by Mark Edwards
‘I want somebody hurt. Scared.’
A low chuckle. ‘That’s all?’
Jamie realised he was asking if he wanted someone killed. ‘God, no. I mean yes. I mean hurt, but not killed. Frightened off.’
‘What’s your name?’
Jamie hesitated.
‘If you don’t tell me your name you can fuck off right now.’
Jamie paused. ‘It’s James.’
There was silence at the other end. He realised that the man had put his hand over the mouthpiece and was talking to someone else. Mike’s other friend. He wondered if either of them was actually called Charlie. He doubted it. He strained to hear what they were saying, but couldn’t make out anything but the low drone of voices.
‘Give me the details.’
Jamie took a deep breath. ‘OK. It’s my neighbours. There are two of them. They’ve made my life hell and I want them scared off. I want them to know that I’m not going to put up with it any more.’
‘So we’re talking about a warning?’
‘Yes. A warning.’
He heard the man say something to his friend but, again, couldn’t make it out. ‘What the fuck makes you think we’d do something like that? Who told you?’
Jamie had known all along that they wouldn’t do it without knowing who had put him onto them. As far as they knew, he could be a policeman. He could be anyone. And he hadn’t been able to come up with a plausible story. Sorry Mike, he said in his mind, and then he told them.
‘Really?’
They conferred again. Jamie wished he hadn’t had to tell them Mike’s name, but what choice did he have? He knew Mike had left them a message saying he had a job for them. His only worry was that Mike would have contacted them again and told them that if someone called them asking them to deal with his neighbours, they should tell that someone to fuck off. But he was willing to gamble that Mike would have left it alone, not wanting to get involved any more than he already was. Maybe he thought that Jamie would chicken out; that he wouldn’t have the guts to go through with it. He was wrong.
He waited for the man to return to the phone. After a long wait, the man said ‘OK. Here’s what happens. I’m going to call you back later this afternoon and we’ll exchange details. You tell me the names and the address. I’ll tell you where to leave the money.’
‘The money.’
The man chuckled. ‘You didn’t think was a free service, did you, James?’
‘No, of course. How much?’
‘Ten grand.’
Jamie caught his breath. £10,000. He did a quick calculation in his head. There was just over £10,000 in his and Kirsty’s savings account – money they had been saving for a long time; money that was not supposed to be touched. Half it was Kirsty’s, and they both needed to sign the form to withdraw the money. That was easy enough – he had forged Kirsty’s signature many times, when paying bills, etc. But what about Kirsty? Wouldn’t he be stealing from her?
You’re doing this for her, a voice inside his head whispered. You’re doing it for both of you, to make your home safe again. Once this is over, Kirsty will come back and everything will be fine. You’ll be able to try for another baby. Everything will be fine. Kirsty will understand.
He didn’t even think about how skint he would be if he gave them that money. He had already given up his job. Yesterday, he had received a call from personnel, asking him why he hadn’t been in. Was he still ill? ‘No,’ he had told them. ‘I’m not coming back. I quit.’
£10,000.
‘OK,’ he said.
The line went dead.
He waited all afternoon for the man to call back. He worked out, pumping weights, rowing back and forth, back and forth. When he dropped the barbell on the floor – causing a great crash – he didn’t care. He felt powerful, energy flowing through him, direct current making his bones strong, his mind sharp. Fucking hell yes, they were going to pay. Oh fucking hell yes.
Kirsty would come back.
Everything would be OK.
Life would be sweet again.
The man rang back at five o’clock. Again, there was no background noise. The man spoke quietly. ‘Right. Do you know where Mile End stadium is? Good.’ The man proceeded to give Jamie instructions of where to meet them. ‘We won’t pick up the money ourselves. Our courier will use a code word to prove who they are.’
Jamie almost laughed, giddy with a mad kind of euphoria. This was like the movies.
‘The code word is neighbour.’
‘Good choice.’
The man spoke in a low tone, shot through with menace: ‘This isn’t a game, James. If you think that, we can call it off right now.’
