Accidental Don. Episode ten.

Thirty years.

Thirty years of hard labour and what did he have to show for it? Nothing as nice as this, that was for sure.

He wore leather gloves as he explored the Notting Hill apartment of his now deceased apprentice. It was scrupulously clean, the surfaces high gloss, the furniture expensive and the enormous chimney breast held a television the size of a barn door. A stack of glossy, expensive business cards sat atop a large, heavy, silver box on the polished coffee table. Thieftaker took the uppermost card and admired the graphic on the back before flipping it over and reading the contact details, for the first time aware of his one-time apprentice's real name.

The small, first floor balcony contained a duck egg blue bistro set and  looked out over an impressive communal garden. In the kitchen, state of the art white goods gleamed. A set of Wahl clippers sat on the counter between the only mess in the apartment, that being the remains of his latest victim's hair, and a laptop. The fridge held little by way of food. Small bottles of lager and a large bottle of champagne, a couple of eggs and half a tub of pate, his apprentice had clearly  been a bachelor.

An orange LED flashed slowly beneath the laptop's keyboard, Thieftaker removed a glove and swiped his index finger across the mousepad. Back home, on his own machine, this action would have set the hard drive chattering and the screen slowly beginning to blink itself awake, but Spiderman's tech was quite plainly far superior. Thieftaker was immediately greeted by a map, a red dot gently pulsating and showing the location of his apprentice's smart phone, currently the inside-left pocket of Thieftaker's jacket.

In the lower corner a familiar looking bubble indicated game activity. He clicked it.

The menu that sprang up showed a new private-message and a new upload, both having arrived at some point after he'd allowed his own phone to be stolen. The upload was a photograph and the ultra high definition screen picked up every detail of the macabre scene displayed.

The faces of the men were unrecognisable. A green-black sheen tinted the rotting flesh, the sallow cheeks giving each of the corpses' faces the appearance of a screaming skull made of oily wax. The way they'd been positioned amid the filth and detritus scattered around, the beam of light capturing dust motes and highlighting the figures from somewhere above and to the right gave the whole image an impressively arty feel, though most of this went unnoticed by the retired police man gazing at it in the secret apartment of the recently deceased, psychopathic web developer, his focus being on the words in the speech bubble chalked on the floor containing a cryptic message and a series of numbers.

"Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been? 51.5229 -0.1548"

Thieftaker finished the nursery rhyme in his head, his lips silently mouthing the words as he began to type into the little search box on the map beneath the messages.

These jokers thought they'd taken control.

Thieftaker set off to take it back.

____________________

"You ever been here before, Frank?" Mick asked as the pair crossed the busy road.

"I brought my d..." Donald stopped himself and shook his head to thwart the memories of a life he didn't want to remember's threats to surface. He stuffed some crisps into his mouth, "What time is it?" he asked, completing the act of changing the subject.

Neither Donald nor Mick were particularly comfortable as they squeezed through the crowds of locals and tourists. Their individual journeys toward the gutter had brought with them increasing isolation from all those around. Soap, they'd found, was vital to social cohesion.

Their limited sources meant that, even with access to Mick's skills with all thing technological, all attempts to find the location of the men they sought would be futile.

Likewise, they themselves were now impossible to locate, carrying as they did no device that could emit a signal of any kind. But they needed to be found.

Donald parted company with Mick outside the tourists attraction without a word. He finished the packet of crisps he'd been eating as they'd made there way here, stuffing the empty packet into his pocket and retrieving a roll of banknotes with which he paid the entrance fee before filing through the doors with the other visitors.

Outside, Mick remained oblivious as his shoulder brushed against that of the man they sought.

___________________

Greed. That was the sin that brought most convictions.

Anyone can rob a bank and get away with it. Walk in and wave a gun and the young lady on the counter would wet herself and hand over ever penny in her drawer. No one would try to be a hero, none were paid enough, and you could walk out with thousands of pounds.

