by Graham Smith
‘Are you going to man up and walk in there like a proper father, or do I have to lay you out and carry you in?’ I give a nonchalant shrug to emphasise my point. ‘You don’t need to be conscious for them to test your bone marrow.’
Cameron scowls and makes a growling noise.
I lift an eyebrow and point to the hospital. He may be the parent, and I the child, but we both know, in our relationship, that the young bull has superseded the old one.
As soon as he opens his door, I open mine. Alfonse follows suit, but Mother sits with her arms folded. This isn’t something she wants to be part of.
We leave her to intimidate the cars in the parking lot and escort Cameron into the hospital.
49
Cameron settles himself on the bed and looks around the room. It’s spartan to say the least. There’s a bed, a boarded-up window, and an ensuite bathroom. A series of indentations in the carpet show where furniture usually stands.
His stomach still aches from Jake’s punch, and there’s a residual numbness in his pelvis where the bone marrow sample was taken. As the numbness is wearing off, a dull throbbing is settling in.
With everything that has happened today, he’s shattered, and welcomes the bed with its clean sheets and plump pillows.
Seeing Ivy again was something of a shock, but he should have guessed she’d need to be involved.
The room he’s in is his son’s. Before he was ushered in here, Jake had sat him down, outlined a wild plan, and asked one question after another.
Cameron had thought for a minute or two as Jake had talked, and had decided he had nothing to lose by giving honest answers to Jake’s questions.
If Jake’s plan works, his name will be cleared as his bosses will be either imprisoned or dead. This means he can live the rest of his life with considerably fewer looks over his shoulder.
Should Jake fail, he will die, and his death will attract all the attention, thereby giving Cameron a better chance at starting a new life. Plus, without Jake’s brawn, he can easily get away from Ivy and the puny guy who’d done the driving. Noble as it would be to save a life, Cameron’s priority is preserving his own.
The only way things could go bad for him, is if Jake falls into the hands of his former bosses. Jake may be tough, but Cameron doubts he’s tough enough to withstand the torture he’d be sure to face.
Cameron doesn’t believe his son will triumph. Jake might be a good bar room brawler, but he’ll be going up against professional hoods and hitmen. They’ll have guns and experience; he’ll have anger and fists.
Cameron has seen enough fights to know that the man who keeps a cool head will, more often than not, beat the guy who throws wild punches and doesn’t worry about defence.
All he has to do is wait to see who opens the door. If it’s Ivy, he’s home free. If it’s Jake, he’ll have to wait around to help John before he can get on with rebuilding his life.
‘You make sure you get a good night’s sleep, Cameron. Because tomorrow, starting at six, I’m going to read you the diaries I kept after you broke the hearts of a good woman and two innocent bairns.’
It isn’t tiredness that closes Cameron’s eyes.
50
I head into my bathroom and grab a quick shower. I don’t bother shaving. The clothes I put on afterwards are clean, comfortable, and importantly, if things go the way I expect them to, disposable.
I pick up my wallet, a cheap cell, and the backpack containing Ms Rosenberg’s evidence.
The contents of the backpack will be handed to Alfonse, so he can assimilate all the information, scan it onto memory sticks and distribute it to all the major news channels and law enforcement agencies.
Rather than take my own cell I have bought a new one – so I can use Google and other services. No numbers will be stored in it lest it falls into the wrong hands and paints a target on the back of someone I care about.
I open my wallet – my Glasgow roots don’t let me think of it as a billfold – and remove all the cards and licences from it.
Alfonse has advised me to have the back up of a credit card, but I don’t think running out of money is going to be the biggest issue I have.
I pull out the handful of receipts in the back of my wallet and flick idly through them. There’s a receipt for a meal Taylor and I had enjoyed, and one for a film we hadn’t.
The next receipt I look at isn’t one I recognise, so I look at it a bit closer. It’s dated two days ago, and when I see what it’s for, my breathing stops.
Somehow I manage to wobble my way to a chair and sit.
I breathe again and it feels ragged and uncomfortable. However, compared to the sudden and debilitating ache in my heart, it is painless.
Mother looks at me with concern.
I shake my head and hope I’m wrong.
On my last night with Taylor, I’d told her I loved her.
It wasn’t a sudden thing; I’d just gotten myself drunk enough to realise it.
‘What is it, Jake? What’s wrong?’
I open my mouth, but words don’t come out.
I try again but still have no success.
I give up trying to speak, and hand Mother the receipt.
She holds it at arm’s length and squints at it.
Her mouth twists as she battles her emotions. Strength in the face of adversity, beats complete meltdown by the tiniest fraction.
She walks across, lays a weathered hand on my arm and looks deep into my eyes. ‘Oh, Jake. I’m so sorry.’
We sit together in silence for a while then Mother leaves me to manage my grief alone. I want to scream to express my feelings, but I don’t. Neither do I lash out and punch the walls or a door. There will be plenty of opportunity to release my emotions when I get to New York; hurting my hands now will achieve nothing bar shortening my odds of success.
