The man closed the door. He was now lost in the shadows of the hall. Tennant halted. In the brief moment as the guy had turned to shut the door he’d caught a glimpse of his features in the street light from outside. It was the big guy who he’d almost collided with at the door of the Seven-Eleven. Suddenly Tennant didn’t feel as sure about himself as before.
‘You followed me back here, for what? OK, I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have mouthed off like that. I’m sorry. Now let’s leave things at that, buddy.’
The man stepped forward.
‘OK. That’s as far as you come, buddy. I’ve apologised,’ Tennant puffed up his chest and bunched his fists, ‘but now it’s time to leave.’
‘I’m not finished here,’ the man replied.
‘Yes,’ Tennant said, stomping forward, ‘you are.’
The fear that pricked him at the appearance of the stranger had been pushed aside by the false courage of the liquor in his veins. When the whisky took hold like that, Tennant wasn’t afraid of anyone. Not even a big punk who invaded his house. Tennant went to grab the man, to force him back out on to the street.
He barely saw the man move. He hit Tennant with some Bruce Lee move; his knee flicking up, his lower shin whipping up and around to slam against his skull. Stars exploded in his vision and he tasted copper on his tongue. Tennant bounced off the wall, but fought to stay upright.
‘Son of a bitch!’ he hissed, his fingers against the welt growing on his forehead.
The man’s leg flicked again, this time beneath Tennant’s guard, and the ball of his foot found the soft spot beneath Tennant’s sternum. The wind was powered from his lungs, and his diaphragm recoiled at the trauma. Gasping for breath, Tennant retreated.
He heard a clink of metal as the man set down his bag. The movement was unhurried, as if Tennant were beneath contempt.
Tennant backed up to the base of the stairs, searching for something to use as a weapon, his heels digging through trash. His boot clanked against an empty beer bottle. Tennant ducked and came back up, holding the bottle by its neck. He lifted the bottle like a club.
‘Come any closer and I’ll break your head,’ he snapped.
There was a sound like someone coughing and the bottle shattered in his grip. Flying shards cut at his flesh, glittered in his vision. Tennant’s hand came open in reflex and the stub of the bottle fell back to the trash. The man came forward, and the slash of amber light filtering down from the window landed in a bar across his face. Below it something glinted bluish in the man’s right hand. Cordite drifted in the air, a stink stronger than the rankness already permeating the atmosphere.
Tennant had seen enough guns in his lifetime to recognise the semi-automatic in the man’s hand. The tubular object screwed on the barrel was something he was only familiar with from action movies and TV cop shows. The guy hadn’t simply followed him from the convenience store, he understood. The man had been following him before that. He had been spying inside, checking what he was up to, and Tennant had surprised him when he’d brusquely shoved out the door. The guy had been after him, and had an agenda that didn’t include finding lodging in this crap hole. Tennant knew enough that he was in real danger. As tough as he thought himself, he had no chance against a gun. He turned and fled up the stairs.
He didn’t get far.
A hand grasping Tennant’s jacket collar followed rapid footsteps. Tennant was no lightweight, but he was yanked off his feet, fell backwards and was dragged back down the stairs. Stunned, he blinked tears from his eyes as the man leaned over him.
‘Where do you think you’re running off to?’ the man asked.
‘Who are you, man? What do you want?’
‘I’ve come to say hello. Your old pal, Mitch, told me where to look you up.’
Mitch? He had to be talking about Mitchell Forbeck, his cellmate during his last six months inside. They had both been paroled the same week, but Tennant hadn’t seen him since. He’d had enough of Mitch to last him a lifetime and had said goodbye and meant it. Why would Mitch send this guy after him? He didn’t owe Mitch a damn thing, and their parting had been amicable enough. So, who was this guy: a friend of Mitch’s? He doubted it; Mitch didn’t have friends. Tennant attempted to study the man’s face. There was something vaguely familiar in it, but he was positive he didn’t know the man personally. Was he another inmate, someone he’d pissed off during their time behind bars?
‘Why’d Mitch send you here?’
‘Because I asked him to. Of course, I had to motivate him a little, the way I guess I’ll have to with you.’ The gun was pressed to Tennant’s forehead. ‘Now stand up. Don’t try anything funny, or your brains will decorate the floor.’
Recalling the state of Tennant’s home his threat was moot, because he had no intention of killing him outright. He had learned that Tennant was a braggart, and that while in prison he’d regaled his cellmate with tales of his criminal activity. All prisoners were guilty of embellishment, and Mitchell Forbeck had surmised that Tennant was building himself a tough rep, to ensure he was not someone to be messed with, when he’d told him about hanging and then burning a man alive in a cellar in Arkansas. Mitch didn’t believe Tennant, but he thought he could win points with the warden if he slipped him the nod. He didn’t get to see the warden himself, but two prison guards who reassured him that Tennant was blowing hot air out of his ass. The guards had sent Mitch back to his cell, cowed like a whipped dog for wasting their time, but they must have mentioned the story to another guard. From there the tale had grown fleetingly, before it was lost once more among all the other rumours bubbling around the general population. That was when the wild story had reached his ears and he knew that it was true: the man allegedly murdered shared his name. By then the originator of the admission was forgotten, but Mitch Forbeck’s inclusion was still bandied around. Mitch had been released from prison by then but he took no tracking down. All it took for him to learn the name of the braggart from Forbeck was to shove his gun under the punk’s chin. He probably didn’t need to shoot him dead afterwards, but it was possible that Mitch recognised him, and he had already proven himself to be the type to go stool pigeon.
Prior to that moment he had never killed another man, but it had proved surprisingly easy when he was driven by such pure rage. His life had been shit. Mother was a drunkard and those she brought into their home had been scum. He had known more stepfathers and uncles than he could count, and the beatings he took from them were the least of their sins he’d allow himself to recall. He went through his childhood hoping that his real dad would return, take him away from the horror, save him. When he discovered that his father had been thwarted from doing so by thugs led by vile lies he had resolved that Forbeck would not be the last to die at his hand.
It was a colossal coincidence that he should end up at the same prison as a man with information about his father’s demise, especially after so many years. He had truly believed he’d never avenge the murder, thinking the conspirators had to be so aged by now that they would already be in their graves.