STARSHINE, THE OCEAN AND THE UNICORN
                                                       Chapter One.   Part two




                     That night Joe walked through Soho, hands in pockets and head bowed against the cold that hung in the fog and the dark.  He turned into an alley and followed the echoes of his footsteps, listening to the hollow sound that rang from his body.  As he came to the end of the alley he knew that he did not want to die, ever.  He did not know where the thought came from, so he removed it from his mind and in its place stepped fear.  He moved on quickly, blinded by the fog and watched by the dark.  Panic started rising as he felt a gr eater need than usual to be sheltered, to be safe.  It was too quiet, it was deserted.  He wanted to lose himself in crowds and noise.
                      Headlamps turned into the street and shone a pathway through the fog. The vehicle crept forward in low gear, staying just behind Joe.  He heard the slow crunch of tyres over loose gravel. He saw the wheel hub from the corner of his eye as the car drew alongside him, its tyres scraping the kerb.  Joe's heart stopped.  Car doors flew open.  His attackers brought him to the ground and held him fast.  Joe closed his eyes as if his death would not come if he could not witness it.  A winding blow to his guts and his eyes snapped open again to see the glint of metal knuckles on black leather as the gloved hand withdrew.  Jason Donaldson crouched down, his heavy, ugly face in front of Joe's.  He held a cigar dangerously close to Joe's left eye.  Joe could not move away from it, someone had him in a strangle hold from behind.  He waited for the terrible pain.
                     "You've annoyed these two gentlemen." Jason said, indicating with two slight nods of his head the man behind Joe and another who stepped forward so that Joe could see his grim, oriental face looking down over Jason's shoulder.  He held the black briefcase in one hand and the Duty Free carrier bag in the other.  Joe knew what was coming.  It was bad.  It was not good to annoy Jason Donaldson.  It was not good to annoy the chinamen.  These things always ended with the end.
                    Jason stood up, six foot seven, his tailored coat stretched over his massive shoulders and his hat perched on top of his fat head.  Joe was afforded slight relief as the intense heat of the cigar left the vicinity of his eyeball.  Jason took the briefcase from the chinaman.  The metal clips broke as he jarred it open.  He held it upside down over Joe and let the brightly coloured monopoly notes fall so that they swirled and landed over and around him.  Jason threw the case down.  Then he took the carrier bag from the chinaman and again he held it upside down, high over Joe's head. Sand fell over Joe's head and shoulders and some found its way down he back of his shirt.  His mind's eye again glimpsed the grey trousered leg, the tan shoe and green gabardine.  The bastard had got at the carrier bag as well.  Jason looked down at him,
                                                                "Silly money, silly gear, silly Joe!" He paused. "Where is it? And what about our nice Mr. courier?"
                     Joe knew that the truth would sound hollow and it did.  "Nice Mr. courier fell off his bar stool.  I don't know anything about the silly money or the silly gear."
                      "Try again Joe.  You're mits have been in this case." Jason kicked the broken case at Joe.  Joe looked into Jason's eyes, they seared and Jason knew it was pointless.  He had always relied on his cheek in life, and his reaction to death was just the same.  "Yeah, that was twelve hours ago.  What kept ya?"
                    "We figured we could wait twelve hours for you if you could wait twelve hours for us.  And you did."
                    Joe wished he had trusted those nagging instincts when he had bent the case clips and used those twelve hours to get clear.  But he kept his eyes bold and square on Jason's face.  "Thanks! What is it that I'm waiting for?"  Now it was here he wanted it over quickly.
                    Jason drew on his cigar "My friends here have a proposition to make to you"  Joe's breath shallowed as he listened for a promise of life.  Jason continued, "Was that the first man you killed?"
                    Joe said nothing.  The question astounded him.  But Jason took his silence, or at least pretended to take his silence as an answer, the wrong answer.  "You're useful Joe."
                    "What!  A hit man?"  Joe tried to laugh but the strangle hold tightened.  Joe's laughter turned to panic and he protested  "I'm a petty thief.  I'm small time.  I don't kill.  I never killed that bloke.  I'd be well out of town if I had."
                    "Maybe.  Maybe not." said Jason.  "Maybe staying in town is a ploy to prove your innocence."  As if innocence mattered in Soho's underworld.  Joe could see that Jason knew he was telling the truth but that somehow truth was beside the point.  Jason's smile was evil.  He continued  "We're not interested in a guilty party.  We're interested in a fall guy.  You were put in charge of a great deal of money to be exchanged for a great deal of heroin.  You lost us both.  You owe us.  You will work for us to pay off your debt.  You will take the highest paid job we offer, that way your debt will be paid quickly.  At an assassin's going rate you owe us six jobs. Lucky for you it wasn't a bigger haul.  One a week Joe.  You kill one a week for the next six weeks.  I'll tell you who, when and where.  That'll pay the cost of your little slip and after that we'll make no more demands on you."
                    The chinaman behind Joe released his choke lock.  Jason went on "If at the end of any one of the next six weeks there has been no killing, then it'll be you who'll die.  Don't bother running from us.  We'll always find you."                    

