THE DOMINO BOYS (a psychological thriller) by D. M. Mitchell

so I won’t introduce you. Needless to say he works for me and if he tells you to do something it’s me that’s telling you. Got that?’
    ‘Sure,’ said Barry.
    ‘My father got his first job here, as an apprentice engineer, did you know that?’
    ‘I knew that.’
    ‘Now it’s all gone.’
    ‘Yeah, whatever,’ said Barry. ‘What do you want?’
    ‘You’re going to work for me.’
    ‘I don’t want to work for you.’
    He turned to face Barry. ‘You didn’t hear me right. You’re going to work for me. You don’t have a choice.’
    Barry Stocker sighed heavily. ‘I’ve finished with that kind of thing.’
    ‘You don’t finish with anything until I tell you you’re finished. You used to be a gopher for my father, right?’
    ‘You could say that. I needed the money…’
    ‘Drove cars, made deliveries, picked things up…’
    ‘I don’t want any trouble, Mr Craddick.’
    ‘Life’s been shitty for you, hasn’t it?’ said Donnie, coming up to him and putting a hand on his shoulder.
    ‘It’s been shitty for a lot of people.’
    ‘I’ll look after you and give you a good job with good money.’
    ‘I ain’t a no-hoper, if that’s what you think,’ he said, his brows lowering.
    ‘A man’s got his pride, Barry. How old are you now, fifty-six, fifty-seven?’
    ‘Fifty-five,’ he said indignantly.
    ‘And what have you got to show for it, huh? On the dole, cast aside. It’s doubtful you’ll ever find another job, you know that, Barry?’
    ‘I’ll get by. But not working for you.’ He spun on his heel and began to walk away.
    ‘That security guy ended up in a wheelchair, didn’t he? The one that worked here, in this very factory, when it was a factory.’
    Barry stopped dead. Closed his eyes. ‘What guy?’
    ‘The same guy that couldn’t take not being able to walk, so he topped himself.’
    ‘I had nothing to do with that raid,’ said Barry. ‘I was just the driver. I never knew what I was driving them to. I didn’t ask questions.’
    ‘You try telling that to his widow and kids.’
    ‘You can’t lay that crap on me!’ he said, his face colouring.
    ‘Admittedly, father wasn’t always the best man to choose his employees wisely. But in his defence the wages raid did appear relatively straightforward. The factory wages were in the safe, they had the safe keys copied from one of the guards, who’s going to make it easy for them, and all they had to do was waltz in and take the money from under their noses. But they change guards at the last minute and the new one puts up a fight, gets himself shot in the spine.’
    Barry remembered it well, though he had tried to blot out the memory. Something Mickey Craddick was adamant he shouldn’t do.
    It was close to midnight. He’d been told by Mickey Craddick to pick up and take three men to wherever they told him to go, to sit and wait in the car while they saw to business, then drive them back home, nothing more. He got a little worried when he parked up in a lonely country lane near a business park and the men put on balaclavas.
    ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
    ‘Shut your mouth, Stocker, and stay put. We’ll be back in half an hour.’
    The man lifted a leather bag onto his lap and Barry saw through the rear-view mirror the dull black shape of a saw-off shotgun being lifted out, like it was the birth of a grotesque black serpent.
    ‘That’s a gun!’ he said. ‘I don’t want anything to do with any guns. Nobody told me about guns! Look, I only did this for a bit of extra cash, that’s all…’
    The man put the end of the barrel to the back of Barry’s head. ‘You want me to blow your skull off your shoulders?’ He pressed hard.
    ‘Barry shook his head. ‘No…’ he whimpered.
    ‘Then you know what to do.’
    The men piled out of the car and ran into the dense undergrowth.
    He sat there, nervous, shaking, thinking he should get the hell out of there. But fear had him transfixed. He only took the jobs for Mickey