Post Mortem by Gary Bell (inspirational books for students .TXT) 📗

Omar checked the level of the liquid – untouched – and sniffed at the bottle like an animal at a trap. Then he drank thirstily and belched. ‘That’s the game,’ he said. ‘You go inside, do a bit, come out and you’re on top. No more college. No dole. No more tins of ravioli.’

‘It’d be hard to continue your music from inside a cell,’ Zara noted.

He looked up at the ceiling and shook his head, half smiling. ‘You know how much equipment I could buy after one single stretch? I’m talking about some of that top-of-the-line, professional Jay Z shit. Not to mention the rep. That sort of reputation pays in drill. A man can’t be writing about doing time and hustling if he’s never had to hustle.’

‘And when did you start working for the Met?’ I asked.

His face tightened, reluctant, and then relented. ‘Christmas. Some undie snatched me with enough crack to send me down until my thirties.’

I nodded, reaching for my own drink. ‘Not quite the short, glamorous stretch you had in mind?’

‘We made a deal,’ he said. ‘It’d all go away if I let a few details slip here and there. I’d even make a bit of cash. It sounded like suicide to me, but I didn’t have much choice.’

‘Who was he?’ Zara asked, eyes widening. ‘This undercover officer.’

Omar took a bigger mouthful of lager before replying. ‘Man called Linford.’

‘I knew it!’ Zara slapped her hand against the desk. ‘Sod your PII.’

Omar blinked. ‘Huh?’

‘Nothing,’ I said quickly. ‘This raid at the Alex. Was that Linford’s plan?’

‘No.’ He started moving again, tracing his own path over the rug. ‘Those orders came from the bosses.’

‘Your own bosses ordered you to organise the raid with Linford?’ Zara said. ‘They knew you were a paid police informant, and they were willing to let you live?’

He paused to empty his bottle, then wiped his lips dry on his sleeve. ‘I did what they asked, walked out of that pub, and by the time I got home, they’d already booted my mum’s door in and trashed the place. There was a dead rat in my bed. I grabbed some clothes and went ghost, man. Had nowhere else to go. Couldn’t trust anyone, and now I’m sleeping in bushes and shit, freezing for weeks, getting hypothermia or something. I go anywhere near my end and it’ll be my end, you get me?’

‘I do,’ I said, ‘though one might argue that you’ve encouraged their disapprobation. You’ve still been posting videos about them online, haven’t you? What was it again? “Cutthroats pulling them strings / Unlucky number’s feeling the wrath.”’

His eyes flared with surprise as Zara joined. ‘“Gaza Strip caught up in things / Sorry, Palestine–Israel’s off.”’ She shook her head. ‘After a look on your Facebook, it seems that your family are mostly Palestinian. So, you’re Palestine, of course. And you are friends with Andre Israel, aren’t you?’

‘I don’t know about friends,’ he muttered. ‘Used to be on the same scene. He’s quiet. Straight.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and I take it from those lyrics that you’re aware of his current trial? You could go so far as to say he’s been charged in your place.’

‘If it’s protection you’re after,’ I added, ‘then you’re going to have to offer something in return. We’re going to need you to testify in court.’

He considered this for a while longer, though he must’ve already been considering it for weeks. He shuffled over to the bureau in the corner and dropped into Zara’s usual chair. He bowed his head, passing the empty bottle between his hands, and mumbled, ‘What would I have to say?’

‘Well,’ I told him, ‘you’d have to testify about Andre Israel’s involvement, or lack thereof, for a start, as well as the actions of your fellow Cutthroats, and whatever they’re up to in that prison.’

‘Is that all?’ He laughed weakly, staring down at his trainers; they looked expensive, but tattered by the streets. ‘Will I be safe?’

I hesitated. In asking this question, as he had with the Rubik’s cube in his hands, he looked much younger. ‘I don’t know. We’d do our best to make it so.’

He nodded slightly. ‘How would it work?’

‘First, we’d need you to see Andre’s solicitor, tomorrow, so that she can take a statement from you.’

‘Tomorrow? You need me to help you out, but you’re going to send me back out to sleep on the streets? Some deal that is.’

Zara shrugged. ‘We don’t run a hotel, Omar.’

‘No,’ I agreed, ‘I’m sorry to say that we don’t.’ I fell quiet then, thinking about it. I clenched my eyes shut, realising what I had to do, and sighed. ‘I need to go and make a personal phone call.’

Omar braced in his seat. ‘To who?’

‘Somebody,’ I replied, getting to my feet. ‘If we’re going to keep you alive, then you’re going to have to trust me.’

Whether I had his faith or not, he didn’t say. I could feel his suspicious gaze as I went out onto the landing, closed the door behind me and took my phone from my pocket.

I leaned back against the wall a few yards from my door and listened to the sounds of the building. Ernie’s vacuum cleaner was already at work a floor away. In a room nearby, somebody coughed and stiff keys clicked across a laptop. I took a deep breath and scrolled through my contacts to the listing I’d never changed: Home.

After precisely seven rings, it was answered. ‘Hello?’

My stomach tightened at the sound of the voice, pushing hot blood into my ears. ‘Is Jenn— Jennifer there?’

‘May I ask who’s calling?’

I had to clamp my jaw: I was the man who had kept that king-sized bed warm for fifteen years. Thankfully, I heard her voice before I had to force a civil answer. ‘Who is it, Tom? They’re about to start the final chase.’

‘It’s for you, dear.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. Hang on, I’ll pause it …’ There was the fumbling of the receiver changing