But what happens when those thousands of pounds begin to dwindle? That, Thieftaker had known from early on in his career, was when you'd catch them.

Anyone can rob a bank and get away with it, once. It's the second time, or the third or the fourth, when people get caught. Once you've established an MO, told someone you shouldn't have told or simply gotten too cocky, sooner or later he'd get you.

They hadn't called him Thieftaker for nothing.

The message that had accompanied the upload had been less mysterious, "Tomorrow, 11am, £10k n no police". It certainly made clear their motives.

Greed, it really was his favourite vice. 

Ten grand was a piffling amount, even to him. Him, who struggled by on his full pension and the income from his properties. He could pay it, buy the silence of the blackmailer, but what would happen when those thousands of pounds began to dwindle?

Thieftaker kept a tight grip on the handle of the laptop case full of books he'd brought along in place of the money being demanded while his other hand gripped another handle, this one connected to a revolver, in his coat pocket. He walked past the waxwork exhibits, his eyes scanning the faces of those around him, and headed upstairs...

...to see the Queen.

____________________

Mick knew that Thieftaker would arrive early and so they had too. Donald stood by the fire exit closest to the exhibit he'd indicated in his message. He had no idea what the men he sought looked like but he imagined they'd be easy enough to spot. He watched the faces in the crowd, looking for two fish out of water. Suddenly, his eyes widened.

Those memories, the ones that had threatened to surface when he was crossing the road earlier, suddenly broke through. His life, the good one that had preceded his death, suddenly alive within him again. He shook, his palms beginning to sweat and that sweat immediately starting to turn the stick of chalk he held in one hand to paste.

A coincidence? Donald didn't believe in coincidence, but what else could it be that had led this man to this place at the same moment Donald had arranged to meet the...

...Thieftaker.

Donald almost fell through the emergency exit and onto the landing. He leaned over the handrail and fought to keep the food in his belly in his belly. 

The situation was evolving, the well considered plan he and his sidekick had come up with was lost. He remembered the piece of advice Mick had given him on occasion.

React, adapt and overcome.

Donald adapted.

____________________

Owen was feeling a good deal brighter. Antibiotics of the finest quality the British NHS could offer had swept through his body ridding him of all infection. He'd been well fed, was well rested and wasn't looking forward to being discharged. There are many things people bemoan about the nation's health service, but uncomfortable beds aren't one of them.

"Have you somewhere to go when you get out of here?" The Rubenesque nurse asked with a smile as she placed a dressing over the hole left by the recently removed cannula.

"I'll find somewhere, Pat." 

The nurses name badge bore her "Sunday name" but everyone called her Pat. A name badge on a nurses plump breast reading "Pat" would have led to many a Carry On film style sexual assault, so she'd opted for Patricia instead.

"You know, we can put you in touch with an agency, if you've no where to go."

"It's okay, I've a friend that'll put me up."

"Well, you're here for another night now but you'll be on your way tomorrow, you know?" Pat had taken quite a shine to the homeless youth with the infection, though she didn't know why. He was certainly good looking, but so thin. She'd snap him in two she thought, the thought bringing with it a giggle that she quickly turned into a cough.

"Careful, don't be giving me your germs, you'll never get rid of me." He grinned.

"We will, Frank, we need the bed." She winked and slapped the back of his hand as Owen went back to worrying about where he would go when he got out of here.

____________________

Thieftaker spotted the crack of light disappearing as the fire door eased itself closed. He took a moment to admire the waxwork effigies before him then made his way nonchalantly towards the far wall.

The click of the push bar echoed on the stairwell as Thieftaker slipped through the heavy door. He glanced left and right then stepped forward, placing his hands on the handrail and leaning over, looking for any movement below.

"Hello there." The familiar voice came from the landing above. Thieftaker turned his head slowly and looked up at the speaker. A mask of confusion spread across his face as his eyes met those of the long dead man above. The long dead man smiled down him.

"Long time no see. How's Val?" Donald inquired, politely.

