by Graham Smith
‘Good morning, Cameron. I’d ask if you’ve slept well, but if I’m honest, I’d prefer it if you’d tossed and turned all night, wracked with guilt.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, Ivy, but I slept like the proverbial baby.’
As soon as he’d said it, Cameron knew he’d made a mistake. Goading Ivy is not a good idea; giving her ammunition is a terrible one.
‘So, you slept like a baby, huh?’ Even through the door Ivy’s tone is cold enough to deliver frostbite to uncovered flesh. ‘Your firstborn child is out there trying to avenge a girlfriend who was killed due to your cowardice, and while he’s risking his life at every turn, you get a solid night’s sleep. Tell me, Cameron, when you look in the mirror do you see a man, or a selfish bawbag who’d be doing the world a favour if he took his own life?’
‘Jake is a big boy. He makes his own decisions, same as you and me. Of course I don’t want anything to happen to him, but let’s be honest here, I haven’t been part of his life for thirty years, and he hasn’t been part of mine.’
‘He’s my son. He’s your son, you pig. For all we know he could be dead or dying right now, and you’re bragging about having slept all night. If not for his sake, or your own, consider me. I’m the wife you abandoned, the woman who brought your kids up alone. My boy is out there doing God knows what, and I can’t help him. Every second I don’t hear from him sees me imagining his death. You might not care about him, but right now, at this specific moment in time, he’s the only thing I care about.’
‘So, you haven’t heard from him. That’s a shame.’
Ivy is silent for a minute, then she speaks. ‘Why do you care if we’ve heard from him?’
As tempting as it is to give a trite answer, Cameron picks his words with care. ‘Of course I don’t want anything to happen to him. Plus, the sooner he returns, the sooner I can help John and be on my way. Let’s face it, Ivy, none of you want me to stick around, and I don’t have a reason to stay where I’m not wanted.’
‘He’s been in touch with Alfonse a couple of times during the night. The last time was at four a.m.; that’s five hours of worry for me. Five hours of sleep for you. Jake has now got the name of the man who pulled the trigger and he’s going after him. My boy is going after a killer, and it’s all because of what you’ve done. If he survives this he’ll probably spend the rest of his life in jail, and it will all be your fault.’
Cameron listens to the rustle of clothing and pictures Ivy slumping to the floor, aghast with worry. While she had only made him happy for a brief period, he’d never grown to hate her. She was, and still is, a good woman with a kind heart and generous nature.
Ivy may have a strong sense of narcissism, but she would have been a good mother, and he is sure that her morals will have been passed on to her children. He knows he should think of them as his children as well, but after so many years of separation he feels detached and remote. Yes, they are his children, but he’s never had a connection with them, and as the years had passed, the less thought he had given them.
‘I’m not going to lie to you, Ivy. The people Jake is going up against are dangerous. But, see when he was with me, before and after the girl was killed, he was something else. He took on three guys and won. He made the right decisions and kept us both alive when it seemed we were sure to be killed. I can’t claim to know him, but I’ve spent a lot of my life around dangerous people, and Jake is right up there. He’s smart, resourceful, brave, and when necessary he’s more than capable of winning a fight.’
‘Is that supposed to comfort me? Are you saying my boy is good enough to survive this stupid revenge mission he’s on?’
Cameron licks his lips and decides to tell his ex-wife the truth.
‘I’m saying he has a chance, that’s all. Perhaps not fifty-fifty, but still a chance. I don’t know anyone else I’d be able to say would have better odds.’
The only answer he gets is a sob.
73
I find a payphone and call Alfonse. He punctuates our conversation with huge yawns but, as always, he’s come through for me.
He gives me the information I’ve asked for and I give him an outline of plans A and B. He likes A better than B and I agree with his assessment.
When I ask him if something else is possible, he falls silent. I wait him out, aware he’s thinking through my request and the best way to do it.
He says it’s possible but it’ll take a few hours.
I tell him I’ll do things at my end and will be in touch.
The hard part of our conversation centres around Mother, and her insistence that he passes on her instructions to give up my foolish mission and return home.
When we say goodbye, he doesn’t waste his breath telling me to take care of myself. He knows I’ll do what I need to do.
As sensible as it would be to return to Casperton and resume my normal life, there’s no way I can do that until The Mortician has paid, with his blood, for taking Taylor’s life.
Anyone who is a hitman for criminal gangs deserves to die. His moniker of choice tells me everything I need to know about him. That he’s chosen such a macabre name will be, I’m sure, standard in his profession. Whether he is a mortician, or just likes the nickname, is neither here nor there.
The mental image I have of him is a tall, thin man, dressed like a 1920s undertaker, with a long, cadaverous face. I know I shouldn’t assign a look to him, as I may fail to recognise him when the time comes, but I can’t help myself.
I find a store where I can buy a new cell without a contract, and five minutes later I’ve let Alfonse know its number from a payphone. I may be paranoid, keeping this level of separation, but if last night’s events have taught me anything, it’s that things can turn bad in the time it takes to say my name.
