by Mark Dawson
He locked the door and crossed the room to close the curtains. He took off his jacket and shirt and stuffed them into a black bin liner that he had brought with him. He took off his trousers and reached into the front pocket. His fingers found the sharp edges of the uncut stone that he had taken from the first box that he had opened. He knew a friendly jeweller in Hatton Garden and had decided that he was going to ask him to make an engagement ring for Isabel. They had been together for ten years and she had stopped dropping hints about how she would like to get married in the suspicion, perhaps, that Jimmy would never ask. Now was the right time, though. A big job like this would see them straight for months. He had been meaning to go straight, do something on the up-and-up with his life, and maybe now was the right time to do it.
He shoved his shoes, trousers and pants into the sack, knotted the bag and left it by the door with his gear. It would go into a landfill on his way home once he was finished here.
He went into the tiny bathroom and stepped into the shower, ignoring the mildew that had grown over the panes of glass and across the dirty tiles. The flow of water was as insipid as might have been expected given the state of the property, but it was sufficient. Jimmy stood underneath it for ten minutes, scrubbing himself clean with soap. He turned off the flow, wrapped a towel around his waist and went to the sink. He had bought a tub of Swarfega and he opened it now, scooping out a small amount of the dark green, gelatinous substance that always reminded him of his uncle Barney. He worked it onto his dry skin and then wiped it off. It was ubiquitous in garages and machine shops and was much more effective than soap at removing grease, oil, ink or other persistent dirt from the skin. He wanted to make absolutely sure that no traces of the equipment that he had used to cut into the safe could subsequently be detected.
He went back into the bedroom, dressed into the clean clothes that he had brought from home, and checked that he was good to leave the room. He looked fine: clean and tidy, dressed in decent clothes, nothing to suggest that he had just been responsible for burning his way into a safe and ransacking the contents.
He picked up the bag of equipment and the bin bag, locked the room behind him and made his way down to the street to where his Ford Capri was parked. He put the bags in the boot, opened the driver’s door and got inside. It was a second-hand 3.0S Ghia Mk II with automatic transmission, painted silver, just the same as Bodie’s car in The Professionals. Jimmy slotted the Depeche Mode cassette into the player and looked at his watch. It was eleven-thirty and he had promised to be home for midnight. He was going to watch the fireworks on the TV with Isabel and Sean. He had planned to dump the bag in a landfill, but he didn’t have time to do that if he wanted to be back for the New Year. Jimmy ground his teeth in frustration; he hated to leave himself more vulnerable than he had to, even if the risk was infinitesimal, but he hated disappointing his family more.
Getting rid of the bag could wait until tomorrow.
He started the car and set off for home.
11
Jimmy drove back to Valentine Road. He lived in a mid-terraced house, with a basement and two storeys above it. The house had been in a dreadful state before they had purchased it, but its decrepitude was the only reason that they had been able to afford it. Jimmy had spent six months licking it into shape: he had installed two new bathrooms and a new kitchen, had stripped and polished the floorboards, and had cleared the jungle that had been allowed to grow in the back garden. The house was nice now. It was the best on the street, although that wasn’t saying much; the house to the left was a squat, the house on the right was an occasional brothel, and one of the houses opposite was used to sell heroin.
It was a rough street and there had been friction when Jimmy had moved in. The brothel had been a little too loud and the clientele had disturbed Sean’s sleep. Jimmy had knocked on the door and explained why it was in everyone’s best interests to show some neighbourly consideration. The muscle who oversaw the place was unimpressed, and so Jimmy had broken his nose. The man’s boss had been unimpressed, too, but Jimmy had made him see the good sense of adopting friendly, neighbourly relations. There had not been any problems after that.
Jimmy unlocked the door and went inside.
Isabel met him in the hall. “It’s five to twelve. I thought you were going to miss it.”
“I promised the wee man I’d be here,” he said, “and I am.”
“How was it?”
“Good. We got lucky.”
“How lucky?”
He took out the thick wad of notes he had taken from the safe and gave it to her.
“Jesus,” she breathed. “How much is that?”
“Three grand. You still want to go to Benidorm?”
“Seriously?”
“Let’s book it when they open tomorrow,” he said. “Two weeks, not one—all right?”
Isabel reached for his face and pulled him down so that she could kiss him. “I still don’t approve.”
“I know, darling.” He changed the subject, too tired for an argument about his chosen profession. “Where’s the wee man?”
Isabel indicated the lounge with a nod of the head. “Asleep.”
Jimmy and Isabel had agreed to let their son stay up to see in the New Year. He had been asking all week and had told them that all his friends would be awake for the fireworks. It was about to be 1989, he said, nearly the end of a decade. Jimmy and Isabel had teased him, saying that he couldn’t, before bargaining with him: he could watch the changing of the year with them if he promised to clean his room. He had quickly agreed to their stipulations.
