Big City Jacks Read Free Page A

sick.’
    Lynch shook his head. ‘No need for that. You drive round to your place and I’ll keep the car. It’s always better to go to work.’
    Bignall squinted cautiously at Lynch. ‘How about some dosh? I’ve been doing this most of the day with you.’
    Lynch nodded and pulled out a fat roll of banknotes. He peeled five twenties off and dropped them into Bignall’s greedy paw. As an afterthought he dropped him an extra twenty. ‘Bonus for being so helpful.’
    â€˜Cheers . . . you’re a real mate.’ Bignall grinned widely at the unexpected windfall. This game was pretty worthwhile after all.
    Lynch ran his hands over his short-cropped hair and smoothed down his sharp jacket, breathing out, getting comfortable, whilst he thought about the problem of Keith Snell. In some ways he was responsible for letting Snell off the hook in the first place and now he was charged with the responsibility of dealing with the issue. It was a task that meant a lot to Lynch, his make-or-break time. If he was successful it would do him no end of good, but if he ballsed it up he could say bye-bye to a lot of wealth and status. Dealing with Snell and retrieving the money was a route to the inner sanctum, to the lucrative lifestyle offered by the invincibles. But only if he got the money back.
    They arrived at Bignall’s flat. Lynch slid awkwardly across into the driving seat as Bignall got out. Bignall leaned back into the car.
    â€˜Want me to deal with the shooters?’
    Lynch considered the question for a moment, chewing his bottom lip. It was unlikely he would need a gun again that evening, so it would be better not to have it with him. He handed the weapon over to Bignall and said, ‘You know what to do?’
    â€˜I know.’ Bignall slid the gun into his jacket pocket and slammed shut the car door, turned to walk away to his house.
    Lynch wound his window down. ‘Did you get the car number?’ he called to Bignall’s retreating back.
    â€˜Yeah . . . I’ll sort it and let you know what the score is.’
    Lynch drove away and headed towards Manchester city centre, his grazed knuckles throbbing painfully. ‘Not good,’ he said to himself, ‘not good at all.’
    Keith drove the old car hard, clouds of black and blue fumes pouring from the exhaust as he gunned the engine against its natural desire to rest. His watery eyes kept returning to the bullet hole in the windscreen. Shit, he thought, as it dawned on him for the first time that he had made a very serious error of judgement. He shivered involuntarily at what might have been had the bullet smacked him in the head. But never once did he consider returning the money. Now it was his and he refused to sacrifice the prospect of the new life he had set his heart on.
    He drove recklessly across the city, constantly checking his mirrors to see if he was being tailed, finding himself descending the slip road on to the M60 Manchester ring road at Prestwich. How he had arrived there, he did not know. He was beginning to sweat and shake slightly . . . the first signs of a requirement for what he knew would be a heavy hit.
    Only when he was on the motorway proper did his brain clear slightly and he realized where he was. He had been navigating on autopilot, no particular plan in mind, but as he gathered his senses he had an idea. He veered off the M60 and joined the M61, heading west.
    â€˜Blackpool!’ he thought with a blinding flash of clarity, ‘is the place for me.’ It was the resort to which all runaways went and hid. He knew people there who might hide him, would give him some protection; it was a place he could catch his breath and make some real plans.
    Cheered by the thought of the bright lights – he could have some fun there, too, and definitely score – he pushed the accelerator to the floor, noting for the first time he could actually see the road surface through a hole