Walking around isn’t helping my leg so I find a hotel. The room is a little spartan, but that’s not important; it’s clean and that’s all I care about.
I strip off and take a shower, making sure the wound on my leg is as clean as I can get it. Once I have smeared it with antiseptic cream and bandaged it up, I lie on the bed and close my eyes. As much as I’d like to picture Taylor as I fall asleep, I can’t rest for too long. Instead of her, I create a clock in my mind’s eye and position the hands to indicate one o’clock. Three hours of sleep isn’t a lot but it’ll do for now.
I’ve used this method of sleep management before and have learned to trust my body’s internal clock. Quite how it works is beyond me, I just know that it works.
74
I wake and scowl at the world. My leg has stiffened, and even doing something simple, like swinging my feet to the floor and standing up, sends waves of pain shooting from my toes to my hip.
My teeth are clamped firmly together and by the time I’ve pulled on my new denims, and tied the laces on my boots, there is a sheen of sweat on my forehead.
I sling my backpack over my shoulder and limp out of the hotel. There’s a diner across the street and I head towards it.
With a cup of coffee in front of me, and a burger with fries ordered, I look at what I can prepare before speaking to Alfonse.
First, I download the Snapchat app to my new phone, then I use the diner’s payphone to call Alfonse.
A minute later I’m sitting down and composing a Snapchat message.
At my request, Alfonse has done some of his digital wizardry. This new, disposable cell, has been cloned to be Olly Kingston’s. It contains all his contacts, therefore I’m able to request the services of The Mortician under his guise.
As Kingston, I’ve requested a hit on the man who stormed my house.
The criminal underworld is a small environment, and all the major players will know each other. That means only one thing: word about my visit last night will have travelled.
I get a reply at the same time my burger appears.
The two things are quite contradictory: a staple part of the American diet and a message from an assassin. Strangely, I’m more
excited about the message than the food.
I heard you were dead.
This is where I have to box clever. Kingston may have been a gang boss, but he was erudite and well mannered; cultured even.
Rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.
Sometimes you have to be deceitful in public.
Perhaps the Mark Twain quote is a step too far, but to my mind it’s the kind of thing Kingston would have said.
Pleased to hear it. Who was it?
My reply is sent without a moment’s hesitation. This is what I’ve been waiting for.
A guy calling himself Brian Johnson. Said he was looking for a job, then went all Rambo. I lost four men. I want them avenged.
It will happen. The usual fee and the usual terms of payment.
My curse draws attention to me and heads turn around the room. I give an apologetic grimace and turn back to the cell phone.
Not only do I not know his payment terms, I don’t for one minute think Alfonse and I will be able to scare up the amount needed to pay him.
I have a thought and head to the payphone with a handful of fries stuffed in my mouth.
Alfonse picks up on the third ring and he struggles to understand me as I speak through the fries.
‘I said, can you find out Kingston’s banking details?’
‘What do you need them for?’
‘So we can use his banking app to trace the last payment to The Mortician, and pay him this time using Kingston’s money.’
‘It’s a good idea, but it won’t work.’
‘How?’
Alfonse is familiar with the Scottish use of the word “how” to mean “why?”
‘Because you can’t use a banking app without a password. That’s why. I daresay I could crack that password, but it will take many hours. days even.’
I want to slam the phone’s handset into its cradle, but that won’t achieve anything. As much as it frustrates me, Alfonse is right.
Another option is for Alfonse to tap directly into The Mortician’s bank and pretend to put the money there. Not only is that too much to ask of Alfonse in terms of risk, we would need The Mortician’s bank details to fake the transaction.
The burger is two parts cold when I return to my seat and take a bite, but I force myself to eat it anyway. I need the energy and, thanks to Mother’s teachings, I hate to see food wasted.
I decide to roll the dice one last time to see if I can engage The Mortician.
Dratted neighbour called the cops. Don’t want to move money just yet as they are looking for an excuse to nail me. How does double once Johnson is dead sound?
The Mortician’s reply comes as I’m finishing the last few fries.
These terms are acceptable. Do I need to remind you of the consequences of non-payment?
I tell him the payment will be there, as well as where Johnson can be found, and exit the diner.
75
I make my way across town to where I’ve set up it up for The Mortician to execute his hit on me. It’s beyond dangerous to hire a hitman to kill you, and be there when he shows up, but that’s what I’ve done. Or at least, something like that.
My plan is a simple one. I am going to observe him as he arrives and wait until he’s given up trying to find me. Then I’ll follow him.
Once he’s in one of New York’s many crowds, I’ll put a knife in his back and then his heart. As plans go, it’s not quite the D-Day landings, but I don’t see the point in over-complicating things. The crowds will cover the early part of my escape, and by the time people realise a murder has been committed, I’ll be the best part of a hundred yards away.
