Breaking Waves: Phil Tyler Thriller Series Book 1 (Phil Tyler Thrillers) Read online

  ‘What do you want to do?’ Wayne asks.

  I shrug. ‘Wait for Stevie, I suppose. He’ll be here soon.’

  ‘We should play football.’

  ‘Someone stole my ball, remember?’ I say pointedly.

  He grins and projects his tongue through a space where a tooth had until recently resided. ‘Let’s go to the precinct. I’ll get you another. I’ll get some sweets too. You can be lookout.’

  I shake my head quickly. Others had made that mistake. Wayne has a turn of speed and a slippery quality which makes him impossible to catch; his friends don’t. In the past, more than one of Wayne’s friends was detained in the precinct by security staff or shopkeepers, while Wayne rounded a distant corner, clutching his prize.

  ‘I wish my mum was like yours,’ he says. ‘Mine smells of stale beer and fags. You’re lucky.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I wish I was you.’

  ‘No, you don’t. You’d hate it. You’d have to tidy your room and wash. You’d have to do homework and go to bed at nine o’clock.’

  ‘Maybe I’d like that.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t.’

  He spins. ‘You can come to my house if you like. My mum’s out and Tyrone’s in court. I’ve got a football. You can have it. It’s just like yours.’

  I’m saved from having to answer when Stevie turns the corner and runs towards us.

  ‘We’ll get a football from my house and go down the rec to play,’ Wayne shouts to him.

  Wayne is enthusiastic about everything.

  Stevie nods. ‘Okay.’

  I look at Stevie and I look at Wayne.

  ‘You and Stevie are my best friends,’ Wayne shouts. ‘We’ll be best friends forever and ever.’

  Wayne can’t find the football, so we go to the precinct, and, two hours later, I’m at the police station, and Mum and Dad are there. They’re talking to a serious looking officer with red hair and freckles. They glance across and I know they’re talking about me. I know they’re not pleased. Mum looks upset; Dad has that look he uses when he’s talking business and he’s trying to keep calm. When he looks at me, I can see flames and smoke and a volcano on the point of eruption.

  It erupts when we get in the car to go home.

  But before that, the ginger PC curls a finger towards me, and I stand up and shuffle across. He leads me down a corridor to a locked room. He doesn’t speak, not in words, anyway, but his look tells me everything I need to know, and I’m sweating. He turns a key and opens a door onto a small, bare cell with a skimpy-looking bed at one side and a toilet and sink at the other. The floor is bare and there’s no window.

  ‘See this?’ he asks.

  How could I not?

  I nod quickly.

  ‘Do you want me to lock you in here?’

  I shake my head even quicker.

  ‘Fuck, no,’ I think, but then I look up. I hope he didn’t hear me thinking that. My mum and dad don’t like me swearing. They say I get it from Wayne, which is probably true. If you did a word frequency analysis of Wayne’s conversation, that one word would come out way above any others.

  ‘Then I don’t want to see you here ever again.’ Ginger bends forward and shakes a finger in my face, a ginger, freckled finger on a pale, hairy hand. ‘Your mum and dad have told me they’ll think of a suitable punishment, and I believe them.’

  ‘I believe them too.’

  ‘Stealing is wrong,’ he tells me, as if I didn’t know. ‘This time you get off with a warning, but next time...’

  He lets me finish the sentence for myself, but whatever the police can do pales into insignificance beside what’s in store when I get home.

  ‘But I didn’t...’ I say when we’re in the car. ‘I was just waiting... I didn’t know someone would...’ Then I see the look Dad’s giving me, and I shut up. I’m only going to make things worse.

  It takes two days to persuade Mum and Dad that I was an innocent bystander. When Wayne shot past me like a hare escaping dogs and shouting, ‘Leg it!’ at the top of his voice, instinct took over. I started running. But instinct, on this occasion, lacked acceleration, and a burly operative from the store grabbed and held me. He was sweating and breathing hard, and, for a moment, I thought he might collapse and loosen his grip, but my luck has never been good, especially around Wayne.

  I follow a well-trodden path. I’m not the first and I won’t be the last.

