Crooks - A London Gangsters Tale | COMPLETED

Chapter Two

Wayne had experienced many hangovers in his life, but the one that scorched his retinas and seared his cerebellum when he woke the next morning was up there with the worst of them. There was something about champagne, it knocked him out better than any other booze. It was eleven in the morning when he finally plucked up the courage to lift his head from beneath the bedclothes. He blinked furiously into the blazing sunlight that streaked in through the blinds.

These days his bedroom was very different from the one he had grown up in; this one was vast, white and sterile. Like the moon, or maybe an operating theatre. It nestled on the top floor of the grade-II listed mansion in the wilds of Essex that Wayne now called home. A place of echoing, cavernous hallways and creaking staircases. If he were a different kind of person, he might have found it spooky. But Wayne had never had much use for imagination.

What he appreciated most about this place was freedom. It was his, a place where he could come to get away from the looming shadow of his father. Somewhere to get drunk and host parties and bring a girl if he could find one. But of course, really it was just the illusion of freedom. Dad had picked the place for him, hired the staff to look after him, and ensured the house and gardens were well-maintained. Basically, this house was a sprawling, luxurious prison cell.

But Wayne wasn't thinking about that when he tumbled out of bed that Sunday morning. In fact, he was struggling to form even the most basic coherent thoughts. That champers last night had really knocked him for six. His feet sank into the rich, plush white carpet and he looked down to discover that he was naked. Well, that was a development. He grabbed a bathrobe from a hook on the back of the bedroom door and quickly wrapped it around himself. Then he headed through to the ensuite, where a blast of icy water helped to revive him somewhat.

But he was still feeling giddy and a little sick as he stomped down the stairs. The place was empty; all the staff had Sundays off. The hallway was littered with clothes. He must have stripped off and tumbled into bed as soon as he got in last night. His suit trousers were draped over the bannister, his boxers hooked on the chandelier. He followed the trail of discarded clothing into the kitchen. His jacket was draped over one of the chairs. He picked it up and gave it a sniff. Ah, the good old-fashioned stench of boozy sweat.

Wayne headed for the sink and filled a glass from the tap. He knocked it back in one gulp. Finally, the room stopped spinning. His head still felt as though a pneumatic drill was chugging away between his ears, but that would soon pass. He sat down at the kitchen counter and ran his hands across the cool, smooth marble surface.

He looked out the window at the Porsche 911 parked in the gravel driveway. The driver must have put the Rolls away in the garage. His house, his furniture, his clothes and his cars had all been thrust on Wayne with undue speed. At the time, he had felt as if he'd won the lottery. But there was a statistic he'd read online somewhere that said the suicide rate for lottery winners was through the roof. It was possible to have too much money, too much success. Wayne had always worked hard to stay grounded, but circumstances did not make it easy for him.

That's when he remembered the strange encounter with one of the guards yesterday. The little guy with the son. Hadn't he given him something...?

A letter! That was it. Wayne reached over and grabbed his jacket. He fished around in the inside pockets and eventually emerged with the envelope, which was now decidedly creased.

To Wayne, the outside of the envelope read. Written in felt-tip or something similar. The cursive was decidedly confident; it didn't look like something a ten-year-old would have done. But then again, writing was never Wayne's area of expertise. He ripped open the envelope and unfolded a single sheaf of paper.