____________________

The matchbox contained half of it's original compliment of matches. Two of the matches that had been removed had been inserted into the gap between the cardboard sleeve and drawer, their red incendiary tips protruding over the first two of the remaining matches laid out like railway sleepers on the concrete floor. Upon the tiny sleepers other matches rested, running perpendicular and over lapping one and other. Finally, a crisp packet sat atop the construction. The final match had been lit and, now set in place and burning gently, was about to become the catalyst for a series of ignitions that would, with the help of the fumes from the burning crisp bag, be sufficient to set off the sensor on the sprinkler set into the ceiling directly above. Donald smiled as he stood up straight, leaning over the handrail in time to see the face of the man below.

"Hello there. Long time no see. How's Val?

____________________

Mick waited by the lamppost on the junction and appeared to read a copy of a tabloid newspaper. His vantage point provided him with a good view of the exit and it's position relative to that door meant he'd see the backside of everyone that left, whichever direction they turned in. Then, when he saw the man or men with chalk on their shoulder, he could follow them at a distance.

The fire alarm that began to sound wasn't a traditional bell, nor was it a scary siren. The alert had been carefully chosen in an effort to keep panic to a minimum whilst still getting the message across. Members of staff began to usher visitors from the exhibits, directing them toward the closest emergency exit and attempting to look like it was just a drill.

People flooded through the door that was being monitored by the old soldier. What had been a steady stream became a flood as disgruntled parents shepherded their excitable brats into the street and began complaining on social media about how their day had been ruined.

It could be a real fire, Mick supposed. If it was, their plan was currently in the process of failing, in which case there was no point him hanging around. But there was the possibility that this was the work of his associate inside reacting to what was a fluid situation.

Mick squeezed through the crowd and headed in search of another door.

____________________

Donald had jogged down the stairs to be faced with the muzzle of a gun. He smiled as he heard the click of the hammer being drawn back and saw the cylinder of the revolver slowly rotate into position.

"I'm sure you have a million questions right now, Bob." Donald asked, seemingly oblivious to the loaded gun inches from his face. His father in law, Robert, hated his name being shortened. Bob remained silent.

"Do you have the money in there?" Donald indicated the laptop bag in his father-in-laws hand.

"You're not getting a fucking penny."

"I don't want a fucking penny. I don't even want a chaste penny. I want a chance. You've seen what I can do, I'm good at this shit and, let's face it, you're running out of competition." Donald's smile widened.

Bob had no intention of letting this little prick join in the fun and games, the selection process wasn't open to the general public. But this location was what the police referred to as the primary crime scene. To stand a chance of getting away with murder he would have to take him somewhere where he would be in control. It would be difficult to shepherd his son-in-law across the nation's capital at gun point without drawing some considerable attention.

The non panic-inducing siren sounded as the sprinklers on the stairwell began to spin, immediately extinguishing the small but pungent fire on the landing above. Bob took a grip of Donald's elbow, thrusting the gun deep into his own pocket as he guided him down the stairs.

"You won't regret this, you can trust me, Bob." Donald lied as he was propelled earthwards.

"I know, I know" Bob lied in response as they stepped out of the green doors on the ground floor at the rear of the property. The street that crossed the end of the alleyway in which they found themselves was busy with foot traffic, the already busy street made busier with the addition of those fleeing the tourist attraction being unwilling to move too far away for fear of not receiving a refund.

"Keep quiet, do what I say. If you try to run", Thieftaker slipped the fake phone from his pocket and demonstrated it's usefulness, "I'll fucking fry you."

____________________

Donald saw stars as he fell to his knees just inside the door of the Notting Hill apartment having been struck in the base of the skull by the butt of Thieftaker's revolver. The world swam and the pain caused him to clench his jaw and screw his eyes tight, but he didn't lose consciousness.

The door clicked shut and more pain followed, exploding from his core and causing him to vomit as his testicles where crushed by a boot from behind.

"Move." Barked his father-in-law.

