Mick was non-committal. ‘OK, I’ll have your wallet,’ he said, but he said it as though he was doing Masterson a favour.
Masterson handed over a smart grey pigskin wallet and Mick flicked through it, extracted a few twenty pound notes but left the credit cards in place.
‘I wouldn’t normally take your money,’ Mick said, ‘but this is such an expensive town. City.’ And he handed back the wallet.
‘If you want the car, you can have the car too,’ said Masterson.
‘Yeah, why not? It’s insured after all.’
‘I’m not going to fight you,’ said Masterson.
‘You’re telling me,’ Mick agreed. ‘Nah, I don’t want your car. I don’t think I could cope with London traffic. It scares the life out of me.’
‘Then what do you want?’
‘I don’t really know. I’m new here. What did I ought to see?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Go on. Show me some sights. Take me on a tour of London.’
‘This is rather stupid.’
‘You think so?’ said Mick. ‘OK then, pull over.’
Masterson pulled over and stopped the car. He looked greatly relieved as if the ordeal was over, as though this brief encounter with a madman might now be concluded. He would soon be at work, maybe even joking about it with his colleagues. His hand rested on the gear lever and he waited for Mick to say something, make some move, to get out and leave him alone. But Mick didn’t get out. He reached over for Masterson’s left hand. In one brisk movement he took the little finger and jerked it back as far as it would go. There was a little resistance, then a soft, brittle snap and Masterson screamed with pain as the finger broke. He looked at his assailant in utter disbelief. This couldn’t be happening to him.
‘Don’t accuse me of being stupid,’ said Mick. ‘Now drive on. I want to see Big Ben.’
Wincing with pain, Masterson clicked the car into gear and they set off again into traffic.
‘Is this rush hour then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, where’s all the traffic? I mean, this isn’t so bad, is it? I’ve seen worse traffic jams in Bramall Lane, that’s in Sheffield, where United play. And what about the pollution they’re always talking about? I mean, it can’t be all that bad, can it? Not if people like you drive around in open-top cars.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Masterson said.
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Mick. He was friendly now. ‘You must be a bit of a tough guy,’ he said reassuringly. ‘A lot of men faint when you break their finger.’
Masterson did not receive the compliment with any grace. He watched the road, tried to be neutral, to do nothing that would rile Mick. They drove in silence for a while, Mick watching the passing scene with interest. When they drove into Trafalgar Square Mick recognized it at once and sat up in his seat, alert and excited. He gawped up at Nelson’s Column, as beguiled as any tourist.
‘Can’t they do anything about those pigeons?’ he wondered aloud.
Then they went down Whitehall until the Houses of Parliament came into view, but this time Mick didn’t see anything he recognized.
Masterson said, ‘What now?’
‘What?’ said Mick. ‘Are we there?’
‘That’s Big Ben over there.’
‘Really?’ said Mick in surprise. ‘No. Get away. Surely Big Ben ought to be bigger than that.’
‘No, that’s how big Big Ben is.’
‘Well, I have to say I’m a bit disappointed. I was expecting more. Maybe I was expecting too much. I thought it’d be a huge thing like a skyscraper.’ ‘Sorry,’ said Masterson.
‘No, it’s not your fault. OK, let’s try again. Where next? How about Kew Gardens?’
‘That’s really a very long way from here.’
‘Really? How far?’
‘About an hour’s drive, I suppose.’
‘That’s no good,’ Mick said. ‘How about Hampton Court?’
‘That’s even further.’
Mick shook his head, perturbed and concerned. ‘That’s inconvenient, isn’t it? You’d think they’d put all the famous places next to each other, wouldn’t you?’
Masterson looked at him dubiously. He still couldn’t tell whether Mick was really as naive and obtuse as he was acting. There was no hint of irony, no sense that he was making jokes, and yet Masterson didn’t think he was dealing with a stupid man.
‘OK then,’ Mick said. ‘You choose. Show me something that’s nearby. Some important sight.’
