Turning tables

Hewson landed heavily on the floor. Shocked, Adam rushed from his chair to try and help him up, though the older man pushed him away and struggled to his knees.

"What was that for?" he shouted, his voice cracking.

The Major laughed. "Oh dear, you aren't the brightest bulb in the box, are you. You really are a foolish, greedy little man. But of course, that's what made you ripe for the plucking, isn't it. I can work very well with greed. No, the real problem is that you're too shit-scared to do what's necessary."

He smiled, as Hewson realised the situation had changed. "Sorry, old son - but I can't let you balls-up my chance to make a killing. Oh, look at your face! You really believed I was doing all this just to help you and your grubby little friends and their dead-end businesses? Oh, that's priceless!"

"But you said," stammered Hewson, "you said you were doing it to help the town, you believed it was important, you said..."

"You said," wheedled the Major, mimicking him. "And you believed it because you're greedy, and stupid and small-minded. No. It was never about this shit-hole, not really. This place was only ever - what's the word? - proof of concept. Well, there's no denying you'd have made a good spokesman for all the petty shopkeepers round here, but you're not what they call "mission critical."

With a humourless smile he said, "we'll do just fine without either of you. Goodbye, old son."

And with that, he slammed and locked the door.



Part Three begins here.