Donald crawled along the length of the hall and into the bright, shiny lounge and kitchen area, marking his path like a snail with the snot and vomit that oozed from his mouth and nose. The sole of a boot slammed against his backside sending him sprawling face down onto the thick, black rug. He coughed and groaned, drawing himself into a fetal position.

Thieftaker had given Spiderman too much control. He wasn't sure what evidence existed or where it might be but if someone as ordinary as his feckless son-in-law had been able to track him down then it could only be a matter of time before others did too. He needed to know what Donald knew, how Donald knew it, who else Donald had told. He reached into his coat pocket.

"Put those on." The handcuffs he tossed struck Donald in the side of his face. Donald knelt up and complied.

Thieftaker took a handful of Donald's beard and drew him to his feet before pushing him backwards into the leather armchair. Stepping toward the dazed and manacled man in the chair, Thieftaker snaked out an arm, pressing the end of the fake phone into Donald's shoulder and engaging the button.

Donald didn't scream, though he tried to. The pain thudded through his body and made him feel as if he would burst. Thieftaker kept the button pressed for two seconds, but for Donald that felt more like two minutes. He slumped into the chair as he felt the warm sensation of his bladder involuntarily evacuating. Donald had never looked so pathetic, tears now mixing with the other body fluids that stained his face. Thieftaker was going to enjoy this. He turned toward the kitchen to retrieve a knife from the drawer.

The cold, limp hand that had once been connected to the wrist of the pious hypocrite north of the border blind sided him. On it's own, even given the significant amount of effort that had been put into throwing it, it wouldn't have been capable of doing anything more than annoying the man with the stun gun. It was the cold steel of the cuff to which it was attached that had delivered the pain, cutting deeply into his left ear. Thieftaker stayed on his feet and swung around, rage flaring up in his eyes...

...as the large, heavy, silver box shattered his teeth and nose.

____________________

Lucky old Owen.

He'd been all set for another night in a comfy bed when a doctor, accompanied by someone in a suit who quite plainly wasn't a doctor but quite plainly was in charge, had told him that everything was fine and he was free to go. In an ideal world the doctor, who thought young Frank could probably do with it, would advise he stay here for another night, but ideal this world is not. Another patient had had to be admitted, the victim of a vicious assault, and his needs were far more immediate.

"Goodbye, Pat." Owen didn't smile as he passed the desk.

"Take care, Frank." She stood, straightening her dress over her round hips. Owen smiled.

"How about, when I get settled, I give you a bell?"

Pat hadn't expected that. She was used to her attraction being unrequited by all but the least desirable men. Pat was the girl with the big smile that all the blokes loved having around, but not for that. 

"Oh, yes, okay, if you want, give me your number..." She rummaged through her drawer for her own phone, "I'll call you and you can just save it."

"I've lost my phone, can you just write it down?"

"Oh, yes, okay." Pat's mood dropped a little. He wanted her number but he didn't want her to have his? She wasn't going to receive a call.

Owen kept the smile on his face all the way from the reception desk to the car park. It wasn't a cold day, but the wind whipped around him. He shivered, stole a luminous jacket from the back of an unattended ambulance and went to find a bed, forgetting to smile for now.

____________________

Donald crashed through the door at the bottom of the staircase as Thieftaker reached the front door of the apartment. Blood stained his face and chest, giving his maniacal appearance an even more lunatic edge, as he mounted the staircase and gave chase. He was aware control had slipped away and his mind, usually so methodical and ordered, raced. If he didn't know better he'd think he were scared.

Nothing slows a man down like a kick in the balls, Donald felt like the pain had weight and every footfall onto the hard concrete was agonising. He thrust out an arm, as if hailing a taxi, when he reached the street, clothes-lining a cyclist and sending him tumbling into the road. Donald snatched up the fallen cycle and ran, jumping onto the bike and trying to remember the last time he'd ridden one.

Funnily enough, he'd not forgotten how.

