Seven

As the door swings shut behind me, I'm enveloped by the thick air, heavy with the aroma of weed and stale booze. I can barely see anything apart from shadows as I move further inside the dingy roadhouse and away from the bright sunlight. But I can hear them. Dave Robinson's braying laugh, some girl giggling. The third voice, lower, deeper that has to be Mitch Brannigan's. So I keep my shades on, dip my head like I'm not the first bit interested in what's going on and follow Robinson's instructions, heading straight across the bar towards the door marked private.

'Six boxes. These on the left.' Some guy in a dirty black shirt and oil-stained jeans gestures towards some crates piled up on the left, but my eyes stick on him, on the prison ink snaking up his arms and around his neck. ' You take 'em, put them in the trunk of your car, then you stay with it. Understand?'

Realising he's expecting a reaction, I grunt out a 'yes' and grab up the first two boxes. Heavier than they should be, but I figure the less times I have to walk through the bar, the less chance there is of Brannigan taking any interest in me or, worse still, recognising me. So I steady myself, hold them tight to my chest, and stride back towards my motor. And it's going alright, I'm two trips down and heading back in for the last two when I realise they've moved outta the booth so now Dave and Mitch are standing by the bar, shaking hands.

'You nearly done?' Robinson asks, checking his watch. 'We haven't got all day, Shepard.'

I stare at my boots, keep moving as I answer. 'Yeah. This is the last lot.'

'Shepard?' Brannigan steps out in front of me, forcing me to stop as he looms over me, looks me up and down. 'Do I know you? You seem a little familiar.'

I'm frozen to the spot, turned to stone. I open my mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. I don't have the first clue on how to play this, 'cause me telling the truth—yeah, that's right, we were in McAlester the same time. Funny story, you all thought it was Bobby, but it was me who killed that guy, the one who worked for you? Remember?—isn't exactly gonna help me none. But if I don't say that, what do I say? Flat out lie, tell him he's mistaken?

Only then I don't have to. The chance for Robinson to prove he's the big man, make his contempt for me obvious, is too good an opportunity for him to miss.

'Nah, he ain't been up here before, he's one of Chris's charity cases, good for carrying shit and keeping his mouth shut, and not a lot else.' Robinson laughs to himself.

Brannigan nods, shifts back a couple of inches to let me squeeze past. But as I make my way back out, clutching the final boxes in my arms, he continues to watch me, like if he stares at me long enough it'll all fall into place. His mouth is a narrow line as his eyes flickers across my face, land on the scars scoring my left cheek, faded with the passing years so they're less prominent now, but still unmissable. A flicker of recognition passes across his face as his lips twist into a smile.

For a half second, I'm sure it's over but he doesn't pull a blade or a heater, doesn't bark at his heavies to deal with me. So I push the door open with my back and make my final escape into the afternoon sun, bright light flooding in around me.

'Evening.' June smiles up at me, as she drags a damp cloth across the bar. 'Chris is out back, said for you to go straight on through if you showed up.'

'Cheers.' Its been three hours since I dropped Robinson off here, with his delivery. Three hours that I've spent making a half-assed attempt at collecting money, goading and pushing and acting like a dick in a futile attempt to provoke someone into throwing a punch at me just to stop me thinking, stop me turning the encounter with Brannigan over and over in my head and convince myself that it's all in my imagination. That he doesn't know or care who I am.

Chris is sat at the small table, surrounded by stacks of boxes of rum and whiskey, holding a wad of bank notes. He gives me the briefest of glances, then finishes passing the notes from one hand to the other as he counts them, then shoves them back into the small safe bolted to floor and wall behind him.

'Robinson gone?'

'Yeah, about half an hour ago. And?' he asks, grabbing two glasses and adding an inch or so of bourbon to each then slides one towards me, nods towards the chair to indicate he wants me to sit.

I shrug, gripping my glass hard as I take a sip, desperate for the warmth to seep into me, calm my frayed nerves. 'And nothing. Spent most the time hanging about outside the place, bored outta my brain.'

'What? So you didn't see nothing useful?' he stares into his glass, slowly swirling the liquid round and round.

'Not really. I mean, Robinson looked real friendly with them, like he was comfortable, sat there with his hands all over one of Brannigan's girls when I did finally get summonsed to go in there, but then that's what he's supposed to do ain't it? Make nice with your business partners so things go smooth and you get a good deal.' I swallow another mouthful of bourbon. 'Even if it means sucking up to an asshole like Mitch Brannigan. Should've damn well told me that's who you're in business with, Chris.'

Chris's eyes flick over my face and he sets his glass down. 'You had dealings with him before then? 'Cause I was under the impression you never did any business out that way, Tim.'

Shrugging, I reach for his pack of cigarettes, help myself to one, focus on keeping my hand steady as I light it. So much noise, the shouting, jeering voices, jostling to get a better view of this latest fight...Walt slumped and lifeless, blood pooling on the concrete floor of the mess hall. The other guy, smirking. Like he's proud of what he's done...Bobby on my heels as I launch myself across the room at that murdering bastard. The crowd vanishing as, too late, the baton-wielding guards drag us back... So much fucking blood, on my clothes, my skin, my hands...

'Shepard?' Chris barks, snapping me out of my nightmarish memory. 'What the hell is going on in that head of yours? What's your beef with Brannigan?'

The tangled fragments of those long-suppressed memories threaten to surface again, but I push them away, focus on the ticking of the clock behind him, the way the smoke from my cigarette winds up towards the ceiling. The only person outside of those who were there I've ever trusted enough to share that with is Leigh, so there's no goddamned way I'm telling Chris Lewis. No. I need to quit whilst I'm ahead and keep myself off of Brannigan's radar.

'Nothing. I didn't ever do any business with him, but I guess I've heard shit, over the years. Doesn't change the fact you should've have given me a heads up on exactly what I was walking into. But the real issue is Robinson. We haven't ever had much time for one another, and he's made it pretty obvious he doesn't trust me. So no way is he gonna slip up and let me be there if he is doing deals behind your back, is he?'

'So change his mind, make him believe he can rely on you.'

'Yeah, right. Look, Chris, put someone else on it and let me go back to what I'm good at. collecting money and breaking up fights.'

'No, it needs to be you, someone I can be certain he ain't buying off, that he can't manipulate.' Chris twists round, reaching back into the safe. 'If it's money—'

'No.'

'You sure? Do this and I'll make it worth your while.' Chris drops a thick pile on twenties on the table between us. A couple of hundred, at the least, more maybe. Money that'd clear our bills for this month with some left over for next month, maybe even leave enough spare that I could do something good for Leigh and the kids. 'So what do you say, Tim?'

A/N: Thanks for reading.