The Charlie Cobb Series

Chapter 13

13

We miss the first tram, but the second clips the back end of the Yaris.

I hear a crunch of metal and smash of brake lights.

The car shunts and spins three-sixty. I wrestle back control and keep driving.

I look in my mirrors. The cops are blocked off by the passing trams. We’ve got a couple of seconds before they get a fix on us again, so I skid left into a tight and tiny alley.

It’s lined with big, square industrial bins. Blue and orange and overflowing.

The alley leads straight into the heart of China Town. I guess this is as good a place as any, so I slam on the brakes. Ram the gear lever into reverse. Back the car up and to the right fast, tight between two of the bins. I kill the lights and we wait.

The kid dares to breathe again. Removes his hands from his eyes. I look in the mirrors. Hear the cry of the sirens. See the flashing lights blast past the mouth of the alley. The sirens fade into the distance, but the chopper is still in the area. I can hear the churn of its rotors, bouncing off tightly-packed brick buildings.

I peer through the windscreen. The blinking red light of the chopper is drifting too, following the cops.

“See,” I say to the kid. “Pigs do fly,” He doesn’t laugh. No one ever laughs. But that’s not gonna stop me doing the joke. “Get out,” I say, squeezing myself through the doorframe.

A cold breeze blows down the pitch-dark alley. It stinks of rotten food. As the kid gets out of the car, still a little shaken, I take hold of him by the arm. I grip him tight. He bleats in pain.

“Just so you don’t do a runner,” I say. “It’s for your own good.”

The kid shakes his head. I ignore him and march him fast out of the alley. Left, then across the road and up a street.

China Town is dead, but full of the smell of dim sum and noodles and fried pork and . . . Christ, I’m hungry.

We stop outside Blessed Thai Massage. The place marked by a glowing white sign with fancy gold lettering and a pretty young woman with pebbles on her back.

The kid pulls a face. “A massage parlour?”

“Shut up and mind your head,” I say, steering him through an open steel door. Through a low-hanging doorway. Down a set of wonky red steps.

It’s warm inside and smells of lilies. A small reception area with a walnut colour scheme. The faint sound of pipes and plucked strings. You know, Far East kind of stuff. The kind of thing the prison shrink used to try and get me into.

Said it would calm me down. As if I was caving other cons’ heads in ‘cause I was angry.

I told him, I’m not the one who starts things. I just specialise in ending them. The other guy has to swing first. And when you’re in the nick, there’s always some animal or other trying to shank you in the kidney. Or bite you on the nose. Bum you in the shower. But that’s another story. Back to this one.

I haven’t been here in a while. I see they’ve spruced the place up. They’ve got a tropical fish tank and fake black leather arm chairs to wait in. Folded white towels on a small, arcing counter. But no one on reception.

I push the kid along a dim, narrow corridor. There’s a small office at the end behind a frosted door, then a room either side.

Massage Rooms One and Two.

Room One is to the left. I try the door. There’s an empty massage table and nothing else. So I turn the brass knob on the next door and push it open.

Me and the kid stop in the doorway. A fat man on his back. Red and sweaty. A white towel folded under his head for a pillow. Another one thrown over his crown jewels. His eyes are closed––a big grin on his chops as a woman’s hand tosses him off under the towel.

The hand belongs to an arm. The arm leads up to a brunette-blonde dressed in a crisp white uniform. One with a collared top and a tight skirt down to the knees. Her hair tied up and by the looks of it, a white latex glove peeping out above the towel on her wanking hand. She stares into space. Bored, lazy puffs on a cigarette.

Yep, it’s the mother of my child.