Ripples-Cause and Effect

By Ray Irving

Finding love in your life is wonderful unless you were not looking for it in the first place and a professional killer who needs to remain totally focused. Gaining a family to look after and keep safe can cause mistakes and give your enemies a way to get to you. Who can you trust? How many are out there looking for revenge? Who really are the bosses?

Patrick sits amongst the London commuters each day, he fits in so well, he is invisible. He has his own office and collects his morning newspaper with his mail every day, but he has a secret. He is not a commuter, he is a killer for hire. Suddenly, he is in love, his lady believes he is a commuter in the city but wants more family life. Now with a baby on the way and mistakes bringing the police closer, he needs to escape.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: May 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463318775

Ray Irving

A design engineer, a technology teacher, an actor and now a writer and webmaster, Ray Irving has been writing all his life, from technical, historical, then to poetry and short stories. Currently, he is working on his fiction novels in his office at home. He will never retire.

Book preview

Foreword

The Nightingales

Damon and Jimmy Nightingale were the two brothers who did everything together, from playing football in the terraced streets to stealing cars when they were teenagers. Damon was always the leader and also the tallest, cleverest and strongest of the two, but he was the one who always looked out for his younger sibling.

Being dragged in through the back door of the nightclub, owned and run by the local mob, was their turning point in life.

Now look, kids, we knew your dad and his dad. They were both part of this neighbourhood, our neighbourhood, shouted the large heavy in the tailored suit, directly into the faces of the two frightened teenagers. No crapping on your own doorstep, he shouted with saliva hitting the two boys in their faces.

The two lads turned and looked at each other with some relaxation of their fears, as it sounded likely to be a verbal bollocking, rather than a knee-capping, or worse.

From now on you do what you want on other parishes, but this one you leave alone, do I make myself clear? the heavy now shouted, as he spat his words into their faces again. The boss wants the gold watch you nicked from the bookie, he’s his mate and is very upset with you two.

Oh! Oh shit, we didn’t know he was a friend of yours. We have the watch at home, was gonna return it anyhow, Damon lied.

Bollocks, don’t try conning me, kid, that watch comes back pronto, or your balls will be given to the victim instead. Comprendi?

Yes sir, yes, the watch will be back this afternoon. Jimmy squeaked the reply for both of the nodding brothers. We are really sorry.

Outside the club in the rear car park, the two boys walked away, close to each other, but not looking back. They knew the gang was still watching. Bloody hell Damon, I told ya that bloody watch was a jinx, nobody has a watch like that round here unless they are in the mob, Jimmy shouted as soon as they were out of earshot.

What now, boss? Do we sort them when the watch is returned? The phone handset squeaked into the ear of the man in the large house in the country, drinking whisky as he watched West Ham score a goal on the large new tech’ flat screen on the wall.

Nah, we may use them again. I like the very fact they got the watch in the first place and from Harry, without him even noticing, replied the boss. Don’t hurt them, give them a job to do, say collect this week’s offering from the fish market. But count it and see if they’ve nicked any of it. If so chop ’em a little.

Sure thing, boss, usual ending? The voice added.

The mincer, bones an’ all, replied the boss as the phone clicked dead.

Tell yer what, wouldn’t want those effing pies round here, let the effing tourists ’ave them at the races. They love ’em there, laughed the heavy to his mates, sitting around the back room of the club. Puts me right off ’em, it does.

Chapter One

The Dream of a Killer

The stone falls, spinning in the air with the pull of gravity, passing the clouds and heading towards the centre of the Earth, with only the land or the water to stop its journey. The water cushions its impact. The weak skin holds it for an instant, then throws it back up into the air, only for it to fall again into the centre of the crown it had created with the initial splash.

The ripples of the crown grow in diameter, but weaken in height as they roll out to form the crown’s new nuclear empire, as it changes the surface pattern for just a short while, a glimpse of what could have been. Nothing now can save the stone from sinking, as only the current can now steer it, as it falls towards the ever-changing bed, amongst all the other stones.

Gravity, direction and position now influence the last part of its downward journey towards a new equilibrium, a resting place now to be a new home, to be forgotten and ignored forever.

The bed of the river has many stones, the new arrival nestles within their empire. They accept their new member and together they are soon moving slowly with the water current to a new destination, a new equilibrium further down the stream, where opposing forces are great enough to hold them back.

Where did the stone come from originally?

How did the stone get into the air in the first place, defying gravity?

