Razor’s head was in a spin because although Liam was clearly a blot on the landscape, he hadn’t intended to hurt him. And what if he died? Getting killed in action was one thing, becoming a killer was something entirely different.
‘What the hell were you trying to do back there?’ asked Kev, scattering Razor’s thoughts. ‘Were you trying to get yourself beaten to a pulp? If you weren’t, it damn well looked like it. You got lucky with that first lot.’
Razor shrugged. ‘I have my reasons. Was that guy really a friend of your cousin?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘I hope I didn’t hurt him too much,’ said Razor. ‘He went down hard.’
‘Only because I tripped him,’ said Kev.
‘But he hit his head—I read something in the local paper about a guy who banged his head in a fight and almost died from bleeding on the brain.’
‘I wouldn’t worry—Liam’s skull is as thick as the earth’s crust, and his brains are even thicker. He got what he deserved.’
Razor shuddered and glanced back. Part of him hoped to see Liam in pursuit.
‘He’ll be fine,’ said Kev with a nonchalant shrug.
‘Perhaps,’ said Razor, unconvinced. ‘What was that about a car? Did you steal it?’
‘A misunderstanding,’ said Kev dismissively as they walked up Moorend Road towards the centre of town.
Razor continued. ‘And he reckoned you’d taken something of your cousin’s. Did you steal that too?’
‘He thinks so, but he thinks too little. Such men are dangerous.’
‘What?’
‘He thinks Gary should have received something that was bequeathed to me.’
‘Why?’
Kev sighed. ‘Uncle Bob adopted Gary and brought him up with all the advantages. Unfortunately when Gary reached his teens he seemed determined to prove a villain. He got arrested many times for robbery and violence, but Uncle Bob paid the fines and forgave him. However, the last straw was when Gary got caught selling drugs to school kids.’
‘Was that why he went to prison?’
Kev nodded. ‘For that and for attacking a shopkeeper with an axe. Much of what I inherited would have gone to him if he’d not been such a dick.’
‘From what I can see, it all worked out very nicely for you, even though you’re a self-confessed thief,’ said Razor.
Kev shrugged. ‘I’m only a thief in the eyes of the law.’
Razor laughed. ‘That’s preposterous!’
‘I admit thieving is against the law—where laws exist, but I put it to you that while many thieves are greedy, lazy or selfish, not all are bad. I’m one of those, because I don’t steal for myself.’
‘Yeah, right—you’re an altruist!’ Razor couldn’t stop chuckling at the outrageous statement.
‘You might say that,’ said Kev.
‘What about last night? You bought food with the money you stole.’
‘A worker deserves his wages, and I’d be no good to anyone if I was starving.’
‘So, you’re a regular Robin Hood,’ said Razor, grinning.
‘Maybe I am,’ said Kev, his face serious.
‘And the rest of last night’s money will go to a good cause, will it?’ scoffed Razor.
‘It already has.’
‘What do you mean? Beer?’
‘I gave it to someone who needed it.’
‘Who?’
‘Someone in need.’ Kev would say no more.
Although unconvinced, Razor had no wish to antagonise the little guy. He did, however, think it high time to fulfil his destiny. ‘Well, Robin Hood, thanks for lunch and for your company. I appreciate it.’
‘You’re welcome, mate. Do you want to come back for a cup of tea?’
‘I’ll pass on that. There’s something I must do, so I’d better get a move on. Thanks again. See you.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Somewhere I have to be.’
‘Alright then, mate, have it your way. Look after yourself.’
‘You too.’ Razor glanced at his watch and strode away as if hurrying to an appointment.
A few moments later, the thought struck him that he really did have an appointment—with Death. Although his internal cynic sneered at such a cliché, hyperactive butterflies took wing in his guts, his stride faltered, and he wanted to curl up warm and safe at home, though it had offered little comfort since Flit’s passing. For a moment he considered reverting to the original plan of throwing himself off the nearest bridge, but knew he’d never again summon up the courage. With any luck he would, however, find an obliging murderer elsewhere. Maybe in Glevchester. Looking back, it was hardly surprising he’d messed up killing himself—Flit had always regarded his rare attempts at DIY with incredulous hilarity. The memory triggered a brief smile.
The centre of town still looked full, with far more than the regular number of uniformed police officers patrolling and at least one keeping a beady eye on the bus stop. Head down, alert in case his disguise turned out less brilliant than Kev had made out, Razor mooched past the church towards Glevchester Road, trying to appear casual and innocent while he forged a cunning plan.
No one gave him a second glance as he walked away from town, first using quiet side streets and then a miry footpath by the river. When the tail ends of Sorenchester were behind him, he turned onto the main road and after ten minutes reached a bus stop. The rain returned and threatened to become a downpour. Condensation made the timetable blurry, but he deciphered enough to see that buses came by at seven minutes after the hour—the next was due in about twenty minutes. He sat on the soggy Cotswold stone wall and waited, and though his new coat kept his upper half dry, the runoff soaked through the top of his trousers. Fortunately, he didn’t have to endure for too long and the bus arrived dead on time.
