The little shite.
I pushed up to sixty-five and buzzed around the corners, just behind him. My equipment in the boot started to rattle about unforgivingly. The thought also struck me that I hadn’t had the trusty Focus serviced for a couple of years and had chanced it each time for its MOT. Red and white signs rushed past me, informing me that the speed limit was fifty, but I put my foot down further. I smiled to myself. I had to catch this guy – I couldn’t tell you why. I just really wanted to.
Gaining on him, we raced around the twisty section of the carriageway known as ‘The Devil’s Elbow’. I eased off the pedal faintly, but still clung around the bends at nearly sixty. We were neck and neck. I tried to catch a glimpse of him and I think I caught an anxious expression. Our cars were hugging close together now, too close. The sound of the engines against the quiet night were a dual roar. As we came towards the next straight, I gripped the wheel and stamped the accelerator flat to the floor.
At sixty-five I inched past him.
Seventy, seventy-five and I was a car length ahead.
My equipment jostled and clattered about in the back.
My hands felt clammy on the wheel.
As I hit eighty miles an hour I was well clear of him and the signs told me that the limit was now thirty. I eased off the gas and shot through Holywood town, cruising at around fifty. The lights all stayed green, then I hit the next big stretch of bypass, taking it back above seventy. All the while I stole glances in the rear-view mirror. I kept checking back for the next mile or so. There was no sign of him.
4
“Alright, calm down, fucksake Mike,” I said while pulling my handbag off my shoulder. It was the next day, about lunch time. I had forced myself up early.
As soon as I entered his flat Mike had immediately started to pester me about the two possible marks. I flung my bag down on the sofa, feigning annoyance, but smiled up at him when I saw that he had left a bottle of Magners and a spliff on the table beside my usual chair.
“Do I know you or do I know you?” he said, grinning. He was dressed in a tight-fitting blue t shirt, with ‘Captain Beyond’ etched on it, and black jeans. He looked well. His short black hair with the flick at the front was still deep in colour and incredibly thick. I’d swap my stringy hair for hair like his any day of the week. He was handsome – he always had been. Mike’s a nice guy. It, well, just didn’t work out with us. I don’t know – after my Dad died and everything – things just fizzled out, I suppose. Strangely I’d never really thought about it a whole lot.
“Alright then, you’re back in my good books,” I conceded and took a swig of my cider, “New TV?” I asked, gesturing to the flat screen on the wall.
“Yep, purchased from some of our ill-gotten gains.”
I shook my head.
I looked about the room; he’d tidied it since the last time I was over. His flat was over near the Lisburn Road – it had only one bedroom and a small bathroom, but was nicely finished. The living room and kitchen were a decent size too. He rented it, but I think his landlord left him alone and it was very much his own place. He always had it clean enough – he’d never been the dirty, grungy student type. He’d the place sparsely furnished, and tastefully done for a guy! When we dated, he had dealt weed for a while and even then he had kept the place nice. He’d turfed out many a stoner on their ear for dropping a hot rock on the sofa or for spilling a beer. It hadn’t all been criminal enterprises though. He did sound at a number of venues around the city and still does – that’s how we originally met. But I suspected he made double his legit wage from our little sideline.
“So how are you anyway?” I asked and lit up the smoke.
“I’m dead on, grand. It was a good gig last night in The Empire.”
“Was it yeah? Who was playing again?”
“These out of town lads – over from England – Haile Selassie you call them.”
“Haile Selassie?” I repeated, taking a draw and passing the joint across.
“Aye, named after some old dictator, apparently.”
“He was the Ethiopian leader Mike, kind of hailed by Rastas and the like.”
He raised both eyebrows, breathing in smoke.
Exhaling again he said, “They probably like their ganja then; I should have brought some along with me.”
He got up and flicked his sound system on low. Some kind of chilled out dance music that I had no interest in came on. That was probably another reason we broke up – I couldn’t stand his love of electronica and he didn’t get jazz. He actually liked a range of stuff, some of it I didn’t mind. But not digging jazz – that was an unforgivable sin.
“So, you’re busting to hear about the gigs?”
“I am Vick, I am. Did they go okay, good reception?”
“Yeah, they were fine – same old, same old.”
“They’re the last ones before you’re away on holiday?”
“Yeah, that’s me now, no more work for three weeks.”
“Nice for some.”
“Cheeky hallion. So, I know you really wanna know if there’s a possible score. But
