Parkinson brings the car to a halt and kills the lights. He glances in the rear-view mirror, and checks his watch. 21:27. Three minutes to go. The sign on the wall in front is of an Owl. So he’s in the right place, but why here? Why the Glades?
The voice had told him to come alone. He frets with his hands at the steering wheel.
In the rear-view he sees a coil of smoke winding up into the light above. He pushes the door open and gets out. The man steps back, into shadow.
‘Who are you?’ shouts Parkinson. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m a friend,’ says the voice.
‘Murray?’ whispers Parkinson under his breath. ‘But… why?’
The voice goes on, ‘Come forward, Phil. Step into the light.’
Parkinson walks forward, holding his hand up to his eyes. He sees the tip of a cigarette glow orange; it fades away. He hears a clicking sound.
‘This suitcase contains one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. I’m giving you the lot. Buy yourself a striker, but choose carefully, Phil. YouTube ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.’
‘But.. the screen is broken, isn’t it? What about the screen?’
‘NEVER MIND THE SCREEN!’ the voice shouts. ‘Erm, we can do without the screen, Phil.’
‘Why all the secrecy? It’s you, isn’t it… Richard?’
‘Don’t say my name!’ Murray hisses.
Parkinson takes another step forward, but stops, perks his ears. And suddenly the sound of screeching tyres fills the air, and headlights are bearing down on him.
‘They’ve found us! RUN!’
But it’s too late – an army of goons dressed in black are jumping out of car doors; two of them pin Parkinson to the hood of a battered old Ford Estate. He looks to his left, and sees Murray’s face being pressed against a windscreen, his Deerstalker rumpled against the glass.
And there’s something else – clack, clack, clack – the sound of well-shod feet approaching.
‘Well, well, well. Look who’s getting ready to splash the cash.’
Parkinson struggles to turn around and sees an eerie orange glow in the corner of his eye.
‘Tangoman,’ spits Murray. ‘How did you find us?’
‘Your manager here’s a puppy-dog when it comes to losing his tail. Hand over the case, Murray.’
Parkinson watches wide-eyed as the goons get hold of his transfer kitty.
‘Pleasure doing business with you,’ says Tangoman with a grin. He jumps back into the car, closes the door, and winds down the window. ‘Oh, and enjoy another year of League One, you tosser! Ha ha ha ha ha!!!!’
The engines are revving as the goons pile back in, but then –
CRUNCH!!!
A dark figure falls from above; the hood of Tangoman’s motor crumples and steam billows everywhere. The thing is beast-sized, caped and masked. Whoever it is, whatever it is, it puts its fist through the windshield and pulls out the suitcase, flings it back to where the two Charlton men are cowering. The case skids to a stop; Parkinson grabs the handle and pulls it to safety.
‘What the hell is that thing?!’ he screams.
Murray is watching transfixed as the beast dispatches goon after goon.
‘Semedo,’ he whispers.
Awesome!
absolutely superb … keep it going mate
I don’t know what your day job is, but you are wasted at it.
These blogs are fantastic!
Quality stuff mate!
I didn’t twig the Portugal reference at first – but as soon as a large beast was mentioned it all clicked into place. Nicely written and got all sorts of imagery going around in my head!
Thank God for a happy ending! My heart was racing!
Excellent stuff. This is the blog I wish I wrote…
Excellent stuff.
And capped off by good old Google adding an Autoglass windscreen repair ad!!