Undone

Undone

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B.V. Holt

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Published By:

TOPAZ PUBLISHING

Copyright © 2016

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

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Also by B.V. Holt

Distance

Tangled

Found

The Inspection

The Lunch

History

History

Standalone

Undone

Table of Contents

Copyright Page

Copyright Page

Also By B.V. Holt

Undone

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

Also By B.V. Holt

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 1

THE THING ABOUT GETTING head from toms was that they always bleated about it afterwards.  When you picked something up from a club or bar you could get away with not going down on her, just fuck her and send her away–without all the production.  They were so used to getting something in exchange for their ‘favours’ that the minute they wiped their mouths they’d be looking at the bulge in your pocket.  Automatic reaction since it was well known that he didn't fucking pay for sex.

He zipped up after disposing of the condom by the simple expedient of chucking it out the window. Out.

Give me a bloody chance.  She’d taken out a mirror and was touching up the dark red lippie.

He watched her, contempt curling his lip.  Out.

She snapped her head toward him, then recognising the danger signs, grabbed her purse, pulled down the hem of her skirt and slid out.  He saw she had a new tattoo on her lower back.

He drove off without another word, watched in the rear view as she gave him the finger.  Whore.

Home again he spent a long 10 minutes in the shower washing the taint of her off him.  He never fucked them – they could give head, but when it came to fucking they were like pieces of dead fish, plus he wasn’t interested in being where every other sod had been – didn’t need to.  He got head when he felt the urge and didn't fancy either diy-ing or trawling the pubs for a likely prospect.  You couldn’t always count on them going down anyway – lot of them seemed to think it was all knickers off and legs open.  A lot of the time he just wanted head – no touching, no fucking.

When he'd dried off he lay naked on the bed, looking around him.  He’d bought this apartment last year – right in the heart of the city with all the yuppies and up themselves bitches who thought just because they had a job in the city that paid a few grand a year they’d made it.

Most of them had started out just like him (brought up on council estates, dirt poor), but because they'd done alright in school, managed to get good jobs, had a bit of spare cash they now thought they were the dog’s bollocks.  Well, the swanky apartment, the nice clothes, the nice piece on the arm didn't mean you'd made it – not in his world. 

In any case, girlfriends were way more trouble than they were worth.

He was particular about housework and hadn't yet found a woman who could meet his exacting standards.  Besides, he liked doing all that himself.  Any man with standards would be concerned about keeping his sty clean, although, judging from the sties he’d been in routinely as part of the job, he was probably in the minority on that one. 

And as for companionship, he had his mates at work – all the companionship he wanted, thank you very much.  Date them for longer than a few weeks and there’d be knickers and mess all over the place; all your time not at work expected to be devoted to them: chatting to them, cuddling, showing them you cared.  Fuck that – he’d learned long ago that relationships were a burden he just didn't need.  He had his life exactly the way he wanted and a long-term girlfriend simply didn’t fit into any part of it. 

The girls at work were better than the stuff you picked up in clubs – knew the score – and if he felt like having something on tap for a month or two then he’d look to one of the other divisions (best to keep it a little way off the doorstep).  At least you could talk about the job with them.

Most of the women he’d been with, once they learned he was in the job got their knickers wet asking him about the aggro, the details of the busts he was involved in.  If he was in the mood for a good hard fuck he’d embellish, talk about the violence – that always seemed to get them going.  Truth was the job was boring as fuck most of the time – if you followed the rules, anyway...

He nodded in satisfaction as he took in the classy bedroom.  He’d done well for himself: nice apartment, good car – new one every couple of years–holiday abroad every year.  And none of it achieved by following the rules.  He’d never followed the rules, only very carefully made it appear that he did.  He’d learned early on that the rules weren’t designed for everyone – only for those idiots who imagined that life was fair.  He knew life wasn’t fair.  Bad luck to the idiots who still didn't get it, no concern of his.

Leaning over he checked the time.  Still a few hours – he’d get some shut-eye in the mean time.  Lennie wasn’t going anywhere:  Lennie’d wait for him, wait till the fucking cows came home.

Still naked, he lay on his front and willed sleep to come.

He’d learned to do this as a child to drown out the sounds of his family – dad (when he’d still been around) then mum and her various men friends, and after that, his sisters and their boyfriends.

