The Hand of God by James Craig Read Free Book Online Page B

the papers with his toe. ‘That price. Is it a typo?’
    Bending over, Dom peered at the six-figure number printed in large bold type next to the address. ‘No, ‘fraid not.’
    ‘That’s a fuck of a lot of money,’ Carlyle observed.
    ‘It is what it is,’ his host grunted.
    ‘You moving, then?’
    ‘Thinking about it.’ Picking up the Coke, Dom retreated from the table and flopped into the matching leather armchair in the corner of the room by the window. ‘Not that place, though.’ He grinned. ‘It’s in a nice enough neighbourhood, but I want something better.’
    ‘Jesus, Dom.’ A familiar mix of envy and irritation coursed through Carlyle’s brain until his temples throbbed. As an officer of the law, he might look askance at his mate’s drug-dealing, but he couldn’t help but lust after Dom’s turbo-charged lifestyle; the boy was well on the way to meriting his own guest appearance on
Miami Vice
. ‘How would you explain having the cash to pay for something like that?’ he demanded.
    ‘It’s not a problem. As you might expect, I have people who sort that kind of thing out for me.’ Dom popped the ring pull and chugged down half the can before letting out a modest burp. ‘Anyway, that’s all boring stuff. How’s the little lady?’
    ‘Fucking hell.’ Carlyle giggled nervously. ‘You can’t call her that.’
    ‘Why not?’ Dom’s grin grew wider as he glanced around the room. ‘She’s not here, is she?’
    ‘No, but . . .’
    ‘So she’s never going to know, unless you let it slip.’
    ‘I’m hardly likely to do that, am I? I’m not that stupid.’
    Dom gave him a look suggesting that that was a matter of some continuing debate.
    ‘I’m not,’ Carlyle said huffily. Finishing his Coke, he placed the empty can on the table, pulled a copy of that morning’s
Daily Mirror
from the back pocket of his jeans, unrolled it and began scanning the back page, which was given over to Scotland’s inevitable elimination from the World Cup.
    ‘You Jocks fucked up again,’ Dom chuckled. ‘Didn’t ya?’
    ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Carlyle said wearily. ‘Let’s see how your lot get on.’
    ‘At least we’re still in it,’ Dom observed.
    ‘That’s only because you haven’t played anyone half decent yet.’
    ‘Fair point,’ Dom conceded. ‘But at least we’ve lasted longer than your boys.’
    ‘Okay, okay.’ Folding the paper in half, Carlyle tossed it on top of the estate agents’ particulars. ‘So, you’ve had a go at my girlfriend and my heritage. Is there anything else?’
    Dom gave an innocent shrug. ‘Bit touchy today, aren’t you?’
    No more than usual
, Carlyle thought. ‘How would you like it if I had a dig at your bird?’
    ‘My
bird
?’ Dom chortled.
    ‘You know what I mean,’ Carlyle persisted. ‘How would you like it?’
    ‘I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment,’ Dom mused.
    The realisation hit Carlyle that his own relationship status was currently in some doubt. He hadn’t seen Helen since the post-
Betty Blue
debacle. So far, he had called her three times without getting past her father. Waiting for her to return his calls was wearisome, and he tried to push it to the back of his mind. ‘Still,’ he mumbled, ‘you’d be pissed off.’
    Dom thought about it for a moment. ‘Depends on what she was like, I suppose. But I’ve got nothing against Helen; she seems like a very nice girl.’
    I wouldn’t call her that, either
, Carlyle thought as he descended into a dark funk. Dom and Helen had met only the once; the idea of introducing his best mate to his girlfriend had caused considerably more angst than any meeting with his parents, and with good reason, as it turned out. He had arranged a quick drink at the De Hems Dutch bar, off Shaftesbury Avenue; it had not gone well. The two of them seemed to get on each other’s nerves from the start; Dom started laying on his cheeky chappy charm with a trowel, while Helen became increasingly monosyllabic. The