It’s just the uncontrolled nature of the scene. Nothing out of place, so nobody knows, nobody cares.

It just happened.

Bang!

Annie-the-Beak woke up with a sudden shock. He immediately rolled out of his single bed and lay on the sparse floor, covered with a cheap off-cut of stair carpet between the bed and the window. The curtains were closed and the sun was coming up. He heard the bang again and reached under his bed for his gun.

With just his right hand, he unlocked the safety, pulled back the hammer and slowly pulled out the weapon, so he could rise slowly to investigate the noise outside his front wall. He always hid his revolver under his bed, as he had practised many times with his other, more modern weapon with the magazine in the grip and fifteen rounds available. But he could never ready the weapon with only one hand.

The revolver was the first weapon of choice for this gangster, his brother had taught him well.

He slowly rose to peer under the curtain from one lower edge, trying not to make the cloth form a ripple to attract an intruder’s keen eye from the drape’s equilibrium.

He knew that to get any sort of advantage over his skills, any intruder or attacker had to be better, a professional assassin just like himself. He could still hear creaking, not rubbing, but actual creaking. Footsteps coming towards him sent a chill down his backbone and his neck froze, with the hairs standing on edge.

He took the gun into his two hands and stood up next to the patchy plasterwork of the sidewall, brushed the curtain aside and immediately dropped the hammer back into safety mode and then dropped the gun onto his bare feet, to cushion the impact and thus remain silent.

Hi mate, cold this morning, isn’t it? Can you fill my bucket? Bloody water’s lost its foam, shouted the window cleaner, halfway up his alloy ladder, which was creaking and bending under the man’s weight, cracking each of the pressed and ductile rivets like finger joints.

James Nightingale, known locally as Annie-the-Beak, nodded and opened his plastic framed, double glazed window to collect the half-empty bucket from the window cleaner, as the cleaner himself continued to climb into position to begin cleaning the extruded frame, then the glass. He was now whistling and spinning his window scraper, made from a car’s windscreen wiper.

James relaxed and took the bucket, smiling to himself for suspecting everything that moved in this street. He turned to walk the short distance to his bedroom door and head for the bathroom of the small first floor apartment, over the bookie’s he and his brother had once robbed way back, which overlooked the main road of Dagenham, East London, now with early traffic heading for the car factory down the hill towards the River Thames.

He didn’t hear the thud of the silenced gun as it sent its payload into the back of his head. He was dead before he reached the floor. The bucket fell and bounced over, pouring its contents over the cheap carpet and running across the landing space to drip through the open verticals of the handrail along the top of the staircase. The liquid dripped down towards the locked outside door of the apartment, causing a small puddle of soapy water. The odd soapy red drip of the final spill causing the rebound to form the crown and tiny circular ripples to make their way to the perimeter.

The window cleaner took off only one of his yellow rubber washing-up gloves, worn mainly to stop any fingerprints ending up on the ladder or the window frame and the bucket itself. He leant over and saw the revolver lying next to the wall, leaning on the skirting board. He smirked and started to climb down, after closing the window from outside and leaving it unlatched.

He knew it would be investigated as a professional hit, but that’s what he wanted, proof of his ability. His new agent had just up-graded.

He carried the ladder along the street up to a waiting van with a large roof rack. He placed the ladder and fastened it down with the bungee wires already knotted on the rack. He then walked away, whistling, over the road to a parked brand new red Audi, threw the empty three gallon plastic bucket into the passenger foot-well and drove off in the opposite direction to the major traffic flow. Nobody noticed. No cameras in this street, thanks to the local gang continuously spraying the lenses with black paint.

Thirty minutes later, the outer door for the apartment over the greengrocer’s on the corner opened. Out came a man wearing a faded blue bib and brace worker’s overall and sporting a faded West Ham baseball hat. He walked over to his van and along it to check the ladder was secure. Shaking his head at the missing bucket, which had been fitted by a single multi wrapped bungee hook, he swore and looked around for any scampering kids. He returned to his doorway and entered again, eventually coming out with another bucket that he now fastened to his ladder. The van drove off for a day’s work ahead of him, doing the job he was well qualified for, cleaning the local windows.

That evening he arrived back home, but couldn’t find a parking space in his regular spot. Instead there was a small Astra police car with two police officers sitting in it. He parked his van around the corner, swearing under his breath.

Being totally used to living in an eventful a place as Dagenham, he mentally shrugged his shoulders and headed for his only door, but the two officers were suddenly standing on each side of him and holding his arms.

The next day, a message entered as text on the pay-as-you-go phone.

Good exercise, we agree to your services and fee requirements, read the text message, arriving on the cheap throwaway phone in the killer’s pocket. He felt it vibrate and opened it to read it as he sat on his commuter train, pretending to read his newspaper, much like the rest of the sad looking passengers in the carriage.

Considering his reply, he waited a few seconds, then began tapping the cheap keys. Excellent, use this box number to send details. Victoria box10. Must contain 10K deposit each time. After project, another 10K to same box. Then he tapped the send key and replaced the phone in his pocket.

One stop before Marylebone station, he walked to the end toilet of the carriage and closed the door slowly behind him. He took the phone and opened the back, pulling out the memory card. He then snapped the memory card in half and dropped it into the toilet.

Opening the top window, he broke the inner workings of the phone from their plastic container and dropped each piece out of the window. Some he threw, some he just dropped.

The killer now returned to his seat and opened the newspaper again and smiled to himself. Another day, another dollar.

The police let the window cleaner go the next day. He was swearing at the front desk and threatening them with ‘hearing from my solicitors’, which the desk sergeant ignored completely, with a wry smile on his face.

The victim of the crime turned out to be a known thug from the East-end gangs. He had been suspected of being their hired hitman, though there was never any evidence to prove it. The local gang leaders living out of town in their country mansions were never interviewed and only the fact that the new killer had been very clever in his planned hit meant it was assumed the assassin was the new killer on the block after a successful job interview.

Damon Nightingale, the dead man’s elder brother, was the only person at the funeral besides the paid directors of the parlour. He knew why his kid brother had been hit, he also knew who had ordered it. He was not in the loop when the decision was made, but could see the precarious position his kid brother had put himself in. He must, on the face of it, accept the outcome or be the next target, but what went on in his mind was his business and not shared.

The existing agent now had a superior talent for his planned business expansion out of London. But now he wanted to know more details of his new asset, where the box number was actually located, just in case he needed to upgrade again in the future. His product assets usually had a random shelf life, no fixed sell-by dates, but then again, never long.

Chapter Two

Spider and Webby

I’ve nearly forgot what the lad looks like, he’s up there every evening. Comes home from college and passes the bread bin after extracting half a loaf and a pack of ham from the fridge. Then he’s gone, Mary whispered to her husband Bill, after she heard him shuffle his chair to his desk, causing the ceiling to transfer the sound of the floor being scraped in her son’s bedroom.

He’s probably searching for a girlfriend or boyfriend, leave the lad alone, Bill joked, as an answer back, without even moving his face from the football on their big flat screen.

What d’ya mean, a boyfriend? He’s not gay, he’s as straight as you. Oh! I see what you mean! Mary joked back to see if Bill understood her little dig, as he cheered when a goal was scored and the players cuddled each other on the screen.

There was no rebound to her joke, so she just took it as a silent win in the centre court battle of sarcasm in their long-term relationship.

Up in the boy’s bedroom, Mark was typing even more machine code into his emulator program to add to his new searching model. He loved the buzz when a new subroutine worked and he could fit it into a loop to form a new function. He was in his own world and creating human search characteristics that would be a commercial product one day, or so he hoped.

How’s the prog’ coming, Spider? Jacob Webb asked his best friend, as he slid onto the plastic seat in the refectory at their regular table, near the toilets. Sorted that drop down puller yet? I need it soon, as the page is getting full.

Stop nagging, Webby, it can’t be done quickly, a single mistake and the routine becomes rubbish, Mark replied, without looking up from his ham salad and the old Fortran Four book he was reading. Some good routines in this, they were creating stuff in BASIC and a kid called Eugene was the best, totally off the shelf and still climbing. Wonder what he’s doin’ these days, he mumbled, without looking up from his creased paperback with many page markers sticking out on the top edge.

Still glued to that old seventies book, eh? Jacob added as he arranged his table area in the regimental manner he did every day. Plate in the centre, knife on the left, fork on the right, spoon with the handle to the left over the top. Drink to the left over the spoon. The mirrored layout of any restaurant table.

Just ’cos you’re a leftie does not mean you can have your own table arrangement. There is a standard layout y’know, Mark whispered again, without even looking up.

Hey, don’t you nag me too. I eat this way, so that’s all there is to be said, Jacob Webb shouted back, loud enough for the table behind to turn and stare.

