Read Shredder for Free Online

man used to giving orders, and from the look on his face he wasn’t impressed by the scene that greeted him—Little and Large stunned, bleeding, and daubed with blood and filth, and some sweaty overgrown teenager he’d never seen before mugging Old Cardigan for his razor.
    I shoved the old man’s face away and wrenched the razor from his bony fist. Bending down, I stood on the blade and twisted the handle until the bladesnapped off. Then I straightened up and tossed the stump at him. He made no move to catch it, but just let it bounce off his cardigan and rattle onto the concrete.
    “I’ve another dozen like that at home,” he sneered.
    “Go and fetch one then, and try again. I’ve got all week.”
    “Get inside, clean yourselves up,” the new arrival grunted at Little and Large. Both men stumbled meekly back into the pub, Little wiping his hands on his polo shirt, making the stains worse. Ignoring me, the new arrival turned to Cardigan with a scowl of contempt. “What did I tell you about playing vigilantes, Eric? You too senile to remember, is that it?”
    Odd, I thought. I’d expected him to challenge me first and let the old man have it in private later, but the new guy must have really hated Old Cardigan—Eric.
    The old man was shaking now, with rage rather than age, and I saw his fingers twitch for his razor before he remembered I’d disarmed him. His rheumy old eyes blinked. “Don’t you talk to me like that, you little prick,” he protested. “I was sorting out proper hard men when you were still pissing your britches.”
    The big guy leaned in and fixed the old man witha steady stare from icy-gray eyes that didn’t water or blink. “Eric, you can’t even bloody shave yourself anymore, so stop trying to scare people with that razor, it’s embarrassing.” I’d seen that stare before: it looked like I was in the right place. Eric’s saggy jaw was working away in furious humiliation, and his fingers twitched again, longing for the feel of the blade. But he said nothing more, and the younger guy turned to me. “And what do you want?” He was my height, but heavier, and his cold stare was drilling into me in a way I remembered all too well.
    “The name’s Finn Maguire. I have a message for your dad.”
    It was a gamble, but it paid off. McGovern Junior smirked, intrigued. “What message?” he said.
    “I’d rather deliver it in person.”
    “I’m sure you would.” Junior frowned, as if my name had rung a bell. “Hold on—Finn Maguire?”
    “I used to work for your dad. In that restaurant in Pimlico.”
    Another gamble, with higher stakes. In that restaurant I’d seen the Guvnor’s second-in-command murder a cop, a fact I’d never admitted to anyone. I was pretty sure the Guvnor wouldn’t have talked about it either: everybody in his clan would becurious to hear what had really happened. Curious enough to take their time and ask nicely, I hoped, rather than by shoving needles up my fingernails until I was screaming the truth to anyone who’d listen.
    I saw calculation flicker in McGovern’s eyes, then he grinned like a wolf and squinted up at the sun.
    “It’s hot out here,” he said. “And it stinks. Eric, go change your Y-fronts, I think you’ve shat yourself again.” He turned back and offered me his hand to shake. “I’m Steve,” he said. “Let’s get a pint.”
    —
    Steve made a quick muttered call on his mobile in a quiet corner of the pub, his glance flicking over to me every so often, while I stood at the bar gulping down lemonade. I’d expected him to make a joke when I asked for a soft drink, but he’d merely nodded to the barmaid, who went scurrying off for my pint of lemonade. The lager I’d abandoned earlier sat on the bar getting warmer and flatter still, but I left it there—I wanted to keep my wits sharp, or at least not blunt them any further. Old Eric had followed us in, and now he clambered back onto his stool at the bar and lit himself a new