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

  An image of Brian Morgan tied to a chair with electrical flex while a cheap-ass caravan incinerated all around him brought a smile to Owen's lips.

  "Maybe I won't burn this bastarding thing down just yet. Not just yet."

  He giggled, plugged one half of his headphones into his one good ear and let the sounds of a meditation app carry him towards oblivion.

  Burn, Baby, Burn...

  Brian watched the petrol bomb roll to a stop at his feet. He stomped on the cloth fuse. Tony bounced about the kitchen screaming. Brian wanted to bounce and scream too but some reptilian part of his brain overrode the urge. The flames continued to burn into the neck of the bottle. Somehow the thick green glass hadn't cracked, but it wouldn't be long before the heat caused an explosion.

  Without really understanding what he was doing, Brian pulled off his hoodie and dropped to his knees. Then he was suffocating the Molotov cocktail with it. Tony had gotten halfway back to his senses and was running the tap. He filled cups and glasses and tossed water at the flaming patches of countertop and linoleum.

  Brian backed away from his smoking hoodie and prayed. He had no real faith so the prayer was a round robin affair to any deity that might care to listen and intercede.

  "Holy good Jesus of suffering fuck. Please don't let me die."

  Tony dumped a basin full of murky water and dirty dishes on top of the blanketed bomb. Then he rugby-tackled Brian and knocked him into the hallway. On the dusty laminate floor, Tony hugged tight and Brian fought for breath.

  "Let me go, Tony."

  "It's too risky. What if it blows?"

  "We'd be safer outside, then, wouldn't we?"

  Tony relaxed his panicky grip and Brian wriggled away from him. They got to their feet and edged towards the front door, as if heavy footfall might trigger a detonation. Brian reached for the door handle.

  "Hold on. They'll be waiting on us out there."

  Tony grabbed Brian's wrist and led him to the living room. Brian glanced over his shoulder at his ruined hoodie on the kitchen floor. It looked like there was little danger of it igniting. He went with the stocky weed dealer without a struggle.

  The room was dark and Brian managed to crack his shin off something solid, maybe a coffee table. He barked.

  "Are you not going to turn on the light?"

  "Then the bastards will know where we are."

  "Would they really hang about after hoofing a petrol bomb through your window?"

  "Of course. They're trying to smoke us out." Tony giggled. "Smoke us out. Do you get it? Smoke."

  Brian didn't really get it. Might have been a different story if he'd had a chance to get high.

  "What are you going to do about that window, Tony?"

  "Oh, aye. The fuckers broke it. Pain in the arse, like."

  Brian's eyes adjusted to the gloom. He could see Tony slumped in an armchair. There was little indication that he would spring into action any time soon.

  "Do you know who did it?"

  "Not really. Probably the 'Ra." Tony shifted on the cushion. "Or vigilantes, maybe."

  "Dundrum doesn't strike me as that type of town."

  "You'd be surprised."

  "Half the reason I ended up here is because I'm fed up with surprises."

  "Shit one."

  Brian sensed that Tony had lost interest in the situation. How stoned was he?

  "Right... I think I'm going to head on, mate."

  No reply.

  "So, can you get me my weed?"

  Tony grunted.

  "I can get it myself, like. It's just... I should really be getting home."

  Tony propped his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands in front of his mouth. He looked like a child praying. His back rose and fell slightly with each breath. Brian took his silence as consent and edged back out into the hallway.

  "Be careful," Tony said.

  Brian smiled, relieved. "No sweat, mate."

  Stained net curtains billowed out from the broken window in the kitchen. Brian paused at the doorway, his head cocked. He held his breath and strained to listen out for prowlers outside. Dogs barked in the distance. A car engine droned. Nothing else.

  Brian stepped over his hoodie and tiptoed to the counter. For a few seconds he considered pocketing the entire bag of Blueberry Cheesecake. It was enough to keep him supplied for months. And it wasn't as if Tony could go to the cops about it. But he decided against it. He felt scummy enough about buying weed regularly. Stealing it seemed like a new low.

  Taking the opportunity to break off the best of the bud, and leaving out the seeds and stems, Brian bagged a portion that weighed a little on the heavy side. He felt all right with that small liberty considering the fact that previous deals had gone the other way. There was no standard green in plain sight so he just pulled a twenty pound note from his wallet and slipped it under the scale to stop it from fluttering off in the steady draught.

