The Damage (David Blake 2) by Howard Linskey Read Free Book Online Page A

right to the top of the tree, would understand this but, instead, he gave the teenager a look of disgust.
    ‘Are you asking to get arrested?’ added Palmer. Kinane’s bulk made Palmer look small by comparison but, in reality, he was an average-sized bloke with a bigger than average reputation that revolved around the words ‘special forces’. Reputed to be a former member of the SAS or SBS, with a drawer full of medals and dozens of ‘Black Ops’ to his name, before quitting the forces and ‘coming over to the dark side’ as Braddock put it, Palmer was a muscly, shaven-headed, softly-spoken Scot with stubble on his chin; his accent was part Glasgow, part Geordie, thanks to his adopted home. Doyle didn’t know too much about the smaller man, except for the whispers on the street about his military career, but he did know he was just as senior as Kinane and was apparently ‘nails’.
    ‘Palmer’s been in wars and shit and killed, like, hundreds of people,’ Doyle’s mate Shanks informed him just days before the meet. It was true that those who worked in Bobby Mahoney’s firm afforded Palmer just as much respect as they did the far larger figure of Kinane. Doyle was careful to watch his mouth around both men, and certainly never set out to piss either of them off intentionally, but he couldn’t understand what their problem was. Dressed like this, Doyle reckoned he looked like Eminem or maybe a white Tinchy Stryder; proper Gangsta and a man not to be fucked with. His mates had all been impressed by his style but it seemed Kinane and Palmer didn’t share their enthusiasm.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ Kinane growled the words back at him and Doyle experienced the fear that came with them, ‘You look like a complete cunt, that’s what’s the matter. You might as well walk in here with a bag full of H and an Uzi.’
    ‘You can’t come into a hotel like this, looking like you just stepped out of the Hood,’ Palmer explained. ‘You’re carrying a sign saying ‘Arrest me I’m a drug dealer’. Look around you, you tool.’
    Doyle turned his head from side to side and looked at the other people in the bar, some of whom quickly averted their gaze like they’d only just stopped staring at him. The place was quiet, except for the sound of very dull piano music coming from the speakers, and the low chat of the other customers, all of whom were dressed like they were going to a wedding. They all had on jackets, and trousers, some even wore ties. All of a sudden it dawned on Doyle how out of place he looked. It had never before occurred to him that looking like a dealer, when you actually were a dealer, was a disadvantage.
    He looked back at Palmer and Kinane. Both of them were frowning at him.
    ‘Soz and that,’ he stammered the apology and they continued to frown, ‘I didn’t know like.’
    ‘Well you know now,’ Kinane told him.
    Palmer reached into his inside jacket pocket and started to write something on the back of his drinks receipt. ‘If you want to carry on being our eyes and ears at Sunnydale, get yourself down here pronto and buy something proper. I mean a jacket, trousers and some shirts. The kind of stuff we’re wearing. No hoodies, no trainers and no Bling. Understood?’
    ‘Yeah,’ he was nodding like a madman, desperate to keep his privileged and protected position as the messenger, the go-between for these men of power and Braddock, the man who ruled the Sunnydale estate on their behalf.
    ‘Blake gets his stuff from there. It’s quality,’ Palmer told him, ‘not that you’d recognise that if you saw it.’
    ‘And another thing,’ added Kinane.
    Doyle had frightened rabbit eyes by now, ‘What?’ he asked.
    ‘Get a fucking haircut.’

     
    Doyle returned from that meeting a month ago a chastened man. He still wore his own gear for working on the estates but, as soon as he could, he went down to the designer clothes ‘emporium’ Palmer had