It was hours later now, and still he wore the same jacket and cap. As soon as he was out of here he would ensure they were well out of the way at home when he went for the next target. He couldn’t keep his mind on his job for the distraction of thinking about tonight. He had to plan every move, make sure that there were no slip-ups. This time he would not mess around but get in, kill his next victim and get out again. The cops weren’t fools and would be closing in. It was only a matter of time until they recognised the pattern and zoned in on the remaining conspirators and took them into protective custody; he couldn’t imagine how he would get at them then. Unless he dropped an anonymous tip — told the police what the bastards had done forty years earlier. If they were arrested and subsequently sent down, well, things would be different then. They would be out of the way, incarcerated behind bars, but there were always ways and means where a prison was concerned. Money placed in the right hands, a door accidentally left unlocked, a guard willing to turn a blind eye, and many a prisoner’s life had been ended in a welter of violence.
Earlier he’d thought about ringing in sick, taking the day off to plan and recoup after the disaster at Yoshida’s place, but it was imperative that he not attract any unwanted attention. Best that he kept up his usual life and not give anyone a reason to question what he was up to outside of work. There were a number of nosy people around here and he didn’t want any of them putting two and two together. If he stuck to the programme, separated his paying career from his vocational work, then he should be fine. When all of this was done, and he avoided discovery, he would still need his job. Despite bragging to Daniel Lansdale about continuing his mission he had no intention of pushing the issue too soon. Revenge is a dish best served cold, he’d heard. Once the conspirators were all punished, he’d be happy to go back to his normal work for a while, before seeking out those others deserving of a visit from him.
Before setting off on his crusade, he had been a relatively law-abiding man, and if he hadn’t learned the horrible truth from Bruce Tennant most likely he would be now. However things had changed and there was no going back to the person he used to be. The thrill of the chase was all-encompassing at present, and if he slipped back into his normal life he would miss the excitement. He got some action during his ordinary day-to-day duties, and though he occasionally fed his desire for violence, there was a line he was not allowed to cross. He did not wish to endanger his employment here, he needed a wage because killing required an income. Plus, he owed a lot to this place: who’d have thought it would have led to the discovery of those responsible for murdering his father?
Bruce Tennant wanted more alcohol. He was barely tipsy and wished nothing more than to be speechless, so that when he returned home he’d be oblivious to the stench and grime, so that when he lay down to sleep he wouldn’t be conscious of the bugs crawling over his face, let alone the noises from his neighbouring apartments. He had spent all the cash he’d scratched from his pocket, and had managed to scam a couple of drinks from one of his drunker barfly buddies, but then he’d allowed his temper to get the better of him and began mouthing off. The barkeep at the Dynamo had grabbed him, told him there were no more warnings and had thrown him out on the street. He had to learn to keep his goddamn mouth shut; one of these days it was going to get him in real trouble.
He stumbled along, aware of the hobos sitting in doorways, their hands out, handwritten notes begging for change. More than once he thought about rolling one of them for their takings, but he knew where that would lead. Before long he’d be spending more time in their company, and soon he’d be sitting alongside them with his hand out.
There was a Seven-Eleven on the corner of his street. He went in, lingered around the counters. An Iranian teller watched him the entire time, and he stumbled outside again, his opportunity to boost a bottle or two missed. As he came out the door, swearing under his breath, a big guy had blocked his path. The man had grunted something — almost like an exclamation — before shoving past and into the shop. ‘A little fucking manners wouldn’t go amiss,’ Tennant shouted at him. Then he recalled his earlier resolve to mind his mouth, and he loped away before the guy could chase him down.
This part of the city was run down. That was an understatement if ever he’d heard one. It was downright shitty. He had no right to complain, of course. It was his own fault that he’d ended up here, and having been kicked loose from prison only weeks before he should feel damn fortunate to have found a landlord willing to give a room to an ex-jailbird. He didn’t feel lucky. His house wasn’t fit for rats, let alone human habitation. The fact that it was all he could afford was beside the point, and it didn’t mean he had to be happy about the arrangement. He shared the house with two other men. Both were drunks, and he trusted they were out in the bars, mooching free drinks in exchange for raunchy stories. He was going to get his head down — it would be impossible if either were home. One of them was so deaf he had to yell even when speaking to himself. The other fancied himself the Great Caruso and sang freakin’ opera at the top of his voice.
He had a key to the front door, but it was pointless. The frame was so warped that the components of the lock didn’t meet. As he usually did, he grabbed the handle, twisted it, and shoved with a shoulder against the door until it popped open. He closed the door in reverse. His heels scuffed through a drift of accumulated trash: mainly crushed beer cans and flyers, unopened bills and soiled clothing. There was no light bulb in the hall, but enough ambient city light came through the grimy window at the top of the stairs to guide a path through the junk. He passed the Great Caruso’s room on the left, and the door to the basement on the right. He lived on the second floor. The stair carpet was threadbare, holed in places, and a trap for the unwary. But he’d learned to navigate the danger spots — even drunk — so went up the stairs, grasping the rail for support. He had only made it part way up when he heard the door shoved open. Shit, his plans of dropping off to sleep now were scuppered. He swung round, a warning that his housemate keep the fuck quiet building on his lips.
The figure blocking the doorway wasn’t either man he expected. Both his housemates were shrunken gnomes; this man was large and stockily built. It wasn’t the first time some street punk had found their way inside, looking for somewhere out of sight to administer their drug of choice. Twice in the past fortnight, Tennant had had to kick bums back out on to the street. He started down the stairs, glad that he was only on the cusp of drunkenness because it meant he was at that stage where he could be as galled as he wished, but retained enough of his faculties that he could deal with a dangerous situation. ‘Hey, buddy, the street’s back that way. Now turn the fuck around and get outta here.’
The man didn’t reply, only bent down and heaved a large rucksack inside. Maddened, Tennant stomped down the stairs and into the hall. The house had three rooms, a shared kitchen and communal bathroom. The basement was a damp hole good for growing mould and nothing else. There was no room for a fourth lodger. ‘You can forget about moving in, buddy. Get your bag outta here and try somewhere else.’