Seb seethed with pent-up rage as he stared at the sorry-looking, smashed-up face of the runner. It was clear the man would rather be anywhere else but here with him, but he ran this place now and so things would be done his way. Especially on this subject – the one thing that he would not allow, under any circumstances, for his father to get wind of. At least, not until he was fully recovered. And by that time, he would have dealt with it, eradicating any more instances of runners getting jumped or repetitions of burgeoning blackmail.
Having just left his father’s bedside, he was now in charge. Blackmail was not going to happen. Neither was this fucking rumour going to gain pace.
Seb’s eyes ran over the man in front of him, his eyes narrowing at the inflicted damage. The man’s nose was broken – anyone could see that, a couple of teeth had gone and one eye was completely swollen shut. And that was just the damage he could see.
Seb chewed his bottom lip. This guy had taken a right pasting and he wouldn’t put him through any more grief by asking him yet again to repeat the exact words the toe-rag had used.
Seb got the gist. It was exactly what Neil had reiterated earlier. That one of them wasn’t a true Stoker.
He eyed the runner carefully. ‘Phil? It is Phil, isn’t it? I hope I don’t need to point out that what this prick said is untrue.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘But we all know how rumours can fly out of control if they are repeated…’
‘I – I won’t repeat a word, Mr Stoker,’ Phil muttered, his voice muffled from his swollen, cut mouth. ‘I didn’t even want to repeat it to Neil, let alone you, but I felt it my responsibility to do so.’
‘You did right,’ Seb said. ‘I appreciate it.’ He slapped Phil on the back, trying not to laugh as the man winced. ‘But I do want the bloke that jumped you.’
Phil blinked several times, panic rising. He didn’t want to get involved. He’d only get more shit. The bloke who’d jumped him last night fought like a rabid tiger and he didn’t want a repeat of that.
‘You did a sterling job last night. It took a hell of a lot before the twat got the better of you,’ Seb said, getting close as he looked Phil up and down. ‘You defended the Stoker firm honourably.’
Pulling a roll of notes from an inside pocket of his suit jacket, he placed it in Phil’s hand. ‘This is for your inconvenience. Something to make up for the pain and of course your loyalty.’
Phil stared at the wad of notes, unease snowballing at what this meant.
‘So,’ Seb smiled. ‘Tell me more about the man behind this.’
Sweat soaked into Phil’s stained T-shirt. ‘I don’t know his name and that’s gospel.’ He faltered, inwardly wishing he was on a different planet. ‘But I do know where he drinks. It’s… it’s the Gun Barrels.’
Seb grinned. ‘Then that’s where we’ll head right now.’
Phil sat stiffly in the back of Andrew Stoker’s SD1, part of him feeling privileged to be chauffeured around by a member of the firm he’d worked for over the past five years, the other part wishing he was at the bottom of a large crater on the moon.
In all of those five years, he didn’t think anyone apart from Neil Stoker had even glanced in his direction, let alone given him the time of day. In fact, he could count on one hand how many times he’d actually been in the same vicinity with members of the inner circle.
It was the same for all the runners – the lowest of the firm’s hierarchy. The only one any of them ever saw was Neil and that was only during the weekly meetings. But now, here he was with not one, but two of the firm’s top men. And from what he’d just learned, old Mal Stoker had retired with immediate effect, so Seb was now the boss.
Although Phil itched to ask how this sudden decision had come about, he knew better. Besides, he wasn’t sure whether his voice box worked any longer, convinced he must have been struck dumb from uttering the information about the tosser who given him this bloody kicking.
His T-shirt clung to his back under his jacket. He was drenched in sweat all over and could only hope he hadn’t left a wet patch on the car’s leather seat. He glanced out of the window, realising with dread they’d already reached the Gun Barrels. Christ, he didn’t know what would happen, but whatever it was, it was likely to leave him with the unfavourable reputation of being a grass. And he didn’t want to think what the bloke who had jumped him would do next time he caught up with him.
Phil’s hand brushed against the roll of notes Seb had handed him, now safely tucked in his breast pocket. He knew what the wad of cash meant. He was owned. The money was a burning reminder of that, so what choice did he have but to talk?
Seb turned around in the passenger seat, a ghost of a smile on his face seeing the man in the back flinch. ‘Look sharpish, Phil. You’re coming in with me to point this tosser out.’
Phil swallowed painfully. Even blinking and moving hurt. ‘Y-you want me to go in there? With you?’ He looked from Seb to the front door of the Gun Barrels, two men outside the pub already covertly peering at the car in an attempt to work out who was behind the blacked-out windows. Shit. No one said anything about going in there with Seb Stoker!
