having the shit kicked out of me by people I've never met before - and I'm not suicidal either. I'd got my payback on the men who'd attacked me, and when they thought about me in the future, it would be with trepidation. I owed Pope, true, but sometimes you've simply got to let go. Tex's owner had made the mistake of charging headlong into danger because he'd got emotional, and if I hadn't been there, things would have ended up a lot worse for him. Who'd be there to help me if things went wrong?
But I'm stubborn. When I make up my mind to do something, I do it. Sometimes I have doubts about things - I wouldn't be human if I didn't - but I never let them stand in the way of a course of action. I'm not sure if that's a good trait to have ornot, but it's irrelevant really. Like I'd told Tomboy, I've got it, and that's that. And it was the reason why there was no way I was taking the easy option now. Not until I'd brought down Pope, and whoever it was who was hiding behind him. I was just going to have to be a lot more careful, that was all.
The mobile rang. It was on the bedside table and I picked it up, guessing it would be Tomboy finding out how I was getting on. But the screen was once again showing no number.
Which meant it was Mr Pope.
'Hello, Mr Kane,' he said as I picked up. 'I'm sorry about what happened earlier, but I wanted to make sure you got the message fully. London's a very dangerous place. It's best you leave it.' There was nothing threatening in his words. Rather, his tone was sympathetic, that of a trusted friend dispensing advice.
'I am planning on leaving,' I said, my headache suddenly getting worse. My stomach was grumbling too. All in all, I was a very unhappy man.
'I wanted to make sure you knew how serious we were about you getting on the plane.'
'Well, you certainly got your message across, but somehow I don't think I was meant to be getting on it at all.' I didn't mention that I had the gun.
'It was a warning, Kane. If we'd wanted you dead, you'd have been taken out the moment you stepped inside the cafe. But next time I'll usesomeone better than those idiots this morning. I underestimated you there. And overestimated them. I won't make either mistake again.'
'Glad to hear it. I won't be making any mistakes again, either.'
'I hope that means you're going to be on tomorrow's flight. This time I guarantee that nothing'll happen to you en route.'
'That's very reassuring, but I'm beginning to get the sneaking suspicion that you might not be a man of your word. I'll make my own plans, Mr Pope, and the first you'll hear of them is when I tap you on the shoulder one dark night. Then perhaps we'll talk again.'
The laughter down the other end of the phone was frighteningly genuine.
'Pope?' he said, still laughing. 'Who the fuck is Pope?'
And he hung up, leaving me staring at the bedroom wall, thinking that I had one hell of a lot of catching up to do.
12
I slept for three hours that afternoon and when I woke up I felt like shit and my stomach's growling had reached dangerous proportions. Rising thickheaded but still alive, I grabbed myself a large drink of water from the tap, got dressed and headed out to look for something to eat. Darkness had fallen and the streets were cold.
There was a Burger King fifty yards down the road, and since I hadn't had one in a good long while, I went in and ordered a large Whopper meal with Diet Coke from a man who looked remarkably like a Filipino, although I didn't bother asking him if he was or not.
I ate in the upstairs area, the only person in there, and finished the food in about two minutes flat. It wasn't that it was especially good, just that I was very very hungry. While I sat at the table slurping away at my Diet Coke, I pulled a crumpled newspaper article from my pocket.
The article was written by someone called Emma Neilson, billed as the Investigating Crime Reporter for the North London Echo. It was dated 3 November, just over a month earlier, and
But I'm stubborn. When I make up my mind to do something, I do it. Sometimes I have doubts about things - I wouldn't be human if I didn't - but I never let them stand in the way of a course of action. I'm not sure if that's a good trait to have ornot, but it's irrelevant really. Like I'd told Tomboy, I've got it, and that's that. And it was the reason why there was no way I was taking the easy option now. Not until I'd brought down Pope, and whoever it was who was hiding behind him. I was just going to have to be a lot more careful, that was all.
The mobile rang. It was on the bedside table and I picked it up, guessing it would be Tomboy finding out how I was getting on. But the screen was once again showing no number.
Which meant it was Mr Pope.
'Hello, Mr Kane,' he said as I picked up. 'I'm sorry about what happened earlier, but I wanted to make sure you got the message fully. London's a very dangerous place. It's best you leave it.' There was nothing threatening in his words. Rather, his tone was sympathetic, that of a trusted friend dispensing advice.
'I am planning on leaving,' I said, my headache suddenly getting worse. My stomach was grumbling too. All in all, I was a very unhappy man.
'I wanted to make sure you knew how serious we were about you getting on the plane.'
'Well, you certainly got your message across, but somehow I don't think I was meant to be getting on it at all.' I didn't mention that I had the gun.
'It was a warning, Kane. If we'd wanted you dead, you'd have been taken out the moment you stepped inside the cafe. But next time I'll usesomeone better than those idiots this morning. I underestimated you there. And overestimated them. I won't make either mistake again.'
'Glad to hear it. I won't be making any mistakes again, either.'
'I hope that means you're going to be on tomorrow's flight. This time I guarantee that nothing'll happen to you en route.'
'That's very reassuring, but I'm beginning to get the sneaking suspicion that you might not be a man of your word. I'll make my own plans, Mr Pope, and the first you'll hear of them is when I tap you on the shoulder one dark night. Then perhaps we'll talk again.'
The laughter down the other end of the phone was frighteningly genuine.
'Pope?' he said, still laughing. 'Who the fuck is Pope?'
And he hung up, leaving me staring at the bedroom wall, thinking that I had one hell of a lot of catching up to do.
12
I slept for three hours that afternoon and when I woke up I felt like shit and my stomach's growling had reached dangerous proportions. Rising thickheaded but still alive, I grabbed myself a large drink of water from the tap, got dressed and headed out to look for something to eat. Darkness had fallen and the streets were cold.
There was a Burger King fifty yards down the road, and since I hadn't had one in a good long while, I went in and ordered a large Whopper meal with Diet Coke from a man who looked remarkably like a Filipino, although I didn't bother asking him if he was or not.
I ate in the upstairs area, the only person in there, and finished the food in about two minutes flat. It wasn't that it was especially good, just that I was very very hungry. While I sat at the table slurping away at my Diet Coke, I pulled a crumpled newspaper article from my pocket.
The article was written by someone called Emma Neilson, billed as the Investigating Crime Reporter for the North London Echo. It was dated 3 November, just over a month earlier, and
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