  Still, I keep quiet about Wayne when the police ask. I tell them I don’t know him, which is partly true. I wish I didn’t know him. It’s my dad who grasses him up.

  It’s a week before I see Wayne again, partly because I’m grounded, then banned from seeing him, then avoiding him. But eventually, we meet. It’s inevitable really. He’s with Stevie, who avoided all the excitement by heading quietly in the other direction as soon as Wayne entered the store.

  ‘Where did you get those bruises?’ I ask Wayne. They’re healing now but his eye is a nasty shade of blue and his lips look like they belong on a Hollywood actress after a failed beauty treatment.

  ‘I fell,’ he winks.

  ‘Where from? An aeroplane?’

  ‘The police came to question me. They searched my room. I didn’t know our Tyrone had stashed some of George Mackie’s dodgy gear under the bed.’

  I wince. George Mackie is a name you don’t want to hear. When you see George Mackie come around a corner, you go the other way. He’s in his thirties and he’s already the stuff of legend. Mackie won’t be pleased he’s lost his knock-off gear, not one bit.

  ‘I bet their eyes lit up when they saw that,’ Stevie murmurs and grins sideways at me. ‘What happened?’

  ‘They’d got nothing on me, nothing definite, just someone who might’ve been me running away. I just got a warning. Tyrone got charged, though: receiving stolen goods. He was on parole too.’

  ‘And when he came back from the station...’

  Stevie says what we’re both thinking.

  Wayne nods.

  ‘What happens now?’ asks Stevie.

  ‘Another social worker, I suppose. There’ll be a meeting and they’ll make a plan.’

  ‘What did you do to your hand?’ I ask. He has a soiled bandage wrapped loosely round it that is tucked in on itself. It looks like he did it himself, hardly a professional job.

  He pulls it back to reveal a nasty, round burn with a flame of red growing around it. You don’t need a degree in medicine to see it’s infected.

  ‘That looks bad,’ I say. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Course it hurts,’ he grins.

  Wayne has other burn marks like this one, but they’re old, and, mostly, they’ve healed up. He’s got some on his arm and a few on his legs. He doesn’t get changed for PE at school, and he doesn’t go swimming. I think it’s so no one sees. The teachers gave up reminding him. Better he misses swimming and does PE in his school clothes, I suppose. Otherwise, he just wouldn’t turn up.

  ‘Do you want my mum to look at that?’ I ask. ‘She used to be a nurse.’

  He nods. ‘Get a plaster and some cream,’ he says.

  This seems like a good idea until my mum sees the burn and gets all serious in a smiley, reassuring sort of way. She glimpses another mark on his arm by pushing the sleeve out of the way to wrap the clean bandage.

  ‘Does that feel better?’ she asks, but I can see she’s thinking about something else.

  That evening, she’s whispering to Dad in the lounge, so I sit on the stair and listen; I learn she’s called social services. I hear her say, ‘cigarette burns’ and I wince just thinking about it.

  I use one of those words which I’m not allowed to use, but it’s inside my head and not out loud, so I suppose it’s okay.

  When I next see Wayne, he’s still grinning.

  ‘I’ve got another care plan,’ he says. ‘The social worker thinks I’m self-harming.’ The grin turns to a laugh, although I don’t think Wayne really gets irony. ‘Was it your mum who phoned the social?’ he asks.

  No point denying it.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘I like your mum,’ he says, ‘but she’d better keep away from my mum for a while.’

  ‘What about Tyrone?’ I ask rather anxiously.

  ‘He’s back in the detention centre.’

  Relief is a powerful emotion.

  Chapter 3

  Stevie has lived in the town since forever. His mum and dad and gran and grandpa too. His house is just a couple of streets away and we’re in the same class at school. We both read books and like learning things, which makes us unusual at Waterloo Road Primary. Teaching kids at Waterloo Primary is a bit like force feeding someone on hunger strike. Maybe that’s why we get on so well.

  Stevie’s taller than me and a classy footballer. I’m more of a kick-and-run player, though it doesn’t stop me thinking I’ll play for the town team one day. He’s also the most chilled out kid I’ve ever met, so laid back he’s nearly horizontal. If something bothers Stevie, you know it’s pretty serious.

  When I learn that Tyrone bothers him, it bothers me too.

