It had to be. A big black dog, in zigzag lines, frozen in mid-leap, tail curling into the sky. Red and purple script, the full height of the garage doors. Thank you.
Thank you.
Shit.
I could feel my cheeks burning.
Eric tutted. “Takes the fucking piss, doesn’t it? That’s going to take hours to clean up, budget’s already tight for this quarter.”
“Has anyone else seen these?”
“Not yet. Brought them straight to you. Hope you can take the little wanker down.”
I smiled, a hollow mask. “I’ll do my best.”
I uploaded the first two scenes to the East Veil archives.
The third never made it.
***
I took a working lunch, catching up on my notes from my meeting with Hannah Jackson the day before. Her usual troutish bluster had been absent, leaving a chain-smoking husk of a woman in its stead.