‘A single to Glevchester, please,’ he said as he stepped aboard.
‘That’ll be four pounds, sir.’
Razor handed over the money. ‘When do we get there?’
The driver glanced at the clock. ‘We make a ten-minute stop in Sorenchester and then, assuming no delays, we should reach Glevchester at sixteen nineteen.’
‘Right, twenty past four.’
‘Nineteen past,’ said the driver, a stickler for exactitude.
Although the bus looked packed, a free seat was available next to a bulky middle-aged woman in an even bulkier puffer jacket. As he made his way towards it, the bus pulled away. The jolt threw him off balance, he lost his footing and sprawled across the woman’s ample thighs. She screamed and swore.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Are you alright?’
Although unharmed, she was perfectly pissed off, which she demonstrated with an outpouring of scorn, insults and slaps. Razor struggled to escape. Still apologising, he backed away, trying to ignore the semi-suppressed sniggers and remarks from fellow travellers as he searched for another seat. He found one, near the back beside a small, slim woman, enveloped in a dark coat with the hood up. Razor assumed she was cold. He, on the other hand, could feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment, though his legs were chilled and damp.
‘Is this seat free?’ he asked.
Without looking up, the young woman nodded, and turned her face to the window, clearly not wishing to talk. Razor inhaled her warm flowery scent as he sat down. The bulky woman turned and stared, but he avoided eye contact.
The bus carried Razor back towards town, weaving through the narrow old streets before stopping outside the church where some passengers, including the bulky woman got off. Razor feigned not to notice her final gorgon glare. He did, however, spot the police officer scrutinising the new passengers as they embarked, though paying no attention to those already aboard. Allowing himself a smug smile, Razor settled back into his seat.
The heavy clouds were already making it dark, though evening was still a couple of hours away. The bus’s lights came on and he glimpsed the reflection of the woman at his side in the window. She looked young, pale and pretty, and a little sad. Razor forced himself to stop staring and pretended to doze off, though her image kept forcing itself into his mind, making it difficult to maintain his comfortable misery. The bus departed on time, its windscreen wipers beating out a monotonous rhythm that the rain did its best to drown out. It wasn’t long before Razor had no need to feign sleep.
He awoke as the bus slowed. They had reached the dual carriageway to Glevchester and a long line of red brake lights snaked ahead. Soon everything came to a standstill. Five minutes later, with no sign of further progress, some passengers muttered about being late, others cursed the lousy British weather and one or two swore.
The driver looked back over his shoulder. ‘Sorry about this, folks, but it’s out of my hands. There’s some sort of holdup.’
‘Why?’ asked a large and belligerent middle-aged man.
‘I suspect an accident… this weather, you know?’
‘Why can’t the idiots bloody well learn to drive?’ asked the belligerent man.
‘I have no idea,’ said the driver, staring ahead.
Other than streams of rainwater rushing down gutters, nothing moved. Ten minutes later, still nothing moved, and the belligerent man’s complaints grew louder as his face grew redder. Then the bus edged forward, pressing close to the roadside, to allow a police car with blinding blue flashing lights to squeeze through with a fire engine and an ambulance close behind.
‘Follow them,’ said the belligerent man. ‘There’s space now, and I’ll miss my connection if you don’t.’
‘What you are suggesting is illegal and dangerous,’ said the driver, shaking his head. ‘I’d lose my job.’
‘Bloody jobsworth.’ The man got to his feet. ‘You’d better get me to Glevchester on time, or else.’
‘Why don’t you sit down and be quiet?’ said a skinny old man with wispy white hair, sounding exasperated. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do.’
The belligerent man bustled down the bus and grabbed the old chap by the lapels on his overcoat. ‘Don’t you go telling me what to do, mate. Not if you want to keep all your teeth.’
Razor, though still sleepy and with his prejudice against personal pain undiminished, saw an opportunity. He forced himself to stand up. ‘That’s enough, sir. Put him down and relax. We’re all stuck here, there’s nothing anyone can do, and it would be much pleasanter if everyone just kept calm and carried on.’
His speech had half the desired effect in that the belligerent man released his victim. He did not, however, calm down, but launched himself at Razor, knuckles tight and white as he swung a thudding right fist.
Razor felt no pain. At least not until he came round. Then he felt it in his head and jaw. Tasting blood, he groaned and tried to sit.
‘Stay where you are, my lovely,’ said a soft female voice with a slight lilt.
A hand pressed him down. ‘Alright. Where am I?’
‘On the bus to Glevchester,’ said the woman.
As he opened his eyes, he glimpsed a pale, pretty face and forget-me-not eyes before they retreated into her hood. The other bus passengers were staring, some concerned, others curious.
‘Why am I on the bus to Glevchester?’ he asked. ‘I live in Willoton. My head hurts.’
‘Because you are travelling there,’ said the pretty woman. ‘At least you will be if we ever move again. You got punched.’
Razor’s discombobulated brain began to recombobulate.
‘How long was I out?’