‘Do we have to do this?’ Masterson pleaded.
‘Yes, we do.’
‘Right then, how about St Paul’s?’
‘Is that big? Is it impressive?’
‘I think so.’
‘You’re on then.’
‘Look,’ Masterson said, a curious blend of hopelessness and forced, unfelt, pacifying patience, ‘if all you want is a sightseeing tour of London, why don’t you get on one of the tourist buses?’
‘And why don’t I break another one of your fingers, yeah?’
‘No, no, you don’t have to do that.’
‘Don’t get funny then.’
‘I’m not being funny, but my finger’s killing me actually. The pain’s terrible. I think I ought to get to a hospital.’
‘You’ll be all right. I’ve done it before. It hurts but it’s not serious. I mean, cricketers break their fingers and then go on to score centuries, so don’t get too dramatic about it, OK? And incidentally, I don’t just want a sightseeing tour of London from you. What I want is to punish you. And breaking your finger’s only part of it, right?’
‘Why do you want to punish me?’
‘I can’t really tell you that,’ Mick said thoughtfully. ‘Not yet. But everybody’s done something they need punishing for, haven’t they? Everybody’s done something they’ve got away with that they shouldn’t have. I’ll bet you can think of something.’
Masterson shook his head but didn’t try to argue. He simply drove in the direction of St Paul’s.
‘You’re married, Masterson, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Happily, of course.’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s great. I find that really touching, I do. In a world where nothing lasts, and nobody’s faithful, and people just shack up together and move out when things get a bit tricky, somebody who’s prepared to say till death us do part, well, I think you have to admire that. How long have you been together?’
‘Not long.’
‘Newlyweds. Sweet.’
‘Look, you can do what you like to me, but leave Sally out of this, please.’
‘I’m only talking about her. Sticks and stones. I wouldn’t hurt her, that’d be cowardly, wouldn’t it? But she is a looker. She is a great-looking woman. But I was wondering, does she always keep her bra and stockings on while she’s being shagged, or was that just today?’
A chilling, incapacitating anger crept over Masterson. All he could ask was, ‘What did you see?’
‘I saw the lot, the pair of you, at it on the deck. It was worth watching. But I admit I was more interested in seeing her than in seeing you.’
‘You sick fuck,’ said Masterson. He slammed on the brakes and the car lurched to a halt on a double yellow line. ‘I’ve just about had enough of this.’
‘You haven’t had anything yet.’
Mick pulled out the gun. It was as he’d described. He released the safety catch and pressed the snout against Masterson’s temple. Masterson began to tremble.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Philip,’ said Mick. ‘You’re thinking, this is London, this is England. This sort of thing can’t happen here. But it can, believe me. You’re thinking men don’t have their brains blown away in broad daylight just because they refuse to do what they’re told. But they do, Philip, they really do. Believe me.’
Masterson bowed his head, partly in agreement, partly in genuine submission. He was still trembl
ing. Mick motioned for him to drive on. He was about to ask whether Masterson had had a good stag night but he stopped himself; that would have been giving far too much away.
Instead he said, ‘When I saw the two of you together on the floor like that, obviously a couple in love, I felt sort of envious, but at the same time I couldn’t help thinking how long will it last? How long before you start getting bored with each other? How long before you start pretending you’re too tired? How long before you start thinking about someone else while you’re in bed with your wife? How long before you’re both unfaithful? It made me feel a bit sad.’
Masterson watched the road intently, tried hard not to listen or respond to what Mick was saying.
‘In fact I wondered if it mightn’t have started already. Does she always want it from behind? Is that so she doesn’t have to look at you? Doesn’t she ever let you kiss her? Doesn’t she ever take your cock in her mouth? And is it always that quick? That orgasm she had, I suppose it looked convincing. It looked very good really. I just wondered if it was real.’
For a second Masterson looked as though he was about to speak, about to fight back, but Mick waved the gun in his direction.