  I’m with Stevie the first time I see Tyrone, though I’ve heard about him from Wayne. I’ve only been in the school a few weeks and I’m walking home. I’m eight. Wayne tags along as usual. When we pass the newsagents on Watson Road, he sees Mr Barrett, the owner, peering through the window, and his pace slows.

  ‘I’d better split,’ he says and darts away as Barrett heads to the door.

  ‘Tell your friend he can’t avoid me forever,’ Barrett shouts.

  We nod and walk on, embarrassed. A couple of women turn and stare.

  ‘You should pick better friends, Stevie,’ he calls. ‘What’d your parents think?’

  Stevie gives him a b
ig grin.

  I look at the ground. I don’t know him well enough to risk a smile.

  It’s when we turn down a narrow alleyway towards the rec that we see this teenager ahead of us, and Stevie turns and whispers, ‘Tyrone.’

  I’ve heard enough about Tyrone to wish my dad was somewhere close, and my stomach does a couple of somersaults. Suddenly, I think I need the toilets back on Watson Road. I fall back into Stevie’s shadow. Stevie doesn’t break stride. I mean, Stevie is just so cool, even though he’s only eight and just as scared as me.

  ‘Hi Tyrone,’ he says as we approach this surly-looking brute at the end of the alleyway. I can see the rec behind him, wide green spaces with football posts, and the river beyond. Right now, that’s where I want to be, with plenty of space to run and scream for help. Only the route is blocked. Tyrone won’t let us pass.

  ‘Who the fuck are you calling Tyrone?’ he says.

  ‘It’s your name, isn’t it?’ Stevie tries a grin, but Tyrone’s got as much humour as a broken bone.

  ‘It’s a name I let my friends use, and you’re not my fucking friend, you little piece of shit.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Stevie says.

  ‘Say it again.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Get down on your fucking knees and say it again.’

  I think getting on my knees will be okay since my legs can hardly hold me, but, before I get the chance, I hear Stevie.

  ‘No,’ he says.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘No.’

  Stevie’s voice is weaker now, and I can see he’s trembling as much as me. But he doesn’t move, at least not until Tyrone kicks the back of his leg and he crumples to the ground. I crumple beside him. We stay down.

  Tyrone just stands there. He says nothing. He just looks down at us, and I tell you, that was the scariest part, wondering what was coming. Then someone shouts his name, and he turns and just walks away to join some mate over on the rec.

  ‘We’re going to kill a cat,’ he says. ‘You can watch if you like; we’ve got a firework.’

  Then he’s gone, and it’s like some vast shadow just passed over us and we can see the light and the grass and the road. We don’t even look at each other. We just struggle to our feet and run. We don’t stop running until we reach Stevie’s gate.

  ‘Will you tell your dad?’ I ask.

  ‘It’ll make things worse,’ he says.

  ‘What about the cat?’

  ‘Too late.’

  I go home and say nothing. Two days later, when I’ve stopped shaking and reliving every moment, I figure I’ve learned an important lesson. From now on, I’ll be watching out for Tyrone, and if I see him, I’ll run – no hesitation. It takes a lot longer to shift the image of that poor cat, though. Even now, I sometimes think about it. I mean, how could anybody…?

  It’s hard being eight and permanently scared and I don’t go far on my own anymore. First call, whenever I go out, is Stevie’s house because at least we’re together. Yeah, Tyrone haunted my life in those days. Still does.

  I guess Stevie felt the same.

  Chapter 4

  It’s a few weeks after the incident in the bar when I next see Wayne. He’s walking through the centre of town, and he looks serious. He’s frowning, and his head is lowered, so he doesn’t see me until I run across the street and call his name.

  ‘I can’t stop,’ he says, ‘meeting someone.’

  ‘Who?’ I ask.

  ‘Come and see,’ he grins. ‘Say hello.’

  ‘Someone I know?’

  He doesn’t answer, just grins again.

  I look at my watch. I guess I can spare half an hour before I head back to work.

  ‘Okay, if it isn’t far.’

  ‘The coffee shop in the precinct,’ he says.

  ‘I hope Maggie doesn’t recognise us, after you borrowed her family heirloom. I don’t want to be a headline in my own paper.’

