According to Rodent, who had called him in a panic a few minutes earlier, the police were out in strength, visiting anyone and everyone who knew Winston and putting pressure on them to reveal where he was holed up.
He’d told Rodent not to worry, but the news had left him feeling vulnerable.
Winston had spent his whole life screwing over people on both sides of the law and, as a result, he didn’t have many friends. Not only was he despised by rival dealers; he was disliked and feared by almost everyone who worked for him, and Garston knew it was only a matter of time until someone found out where he was staying and phoned Crimestoppers.
Being cooped up in the same tiny flat as Winston and Angela was sending him stir crazy. His uncle had been in a foul, confrontational mood all day, and the whore had been whining non-stop because she was going through withdrawal and needing a fix to take the edge off.
He was almost at the end of his tether, and he decided that as soon as Rodent returned from Tesco, where he been sent to stock up on food, he would borrow the boy’s car and shoot back to his place for a change of clothes and a shower.
Angela had been easy enough to deal with. When her whinging had finally become too much, he’d simply given her a bag of smack and allowed her to shoot up. Since then, she had been asleep and out of his hair.
His uncle was a different proposition altogether. The man was insufferable. Nothing anyone said or did pleased him, and all he wanted to do was argue and pick fault.
Out of the kindness of his heart, he’d taken Winston a mug of coffee and a cheese and pickle sandwich about an hour ago, and the ungrateful swine’s response had been to moan that there was too much milk and not enough sugar in his drink. Then he’d thrown a strop because he’d wanted ham, not cheese. After kicking up a huge fuss, he’d devoured the sandwich in four bites and demanded more. When Garston had told him there was no more bread, he’d gone into one, threatening to break Rodent’s legs for not having a better-stocked larder.
Garston had been sent back to the kitchen to forage through almost empty cupboards in search of something else for him to eat. He’d reported back that the only two options available – unless he wanted Garston to cook him the mummified remains of the mouse he’d found in a trap – was a mug of oxtail flavoured cup-a-soup or a king-size bag of cheese and onion crisps. Winston had opted for the crisps, but he’d made it clear that he would have preferred salt and vinegar.
After he’d eaten, Angela had been allowed in to bathe and change the wound. Throughout her ministrations, Winston had cursed at her clumsiness and criticised her inability to do anything right, and she had left the room in tears, having been reduced to a bag of nerves.
Finally, back in the lounge, and indescribably grateful to have escaped from his uncle’s energy-sapping negativity, Garston had switched the TV on and flopped down in the armchair with the dodgy spring.
That had only served to depress him more. The policeman’s murder at the hospital, along with the subsequent helicopter hijacking, was still being featured on every news bulletin, and all the unwanted publicity Winston was receiving was going to make it very hard to move him when the time came. It had even displaced the manhunt for the soap star who had strangled his girlfriend as the top story.
There were no significant updates regarding the shooting near the BTNA, except to announce that the suspect had now died, the next of kin had been informed, and the Independent Police Complaints Commission had been informed.
Just thinking about the logistics of getting his uncle down to Sussex made Garston feel physically sick. He groaned and buried his head in his hands. Massaging his throbbing temples with his fingers, he could feel the blood pounding in his ears as a nagging stress headache began to set in.
“How the fuck am I going to move you from here to the coast when your godawful face is being splashed across the telly every five minutes?” he asked the grainy colour image of Winston that now filled the screen.
It stared back at him malevolently.
Resisting the urge to throw the remote at it, he stood up and strode back to the bedroom. He found Winston sitting up in bed, arms folded angrily across his huge chest. “What?” he demanded, petulantly.
Clearly, this wasn’t a good time to have a rational conversation with his uncle, but then, when was? Sitting on the edge of the bed, Garston took a deep breath. “Claude,” he began delicately, and then hesitated, wondering if it might be wiser to wait until his uncle was in a marginally better mood.
“WHAT?” Winston shouted, making him flinch.
“Maybe we should talk later,” Garston said, making to stand.
Winston grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled him close, grimacing at the pain the sudden movement had caused him. “If you’re gonna run my business while I’m away, you’d better grow a pair of balls and stop acting like a fucking pussy, because I’m telling you, unless you do, you won’t last five-fucking-minutes in this game. Now, what do you want?” He released his grip on Garston and leaned back against the pillows.
Garston swallowed hard. “You’re right, Claude,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “I’m going to give it to you straight. There’s no way we can move you at the moment because your hairstyle is just too distinctive. What I propose is that, before setting off to Rye on Thursday night, you to let me shave off your dreadlocks. That would really change your appearance and it might give us a fighting chance of
