Free THE DOMINO BOYS (a psychological thriller) by D. M. Mitchell Page B

programme on telly, Alfie? This is Your Life . Eamon Andrews, and was it Michael Aspel later that used to host it? The stars being surprised by the host and then having to endure all those blasts from the past as they filed in to revisit them. That must have been excruciating at times, seeing people you’d probably never want to see again. All your past life in a big red book. Makes you shudder. I was too young to have seen it, of course, but my father liked the idea that each person he had – how shall we phrase it? – special relationships with, had to have their own little red book. This one is yours. Not a great deal in it, but enough, eh, Alfie?’ He opened the drawer, tossed the book inside with the others. He locked the drawer and put the key in his pocket. ‘This key stays close to my heart always,’ he said, patting the pocket lightly. ‘It’s very important. The key to my ambitions, you might say.’
    ‘That supposed to scare me?’
    ‘You’re here, aren’t you?’ he countered. ‘I want every carpet in every room cleaned. You’ve got a week to do it in.’
    ‘They look clean enough,’ said Alfie, stiff-lipped. ‘And do you know how many carpets you’ve got in this place? It’ll take me longer than a week.’
    ‘I don’t care how many there are, and I want them cleaner than clean,’ he said. ‘My fiancé is coming up to visit me tomorrow and it looks like a brothel as it is. I’ve got to be going; I’ve got a meeting with your friend, Barry Stocker.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Sorry, I make it a rule not to fraternise with tradesmen. One has a certain position to maintain.’ He made as if to leave the room.
    ‘You aren’t going to hurt him, are you?’
    Donnie Craddick stopped. ‘My, my, Alfie, I do believe you care about him. I hope it won’t be necessary to hurt him.’
    ‘So what do you want with him?’
    His smile lacked any warmth. ‘Time to tell him , This is Your Life, Barry! ’ His face hardened. ‘Now don’t be annoying, Alfie. Just clean my carpets, there’s a good man.’
     
    *  *  *  *

8
 
Respect
     
     
    When things look like they can’t get any worse, invariably they do.
    There was a loud and very insistent knocking at Barry Stocker’s front door. When he answered there was a loud and very insistent man telling him he had to come for a ride in a fancy red Jag parked outside.
    ‘Sod off – do you think I’m taking a ride with a complete stranger in a strange car? My mother used to tell me about blokes like you,’ said Barry, slamming the door closed.
    Except it didn’t slam, or close. The man put his foot in the crack, followed by an iron-hard fist that snaked through the opening, grabbed him by the collar and yanked him close to the door. ‘Don’t mess with me,’ snarled the man. ‘Donnie Craddick wants to see you.’
    ‘I don’t want to see Donnie Craddick.’
    ‘Tough.’ He looked down at Barry’s feet. ‘You aren’t wearing any socks and shoes.’
    ‘So? What business is it of yours what I do?’
    ‘So put them on, you slob, and get your arse in this car. Make it fast. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
    ‘So where are you taking me?’ he asked from the back seat as the Jag growled through the streets of Overthorpe.
    ‘Mystery tour,’ he replied.
    ‘Who are you?’
    ‘Your tour guide.’
    They came to a large patch of weed-strewn wasteland comprising the concrete remnants of a once thriving but demolished factory laid out in faintly recognisable rooms and yards, nothing remaining but their ghostly outlines. The car bounced across the uneven surface and came to halt beside a man who was standing with his arms behind his back, facing away from them. Barry immediately recognised him as Donnie Craddick, though he could easily have been the ghost of Mickey Craddick.
    The man marched Barry across to Donnie. ‘He’s here, Mr Craddick.’
    ‘Thanks, Roche,’ said Donnie. He didn’t turn to face Barry. ‘You’ve met Steve Roche already,