Read Online The Damage (David Blake 2) by Howard Linskey - Free Book Online Page B

for the opportunity to prove it. Seven or eight years ago now they almost got the chance. There was a row, the details of which have been lost in the mist of time and been clouded by myth, but it involved money, a dust-up with some rival villains and an argument about who exactly did what to whom, when, and on who’s orders. In the end, Bobby sided with Finney and Kinane was banished from the inner circle, forbidden to earn a living in any way that might impact on Bobby’s business. Most people with Kinane’s talents would have left the city at that point but Kinane clung on, opening a ramshackle gym which kept him going during the wilderness years.
    I had managed to avoid falling out with Kinane, despite being one of Bobby’s trusted lieutenants, and he was the first person I brought into the organisation when I took over. When Kinane walked into a room with me people shut up and they listened.
    ‘Found the place okay then?’
    ‘Eventually,’ he told me, and he looked around the room, as if he was about to start addressing everyone in it, ‘why anyone would choose to live down here is beyond me. It’s a shit-hole.’ He said it loud enough for a couple of people to look up from their plates, but they soon looked back down again once they realised who was doing the talking. The area we were in was Kings Cross, which used to be a shit-hole but was well on the way to full gentrification, transformed by the renovation of the St Pancras Hotel, the building of up-market apartments and the European rail link. I suspect Kinane disapproved of it all simply because it wasn’t Newcastle.
    ‘Get yourself a brew, Joe. You’ve come a long way.’
    He nodded and walked over to the counter just as a manager emerged from a side door. The girl who’d served me was clearing cups and wiping tables, so the manager served Kinane. The manager was young and keen and almost as shiny as the five grand’s worth of gleaming espresso machine behind him, which looked like it could power a steam train.
    ‘Yes, sir, what can I get you?’ he chimed.
    ‘Coffee, white, two sugars,’ ordered Kinane.
    ‘You mean you want a white Americano?’ the young man corrected him with a nod towards the tariff behind him. Kinane looked at the man with distaste then squinted at the tariff with its Grande-this and Frappe-that, scanning the dozens of Americanised-pseudo-Italian phrases, looking for the simple word coffee. When he couldn’t find it, he gave up and turned his attention back to the manager who was looking a little impatient now.
    ‘No,’ explained Kinane quietly, ‘I do not want an Americano, you soppy cunt. I want coffee, white, two sugars. Got that?’
    The manager stared at Kinane and nodded quickly, ‘Yes sir.’
    ‘Go on then.’
    And the young manager quickly put his head down and got his arse in gear. Seconds later there was a steaming cup of coffee with milk added, resting on a saucer on the counter between them. The manager did not stop there. He even came out and fetched two sugar sachets from the self-service section, returned to the counter, tore them open and poured them into Kinane’s coffee, then stirred it for him. Kinane paid him with a gruff, ‘There’s a good lad.’ The manager gave him his change, quietly thanked him and quickly retreated through the side door again.

     
    Whenever I can, I prefer to drive. Public transport is a disgrace in this country. Okay, I don’t have to worry about the cost like most people, but think about it, go by plane and you stand around waiting for an age to board the bloody thing. Then there’s that intrusive paper trail with passports and boarding cards; all easy to trace later, which isn’t ideal in a world where you’d really rather nobody knew where you were going or what you were about. And don’t get me started on the trains. Last time I bought a first-class ticket I told the bloke behind the counter I wanted to buy a seat not the whole fucking train. So much easier to