The Shadows: Priest Lies Down

By John Rigg

Alex Priest laughs a lot but he is in a deep hole and not only his life depends on him finding a way out. He's a drug dealer whose rich customers are being poached by a new organisation, and that firm doesn't stop at threats. They are ready to kill him, his sweet wife and his friends.

Alex lives by a code, and it's this which slowly leads him into situations he cannot control. He sells drugs to a select clientèle, his world is limited to the bars he visits, his customers and his wife. It is a quiet life punctuated by the visits he has to make to his supplier, the disturbing Mr Browning.

The main characters are Karen, Alex's moody but beautiful wife; Rocco, a seedy bar owner; Cooney, a larger-than-life dealer; and Estelle, Cooney's voluptuous wife and the owner of another bar; Browning, the bird-like dealer; Gerry, Alex's only friend; Cophlan, a small time creep; and Ross, the darkness from out of town.

The Shadows: Priest Lies Down is a thriller unlike any you have ever read....believe it. What happens when a guy finds himself in a world he cannot control? What does it mean to have a loaded pistol thrust into your mouth? that's what you'll discover in this first instalment of the Priest series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Rigg
• Release date: Apr 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310612848

John Rigg

Been so long that I don’t remember anything much...

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Judge as you would be judged.

This idea lay somewhere within

Priest’s thoughts. Unfortunately,

he was not born with the gift of

self-knowledge.

1

The city lay quiet under the dull, afternoon sun, an anonymous dreary hell where people who found dark holes to hide in felt lucky. Alexander Priest was out on the street. He was feeling uneasy; he could feel eyes following his every movement.

He looked over his shoulder. He saw Freddy making his way toward him, short legs carrying Freddy forward faster than seemed right; people called him King Freddy though no one could say why. Priest watched his rocking gait; wondering how he stayed upright, how he managed to keep from falling into the road. He felt like grabbing the guy and keeping him far from the curb, but just watched as poor Freddy stumbled, tripping over the paving; watched him catch himself just in time to pull his body up and come on, faster than ever, down the street.

Where’re you running Freddy?

You, Alex. Need to talk.

Priest looked down at the slight frame in front of him as it gasped for air.

I’m not a charity worker, Freddy. You have a need, you have to pay.

I pay, don’t I? When didn’t I pay?

Last time… You didn’t pay the last time.

I’m here right now to see about that. The money’s all here in my pocket. You want to see it here and now?

He reached inside his jacket but Priest stopped him and motioned for him to follow. Where could they go? This kind of deal had to be carried out with care and it didn’t matter how much was involved, one slip and the drug squad would take him in with smiles on their faces and satisfac¬tion in their minds. Gerry’s place was near, but to go there would end up being more expensive than this deal was worth. Gerry had a way of looking at you that let you know what he wanted and made it difficult to refuse him. Something difficult to explain in that, but he just had a knack: joints would get rolled, lines of white powder disappear.

That was out. Pretty boy James was ideal but he was out of town that day; he would have stood by with those big empty eyes of his and somehow just not see anything of what went on. He was living in another dimension, that’s how Priest rationalised it. Then it came to him: Rocco’s Bar. Rocco had rooms up above and wouldn’t give them any shit as he’d be too busy with business himself. He was a good pal, the type that met you with a smile, a Humphrey Bogart kind of smile, through his cigarette-stained teeth. He’d come up to you and throw a hand on your shoulder and ask how things were. Rocco had the sharpness of the Italian blood that flowed through his veins. Priest led the way with Freddy moving around sort of itchy at his side.

2

Rocco watched them come in and his eyes narrowed. Priest was looking for the smile to spread out and give them the big welcome but there was nothing doing. Rocco was looking down, keeping his eyes on the glasses he was setting out on the shelves, but he was taking too long over it. Priest looked around the bar. No one. Nothing in sight.

You’re not overcome at seeing me, Rocco? Why would that be?

Rocco looked up, his eyes held something tight within, he gave out a hard, brittle smile of greeting that was worse than the silence before it.

Can we go upstairs?

Rocco shrugged and then said okay with a jerk of his head in the direction of the stairs. Priest couldn’t figure him out. The contempt in that sudden jerk of the head fighting for dominance with an equally violent sneer. Something was eating our Rocco and that was for sure. His silence had been eloquent, but Priest hated this mystery stuff and went for people who were more in the habit of being plain, using words, revolutionary stuff like that.

They got up into the rooms and Freddy let out a deep breath, looking at Priest with wondering eyes and getting ignored not for the first time. He took out his money and laid it down one note at a time on the table. Then he watched as Priest took out the stuff.