  Brian turned away from the counter and almost collided with Tony.

  "Jesus, mate. You scared me there. Didn't hear you come in."

  "Sometimes I forget how light-footed I am. It's the kung fu training, you see. Didn't mean to sneak up on you." He looked beyond Brian. "You got yourself sorted, then?"

  "Yeah, man. The cash is on the counter. Just a score, all right? I didn't want to go poking about for the green. Seemed cheeky."

  "Ach, I've nothing to hide." Tony snorted. "Unless you're a cop, like."

  "I'll leave it for now, anyway. It's about time I was gone."

  "Listen... Brendan, I've been thinking."

  "It's Brian."

  "Shit. Sorry, man. Anyway... I'm just going to put this out there." Tony rubbed a stubbly jowl. "I don't want to stay here tonight."

  "Right, yeah. That's probably wise."

  "So, can I stay at yours?"

  Brian was momentarily stunned by the dealer's forwardness.

  "Um..."

  "I'll be no bother, like. Just want to put my head down in a safe place for a few hours."

  "I don't know, man. My girlfriend wouldn't be delighted. She doesn't know you."

  "Seriously, she won't even know I'm there. I'll kip on the couch and leave as soon as the sun comes up. I'm an early riser."

  "Ah..."

  "I'll do you another twenty-bag of that gear. Free of charge."

  Brian clacked his tongue off the roof of his mouth. "And you'll be gone as soon as it gets bright?"

  "Birdsong wakes me every morning, dude. Like clockwork."

  Brian thought about Rachel, fast asleep and oblivious to his latest adventure.

  "Fuck it. What harm can it do?"

  "Thanks, Brendan. You won't regret it."

  "It's Brian."

  "Shit. Sorry, man."

  "No big deal." Brian pointed at the broken window. "You going to do anything about that before we go?"

  "No way. That's the landlord's problem, dude."

  Bleak Dreams

  Rachel sprang out of bed. She gasped for air. Choked on it. Panicked and coughed. She stood at the side of her bed, confused and scared. Her throat hurt from involuntary barking. She stumbled into the en-suite bathroom and turned on the cold water tap, cupped her hands under the stream and splashed her face. Another cough roughed up the walls of her throat. She drank from the tap then tried to get a handle on her breathing. Her heart stammered.

  "Fucking hell."

  Patchy memories of a nightmare bobbed in and out of her conscious mind. She'd been under water, sinking despite her frantic efforts to swim to the surface. Then somebody grabbed her by the neck, pulled her upwards and into the sky. It was Brian. He flew up, up, up; his face set in grim determination. Rachel tried to thank him but couldn't speak. His grip around her neck was too tight. From drowning to strangulation – frying pan and fire. He looked at her, his eyes coal-black and emotionless. Brian's features morphed. Then she could see Paul Morgan, Brian's dead brother. The man she'd shot in sketchy self-defence. She'd killed him and now he was the
unspoken barrier in her relationship with Brian. And her life was in his iron grip.

  They flew forever upwards until a cruel smile tugged at the corner of Paul's mouth. She could see Brian in his expression. Not a fraternal resemblance. More like Brian's face superimposed upon Paul's. She tried to talk again. Brian/Paul shook his head.

  He let her go.

  She fell and fell and fell.

  The weightless sensation still tickled at the base of her spine. Rachel splashed more cold water on her face. Her breathing had returned to normal but she couldn't shake the panicky feeling. She wanted a hug. But there was nobody there to provide one.

  Brian had gone downstairs again. Rachel didn't know how he managed to function on so little sleep. As far as she could tell, he'd not had a decent kip in over a month. She'd tried telling him that it couldn't be good for him, and that the beer and weed he consumed while he sat downstairs on his own weren't the answer to his insomnia. He only ever responded with that hurt look in his eyes and a shrug. What was she meant to do with that?

  Rachel rubbed her belly.

  "Daddy better man-up before you come along, Bump."

  She stared at herself in the mirror and frowned. Not a good look for her. Coupled with her baggy sleep-interrupted eyes she was like a Goth's wet dream. She sneered at herself.

