Sorrow Bound by David Mark Read Free Book Online

tolerates the bad taste.
    Downey is in his early twenties. He’s a handsome lad who takes his appearance seriously. He’s in good shape, with muscles built for showing off rather than for lifting anything heavy. He looks like he should be auditioning for a TV talent show. He has a pop-star appearance. He’s a vision in designer white trainers, slashed-neck T-shirt and £100 haircut. The diamond in his earlobe cost him a mint and the little stars he has tattooed behind his ear show he can take a bit of pain if the reward is worth it.
    He’s flicking through a porn mag. He likes black women best of all. Usually he looks for something stimulating on his top-of-the-range mobile phone but the reception here is terrible so he has resorted to old-school thrills.
    Out front, half a dozen drivers sit snacking and sweating, waiting for the phone to ring. Three of them are Turks. Dominating the scene is Bruno, a mountain of muscle and dreadlocks. They’re his team. His boys. They do what he fucking says.
    For the past few months, Adam Downey has been somebody to fear. He has been a drug dealer since his teens. He was always going to be trouble. He grew up in a nice house with a stable family unit, but he was never any good at living the quiet life. Downey wanted to be respected. Admired. Feared. He had put himself in harm’s way from an early age and by his mid-teens he was running drugs for the punk rocker who used to run the trade in the east of the city. Orton, his name was. He didn’t look like much of a drug dealer. He had little in the way of style. He was all tattoos and combat pants, lace-up boots and piercings. But for the best part of fifteen years he was responsible for mostof the gear that came through the docks. Downey was never his muscle or the brains, but he was reliable and ambitious and soon became one of Orton’s confidants.
    It was when Downey got sent to prison that things changed. He showed up on somebody’s radar. He got headhunted. A phone was pressed to his ear as he lay in his bunk and a man with a refined accent and perfect diction told him he had been talent-spotted. A new outfit was safeguarding the interests of a number of established crime organisations on the east coast. Orton was refusing to see the benefits of following suit. They were seeking somebody young, ambitious and capable who could step into the gap that would be left by his imminent departure. Would he be interested in the position? It hadn’t taken Downey long to make up his mind. For as long as he could remember he’d secretly thought of himself as the prince of the city. He daydreamed about people doing his bidding. He fantasised about dispensing mercy and justice in equal measure. He wanted to point, nod, and know that whoever had wronged him was going to learn just how very special he was.
    Downey had said yes.
    Soon after, his sentence was inexplicably cut. He found himself back on his own streets. A grateful, oblivious Orton came to pick him up from the prison gates. He had Big Bruno by his side. Orton handed over an envelope full of cash, which Downey pocketed. Then Bruno drove them to the woods. They were barely free of the city when Orton began to realise things were not going as he had planned. He began asking Bruno where he was going. Asking him who had been in his ear. Offering him cash and blubbing about his family.
    Ten miles from Hull, Bruno pulled Orton from the car. Hesmashed the old punk’s head open with a hammer. Then Downey joined in too.
    Downey likes being a drug dealer. He likes the fact that the police don’t seem to know anything about him but know that somebody like him must exist. He likes that the men he has recruited to his cause are so international. It makes him feel sophisticated and cosmopolitan. He likes the occasional phone calls he gets from his employers, praising him for his initiative and tenacity. He likes feeling like a somebody.
    The taxi firm is the perfect front for his operation. His