My anger needs a temporary outlet, so I pick myself up, change into running sweats and go out for a run. I have an hour before Alfonse picks me up and takes me to the airport.
Taylor told me that a drunk man speaks the truth.
I’d spoken the truth to her and my actions had spoken louder to me.
When I close the door behind me, the receipt for the deposit I’d put down on an engagement ring is clasped between my fingers.
51
I part company with Claire Knight outside the arrivals lounge. A town car and driver awaits her; I hail a cab and ask the driver to take me to Queens.
First on my to-do list is to get some weapons. After that, I need to hole up somewhere until it’s evening.
As we drive through the streets the cab driver regales me with his opinions on the mayoral election.
It’s tempting to inform him how crooked his preferred choice is, but I keep my mouth shut. When Alfonse gets the word out, the last thing I want is some random cabbie going to the press with tales of a passenger who’d told him everything they’d printed before they got the information. I have enough potential threats to my life without going public and giving people a trail to follow.
I suffer his forthright views without comment and pay him what he asks, with a tip, when he drops me off on Metropolitan Avenue.
There are a multitude of shops here, and while travelling in the cab I saw a few where I could begin to build my arsenal.
The first store I enter is an everyday convenience store. It has the usual aisles lined with food, and people shopping for groceries. A young mum pushes a trolley in which a toddler is screaming for attention while she focuses on her cell phone.
I make my way to the back of the store and check out their cookware range. Were it not for the rage inside me, I’d give a smile of triumph.
I select four knives of various sizes from the range that have stainless steel handles. I also pick up one of those little blowtorches. Next, is a ten-inch sharpening steel. Not only will it sharpen knives, it’ll work as a club and is compact enough to slide inside a sleeve.
The guy who takes my money looks as
if he’d rather be anywhere else than working in a convenience store. I’m all for free expression when it comes to piercings and tattoos, but with the amount this guy has on his face and hands, I guess this may well be the best job he’ll ever have.
With my purchases in my backpack I start to walk along the street. There are still a number of items I need, and the newspaper I buy will help me identify the best place to complete my list of weapons.
Knives are a good weapon for a close up fight, but guns have range and a far greater threat level.
If I buy a gun from a shop, there is bound to be a registration process. The last thing I want to do is put my name against a weapon that will be used in a murder.
Only the most stupid of gun shop owners would fail to have a CCTV camera watching over their store. This means my new unshaven look will be connected with me from the word go, should the authorities trace the gun I plan to use.
To counteract this, I plan to get a gun another way. Hence the newspaper. There are some things you just can’t Google.
52
The list of businesses I got from Cameron is extensive, and I make sure I take a walk past as many of them as I can.
They are all typical looking businesses. None are remarkable in any way other than their ownership and randomness.
My walk takes me past auto repair shops, hotels, bars, a convenience store, and many other seemingly unconnected businesses.
Cameron’s employer owns a wide cross-section of companies to give a legitimate front to their crime empire. He didn’t say as much, but I’m ninety per cent sure that Cameron was involved in laundering money through these businesses. They are too eclectic to be anything other than laundromats for money generated from prostitution, drug dealing and other illegal activities.
I spy a traditional barbershop and walk through its door.
There’s a scuffed leather bench where a row of guys are waiting their turn. A melancholic blues track is playing in the background and there’s a whiff of grooming products in the air.
Four barbers are snipping, styling and shaving away at their customers.
My turn comes and I take a seat in front of the mirror. The barber I get is an old man with steady hands and bright eyes.
‘Whatcha after, son?’
‘Shave off all my hair and give my head a wet shave please.’ I see the puzzlement in his eyes and give a shrug. ‘It’s my girlfriend’s idea.’
He gives a throaty chuckle. ‘Damn, son, you gotta give the ladies what they want.’
I sit and listen as the barber does as requested while regaling me with tales of the things he’s done for the various ladies who’ve been in his life. Despite my serious mood, I can’t help but chuckle with him, as he tells of a former lover who would only make love to him if he was dressed as a fireman. The mental image of this frail old man being swamped by a fire helmet and flameproof clothing is just the kind of thing that tickles me.
I leave the barbershop and resume my walking. As far as disguises go, a bald head and two days’ worth of stubble is not what you’d call innovative, but we all have to start somewhere.
There’s a different feel to having all your hair shaved off. It’s more than just a change in look, I feel the heat from the sun more, and when I step into shaded areas I notice a breeze that wasn’t apparent before.
53
I find a cheap hotel and book a room for a few hours. Although I’m wired, I know I should try and get some sleep.
When I open the door to my room I find the hotel is worse than crummy. The fact I’d been able to book a room by the hour had indicated the level of luxury I could expect but, despite having low expectations, I find myself underwhelmed nonetheless.
The room looks as if it was last refurbished when Jesus was in nursery school, and the furnishings are exhausted rather than tired. Sure, it might be the kind of place where hookers bring their johns, but jeez, who’d want to have contact with a woman who’d put her bare skin on a bed this ratty?