‘Don’t say anything silly,’ Mick said, then as though there was no conflict or enmity between them, ‘How about having a drive down Carnaby Street?’
‘You can’t drive down Carnaby Street. It’s a pedestrian precinct.’
‘Then how about Selhurst Park?’
‘I don’t know that.’
‘It’s the football ground where Crystal Palace play.’
‘Where is it?’
‘I don’t know. You’re the Londoner.’
‘I’d need directions, or at least a map.’
‘Forget it. How about Buckingham Palace?’
‘Yes, we can drive past that.’
They drove to Buckingham Palace, but again Mick was disappointed. It was a grim building and you couldn’t get anywhere near it. And so it went on for the rest of the morning, an increasingly pained Masterson forced to drive an increasingly unimpressed Mick around a version of tourist London; or rather around Mick’s own idiosyncratic version of London, those places he simply happened to have heard of: the Monument, Stamford Bridge, the Old Curiosity Shop, the Post Office Tower, Portobello Road, Soho, the Hammersmith Flyover. And as they went he asked lots of questions.
‘So what’s the population of London?’
‘I really don’t know.’
‘Come on, I bet you do.’
‘Isn’t it about nine million these days?’
‘Yeah? And what percentage of those were born here, do you reckon?’
‘I honestly don’t know.’
‘Fifty per cent, would you think?’
‘I really have no way of knowing.’
‘But I’m asking you to make an educated guess, aren’t I, you prat.’
‘Well yes, fifty per cent sounds about right to me.’
‘You’re not just trying to keep me happy are you? Not just humouring me. How many black cabs are there in London? Go on, guess.’
‘I don’t know, ten thousand?’
‘How many buses? Go on. Guess.’
‘Two thousand?’
‘How many privately owned cars? How many motorbikes? How many milkfloats?’
‘I’ve absolutely no idea, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’
‘You’re rubbish, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I’m rubbish. I’m in pain. I’m scared to death. When is this going to end?’
Masterson looked as though he might be about to cry, as though he feared he had offended Mick again and that Mick was about to inflict new pain upon him.
At long last Mick said, ‘Fair point. But I’ve got to say that I’m still a bit disappointed. Basically London looks like a big slum with a few famous landmarks scattered through it. Wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes,’ Masterson said numbly. ‘That’s exactly what I’d say.’
‘Good. OK, I think I’ve just about seen enough of London for one day. It’s been a nice enough outing. But now, if you’ll take me to the bridge …’
Masterson looked blank. ‘Which bridge?’ he asked.
‘London Bridge. Where else? Then I’ll let you go on your way.’
Masterson wanted to believe him but he couldn’t allow himself that luxury. When they stopped at a traffic light, Mick said, ‘I want you to take off your tie, OK? And I want you to take off your jacket, and I want you to take off your shirt, and if you’re wearing a vest that’ll have to come off too.’
Wearily, resigned, scared, Masterson nodded and began to undress. ‘Anything you say.’
He wriggled in his seat as he stripped off his clothes and handed them to Mick who effortlessly tossed them out into the street. Masterson sat bare-chested behind the wheel of his car, too frightened to feel the cold.
‘Is there a reason for this?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, you’re going swimming.’
Masterson grimaced and drove on until at last they came to London Bridge.
‘What’s this?’ Mick demanded.
‘It’s London Bridge,’ Masterson said.
Mick looked at it with disdain. ‘No,’ he said. ‘London Bridge is the one that opens in the middle for ships to pass through, isn’t it?’
‘No, that’s Tower Bridge.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes. It’s over there.’
He indicated downriver, and sure enough there was Tower Bridge, no distance away.
‘Well, bugger me. Sorry about that, Philip. You probably think I’m a complete prat.’
‘No, no, it’s an easy enough mistake, anyone—’
‘OK, stop here anyway.’
Masterson stopped the car when they were precisely halfway across. London Bridge was wide enough to accommodate six lines of traffic and their sudden stop caused little disruption. Nor was anyone much concerned when the two men got out of the car and shinned over the metal railing that separated the road from the pavement.