  "You've a bit of manning-up to do yourself, girl."

  Rachel still hadn't found the right time to break it to Brian that there was a baby on the way. She wanted him to be in a happier place. It was important that his response didn't come off as unexcited or ungrateful. Because she didn't want to leave him. But more importantly, she didn't want him to leave her. That might interfere with her feelings for Bump.

  She heard the scrunch-scrunch-scrunch of feet on the gravel path leading to the front door. Her legs locked in place. Who the fuck was calling at this hour? Then came the scratch and clunk of a key in a lock. The hinges creaked slightly and the door was eased shut. She strained to listen to a whispered exchange. Couldn't make out the words but knew there was more than one of them.

  Move.

  Rachel broke her paralysis and dropped to her hands and knees. She crawled to the bed and reached in under it. Her hand clasped around the handle of a six kilo dumbbell. She hauled it into the open and rose to her feet, the dumbbell hanging by her side. It would be a clumsy weapon, but she was willing to bet on the element of surprise.

  Rachel hesitated at the bedroom door. She was wearing one of Brian's old T-shirts as pyjamas. Her legs were bare and covered in goose bumps. She thought about slipping into some trackie bottoms or pulling on her dressing gown, but decided against wasting the time. If she played it right, the prowlers wouldn't see much of her anyway.

  Deep breath. Don't rush.

  She crept towards the stairs.

  Hostess with the Mostess

  Brian beckoned for Tony to follow him. His one concession to smoking weed in the house was that he confined it to the kitchen, with the windows and patio doors open. Rachel was more concerned with keeping the smell out of the living room than alerting the neighbours that they lived next to a pothead. And, of course, there weren't many people out in their back gardens at that time of night. Chances were, they were up to something a bit dodgy themselves if they were.

  They closed the door and Brian relaxed a little. Rachel slept so soundly that there was a pretty good chance Tony would be in and out without her ever knowing. So long as they didn't crank up the radio or start shouting at the top of their lungs, or something equally stupid and raucous.

  Tony set his three-quarter full bottle of Buckfast on the table. Brian shuddered at the sight of the evil slop.

  "I hope you drink that through clenched teeth, mate."

  Tony gave him a puzzled look. "Why?"

  "It's made by monks, isn't it? So you have a gang of gnarly aul lads dancing on grapes to get the juice out of them. Can't imagine they're too concerned with personal hygiene. I wouldn't be surprised if a toenail or a dried-up verruca made its way into a bottle."

  "That's a load of shite."

  Brian widened his eyes. "You go ahead and risk it if you want."

  Tony reached for the bottle and unscrewed the cap. Then he tightened it again and upended the bottle.

  "No, it's all right, man." He pointed to the base of the bottle. "This one's got a low number embossed on the bottom. That means it came from the top of the barrel. Sure if there were any of that crap in it – and I don't really think there would be, like – then it'd be in one of the bottom-of-the-barrel bottles, wouldn't it?"

  "I heard that number thing was just an urban myth."

  "Well, this is a rural town, you know?"

  "I really don't."

  As if to prove his point, Tony spun the cap off the bottle and helped himself to a healthy slug. Brian grimaced.

  "Think I'll have a beer. You want one?"

  "No, man. I don't do carbonated drinks. They swell your stomach and reduce your lung capacity."

  "Oh, right."

  "Couldn't be good for you."

  "If you say so."

  "Will I skin up, though?"

  "The weed doesn't bother your lungs, then?"

  "Marijuana has many medicinal properties, including the ability to keep cancer at bay. If anything, weed is good for your lungs."

  "Aye, but what about the tobacco that goes in a spliff?"

  "I reckon they cancel each other out."

  Stoner logic. There was no point arguing.

  Brian shook his head. "Aye, go ahead, Tony. Skin up. And make it a strong one. I should have been super-high an hour ago."

  "Cool, man. I'll build a cone."

  Tony pulled cigarette papers, a tobacco pouch and the big bag of Blueberry Cheesecake out of the backpack he'd toted to Brian's. His pudgy digits got to work. Brian watched him for a few seconds, impressed by how nimble and sure-fingered he was. But his thirst drew him to the fridge. He pulled three bottles of Coors Light from the shelf to save himself some time and effort. The old silver bullets went down particularly fast, especially when the weed-induced cotton mouth kicked in.