You two girls, having a row? Shouted a voice from the table behind. Fight, fight, a girly fight, another voice added to the laughter in the room.

Bloody sick of eating here every day, surrounded by morons doing their media studies. Pillocks all of them, studying in a huge crowd so they can queue up in a huge line for a simple job to live on scratchings for pay, ‘Spider’ Mark replied to the laughter, loud enough to be heard on purpose. It’s us making the media, it’s them queuing up to use it. Fucking losers.

Oooh! Bitchy! Shouted the first voice on the other table. Bittttchy! To another round of laughter from faces not smiling as much as before the comment, as they knew he was correct and they were just going with the flow.

Not bloody eating in here anymore. Tomorrow I’m bringing sarnies then walking down to the canal and watching the oldies painting their barges, Spider whispered to his friend who had walked side by side with him to the college from the same school and social background. Tomorrow, bring a packed lunch and a drink.

Won’t that make us look more nerdy, playing into their court for extra comment? Webby replied, quietly so the other table couldn’t hear. I mean sitting in the park, eating sandwiches and sucking a box drink won’t do our image any good.

What fucking image? Dream on, laughed Spider, as he rose to leave the table. Come on pal, Finchy’s lecture will be starting soon, wanna get the front row.

Fucking nerds, that’s just what we are, fucking nerds, smirked Webby as he followed, grabbing his rucksack.

Bye girls, don’t wanna be late for sir, shouted a voice from the media studies table.

You lot wouldn’t like it, it’s got big words and sums in it, laughed Webby as he passed. Stick to your logos and leaflets, it’s about your level of comprehension, he added, as he left the dining room and their now silent table.

The next day the two computer design students wandered off the campus and over the main road to the white stone steps that led down to the old Victorian canal. The simple fact that there was a public house situated next to a stone bridge drew watchers, drinkers, as well as canal boats there.

You go and get two half pints of cola from the bar, then they can’t stop us sitting on their picnic benches in the garden. It’s better than sitting on the mossy stone wall and getting piles, Spider ordered Webby, as he gave him a five-pound note to pay for it. "I’ll get a table and I want the bloody change too, it’ll be your turn tomorrow to pay.

God! You’re a tight wad, Spider, gonna need a spanner to get a fifty pence piece outta your tight fist, joked Webby, as he headed for the pub’s back doors.

The two lads watched the canal boats being washed and painted by the old men who owned them, as their women folk sat drinking tea at the back, near the tillers. The smell of the mossy water was better that the vehicle fumes on the upper road and so the atmosphere was pleasant to all the diners, sitting under the striped umbrellas, over the wooden tables.

You read the sign, fellas? Shouted the waiter as he passed their table with a tray full of empty glasses. It says, no food to be consumed unless purchased from these premises.

How much are your sandwiches then? Webby answered. We may dine here each day from now on, depending on your reply. He said sarcastically.

They start at four quid for the plain ones and can go up to eight quid with a salad garnish, the disgruntled waiter replied, not knowing if they were being sarcastic, or not.

Bloody hell, there’s a lot of profit to be made in the sandwich game eh, Webby, Spider retorted, as he drank the last of his cola. Might just bring a load of homemade sandwiches and flog them to the folk as they walk down here. Make a killing, eh.

The waiter knew he had been beaten and so shouted back the only retaliation he could muster on the spot. Sod off, you evil little half-wits. You’re banned.

Evil little half-wits? Repeated Webby. Does that mean the two of us make a full wit?

C’mon Webby, let’s take our custom elsewhere. Maybe down to the tow path and find a stone seat to perch on. Spider laughed as he pulled up his friend by the arm from the wooden picnic bench. C’mon, I don’t want to go on my own, as I’m only half of a full wit.

But he called me evil? Webby pretended to cry out, to the amusement of the fellow diners in the beer garden. I’m not evil, am I? You would tell me wouldn’t you, if I was evil? Cried Webby, now in full acting mode.

Only the stink you leave in the loo, that’s really evil, laughed Spider, making his way over the lawn and down to the stone steps and then the towpath, with Webby staggering, with crocodile tears.

I’m evil, evil.

The applause from the other diners made him stop, turn and take a huge bow as acclaim for his performance. The barman rushed back through the rear door of the pub, to escape the inevitable booing that would be aimed at him.

