Danny travelled light these days. Bought clothes in charity shops, ditched the old stuff. New clothes looked what they were. As with so many things in his life now, there was comfort to be found in the familiarity of old clothes. Worn, a little rough around the ages, his clothes were a reflection of himself.
The men asking questions hadn’t been very good at their job. He doubted they had the full story. Just asking around. He’d learnt the hard way that strangers were dangerous. Hazardous to his health. The attempt to lift him had been clumsy. A botched job. Two men, a third waiting in the van. Not enough. He’d seen them before. Twice before. Too much of a coincidence. So, he’d been ready. On his guard.
The taller man, wearing jeans, tee-shirt and boots, fighting gear, was just hired muscle, but an obvious danger so he’d been first in line as they started to make their move and got close enough to do damage. The blade had sliced his face up like a can opener, blood spattering the tee-shirt and a boot to the inside of his knee had hit the spot perfectly. The taller man went down. His companion had been more cautious, a pace behind, and had good reactions. He evaded Danny’s first wild swing, but then decided he’d stick around, finish the job, when flight was the better option. He may have been faster in a foot race; in a fight it was no contest. Leaving both men bleeding on the pavement, Danny walked over to the van. The van driver had watched it happen, stayed around, but not interfered. Danny rapped on the window with the knife, motioned for the driver to get out. The man fiddled with the ignition key, belatedly deciding his best course of action was to leave. Danny yanked the door open, dragged the man out as the engine fired. He shook his head. ‘Didn’t think to lock the door, then?’
The van driver cowered on the floor. Danny motioned to the men behind him. ‘Better check on them,’ he said, stepping over the driver and taking his place behind the wheel. He drove off, glanced in the mirror as he reached the end of the road. The van driver hadn’t moved.
Danny abandoned the van, keys in the ignition, near the railway station. No point in going back for clothes or possessions. If they knew where to find him, they’d know the address he’d been staying. Nothing there he needed.
He had money, credit cards, and a driving licence. The cards and the licence were useless now. The men who looked for him would know his new name by now, but the key in his trouser pocket was all he needed. The locker to which the key belonged contained a thick bundle of notes, twenty thousand pounds in all, credit cards, two passports and other documents in names he’d never used.
While he’d been on the run, he’d been planning for this day. The identity he’d been given was a start, nothing more. He couldn’t rely on a faceless civil servant to keep his identity secret. They’d had all they wanted from him. More than enough to put the big man inside a cell and keep him there. The big man may be Category A these days, but he had a long reach. Men had been looking for him for three years and they’d have had him by now if they hadn’t bungled the job.
The back-up plan was his and his alone. Enough money to start again. Make a new life. It was always going to be like this. The big man had been betrayed and would keep on trying to avenge that betrayal. He’d be running for the rest of his life. He knew that. He was still alive. Still able to move on. Start again. Another city. Another life.
The train journey had been uneventful. The city was new to him, but he’d soon find his way around. A cheap hotel for a day or two while he looked to see what opportunities there were here. He could stay here, could move on, anything was possible. That was one of the benefits of being unknown. A free spirit. He had no friends, no attachments. Far too dangerous. He didn’t feel deprived in any way. He wasn’t in a cell, wasn’t dead. Anything else was a bonus.