Sleep hadn’t been a natural companion in that household; had to be coaxed, then handled firmly and made to co-operate.

Now he could sleep at will, wake the same way – he hardly needed an alarm clock.  He was proud of his mind, which was, unlike most people, completely under his control.

CHAPTER 2

He despised druggies , would have been happy to see the majority of them choke in a pool of their own vomit. He certainly wouldn't lift a finger to help them.  The way he saw it they’d brought it on themselves – no-one had held a fucking gun to their head when they took the first hit.  Not like the consequences weren’t illustrated in every documentary, every thriller–all over the fucking place.  Ignorance couldn't be cited as a reason for getting into it.  Even little ten year old kids knew about whites and browns – there wasn't anyone who didn't fucking know, so who to blame for the crap they found themselves in except themselves?

Lennie was an ex-druggie.  Oh, he’d done it, done it the hard way – locked in a room, knee deep in his own sick and bodily waste for days until he’d kicked the habit.  No, he had a lot of time for Lennie–mostly, when he got to the fucking point and didn’t try to make small talk.

So you don’t actually know who’s bringing the stuff in?

Lennie, caught in the midst of a pleasantry, looked momentarily startled at this rude interjection then obviously recalled exactly whom it was he was dealing with and became all business.  Not in terms of names, no, but it’s the Rock, no question.

Thought they were mostly dealing in girls and illegals.

Everyone’s expanding these days.  He shrugged. They’re a nasty lot, don’t need to tell you that.

No, you don’t. He opened another stick of gum.  Between the ages of 8 and 15 he’d developed a habit – a fag habit that had nearly cost him his future. 

Seriously contemplating a long-term future career, he’d considered joining the force as a cadet.  At the Open Day it had been brought home to him that the type of person who’d made the effort to turn up on the day did not live on a council estate; didn’t drink, didn't smoke; didn’t rob; didn’t mess around with people who did any of those things.  In the space of 24 hours he’d made a decision, turned his life around completely. 

Many people would have marvelled at the clear-sight and iron will of the young man.  For him it was business as usual –without his will and clarity to aid him he would have drowned in the morass of helplessness and despair that surrounded him all day, every day, each and every day of his life.

I still want a few names.  Okay, knowing it’s the Rock – that’s a start – but you know enough by now to know that that isn’t nearly enough.  Names, places, Lennie.

Okay, okay, but it’s an Ak operation – my face takes me right out of the loop.  They keep things strictly, strictly in house if you know what I mean.

Yeah he knew.  The Muslims in the Rock were a law unto themselves, making things hot for every black or white face that strayed into their territory.  He could have understood if it were the usual suspects–young hotheads acting up–but lately the Rock had become almost a no-go area for anyone who wasn't a Pakistani Muslim. 

The most worrying aspect of this would have to be the fact that the orders were coming from high up, from senior, ostensibly ‘respectable’ members of the ‘community’. 

John had always found it terribly amusing; the way it was all ‘protect our women, batten down the hatches!’ since the number of 'good' Muslim girls he’d fucked didn't bear recounting.  Very much a case, he felt, of locking the stable door long after the horse had not only bolted but been enthusiastically mounted by a stable of eager young stallions. (Since the consequences of getting caught –for the girls – were so severe they’d got very good at covering their tracks, hiding, playing the innocent.  He’d often felt that, ironic as it might have seemed, Muslim girls would probably have made the best undercovers going...)

Lennie flicked the fag across the asphalt.  But I’ll do what I can.  He stood there for a minute.  Usual?

For?

Oh come on, sarge.

And keep calling me sarge and it’ll be even less next time.  He handed him 3 twenties.  You gave me sod all – that’s for your time and to encourage you to stump up next time.

I did me best.

Do better.

Lennie knew that was his final word and, with a shrug, stomped away, disappearing into the night, the set of his shoulders showing exactly what he thought about the exchange.

Stupid sod.  Good thing the John liked him.  Anyone else would have told the idiot to go fuck himself.  Okay, he hadn’t come through this time, but Lennie was his best informant, always going above and beyond to keep John ahead of the game and he wasn't daft; knew Lennie would come through for him eventually.  Always paid to keep him sweet.

2.am.  Time to pop in see how the night shift was doing.

He knew they hated when he popped in unexpectedly, which is, of