it to him, another £500 and several credit cards visible inside the wallet.
It was pretty quick, what happened next. When Preston deconstructed it later, it reminded him of a scene from Reservoir Dogs :
Boy asks Preston to hand him the fuckin’ wallet.
Preston enquires as to why.
Boy says Just fuckin’ gees it.
Preston says No.
Boy takes knife from back pocket and points it at Preston’s neck.
Preston tries to run away.
Boy grabs Preston’s arm before he gets to the door and twists it behind his back.
Preston says Ow!
Boy presses knife against Preston’s neck.
Preston, feeling the point of the knife pierce his skin, uses all his strength to turn around, kick boy in the nuts and grab the knife.
Boy lunges towards Preston’s neck with strangler’s hands and vicious snarl.
Preston realises the knife he is holding is now halfway inside boy’s chest.
Preston says Sorry, oh God, sorry, it was an accident.
Boy falls to the ground.
Preston no longer holds knife. Knife is now poking out of chest of boy who is lying on floor making choking sounds.
Then no sounds.
Preston checks if boy is breathing, says Shit, turns and runs down sixteen flights of stairs.
With two bags of heroin in his freshly murderous little hand.
Maybe he’s not dead, Preston thought, head down.
Or maybe he is.
If he is, he thought, they would never suspect a seventeen-year-old boy genius from the trendy West End. And they had nothing on him, anyway. Some CCTV of his baseball cap perhaps, face obscured. Plus, he told himself, this was a disorganised crime, a gangland crime. He simply did not fit the profile. Walking determinedly towards the main road, Preston threw his cap in a bin and hailed a taxi.
21
As soon as I heard the message from the detective agency on Dad’s mobile I raced outside and returned the call. There was no answer on his mobile, so I left a message.
‘This is Mr Marion’s daughter returning your call,’ I said. ‘Call my father’s number as soon as you can.’
I decided to have a drink while I was waiting.
*
It was a long wait. I woke the following afternoon in the back seat of a car. Some guy was half naked in the front. Who was he? He was old, twenty-five at least. While I was searching for my top, Dad’s mobile rang. I grabbed it from my jeans pocket.
‘Mr Marion?’ came that voice again.
‘This is his daughter,’ I said.
‘Georgie or Kay?’
‘Georgie. Where are you? Is she with you?’
‘She is, yes, but … it’s complicated.’
‘I know it’s fucking complicated. Tell me where you are.’
‘I’m in Room 234 at the Marriott, in town.’
* * *
The old half-naked guy took ages to work out how to drive his car. He was still drunk, I suppose. In the end, I kicked him out of the driver’s seat and did it for him. Twenty minutes later, I stopped at the front of the Marriott hotel and opened the car door.
‘Hey! You said you wanted my number,’ he said.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘David.’
‘I’m never going to fall in love with you, David,’ I said, slamming the door behind me.
*
I ran up to the second floor and along the horror-film corridor. Taking a deep breath, I knocked on room 234.
‘You?’ I said. I’d seen this guy before – at the Bothy. He’d stared at me all night when I was there with Reece. He still had his sunglasses on, the drop-dead gorgeous wanker.
‘Georgie? Don’t come in just yet. Let me fill you in first.’
‘Get out of my way,’ I said, pushing past him and entering the hotel room.
There was no one on the bed. ‘Mum?’ I said, nerve ends scratching as I looked around the room.
‘Where is she?’ I asked the sunglasses guy.
‘In the bathroom. I came back and it was locked. I can’t get it open.’
I tried the door. It was stuck.
The movie star with the sunglasses was saying, ‘Oh no, I do hope she’s all right.’
I had to kick it three times before it opened. And there she was,
It was pretty quick, what happened next. When Preston deconstructed it later, it reminded him of a scene from Reservoir Dogs :
Boy asks Preston to hand him the fuckin’ wallet.
Preston enquires as to why.
Boy says Just fuckin’ gees it.
Preston says No.
Boy takes knife from back pocket and points it at Preston’s neck.
Preston tries to run away.
Boy grabs Preston’s arm before he gets to the door and twists it behind his back.
Preston says Ow!
Boy presses knife against Preston’s neck.
Preston, feeling the point of the knife pierce his skin, uses all his strength to turn around, kick boy in the nuts and grab the knife.
Boy lunges towards Preston’s neck with strangler’s hands and vicious snarl.
Preston realises the knife he is holding is now halfway inside boy’s chest.
Preston says Sorry, oh God, sorry, it was an accident.
Boy falls to the ground.
Preston no longer holds knife. Knife is now poking out of chest of boy who is lying on floor making choking sounds.
Then no sounds.
Preston checks if boy is breathing, says Shit, turns and runs down sixteen flights of stairs.
With two bags of heroin in his freshly murderous little hand.
Maybe he’s not dead, Preston thought, head down.
Or maybe he is.
If he is, he thought, they would never suspect a seventeen-year-old boy genius from the trendy West End. And they had nothing on him, anyway. Some CCTV of his baseball cap perhaps, face obscured. Plus, he told himself, this was a disorganised crime, a gangland crime. He simply did not fit the profile. Walking determinedly towards the main road, Preston threw his cap in a bin and hailed a taxi.
21
As soon as I heard the message from the detective agency on Dad’s mobile I raced outside and returned the call. There was no answer on his mobile, so I left a message.
‘This is Mr Marion’s daughter returning your call,’ I said. ‘Call my father’s number as soon as you can.’
I decided to have a drink while I was waiting.
*
It was a long wait. I woke the following afternoon in the back seat of a car. Some guy was half naked in the front. Who was he? He was old, twenty-five at least. While I was searching for my top, Dad’s mobile rang. I grabbed it from my jeans pocket.
‘Mr Marion?’ came that voice again.
‘This is his daughter,’ I said.
‘Georgie or Kay?’
‘Georgie. Where are you? Is she with you?’
‘She is, yes, but … it’s complicated.’
‘I know it’s fucking complicated. Tell me where you are.’
‘I’m in Room 234 at the Marriott, in town.’
* * *
The old half-naked guy took ages to work out how to drive his car. He was still drunk, I suppose. In the end, I kicked him out of the driver’s seat and did it for him. Twenty minutes later, I stopped at the front of the Marriott hotel and opened the car door.
‘Hey! You said you wanted my number,’ he said.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘David.’
‘I’m never going to fall in love with you, David,’ I said, slamming the door behind me.
*
I ran up to the second floor and along the horror-film corridor. Taking a deep breath, I knocked on room 234.
‘You?’ I said. I’d seen this guy before – at the Bothy. He’d stared at me all night when I was there with Reece. He still had his sunglasses on, the drop-dead gorgeous wanker.
‘Georgie? Don’t come in just yet. Let me fill you in first.’
‘Get out of my way,’ I said, pushing past him and entering the hotel room.
There was no one on the bed. ‘Mum?’ I said, nerve ends scratching as I looked around the room.
‘Where is she?’ I asked the sunglasses guy.
‘In the bathroom. I came back and it was locked. I can’t get it open.’
I tried the door. It was stuck.
The movie star with the sunglasses was saying, ‘Oh no, I do hope she’s all right.’
I had to kick it three times before it opened. And there she was,
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