Retribution - A Dish served Cold

Chapter Ten

John typically checked every angle before making a move, but had he pushed his luck with the brothers? Living alone made him vulnerable. He sat in a chair, stared out the window, and considered the problem. It took him an hour to prepare several surprises for any uninvited guest.

Upstairs, he fell on his bed and closed his eyes. Much to his surprise, he slept deeply and awoke refreshed.

Washed, shaved and dressed in jeans, a thick Fair Isle jumper, and his old but still polished steel-capped boots, he descended the stairs. At three locations, he removed his intruder traps. These he left on the bottom stair, ready for replacing in the evening. The thin wire that stretched from wall to wall across the hall he left in place but tied on a piece of white ribbon for safety. That'll stop anyone from having a nose when I go out.

For the remainder of the morning, he concentrated his mind on installing the new boiler into The Duchess of Hamilton. At one o'clock, the thought of a hot steak and kidney pie and trimmings forced him to stop.

The rain had fallen persistently throughout the morning. John stared at the sky and turned up his overcoat's collar on leaving home. The freshness of the air stimulated his thoughts as he strolled to the local newsagent and purchased the Daily Express and forty cigarettes.

A wave of pleasure washed over him, entering the Lion and the Unicorn. The homeliness of the place regularly relaxed him. No pressure. He waved to the owner standing behind the bar, mouthed his order and seated himself at an empty table.

The eating area carried a comfortable ambience interwoven with the aroma of pub grub. While John waited, he read the paper. The Miners' strike continued to make the headlines. "Arthur Scargill's idealism will ruin the lives of thousands," he muttered.

A gangly young woman with blonde hair came from the direction of the kitchen. "Your lunch, sir. Watch the plate. It's hot." Her smile was warm with a hint of mischief.

"You're new," said John.

"Today's my first day."

John read her name tag. "Heather, you'll be okay."

Her smile brightened the room. "I hope so. I need the money for uni. Enjoy your meal, sir."

He nodded, wished he was twenty years younger and watched as she strolled behind the bar and served a waiting customer.

Halfway through John's meal, Pete Dobson seated himself opposite.

John gave a stress-free smile when he glanced at the bully. "I smell shit. You want to watch where you're walking."

Pete clenched his fists. "Very funny. Shift your arse. My boss wants a word."

"Tell him I'm eating my lunch. If he cares to join me, I'll allow him to pay for the privilege."

Pete appeared dumbfounded and scratched his head. "Are you mental or something? When David Little wants to see you. You jump."

John poked Pete in the chest with his knife. "You might ask him how high and when to come down, but I don't and never will. He's like you, scum and anyway, why should I let my meal go cold? Now fuck off and give him my message."

Pete stood and placed both hands on the table. "You must have a death wish?"

John pulled back his shoulders and stared at Pete. "I know you have the intelligence of an Amoeba, but I'm sure I told you to fuck off. What part don't you understand? Fuck or off. Go and pay homage to your boss and if your memory can retain my words, tell him exactly what I said."