While it sounds simple, I know that someone who does what The Mortician does for a living will not leave themselves vulnerable. I expect him to run a certain level of surveillance to ensure what I plan to do to him doesn’t happen.
I can’t decide what to do with my disguise. The scar makes me instantly recognisable, but if I remove it, I’ll be showing my real face.
There is a queue of people at the subway but I’m not in any hurry. The location that Alfonse has picked up as The Mortician’s home or base, by tracking his cell signal, is a lot further away from the deserted warehouse, which I’m supposed to be holed up in, than I am.
Time is on my side, but I want to get there at least an hour before he does.
The subway is crowded and while I’m used to seeing people from all walks of life, New York is as eclectic as things get. A man dressed in the pinstriped suit of a banker is sitting beside a Goth with dyed black hair and a plethora of studs and rings in her face.
Opposite them is a woman in her early twenties who is wearing a ripped prom dress with torn fishnet stockings and the kind of work boots normally found on a building site. Her face is made up and is pretty, but the further south you look, the more her outfit contrasts with it.
After a couple of stops and one change of line, I exit the bowels of New York and find myself on a street that has seen better days. Nothing looks as if it’s been maintained for years, and the better days must have taken place decades ago.
Stores have boarded-up windows and there are gangs of homeless people lining up at a door that hasn’t seen fresh paint since Reagan was president.
I feel a vibrating in my pocket and pull out the cell. Only one person can contact me on this number, so it has to be The Mortician.
What I see on the screen makes me launch the cell at the nearest wall with all the force I can muster.
I have made enquiries. Olly Kingston is dead. You are masquerading as him and targeting me. This is a bad idea. You should leave New York in the next hour. Failure to do so will have fatal consequences.
I go back into the subway and think about the ways I can still get to The Mortician. I can only surmise that The Mortician has spoken to one of Kingston’s men. If I’m right, he’ll have a description of me. At the risk of being conceited, I know that when he is told about what I did last night, I will go up in his estimation. This will make him far more cautious as he goes about his business.
Without the cell he has no way to track me so, despite his threat, I’m safe for the time being. My disguise will have to go, as it’s a ready identifier.
I leave the subway and find a store where I buy two more cells. One is a base model, which I plan to use for communicating with Alfonse, the other is more sophisticated and will allow me to access Google, among other things.
As soon as I’m in any situation that could get dangerous, the Alfonse phone will be disposed of.
Never mind the trail of bodies I’m leaving as I cross the Big Apple, I’m tossing cell phones as if they were confetti.
I wander along the street as I bring Alfonse up to speed on the latest development.
He already knows.
To take away my despondency he shares two pieces of news.
Both work for different reasons.
76
With the cell phone still pressed to my ear, I hail a cab and tell the driver there’s a hundred bucks tip if he does as I say without question.
I sit in the front and repeat the street names and numbers from Alfonse to the cabbie.
The cabbie has the kind of rough leathery face that needs to see a razor every few hours, and there are several years’ worth of stories in his eyes.
I guess an experienced New York cabbie has seen pretty much all there is to see about human behaviour.
Alfonse’s directions are only coming every five minutes or so, as he has to constantly update the triangulation of The Mortician’s cell.
It isn’t a problem for me though. I’m just happy that I still have a chance to find and identify him.
The cabbie asks if we’re going to Long Island and I just shrug at him. I know the name, but have no idea where it is, other than it’s near New York.
When I give the cabbie the next instruction, he tells me he’s sure we’re going to Long Island.
Pleased that I have someone with kno
wledge of the local geography with me, I think about the few things I do know about Long Island.
To the best of my recollection, it’s a place full of holiday homes, retired people, and those rich enough to own a beachfront mansion.
Life on Long Island is taken at a slower pace than that in the centre of New York. This becomes evident as soon as we leave the bustle of the city. There are fewer blaring horns and the drivers are less insistent on going first at all costs.
As the roads widen, there is a sense of space that’s absent from the city.
We follow Alfonse’s directions until we’re at a place the cabbie tells me is called the Hamptons.
My chauffeur seems like a decent guy. He’s amiable, and when he tells me about his children and grandchildren I can hear love and pride in his voice. Cameron could learn a lot from him.
After we’ve taken a road into a suburb, Alfonse tells me that The Mortician has stopped moving. He gives me the general area, so I get the cabbie to drop me a few hundred yards away and walk the rest.
I duck into a small bar and use the bathroom to wash my face and remove all traces of the scars.
Alfonse directs me to the house where The Mortician is holed up.
I give Alfonse the house’s number and wait for him to tell me who owns it.
When I hear his answer, I gasp in amazement.
77
The name he’s given me doesn’t mean anything to him, but it rings the wrong kind of bells for me.
Before I can be sure of anything, I need more information. Over the phone I can hear Alfonse’s fingers pounding his keyboard.
‘Got some pictures coming your way.’
I cut the call, look up and down the street to make sure I’m unobserved, and access the pictures Alfonse has sent me.
