No Going Back by Casey Kelleher (black male authors TXT) 📗

if they sent him down for murder, what would he get? Fifteen, twenty years? Life? Maybe he’d never get back out. The thought of that terrified him.

Placing the palms of his hands over his eye sockets, Jay-Jay hung his head to put pressure on them. Moving his hands in circular motions to try and iron out the pain. Only nothing was working. He couldn’t seem to shake it. He thought about the E-fit that he’d seen flash across the huge television set back at the pub.

How the fuck had Shelby Cooke managed to get such a good look at his face the other night?

He remembered it all, only he couldn’t pinpoint that precise moment when she’d properly seen him. Because he’d been careful, hadn’t he? He’d leant over the balcony and spotted her walking across the communal garden of the Griffin Estate, dragging a small suitcase behind her. And he’d taken his cue. Running down the stairwell in a bid to catch up with her. Determined to do the job he’d been sent to do, so that he could finally get his hands on some decent money. Only she’d been on to him, aware that he was lurking behind her; she’d turned at one point, and he thought she’d seen him. But he’d comforted himself with the fact that it had been so dark, and Jay-Jay had pulled his hood up over his head in a bid to conceal his face before pressing himself up against a wall, out of sight. Hiding amongst the shadows. Or so he’d thought.

But Shelby Cooke had described him to a T. The girl must have X-ray vision. It wouldn’t take a genius to ID him now. Anyone who saw the E-fit image and knew him would know that had been his ugly mug blaring out from the TV. So, he knew that it was only a matter of time until someone recognised him.

Cracking open one of the cans of Stella that he’d nicked from an off-licence, Jay-Jay gulped one back greedily. He needed something to take the edge off his fractious mood. Something to numb the anxiety that raged inside of him as he recalled the look of amusement in Russ Boland’s eyes when he’d told him that he was on his own now. That this had nothing to do with them. How they refused to be associated with someone with so much heat on them. Someone wanted by the police for murdering a pregnant woman and attacking another. And what could Jay-Jay say in his defence? Nothing.

He was a convicted criminal with a long record of violence. There was no talking his way out of this. No one would believe a word that came out of his mouth, no matter what excuse he gave them. And now he was here, back at this shithole dive he was staying at, and right back at square one. Sleeping rough for God knows how much longer and scouring the local bins for food, in order to survive. Maybe he’d be better off if he went back to prison.

Taking another big glug from the can, Jay-Jay leaned back against the wall and stared around the place in disgust. The dirt and grime seemed suddenly magnified as he realised that this was all he was destined for now. Because this wasn’t freedom. Holed up here and hoping the police didn’t catch up with him.

Finishing the first can, Jay-Jay opened another, welcoming the feeling of numbness that was starting to set in as he drank that one quickly down too. His head was still throbbing, but suddenly he felt lighter as an idea came to his mind.

He replayed the conversation he’d had with Russ Boland. The chat about Shelby Cooke’s dad, Pete Baker. What had he said? That the man would be on the warpath now too, because his daughter and no doubt his grandson were his most treasured possessions.

That the man had once been a face. That he was still a big player in the London underworld. Or at least, still well-respected. Jay-Jay wondered how much of that was true. Because if it was, then that meant that Pete Baker wouldn’t be short of a few quid. And like Russ said, Shelby and her baby were the old man’s most prized possessions. Maybe there was another way out of this, another option for him. Maybe he didn’t have to resign to this shit way of life after all?

He’d lost his opportunity of working for the Boland brothers, but there were other ways he could earn some serious money. He smiled then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he set his plan in motion in his head. Rich men thought that money could buy them everything. And rich, desperate men always paid out.

27

Stepping out of the lift as the doors opened on the postnatal ward, Imelda eyed the empty corridor, surprised at how quiet the place was.

She’d expected a scene from one of the birthing shows she’d been watching religiously on television in preparation for having her baby: wailing women and beeping monitors and nurses rushing about in a panic.

Placing one hand protectively over her bump, she made her way through the main doors that led to the unattended nurses’ station. Wondering, were all the shows staged then? Edited to show giving birth to be more dramatic than it was, to hold the viewers’ attention?

Part of her couldn’t believe that she was actually here. In this place. Because she’d thought about it often. Especially as her due date loomed. After spending months trying to imagine how it would feel. To be in the full blows of labour. Wondering if she’d be here on a ward like this, or if they would put her in a private room. She’d want a room, if given the choice. She wouldn’t want to share such a private, precious moment as giving birth with a room full of nosey strangers.

And she wouldn’t want any pain relief either, unlike some