Posh William nods furiously and Beckett slowly removes his hand from his face.
In the end they find a small, frosted bathroom window that isn’t locked and with Posh William’s size sevens trampling all over Beckett’s head and shoulders, the little git eventually manages to get the window open. Beckett boosts Posh William up, a foot in each hand and the giggling idiot disappears in through the tiny opening. Seconds later, there is a massive crash, a bit of a yelp, and then assorted lesser bumpings and bangings.
The dog next door starts barking and before long his mates have all woken up and joined in up and down the street. The barking spreads ever outward like ripples, until three hours later a dog in Manchester barks because Posh William was too pissed to keep quiet.
Beckett is on his starting blocks but for the moment holds his ground. He starts to make his way cautiously round to the back door. As he reaches the picture window that looks out over the orchard-sized garden there is a sudden flash of light from the window and the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. Beckett is down the side of the house and into the street faster than a greyhound with a jet-powered dildo up it’s arse.
Scant minutes later he is hailing a cab out on King Street, breathlessly fleeing the scene. He makes a flying pit stop at his bolthole room up Notting Hill Gate, throws a few things into a bag and cabs it down to Euston where he gets the midnight train to Brum.
He is not to know Posh William is on the target shooting team at his posh school, is he. He further is not cognizant of the fact that the little fucker not only has his own piece but further decided to bring it along on the job. He certainly couldn’t have know that in the darkened lounge Posh William has stepped on the remote and turned on the telly. How could Beckett have known that the only victim of the whole botched job is a 27” Sony television. Such death’s do not make the 6 o’clock news. Beckett is also blissfully unaware Posh William managed to get out the house and stroll away well before a neighbour called the Old Bill.
Beckett’s old Auntie Gladys has always had a bit of a soft spot for her errant nephew. Which is just as well really. So Beckett gets to eat regularly and catch up on his kip. Apart from a few jaunts out to the miserable local pubs of his even more miserable youth Beckett stays in the house and takes full advantage of Auntie Glad’s VCR.
After about three weeks though, Beckett begins to tire of the safe static life and finds himself yearning once again for scams and the crack. He flees the cloying, deep fat-fried trap at Auntie Glad’s, feeling that if he never sees floral wallpaper or Jean Claude Van Damne ever again, it will be a sight too bleeding soon.
Causes Luke James Supports
Doctors Without Borders