Mr. Suit Read Online Free Page B

below. Liza tried to
keep herself calm about the snail’s pace by watching the chefs and waitresses
graft away like they were in a movie on fast play, but her jaws were tightening
and her language was getting bluer by the minute.
    The
party boat eventually stopped to moor up at a pub, employing the sensible
strategy that boat-owners use to make sure the toilets aren’t overfilled by
heavy-drinking guests.
    Liza
broke protocol when Wol overtook. She rammed the throttle to full and made sure
the wash she created was as large as she could make it.
    The
pleasure-craft rocked and bobbed when the waves hit and Liza cheered when
glasses and bottles slid from the tables to the floor. She gave a two-fingered
salute to the cabin staff who shouted after her.
    An
hour later, they reached the supermarket on the waterside. She set about
pulling in to the bank. Arriving at the shops like this was one of Liza’s
favourite parts of the canal experience. Only in London, she suspected, could
such a thing happen.
    Mooring
up wasn’t an easy thing, however. Hadn’t been since Archie’s accident.
    In
the good old days, Archie took control and Liza acted only as the glamorous
assistant.
    Now
everything was up to her.
    Before
setting off anywhere, she needed to lay the rope from the bow along the roof so
that she could take it when she jumped to land.
    As
she came close to the bank, she pointed the bow at the wall. The front fender
made contact and she put the throttle in to full reverse and pulled the rudder
hard starboard to allow the bow to move into position.
    She
took the ropes from bow and stern, jumped to the bank and pulled as hard as she
could. Owning a steel boat might have made it strong, but it was a bugger to
manoeuvre.
    Eventually
she had things under control.
    Wol
was tied up in minutes and Liza checked her hands - not a broken nail in sight.
    A
small crowd gathered to check things out as she pushed Archie up the ramp, off
the boat and went inside to buy food and gin for the rest of the journey.
    The
phone rang when they were in the wines-and-beers aisle. If it had been 2
o’clock she’d have ignored it, but it was twenty-past and that didn’t fit the
Suits Martin pattern.
    On
the screen, the name ‘Greg’ flashed while the speaker pumped out a tinny Spice
Girls’ tune. It needed answering.
    “Jesus
Mum, where the hell are you?” It was typical Greg. Not a hello or a how are you
or anything.
    “That’s
for me to know.” Greg might be a slow learner, but he’d remember to use his
manners one day if she had anything to do with it.
    “Christ
almighty. What kind of shit are you pulling?” He was speaking quickly. Troubled.
Anxious.
    “Deep
breaths, son. You’re spit’s wetting my face.”
    “It’s
Mr Suit. He’s just been on the blower. Suits Martin, for God’s sake.”
    Liza
wasn’t sure she liked the way things were going. And the concern in Greg’s
voice seemed justified all of a sudden. “What was he wanting?”
    “Wanting?
Are you serious? He’s wanting you Mum. Revenge, he said. An eye for an eye.
Holy crap. Suits Martin, you stupid cow.”
    If
he’d been there in person, Liza would have given him a slap for that. Either
that or a knee in the bollocks.
    “I
didn’t mean...”
    “Well
you’ve got us well and truly up to our eyeballs this time. He’s got Miriam. All
of her for the minute. If you’ve not turned up at his place by noon tomorrow
he’ll have all of her minus her left thumb. And he’ll have less of her every
time twelve hours has passed and you haven’t shown.”
    It
was her turn to speak, but there were no words for her to use. She dropped her
head onto a shelf next to the Newcastle Brown Ale bottles and felt the cool of
the metal. And then her arm moved out of some kind of reflex. Like it was
throwing a punch. It swept through the bottles and knocked them over like
skittles, those that fell to the floor smashing and filling the air with
musical notes and the smell of yeasty