Thieftaker screamed at the second cyclist who'd stopped to offer assistance to his fallen comrade, thrusting the old warrant card he carried in the frightened man's face. The card was years out of date, but few people thought to check, especially when the bearer of the card was screaming through a mask of gore.

He'd rather have commandeered a car but the streets were clogged with slow moving traffic. Still, he'd always kept himself fit, and he wasn't hampered by the weight and movement of swollen testes. He wasn't gaining much ground, but he wasn't losing any either.

Donald weaved through the cars waiting impatiently at the junction, emerging blindly from the queue as a bus decided to move forward and prevent the cheeky bastards to his left squeezing out in front of him. The air hissed angrily beneath the bus driver's feet as he selected first gear and disengaged the brakes. He began to move forward but stamped on the brake almost immediately.

The bus stopped early enough to prevent the cyclist going beneath the wheels but not soon enough that he wasn't sent soaring into the other lane. Donald landed heavily, feeling a bone in his shoulder crunch as a motorbike that had been overtaking (at above average speed for a London street) fishtailed and span, narrowly missing him before dumping it's unfortunate rider onto the tarmac.

Donald scrambled to his feet and was surprised to find he could still run, so he ran. A set of steps led down to a tube station. There was surely no escape from a tube station, he thought.

Perfect.

____________________ 

The death of the cleaner had been widely reported throughout the day. At first, news reports mistakenly told of a tragic accident, though by dinner time the true facts were beginning to emerge. The police were hunting a young web developer, David Parker, in connection with the incident. Mr. Parker hadn't been seen at his home address for a number of days, though this was reported as not being unusual. The public were advised not to approach Mr. Parker and to contact police if they saw him.

Mr. Parker was found, but not arrested, after being discovered face down in a shallow river and later recognised by the young nurse that had prepared his bed. He would be arrested if and when he regained consciousness.

He was never to be arrested.

No employees had been allowed access to the tower block from which she'd fallen but, they'd been assured, their business could resume tomorrow. People had seen the man throw the cleaner from the balcony and the CCTV system had shown that man to be Mr. Parker. Semen was found on the desk and a piece of office equipment had been smashed against a wall. 

The murder being so widely witnessed and the aftermath on the pavement being so quickly shared on social media that public interest ensured there was no delay in undertaking the forensic investigation of the crime scene. Mr. Parker's laptop and the computer tower from beneath his desk were removed, though these weren't thought to be particularly pertinent to the case and so were placed in sealed bags and stored in the evidence room back at the station.

Tape was  hung across the door of Spiderman's office, a warning not to cross and the constabulary's livery printed along the length. Inside, the blinds were closed, allowing only a few narrow strips of the now fading sunlight to permeate the dusty air. The only illumination within came from the small, green LED set into the main light and indicating that emergency power would be available should there be an emergency and from another green LED set into the front panel of the server of which Mr. Parker's employers had been unaware. The second LED differed from the first in that, rather than a steady, reassuring glow, it flickered in time with the clicks, clunks and whirring the case emitted, faster and faster as more traffic was directed toward it's contents.

____________________

Donald barged his way through the crowds, adrenaline numbing the pain from his shattered shoulder and temporarily redundant testicles. He stumbled into the middle of the platform, crowded with commuters. This was no good, he needed privacy, just his father-in-law and himself.

He raised his hands above his head and screamed...

"He's got a bomb."

____________________

He held his warrant card high and fought against the crowd exiting the platform, staying close to the wall and riding out the surge.

As he'd instructed, the security guards were setting up a perimeter, keeping the public back and awaiting his colleagues. The guards had been about to check his card more closely and his finger had tightened on the trigger of the gun in his pocket, but then the panic and the screams of terrorism had lent credibility to his lies. They stood aside.

At last the torrent of terrified tourists and commuters diminished and he was able to fight against the flow, he finally arrived at the platform.

Donald stood on the far side, facing in Thieftaker's direction and close to the edge, his heels resting on the yellow line.

