Bridge of Doom Read Free Page B

Fazzo was starting to feel better about life. Things were definitely looking up. The pee-stained crotch of his chinos was now almost dry and his brain was starting to clear from the effects of the legal high and booze. 
    Okay, it wasn’t the Saturday night he'd hoped for when he left home. But, all things considered, he'd felt he'd definitely snatched a victory of sorts from the jaws of defeat. He smiled as he remembered the satisfaction of giving the smart-arsed little prick, who'd kicked him in the ribs, a more than decent doing, considering his wasted state at the time. And, as a bonus, he was now the proud owner of a brand new iPhone 6. Pausing briefly, he remembered to switch the phone off, to avoid it being tracked. He’d also relieved his victim of a fancy Seiko wristwatch, a leather wallet containing around sixty pounds in cash and a credit card. Total value, five hundred quid, maybe more. And best of all, he didn't have to share the spoils with the rest of his crew. This was his triumph alone. He punched the air in celebration, then kicked over a row of dustbins at the kerbside, as he howled to the world, 'Fazzo rules, okay?'  
    Of course, having possession of a stolen iPhone was nothing new for Fazzo. His main source of income was street level drug dealing, specifically delivering hash to regular customers of the family firm run by his father, Tommy. But in the company of his own little crew, he'd developed a profitable side line dealing in stolen mobile phones. Ideally, the gang would lift them from tables or open handbags in crowded pubs or clubs where careless owners leave them lying around, almost inviting theft. But, if there was no alternative, they were not averse to flashing a knife under someone's nose, to force a premium brand phone to be handed over. It was ridiculously easy, because most young people are so absorbed in staring at their phones, they rarely pay attention to what’s going on in the world around them. 
    Fazzo almost skipped the final hundred yards to his home, an incongruous looking bungalow, which stood out like an extremely sore thumb from neighbouring properties, which were mainly ex-council stock. This was due, in part, to a pair of extremely large horse heads mounted on either side of the entrance gate to the short driveway, which even Don Vito Corleone might have deemed vulgar. In addition, the house had been extended in every possible direction, short of breaking through the gable walls of neighbouring properties. Finishing touches to this unique look were provided by faux stone cladding, straight from the Fred Flintstone Originals catalogue, which was stuck all over the front elevation. An array of CCTV cameras, covering every possible angle of approach to the house, suggested a higher than normal level of concern by the occupier for his personal security.
    If Kirsty Allsopp, the formidable host of Channel 4's property show Location, Location, Location , suffered a sat-nav malfunction and found herself driving through the Gargummock scheme, past the Duff family residence, she would surely be compelled to stop and scribble a brief outline for a compelling new property series, with a twist, titled ‘ Who the Fuck Lives in There?’  
    Fazzo's heart sank, when he saw there was still a light on in the front lounge. That meant only one thing. His father, Tommy, was still awake. Past experience told him that this was definitely not a good thing. In fact, his bowels started to turn distinctly watery at the very thought and he briefly considered suicide, or running away to join the Foreign Legion. But maybe, just maybe, there was a chance he could get inside and slink to his bedroom at the back of the house without being heard. He silently inserted his key into the lock and eased the front door open. Standing in the lobby he paused, held his breath and listened. Silence … thank God, maybe this was going to work after all. Then Tyson, the family's pit bull, which had been caught out