Blood and guts everywhere. Who would have thought one old woman could make so much mess?
Mick tippy toed through the gore, planning each step to avoid getting any on his Docs. Christ, he’d just polished them a couple of hours ago.
What if he slipped and ended up back in hospital? Some people had no consideration for others, sure enough.
*
Half an hour earlier.
Irish Mick needed a distraction.
His target was right there in front of him. He could do this in the open. He wasn’t scared. But there would be consequences. And he didn’t need those right now.
No, what he needed was a distraction. Sleight of hand. Misdirection.
He reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and adjusted the weight of the snub-nosed 38 Special he liked to use when it was going to be up close and personal. He’d been looking forward to this. Only two things had kept him going in the hospital. Love and hate. An unholy alliance that drove his anger, his need.
He loved Dirk like a brother, so he did, but some things he had to do himself.
He adjusted his shades. They were pulling up on one side, unable to find a grip on the bandages. He needed them, though. Not for the sun. It wasn’t that bright today. They provided anonymity. So they stayed.
The blonde waitress bounced over with a menu and a smile. He accepted the one. Had no use for the other. So he grinned at her with his blackened teeth until she left with her own smile only slightly dimmed.
Or had she been laughing at him? The sudden thought made him jerk his head in her direction. Sparks exploded behind the shades. Jaysus, that hurt. Take it easy, Mick. Get a grip. You’ll do yourself an injury, son.
Aye, even worse than the bandaged head and the Elastoplasts on the cheek.
The waitress stopped for a quick word with the manager. Big guy, impressive in his suit and with his hair tied back in a ponytail. They both laughed.
Mick reached for the triple espresso. He needed a whiskey. By Christ, how he needed a whiskey. But this would have to do. He waited for his hand to steady itself before raising it to his lips. Not that anyone would notice if he spilled coffee on his shirt. It would blend right in with those god-awful palm trees and coconuts.
Sweet mother of god, was this the only kind of clothes that bloody wop owned? His own T-shirts wouldn’t fit over his bandaged head, and he didn’t have time to go shopping. So he settled for borrowed rags. On the positive side – even his own mother wouldn’t recognize him.
Now why was he thinking about that old witch? He hadn’t seen her in years. Not since she’d enforced the restraining order and had him sent away.
He took a deep breath. Focus, Mick, focus. Let’s keep that particular can of worms locked away in its padded cell, shall we?
The old woman a few tables away must have stirred up those memories. In her threadbare coat, with her smart new hairdo, smiling at every shape that passed her table. She probably couldn’t even see their faces without her glasses.
There they sat on the table in front of her, next to the two handbags she wasn’t letting out of her sight. One gnarled fist held both handles in a death grip.
The manager approached her table, hand on her shoulder, leaning down to share a friendly word. She smiled and nodded.
Mick wondered if she was waiting for someone. That could throw a monkey wrench in his plans. She’d been alone when he’d come in. But something must have happened before that. Those eyes weren’t just red from wearing glasses. Her jutting chin and the handkerchief stuffed up her sleeve told him more than he wanted to know.
“What can I get you, sir?”
“Eh?”
The waitress was back, smile as dazzling as ever. He hadn’t seen her sneak up on him. That wasn’t good. He was losing his edge.
Focus. Dammit, Mick, focus, man.
He reached a thumb and forefinger under his shades to rub his own tired eyes. He needed to crash. But not yet. He had business to take care of first.
“Sir?”
She was still there. He’d forgotten about her. He could see her name badge out of the corner of his eye. Tana. Unusual. He liked it.
“I’m fine, love. Maybe a glass of water, if ye can, yeah? That’ll be great.”
He popped two pills from the small plastic bottle he’d brought from the hospital. Swallowed them dry. Then two different coloured pills from his own stash, reaching into the plastic bank bag he kept inside his pocket.
That should help. He had to keep it together, just a little while longer. He’d been away too long. People were talking. He had to show them that he was back. That he was still in control. By reminding them that he was completely out of control.
Dancing in Valhalla – 13 twisted tales of music, magick & mayhem – will be released at all your normal online retailers on 21 April – and in paperback – but only a few retailers currently list the pre-order edition. They can be found at Books2Read.
Read the full first story in the collection at Barnes & Noble.
If you enjoy these stories, feel free to check out my other published work on Amazon or other retailers.
Follow work in progress and upcoming releases on FaceBook or on my blog.
Check out the latest (but not yet final) cover art, a work in progress by an incredible newcomer who is destined for greatness. Believe it or not, she tells me that this is her first ever book cover. This is only her second rough draft for Dancing in Valhalla. And no, you can’t have her details. Not until she’s finished working for me, on this cover at least. Maybe the next one too. But watch this space, and I might reveal the secret identity of the fairy goddess when I’m ready.
Thanks for your support.
Cheers.
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