ascended.
"What have you got there?” Prissy asked.
Toby turned to face her. “Letters Mr. Jacob wanted posting."
"Oh, right. I wondered who'd put them there. He must have come in while I was in the ladies’ room."
The elevator dinged. Toby smiled tightly and stepped inside, pressing the button for the ground floor. As he descended, he nosed through the mail, wondering what was so important that it couldn't wait until later when the postman collected the letters just after four o'clock. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary—each letter addressed with the usual sticky white label—Toby shrugged and waited for the lift to stop.
The doors slid open, and he stepped out into the building's main foyer. Black leather sofas and chairs were dotted about. Newspapers and magazines stood in rigid piles on low, glass-topped coffee tables. And Selena, the nicest person in the whole damn building, smiled at him from behind her vast marble-effect desk.
"Off on an errand again, Toby?” she asked with a smile.
"As ever,” he said and pushed open one of the steel-edged glass front doors.
There was quite a nip in the air, and judging by the wet ground, it'd been raining hard. The clouds looked like they held shitloads more. Fucking great. Not only was he going to get cold, it appeared he'd probably get soaked, seeing as the post box stood two streets away. He'd never make it there and back in time, judging by the fast-darkening sky.
Taking a deep breath so he didn't shout copious swear words and get odd looks from passersby, he exhaled through tight lips and walked. He shouldn't keep complaining really. His life wasn't a bad one, even though they were hiding out from southern nutters. If he was honest, it was just his job getting him down, and he could always start looking for a new one. After thinking about that for a while, he nodded absently, telling himself he'd browse online later and see if anything local was on offer.
The only time he was happy was when he was at home with Russell. Everything bad seemed to melt away then, and all that existed was them and what they were doing. He'd struck lucky finding him, Toby knew that, and if he thought about being without him, he choked up.
He turned into Fountain Street and spied the red post box, sitting on the corner where this road formed a T-junction with the one at the top. No one else occupied the street, unless you counted the people living in the houses on either side. Cars parked in a haphazard line right down the road, and he wondered for a brief moment whether anyone around here had actually passed their driving test. He stared at a black van parked behind the post box, on the curb of the road that formed the top of the T. If that driver wasn't careful, some joyriding little twat would shunt him up the rear end and do a right bit of damage.
Oddly, there wasn't much traffic going to and fro up there. Surprising, because there usually was. Toby shrugged and drew closer to the post box. He glanced at the sky. The first splats of new rainfall came down, large droplets few and far between. He recognised them as the prelude to one motherfucking downpour and upped his pace.
At the post box, he lifted his hand and dropped the letters through the slot, turning away to lift the collar of his jacket up around his ears. He didn't fancy a wet neck as well as everything else. Facing back the way he'd just come, he contemplated jogging back to work. The raindrops came down faster, and when he braced himself to run, someone grabbed the back of his jacket.
Toby turned, fist raised, ready to give the bastard what for.
Until he saw who it was.
The man grinned, teeth flashing through his black beard. “Hello, mate. Fancy seeing you here."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Three
Harris “Frost” Kingsley had time to kill before he...killed.
I hope the little bastards are suffering. Worrying. Wondering what will happen next.
The thought of those two shitting themselves while they
"What have you got there?” Prissy asked.
Toby turned to face her. “Letters Mr. Jacob wanted posting."
"Oh, right. I wondered who'd put them there. He must have come in while I was in the ladies’ room."
The elevator dinged. Toby smiled tightly and stepped inside, pressing the button for the ground floor. As he descended, he nosed through the mail, wondering what was so important that it couldn't wait until later when the postman collected the letters just after four o'clock. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary—each letter addressed with the usual sticky white label—Toby shrugged and waited for the lift to stop.
The doors slid open, and he stepped out into the building's main foyer. Black leather sofas and chairs were dotted about. Newspapers and magazines stood in rigid piles on low, glass-topped coffee tables. And Selena, the nicest person in the whole damn building, smiled at him from behind her vast marble-effect desk.
"Off on an errand again, Toby?” she asked with a smile.
"As ever,” he said and pushed open one of the steel-edged glass front doors.
There was quite a nip in the air, and judging by the wet ground, it'd been raining hard. The clouds looked like they held shitloads more. Fucking great. Not only was he going to get cold, it appeared he'd probably get soaked, seeing as the post box stood two streets away. He'd never make it there and back in time, judging by the fast-darkening sky.
Taking a deep breath so he didn't shout copious swear words and get odd looks from passersby, he exhaled through tight lips and walked. He shouldn't keep complaining really. His life wasn't a bad one, even though they were hiding out from southern nutters. If he was honest, it was just his job getting him down, and he could always start looking for a new one. After thinking about that for a while, he nodded absently, telling himself he'd browse online later and see if anything local was on offer.
The only time he was happy was when he was at home with Russell. Everything bad seemed to melt away then, and all that existed was them and what they were doing. He'd struck lucky finding him, Toby knew that, and if he thought about being without him, he choked up.
He turned into Fountain Street and spied the red post box, sitting on the corner where this road formed a T-junction with the one at the top. No one else occupied the street, unless you counted the people living in the houses on either side. Cars parked in a haphazard line right down the road, and he wondered for a brief moment whether anyone around here had actually passed their driving test. He stared at a black van parked behind the post box, on the curb of the road that formed the top of the T. If that driver wasn't careful, some joyriding little twat would shunt him up the rear end and do a right bit of damage.
Oddly, there wasn't much traffic going to and fro up there. Surprising, because there usually was. Toby shrugged and drew closer to the post box. He glanced at the sky. The first splats of new rainfall came down, large droplets few and far between. He recognised them as the prelude to one motherfucking downpour and upped his pace.
At the post box, he lifted his hand and dropped the letters through the slot, turning away to lift the collar of his jacket up around his ears. He didn't fancy a wet neck as well as everything else. Facing back the way he'd just come, he contemplated jogging back to work. The raindrops came down faster, and when he braced himself to run, someone grabbed the back of his jacket.
Toby turned, fist raised, ready to give the bastard what for.
Until he saw who it was.
The man grinned, teeth flashing through his black beard. “Hello, mate. Fancy seeing you here."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Three
Harris “Frost” Kingsley had time to kill before he...killed.
I hope the little bastards are suffering. Worrying. Wondering what will happen next.
The thought of those two shitting themselves while they
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