  When he got back to the table, Tony had already finished constructing the cone and was in the middle of rolling a second one.

  "Holy shit, man. You work fast."

  Tony grinned. "I get plenty of practice." He nodded at the monster-spliff. "Spark that up, dude."

  Brian's heart went giddy-up. He reached for the cone—

  The kitchen door burst open. Everything happened fast, but Brian saw it in slow motion.

  Tony threw his hands in the air. Strings of tobacco and flakes of weed flew through the air. Rachel charged into the kitchen, a dumbbell hefted at shoulder height. She fixed her eyes on Tony. He stood up and knocked his chair backwards, grabbed the Buckfast bottle by the neck and swung it upwards. Rachel shattered it with the dumbbell. Glass and tonic wine spattered the walls and linoleum. Tony skipped backwards, tripped over the fallen chair, but somehow managed to stay on his feet. Rachel went for him again. Brian found his voice.

  "Rachel!"

  She looked away from her target and the dumbbell struck the wall. Hunks of plaster tumbled to the floor. She dropped the weight and looked from Brian to Tony.

  "Who the fuck's this?" she asked.

  "Watch your feet, babe. There's glass everywhere."

  Rachel looked down at her bare feet. "Who the fuck's this?"

  "I'm Tony."

  Rachel looked at the pudgy dealer like he'd pissed on her.

  "He's a friend, babe. Nothing to worry about, okay?"

  "It's a bit late to invite friends over, Brian. I thought we were being robbed."

  "Sorry, babe."

  "Got it into my head that you were in trouble."

  "I'm fine."

  "Yeah, he's fine," Tony said. "No harm done. Apart from a broken Bucky bottle, like."

  "I'll clean that up," Brian said. "Why don't you go back to bed?"

  "You think I can sleep after that?"
She put a hand on her hip. "Put the kettle on, will you?"

  "Do you not want something stronger, babe? You look totally freaked."

  "No, I can't."

  Brian rubbed his scalp stubble. "Why not?"

  "Oh... it's late. And I've got work tomorrow."

  Tony tiptoed through the shattered glass. He held his hand out to Rachel.

  "Nice to meet you."

  Rachel passed him the dumbbell. "Yeah, yeah. Hold that for me."

  Three's a Crowd

  Brian did his best to enjoy the Blueberry Cheesecake, but the monster-spliff was too strong and Rachel's obvious displeasure at witnessing the debauchery interfered. There was conflict ahead. The fact that he felt the need to go ahead and piss her off anyway didn't enhance his high any.

  Well, fuck. What more did she want? He'd cleaned up the glass from the broken Bucky bottle already. Anybody else would have left the mess until the next morning. He'd even told her he'd paint over the stains on the wall after he'd repaired the big chunk of plaster she'd busted with the dumbbell. And he was pretty sure she was exaggerating about the smell of the tonic wine. Only stink he could sense was the chronic they were smoking.

  "Good shit, isn't it?" Tony's big grin squished up his pink eyes. His whiskers needed a trim. He looked like a fattened pet rat.

  Brian exhaled, coughed and nodded.

  Tony giggled. "You're stoned to fuck, aren't you?"

  Brian toked, held it in his lungs and nodded.

  Tony giggled again.

  Brian offered the cone to Rachel for the third time. She waved it away and sipped on a cuppa that had to be too cold to be nice. He felt bad. Didn't want to, but couldn't help it. Third time was a charm, though. He wouldn't offer again.

  "Sorry," Brian said, his words passing through a fresh cloud of pungent smoke.

  "For what?" Rachel gave him the I-fucking-dare-you smile.

  Brian shrugged. He honestly wasn't sure how to answer her. And if he tried to wing it, the weed would fuck him. He shouldn't have smoked after she got that scare. What kind of a scumbag was he?

  "Stoned, just."

  Rachel eased up on the stare-down. He'd have thanked her but that would have led to another question. If in doubt, say fuck all. It was a life philosophy that stood by him his whole life. He wondered if the Buckfast monks took a vow of silence. Maybe he'd Google that in the morning. It'd be rude to leave Rachel and Tony alone while he went looking for the laptop. And Rachel might decide to kill Tony if he wasn't there to supervise.