Those Who Feel Nothing by Peter Guttridge Read Free Book Online Page B

around to look towards the door. You hit the two overweight men first and enjoy doing it. The other guy, the one who arrived with Neal, sits back.
    â€˜What have you done to my friend?’ he says, working his jaw and starting to do something under the table.
    â€˜Pretty much what I’m going to do to you unless you tell me where I can find Sal Paradise,’ you say.
    The other guy sits back in his seat. ‘Don’t know the man,’ he says, his body still.
    The two creeps are bleeding worse than they’re hurt but they’re not thinking about anything other than their injuries. The barman is standing perfectly still behind the bar but his hands are concealed. He’s up to something.
    You look at the guy sitting at the table and gesture to Neal outside. ‘Wuss.’
    There’s a hint of a smile then the man hurls himself out from behind the table, a knife in his hand. The problem is the table is screwed to the floor so hurling is a difficult thing to do.
    You have time to hit him in the face with the glass in a hammer blow before he can get near you with the knife. It’s a tough little fucker of a glass.
    It’s weird to watch the man’s forward momentum almost immediately reverse. You wish you knew the physics. He falls back, a glass-rim size impression on his forehead.
    You figure it’s about time you paid attention to the barman. You look at him and whatever it is he’s bringing out from below the counter. You wag your finger and step towards him.
    â€˜How do I get hold of Sal Paradise?’
    Watts had polished off his seafood and was thinking about his first official meeting as the new PCC when an Asian woman in an expensive-looking cashmere coat came into the pub. Chinese? Korean? Vietnamese? He really couldn’t tell and that embarrassed him. At the bar, she bought a pint of beer and carried it carefully over to a table in the corner. A table Watts always liked to imagine his father drank at, back in the day. She sat, a look of misery on her face. He turned away from her grief.
    The meeting had been with a contractor looking to sell the force Incapacitating Flashlights.
    â€˜Which are what?’ Watts said.
    The man was slick-suited, mid-thirties, a military background overlaid with a salesman’s spiel. He placed what appeared to be a bulky-looking torch on the edge of the desk. Watts reached for it but the man shook his head.
    â€˜Handle with care. This is the next generation Tasers. A better non-lethal weapon. Homeland Security in the US developed it. It flashes intense beams of light to blind targets and make them vomit.’
    Watts nodded slowly. ‘What happens if they close their eyes?’
    The contractor laughed. ‘Then you go old-fashioned and kick them in the goolies.’
    Watts smiled. If he had to see the salesmen Hewitt was clearly intending to sick on him then those with a sense of humour would work best for him.
    â€˜It’s part of a range of next generation law enforcement aides,’ the man said. ‘We also have the Active Denial System. That heats the skin of a target individual in two seconds to fifty-four degrees centigrade, causing intolerable pain. Our acoustic bazooka – a sonic cannon – delivers a pattern of sound that is excruciatingly painful and incapacitates the targets by making them vomit.’
    â€˜How are they with seagulls?’
    The man looked puzzled. ‘Police Commissioner?’
    â€˜Just kidding,’ Watts said. ‘Is vomiting a common factor with these new generation weapons?’
    The salesman shrugged. ‘Vomiting is certainly a disabler.’ He started rooting in his bag. ‘I’m going to leave you a sample to test.’
    The Asian woman abruptly rose and hurried out of the pub, still looking miserable. The pint was untouched so Watts assumed she had gone out for a cigarette, but the barman started to clear the drink away.
    â€˜You’re sure