by AJ Kirby
‘I’m sorry; can you repeat that?’ asked Danny, trying his best to sound sober.
‘I said; the deadline is looming for you to provide me with the information and the money which was such a vital part of our agreement. You’ve not forgotten this in your inebriated state, have you?’
Danny’s head shot around; he looked into the darkness of the side street, looked up at the roves of nearby buildings, he studied the parked cars on the main road. Somebody was watching him…
‘How… Where are you?’ stuttered Danny.
‘If by your stammering outburst, you mean to ask whether I am, at this moment, watching you, then I would have to say no,’ said the foreign voice coldly.
This guy is really proud of his ability to speak English, thought Danny, before saying: ‘You’re really proud of your ability to speak English, aren’t you…’
‘Let me finish,’ said the voice, angry now. ‘I am not watching you now, but my eyes are everywhere, and they are all-seeing. Be careful how address me, in future.’
‘I have the money for you, sir,’ said Danny.
‘Ah, good. Wire it over to me then; there’s a good boy.’
Danny felt suddenly relieved; if the man expected him to be able to wire money over to him, then he clearly hadn’t spotted the fact that he was, at that moment, slumped against a wall, outside the pub. Maybe he wasn’t being watched.
‘Where should I wire it to?’
‘Just put the money in your own gambling account. I will access the account myself forthwith,’ said the voice. ‘And the information?’
‘The Edison’s security network is fallible…’
‘I knew that; what else?’
‘It’s fallible, and they didn’t detect any cross-over point when we spliced in the recorded images.’
‘You say we, Mr. Morris, but in fact, you had very little to do with it, did you? I should like to meet your friend Mr. Birch; virtually meet him, you understand.’
‘The deal’s between you and I,’ snapped Danny. ‘Mark knows nothing about all of this and wouldn’t be of any help… Heretofore, I’m your man… hello? Hello?’
The line had gone dead. Danny’s head sunk back and then struck the wall; only then did he remember how drunk he was supposed to be as a sudden wave of sickness crashed over him. He reached into his pocket and was relieved to find that the half-bottle of Vodka he’d bought earlier had not smashed. He broke the seal, and poured a little of it into the cap with the intention of settling his stomach. Holding his nose, he poured a few capfuls down his throat and eventually felt well enough to walk properly without feeling as though he was on one of those half-mile long airport travelators.
Lost… Again
‘Seneca says a good word too, doubtless;
He says there is no difference he can find
Between a man that’s quite out of his mind
And one that’s drunken, save perhaps in this
That when a wretch in madness fallen is,
The state lasts longer than does drunkenness.’
(Chaucer’s ‘The Pardoner’s Tale’)
The sound of my lonely shoes stumbling through these strange streets breaks the chilled silence of an April night. My footsteps reverberate from the tall looming buildings whose frontages of glass and stone keep me on the outside. They do not want me to come closer; threatening their impenetrable business-like demeanour with my unsteadiness on my feet.
I walk because it is all I can still do to keep the demons at bay. I walk because I am looking for something; what that thing is though, I don’t know; I can’t remember. I walk as though I am an animal closed in an eternal cage; I pace round in circles, my footsteps boring deep into the earth, trying to trace the path of my lost thread; the thread to lead me from this labyrinth. I am at the same time both Theseus and the Minotaur…
Black cabs of reality flash past, ignoring my ghostly presence, sensing my loss and creeping away into the night. A mechanical monster street sweeper swerves to avoid my own haphazard stagger; it’s nearly a two-mile-an-hour hit and run. I hear the mocking click of traffic lights as they shift from colour to colour, and I stand and watch this firework display whilst I smoke a cigarette I find crushed in my back pocket of my jeans.
I try not to notice, but I know that tears have started to stream down my face. It is as though the city has put roadblocks in my way; or is constantly re-inventing itself so that I cannot find my way. That street is not supposed to be there.
