Reckoning Point, стр. 11

He approached me, Mark Braith. I hadn’t been as invisible as I would have liked. He pulled up a chair, swung it around so the back was at his front, and he straddled it, coolly observing me with blue ice chip eyes.

“Hello,” I stuttered, and stuck my hand out like the other men had.

He laughed, but it wasn’t a deep, rumbling belly-laugh like my friends. His chuckle was brittle and humourless.

He ignored my outstretched hand I withdrew it, knowing I was blushing.

“Okay, boy,” he said, in his deep gravelly voice. “Take this to the pier, there’ll be someone waiting for you there. You give them this, you bring back to me what they give you.”

He slipped his hand in his back pocket and pulled out a thick wad of notes. Still keeping his eyes on me, he licked his finger and counted off €450 before handing them to me.

I took them, rolled the wad up and clutched it in my sweaty hand. I had so many questions; who was I meeting? How would I know who they were? What was I buying? But I didn’t dare ask him anything.

He stared at me until I slid off my stool and shuffled to the door. I glanced back and he had turned away from me. Running his large hand over his bald head he got up and wandered over to the beer keg.

I slipped out of the door and ran as fast as I could across to the pier.

It wasn’t busy, of course it wasn’t. It was January; any tourists who had come for the New Year had gone home, and the locals were not stupid enough to be out in this freezing weather. All except one.

He was young; younger than me. He stood hunched over, hood up, sleeves wrapped around his hands and he was blowing on his fingers, trying to warm them no doubt.

I sidled up to him, still gripping the money tightly.

“Mark Braith sent me,” I whispered to him.

Black eyes peered out from a white face. He looked me up and down and there was no disguising his surprise.

“Really?” he asked.

I knew what he was seeing, what he was thinking. Why on earth would a man like Mark Braith send a skinny, dorky boy to do his business? A boy whose clothes were slightly too large, out of fashion. A boy who didn’t have a proper haircut, a boy who wore store own brand trainers instead of Nikes, a boy who was so out of style, out of touch, out of his depth.

I was embarrassed, but I nodded and held out my hand, showed him the money.

He looked around us, he actually turned in a full circle. Whether it was to make sure nobody was about to jump him or to see if Mark Braith was concealing himself somewhere, testing him, I don’t know.

Eventually he faced me again and held out his hand.

“I want the stuff first,” I said, bravely. More bravely than I felt.

He didn’t argue, he dug deep in his pocket and passed over a small plastic bag to me. I rubbed my fingers over it but I couldn’t identify what the black bag held. I passed him the money and backed up fast.

I’d reached the promenade when I heard a shout behind me. Reluctantly I stopped and braced myself for an attack I was sure was coming.

The young man jogged up to me and stopped, leaning over to catch his breath.

“You gave me too much money,” he wheezed and thrust €50 into my hand.

And then he retreated into the black night.

When I got back to apartment 1058 I found Mark Braith back on his chair. I passed him the little bag and the €50. “He said you gave him too much money.”

Mark Braith pocketed the bag and the money. He didn’t strike me as the kind of man who would make an error with payment and it would be a long time later that I would realise it was a test. Both on me and the drug peddler.

We passed the test.