Jamie felt another surge of panic: ‘No, no, I don’t think it’s a game. It’s the most serious thing I’ve–’
The man cut him dead. ‘Yeah, yeah. Save it.’
‘It will take me a couple of days to get the money. It’s in a savings account.’
‘Yeah, whatever. We’ll make it Wednesday then. Thirteen-hundred hours.’
‘Fine.’
Halfway through the word, the man terminated the call.
He drove to the local branch of their bank and picked up the form he needed to fill out in order to withdraw the money. He took the form back to the car and signed his own signature on the left and Kirsty’s on the right. His hand trembled as he did so, and the ‘t’ in Kirsty’s ‘Knight’ wobbled a little. He remembered watching Kirsty practising her new signature when they got married. ‘Kirsty Knight. KK. Thank God my middle name’s not Katherine or Kate – I could never marry you. Or I’d have to keep my old surname.’
‘You could keep it anyway,’ he had said.
‘No.’ She kissed him. ‘I like the idea of us having the same name. It will be easier for our child, as well.’
Jamie’s eyes misted over and guilt stabbed him in the gut. Get a grip, he whispered to himself. Be a man.
He filled in the amount that he wanted to withdraw – £10,000, everything they had – then took the form back to the bank.
‘This will be available in 48 hours,’ said the clerk.
He nodded.
Two days passed. The two slowest days of his life. Minutes felt like weeks; hours like months. He tried to occupy himself. He smoked, he played computer games, he even tried to masturbate, but he felt no desire, had no feeling down there, as if all the nerve endings had shrivelled and died. He exercised endlessly. He drank coffee. He tried to eat but he wasn’t hungry. He felt too sick; there was no saliva in his mouth. He paced up and down.
He checked his emails. There was a message from Paul. He was still in Ibiza, but he had dumped the American and moved on to a local girl. She was beautiful, he said. He might stay in Ibiza for a while longer. He said he hoped everything was OK with him and Kirsty, that he was looking forward to seeing the baby when he got back and that he gladly offered his services as a godfather. He ended the message by saying, If you see Chris and Lucy, say hi to them from me.
Jamie turned the computer off without replying to the message. He unplugged it from the wall.
‘You are so wrong about them, Paul,’ he said to himself. ‘How could you be so wrong?’ It actually scared him – that his best friend didn’t believe what he said about Lucy and Chris. Nobody ever believed him – not Paul, not the police. In fact, the only person who had believed him was Mike: who he had just betrayed.
It was such a mess.
But it would all be sorted out soon.
He picked up the money – 500 £20 notes, bundled together with elastic bands. Somehow he had expected £10,000 to look a lot more substantial. He held the money in his hands and thought about what he could do with it. He could go on a long holiday; maybe go to see Paul in Ibiza, live out there for while. He could live on the money for a few months, pay the bills. He could put it towards moving.
But no, this money was meant for one thing only.
He drove to the East End, parked in a side street off
Mile End Road and walked down the road towards the stadium. The sky was slate grey and drizzling rain soaked his face and hair and clothes. He had the money in a carrier bag in his inside coat pocket. His hands were so cold he couldn’t feel his fingers. He shoved them into his pockets, but it didn’t help much.
He passed a group of teenagers in designer sports wear. One of the boys bumped into him, and he grabbed at the money, paranoid that he was going to be mugged. A look of fear passed across the boy’s face. Jamie was confused. Why did the boy look frightened? He stopped and looked at himself in the side mirror of a parked car. His eyes looked wild; he was gaunt, his cheeks hollow, his lips bruised where he kept biting them. No wonder the teenager had looked so afraid. He must have thought Jamie was a lunatic, or a junkie. Somebody unstable and dangerous: a volcano ready to blow.
Minutes later, he found himself standing on the spot that the man had specified, behind the stadium. There was nobody around; the rain made sure of that. He looked at his watch. Ten to one. He had time for a cigarette.