                                     STARSHINE, THE OCEAN, AND THE UNICORN

Chapter One

                                                                           Silly Joe

                      A winter sun pushed its yellow rays through glass and warmed the vast interior of the airport terminal.  Joe stood a while, the black briefcase on the floor between his feet, his eyes tightened and his muscles tensed, still feeling the bitter air of outside.  He was a lithe, slim figure of average height.  His blond hair was short and tidy, his features neat and clean, his blue eyes quick and alive. He wore blue jeans and a cream bomber jacket.  There was a bold,fresh faced cheek in his good looks, the mark and charm of a young cockney villain.

                     His knuckles were pressed hard into the thin cotton lining of his jacket pockets.  He took out his hands and uncurled his fingers in the warmth, then he folded down his collar and eased his neck from side to side, he deepened his breathing and felt his body relax from his face to his toes.  His relaxation went to far, he stood heavy and immobile, his mind dazed.  His bright blue eyes gazed at his surroundings, but registered nothing of the bustle.  People everywhere, standing, walking, hurrying, pushing trolleys.  The showing of tickets and passports, the sticking on of labels.  Eyes intent on departure boards and ears intent on announcements.  There were long intense seconds while Joe's deadened brain fought to recapture his bearings and remember the task that lay in hand.  He picked up the case and moved slowly through the crowds and the hurried, nervous chatter.

                       Joe took the lift up to Left Luggage.  He regretted it and wished he had climbed the stairs instead, as the movement pushed upwards beneath his feet while his stomach was pulled down.  He handed the briefcase over a counter to a tall, gaunt grey haired man in black trousers and white uniform shirt with epaulets and breast pockets.  Joe was given a ticket with a number on it.  The grey haired man walked away between two rows of stacked cases, trunks and brightly coloured rucksacks.  Joe watched as the black briefcase was stowed deep inside the stacked luggage. Satisfied it was hidden and safe he left by the stairs.  He reached the bottom, walked a few paces and climbed another set of stairs to the bar.    

                      Joe adjusted his eyes to the subtle lighting that fell from the edges of the ceiling to be absorbed in the dark red and mauve carpet.  A few customers sat on plastic chairs at formica topped tables.  The bar had three sides, it came out from the wall in a square.  Only one customer sat up at the bar and Joe recognised him from a photograph he had been shown.  It was the courier.  He was a big man, he wore a dark suit, his elbows were spread wide on the bar top and his backside over lapped the stool.  His head rested on his arms, his face was turned to one side and an elaborate handle bar moustache showed beneath a black trilby hat that covered his eyes.  His legs dangled loosely above the floor and an inch or two of hairy shins were revealed between his trouser bottoms and grey socks.

                       Joe parked himself a few stools further down the bar, one buttock on the stool and one foot on the metal foot rail.  He rooted in his pockets for loose change, cigarettes and matches.  The bartender was at the back of the bar polishing glasses.  Joe attracted his attention and the old white jacketed, dickey bowed barman hobbled over .  His bald head and wrinkled skin fitted in with the tacky decor.

