Читать книгу East of Hounslow: A funny, clever and addictive spy thriller, shortlisted for a CWA Dagger 2018 - Khurrum Rahman, Khurrum Rahman - Страница 16

10

I was sat at the back on the top deck of an almost empty one-eleven bus on my way to see Silas. I spent the journey nursing a cut above my right ear with a used tissue‚ trying to piece together the blur of stupidity that had just taken place. I cleared the condensation on the window with my sleeve and looked outside. I was three more stops from Silas‚ my supplier and employer and all round fucking psychopath.

There is only one way to describe Silas. And that’s in detail.

At first glance you would not know how to pigeonhole Silas. He dressed preppy‚ which suited his slight frame‚ but lived gangster. Thin-framed‚ black‚ half-moon reading glasses usually hung down from around his pigeon neck on a thin gold chain. Silas had a penchant for V-neck sweaters in vibrant colours‚ always worn over a crisp white shirt with his initials embroidered on the collar. His short dark hair was always neatly side-parted‚ and you would never notice a difference in growth. His trousers were relaxed and patterned‚ the type that wouldn’t look out of place hitting balls on the green. On his feet you would find delicate suede slip-ons with tassels. He lived in a house. A very big house. In the suburbs. Double fronted with enough space in his drive to comfortably park five cars‚ which was just as well as he owned five cars. He lived alone. Just him and his cook and his security and his hairdresser. There were always girls hanging around too. He clearly had a type. Tall‚ Amazonian‚ muscular looking girls‚ tottering around in impossibly high heels and little more. Rumour had it that Silas had his own private strip club in the basement. It was the closest thing I’d seen to the Playboy mansion. But Hugh Hefner he was not. Silas looked expensive and Silas smelt expensive and he drove and he lived expensive. He was polite and well-spoken and he controlled‚ what? Maybe sixty per cent of any narcotic sold in West London. It all went through him. Weed‚ Skunk‚ Coke‚ H‚ Uppers‚ Downers‚ Lefties‚ Righties‚ Viagra‚ Valium and any other mind-bending‚ thought-invoking‚ impotence-zapping substance that you could think of. Also‚ and this was just whispers‚ but I’d heard that he had a small arsenal tucked away somewhere. And when I say small‚ I mean huge. Enough to make Rambo blush.

I peered out of the bus window as the Odeon on the high street slipped past me. The so-called revenge attacks didn’t seem to have hit Kingston. There were clubbers and night-goers and general happiness in full effect.

I was relieved to be away from Khan and Parvez and into relative peace. Fucking jokers with their fucking half-arsed plan. And who suffered? Me‚ that’s who. And if I didn’t have my story straight then there was a whole lot more of suffering coming my way. If Silas so much as had an inkling that I was blagging‚ then I guess I would soon be able to confirm whether he did indeed have a huge arsenal‚ as it would be pointing at my fucking head. So bullshit to one side‚ I decided to come clean.

The bus stopped. It had to‚ it was the last stop. End of its journey‚ and quite possibly the end of mine.