Bad Music 1
The boy's bad news.
“I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself.”
-D.H. Lawrence
Angus stood in the darkness of night, invisible beneath the deep shade of the trees that edged the coastal lane, watching the distant turbines as they wheeled. ‘Hypnotic,’ he said.
‘Not if you’re a bird,’ Wull said, making a chopping motion, his teeth just visible as he smiled. He reached into a pocket and took out a black cap, pulled it over his blonde hair.
‘I hear it’s the future,’ Angus said.
‘Aye.’ From his right sleeve Wull dropped a short crowbar into his hand. He was ready.
They both turned to look towards the shoreline, seeing the launch beach on the sand, low waves licking at the legs of two men who clambered over the side. The mild fog made the air taste salty, made the horizon blend in with the sea, visibility down to maybe a hundred paces, made the figures waiting at the water’s edge appear grey, spectral. Angus checked his watch: four am, give or take. He took out his monocular night-sight, wiped the lens clear, and watched as the handover of a bag of cash was quickly verified, then exchanged for a heavily laden rucksack. He put away the monocular, his thumb stroking the heavy electrical cable wrapped around the knuckles of his left hand. It added about a pound in weight. He didn’t usually need more than one hit to drop someone, he always thought that his hand had a laser rangefinder that found the most direct and effective line to his opponents’ jaw, but in a situation like this, he wanted no margin for error.
Little Wull stood motionless; he did that better than Angus, who moved compulsively. Standing here now, he had to force himself not to tap his foot or rub his mouth or rake his fingers through his hair; it was too long, needed a cut, his nose itched, his laces weren’t tied properly - thoughts fretted at him as he watched the boat slide back onto the water. The thing that calmed him was movement.
Only when he heard the two-stroke engine of the boat fire up and saw the men steering it away from the beach, did his heart rate begin to slow. He looked to where the trawler sat offshore, a faint glow of distant lights, and his mind cleared. He watched the two men who were walking back up the sands, towards the lane where their BMW was parked, and he began to feel a calm descend on him.
The men reached the low rock berm that led from the beach to the lane, they were chatting as they clambered up, the one carrying the rucksack speaking in English, the other in a mix of English and Urdu, and Angus automatically labeled them as such. English was dressed in sportswear, clean shaven with a fade. Urdu was dressed in traditional clothing and sported a wispy beard.
English had the car keys in his hand and was closest to him.
Timing was all. Move too early and they’d lose the element of surprise, move too late and they’d be closing the car doors, but then, he never had to think too much about timing, all he had to do was let it flow.
As the men approached the parked car he closed his left eye, anticipating the flashing lights as the electronic locks opened, saving his night vision. He opened it again as the light died away and, riding the timing, he stepped out of the shadow of the trees. English and Urdu split as they approached the car, Angus had no doubt their night vision had been marred by the lights of the door locks opening and their looking into the lit interior of the car, and he made directly towards English, walking silently, not even pausing as he smashed his weighted left hand into the driver’s jaw, almost falling into the punch, walking straight through it as English dropped like a wet sack, already unconsciousness, and Angus, not slowing at all, walked round to the other side just in case Wull was having a problem.
But there was no problem. Little Wull, not having Angus’ power or skill, had cracked Urdu’s skull with his crowbar and was now kicking him in the ribs. ‘Check his pockets,’ Angus said, and went back to the driver, found his phone, pointed it at the unconscious man’s face and unlocked it. Then he switched passcodes, dropped it in a pocket, picked up the bag, tapped Wull on the shoulder. ‘C’mon.’
He waited while Wull took Urdu’s phone from his pocket and unlocked it, then gave him a final kick behind the ear. He watched as his Wull took out a knife, opened it, and slit three of the BMW’s tyres in turn. Then he turned and walked towards the truck, Wull following.
He felt calm now.
They drove inland, directly west, passing through the slumbering villages of Togston, then Thurston, avoiding the cameras on the main highways, and they parked up the far side of Felton. Wull unzipped the bag, shone a torch inside to see the contents. ‘They said five kilos?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Naah. Twenty kilos.’
Angus twisted round to glance at the contents. ‘That changes our plans.’
‘We’ll need to contact the buyers,’ Wull said. ‘Tell them we’ve got more.’
Angus shook his head, pushed his hair back, out of his eyes. ‘Let’s sell the original first, then they’ll know the product is sound. If we go around shouting about the extra, someone will do to us what we just did to the drughadis.’
He put the car into drive and they headed west, crossing the A1, avoiding the lights and the CCTV, and driving on until they reached, Longfram, where they took the 697, heading south, stopping at a deserted building site opposite Dobbies Garden Centre. Angus parked the truck, and they climbed out of the truck. Will went front and back, peeling off the fake number plates, rolled them up and three them into a skip. Angus dropped the keys in the wheelwell, then followed Wull to a nearby Ford.
He threw the rucksack onto the backseat, and settled himself into the passenger seat as Wull, driving now, checked the mirrors, fastened his seatbelt, locked the doors. He started the engine and they drove away, heading south.
As Wull drove, Angus dug into his pocket, took out English’s phone, then took a micro hard-drive and a cable, from the door pocket, plugged it onto the phone. ‘Maybe we can link up with some of their contacts,’ he said. After a minute, the phone blipped twice, and he unplugged it, opened the window and threw it out into the night. ‘Give me the other one,’ he said. Wull took out Urdu’s phone and handed it over as he drove. Angus followed the same procedure, ending with the phone being launched into the black night air. Finished, Angus pocketed the HD, took out an iPod nano and plugged the cable into the dash. He pressed play.
‘What’s this?’
‘Our theme song.’
‘Proper old-school,’ Wull said, smiling to himself in the reflection of the rear-view mirror. But despite the age of the music, within minutes they were both laughing and singing and hand-jiving in sync as they drove South.
‘We still going to the new place?’ Wull asked as they crossed the Tyne Bridge an hour later.
‘Yeah. Keep our heads down for a few days; talk to possible buyers,‘ Angus said, staring out at the glistening river below. It was close to 6am and the sky was black.
He felt empty. He felt nothing. After violence, the world ran clear.
It was the best feeling.
Chapter 2 of Bad Music is here: