Night Spiders: Another Joey Netherhill thriller

By Russell Watson

How is Joey so different from the other characters you have read about?
The reason is that Joey himself is writing his story. As you read you instinctively know his hopes, his fears, his loves, his hates. There’s nothing about this man you don’t know. If he is confused, you are confused. If he is attracted to someone you well and truly know it. You will be with him right through every encounter. And when he faces danger – you face it together.
This is not your typical story written about some fictitious Hollywood hero. This is a story written in the own words of the hero himself

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483547701

Book preview

Chandler

Prologue

It's another fucking lousy South Coast night. The driving rain is making it almost impossible for me to see through the windshield of my dilapidated jalopy. I just wish that I could get back up North and attend to the prick that had sold it to me second-hand. Second-hand? It wasn't the first time I had wondered just how many hands it had been. I have to admit though I didn't really have time to do a 'due diligence' on it. I was too busy trying to keep my arse intact.

But that's another story.

Although it was late, and although I fucking-well knew that a storm was due to sweep in from the South-West, and against the advice from that little prick who lives just behind my frontal lobe, I decided to take the mountain short-cut back to the city and my tiny godforsaken flat. Did I say that I was new to the area and had never taken this way before? Well the main road from the Big House lead through the sleepy village of Poolemouth - which tonight was not so sleepy - and I was definitely not in the mood for any confrontations I might encounter there. So I was playing safe. For the time being.

The tumult was so bad that I could now see a bow-wave form ahead of me and a speedboat wash either side. I almost missed the Ute stuck in the ditch at the roadside. No exhaust puffing away. No side or headlights. I stopped and reversed so my driver-side window was next to its passenger-side. No point in having to get out in this deluge.

Why do I bother?

Well may you ask. I can't help it. It's in my nature. More times than not it gets me into one barrow-load of crap. But that's me. For once I'm the one that just has to suck it up. So I manage to get the faulty electrics of this heap of rust that I'm driving to jerk down my window about two inches. I then assist it a bit further by hand.

'Everything OK?' I shout across.

Nothing. No reply. Fuck! I'm going to have to get out. I very reluctantly half-open my door and kind of sit there wondering if I should bother my bum with this situation. A deserted tray-truck? So what? Could be dozens of them lying all over the place in a night like this, all with blown electrics. And I will be soaked through the moment I put a foot out into the mud that awaits me. The vehicle is dead and deserted. But I hesitate.

A white bland face surfaces at the window opposite, its image distorted by the temporary water-wall running down the curved glass. I stare at it trying to figure what it's doing there. A misshapen hand appears to grab a handful of its dark hair, and the face disappears downward and away from my sight. My glove compartment falls open at the press of a keyless button, and I grab the triple-battery flashlight – the kind that burly security guards with low hairlines use. Now I ignore the downpour and stand next to the window. I shine the beam of light into the Ute’s bench seat.

I don't like what I see.

'Are you OK?' I shout.

One middle finger appears at the window.

'That's not very nice,' I yell this above a rumble of thunder. I’m now very wet – and more than a little miffed.

'Get to fuck or I'll tear your fuckin' throat out,' says a thick guttural voice.

'That's not very nice either,' I mutter, mainly to myself, and with a solid movement I smash in the window. I don't wait for a reaction. I reach inside, past the head stuffed down onto the plastic seat, catch the recessed inside handle, and yank open the door. A semi-naked girl slumps forward with her groggy head now hanging off the side of the seat. Behind her an ugly brute of a half-man has impaled himself well into her backside. I don't wait for him to get himself free. I lean over the limp body of his victim and into the cabin. I give him a heavy one to the left temple with my torch. His head drops onto the girl's slender back like a coconut from a palm. I grab her by the armpits and haul her free of the brute. I hope I've just broken his dick. I get the half-conscious teen into my passenger seat with more than a little effort. GBH is written clear across her face. I slap her awake.

'Your car?' I ask.

She takes her time to reply. 'No. Not mine,’ she slurs.

'Good. Go to sleep.' I say. She closes her dark eyelids.

I go back out to the Ute and light a match in the shelter of the open petrol filler tube. The latent vapour ‘whumps’ alight instantly. Like it says on the firework instructions, I retire immediately. The sleeping ugly is about to get a wake-up call.

I shove my mostly stripped gearbox into second, and urge the heap away from the coming conflagration. I have no sympathy for the rapist inside that motor. I don't care whether he lives or dies. His wellbeing or otherwise is of no consequence to me. He took his chance and he blew it. Whatever happens now, one way or the other, it is all over for him. The police will follow the fire-brigade to find out the cause of the blaze. Dead or alive they'll find him. The girl will have reported the rape by then - I'll make sure of that. So he'll either be arrested or burned to a matchstick. Either way he will be dead to me - as though he never existed. And I’ll not think twice about what has just happened.

And another poisonous spider had just been crushed underfoot.

Around the next bend, still shrouded in a lowering mist, I see two different things: the welcoming lights of a country pub from where this poor creature must have been doped and abducted - and three walking-dead coming from it to join in the fun.

I accelerate as hard as the few working cylinders under the bonnet will allow, and steer straight for them. I think I bounce one off my already dented hood, and scatter the rest. Then I drive into the oblivion of the long night to come.

Chapter 1

She walked into my den as though she owned the place, not me. She had swanked past my PA Vanda, without a 'how do you do', then stood in front of my desk - hand on hip. My past flashed in front of my eyes. Was this someone I had slighted in another life? Would her next move be to take out a 'Saturday night special' and give me a couple to the chest? But her face was unfamiliar. I took a breath.

'How can I be of service, ma'am.' I know it was lame. Best I could do.

She looked around a found my leather client's chair. Uninvited she sat herself down in it. Now came my real sigh of relief. In olden-day terms she was not going to plug me. She did look like a real class act. From her scarlet-red lips and short blond hair, down past her hound's tooth suit with too-short skirt, to her shapely legs and designer shoes, she was the whole package. But her attitude was arrogant, and that of a face that had never been smacked. Or smacked hard enough. The silver spoon still ghosted near her mouth. I noticed that Vanda had come in behind her and stood with arms-crossed at the doorway. She mouthed OK ? to me. I nodded and she left.

She eyed me from the Queen Anne. She crossed her legs with the swish of nylon and took a small compact from her Gucci handbag. From it she took a black cigarette, lit it, and blew a whiff of blue mist towards me. It was like a flirtation. But still rude.

'Mind if I smoke?' She asked pointlessly.

'Go for your life,' was my equally mindless reply.

'I'm being stalked,' she began.

'So go to the police,'

'Useless wankers.'

I didn’t disagree with that.

'Why me?'

'I've been told you're good.’

'I am. But I can't help you.'

'I can pay.'

'Doesn't matter. I still can't help you. Only the law can do that. This is for free, Miss. Get a restraining order and if that fails, gets yourself a wee gun.'

She shuffled nervously, as though weighing up what to say - how much to tell. I'd seen it all before. Behind that well made-up face there was a dirty-depth and probably a dirty deed. Instinctively I did not like this lady. She oozed trouble.

‘It’s my ex, Mister Netherhill.’

‘It often is.’

‘He is a very nasty piece of work.’

‘They usually are.’

‘You are a cold bastard.’

‘I often am.’

She changed her crossed legs from one to the other. I’d fallen for that one quite a few times before. The skirt was an inch higher.

‘I need someone like you. Someone tough-enough to handle him.’

‘You want him killed?’ My sarcasm was obvious. Maybe it would jilt something useful out of those ruby lips.

‘I want him stopped, Mister Netherhill. That’s all.’

‘What’s he been up to?’

‘Do you want it ‘dot-point’ or the whole print-out?’

‘Just the facts, ma’am. Just the facts.’

‘He owns the Pink Pussy night club.’

‘That’s original.’

She ignored me and went on. ‘That’s where I met him: white Tux, black bow-tie, he looked the goods. I thought he’d be good for a fling. You know? Nothing serious.’

‘You were slumming it.’

‘That’s nasty.’

‘I can be like that.’

‘I was over it after a couple of months, but he had got it into his fucking head that he owned me. He arrived at my home in Bassett about two in the morning.’

‘Home?’ I interrupted. ‘In Bassett? Palace you mean.’ She knew what I meant.

‘Not quite. It is big, but it’s daddy’s place, not mine.’

Poor little rich brat.

‘I made the mistake of letting him in. My boyfriend was with me.’

‘For fuck’s sake. Miss. You don’t waste much time, do you?’

‘Harrington. Miss Harrington. Life’s too short, Mister Netherhill. In any case the new boyfriend was an old one recycled. Nothing serious. Just a fill-in.'

'Let me guess - until you find your true love?'

'Well, at least one who doesn't have a face that looks like a Halloween cake that's been dropped on the floor.'

'The Ex made a mess of him, did he?'

'Sure did. Didn't touch me though. I pulled one of daddy's shotguns on him and he went off to think.’

'That would do the trick.'

'Not for long. That was only the start.'

'Bunny in the boiling pot?' I didn't sound serious.

'You really are a prick, Netherhill, aren’t you?'

'Been called worse, ma'am.'

'I can't imagine what. I really would like to know what that would be. Save it for after. Well since then I've been followed night and day by either him or one of his boys. My fucking phone didn't stop ringing until I threw it in the river. Sugar in the petrol-tank. Tires slashed a couple of times. Electrical box switched off in the middle of the night. Fake photos of me posted on my Facebook. You know the kind, my face carefully photo-shopped on to some other whore having a dog up her. Not a good social leg-up.'

'No violence, though?'

'What the hell do you want. Mister Netherhill? A beaten girlfriend look? Bruises?'

'So he just beats up the men in your life - like me, for instance?'

'So you are interested?"

I slipped a fresh pad over to her with my cheapest biro. I lost so many of them that I decided to flood the market until they started coming back.

'I’m going to get us a couple of hot blacks. You write down his name, his address, his description and how much you can come up with. OK? Plus a few of your own stats would come in handy.'

'OK, Honey. But you can take anything of mine down all by yourself if you really really want.'

Chapter 2

I knew I had to be careful with this one. This was one of the real tough guys; the type you don't mess with. His name was Benny Madinni - maybe an alias to make him sound Italian? Make him sound Mafia? He was obviously a vicious brute, and a vindictive one too. I figured that what all this was really about was 'face'. He had to show his boys that no one fucked with him and got away with it. I still hadn't worked out my strategy when I arrived at the Pink Pussy. What a fucking name, eh? Miss Harrington had indeed made be an offer that Vanda couldn't refuse. Being the real boss of the operation she didn't leave me any option but to fuckin’-well get on with it. So here I was.

The girl in the box-office took a fifty off me for the privilege of entering the joint. She did tell me, however, that it would be credited to the cost of any personal entertainment I requested. I figured what that one meant. Inside it was dimly lit but OK. I don't know what I expected, but certainly not something that actually looked like a night-club: a small stage, little table with little lamps, a classy bar with a bartender in a white tux - and waitresses in bunny outfits with long legs and black stockings. The joint was popular, with almost every table taken, and mostly with heterosexual couples. I took myself a bar stool and ordered a large single malt and a pony chaser. Almost immediately I was joined by a stunningly attractive blond in an expensive looking evening dress. Her face had a complexion that looked as though I had never seen the light of day.

'Buy a poor working-girl a drink, Mister?' She got right into it.

'You don't look poor to me, Honey.'

'So just how do I look, Big Boy?'

'I like what I see. What is it you’re having?'

'It's an 'Auld Alliance'.'

I knew exactly what that meant. I had spent the worst years of my life north of Hadrian's Wall and with a wife who should have made some hairy Scots dick happy instead of me. The drinks name came from the fact that both the Scots and the Frogs hated the English. So the drink was an obnoxious concoction of some French shit and Scotch. Maybe Champagne? Ugh! I ordered one for her and was surprised to see it served in a high-ball glass filled with bubbles. I thought the Scotch would have put an end to those. But there you go.

'Thanks, Mister.'

Thanks indeed. It fucking-well cost me a day’s pay.

'Do you want to go upstairs now, or have a chat first?'

'Maybe a chat?'

'I'm yours till your fifty runs out, then we're on the clock, OK?

Then she said something that opened things up for me. "You are John Smith, aren’t you?'

‘How did you guess?’

‘You’re all John Smith on these stools.’ She spoke with super-confidenc.

‘How so?’

‘Don’t be naïve.’

A three piece combo hidden at one side of the stage, struck up, and out tramped a scantily dressed showgirl. She strutted around for a couple of circuits, blowing kisses to the audience and attracting attention, then began a serious of slow controlled gymnastics and contortions. She was good. And so was her glued-on costume. Everything was strictly legal.

‘You look as though you’re ready for some upstairs, Mister Smith,’ she whispered, with a sexy smile and a knowing flash of her eyes. During this brief period that I was making my acquaintance with this cracker, two other Smiths had come to the bar and just as effortlessly had been joined by another two backless beauties.

‘How much and to who?’ I asked, still trying to work out where I was going.

‘Is this your first time here?’ she asked quite pleasantly, like a nurse to a guy who was aimlessly wandering the corridors. I decided to wander some more.

‘I was recommended,’ I lied.

‘Of course you were, Lover-Boy. All clients are recommended. But OK, I’ll explain how things work and I’ll use words of one syllable so’s you’ll get it first time.’

‘Go on.’

‘Think of me as your guide. I know why you’re here, you know why you’re here. All we have to do is match you to the girl of your choice. And you’ll find we have quite a few on offer. The cost? Well that depends on your choice and the looks of the girl. If she looks twenty that will be two hundred. Nineteen will be three.’

‘Looks?’

‘Oh yes, Mister Smith, all our girls are over eighteen.’ She winked. She definitely winked.

‘So what age does your youngest look like?’

‘You don’t look well-enough dressed to afford them,’ she said cheekily. ‘The younger–looking are all very popular with the naughty boys.’ She emphasised the word naughty.

As we jousted, another mug wandered in and took himself to a free bar-stool. He looked more hapless than me- if that were possible. It occurred to me that I must just had accidently taken the seat that had been booked for his ass. I had to move quick before my companion noticed her mistake.

‘Let’s go then, ‘I said.

‘OK, Buster. You’re the boss.’

I was fairly sure she hadn’t noticed the extra guy as she led me away from the bar.

‘We going to the VIP room?’ I asked. I tried to sound like a nerd at his first stag.

She opened the door to a very expensive-looking lift: gold, glass and velour. She smiled knowingly.

‘VIP rooms,’ she corrected with a sassy smile.

The lift slid effortlessly upward and seemed to bypass at least two floors. It came to a smooth stop and this time the doors slid apart all by themselves.

And there was my surprise.

Chapter 3

Lisa Harrington breezed past Vanda for the second time. and pushed into my office. I can’t say unannounced, although her blunt entrance would have suggested so. She had, in fact, made and appointment – if you could call ‘I’m coming round now’ an appointment. But who were we to argue? She was coming with a cheque. And that’s what saved her from a clocking from Vanda whose eyes were glowing like a minor devil.

She was quite a dish and dressed as though she was going to the race-track: wide-brimmed hat, white gloves and heels, and a white suit trimmed in black. Her necklace, earrings bracelet and finger rings said ‘money’. I could see why Benny-boy had been real miffed a getting dumped by this broad. But I did have him figured straight. It was all about show for him. All about face. All about ‘see what happens if...’ to those around him.

‘It’s stopped,’ was her opening.

‘I thought it might.’

‘How did you do it? I was sure I was sending you on a suicide mission.’

She took off an ornamental stole and threw it over the back of my guest chair. She sat herself on the corner of my desk. Her perfume was heady. Her bum filled the tailored skirt to perfection. She dangled her legs like a teen. Then she went into her purse, took out a gold, onyx-inlaid cigarette case and a slim envelope. She offered me a cigarette. I politely refused. She offered the envelope. I politely didn’t refuse that. She lit up and blew the smoke from her first deep drag directly into my face. I didn’t flinch. It smelled like new-mown hay - on fire, of course.

‘There’s a bonus in there for you,’ she said with a smirk. I hoped it would be an extra nought – and not a pack of condoms. I took a peek. It was an extra nought.

‘OK, Buster, spill the beans. Just how did you get the bastard to stop?’

‘You know,’ I began, ‘It’s like a magic trick. You think it’s great – unbelievable even – until you know how it’s done. Then you think you could’ve done it yourself.’

‘So what you’re saying is ‘go fuck yourself’.’ She feigned a hurt look. It wasn’t convincing.

‘Of course not. What I am saying though, is what I did was not strictly legal, and the fewer that know what that was - the better. And, of course, as General Kitchener once said – that means you.’

‘Kitchener? Some cook? Never heard of him. Have it your own way. I’m happy. I hope you are.’ She changed tack quicker than a Maxi in the Americas Cup. ‘So is this it?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I see the way you look at me. It can’t finish just like that. You can’t keep sending signals to a girl then drop her.’

‘So what am I supposed to do?’

‘You’re supposed stop perving my legs and ask me for a date. Then we go out together, have fun, and see if we match.’

‘And then if we do, I’ve got Mister Madinni to deal with all over again. Sorry, Babe, but no deal. I’ve seen firsthand how he operates, and once was enough. Let’s call it quits while we’re both still ahead.’

‘Then how about one for the road?’ She was some piece of work. She slid down from the desk leaving most of the skirt behind. She did have the most shapely legs and the most shiny self-support stockings. I was a sucker for those.

And she was a sucker for something elase.

Chapter 4

It took about fifteen seconds after Miss Harrington left before Vanda burst into my