‘Now, off with the shoes and socks, the trousers,’ Mick said. ‘But keep your pants on. We don’t want to cause offence.’
Masterson was far beyond embarrassment. He stripped off his remaining clothes as bidden. The pavement was sufficiently empty that such passers-by as there were found him easy to ignore.
‘Now,’ said Mick, ‘up on the side and in you go.’
Along the edge of the bridge was a balustrade made of broad, smooth, speckled granite blocks linked to each other by a flat continuous metal railing. It was low and no obstacle at all. It wouldn’t have held back even the most timid jumper. Hesitantly, but making sure he showed no resistance, Masterson got up on the balustrade, positioning himself as though sitting on a fence. He looked down at the flat, brown, metallic surface of the freezing water below him and shuddered. The river banks looked a long way away, though the north side looked marginally less forbidding. There was a wooden jetty and metal ladders. On the south the buildings seemed to jostle right up to the water’s edge, flat faced and inhospitable.
‘Look,’ Masterson said plaintively, ‘I don’t know who you are, or who you’re working for, or who you think I am, or what you think I did; but I didn’t, I really didn’t.’
‘That’s not very logical is it?’ Mick snapped. ‘If you don’t know what I think you did, how can you be sure you didn’t do it?’
‘That’s true I suppose logically, but in any case, I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry for whatever you think I’ve done.’
‘Even if you didn’t do it.’
‘Yes, I’m just so, so sorry.’
There was no doubting his sorrow. There were tears in his eyes, his lower jaw was malleable as dough.
‘Fine,’ said Mick. ‘I accept your apologies. Now in you go.’
‘No, don’t ask me to do that.’ Masterson looked down at the water again, contemplated the drop and the width of the river and let out a bovine moan. ‘I could kill myself,’ h
e said.
‘You’d have to be very unlucky,’ Mick said. ‘You’d have to fall badly, hit your head or something, get a lungful of water.’
‘I could still really hurt myself.’
Mick tapped the gun in his pocket and said, ‘Whereas I might only blow your balls off.’
A sightseeing boat went under the bridge, the rows of orange seats meticulously laid out on its upper deck. From somewhere Masterson seemed to be gathering a few last grains of bravery and defiance. He said, ‘I don’t think you want to shoot me. Not here, not like this, so publicly. If you’d wanted that you’d have taken me somewhere else. I don’t think you’re totally insane.’
Mick reached over to where Masterson’s damaged hand was resting on the metal parapet, and he took the broken finger and stirred it around as though it were a spoon in a cup of coffee. Masterson lost all power of speech or sense.
‘But you’re not quite sure how insane I am, are you?’
‘No,’ Masterson gasped.
‘So I think you’re going to have to jump, aren’t you?’
‘I’m too scared to jump,’ Masterson said wretchedly.
Mick slapped a hand on Masterson’s bare, hairy shoulder, left it there like an epaulette and then pushed. There was no adhesion between Masterson and the smooth surface on which he was sitting, and he simply slipped into space. He went out of sight and Mick had to peer over the parapet to watch the body falling swiftly and straight into the inert waters below.
Masterson hit the surface and the sound of his splash was thin, distant and undramatic. Once his head had appeared above water, and after he’d started a forlorn, weary breaststroke towards the bank, Mick turned away, vaulted over the railing into the road and went back to the car. There was something else he wanted. He reached behind the driver’s seat for Masterson’s briefcase. He opened it, emptied out the contents until he found what he was really looking for; Masterson’s address book. That was all he needed. It would contain five vital addresses belonging to men whose names he already knew.
Mick left the car, became just another man walking along London Bridge. He was heading north though he was unaware of the fact. That direction simply looked more inviting, more dense and alive. The buildings looked grand but anonymous, distinguished and heavy with money. He suspected he was a long way from the Dickens Hotel.
Bleeding London Page 5