Jimmy looked in at Sean. “How long did he last?”
“Till just before eleven.”
“Bless him.”
Little Sean was seven years old and the apple of his father’s eye. He and Isabel had struggled to conceive and had almost given up hope; Sean was the miracle that they thought they would never receive. There had been no second pregnancy and they had settled for what they had. Sean was everything they had wanted and more.
Jimmy went into the sitting room and tiptoed over to the sofa.
The phone rang in the hall. “I’ve got it,” Isabel said.
Jimmy knelt down and brushed the blond fronds of hair away from his son’s face. He was boisterous when he was awake yet, when he slept, he looked so fragile and helpless. Jimmy looked at him and felt the catch in his heart.
“It’s for you,” Isabel said.
He stood. “Who?”
“Smiler.”
Sean started to stir and Jimmy went into the hall. Isabel handed him the receiver.
“What is it?”
“Where are you?”
“Home. About to wake up my wee lad for the fireworks on the telly.” Jimmy knew the question was a diversion; Smiler had called for something else. “What is it?”
“We’ve got a problem.” He sounded agitated.
“What kind of problem?”
“A Fabian problem.”
“Can it wait?”
“What do you think?”
“What’s wrong with him now?”
“Not on the phone, Jimmy.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Jimmy muttered. “When?”
“He says it’s got to be now.”
Isabel had gone into the kitchen and now she returned with a bottle of champagne and their two best glasses. She saw Jimmy’s face. “What is it?” she mouthed.
Jimmy shook his head. Isabel knew him too well; she saw his concern and looked at him, an eyebrow cocked. He put his hand over the phone. “It’s nothing,” he said, hoping
that his smile might persuade her not to worry.
Isabel handed one of the glasses to Jimmy, then sat on the sofa and whispered softly to Sean. The lad stirred, turned to look at his mother and smiled.
“You’re in your jammies, Mummy,” he said.
“It’s almost midnight. We’ll watch the fireworks and then we’ll go to bed. It’s been a long day.” She placed a finger on Sean’s nose, making him smile.
Jimmy loved that smile. He lived for it.
“Jimmy?” Smiler pressed.
He sighed. “Where are you?”
“Charlie Chan’s.”
Isabel sensed him tensing; she turned toward him, dipped her head and looked at him over the rim of her glasses.
“I need you here,” Smiler said.
Jimmy sighed. “I’m going to watch the fireworks with my lad first. Give me twenty minutes.”
He hung up the phone before Smiler could protest.
“Tonight?” Isabel said with a weary sigh. “It’s New Year’s Eve.”
“It’s only a wee bit of business, love. I’ll be careful.”
“It’s New Year’s Eve,” she repeated. “You said—”
“I know, but it can’t be helped. I don’t want to go.”
“So don’t.”
“You know it doesn’t work like that. I’m sorry.”
Sean was sitting up now, his legs hanging over the side of the sofa, still too short to reach the floor.
“Right, wee man,” Jimmy said, sitting down beside him. “You ready for the fireworks?”
The little boy got up onto his father’s knee. Isabel put on the television and pushed the button for BBC One. They sat on the sofa together, watching the fireworks over the Thames. The broadcast cut back to Michael Aspel in the studio. He wished everyone a happy New Year and the broadcast came to an end. Sean was already asleep again. With great care, Jimmy got to his feet and walked up the stairs with his child in his arms. His wee boy. The blond bombshell, Isabel called him. A sweet kid. Sean loved his dog and his family and kicking a football in the nearby park. Jimmy would take him out for a game in the morning. He had promised him.
He tucked his son into bed, kissed him on the forehead and went downstairs. He grabbed his leather jacket from the back of the chair. The national anthem was just finishing and the screen cut to the test card.
Jimmy’s car keys normally sat in a dish on the hall table, but Isabel had them in her hand.
“Be careful,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.
They kissed and she gave him the keys. Jimmy put them in his pocket.
“Not that old thing again?”
Jimmy looked down at the coat. It was battered, with scuff marks and tears that had been patched up. He thought it gave him character.
“I told you I’d get you a new one.”
“And I told you that I like it,” he said with a smile. He opened the front door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He went outside, closed the door behind him and then zipped up the leather. The jacket had belonged to his uncle Barney. The old man had bought it on the Crumlin Road years ago and he had never replaced it. Jimmy had taken it from Barney’s flat after the old man had died. It was older than he was, but he didn’t want to change it. It reminded him of his uncle and the things that he had learned from him.
And he had learned plenty. Barney was a legend in Ardoyne, Ballysillan and Ligoniel. He had been a safe cracker with a series of jobs to his name that had made him a legend in the underworld and a thorn in the side of the police. Wee Jimmy, as he was then, had looked up to his uncle. He had wanted to be him, to the everlasting dismay of his mother, and it had been inevitable that he would eventually walk in his footsteps. Couldn’t fight nature.