‘How am I supposed to know which one of these fuckers is the right one?’ Seb snapped, glancing at the shoddy façade of the pub. ‘Jesus, I haven’t been in here for donkey’s years! I bet it’s still a total shit-hole! But a shit-hole that still pays for our protection.’ He turned to Andrew. ‘Won’t be long. Keep the engine running.’
‘What’s all this about, anyway?’ Andrew hissed. Something else he was being kept in the dark about?
‘Something I need to deal with,’ Seb mumbled. ‘Nothing to concern yourself with.’ Opening the passenger door, he jerked his head in Phil’s direction. ‘Come on! I haven’t got all day.’
Already feeling his adrenaline pumping, Seb barged through the heavy front door of the Gun Barrels, the loud chatter and raucous laughter immediately fading to heavy silence.
He scanned the room, noticing all eyes averting their gaze as his stare passed over them. Okay, so he stood out like a sore thumb with his tailor-made suit, but he suspected every single person in here knew exactly who he was. And he certainly did, Seb thought, looking at the man behind the bar.
If he remembered rightly, he’d personally collected protection money from this publican many moons ago when that was still part of his job. Now many others under him had that role. How things change, he thought as he sauntered across the room, wincing at the tinny rendition of the Prodigy blasting from the jukebox – the music appearing even louder with the lack of background noise.
As Seb approached the bar with Phil in tow, Dave smiled amicably, yet his nerves were clear. ‘Mr Stoker!’ he said loudly. ‘It’s been a long time.’ He nodded towards the row of brass beer pumps. ‘What can I get you?’
Seb shook his head. ‘Nothing for me, thanks. I’m looking for someone.’
Dave’s gaze flicked to Phil and winced. ‘Taken a bit of a hiding, Phil?’
‘That’s why we’re here,’ Seb growled. He turned to Phil. ‘Is he here?’
Phil shook his head. The bloke wasn’t here, so could they go now? There might just be a chance he could get away with his reputation intact.
‘The man I’d like to talk to drinks here.’ Seb stared at Dave. ‘I’d appreciate it if you could tell me who he is and where I can find him.’ He leant on the bar, his eyes conveying that wasn’t a question, but an instruction. ‘A big fucker with ginger hair?’
Dave faltered, risking a glance at Phil. That poor bastard had already taken a hiding and would no doubt receive another after this – as would he if he wasn’t careful, but he knew which man he’d least likely want on his back and it wasn’t this one. ‘The only bloke I can think of fitting that description is Jock,’ he said. ‘Jock Sawyer.’
‘A fucking Scots bastard?’ Seb spat. ‘I might have known.’
‘I don’t know whether he’s Scottish. All I know is that everyone calls him Jock.’
‘Where is he?’ Seb growled.
Dave shuffled uncomfortably. ‘That I don’t know either. He was in earlier, but then left.’
‘Where does this fucker live?’ Seb asked, frustration rising.
‘I haven’t a clue where he lives,’ Dave added, ‘but he works at the Rover.’
Turning to face the busy tap room, Seb pulled a roll of notes from his pocket. Peeling off a fifty, he slapped it on the bar. If he hadn’t got an attentive enough audience before, then he had now. ‘Anyone know where I can find Jock Sawyer? Just a business chat, you understand?’
People looked at the floor, fidgeting uncomfortably, some shaking their heads amongst mutters of ‘I don’t know’ and ‘not sure’.
Seb scowled and scanned the room once more. Either they were protecting this Jock person or they genuinely didn’t know. He hoped for their sake it was the latter. Would he really have to stake out the factory tomorrow and wait until the dipshit clocked off?
‘I think I know where he is.’ A woman with badly bleached hair sitting at the bar ran her gaze over Seb, her eyes twinkling with appreciation.
Seb gave the woman one of his trademark smiles. ‘And where might that be, love?’
‘I heard him boasting he’d got a freebie owed at the Aurora tonight,’ she shrugged. ‘I’d never heard of it, but it’s a new place up the Hagley Road.’
Seb grinned. The Aurora indeed. How convenient… Picking up the fifty-pound note, he pressed it into the woman’s grubby hand, resisting the urge to thoroughly wash his hands. ‘Much obliged. Buy yourself a drink, sweetheart.’
Turning back around, all pleasantries dropping from his face, Seb looked at Phil, then jerked his head towards the door. ‘Let’s go.’