Breaking Point (The Point Series: Book 2) Read online

  BREAKING POINT

  a novella

  Gerard Brennan

  copyright © 2014, Gerard Brennan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

  Gerard Brennan has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Blasted Heath

  Visit Gerard Brennan at

  www.blastedheath.com

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-908688-68-2

  Version 2-1-3

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About Breaking Point

  Can't Get No Sleep

  Stony Tony

  Dealer No Deal

  Behind the Green Door

  Friends, Romans, Countrymen...

  Burn, Baby, Burn...

  Bleak Dreams

  Hostess with the Mostess

  Three's a Crowd

  Early Bird

  Lazy Worm

  Just a Little Bit Closer

  This Aul House

  Phone Privileges

  Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting

  I'll Be Watching You

  Let Me Go

  Whoop Whoop

  It's Oh So Quiet

  Bellyful

  Quiet, Please

  Enter the Stoners

  Another Stakeout

  The 411

  Jacked

  Performance Enhancing Drugs

  Hanging on the Telephone

  Don't Get Higher With Your Dodgy Supplier

  Come Fly With Me

  Grounded

  Go, Go, Go

  Home Security

  Taxi Driver

  Leaving is the Hardest Thing to Do

  Mama Said Knock You Out

  Mercy Killing

  Visiting Hours

  Books by Gerard Brennan

  About Blasted Heath

  About Breaking Point

  Brian Morgan's relationship with his weed dealer has moved on to the next level. Stony Tony is a kung fu enthusiast with ambitions to become a master in his own style. But first he needs to establish a loyal following of students. Brian could use some time away from Rachel O'Hare to figure out whether he loves her or is afraid to leave her, although it's hard to focus on anything after a few tokes of Tony's Blueberry Cheesecake. Rachel is as indecisive about their relationship as Brian, but she knows that no good can come of a strange little pot-head getting involved in their lives. Meanwhile, a goon with a bad ear a big grudge also has eyes for Brian...

  Can't Get No Sleep

  Brian Morgan stood by the side of the bed and looked down at his girlfriend. It wasn't even midnight and she was dead to the world. Still breathing, but dead to the world.

  He gripped the edges of his pillow tight.

  Rachel O'Hare didn't snore. Her breathing never seemed to catch a steady enough rhythm for it. At random intervals she made a noise, somewhere between a sigh and a moan. Brian wondered if that meant she was dreaming. And if so, did she suffer the same nightmares he did.

  "I love you, Rachel," Brian whispered, half-enamoured by the idea that she might be able to hear him. "But sometimes I don't know whether to kiss you or kill you."

  And he meant every word of that shitty cliché.

  Even if he didn't have the guts to do the deed.

  Brian gave his aching hands a rest and hugged the pillow to his chest. He studied Rachel in the faint strip of light cast by the bare bulb in the en-suite bathroom.

  She still managed to look pretty, even with sleep-lines, a slack jaw and a string of drool running from the corner of her mouth to the pillowcase. Her face would convince the most cynical that she was one of the innocent ones. Brian knew different. So did his dead brother.

  He rounded the bed and gently laid his pillow down on his side of the queen-size. On his way to the en-suite, the loose floorboard creaked. Rachel gasped and the mattress springs clicked and boinged.

  "Brian?"

  "Aye."

  "Coming to bed?"

  "Going to the toilet."

  "Come to bed after."

  "Aye."

  He had no intention of trying to sleep. It didn't matter. Rachel would have no recollection of asking him by the morning. They'd been through this more than once before.

  Brian checked the mirror above the sink and ran his hand over the stubble on his head. He still wasn't used to the look or the feel of his new haircut. The clownish curls were gone for good. He appeared older, harder and more serious than he felt. Maybe a little thinner too. He forced a smile and saw the ghost of his old self in the reflection. Then he let the well-worn frown take over again.

  "More muscles to smile than frown? My hole."

  He threw some toilet roll into the bowl to soften the sound of his pissing. When he was done, he shook off and tucked in, but didn't flush. He washed his hands, ignored the toothbrush and left the en-suite without pulling the cord to turn off the light. Rachel preferred to sleep with it on. It would suit him better if she didn't feel the need to get up and turn it back on again.

  Brian made it down the stairs with the balance and poise of an alley cat on a razor wire-topped wall. He knew by now which ones made the most noise and how much weight the handrail could take before the loosened spindles groaned.

  In the kitchen, he closed the door gently, took a bottle of beer from the fridge and his tobacco tin from the medicine cupboard. He popped the beer open with his teeth and thumbed the lid off his tobacco tin. There was plenty of Golden Virginia, and a couple of packets of rolling papers. He didn't realise he was so low on weed, though.

  Stony Tony

  Tony Barnes clicked pause on the instructional video. He backed away from his laptop to give himself enough space to perform the move. The Praying Mantis techniques seemed a little easier to pick up than the Crane styles he'd been studying the day before. The wide stance better suited his lower centre of gravity and there were fewer high kicks. He really needed to work on his flexibility. The ability to perform an impressive roundhouse kick was a must if he wanted to attract prospective students.