You don’t use it here. Understand. You take it some place.

Freddy looked at him hard, thought some thoughts, then thought better of sharing them. He was going when Priest stopped him.

You’re okay, Freddy. It’s nothing to do with you. Okay.

Sure. Thanks an’ all that. I’ll leave you to your friend.

With that Freddy cleared out of there and left Priest to sit down and look round Rocco’s flat. The place wasn’t much. Priest’s thoughts were torn from this desperate conclusion by the sound of steps slowly mounting the stairs. He could hear the tiredness in that slow and painful progress, waiting patiently, noting the pauses, staying quiet in himself. So someone was coming up the stairs, some guy…that was for sure. So this guy was standing now…just back from the door. Priest was okay, simple and clean, sitting where he was. No sudden panic from him. He was getting a smile ready, an open-hearted gesture for all comers. But then he knew it was Rocco standing out there breathing heavy. He could always be wrong but what would that change? Where would that put him? Whoever it was, wasn’t hiding. Priest heard a match being struck, then a stream of smoke came through the door, billowing out. Rocco came in through it, the cigarette in his mouth, the packet in his hand.

Smoke?

Priest looked him close in the eye, his look meeting nothing as Rocco moved round the room, looking elsewhere, looking for something. Suddenly, he shot Priest a questioning look to which Priest slowly shook his head. Priest knew it was no good speaking, just had to let him move around, let him be till he came to rest. He was like a wild animal, try and touch him, even with a smile, and he’d take off. Priest was sort of surprised all this time, tried looking away to figure it out, nothing came from that. Rocco was up in flames.

I best be going.

You a friend or what?

I’m a friend.

Priest was taken back by the challenge, saw now that he was safe.

You want to talk about it or what?

He don't want to talk to no one.

Priest swung round to take in the shape of a creep hanging in the doorway, a guy dressed in a new suit a couple of sizes too big for him, a guy trying to talk tough and not making it.

Do you Rocco, baby? You don't need to talk to anyone ever again. Right?

Priest kept his eyes tight on the creep; here was a creature he didn't like too much. Then he asked Rocco:

This a friend of yours?

Rocco didn't get a chance to answer; the new guy was taking all the leads.

We're big buddies, we are. One big happy family.

Rocco broke away and made for the stairs. He wasn't saying anything, just leaving them a back to stare at. Priest turned to stare cold and long at the creep. The creep introduced himself.

Name's Cophlan. Wanted to see your face, nice of you to drop by.

Priest didn't talk to strangers and just let the hint of a smile touch his mouth as he walked for the stairs.

You think your cute. Right.

Priest didn't even bother to look round when the guy suddenly raised his voice.

Hey! No more using this place for your deals. You hear me.

Priest reached the bar where Rocco was busy behind the counter, keeping himself to himself, and just kept right on going for the door. Rocco looked up for a moment, something like hurt in his eyes. Priest kept his eyes on him just long enough to see his friend shrug. Hey! What was there to do?

3

Priest hit the streets again with the feeling his day was taking on a truly heavy air. He was a dealer of hard drugs with a select group of customers, King Freddy a needy exception who he chose to keep happy. His customers were mostly friends from way back, plus a few newcomers who had got introductions and could be trusted. He made a living out of it, but he was the one who always took the risks, and he never got greedy.

It wasn't a complex operation: he had a connection nearby who supplied all their needs. The connection's name was Browning, a respectable looking guy with a terribly nice accent. He made regular visits to Northern Italy under the guise of stamp collector, attended stamp fairs, auctions, or just visited shops, even bought and sold a little to satisfy the curious. He brought the stuff through himself, travelling by car or train, never by air. He said he was afraid of flying.

Browning was a lucky find, but not easy to get on with: he was a recluse with strange ways about him. Priest disliked his visits to the man's flat. He had a visit scheduled that day.

A metallic click signalled the door’s unlocking and Priest pushed his way into the building. He hesitated there on the threshold trying to throw off the weakness in his heart. To confront this man and complete the transaction would cost very little to either party; it was the meet¬ing, the coming together that grated.

Browning lived on the top floor out of five, there was no lift, and any visitor was bound to be weakened with the climb; and many felt that was Browning's motive in choosing his abode. Priest stood before the door, catching at his breath, listening to his heart pound, shuddering involuntarily at having the sensation of something in flight, above, through him. The door opened and Browning stood smiling, eyebrows raised above dull staring eyes that had already caught all of Priest’s discomfort.

You look somewhat discomposed old chap. Please come in.

Thanks.

Priest had learned to be silent. Silence was a habit so easy to fall into.

