The Takeaway Man

5

'I love this,' Jasmine purred seductively, stroking the teardrop tattoo underneath Peachy's eye. He pushed her hand away and sat up against the headboard.

'What's wrong, baby?'

She traced a finger down his stomach. Reaching the top of his pubic hair, she spread her hand out, ready to engulf his cock.

'Not now,' he said, shifting his leg up to stop her.

Jasmine snatched her hand back and made a sound of disgust.

'You're still paying me,' she spat. 'Fuck or no fuck.'

She got up and marched into the bathroom leaving Peachy lying on the bed. He was smoking a cigarette. There was a half bottle of vodka on the nightstand. He poured himself a drink and downed it in one. The pulse of London's nightlife bled in through the open window. The steady beat of music. The drunk voices.

He was staying in a cheap hotel. Jasmine was a prostitute he kept in touch with from the last time he was down in London. He called her the first night he arrived and they'd been having mind-blowing sex for the past three nights. Tonight, Peachy was distracted. His cock remained limp and refused to yield to Jasmine's flesh or the warmth of her mouth.

It was Damien. Peachy couldn't stop thinking about him. Seeing him had thrown everything else into disarray. The last time Peachy had seen Damien was the night he lost his fingers and the memory of that incident was a wound that refused to heal. And the way Damien acted like he didn't even know Peachy. It was disturbing.

He'd been debating what to do. Revenge was the first thing on his mind. Slashing Damien's throat and watching him die. Stamping on his face until he suffocated within his own skull. These images flitted through Peachy's mind as he smoked his cigarette. But he knew he couldn't. Terry had to know. If Peachy killed Damien now, then Terry would surely murder him when he returned to Glasgow.

He stubbed out his cigarette. Terry's number was on his quick dial list. It rang twice.

'What?' Terry said gruffly.

'You're not going to believe this.'

'Just tell me Peachy, I'm not in the fucking mood.'

Peachy could hear something in the background. Moaning. He'd caught Terry at a bad time.

'Maybe I should call you back.'

'Fuck off,' Terry growled. 'Tell me what it is? Have you fucked up the deal?'

'Jesus, no,' Peachy said. 'I'm not a fucking idiot.'

'Debatable,' Terry said. 'What is it then?'

'It's Damien. He's here.'

Years of angry silence crept out of the phone. Peachy could hear Terry's breathing, knew he wanted to explode. The mere mention of Damien's name usually threw him into a rage. Peachy reached for another cigarette.

'Where is he?'

'Works at some kebab shop,' Peachy said, lighting up. 'I managed to follow him the other night. Bumped into him at a park. Pretended like he didn't know me. Fucking psycho.'

'He is a psycho,' Terry said. 'Why didn't you tell me sooner?'

'I didn't know what to do,' Peachy said thickly, blowing smoke out his nose. 'I wanted to kill him, mate. For taking my fucking fingers.'

'Be serious,' Terry snapped. 'You know he'd kill you in a heartbeat, don't go being the big man. He'll cut your fucking heart out.'

'I get it. Christ. So, what do I do?'

'Keep an eye on him,' Terry said. 'Don't do anything stupid. I'll be up as soon as I've dealt with this cunt.'

Peachy hung up. He finished his cigarette then took another drink of vodka. The door to the bathroom opened and Jasmine stepped out. She'd been for a shower. Her dark skin glistened. Peachy's cock twitched, grew fat between his leg.

'Fucking come here,' he said to her.

Jasmine smiled and fell into the bed.