  He held his hands up in a classic boxing guard then hooked his wrists so that his fully extended fingers pointed to the ground. Already he felt like the noble praying mantis. The technique looked dead flash without being too difficult. He'd download a few more of this particular kung fu master's videos to emulate.

  Tony unleashed a flurry of strikes. He wasn't entirely sure, but he had a suspicion that he might break his own fingers if he hit somebody with his hands angled this way. That wouldn't be good. He went back to the desk and took his spliff out of the ashtray. It needed to be relit. He sparked it, drew deep and thought about Praying Mantis kung fu. It looked the part, but he wasn't totally sold that it would work for him. Still, it'd be a nice wee demo technique. Maybe try some Tiger style next.

  Tony rattled the phrase into his search engine and clicked on the first result. It amused him that so many of these supposed kung fu masters were American. Where were all the little old wise Chinese men?

  He bookmarked a video that featured a man with an impressive biker's beard and a solid round gut that was just a little bigger than his own. The joint had burned down to the roach. He took a last pull that almost roasted his lips and held it in his lungs for half a minute. His vision darkened at the edges and he exhaled.

  Time to roll a fresh one.

  Ton
y pulled open the desk drawer to grab his bag of weed and his papers. He tutted when he saw that there was barely enough in there to fill a single-skinner. His stash was tapped out. He'd have to skim a little off the stock.

  Don't get high on your own supply? Bullshit. Spread the skim over enough baggies and he'd be sweet. A true stoner customer wouldn't sweat it even if they did figure out their deal was a little light.

  But he'd have to call Malachy about topping up his personal stock.

  His mobile rang. He drew the knackered Nokia out of the pocket of his silk Chinese suit, checked the caller ID and smiled.

  "Malachy. I was just thinking about you."

  "And did money feature in those thoughts?"

  "Yeah, sort of. I need more stock."

  "You still owe me for the last three orders."

  Three? He hadn't realised he'd gotten that deep into debt. He forced a confident and cheery tone.

  "Yeah, yeah. No worries there at all, man. I'll sort you out. Expecting the cash to flow in when I start this new thing I've gotten into. Soon as I get paid the money's going straight to you."

  "You're telling me to wait, then? Hold off a few days? Is that it?"

  "I'd never tell you to do anything, Malachy."

  "Great. I'll be there soon."

  Malachy cut the call and Tony slipped his mobile back into his pocket. He looked about his living room. The only thing of real value was his laptop. And it was a year old. Depreciating by the second. He needed it, too. It was his gateway to the world of kung fu. Without it, he couldn't keep abreast of the techniques he would teach when he opened his club.

  Tony hit play on the Tiger style video. He hoped to God it was effective and easy to pick up.

  Dealer No Deal

  Brian walked and puffed smoke in the cool night air. The breeze cut through his pyjama trousers, but at least the hoodie and boots he'd put on kept the rest of him warm. What he'd rolled could barely be described as a spliff, the tobacco-to-weed ratio ridiculously favouring Golden Virginia over green. But it didn't matter. He'd be able to replenish his stock when he got to Tony's house. The tubby wee dealer was as much of a night owl as Brian. And when Brian got within spying distance he saw the light in Tony's living room.

  With any luck, it'd be a quick in and out.

  From time to time, Tony got talkative. Decided his customers could be buddies. In a small town such as Dundrum, a dealer could get away with acting that way. The Belfast dealer gets too friendly, unfriendly or just plain annoying, then it's on to the next one. But so far as Brian knew, Tony was his only lifeline and with the population as small as it was – mere thousands – there were only so many people Brian felt comfortable enough with to ask for dealer referrals.

  He'd found Tony through a burnout toking at Dundrum Bay in broad daylight on a weekday. Brian had been down, skimming stones and waiting for the pub to open, when the weed weasel slinked on past him, spliff blazing. In a rare moment of straightforward communication, Brian had Tony's number and a promise that the village's drug kingpin would be expecting Brian's call.

  Tony's weed was decent enough – most likely grown locally in a rented house – but the baggies usually erred on the light side. Brian had checked this out once on Rachel's digital scales, but didn't think it was worth mentioning. Too much hassle.

  At Tony's front door, Brian rapped the wood twice and the little glass pane set high up in the upper panel three times. Then repeated the pattern. It wasn't a secret knock, but Brian liked to imagine that it was. Same way he liked to imagine that undercover cops were staking out Tony's place and taking pictures of future snitches. He didn't want to be arrested, but knew it wouldn't do his less-than-clean record an awful lot of harm. And he'd quite like to test himself in a police interview situation, in preparation for when something heavier fell at his feet.

  Behind the Green Door

  Tony shook like a badly-aged pop star. He was sure he'd just heard Malachy's knock at the front door. Two on the wood, three on the glass, repeat. He hadn't thought the nutter was actually going to call around right away. See you later meant see you in a few days to most people, like. Did he say 'see you later' or 'be there soon', though?

  But Tony wasn't just stoned enough to answer himself with any authority.

  He whispered, "Ah, shite."