"Hello again, Bob." He smiled warmly. The smile wasn't reciprocated, Thieftaker raised the gun and approached.

"You won't get away with this, you know?" Donald's smile didn't falter.

"With what? With killing the man I've been hunting since my days in the job? Continuing to serve the public and bring to justice the members of a vicious, sadistic, online cult?"

"No one's going to believe that." He raised his voice above the distant rumble and still the smile prevailed

His father-in-law was an arms length away now, the gun leveled at Donald's forehead.

"You have no idea the calibre of some of the people I could destroy if I chose, the connections I've made. If I went down some very well respected pillars of the community would go down with me too. The newspapers will print what they're told to fucking print and the force will investigate fully, then report what they're told to fucking report." There was a click and for the second time today Donald watched the revolver revolve into position. His smile broadened.

"Newspapers, granddad? Really?" He almost shouted as he raised his arms slowly, "look around you, this is the age of the trend." His voice increased in volume as the distant rumble of a train reached the platform.

"You know, Donald, I never believed what they all said about you, about what you did to my granddaughter," He smiled a smile that was part snarl and winked, "I knew you were innocent."

Realisation crept slowly through Donald's mind. The character he'd been playing deserted him as long buried memories flooded back. His face portrayed every negative emotion possible all at once.

The expression these emotions painted upon his face gave his father-in-law a similar level of enjoyment his anticipation of babysitting his granddaughter had given him. A low moan of pleasure built in his throat and he pulled the trigger, sending Donald back to hell.

Warm, wet blood splashed onto the cold, dried blood that already coated his chin as his son-in-law's head exploded. The lifeless body toppled backwards, over the edge and into the path of the approaching train where, despite the best attempts of the driver, it was destroyed beneath the hot, steel wheels.

"Armed police, on the floor, NOW!" The voice was accompanied by the heavy footfalls of five of the force's finest. Thieftaker raised his hands, still holding the revolver and the warrant card.

"I'm police." He called out with confidence as he knelt down and placed the firearm at arms length. He put his hands on his head and smiled as his colleagues cuffed him. Soon, they'd begin the process of being told what to think by their superiors. Soon enough, his lies would be accepted without question.

When it was all over, he could write a book, make himself out to be a hero...

...just as soon as he was acquitted.

Life was good.

____________________

The champagne sat on the coffee table. That was for later. For now, he made do with a bottle of expensive Italian beer from the fridge in the flat that belonged to no one. The laptop sat by the champagne, clicking and chattering away as the script he'd recently coded ran.

Frank had obviously had to adapt the plan, but the result was the same. Mick had been able to follow them here and had then slipped in through the door left ajar by the raging murderer as he'd exited in his furious, bloody rage.

The television was on and muted, showing the graphic filled screen of the twenty four hour rolling news channel. It was all very well getting a few views on Youtube, but you knew you were famous when you'd appeared on the scrolling banner beside the words "BREAKING NEWS:..."

He leaned forward, clicking a box on the bottom of the screen and opening up one of the few thousand Twitter accounts his script was currently creating. Each new account, upon creation, would immediately begin sending links to files on a secure server in a nearby office and would post selected video clips taken from Spiderman's own collection, all publicly directed to major news agencies.

Whilst he'd been drinking the two beers that preceded the one he currently swigged from he'd spent a little time interrogating the hard drive himself. Dave Parker had, it seemed, suffered from paranoia as well as whatever fucked up diagnosis had caused his sickening actions. Files linking IP addresses, geographical locations and murders to names. Real names, not the pseudonyms they'd shared, and addresses, the names of their employers, their tax affairs, and not only the details of the gamers. The gamers had quite a fan base, a very select fan base, each being given the honour of viewing the winning entries, that being the prize the gamers competed for.

Infamy.

Further links directed traffic to images stolen from the web cameras that belonged to the competitors and fans. Spiderman's reliance on his own security together with his belief that he was cleverer than others had led to him being sloppy and, ultimately, to both his own downfall and the downfall of those other bastards. Mick thought it a shame that the murderers themselves were probably all dead by now and wouldn't be able to appreciate his hard work.