                       "Scotch." said Joe.  He lit a cigarette and put the change on the bar.  The old man served him the drink, took the money then hobbled back to his glass polishing.  Joe looked over at the sleeping courier.  He wondered if the jet lag was real or just a pretense he was supposed to act along with.  A cup of black coffee was by one elbow, it had been joggled and the white china cup was stained on the outside where the coffee had slopped over into the saucer and onto the bar.  The courier's Left Luggage ticket was right in the pool of cold coffee.  Joe's eyes scanned the bar, nobody was looking his way, the barman was busy with his polishing and there was a fruit machine against the wall just beyond the sleeping, overweight, moustachioed body. Joe decided on his move. He knocked back the scotch and squashed his half smoked cigarette hard into the ashtray and walked over to the fruit machine.  He fed in some coins and pressed buttons, lights flashed in the corner of his eye, but he was watching the barman, checking that his curved spine was still bent in the opposite direction.  The old man made sucking noises with his dentures as he polished and set each glass back on its shelf with a little tinkle.  A clatter of coins fell and made Joe jump.  He scooped them into his pocket and with his eyes on the barman all the time he moved behind the courier and took the sodden ticket from the pool of coffee.  Before putting his own ticket on the bar he gave the courier a gentle nudge with his shoulder.  The body hit the floor heavily and the barstool clattered down with it.  The trilby rolled away and the couriers dead, bulbous eyes stared at the ceiling.  Joe's heart fell through his guts and pressed on his bladder.  He still had both tickets so he turned from the bar.  He knew the barman was watching him as he walked away as though he had seen or heard nothing of the dead body's fall.  Joe stiffened his legs against the urge to run.  But once out of sight of the bar he ran.  He stumbled up the stairs to Left Luggage.  As he reached the top he saw the tail end of the black briefcase, a grey trousered leg, tan shoe and green gabardine disappear through the lift's closing doors.  Joe felt the cold sweat between his body and his clothes.  He lurched at the counter and gave his ticket to the supervisor.  It was the same uniform but a different man.  This one was short, fat and bald.  He looked at the numbers and tut tutted at the state of the sodden one.  He walked away and came back smiling with the black briefcase and a duty free carrier bag.  Joe smiled too.  Now he was annoyed at his paranoia.  He paid and looked up to see the short fat man's eyes were gleaming and his smile was cynical and slightly sour.  Joe turned quickly to forget and ignore it.  He tried to soothe his rasping lungs and put his nervous thoughts in order.  It was time for a calm, unhurried walk back to the car

                   Outside Joe's unhurried stroll was quickened by the cold. He gripped the briefcase and carrier bag too tightly and looked down at his own footsteps covering the distance to the red brick layers of the multi-storey car park.  He found the beige Ford Escort easily.  He got in quickly and put the bag and case on the floor in front of the passenger seat.  The ignition was good.  He backed out of the space and headed for the motorway where he turned west when he should have turned east.

                    Joe stayed in the slow lane and tried to think clearly.  The traffic flow moved around him or whizzed past.  He turned on the radio but it addled his already confused brain, so he turned it off again.  He took the next exit and came off the roundabout without knowing where he was heading.  He checked the mirror for pursuers.  There were none.  He listed the facts and the possibilities but each conclusion felt wrong.

                    So the courier was dead and Joe had come away with the gear and he had also repossessed the money in the briefcase.  Could he stash the money?  Would they think it was he who had turned the courier into a body ?  The bartender would certainly think so.  To a boy like Joe life's ultimate goal was to find himself with the keys to the car and a windfall.  He had both these things but nothing felt right.  The oddity filled him with an awful sense of foreboding as though fear had already dragged him to depths unknown.  Joe fought with himself to feel lucky, normal even.  One look at the money, just one look at the money, that would straighten his head.  A layby came up suddenly, he swerved into it.  He left the engine running while he lifted the briefcase onto the passenger seat and grappled clumsily with the code numbered lock and the metal clips.  It took him a while.  Finally, there in front of him he saw the full and tightly packed contents of garish wads of monopoly money.  Joe stared at the gaudy oranges, reds, pinks, greens, yellows and blues.  He neither blinked nor breathed.  Mind, body and soul blanked for some moments until time re-entered and jogged Joe's consciousness.  Clockhands and the world still turned so Joe clipped the case shut.  He had slightly bent one latch and it would not catch properly but he twirled the code rings anyway, having no idea where they had been previously set.  He put the case back on the floor, swung the car round and headed back towards London.

                  Back on the motorway Joe kept his foot down and flew along the fast lane.  He had to cut out the time he had wasted.  He had to deliver the goods and finish the errand as though he was none the wiser.  The outcome would be the same if he had not looked inside the case.  He had the gear inside the plastic bag and he had done well to recoup the money for them when the courier had been in no fit state to accept it.  Joe pushed the vision of the grey trousered leg, tan shoe and green gabardine from his mind and replaced it with his new scenario which his head rotated for the next few miles until he felt innocent of any knowledge of the funny coloured dough.  But the bent latch on the case nagged at him.  He convinced himself it was ridiculous to worry over such a detail, it could have happened anytime.  But if the nagging escaped his thoughts it gnawed at his stomach.  And so it was all the way to Soho's Chinatown.

                   He parked the car outside "The Golden Wok" restaurant.  The sweet and sour cooking smells wafted over the pavement from the kitchen where the busy crashing of utensils, sizzling of fat and hissing of steam could be heard through an open door, calling to the hungry lunch time trade.  Joe left the keys inside the car as he had been instructed to and walked away.