I pull back the top sheet and get a whiff of something that was once a bodily fluid. The towels in the bathroom are damp and there’s a trickle of lukewarm brown water when I turn on the tap.
That someone has bathed in this water is enough to make my gag reflex spring into action, before I crush it down and think of the person as one of life’s unfortunates who is unable to enjoy the basic comforts I’ve always taken for granted.
The room may have been cheap, but there’s no way I’m putting any part of me, other than my hands, on the bed or bedding. Instead of trying to sleep, I reach into my backpack and remove one of the knives and the sharpening bar.
It takes me a few minutes to build up the right rhythm, but I soon get things right. Once the knife is sharp enough to shave the hairs on my arm, I return it carefully into my backpack and pull out the next one.
After an hour I have all four knives sharpened to a degree that I’m satisfied with. I dare say a professional chef would have done the same job in less time, with better results, but now I’ve decided to forego sleeping in this room I have time on my side.
To make the best use of that time, I secrete the knives around my person and practise drawing them out at speed.
The paring knife I hide in my boot is the biggest problem. Not only do I have to bend to get it, but I have to make sure it doesn’t turn and slice my foot as I walk.
I open the drawers of the dresser and find what I’m looking for. What’s better is that it is largely untouched. This isn’t the kind of place where the clientele will hunt out the obligatory bible therefore, other than a coating of dust, it’s clean.
It’s sacrilege to slice the cover from a bible but I do it anyway. My next move is to slide the piece of hard-backed cover into the gap between the bathroom door and its frame.
A little pressure and I have a ninety-degree fold. I reverse it and do the same to the other side.
I press the two folds inwards until they form a narrow cardboard sheath.
With the homemade sheath wedged between the outside of my foot and my boot, I practise drawing the knife again. It is much quicker and allows me to arc the knife several different ways as I straighten after gripping it.
The next thing I want to practise isn’t something I should do in here, but I figure that the management of this so-called hotel will either curse and do nothing, or be prompted to make improvements that will only benefit the room’s next guests.
I position myself six feet away from the bathroom door and throw one of my larger knives. My throw is an underhand one, aimed about four feet above the floor. The torso is the largest target on the human body, and I know I don’t have time to perfect my technique enough to accurately hit someone in their throat or eye.
The knife’s handle bounces off the stained wood and it falls to the floor.
I try again with the same result.
It takes another fifteen attempts before the blade strikes the door, and forty-three before it sticks in.
A half hour later, the knife blade is striking the door with every throw, and sticking in it every other time. The bathroom door is suffering under the knife’s onslaught and bears a two-foot circle of chipped and splintered paintwork.
I step back and try from a longer range. It takes me a few dozen throws to get my eye in, but I achieve similar results to the first position a lot quicker now I’ve learned the correct amount of power and spin to put on the knife.
My next step back puts me a good twelve feet from the bathroom door. This proves to be harder than either of the previous two stances, as the ratio between power and spin has changed exponentially now that I’m throwing further.
It takes me a half hour to master this distance, but I train myself to at least hit the door with the knife’s blade – even if the point doesn’t stick in. The human gut is a lot softer than the bathroom door, and the knife will inflict damage whether it pierces enough flesh to impale or not.
I step forward and back again between my three point
s and at random intervals between them.
The bathroom door is disintegrating as the knife either digs in or gouges out yet another splinter.
I move, throw, move, throw, until I’m happy that I can change distance if necessary.
I try a few throws with my left hand but they prove a waste of time. Not only can I not get the blade to hit the door, sometimes I miss with the handle as well. Giving up on that as a bad idea, I try moving around to see what results I get. They’re not great, but I take heart from the attempt that sees me whirl round from having my back to the bathroom door.
The knife embeds itself right in the middle of the destruction I’ve wrought on the door and wavers back and forth until its momentum is spent.
I retrieve the knife and thumb the blade.
The repeated strikes against the door have dulled its edge.
I retrieve the sharpening steel from my backpack and hone the blade to its former sharpness.
54
Cameron unclamps his hands from his ears and marvels at the quiet. Ivy has sat outside the door, talking to him all day. Except it hasn’t been a conversation. It’s been a constant diatribe that has ranged from soft verbalisations of long ago feelings, to snarled abuse about the way he abandoned her and the kids.
At first he’d listened to her with an uncaring indifference, but her words had penetrated the tiny portion of his heart he reserved for feelings about others. Once the penetration was complete, she’d twisted the verbal skewers, and reiterated key points, before attempting to shame him with the results his actions had had on Jake and Sharon.
The problem Cameron has, is that he doesn’t regret anything; other than the fact he’d tried to play at being a husband and father when he’d known it was a mistake from the day he’d put a ring on Ivy’s finger.
He knows he’s not the considerate type, that he always puts his own needs before those of others, that if he’d stuck around any longer he would have turned on Ivy and quite possibly the children.
