Mason: A Manchester Bad Boys Romance (3 page)

BOOK: Mason: A Manchester Bad Boys Romance
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Mason

 

What have I done?
No matter how many times I asked myself that question, a reply never came.

It was a cold, overcast day. I was making my rounds, meeting the bookies and collecting the money. I was a week into the job, and I was finding that the work wasn't that bad. So far, everybody had paid up. Terry was pleased, and he was paying me well. I should have been happy, but I wasn't. Not because of the job, though – because of
her
.

My priorities had been so clear that night. Have a few drinks, get laid, move on. As soon as I seen her, I knew that I had to have her. She'd come back to my flat, and the sex had been amazing.
She
had been amazing. Her body was ripe and luscious, but it had been more than that. She made me laugh, interested me, made me want to learn more about her. And that was not on the cards.

So the next morning, when she left, I swore that I wasn't going to see her again. We hadn't swapped numbers, so that was that- done. Until that evening, when my doorbell rang and she was there. If she had a flimsy excuse for coming round, I didn't get to hear it – I was deep inside her minutes later. That time, we did swap numbers, and the next evening I found myself texting her, inviting her round.

It was just for sex, I told myself. I’m horny, and she’s up for it. But if it was just for sex, then why had we watched a film together, ordered a Chinese takeaway? Moments like now, when I was alone, I could think straight – remind myself that getting involved with a woman was a bad idea. But when she was there, she was like a drug. I was powerless to stop myself from touching her, kissing her, wanting her to like me. And I think she did like me – although she was cool, playing her cards close to her chest, whenever we were together there was an undeniable spark. But of what? Lust? Friendship? More?

I was snapped back out of my thoughts and into the present by the man standing in front of me. He was small and scrawny, and he could be any age from early thirties to late fifties. He had that look about him – the look of somebody who has had a hard, unhealthy life, and every drink, every cigarette, every drug, every junk food meal was written on his pinched face.

"Here you go son, three hundred quid," he said, pressing a wad of cash firmly into my hand.

"It should be five hundred," I said flatly. I had been warned about this. The bookies would try to test me, pushing their luck. I was an unknown quantity, and if they could successfully pull the wool over my eyes, they could double their income. It was understandable, sure, that they tried. But it had to be dealt with. If word got out that I had been lenient with one, all the others would follow suit. On the other hand, this was an opportunity to quell the hassle before it even began.

"Nah, it's definitely three hundred," he said. "Five hundred is before my cut – three hundred after."

I moved closer to him, well into his comfort zone. He took a step back, which confirmed beyond all doubt that he was lying. An honest man would have stood his ground, fought his corner.

"It’s five hundred right now," I said. “In thirty seconds, it will be £550. In one minute, it will be £600 and four teeth. You can fuck with me all you want, mate, but you'll pay the price for it."

He shrank back, barking a nervous laugh.

"Now now, son, there's no need for us to fall out. It's my mistake – an honest mistake. You're right, it was seven hundred originally, five hundred after my cut. I knew five hundred came into it somewhere! My mind must be going soft…"

He fumbled in his pocket for the rest of the money. The fact that he had it on him was promising, at least. He hadn't been confident about getting away with his blag. I couldn't let this go without comment, though.

"If your mind is going soft, then maybe it's time to retire. Let someone else take over."

His eyes narrowed. "I've been with Terry since you were shitting in your nappies, boy, and I'll be with him long after you’re… gone."

"Maybe," I said, smiling. I consciously relaxed my stance, leaning casually against the wall. I watched his body language change. He drew himself up to his full height, confident that his invocation of Terry's name had protected him..

He never saw it coming. My fist crunched into his face, and he fell to the floor, nose bleeding.

"But until then," I said, in the same friendly tone, "there'll be no more memory lapses, will there?"

I could see a myriad of expressions flashing across his ruined face. Anger, guilt, and fear. He wanted to tell me to fuck off, but he didn’t dare.

"Will there?" I repeated, the friendly tone gone.

"No," he said quietly, dropping his gaze.

I turned and walked away, back to my car. I felt like shit. I was just doing my job, and he'd been asking for it. He knew the risk of chancing his arm. Nevertheless, it did not feel good - bullying and beating the older, smaller man. My mind flashed back to Nicole. What would she think, if she had watched that? Would she still look at me as if I was interesting, desirable, worthy?

Of course she fucking wouldn't
, I thought. Some women would, sure, but not her. She was better than all that. She was better than me.
Maybe that's why you can’t give her up.

My phone beeped - a text. It was her, asking if I would be home later. This was an opportunity to rid myself of the turmoil. All I had to do was… nothing. Ignore the text. I knew she wasn't the kind of woman that would lower herself to chase after an ignorant twat.
Just do nothing, and it ends.

Even as I thought this, my fingers were typing - I would be home all evening, come round whenever. That was the effect she had on me. I was like a drug addict looking for my next fix.
But this is it
, I promised myself.
One more hit, and then I'm done.