If looks could kill, eh? Old man.

Browning was amused. He had a talent for irony; though, of course, he was not communicating with others but with himself. In fact, as Priest was now discovering, his amusement was even more disturbing than his habitual curtness. Priest felt stranded as he followed his man down the corridor and into his study. Each look cast upon him by that creature seemed to screech with laughter.

We can assume the usual, I suppose.

That’s it.

Browning turned a questioning look in his direction and Priest was forced to nod anxiously, his words having been inadequate to communicate his agreement. He followed the other’s hawkish movements about the room without thought or movement. Finally he lifted his garments and undid a few but¬tons of his shirt so as to take off his money belt. Pulling it round his body, he felt it snag somewhere and pulled harder. The belt came free but left him, his clothes, in complete disarray, which Browning had the good taste to note and dismiss almost instantaneously, though refusing to touch the belt hastily offered to him.

Perhaps you could do that; soiled it may be, but surely not...

He cut himself off in mid-sentence, the words floating away as though said loud and clear but to another audi¬ence. Priest looked upon his connection as he wrote down the details of the transaction in a ledger; his thin arms bent over the task, fragile, skeletal in their bird-like movements. As he watched, he felt his heart pound again; breathed deeply, noisily, but only felt worse. He placed the money on the desk near the ledger. Browning clucked and took it up in his hands, counting quickly, and then placed it in a drawer.

Just for the moment.

Give me the stuff? I’m not about to rob you.

You’re always in such a hurry, my friend. Besides, peo¬ple talk; don’t you?

Priest felt it better to keep his silence rather than allow this monster to press its claws into his mind, seeking as always to wound, draw blood. He understood that much about Browning. Browning in his turn hated Priest for his hypocrisy, the silent condemnation of himself, the feigned horror at any contact between them. He might disdain to touch some garment, some underclothing of this man, but he would at least enter into polite discourse. What was the ba¬sis for this man’s self righteousness? Were they not in the same depraved business, feeding on the same weakness of others? What made this 'Priest', the word filling his mind with a sneered shout of incredulity, better than him? Watching him as he hid the drugs he would sell about his person, secreted in the most surprising places, Browning had the most disturbing inclination to kiss, felt the desire well up within, grow and grow, till it reached and swelled his lips. If only Priest knew, he thought, as he showed him to the door and silently closed him out.

Priest had to reach his stash. Browning had been too strange for words, something was up, he had felt that. The last minutes he was there it had screamed itself into his mind. The business at Rocco's bar had been tough…and that creep in the suit.

It had left his nerves a little raw, now they were reaching fever pitch. He’d have dumped the stuff but that would finish him, now, then, any time. That kept him going in a bee line for his stash. Had that bastard Browning squealed on him? Phoned in? Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. He was being an id¬iot, an amateur; if they were watching, he was leading them straight to his heart. The thought sank in his mind. Browning’s presence was still with him, inside him. Priest felt his balance going; he held on to himself, on to a wall. He’d go to see Cooney.

Cooney’d settle it. He'd make a dummy run and drop an empty parcel in a place long since given up to rats and the like, and that would leave Priest free to make a clean run. They had that agreed and Cooney would never go back on that; however much of a slug head he was. He started off again, looking for a taxi, stepping into the street.

Hey!!

4

He sat looking at the back of the driver’s neck, studying the hairs that grew there. Was he a plant, a policeman or was he just a guy doing his job? He didn’t seem too interested, just sat there driving, turning the corners. Wasn’t one for chatter, kept to himself, kept himself locked up and far away. Ask him a question and it tortured his face, looked like a stroke victim, talked through the side of his mouth, made every word sound like his last. Nothing personal, he seemed to say, but leave me out of it, okay. I’m doing just fine, thanks…I’ll take you where you’re going. And good day to you.

Priest sat back and looked out of the taxi windows. People. Shop fronts. Constant movement. People locked up in themselves rushing some place; people thinking hard about buying; people just looking nowhere in particular.

Nothing there for Priest. He looked back at the cabby. Looked about the taxi. Through the window again. Caught sight of a pair of lightning legs, some dream striding out, like she was moving in front of cam¬eras. Some pair of legs! The cabby wasn’t looking where he was going for a moment. Then she was gone, back into the mass.

"Leave me here, all right. I can make it round the corner.

The guy pulled over and stopped, sat a moment studying the meter. Then twisted round slow.

"That’s the score.

He pointed at the fare and Priest handed him the money; then after fumbling with the door, he got out. Out on the pavement he wobbled for a moment, surprised to hear his heart beat in his head. He had to calm down and let things happen.

People jostled him, eager to get by.