  This would not go well. He killed the scorched roach in a saucer-shaped ashtray and got up from his seat at the head of the foldaway table for one. He considered running upstairs to fetch the samurai sword he kept under his bed but figured it would only make matters worse. The blade was blunt anyway.

  Tony went to the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Buckfast instead. He'd club Malachy's dome with the tonic wine if things went pear-shaped. If all was cool, at least he could make out like he was just enjoying a wee sup. He cracked the lid and helped himself to a couple of gulps before he went to the door. No point losing all of the loopy juice if the thick green glass cracked before Malachy's skull did.

  From the hallway, Tony could see the top of his caller's head through the window in the door. It looked like Malachy was wearing a hood, which didn't fit in with the slick businessman image he'd been trying to pull off in recent months. Malachy had been a bit of a scruff when he first got into the game, strictly T-shirts, jeans and scuffed Converse high tops. But ever since he'd moved up from street hustler to wholesale supplier, he'd been buying suits. Nothing as grand as Armani, but they certainly weren't off-the-rack sale items, either.

  So why go back to the casual look all of a sudden? Was he incognito? Hiding his face in case a witness happened along?

  Tony took another slug from the Buckfast bottle. And another. Malachy rapped the door again. No more stalling. Tony hitched up the elasticated band of his Chinese silk suit trousers and rolled his shoulders. He was empowered by the various noble animal forms he'd studied. His Tiger Claw could tear out a throat, his Crane Kick break jaws and his Monkey Fist would punch through a ribcage and vaporise internal organs. Here we go, then.

  Tony filled his lungs with a calming deep breath before he tugged open the door. Then he skipped back a few steps and held his bottle in front of himself like a vampire hunter's cross.

  The visitor stepped into the hallway and eased the door shut behind him. Then he drew down his hood and whistled a low note through his teeth.

  "It's Baltic out there."

  A Belfast accent.

  It wasn't Malachy.

  Tony lowered the Buckfast bottle and squinted at the dude. Barry, Brendan or Brian... he couldn't remember which. Played it safe.

  "Right, lad? Any craic?"

  "Nah, mate. Just looking for a twenty-bag of green. Sorry for calling down so late. Just ran out."

  "Is it late?" Tony checked his watch then realised he wasn't wearing one.

  "It's close to midnight, like."

  "Yeah? No worries, man. Come on through."

  Tony led him to the kitchen.

  "You want to sit down?"

  The Belfast boy shook his head and slid his hands into the big pocket on the front of his hoodie.

  Tony looked him up and down. The lad was a bit standoffish. But Tony needed the company. His nerves were wrecked.

  "Take a seat, man. I've got something special for you to try out. Ever smoked Blueberry Cheesecake?"

  "I usually just stick to green, mate. It does the job for me, know what I mean?"

  "If I were you I wouldn't pass up the chance to try this. I don't get it in often and it's a real crowd-pleaser. Lifts your mood then lays you to sleep. Proper sleep too, not just passing out."

  The Belfast lad seemed intrigued. "How much can I get for a score?"

  "Just a little under two grammes. And that's dirt cheap, man. I got a good deal on it."

  "May as well give it a go. I'll take a wee ten-bag of green as well, just in case."

  "No bother, my brother. No bother."

  Tony went to the fridge, reached in behind it and grabbed the bag of Blueberry Cheesecake
. The digital scales and some loose baggies were already laid out on the counter-top. He was about to break off some bud when the window opposite the fridge shattered and a spray of burning liquid trailed behind a spinning bottle.

  A chorus of voices cheered from Tony's back garden. One husky voice cut through the chorus.

  "Drug dealers out!"

  Friends, Romans, Countrymen...

  Owen Donnelly gave up on sleep. His ear hurt. Or rather, the place that his ear used to be attached to hurt. It was time for another co-codamol and whiskey. He rolled off the table/bed and went to the cupboard. The caravan floor protested under each foot stomp. Owen stomped a little harder then kicked one of the thin walls. He pulled the attack to protect his bare foot, so there was no damage to his toes or the aged wood panelling. It didn't make him feel any better.

  He'd forgotten how shite these low-rent caravans could be. No heat, no electricity, no joy. It was a shelter, and barely even that as the previous day's rain had proved. A glance at the strategically placed pots, bowls and buckets darkened his mood further. And since looking for Brian Morgan in the middle of the night was futile, the only thing he could do to remain half-sane was seek oblivion.

  Owen sneered at the cardboard box that advised him to avoid mixing the pills with alcohol. It had warned him that codeine was addictive after three days but he'd ignored that too. So fucking what if it was addictive? There was no shortage of the shit.

  He washed the co-codamol down with Tullamore Dew. Fuck it...

  His throat burned in that beautiful whiskey way. A little cough and another generous shot shoved the medication all the way down to his belly. Now it was just a waiting game. He went back to the table/bed and lay on his back with his hands tucked behind his head. The old scene replayed on the backs of his eyelids. The one where Brian Morgan shot Owen's ear off with his own gun.

  Hellfire burned in his guts and cooked up his cocktail of acid, booze and prescription pain relief. He'd have to look for a chemist and buy something for the heartburn in the morning. Right after he burned the caravan to the ground.