I imagine that I am blind, and that I must trust my instinct, my drunk, homing-pigeon instinct to take me back to Cheryl, and to Chapel Allerton. Why am I still outside? Why have my steps not led me at least some of the way home?
I am looking for something; or is it looking for someone? I am looking for my little lost self; a little boy over-whelmed by the city; scared by its magnitude; its constant watching, or being watched. Someone, somewhere, is watching me climbing imaginary hurdles and lurching from one disaster to the next, leaving a trail of rubbish in my wake… wait, yes… the envelope with the grand in it is still in my jacket pocket.
I wish… I wish that I had a key to unlock these doors which remained locked to me, which keep me penned into my small, pitiful existence. Drink isn’t that key; it is only a temporary escape. I know that now, more than ever.
Maybe it’s money? Maybe if I could somehow get my hands on money then everything would be okay. This madness never fails to take control of my mind. I am obsessed with the idea of escape, and money can facilitate that. It can get me on the road to doing what I want to do; it can grease the palms of fate and pay my way into that broad church of happiness which every fucker else seems to worship at.
Or maybe happiness is a night club; being surrounded by beautiful women, and drink, and music; dazzling lights, choreographed smiles on people’s faces. When I arrive, the smiles are always turned upside down though- I see frowns, anger and shaking heads.
Well, do you know what? Fuck them. I will not play by their rules. If I’m going to be treated like some kind of outsider - the world closing me out - then maybe I need to do what’s expected of me and just take what’s mine and just become a hermit or something. Not only will I keep going with this scam but I will do something which will show them all; rob a fucking bank or something. Rob that bloody Edison’s Printers.
Robbing that place would be like getting a license to print money…
The Watcher
Jim Hunter’s fingers drummed impatiently on the steering wheel of his ageing Volvo as he contemplated the possibility of edging out over the camber and onto the other side of the road. His eyes bored holes in the back of the great hulking Edison’s Printers articulated lorry which was resolutely and frustratingly chugging along in front of him. Even if he did manage to see past the truck, then the road was so bendy that his Volvo probably wouldn’t have the required horsepower to get past it and pull over before he encountered yet another of those tight curves. Whoever had designed the road had either been very drunk, or had a shaky hand.
And so, Hunter sat wedged into the sunken car seat, twisting uncomfortably to avoid a stray spring which had sprung up from the dark no-man’s land of the underside of the seat and pricked right into the side of his new polyester trousers. Mind-numbingly cold air pumped out of the small air vents and tickled at his moustache, driving him crazy. Infuriatingly, even the dashboard clock was conspiring against him; moving at a speed which was denied the other parts of the car. How he longed for a cigarette or for a nip of whisky to soothe the burning ache at the back of his head. How he longed for a new car.
Like the car, everything about Jim Hunter seemed as though designed in some by-gone era of engineering in which big statements were valued above anything else. His face looked as though it was carved in some huge cliff; with his large overhanging forehead and jutting chin making him seem overtly masculine and immoveable. Even his moustache added to the severity of his visage; not for him the wispy bum-fluff of a trying-too-h
ard teenager, or the jauntily waxed whiskers of a circus ring-master. Hunter’s facial hair looked as though it had been there all of his life, like the foliage which holds together part of a cliff-face. It made him look as though he was part-shadow.
Hunter’s large foot increased the pressure on the accelerator, dragging him ever closer to the back of the lorry. He could now read the sticker on its back bumper, which read: ‘How am I driving?’ and then offered a phone number which you could call to outline your observations of the driver’s skill. Hunter felt like calling the number and having the driver ordered onto the side of the road in order that he could finally overtake the lorry. Going too slowly is sometimes just as dangerous as going too fast. But then, even if the driver had pulled over, there was nowhere he could really go. The side of the road was lined with trees, and the lorry would have probably sunk deep into the mud there, like some dinosaur in a tar pit. Explorers from the future would find its preserved remains still there thousands of years in the future.