  ‘I’ve been in a few times since. Her daughter runs it mainly. You’re safe.’

  The photo incident is typical of Wayne. He can’t argue about something and let it go. He has to prove he’s right because he’s stubborn through and through. He thinks it’s a virtue.

  Six weeks back, we’re in the precinct, and we think we’ll grab a coffee. ‘Maggie’s Coffee Shop’ is close by, so we duck in there. On the wall, facing the door, there’s a framed photograph. Maggie tells everyone it’s a prized possession. It shows her shaking hands with the Queen on a lawn outside some country house. There are tables and marquees and a lot of over-dressed people standing in groups. They’re sipping champagne from glasses which look as if they cost more than a small house. Beside Maggie, stands a man with a head that looks strangely incompatible with his body – rather too small, ill connected, and hunched.

  I’ve seen it before, so I walk past, but Wayne stops and studies it.

  ‘It’s Photoshopped,’ he announces as we sit by the window to drink our coffees.

  ‘Shut up, Wayne,’ I tell him. ‘She’s listening.’

  Maggie O’Neil, proprietor, sixty years old and built like a mausoleum, fixes him with a stare that could pierce bone.

  ‘That guy’s head looks like a marble on a bottle. No one could look like that, not in real life.’

  ‘He’s in uniform. Maybe he’s a war hero or something.’

  ‘Maybe he’s just had his peanut head Photoshopped onto someone in a uniform,’ Wayne says. ‘Same goes for the woman.’

  It’s too much for Maggie. She strides over. ‘I think I’d like you to leave and take your offensive opinions with you. That’s my husband. He was awarded the military medal for Korea.’

  ‘Korea?’ Wayne whistles. ‘Wow. Did he get shot in the head?’

  Maggie stares down at us as if anything short of a lightning strike will be a disappointment. It’s time to drink up and leave.

  We’re a hundred metres down the precinct when Wayne opens the front of his coat to reveal the photograph, eight by six in a dark wooden frame protected by glass. He laughs and won’t stop. He falls rather than sits on a bench outside a chain chemist.

  ‘It won’t take her long to figure out who took it,’ I tell him, but Wayne doesn’t care. He’s already prising the back off the frame to remove the print.

  ‘I’ll show you,’ he says. ‘I’ll prove it.’ He drops the frame and glass in a waste bin. ‘We need a hand lens.’

  ‘Sod off, Wayne. I’m going home,’ I tell him. ‘I like that café. My mum goes there too. I won’t dare go for months now.’

  I worry about my job too. What if Zac, the owner of my paper, hears about it? I don’t need trouble like this. What if Maggie recognised me?

  ‘Come on,’ Wayne says. ‘I’ve got a lens back at the flat.’

  ‘I’m going,’ I say.

  And I do.

  But when I look back, Wayne hasn’t moved. He’s holding the photo to the light and scrutinising it.

  That’s Wayne; once he’s got a grip on an idea, he won’t let go until he proves he’s right. Like I say, he’s stubborn.

  When we walk into the café today to meet Wayne’s mysterious friend, we notice at once there’s another copy of the photo, but now it’s on the wall next to the counter, where it can be guarded.

  ‘I knew it was Photoshopped,’ Wayne says.

  I glance round in case Maggie appears from the kitchen with a knife in her hand. There’s no sign of her so I breathe a little more easily and follow Wayne to where a young woman is sitting by the window. She’s our age, long dark hair and dark eyes and a smile that would melt lead. She’s slim and, to be totally frank, the prettiest sight I’ve seen since... Suddenly, I recognise her, and my jaw drops stupidly. I imagine it resting on my chest. I hold out a hand like a beggar seeking alms. She takes it and laughs, and it’s the same laugh from the same mouth through the same teeth.

  ‘Tina?’ I say, ‘Tina Oldfield?’

  She nods, and that laugh travels through me like a warm day. I sit down heavily, my eyes nearly as wide as my mouth, or so it feels.

  ‘Wayne,’ she says. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘I met a friend,’ he smiles. ‘Remember him?’

  ‘Of course,’ she says, turning that smile on me again. ‘Hi, Phil.’