Read Online The Chop Shop by Christopher Heffernan - Free Book Online

six feet tall and
wearing a pair of orange ballistic glasses.
    “It's a
different company guarding this place every time I come here,” Richard said.
    “Hey, I don't
like the look of you. Up against the wall, now,” the contractor said.
    Three other
contractors appeared from around the corner. The men were on them before
Michael could blink, pinning them both to the wall. He tried to remove his
identity card, only for one of the men to snatch it from him.
    “You might want
to check that before you start breaking bones,” Michael said.
    “Yeah, get the
fuck off me.’I don't like the look of you'? You're going to need a better
excuse than that, you twat,” Richard said.
    One of the
contractors removed their holstered weapons and held them up for the others to
see. “Carrying firearms is a serious offence.”
    “Right. We walk
into a fucking government building carrying loaded weapons, just so we can get
arrested.”
    Michael felt
fingers curling around the back of his neck; they dug deeper into his flesh,
and he tensed up, grimacing at the pain. He looked out the corner of his eye at
the contractor inspecting his identity card.
    “Sorry,” the man
said with a smile. “Our laser scanner is faulty. I'll have to go and get the
replacement, but I'll try not to take too long.”
    Richard
attempted to move. The contractor tightened his hold until he forced a grunt
from him. He squirmed and muttered an insult under his breath.
    A small crowd
watched them from behind security glass and a second set of doors. One worker
was whispering something snide to a female colleague; she let slip an
expression of amusement.
    The contractor
returned with the same laser scanner on his belt and read their identity cards.
“It does seem that you are authorised to carry those weapons. My mistake. You
can't be too careful these days. I mean, they did blow up a police station,
didn't they? Let them in.”
    He spoke every
word with the sincerity of a child in a secondary school drama class.
    Michael rubbed
his neck. He snatched the card back from the guard and slammed the door open
hard enough to rattle the security glass. The onlookers turned away and
departed.
    “That's a very
unbecoming attitude, young man. You should be ashamed of yourself,” one of the
contractors said, feigning the voice of an elderly lady.
    He heard the
sound of their laughter for several seconds, until it was cut off by the
security door shutting behind them both.
    “We can't let
that slide,” Richard said.
    They approached
the reception desk, hidden behind another screen of armoured glass. “What are
you going to do? Piss in their cup of tea?”
    Richard looked
back over his shoulder and scowled. “I'll think of something.”
    Michael tapped
on the glass. The reception raised her eyes from the computer screen and looked
them over with a disapproving stare. She was in her sixties, hair turning grey,
and there was a miserable air about her, as though their very presence had
somehow offended her.
    She pressed the
speaker button. “Yes?”
    Her voice was
monotone.
    Michael showed
the receptionist his identity card. “We need access to the business registry.”
    She frowned.
“You can wait one moment.”
    One moment was
thirty seconds of non-stop typing. She hit the door buzzer.
    “The next time
you delay a police officer, you're going to have a lot more than dementia to
worry about,” Richard said into the microphone.
    The receptionist
said nothing. They went through the door and into a corridor of bright lights
and partition walls.
    “What a cow. I
hate coming to this place.”
    A crowd of
people surrounded the lifts, so they took the stairs to the third floor. He
found a room of public computers and slumped down into one of the chairs,
feeling the hard plastic digging into his flesh.
    He placed his
notepad on the desk. Old coffee stains and undisturbed layers of dust coated
the wood. A fan spun overhead, thumping in time with the whine of computer
drives.