As he crushed the cigarette out under his boot, he spotted a small girl of about seven or eight coming towards him from the direction of the main road. She was walking straight towards him. But where the hell was the courier? He didn’t want to be pestered by a little kid.
The girl walked right up to him. ‘Neighbour,’ she said. She was tiny, her face pinched and waxen like she’d never really breathed fresh air, like a miniature OAP.
He looked at her, surprised. She held out her hand. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got all day.’
Jamie reached into his pocket and pulled out the carrier bag containing the bundle of money. All his savings. All his and Kirsty’s savings. He had a sudden glimpse of the absurdity of what he was doing: handing all this money over to a little girl to pass on to two men he had never even met, one of whom might or might not be called Charlie. But what choice did he have? He had to deal with Lucy and Chris. He gritted his teeth in determination. He would not let them win. And this was the only way. The only way.
He gave the girl the money. She ran off, swinging the bag as she went.
Jamie tried to follow her. He wanted to catch sight of the men who would be doing his dirty work, but the girl was too quick. She darted off between two parked cars and ran across the road. A bus went by, obscuring her from view, and when the bus had passed by she had vanished.
Shit.
Oh well, it didn’t matter anyway. In fact, it was probably better that he didn’t know who they were. He didn’t want to know. As long as they did what he paid them for – that was all that mattered.
He walked back to his car, smoking another cigarette as he went. He had arranged for the men to visit Lucy and Chris on Friday evening. He knew they never went out on Fridays. They hardly ever went out, full stop. There had been that time that he and Kirsty had seen them at the restaurant when, he was convinced, Lucy had somehow tampered with their food while he was in the kitchen. Otherwise, they seemed to stay in every night. Boring, stay-at-home psychopaths. It was almost funny.
Back at the flat, he checked the answerphone, hoping that Kirsty might have called. She had called just once since leaving, to let him know that she was at her parents and that she was safe. It was a tense, brief phone call. He could hear her parents talking in the background, speaking loudly, saying things about him. He didn’t know if Kirsty would tell them the whole story – he doubted it, as she wouldn’t want her parents to become involved – but no doubt they would blame Jamie for her miscarriage. They had never got on with him. Going away to Gretna Green to get married had been the final nail in the coffin of their relationship.
He sat on the sofa and thought about what he had done; the wheels he had set in motion. Had he done the right thing? He couldn’t think straight. His head was too full of images of pain and violence; pain and regret; pain and sorrow. Yes, it had to be the right thing to do. Kirsty would be so pleased to hear about it. Her face would light up with joy as he told her the good news: that the Newtons weren’t going to bother them any more. She would run back to him, throw her arms around him, cover him with kisses. He couldn’t wait.
Yes, it was the right thing to do. And anyway, the wheels were in motion now. It was too late to change things.
Twenty-six
He waited for Friday with a boulder of dread and excitement in his stomach. The men whose names he did not know were due to turn up at eight. He would see their car pull up out the front; he would watch as they went down the steps to the basement flat; he would listen as they knocked at the door; he would hear what happened next.
He thought about going out to the pub. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the violence. He wondered if there would be screams, shouts for mercy. He didn’t know if he would be able to stomach it. Maybe it would be best to go and hide somewhere for a few hours, try to forget it was happening, and then when he came back it would be all over.
But no: he had to know it had happened. He needed confirmation. His plan was to turn up the stereo as soon as the men arrived; turn it up loud to drown out the sounds from below. He didn’t even know if there would be noises. Maybe the men worked in silence – pointing guns, whispering threats and promises. He had no idea how they worked. The thing was, he couldn’t imagine either Lucy or Chris giving in easily. They were fighters, that was certain. They would no doubt try to stand up to the men. That would be their mistake.
After the visit, and confirmation from them that the visit was a success (and he hoped to see a FOR SALE board appear outside the basement flat very soon), he would wait until morning and then call Kirsty to tell her the good news. He couldn’t wait. In just 48 hours, this would all be over.
