Wreckage

Rain and Fluorescents

"How the fuck did I get in this mess"

It was raining the way it only rains in South East London—wet like a slap, grey like guilt. Brockley Cemetery looked like a film set built for despair, all leaning headstones and crooked iron gates, the sort of place pigeons came to die. Denny's grave hadn't even settled. A shallow, muddy wound in the grass, not even a headstone yet. Just a split plank with his name and dates stenciled in black.

Dennis Shaw, 1995–2024.

Someone had stuck a laminated photo on it. One from Ibiza. Him shirtless, red-eyed, holding up a cocktail with his tongue out. That dumb grin like he'd never once thought about dying. A Tesco carrier bag was tucked beside the cross with a tall can of Guinness inside. Full. Still cold. Probably his little brother. Call it a tribute. I call it an insult.

Denny was the kind of man who should've died old and fat with lipstick on his collar and too many people at the wake.

Instead he got murdered for nothing.

It happened two weeks ago. Thursday night. The Dog's Howl, New Cross. The usual dive, all sticky tables and broken jukebox. We'd had a few. Not that many. Someone outside screamed. Mugger going for a tourist's wallet and phone. Denny, noble fucking idiot that he was, ran in. Got stabbed once—just once—under the rib. Caught the lung. Fast and quiet. By the time I got to him, his blood was steaming on the pavement and he was trying to say my name without lungs to push it.

They caught the guy. Didn't help. Didn't bring Denny back, didn't get the blood off my boots.

I hadn't really spoken to anyone since. Just kept doing the work. Kept moving. Kept riding. If I stopped, the silence got too loud.

I crouched down at the grave, ran my fingers through the mud, and left him something better than Guinness: a half-smoked joint in a sandwich bag and a lighter. He'd get the message.

Then I stood, flicked my fag into the grass, and left without looking back.

Home was Deptford, above a derelict tattoo parlour that hadn't opened in two years. The windows were taped, the front had 'SINS & NEEDLES' in cracked gold vinyl, and the back smelled like mould and cat piss. I rented the upstairs flat from a man named Will who collected pocket knives and owed me too many favours to charge market price.

The flat had three rooms: bedroom, bathroom, and a kitchen that hated me. The kettle screeched like a dying crow, the hob sparked when it felt like it, and there was always a damp patch near the fridge that refused to go dry. The mattress sat on the floor. There was one chair. No table.

But it had a lock. And a window. And that was all I needed.

I peeled off the wet jacket, tossed it over the arm of the chair. The leather was Liam's. Still smelled faintly of engine oil and old weed. I hadn't washed it since he died. It didn't feel right. Like laundering it would erase the last trace of him.

Two brothers dead. I was running out of people to carry.

My phone buzzed.

"Pickup. 23:45. Blackheath. Standard rate. No detours." No name. Just a message. I didn't need to ask. It was S. She only messaged when something was worth enough to be dangerous. That usually meant money, heat, or both.

I got dressed again, I put on a pair of my black cargos some of my black leather boots, a dry white t-shirt I then Shrugged myself into the dead man's leather feeling the weight of the last resting on my shoulders, I Slipped my burner phone and my knife into my pocket feeling the cold metal press against my leg.

The R1 waited out front. Jet black, gutted exhaust, angry even when silent. I called her Widow. The name fit. She was fast, vicious, and always felt like she wanted to kill me. Custom spray on the underside of the tank: "Don't brake unless you're dying." Denny had done it as a joke.

I twisted the throttle and tore out of the alleyway like a shotgun blast.

Blackheath was rich at night. Rich and dead. No sirens, no shouting, just the hiss of trees in the wind and the slow grind of Range Rovers up private driveways. I pulled up outside a block of flats that cost more than I'd earn in five years, killed the engine, and waited.

At 23:46, the front door buzzed and opened.

A woman stepped out in heels. Blonde, Expensive, Anonymous. She didn't smile, didn't say hello. Just handed me a black hardcase with a single address on a red label. No names. She didn't have to say the rules—I knew them.

"Don't open it," she said anyway.

"Wouldn't dream of it, love." I muttered.

She turned and disappeared back inside without another word. I secured the case in the satchel, clipped it tight, and swung back onto Widow.

The A2 swallowed me fast, road dark and slick, my reflection smeared in the glass of passing cars. I didn't know what was in the case. Didn't care. Could've been diamonds. Could've been a kidney. My job was to move it, not to ask questions.

I should've kept going, but my eyes caught the glow.

That petrol station.

I'd seen it before. Just off the slip road toward Gravesend. Flickering sign, humming fluorescents, the kind of place where night never ended. And behind the glass...

She was there.

Same girl from two weeks back. Leaning over the counter. Hair tied up. Hood half down. Noticed me the moment I stepped inside like she'd been watching for it.

"You again," she said, eyes scanning me up and down.

"I don't sleep much," I said, shrugging.

She nodded toward the satchel. "Another mystery box?"

"Something like that."

"You look worse than last time."

I laughed, dry and hollow. "Feel it."

She turned back to the register. No smile. No fake customer service bullshit. Just that quiet, detached focus. The kind of woman who paid attention to everything and let you believe she didn't.

"What's your name?" I asked, half out of my mouth before I knew I meant it.

"Eve."

Of course it was.

"I'm Jack."

"I figured," she said. "You've got that look."

I let out a small laugh "What look?"

"Like someone still carrying something heavy that died a while ago."

I didn't answer. Just nodded once, grabbed a packet of gum and a drink I didn't want, dropped a note on the counter, and turned to leave.

But I hesitated.

Not because of her. Not directly. Something about the silence between us felt sharper than the night outside. Like a challenge. Like a warning. Like if I opened my mouth again, I'd say something that mattered, and once it mattered, I wouldn't be able to take it back.

So I left.

I kicked the R1 into gear and rode until the sky turned silver and the world started pretending to be alive again. The drop went smooth. A townhouse in Medway. No names. No words. Just a flash of cash and a nod.

I took the money, rode back into the heart of the city, but the streets felt too narrow. The air too thick. I couldn't go home. Not yet.

So I went to Denny's.

The door still stuck the same way. His flat smelled like takeaway containers and hair gel. The kind of mess you leave behind when you think you'll be back to clean it.

I sat on his sofa. Same one we'd played FIFA on for five straight hours after Liam's funeral. The same one I crashed on after a ten-hour ride through pouring sleet with a busted taillight. The same one he bled all over once after trying to impress a girl by opening a bottle with his forearm and hitting a vein instead.

I drank straight from a bottle I didn't remember buying.

I listened to the silence. To the traffic outside. To the ghosts crawling along the inside of my skin.

I didn't cry.

Just stared at the ceiling until my eyes burned and the bottle was half-empty and everything was too loud and too quiet at the same time.