I headed home, trying to pretend to myself that I wasn't pushing the car faster than usual, trying to ignore the thrill of anticipation. As I parked up, I could see a figure sitting on my doorstep. A small, female figure.
She was already here!
I was grinning as I headed up the path, but when she looked up, the smile died on my face.

It was not Nicole. It was my wife.

Nicole

 

It was just over a week, since I’d met Mason, and I was finding it easier to process my double life. Well, maybe not easier, but I was trying.

Every morning, I would remind myself of who I was, what I was doing - my job. Mason was certainly connected to, if not part of, Terry English's gang of criminals. I was taking it slowly, building the trust, and one day it would pay off – I would have the evidence that we needed to take Terry off the streets.

And for a while, the pep-talk would work. I would feel focused, professional, ruthless.
I’m getting the job done
, I told myself.
I’m only sleeping with Mason to insert myself into his life.

But then I would see him, and everything fell away. If I was brutally honest, I hardly even thought about work while I was with him. He never spoke about his work, either, and I never asked. I knew deep down that I was prolonging it, pushing back the inevitable moment when the whole thing had to end.

I was parking up outside his place, when I saw her. A woman, leaving his flat. It was the first time I'd seen him have contact with anybody since the night I met him. Instinctively, I grabbed my phone, snapping a few pictures of her.

As she walked away, I studied the photographs. She was my age, maybe a little older.
And she was rough
, I thought bitchily. She was thin, but in that malnourished way that junkies have – not the slender limbs of a model. Her clothes were cheap and nasty, and her peroxide blonde hair had a good two inches of dark roots.

Who was she? And what was she doing in his flat?

I couldn’t go inside yet, not until I knew more. If I knew who she was, then I would know how to act, what to ask him, what to look for. It was basic training - always know the answers before you ask the questions.

But that wasn’t the reason my heart was pounding. We'd only been seeing each other a week, and it was a fake relationship anyway, so I shouldn't care if he'd been sleeping with someone else.
But I do.
That was why I didn't want to go in – if I did, I wouldn't be able to help myself. I would look for evidence of the blonde woman's presence. Rumpled bedding, signs of sex, of intimacy. And if I saw them, I knew I couldn't carry on doing what I was doing. The thought of him in bed with someone else made me feel sick.

But supposing it was innocent? She could be a sister, a cousin, anyone. On impulse, I decided to reach out to the one person who might know – Thompson. When I called him, he was in a pub on the other side of the city. I restarted my engine and drove away.

 

"Well? How's it going?" he asked jovially, as I walked in. Clearly, the whiskey in front of him wasn't the first one of the day.

"Slow," I said. "I've made a contact, but nothing more."

I showed him the pictures.

"Can you do anything with these? I don't know who she is, so she might not be relevant to the investigation, but I'd like to know. I'll email them over to you."

"No need," he slurred. "I know exactly who that tart is – Sharon O’Donnell. She got nicked last night for solicitation. Waste of bloody time! She’ll be turning twice as many tricks tonight, one lot to pay the fine and one lot to fill her arm with smack."

O’Donnell? She was a relative of Mason's, then. And a heroin addict, too.

"Does she have a brother? My contact’s surname is O’Donnell," I said.

"She might do, I don't know," he said. "She's not from round here. O’Donnell is her married name."

My blood ran cold.
Mason was married to this junkie.

"What's her husband's name?" I said, trying to keep my voice neutral and steady.

"I don't know," he said. “We didn’t sit chatting over tea and crumpets. I could find out, though. Do you think that your contact is the husband, then? You've been slumming it."

I was stung. "He's not like that. He's not like, I don't know, someone that would be with her." I knew that my tone was too defensive, and hoped that he was too drunk to notice. But Thompson was always drunk, these days. He'd learned to function when he was loaded.

"What is he like then?" he said, mockingly. "The prostitute’s husband?"

"We don’t know that he’s the husband," I said, annoyed. "He's just a guy. Nice, friendly, clean. He used to be in the Army, and he’s possibly one of Terry's boys now."

"You're fucking him, aren't you?"

"How I conduct my investigation is my business. All you need to do is read the reports," I snapped.

He held his hands up defensively. "I'm not judging. I told you – do whatever it takes to get the job done. But don't forget what these people are. Criminal scum."

"I haven't forgotten," I said. Although maybe I had been forgetting in the past, seeing Mason's wife had brought me back down to earth with a bang.

"Are you sure?" he said quietly. "Because to me, it sounds like you're defending this guy."

"Does it really?" I hissed, angry now. "Because to
me
it sounds like you're jealous!"

I got up to leave, ignoring his protestations.

"Don't forget, Gary, you dumped me. So what I do and who I sleep with is none of your damn business!"

I stormed out of the pub, leaving him behind. As I got into the car, I could feel the tears threatening. Because he was right. I had been defending Mason, forgetting who he was,
what
he was.

I only had two options, now.

I could report back to the station, tell them that my undercover mission had failed, and be shamed.
The copper that fell for the criminal.
There would be an enquiry, and I’d lose my job.