He clicked refresh on the page. The laptop took a little while to comply, the bandwidth being eaten up by the automated tasks taking place, but eventually he was able to select "current trends". 

He smiled, pushed aside the lager bottle and reached for the larger bottle, settling back and awaiting the ticker tape display to catch up with what the world already knew.

____________________

The retired senior police officer was treated well by his colleagues, at least at first.

As the story spread through social and mainstream media, sympathy began to wane. Thieftaker had no idea what was going on, why he was being placed in a cell after having been allowed the relative comfort of an interview room for the first hour. He began shouting, naming senior officers and politicians and demanding they be contacted. 

And contacted they were, but in relation to possible criminal activity rather than with requests to do a friend a favor.

Where the police officers at the station were cold and businesslike, the guards at the prison were outwardly aggressive. He'd let the side down, made those that worked on this side of the thin, blue line look bad, at least the usual criminals were honest in their allegiances.

Tears spilled through his clenched eye lids and his teeth bore down on his own pillow.

He wished he'd turned the gun on himself. He wished he wasn't so fit for his age and could hide away in the relative safety of the infirmary, but he couldn't. Not yet.

Soon though.

Once his cellmate, the man whose recent diagnosis had secured him the nickname "Virus", was satisfied.

____________________

"What on earth are you doing here" Mick smiled as he approached the park bench.

"Oh my days, Mickey? It's Mikey, innit?" Owen smiled back at the old soldier as he rose to his feet, extending his hand.

"Actually, it's Mick." Mick shook the younger man's hand, the nails were filthy. "Fancy some lunch? My shout. I owe you a fry up."

They walked across the park, chatting like old friends. Their lives since last they'd parted, with smiles and thumbs up, had taken very different paths.

"I've got a place, you can stay with  me. It's cheap, too," he smiled at Owen as he watched him mop up the egg and bean juice with a piece of toast, "it's a kind of squat."

"Kind of?"

"It's nice, you'll like it. Do you have a job?" Mick laughed and shook his head, "of course you don't. You can help me out, earn your keep."

"Cool. Sorted. You eating that toast?"

Mick smiled and pushed his side plate across the table.

____________________

Owen couldn't believe his luck when finally they'd arrived "home". 

Now fresh from the shower, he sat on one of the stools at the counter of the island in the kitchen wearing a bathrobe and waiting for his freshly laundered clothes to dry.

"The bills keep getting paid as well. I've snooped around a bit, money get's filtered into an offshore account from multiple sources and covers everything for me. It doesn't look like it'll end any time soon, either."

"How'd you find the place? Last time I saw you, you were looking forward to a night in a cell and now you're watching a telly the size of  barn door."

"I met a bloke, he helped me out, saved my life, gave me a second chance. His name was Donald, it turned out, though he'd told me he was called Frank. Frank was the Don, ha, he really was."

"Frank? Shit, I forgot. Can I use your phone?" Owen asked, jumping from his seat as if scalded.

"Of course, it's free."  Mick turned to the television and aimed the remote control, adding words to the moving lips of the game show host whose smiling face was currently filling the enormous TV screen.

"Cheers, mate, I'll pay you back," Owen placed a finger to his lips and shushed his new benefactor. He dialed the number written on the square of paper he'd kept tucked into his shoe and walked out onto the landing, closing the door behind him as the ringing tone purred into his ear.

Then a beep.

"Hell-oo," The voice that answered was sweet and sounded as if it came from between the lips of a smile.

"Hiya, Pat? Pat, yes, hiya, it's me, Frank..."

____________________

More free to read
stories from
John Spacey

If you enjoyed this short tall tale, you might be interested in supporting my work by purchasing my latest book,

The Short Tall Tales 

Available on Amazon Kindle for only £1.99 and in paperback.
Just click on the image below...