Jimmy made his way across the path to the end of his short garden, opened the gate, and closed it behind him. The night air chilled him. It was invigorating. He loved the feel of cold air on his skin. He looked back at the house. It wasn’t anything special, but it was his. He was the first person in his family to own a house; even Uncle Barney had only ever rented. He saw the light go on in the bedroom and knew that Isabel would wait up for him. He told himself that he would be as quick as he could. He would speak to Fabian, figure out what was happening and work out how best to deal with it. And then he would come home and forget about work for the rest of the weekend.
12
Jimmy cruised west, enjoying the rumble of the Capri’s V6, feeling the vibrations against his back through the sport seat. He thought about the car and the house and how far he had come. He had come off the boat with nothing and now this. He was making progress. Slow and steady progress. Barney would have been proud.
Jimmy had two talents in life: boxing and burglary. He had arrived in London and indulged both. He made his first money on the underground boxing circuit, taking on all-comers in bare-knuckle bouts that were arranged in underground car parks and empty warehouses. He had developed a reputation for viciousness and, after a couple of opponents had ended up in hospital, he had found that it was more difficult to set up future bouts. The money had dried up and he had gone back to the profession he had learned at his uncle’s knee. He started with domestic burglaries but, as he realised that the proceeds did not bear the risk of acquiring them, he had looked at bigger scores. He had only one rule: he would only do a job if it could be done without hurting anyone. Boxing was one thing—both participants knew the risks, and agreed to them—but Jimmy had no interest in hurting anyone in the process of doing a job. He had turned down big scores that involved violence; he had to go home at the end of the day and he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his discomfort from Isabel. He had a conscience, he loved his girlfriend and his son, and some things were more important than money.
He thought about Smiler and the job that they had pulled off that night. Jimmy had known him from his local pub and had quickly grown to like him. His real name was Hammond, although everyone preferred his nickname on account of his mouthful of gold teeth. Smiler had a betting shop in Hackney and he had found himself in a spot of bother with a family of local hoodlums who were demanding money in return for protecting the business. Another betting shop down the road had been firebombed when the owner had refused the brothers’ offer, and now Smiler was worried that he would suffer the same fate.
Jimmy had offered to intercede and, all out of options, Smiler had agreed.
Barney had taught Jimmy how to control his temper, but there were occasions when he let the reins slip just a little. The brothers—Michael, David and Stephen Connolly—were local faces with reputations. Jimmy tracked them down: he found Michael feeding the ducks in Victoria Park; David was with his mistress in a Mayfair hotel; Stephen was inspecting the underside of a Fiesta XR2 that he was thinking about buying. Jimmy knew that there would be no point in asking them to clear off, so he decided to show them why it would be in their best interests to leave Smiler alone. He broke Michael’s nose and tossed him in the lake; he threw the naked David out of the first-floor window of the hotel; he kicked out the jack and let the Ford drop on top of Stephen.
Smiler had been grateful. His morals were fungible, and when he had realised that Jimmy shared the same attitude toward making a living he had suggested that he might like to help him with a job that an acquaintance had put together.
The friend’s name was Edward Fabian. Jimmy met him and Smiler in a pub in Islington and found that they got on well. Fabian had had his eye on a warehouse near Heathrow where, it was said, foreign currency and diamonds were kept after they h
ad arrived at the airport and before they were sent on their way around the country. Fabian had bought off one of the security guards and said that he could get them inside. The security at the warehouse was lax, he said, and they would be able to get in and out with minimal fuss.
Fabian had been true to his word.
Jimmy was worried now. The plan had been to meet tomorrow. Why did he want to meet before then?
He pressed his foot down on the accelerator. The Capri’s engine growled and the car jerked ahead. He would find out what was bugging Fabian and then he would get home. He was tired and he wanted his bed.
13
Jimmy reached Charlie Chan’s. The nightclub was part of the Walthamstow greyhound stadium. Jimmy found a space in the car park and left the engine running so that he could listen to the end of the last song on the album. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and wondered what was so important that Fabian wanted to see them tonight.
Jimmy had been reluctant to take the job. He was careful, and that was born of experience. There had been a time, back in Belfast, when he had accepted a place on a crew that was planning to hit a bank. Jimmy had gone on the job and had walked away with ten grand. He’d found out after the fact that the job had been put together by a senior IRA man, and that the proceeds had gone to fund a shipment of arms from Libya. Jimmy had bailed. There was talk of a second job, but Jimmy had told them no. The man had been persistent, and Jimmy had said no a second time. The man didn’t give up, and Jimmy had lost his temper and put the man on his arse. Not a good idea. It was the reason he had had to leave Belfast.