Or, I could continue. Use Mason to root out Terry English, just like I was supposed to. The choice was easy. Either way, I lost Mason, so the only thing hanging in the balance was my career. And if I wasn’t a police officer, who would I be?

Nobody, nobody at all.

Mason

 

My wife. Well, my ex-wife. Seeing her sitting there was surreal, almost like seeing the Queen on a bus - so out of place. And out of time, too. It must have been six years since I last saw her, and I could honestly say I hadn't given her a single thought in all that time. And now here she was.

"Karen," I said, neutrally.

She laughed nervously. "Bet you didn't expect to see me here."

"I didn't, no," I said, although what I really wanted to say was
- What do you want
? Because I could absolutely fucking guarantee that she wanted something. Karen was that kind of woman. People only existed in her sphere to give her what she wanted. She used them up and spat them out.

I was too young and stupid to realise this until after I put a ring on her finger, or maybe she was too cunning and conniving to show her true colours until it was too late. Whatever. It was all ancient history now. Or so I had thought…

"Aren’t you going to invite me in?" she asked.

It was the last thing I wanted, especially with Nicole due to turn up at some point, but even after all these years I knew how to handle Karen. The quickest way to get rid of her was to go along with whatever she wanted. My heart was heavy as I unlocked the door.

 

I studied her as she settled into the kitchen chair, lighting a cigarette without asking if I minded. She looked rough – really rough. Rougher than I remembered, in any case. She'd always lived wildly - drinking, smoking weed, partying, but none of it had ever showed on her face. Under the fluorescent lights, though, she looked to have aged twenty years in the last six. As I watched, she scratched the inside of her arm with a grubby fingernail, the polish chipped and peeling, and I could see the track marks. Some faded, some fresh. Heroin. That explained a lot.

"So, how have you been? I heard you were working for Terry English," she said.

"Did you?"

I wasn't giving anything away about that side of my life. If she was on the scag, then she was even more of a liability now than ever. I couldn't carry on the charade of politeness any longer, though.

"What you want, Karen? You turn up here after all this time, and I'm not blind. I can see the track marks on your arm. I'm not giving you any money, if that’s what you’re angling after. So get to the point, or get out."

A million different expressions flickered across her face at my outburst. Rage, anger, and then something else. Shame.

"Yeah, I'm on the gear. I suppose you glad about that – the bitch finally gets her comeuppance."

She paused, staring at me defiantly, hoping I would comment. Instead I waited, letting the silence stretch out until she continued.

"I don't want no money. I make my own money, the only way I know how."

She looked up at me, to see if I understood. I did. She was earning like most female smack heads did – on her back.

"The thing is," she continued, her tone becoming whining and self-pitying, "I got nicked again. I was in the cells overnight, and it can't go on. I've tried to give up the drugs, and I can't. But I can't be a junkie and mother…"

I looked at her in disgust.

"You have a kid?"

I couldn't imagine a worse mother, even before the drugs. She was a selfish, narcissistic bitch who used everybody in her vicinity.

"No, Mason.
We
have a kid."

"What? What the fuck are you talking about?"

This was just ridiculous. We'd never had children, never even talked about. We were only married for six months, for God’s sake. Why was she saying this?

"I never told you. I didn't even find out I was pregnant until after we split. I was too far along for an abortion, so I decided to keep it. Him. I decided to keep him."

"And it never occurred to you to mention it to me? That I had a son?" I was reeling.

"I didn't want you involved. Telling me what to do, how to raise the kid," she said.

"Well, you got that right!" I hissed. "I wouldn't have stood by while you shot that shit into your arm!"

I took a deep breath, trying to control my anger, trying to process my thoughts. A son!

"So why are you telling me now? What's changed?"

"I can't look after him any more. He’s starting school in September, and it’s too…"

I slammed my fist down on the table.

"Too much work? Too much effort? Too much money, that could be spent on drugs? Too many eyes, and questions, and investigations?"

She nodded, her head bowed.

"You piece of fucking shit," I said. "So what are you suggesting, exactly?"

"You take him. I've done my share – I've looked after him for five years. It's time you stepped up."

I could tell she had rehearsed that – it had the trademark Karen manipulation stamped all over it.

"And if I don't?"

"He’ll end up in care."

My temper was fading into confusion. I needed to be alone.

"I need to think about this. Five minutes ago, I didn't even know the little lad existed. I need to process it all."

"So, what now then?" she asked, stubbing out her cigarette.

"Just… Just go. Get out."

"I'll bring him round tomorrow – just so you can meet him, nothing more."

"What's his name?"

"Damon," she said.

I didn't even look up from their table as she let herself out.
Damon. My son.
I could barely take it in. How could I take care of the kid? My life was chaotic enough as it was. But then I thought of him – a small boy, huddled in the dark, waiting fruitlessly for his mother to come home from her night of junk and whoring, and my heart broke for him. I didn’t need to know the details to know that his life with Karen would be appalling. He was my boy – my flesh and blood, and I had to do something. But what?

BOOK: Mason: A Manchester Bad Boys Romance
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