‘Two days.’
‘What?’
‘I’m joking. It was only for a minute or two.’
‘But what about the guy who hit me?’
‘Don’t worry, my lovely. He won’t hurt you anymore.’
‘Good.’ Razor believed her and relaxed, closing his eyes and lying back. Something soft was cushioning his throbbing head, a delicate flowery scent filled his nostrils and despite his temples pounding like a heavy metal drummer, he almost felt happy.
Sometime later there was a cheer. A few seconds after that, the engine rumbled back into life and they began to inch forward.
Razor, his head full of pain and with numbness down the left side of his face, recovered in slow stages. He sat up and looked around. ‘Where’s he gone?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said the young woman.
‘Where’s the guy who hit me?’
‘He got off.’
‘In the middle of nowhere? In a storm?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really?’
She nodded.
‘He didn’t leave of his own volition,’ a grinning youth across the aisle explained. ‘It was an assisted departure.’
‘For which we can all be grateful,’ said the old man.
‘He’ll catch his death,’ said Razor.
‘Then he’ll get what he deserves,’ said the old man.
‘Got off lightly, if you ask me,’ said a woman. ‘It’s a good job some people are public spirited.’
‘Who persuaded him to leave?’ asked Razor. No one on the bus struck him as the physical type. A couple of fingers pointed at the young woman.
Despite this, Razor guessed the grinning youth had done the daring deed and was being modest, as a hero should be.
Soon, Razor felt strong enough to retake his seat. Rising to his feet, he picked a soft woollen scarf from under his head. ‘Whose is this?’
‘Hers,’ said the grinning youth, pointing at the woman, who was still enveloped in her coat.
Razor handed the scarf back as he sat down beside her. ‘Thank you, miss… and for looking after me.’
She took it with a nod and a hint of a smile.
‘I like the pattern,’ said Razor. ‘Is it rowan berries?’
She nodded.
‘It’s lovely—where did you get it from?’
‘A charity shop,’ she said, and turned to look out the window.
Razor took the hint, hoping she hadn’t thought he’d been trying to chat her up, because he hadn’t been. Definitely not. However, her sympathy and soft touch had almost made him feel life could become worth living again, though such feelings came pre-loaded with guilt. Convinced he’d let Flit down again, he tried to force himself back to his usual state of misery and desolation—without much success.
The traffic ahead kept moving in a stop and start manner for a mile or more, until they reached a place of bright white and flashing blue lights. As they crept by, morbid curiosity took over and he shuddered at the results of a spectacular collision. A car was on its roof. It appeared to be the same type as the company car he’d once taken huge pride in. He had no idea what had happened to it after Flit’s death and didn’t care.
Once past the accident, the traffic sped up and there was a frenzy of mobile phone use as passengers updated friends and family on the delay before the bus returned to a moody silence. They were already over an hour late by the time they reached the outskirts of Glevchester, by which time rush hour was at its peak. A burst drain meant a long detour delayed them even further, though Razor, with nowhere to go and nothing to do but die, was unconcerned. The rain and increasing condensation on the windows meant he could see little other than blurry lights from vehicles and shops as the bus crawled through town.
It was gone half-past six when they pulled into the bus station, a grim grey concrete and glass construction that might have seen better days, but had probably always looked like a Soviet prison. All those aboard stood up, gathered their belongings and shuffled off, going their separate ways. Razor lost sight of the young woman which saddened him more than he could explain. He zipped up his coat and wandered away to seek his destiny on streets the rain had swept clear of all but the most determined or desperate pedestrians.
He was heading towards Glevchester’s Severn Wharves, where the attack had happened all those months ago. It was the first time he’d been back and memories, feelings and images almost overwhelmed him: the cinema, the shortcut back towards the car, the knife in a gloved hand, the hooded attacker, Flit’s scream, and most of all his helplessness as the lorry bore down on her. It seemed so long ago, and at the same time so recent. He wished he hadn’t run. Why had he not stood his ground and fought to protect her? Though he might have been injured or killed, it would have been better than living without her and with the guilt. Yet flight had not seemed such a bad idea at the time—Flit had been a good runner, much faster and fitter than him, and they should have got away.
‘Watch it, mate!’
Lost in the past, he’d walked straight into the present, in the form of a sad-faced man wearing a cheap cagoule.
‘Sorry,’ said Razor, ‘I was miles away.’
‘I wish you had been. Still, no harm done. Just take care.’
Razor carried on until he reached the Severn Wharves, a network of old canals dotted with tall buildings that had once been warehouses. When they’d become obsolete, many had fallen into dereliction. A developer had bought them up and converted them into flats, shops, restaurants and night clubs. There’d also been the cinema. Razor had no memory of what they’d seen there on that last night.
His head was still aching and his stomach was rumbling. Lunch had been many hours ago and heroics would be easier after a decent meal. He entered the first place he saw, a large chain restaurant. It was warm, bright, dry and surprisingly busy. A young waitress, after looking Razor up and down as if he might be trouble, guided him to a booth at the back and took his order.