The bridge had stone cornices at the bottom, to avoid water ingress and the past old barge ponies scuffing the brickwork with their heavy forged shoes. The two students sat on the corner stone at right angles to each other, as they finished their last sandwich and drank their bottles of supermarket orange squash. They had discarded the idea of a box drink, as they thought about fighting their nerdy look.

Anyhow, apart from being evil, how’s the program coming together? You’re the routine writer and I’m the compiler and the pile is slowing down, Webby declared, as he burped the last drop of liquid from his cheap bottle.

Just hit a snag, that’s all. The algorithm that’s supposed to drop the boxes with content key wording, it’s dropping all the boxes, whatever data is in them, Spider replied, as he moved to miss the smell of his friend’s burp. Need to refine the prompts, to make sure the database doesn’t get full of secret stuff. Only public allowed data means legality, y’know that.

You mean the loop at the moment can access all hidden data? Added Webby. Gotta be a real spy tool, that one.

Don’t be stupid, the first time we use it, their firewall would record us at the door, then they would turn up at our houses with shotguns, or lawyers, Spider laughed, as he drank his juice and nearly choked as he coughed some fizz up through his nose to the amusement of his mate.

Okay, we continue to solve the legal program but let us store the corrupt one separately, just in case one day we need to go searching for incriminating evidence, Webby jumped back in reply to his partner. Just rewrite its title and finish it off as a manual loop, then store it on a memory card for possible help in the future.

Yeah, Okay, but remember in the wrong hands this indiscriminate searching program version is very dangerous and could land you in jail, with big hairy gay blokes after you, Spider added. C’mon, let’s get back, the profs lecturing about global hacking this afternoon, can’t afford to miss that one. He’ll be talking about us.

It’ll be you first with the hairy guy, I can run faster than you, Webby laughed as he screwed up his sandwich wrapper and placed it into his rucksack, nerdy fashion.

It was in 2009 that Mark had got his A-grades in maths and applied science at the sixth form college on the hill, overlooking Slough’s shopping street, with the constant roar of the jets either landing or taking off from Heathrow. Nobody actually took any notice of the planes overhead, they were just part of normal life in this bustling place. Only strangers looked up at the passing jets. To them, they didn’t fit into the scene.

Mark had worked through the high school next door, without joining any cliques, or showing his face in any teams. Always a loner and never the sportsman, he would be the one at the back of the runners, or sitting on the bench with a sick note from his mother. But when it came to mathematics, he was the star of the fast streamers and led the way. The trouble with his achievements, they would never be displayed in the polished cabinet facing the entrance to the school. That was the place for shiny sport trophies only.

In science, he was in the top three and won paper prizes for his innovative lab experiments, especially the remote control of valves and cameras. He had cameras switching on as movement was detected in the lab and the camera would turn to follow the movement. This is a normal technology today, but five years ago it was nearly magic.

He was of course a geek, but not a shy, thin, short geek, wishing for acceptance into youth society and the company of girls. Mark at first ate too many burgers, fries and hot wings to be thin. He played computer games in a society of gamers and was their champion, with a growing number of girls with ’fighting-talk’ handles, finding the world of pixelated simulation to be mental stimulation. The boys didn’t latch on to their new, opposite sex companions. It went completely over their heads. ’Bad Ass’ was never identified as a possible girlfriend, much to the sadness of the actual studious girl, trying to break out of her shell via her keyboard and thumb operated joystick.

Mark had had very few girl friends and they generally wore woolly oversized jumpers and dark rimmed spectacles. He liked them, as he found them so different to explore and so responsive to his attentions. Geeks were becoming the new attraction, after the users of the world began to acknowledge their importance to their own, electronically connected world. The geek world’s giants of technology were becoming the modern-day idols.

University was always on the cards, even though his parents would find it difficult to support him, so he chose to go to the local converted poly-technical college and shuttle back and forth on the bus and train each day to save money and get his meals made and his clothes washed. This kept him out of the university’s evening cliques of bedsit land and the local pubs, so he concentrated on his hobby of computer control.

Beginning with RC planes and cars, he would add a camera and transmitter and control the vehicles with a homemade video headset. He joined an RC flying club which met regularly at weekends on the huge disused car park of an old factory, now half demolished and destined to become yet another hypermarket.

It was Mark who saw the problem of fixed video cameras which only ever looked forward and so lost the panoramic view a human pilot would see. So he pivoted the camera on a ball joint and fixed small solenoid rams to move the camera remotely.

At first, it was too