There was something pitiful about Rodney that made her feel strangely protective towards him, and it wasn’t just the fact that he was a bit simple. Clearly, he wasn’t a saint, far from it, but she suspected that he was basically a good person at heart. The trouble was, he had no one to look out for him and he appeared to be easily led.
She didn’t want to see his naivety getting him into trouble, but beyond confronting him about her suspicions, Jenna had absolutely no idea what she was going to do if and when she found him. Hopefully, he would simply laugh at her and tell her that she’d got the wrong end of the stick.
That would be a huge and very welcome relief.
But what if Rodney really was helping this horrible Winston character, and he wasn’t the sweet and innocent person that she thought he was? If that turned out to be the case, what she was doing could have dangerous repercussions for both her and her family, and that was a sobering thought.
Feeling a little out of her league, Jenna decided to return home and call the police. As much as she wanted to help Rodney, she realised that she had acted without thinking things through.
Jenna was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she stepped into the road without looking properly, failing to spot the car that had just pulled away from the kerb until it screeched to a stop with its front bumper inches away from her legs. The driver, a slim black man in his late twenties, wound down his window and shouted at her angrily.
Jenna was too stunned to say anything, but she was really surprised by the man’s outburst. She appreciated that he was probably in shock, having nearly run her over, and she accepted that it would have been totally her fault, but he had been wearing the surgical greens of a doctor. Surely someone like that should have responded with a little more decorum?
Maybe he’d reacted like that because he spent his working life trying to repair the broken bodies of mindless idiots like her who stepped in front of moving cars without looking?
Feeling lucky to be alive, Jenna cut through the park to Avondale Road and then into Percy Road and home.
Standing in the hallway, she hovered by the telephone, dithering over whether to call the police now or wait until the morning.
“That you, Jen?” her mother called from the kitchen.
That clinched it; Jenna would wait until the morning when no one else was around. Otherwise, her parents would overhear her making the call, and then they would want to know why she was phoning the police. She couldn’t face an interrogation like that - not tonight. And besides, if she told them, she would only have to put up with her another bout of her mum droning on about what a terrible lot the Dawlish family were and how Rodney’s elder brother had led her poor Kevin astray.
◆◆◆
Deontay Garston placed both hands on the peeling green paintwork of the pub’s main doors and pushed them open. The creaking hinges were badly in need of a little oil, but the racket coming from inside easily overpowered their feeble protest.
The pub’s interior was dim and it took Garston a few moments for his eyes to acclimatise.
The bar was busy, with a three-deep line of customers spanning its circumference. Everyone seemed to be talking as loudly as they could, not only competing with each other but also going up against the music blaring out of the jukebox. The two harried-looking bartenders were buzzing from one side of the bar to the other, struggling to keep up with demand.
His eyes sought out Flogger and, after a few seconds, he spotted his distinctive form hunched in a corner booth at the far end of the building. He’d chosen a spot right beside the entrance to the men’s toilets; it was the ideal location for a piece of shit like him.
In Garston’s youth, this had been a classic East End pub with great character, a handful of loyal regulars and very little passing trade. Unfortunately, after struggling to make ends meet for several years, the traditionalist landlord had finally been forced to sell out to one of the big breweries who had immediately refurbished and rebranded the old boozer to make it more appealing to the masses.
Although it had retained the original’s name, the new Rose and Crown had none of its predecessor’s charm; the traditional East End accoutrement had been replaced by tacky – some would say kitsch – décor, and the overpriced beer the brewery insisted on serving was mediocre at best. Furthermore, there were no locals anymore, just a bunch of yuppies and Hooray Henrys.
Garston didn’t like it at all.
Slipping through a wall of punters, Garston crossed the well-trodden, sticky floorboards and slid into a seat opposite Flogger.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said.
After he’d nearly mown down the four-eyed bitch who’d stepped off the pavement right into his path, he’d driven home, changed his clothing and showered. He had collected some money and a few other things before setting off to meet Flogger.
Flogger shrugged. “Don’t worry about it,” he said magnanimously, which took Garston by surprise. As far as Flogger was concerned, time was money, and delays of any kind bit into his profits.
“I’d offer to buy you a beer,” Garston said with a wan smile, “but I’m not queuing for half an hour to get to the bar.”
“Already taken care of,” Flogger said, and he nodded to a young man with a quiff of oily black hair, greasy skin, and a beaked nose who was leaning against a door marked ‘Staff Only’. Dressed in the corporate uniform of a bartender,
