call was made. Few words were exchanged. Halfway through the conversation he asked Morris to show him the cash, Morris gladly pulled out a huge wad of notes from his pocket. The price was agreed there and then and Morris was told to meet Steiner in the local park in less than an hour.
20
Richards could smell the raw dirt that clung to the heavy fabric of the overalls sported by the man at least twenty years his senior. The smell was fused with an intoxicating mix of alcohol and tobacco and layered with a sickening stench of body odour.
The man took a turning past a narrow archway near the snooker table and glided through the toilet door that he kindly held open for Richards. They both headed for the line of stained-white urinals directly opposite the door.
“Nothing like a few pints before dinner is there?” Richards said, making polite conversation.
The man was bemused that Richards had picked the urinal next to his and had begun to make conversation, but he shrugged off any concerns.
“More like ‘ instead of ’ dinner,” he replied with a social laugh.
“Food in here that bad?”
“No, the food’s okay. It’s my stomach that’s the problem, aint been able to hold anything down for two days now.”
Richards nodded knowingly, “My lass is the same. I guess there’s a bug going around.”
“Nah, it’s the fucking kebab shop down Queen Street and the retarded fuckers that work there, had one the other night,” he explained in disgust. “Wasn’t so bad at the time but I was shitting through the eye of a needle the next morning.”
Richards laughed and finished urinating. He began to zip up his pants as he heard the door to the toilets creak open; shooting a look over his shoulder he saw Johnny Phillips enter and glance his way.
“Never been there,” Richards said sighing. “Thanks for the tip.”
He slid his left hand inside the older man’s right pocket, grasping a large wallet. Taking another glance over his shoulder he tossed the wallet backwards; Phillips caught it on his way to one of the cubicles.
Richards finished zipping up his trousers and walked over to one of the sinks near the line of urinals. He pushed down on the hot tap and watched as the water gushed violently.
“Finished so quickly?”
“I have the bladder of an eighty year old,” Richards lied as he shoved his hands under the warm water. “One fucking pint and I’m rushing off to the toilet every five minutes.”
Moments later the chain in one of the cubicles was pulled and the sound of rushing water filled the small space. At the same time the older man finished and, disregarding the sinks, he walked past Richards, flashed him a smile and headed for the door.
Johnny Phillips emerged from the cubical with the man in his sights -- his head low and his eyes aimed at the floor. He bumped into him, quickly reached out to steady the stranger who lost his footing, and then slipped the leather wallet back into his overalls.
“Shit, sorry mate,” Phillips apologised. “I didn’t see you there; I was in a world of my own.”
He acknowledged the apology with a disoriented smile and moved to walk away, but Phillips stopped him in his tracks.
“Harry,” Phillips said with surprised delight. “Harry Allcross.”
The man looked shocked. “I’m sorry, do I know you?” he asked, his features a contortion of bemusement.
“Philip Smith,” Phillips stated. “We took the same drink driving course.”
“Oh,” he uttered, bemused. “At the day centre?”
“Yes, don’t you remember? I lost my license the same time as you. I was doing ninety on a dual-carriage way with enough whiskey in my blood to kill a herd of elephants,” Phillips laughed and nudged the other man in a friendly gesture. “What were in you there in for again…” he paused, feigning recollection. Harry also waited. “You were driving for a gardening firm or something weren’t you? Pissed on the job in a transit van if I remember
20
Richards could smell the raw dirt that clung to the heavy fabric of the overalls sported by the man at least twenty years his senior. The smell was fused with an intoxicating mix of alcohol and tobacco and layered with a sickening stench of body odour.
The man took a turning past a narrow archway near the snooker table and glided through the toilet door that he kindly held open for Richards. They both headed for the line of stained-white urinals directly opposite the door.
“Nothing like a few pints before dinner is there?” Richards said, making polite conversation.
The man was bemused that Richards had picked the urinal next to his and had begun to make conversation, but he shrugged off any concerns.
“More like ‘ instead of ’ dinner,” he replied with a social laugh.
“Food in here that bad?”
“No, the food’s okay. It’s my stomach that’s the problem, aint been able to hold anything down for two days now.”
Richards nodded knowingly, “My lass is the same. I guess there’s a bug going around.”
“Nah, it’s the fucking kebab shop down Queen Street and the retarded fuckers that work there, had one the other night,” he explained in disgust. “Wasn’t so bad at the time but I was shitting through the eye of a needle the next morning.”
Richards laughed and finished urinating. He began to zip up his pants as he heard the door to the toilets creak open; shooting a look over his shoulder he saw Johnny Phillips enter and glance his way.
“Never been there,” Richards said sighing. “Thanks for the tip.”
He slid his left hand inside the older man’s right pocket, grasping a large wallet. Taking another glance over his shoulder he tossed the wallet backwards; Phillips caught it on his way to one of the cubicles.
Richards finished zipping up his trousers and walked over to one of the sinks near the line of urinals. He pushed down on the hot tap and watched as the water gushed violently.
“Finished so quickly?”
“I have the bladder of an eighty year old,” Richards lied as he shoved his hands under the warm water. “One fucking pint and I’m rushing off to the toilet every five minutes.”
Moments later the chain in one of the cubicles was pulled and the sound of rushing water filled the small space. At the same time the older man finished and, disregarding the sinks, he walked past Richards, flashed him a smile and headed for the door.
Johnny Phillips emerged from the cubical with the man in his sights -- his head low and his eyes aimed at the floor. He bumped into him, quickly reached out to steady the stranger who lost his footing, and then slipped the leather wallet back into his overalls.
“Shit, sorry mate,” Phillips apologised. “I didn’t see you there; I was in a world of my own.”
He acknowledged the apology with a disoriented smile and moved to walk away, but Phillips stopped him in his tracks.
“Harry,” Phillips said with surprised delight. “Harry Allcross.”
The man looked shocked. “I’m sorry, do I know you?” he asked, his features a contortion of bemusement.
“Philip Smith,” Phillips stated. “We took the same drink driving course.”
“Oh,” he uttered, bemused. “At the day centre?”
“Yes, don’t you remember? I lost my license the same time as you. I was doing ninety on a dual-carriage way with enough whiskey in my blood to kill a herd of elephants,” Phillips laughed and nudged the other man in a friendly gesture. “What were in you there in for again…” he paused, feigning recollection. Harry also waited. “You were driving for a gardening firm or something weren’t you? Pissed on the job in a transit van if I remember
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