Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [22]
Gordy wanted those riches now. Riches he could use to build his business, hire more men to work for him, until he owned every square inch of the West End. Then he’d show all those that had doubted that he could run the firm after his brother had died.
A noise on the wooden stairs brought him quickly to his feet.
‘Who’s there?’ he cried, hating the fear that had gripped his voice. Gordy relaxed as his younger brother padded into the room, illuminated by the soft green light.
‘Carl! You almost scared me half to death. You know you’re not to come down here.’
Gordy ushered his brother back up the stairs and then followed him out, taking one last look back down into the room before he closed the concealed door. The fire in the glass sphere had died, returning the little room into an impenetrable blackness. The devil had gone, returned to whatever place was its home.
‘Well,’ Gordy demanded, expectantly, ‘how’d it go?’
Carl sniggered. An ugly sound, even to Gordy, that threatened to slide into hysteria. Gordy took hold of his brother by his arms. You had to treat Carl gently, information had to be teased out of him piece by piece. Gordy loved his younger brother dearly, and yet even he had to admit that Carl infuriated him. He knew that the men who were still willing to work for Gordy joked about Carl, about how he was different. They said that he was backward and slow. They never said it to Carl’s face though, they feared his skill with a razor too much for that.
‘The boy – Dennis. Did you see to the boy, like I told you?’
Carl looked away. When he spoke there was a nervous tone in his voice, like a child who thought he was about to be punished. ‘Someone came. They got in the way.’ And then he started to giggle again. ‘So I did him instead.’
36
Gordy’s eyes opened widely in panic at this news. ‘Who? Who’d you kill?
For Christ’s sake, Carl! This isn’t a game. The police are crawling all over Soho as it is. I don’t need more bloody investigations.’
Carl stretched out his hands, offering a little blood-soaked bundle to his brother. ‘Don’t worry, Gordy. It was Eddy Stone, that boy hairdresser. He came sticking his nose in, just as we was about to see to the boy. It’s OK
though, Gordy, innit? I mean he was next on the list anyway? I just got ’im early, that’s all.’
Carl dropped the stained parcel into his brother’s cupped hands. Carefully, Gordy unwrapped the piece of material and smiled as he saw what was revealed there. He tucked the parcel away in his desk, and then gently wrapped his brother up in an embrace. Carl closed his eyes, leant his head against his Gordy’s chest and smiled with contentment.
‘Don’t worry Carl, you’ve done well, you’ve done us proud.’ Gordy hugged his brother tightly, imagining the riches that would surely soon be theirs.
‘Nothing’s gonna stop us now. No one can even touch us.’
Chris tucked his scarf into his collar and pulled his anachronistic hat down on his head. The trilby was typical of the Doctor: right century, wrong decade.
And it was always the little things that people noticed. Tilda certainly had; picking up not only on his clothes but his accent and phrasing. Initially he had been flattered by her interest, but he’d quickly become a little unsettled by the barrage of questions she’d fired at him. He’d been left feeling as if he were attending a job interview, and had decided to slip away when Tilda excused herself to make a telephone call. He’d waved goodbye from the top of the stairs and made his exit.
It was good to be back on the street, although the autumn night was cold and the smog gave a stale taste to the air, almost like sulphur. He spent a moment getting his bearings. To his left were the brighter lights of Old Compton Street, which would lead him back to the TARDIS, and home. A black cab was pulling up on the far side of the road