The youngster’s skull took the whole force of the impact; it crashed hard against the door and the car, becoming sandwiched between the two. The door shuck violently after the impact and the younger man, now bleeding profusely from his head, collapsed to the floor. “Fuck it eh?”
Roach checked the car park for any onlookers as his accomplice dug his hand into the dead man’s pocket. “Just find the keys, dump him in his van and let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said blankly.
Morris did as he was instructed. As he lifted the limp body up and laid it down inside the van he checked the time on the youngsters wrist watch. “Come on,” he slammed the rolling door of the van shut. “If we get there now we might catch them before they stop serving lunch.”
18
Darren Morris walked through the rusted doors of the Queen’s Head pub with James Roach following close behind; his stature in bodyguard mode, ready and alert for any attack or confrontation.
The street outside was fresh and mild, a light breeze hung in the air. Opposite the pub stretched a long line of semi-detached houses; the large supermarket could be seen towering over the back of the Victorian structures.
The sounds from the pub brushed onto the roadside: light echoes of music dubbed with occasional laughing and conversation, but the roaring of the passing cars overpowered any coherence.
The combined stench of alcohol fumes, cigarettes and poorly cooked food greeted the hitmen as they entered.
A few feet from Morris two young men were playing darts, the implements aimed at an antique board which rested in a dark alcove like a forgotten work of art. A third man stood with his back against the tables drinking a pint; his deep grey eyes bore into the new newcomers over the rim of the glass.
Morris and Roach nodded politely at the youngster and he quickly turned his attention back to the badly played game of darts, spilling insults and mocking comments in between sips of beer.
The pub was small and the bar stretched half its length. To the left of the entrance stood a long bench, with small tables strategically placed in front of it. Past the bench two large tables took up considerable space, big enough to seat four drinkers -- currently empty.
Beyond the tables was a large snooker table, a blue nylon sheet had been draped over it and someone had dropped a white cardboard plaque on its surface declaring: Out of Use.
Besides the three youngsters the only other customer was an elderly gentleman who sat alone, his pint, and a folded newspaper, resting on the table in front of him. His wrinkled features scanned the newcomers warmly; his eyes straining to see the two men who stood less than ten feet away.
They welcomed him with a warm smile and he mumbled an inaudible, friendly greeting to them before digging in his pocket and producing a pipe and a case of tobacco.
“He reminds me of my granddad,” Roach said softly as they walked up to the bar.
“He reminds me of every fucking granddad.”
A barmaid in her mid-thirties, who had watched their every movement since entering, greeted them with a cold stare.
Morris held her in his gaze, running his eyes over her appearance as she in turn studied him. Her long multi-coloured hair dangled over her round face and past her shoulders, its wavy strands stopping just above her ample breasts. She was short; no more than five foot, but her body was compact.
She wore a sleeveless, tight white top which exposed her curves. Her skin was strongly tanned and appeared miraculously smooth and unmarked. Through the thin material of her white top Morris could see her large breasts protruding seductively.
“My eyes are up here mate,” she said.
“Can’t blame a guy for looking,” he said with a cheeky grin.
She smiled back, a hint of embarrassment peeled over her thick red lips. “I guess not. What can I get you?” she quizzed.
“Two pints.” He rested his elbows onto the wooden surface, taking some
Roach checked the car park for any onlookers as his accomplice dug his hand into the dead man’s pocket. “Just find the keys, dump him in his van and let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said blankly.
Morris did as he was instructed. As he lifted the limp body up and laid it down inside the van he checked the time on the youngsters wrist watch. “Come on,” he slammed the rolling door of the van shut. “If we get there now we might catch them before they stop serving lunch.”
18
Darren Morris walked through the rusted doors of the Queen’s Head pub with James Roach following close behind; his stature in bodyguard mode, ready and alert for any attack or confrontation.
The street outside was fresh and mild, a light breeze hung in the air. Opposite the pub stretched a long line of semi-detached houses; the large supermarket could be seen towering over the back of the Victorian structures.
The sounds from the pub brushed onto the roadside: light echoes of music dubbed with occasional laughing and conversation, but the roaring of the passing cars overpowered any coherence.
The combined stench of alcohol fumes, cigarettes and poorly cooked food greeted the hitmen as they entered.
A few feet from Morris two young men were playing darts, the implements aimed at an antique board which rested in a dark alcove like a forgotten work of art. A third man stood with his back against the tables drinking a pint; his deep grey eyes bore into the new newcomers over the rim of the glass.
Morris and Roach nodded politely at the youngster and he quickly turned his attention back to the badly played game of darts, spilling insults and mocking comments in between sips of beer.
The pub was small and the bar stretched half its length. To the left of the entrance stood a long bench, with small tables strategically placed in front of it. Past the bench two large tables took up considerable space, big enough to seat four drinkers -- currently empty.
Beyond the tables was a large snooker table, a blue nylon sheet had been draped over it and someone had dropped a white cardboard plaque on its surface declaring: Out of Use.
Besides the three youngsters the only other customer was an elderly gentleman who sat alone, his pint, and a folded newspaper, resting on the table in front of him. His wrinkled features scanned the newcomers warmly; his eyes straining to see the two men who stood less than ten feet away.
They welcomed him with a warm smile and he mumbled an inaudible, friendly greeting to them before digging in his pocket and producing a pipe and a case of tobacco.
“He reminds me of my granddad,” Roach said softly as they walked up to the bar.
“He reminds me of every fucking granddad.”
A barmaid in her mid-thirties, who had watched their every movement since entering, greeted them with a cold stare.
Morris held her in his gaze, running his eyes over her appearance as she in turn studied him. Her long multi-coloured hair dangled over her round face and past her shoulders, its wavy strands stopping just above her ample breasts. She was short; no more than five foot, but her body was compact.
She wore a sleeveless, tight white top which exposed her curves. Her skin was strongly tanned and appeared miraculously smooth and unmarked. Through the thin material of her white top Morris could see her large breasts protruding seductively.
“My eyes are up here mate,” she said.
“Can’t blame a guy for looking,” he said with a cheeky grin.
She smiled back, a hint of embarrassment peeled over her thick red lips. “I guess not. What can I get you?” she quizzed.
“Two pints.” He rested his elbows onto the wooden surface, taking some
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