Terminal Black
A stolen identity. A hitman. A bent cop.
Relic Black takes things that don’t belong to him—credit cards, golf clubs, toothbrushes. But when a hitman mistakes him for someone else, Relic lands himself in a difficult situation. With a dead man on his hands and a guilty conscience, he sets off to save the life of the man whose identity he has stolen. And that’s when the real trouble starts…
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Excerpt from Terminal Black for Celticlady's Reviews
Having taken a hotel room for the night as part of his spending spree, Relic Black treats himself to a sit-down meal in a nearby restaurant. But a clash with one of the other diners will have repercussions for both men later:
Deepak’s Dansak Paradise, Drummond Street, Inverness
There are three Indian restaurants within the space of a few hundred yards. Relic chooses the one with the turquoise decor. Not that he especially likes turquoise, but it's more aesthetically pleasing to his semi-cultured eye than the others. The music's authentic too—not that meaningless poptastic crap most of these places pump out, but bona fide Indian melodies. Apart from the owner, the staff are mostly pure-bred Scots and make no pretence at Indian accents, though he'll forgive the cultural failing if the food's okay.
Waiting for his main course, he orders a bottle of JP Chenet Vin Blanc. Probably should have gone for the Indian beer, but the odd shape of the Chenet bottle always amuses him and he quickly helps himself to a second glass. Gazing around, he studies the other customers—the young couple at the next table who're already half-cut, the elegant, dark-haired woman on her own in the booth who keeps glancing at the door (probably a blind date), and the smart-looking table-for-one guy over by the window, staring intently at his phone (Billy-no-mates, for sure).
When the main course arrives, Relic allows the waiter to serve, noting the slight tremor of the young man's hand as he transfers food from the hot plate. The chicken smells amazing and he vows to take his time, savouring every mouthful. He starts to eat, grateful Lindsey isn't sitting opposite him banging on about all the reasons why they should call it a day.
Two women come into the restaurant. He watches them surreptitiously while they wait to be allocated a table. One of them looks over and gives him a shy smile. Maybe they'd be up for a threesome? Aye, right. Might do for a fantasy later, but let's be honest, it ain't ever going to happen. Not with his luck. And now he feels bad for even considering such sordid behaviour when he's got a perfectly good woman ready and willing to go the whole nine yards with him, if only he’d be happy being Mr Normal-and-Boring.
He takes his time, enjoying the food. Wonders if he should use the card or pay cash. Nah. Palfreyman's good for it. As he's leaving a trail anyway, he might as well leave an interesting one.
The guy by the window is drinking water. Or vodka. No. Definitely water. He'd be rolling in the aisle by now the way he's chucking it back. He's dressed expensively. Armani suit? Maybe an executive. Could have just finished work, or a left-over from a wedding party. Who gets married on a Friday? The guy’s face is familiar, too. An actor? Someone off the telly? Starring in that new play at Eden Court, maybe. Relic speculates further, wondering what lurks behind the silent facade. As he watches from behind his half-full glass, the man stands, looks directly at Relic and heads towards him. Relic turns his head and studies the patterns on the wallpaper. The guy walks past and on into the toilets beyond.
He relaxes a little, wondering why he's worrying about a stranger who happened to glance at him. Leaning back, he stretches his legs and finishes off the wine.
The waiter with the tremor comes over and asks if sir would like anything else. Relic shakes his head and says he'll just have the bill, thanks. As the young man starts around the table, the guy from the window exits the toilets and trips over Relic's outstretched leg, pitching forward, sprawling in a heap on the ground.
Relic half stands. ‘Christ, sorry mate—’ he starts. But the man's on his feet in an instant, glaring at him.
‘Watch yer boots, mannie, or I'll gie yer summat ter think aboot, right?’ His voice is hard and tense, with a fair spoonful of aggression thrown in. Not the cultured executive Relic imagined.
‘Aye, I'm sorry,’ he says again.
Window Man strides away, giving him a caustic glance over his shoulder before sitting back down.
Relic manages a dopey grin for the waiter, who's clearly not experienced in dealing with such outbursts.
‘Sorry. Big feet.’
Later, he'll recall this incident as some kind of omen and wonder if those few seconds of eye contact saved his life.
Colin Garrow grew up in a former mining town in Northumberland. He has worked in a plethora of professions including: taxi driver, antiques dealer, drama facilitator, theatre director and fish processor, and has occasionally masqueraded as a pirate. All Colin's books are available as eBooks and paperback.
His short stories have appeared in several literary mags, including: SN Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Word Bohemia, Every Day Fiction, The Grind, A3 Review, 1,000 Words, Inkapture and Scribble Magazine. He currently lives in a humble cottage in North East Scotland where he writes novels, stories, poems and the occasional song.
He also makes rather nice cakes.
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