To Die For Read Free

older and more worn out, the jobs became smaller. I was dying by inches.
    And then this job came along. A big job. And all I had to do now was sit and stare at the picture and try to think of her and wait for my cut and wonder why the fuck I was getting so much for doing so little.
    I’d decided to stash some of my cut, though I wasn’t saving for anything especially. I had nothing much to spend it on. I was saving for the sake of saving. I was like that old man, clinging on to his walking frame. I told myself it was emergency cash, it was a retirement fund. It was some fucking thing.
    I hauled myself out of bed, feeling the ache in my muscles. I washed and shaved, trying to clear away the muzziness that seemed to stick to me more these days. I did a set of push-ups and a set of sit-ups, did stretching exercises for my back. When I finished dressing, I went into the kitchen and made tea, and cooked a cheese and onion omelette. Omelettes were about the only thing I could cook well. Still, I liked omelettes.
    I sat at my small table and turned on the radio and ate as I listened to stories of lies and murder and mass murder. The world turned. Then the local news came on and the casino job was the second item after a stabbing in Kilburn. One million quid, that was the haul. I worked for a flat fee plus two and a half per cent of the take. I could’ve got a better cut if I’d joined up full-time with some firm, but I didn’t want to do that. I switched the radio off. I felt okay.
    My cut came to twenty-five grand. Say, fifteen, if the money had to be cleaned. I didn’t know about that. Less twenty per cent. Plus the flat fee of four thousand. Sixteen thousand total. At least. That was the most I’d ever earned. For sixteen grand, I could lay off work for a while. I didn’t know what I’d do, but I could find something. Go somewhere, maybe. I couldn’t think of anywhere to go. I’d always had half an idea that I might go live in the country, but I knew that was bollocks. I belonged in the country like a traffic jam.
    I finished the omelette and tea and sat for a while, not thinking of anything. All I had to do was wait for Kendall to tell me where and when to collect the money.
    I’d met Kendall eight years back. I’d been fighting a bloke called Hadley. He was nothing special, and I should’ve had him on the canvas inside of three. He moved well, though, and I realized too late that he was after a TKO. He was quicker than me, and younger, and I couldn’t keep up with his punches. By the fifth, my left eye had closed up and I spent so much time covering it I forgot about the right, and Hadley, who was orthodox, was making a good show of being a southpaw. He connected with my right eye a few times and opened it up. I had to get in close and jam him up, but with the left closing and blood in my right, I was swinging blind. If I could’ve connected, I’d have flattened him, but I couldn’t find the fucker and finally I got counted out.
    I climbed from the ring and was led into the changing rooms where Browne did a quick patch-up job, gave me a handful of pills and told me I’d probably have headaches for a week or so; told me I’d have to quit soon or risk permanent brain damage.
    ‘I’m serious, Joe,’ he said.
    I nodded. I’d heard it all before.
    I had a quick shower, switching the water from hot to ice-cold, trying to soothe the aches and wash some of the dullness out of my head, and when I came out, a small fidgety man in a camel-hair coat and tailor-made suit was pacing up and down, smoking a cheroot. He had dark hair, greased back and greying at the temples, and olive skin. He moved like a young man, full of pent-up energy, but his face was without flesh and the hollow, shadowed cheeks and deep-set dark eyes made him look old and sick, and his constant movements made me think that if he stopped for a moment he’d realize he couldn’t go on.
    When he saw me, he crushed the cheroot underfoot. He looked me