Preserved remains were exactly what Hunter felt like, in fact. He was too much of an old fossil to be starting a new job at his age. He sighed heavily, and switched on the radio, hoping to find some soothing music to distract him. Unfortunately, his radio listening was limited to one channel; yet another complaint against his old companion, the Volvo. Even more unfortunately, that channel had now taken the inexplicable decision to hold a phone-in on the supposed heavy-handedness of the police at a recent music festival. Hunter promptly switched the radio off again; some of the officers that had been there had been his old colleagues and he just knew that the radio station would be giving them a hard time.
With only the view from the window to distract him, Hunter began to worry. Some people are natural artists, or natural footballers, or natural born killers; Jim Hunter was a natural worrier. His grey hair which frizzed into an island on his forehead told the tale of the years and years of pulling his hair out. The dark holes which were his sunken eyes proclaimed the too many insomniac nights. His shredded fingernails; well, they were frankly a disgrace. It looked as though, slowly but surely, Jim Hunter was going to eat himself, or was going to disappear into a well of lonely apprehension.
Finally, there was a break in the tree cover and Hunter took in the sight of what was to be his new workplace; Edison Printers. The huge money manufacturing plant grew out of the surrounding forest like some medieval fortress. And it was clearly protected like a fortress; two metre-high Perimeter Intruder Detection fencing circled it as though the modern equivalent of a moat. Hunter almost expected to see slits on the walls in place of windows so that arrows could be fired at any invading barbarians. And this particular fortress held some rich pickings inside it; arrows, he reflected, might well serve some purpose here.
Hunter realized that the lorry had suddenly applied the brakes; he realized this because he’d been so distracted staring out of the window that he nearly drove straight into the back of it.
Can you imagine a worse first day at work than driving straight into one of the trucks from the very site that you have been hired to protect? Hunter managed to stop the car, utilizing some of his driving techniques learned in the police, but the shock of the near-collision had made him start to sweat profusely. He tried to loosen his tie, thought better of it, and wound down the side window instead. Too cold now though; Hunter promptly wound it back up.
Eventually, after an interminable wait, the lorry pulled off the lazy right turn into the privately-owned road which led up to the print-works. What had he been waiting for? There hadn’t been a car driving the other way for at least the past two miles. It was almost as though the driver was trying to antagonize Hunter.
Taking another heavy breath, he followed, still unable to over-take; this road was even narrower than the A59. It was flanked by more Perimeter Intruder fencing which was topped by a snarling, twisting stream of thorny metal spikes. The place seemed to be resonating with a thou shall not pass atmosphere.
Even nature seemed to be under the strict control of Edison’s Printers. The trees had all been cut back and the grass was cropped very short around some of the out-lying buildings. Locals had complained about the unsightly nature of the site, but Edison’s had applied for, and won, special government dispensation to bypass planning laws because of the high security risks of the site. In the area of rugged natural beauty which was this part of Yorkshire, Edison’s Printers was, as Hunter now realized, an eyesore.
Through the criss-cross wire of the fence, he could see that most of the site consisted of robust single-storey off-white concrete buildings which were dwarfed by the towering panopticon, the watch-tower, in the centre - the control and surveillance beacon which ordered and orchestrated the activity of the plant. It resembled something out of the Lord of the Rings films which Hunter had so surprised himself by liking. The panopticon had been built as an extension to the old stone print works which had been on the site for over a century. It was the all-seeing-eye; the knowledge base for the whole site; it radiated power.
Despite his misgivings about the appearance of the place, Hunter was struck by the thought that the site could not have been better situated from a security point of view. The approach road was narrow and bending, flanked by deep ditches, making it almost impossible to make a swift getaway unless the thieves were champion rally drivers. And then, above all else, there was the panopticon. Surely the would-be thief would take one look at that towering monstrosity, and realize that there was no way that they wouldn’t be seen.
