“Please take one, friend,” the man smiled as he offered the leaflet. “It could save your life.”
Curious, David stopped for a second to take the leaflet with his free hand. He glanced at it. It was upside down. Turning it the right way up he read the bold heading:
‘You Have Been Murdered!’
“What? That can’t be right.” he thought to himself and then read it again:
‘You Have Been Murdered!’
“Well that’s just lovely that is.” he mused to himself. Another wet and cold Monday and now he’d been bloody well murdered!
David glanced back at the man that had handed him the leaflet. The man was wearing a smile but didn’t look like he had much to be happy about, standing there on the street corner in his thin anorak and Hi-Vis vest in the cold September rain. Deciding he would keep the leaflet and read it later, David forced a half-smile in return, stuffed the leaflet into his coat pocket, turned up his coat collar against the wind and continued on his way. Entering the doorway directly behind the man, he took the flight of steps in the hallway in front of him two-at-a-time up to the first floor. Pushing open the swing door, he placed the parcel on the desk in front of him. The girl at the desk hardly looked up from reading her magazine but signed on the electronic signature machine that David offered her, said ‘cheers’ and took the parcel. David took the steps down two-at-a-time and exited the building again all in less than a minute he noted as he glanced at his watch. Not seeing the man with the leaflets outside, he was a bit puzzled that he would have disappeared so soon. He looked up and down the street. The crowd of shoppers had also disappeared, and the previously bustling high street was now deserted.
“That’s strange!” he thought to himself as he strode back to the van looking over his shoulder. It had stopped raining and the sun was beginning to break through the clouds.
The Manor
Inverness, Scotland
David had finished his work as a courier for the day and, as usual, ahead of schedule. He drove back to his flat in North Kessock over the Kessock bridge spanning the Moray Firth, the outlet of the famous Loch Ness to the sea. Although just half an hour ago it had been overcast and raining, the sun, although now low in the sky, was shining brightly and a brilliant rainbow had formed framing the picturesque Cairngorm mountains. He had chosen to live outside of the city because it was isolated and peaceful and the flat specifically because it had a balcony with a good view of the marina at the mouth of the River Ness. He loved to sit on the balcony and watch the boats come in and out.
Inside the flat, David hung his cap on the coat peg by the front door and put his keys in the tray on the small entry table. The flat was sparsely furnished and painted a clean, stark white. The lounge consisted of a small but well-padded and comfortable plain blue fabric couch, a folding wooden dining table with two folding wooden chairs, and a portable color TV on a small cabinet. A portable electric fan heater which David had never used provided the only heating for the flat. The bedroom had an old but comfortable queen-sized bed and a set of drawers and the bathroom had the basic utilities with an electric boiler and shower. The small kitchenette was furnished with a few scattered cupboards, a kitchen sink, a gas stove, and a small fridge on top of the worktop.
David was in his mid-thirties of average height and athletically built and he kept himself fit. He enjoyed jogging alongside the river when the weather was fine and sometimes went for long walks over the Munros,2 with their stunningly beautiful views and thick carpets of violet heather. But other than that, apart from work, he didn’t go out much so that left him plenty of time to sit on his balcony to watch the boats and reminisce. Although he had only been living here a short while he had already been pleasantly surprised by the warm hospitality of the Scottish Highlanders. David’s London accent gave his Englishness away as soon as he opened his mouth, but he found himself accepted wherever he went and felt none of the prejudice for the English so often touted in the media. All in all, he loved living in Scotland and hardly missed the drab streets of London, but he did miss Kathy. David took a bottle and a glass from one of the kitchen cupboards and, sliding back the patio door, exited onto the small balcony where there was a weathered, white plastic table and chair. He sat down on the chair and breathed deeply; the cool evening air formed a small cloud from the condensation of his breath. He unscrewed the top from the 15-year-old Glenfiddich bottle of whisky and poured himself a drink. Gazing down into the yellow liquid swirling around in his glass he thought about how his life had been not so long ago; he remembered the London pub.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Get ‘em in then Davy, it’s your shout!” Mark yelled from across bar above the music blaring from the jukebox playing ‘The boys are back in town’, some 1970’s throwback.
David was standing at the bar of the Manor Pub in the East-end of London with some of the Mitchell gang having a few drinks and watching the football match on the big screen. The Mitchell gang were an infamous east London gang led by Reggie Mitchell and his younger brother Gary aka Gazza. Rick, Mark, Jack, and Sid (aka Vicious) all young men in their twenties and early thirties made up the other members of the gang. David was not really a member of the gang but served as the gang’s ad hoc getaway driver.
The bar was crowded, and Rick, Mark, and Jack were playing noisily on the pool table, laughing and joking as they did trick shots slamming the balls around the table. Sid was playing on the slot machine with Gary, bashing the side of it and swearing as the machine flashed its lights, its blaring electronic laser-like sound, despite the jukebox, informed the whole bar that they had lost again.
David raised his eyebrows. It was often ‘his shout’. But he turned obligingly to Dick the landlord and ordered the drinks.
“Give us five of the usual please Dick and I’ll take a large Scotch. Oh, and have one yourself.”
Dick was a large man in his late fifties with tattoos festooned on his forearms from his former navy days. He took no nonsense from his customers but even he was wary at upsetting the infamous Mitchell brothers, especially Gary. Gary was called Gazza by his mates after the famous British footballer but that was where the similarity started and ended. Gazza the footballer was known for his emotional outbursts, even openly crying on the pitch when England lost at the 1990 World Cup. Gazza Mitchell, on the other hand, had a violent and uncontrollable temper when things didn’t go his way as several men had discovered to their detriment.
“Cheers Davy, rough night eh?” Dick nodded towards Gazza who was now kicking the fruit machine, as he placed the large scotch in front of David.
“Yeah, well you know Gazza.” Replied David. As he was speaking and watching Gazza, Gazza looked towards the bar and noticed David and Dick watching him.
“Oh, oh!” said Dick looking away quickly and then disappearing behind the bar to get the rest of the drinks.
“Oh shite!” exclaimed David turning away and lifting his glass to his mouth.
Gazza gave the machine one last kick before staggering across the floor to the bar. He put an arm on David’s shoulder and spun him around to face him.
“Talking about ME were ya?” Gazza shouted into David’s face while rising on his toes and glaring menacingly.
There was a pause. Everyone in the bar stopped what they were doing and looked at Gazza in morbid fascination as if watching an accident that everyone knew was about to happen.
“No, er, just saying how Dick should get rid of that rip-off one-armed bandit.” David’s voice sounded a little nervous as he nodded towards the slot machine.
Gazza smiled a crocodile smile.
“Chill man out, I’m only messing with ya!” Gazza shouted to the relief of everyone in the bar who now continued what they were doing.
“Davy,