It
wasn’t like Frankie to be late. He was usually so reliable that he was someone
you could set your watch or even mobile phone by. Indeed, why not text or phone
call? Paul felt a deep sense of unease as the minutes ticked by as he sat in
the T Hive nursing a large cappuccino and gazing wistfully at the luscious
cakes at the serving counter. But it was only 10.30 in the morning no time for
a cake; maybe an almond croissant …. But where on earth was Frankie?
The
door lurched open and a dishevelled Frankie staggered in and sat down clumsily
and heavily in the chair next to Paul.
-
Pheeeww!
-
Frankie?
Frankie
looked at Paul from a bruised and swollen face.
-
What
the fuck happened to you?
-
I
dunno (He shrugged his shoulders and
winced)… Well yeah I got the shit beaten out of me last night…. Or rather early
morning …. In the town centre… Northern Quarter… near Al Faisal…
-
Who
did this to you?
-
It
was too quick to get a good look at them.
-
Them?
-
Them.
There were two of them… A very professional job… Not enough to leave much
damage – a couple of cracked ribs and a pain in the testicles.
Paul
winced in empathy.
-
It
does sound professional.
Frankie
nodded.
-
But
why?
-
Why
Indeed!