Gradually, the road swung towards the Security Lodge, the gateway to the site; in fact the only route in and out of the site; the equivalent of the portcullis. Hunter closely followed the Edison’s lorry as it pulled up to the imposing main gates and watched carefully as a bulky security guard exited the low-slung Security Lodge and exchanged remarks with the driver. Only then did the security guard take a look behind the lorry and realize that Hunter’s Volvo was there.
The security guard started to walk slowly towards Hunter’s car. Hunter contemplated the approaching guard, and thought that in fact it was more of a waddle than a walk. The man seemed to be struggling to control the wobble of his expansive beer-belly. His short legs were bent at the knees like when you are shifting a particularly cumbersome piece of furniture, only, in this man’s case, he was the wardrobe, and his belly was the extra weight. He carried a peak cap in a ham-fist; sweat was pouring from his forehead.
The guard approached the car and made a lethargic gesture for Hunter to wind down his side-window.
‘Only Edison-registered freight vehicles allowed through here mate,’ said the security guard, listlessly, in what Hunter thought he detected as a vaguely Scottish accent.
‘Thank you; I know that. I’m actually here to start a job,’ replied Hunter, reaching over to fish his identification from inside his jacket pocket which hung from the passenger seat.
‘You’re Jim… uh, Mr. Hunter?’ said the guard quickly altering his posture and becoming much more straight-backed. It was as though he’d received a sudden injection of adrenaline. Clearly he’d not been expecting his new superior to arrive in such a battered vehicle.
‘That’s right. And you are?’ said Hunter, finally producing his wallet.
‘That’s OK sir; don’t worry about that,’ said the security guard, waving away Hunter’s attempts to show him his passport. ‘I’m Burr; Callum Burr.’
‘Like Bond; James Bond, eh?’ said Hunter, with a wry smile. ‘Going to let me through so that I can park up?’
‘I’m afraid, sir, that you’re not going to be able to park through the gates… nobody’s allowed, not even Mr. Wade.’
Hunter detected a note of pleasure in Burr’s voice as he relayed the news. He’d clearly not taken kindly to the James Bond comment. Hunter had never been good at small talk; already, it seemed that he’d managed to alienate one of his new colleagues.
‘Okay Callum; where should I park then?’ asked Hunter, as politely as he
could.
‘Park in the Visitors’ Car Park for now; just down there and to the right,’ said Burr, gesturing vaguely for Hunter to go back the way he’d come from.
Jim Hunter sighed, slipped the Volvo into reverse and drove away. Maybe he’d somehow usurped Burr’s position within the organization? It was hard to tell; Hunter knew all about the playground tactics which took place in the work place. It seemed as though he’d had to go through it in virtually every relationship he’d had within the police force. People in large groups have a tendency to behave like children; gossiping when backs are turned, pointing fingers, downright bullying. He just hadn’t expected it to start this early.
Or maybe he was simply being paranoid? Hunter parked up in the Visitors Car Park and straightened his tie in the rear-view mirror. Almost without expecting it, he saw the eyes of an old man staring back at him. They were eyes which had seen too many challenges, too much disappointment, had observed an inordinate amount of pain.
‘I’m not cut out for this,’ he said to himself, wearily. Then, making sure that his shirt fully covered the still-recovering wounds on his wrists, he stepped out of the car. Like an old man, he had to perform the just-got-out-of-the-car dance in order to get the circulation going to his legs once more. He just hoped that Callum Burr hadn’t been able to see this all-too-evident sign of weakness.
All the way back up the road to the Security Lodge, Hunter tried to convince himself that he was excited by the challenge ahead, that this wasn’t just one more obstacle on his short-cut towards an oblivious end of days. He trudged rather than walked; every step taking him towards a future in which he wasn’t particularly interested.
Burr came out to meet him, having safely checked the contents of the lorry and seen it through the gates. Immediately Hunter reached out to shake hands with the big man and was met by one of those bone-crushing trademarks of an ex-army officer in return.