His appetite had come back. In fact, he was ravenous, as if all the days of abstinence were catching up with him, and his brain had suddenly discovered that his stomach was empty, apart from that boulder of dread. He drove to the supermarket and used his cash card to withdraw money from the hole in the wall. He saw his balance on screen and gulped. E.T.N. hadn’t paid him for his final month: his penalty for not giving notice before he left. Chris had probably been involved in that decision. He had just enough to stock up on food. Still, that was OK. Kirsty would be back soon. She was on extended sick leave now, as she had explained when she phoned him, but she was still being paid. And when she came back he would feel well enough to go out and find another job. It wouldn’t be too hard for someone with his skills and experience.
He pushed the trolley round the supermarket, buying all the things he liked but that Kirsty disapproved of: Pot Noodles, TV dinners, packet pasta that just required milk and water to spring magically into edible form. He bought a carton of 200 cigarettes and a large bottle of vodka. He handed over £100 and got 73 pence change. He had just enough petrol in the tank of his car to get home. He was now officially broke.
For dinner he heated up a foil carton of macaroni cheese and washed it down with a glass of neat vodka. He ate crisps and watched television. He didn’t pay much attention to what was on. His mind was elsewhere.
His mind was on Friday.
On Friday morning he went out into the hall to check the post – nothing for him – and bumped into Mary.
‘Hello,’ she said, looking him up and down in a way that made him realise he still looked a mess. ‘I haven’t seen you for a while.’
‘No. I’ve…been busy.’
‘I haven’t seen Kirsty either. How is she?’
‘She’s gone away. On holiday. With her friend Heather.’
‘And left you all on your own.’
He forced a smile. ‘Yes. But I don’t mind.’
‘I suppose she wanted a last holiday before the baby comes along.’
‘Yes. That’s right.’
‘Where’s she gone? Anywhere nice?’
‘Ibiza.’ It was the first place that popped into his head.
‘Really? Not partying too hard, I hope.’
He couldn’t cope with any more of he
r questions. He couldn’t cope, either, with the intense way in which she was looking at him. He had the feeling that she didn’t believe a word he had said. ‘I’ve got to get back inside,’ he said. ‘I’ve left the hob on.’
She nodded. ‘OK. I won’t keep you.’
He moved to walk by her and she said, ‘Jamie.’
He turned to go back inside.
‘If you need to talk to anyone, you can always talk to me.’
He shook his head vehemently. ‘No, I’m fine. I don’t know why you think I’m not.’ He went inside and shut the door firmly behind him.
He leaned against the door, breathing heavily, and listened to Mary go up the stairs. He heard her door shut and thought he heard her call Lennon. He looked at his watch. It was only ten-thirty in the morning. He had a whole day to kill. He couldn’t stay in all day, waiting for the men to turn up. He would go insane. But he had no money and no petrol in the car. It was raining outside. There was no-one he could go and see. He hadn’t contacted any of his friends for months. The only person he could think of was Heather, but she would probably be at work.
He scanned the bookshelves looking for a book he hadn’t read before. He saw Brian’s book – the one that had scared Kirsty. He certainly didn’t want to read anything scary. There was nothing here that he wanted to read. He checked the spines of his DVDs. There was nothing he wanted to watch either. The thought of playing a video game bored him. He felt so tense, like a polar bear going mental in its enclosure at the zoo. He had to get out. He put on the coat and went walking in the rain.
He walked all day, walked until his feet throbbed, his clothes were soaked through and even his underwear was wet. He walked along the canal, passing by people in raincoats with miserable, drenched dogs. He wandered through the deserted park, watched the ducks and swans glide across the pond. He walked and walked until it was getting dark, and then he headed home.
He hung his wet clothes on the radiator and got in the bath. He sat in the bath with the scissors and cut most of his hair off, so there were just a few clumps left, sticking up in ugly clumps on top of his head. He shaved, nicking himself a few times but ignoring the pain and the blood that dripped into the water, where hair and stubble floated among the foam. He got out, smothered himself in talcum powder and pulled on a set of clean, dry clothes.
