The Debt

by Roberta Kray

  Jim expels a nervous rush of breath. ‘Why don’t you do a deal with Tate? Get him off your back?’

  ‘Why should I? He’s a piece of shit.’

  He nods. ‘But he thinks you owe him.’

  ‘I owe him nothing,’ I hiss, ‘nothing at all. He was paid, fair and square, eighteen years ago. If I start doling out second helpings, there’ll be a fucking queue winding round the block.’

  It’s come as no surprise to discover that Eddie Tate, our last-choice lousy driver from the Hatton Garden job, is already hanging round, haunting the street outside the house and hoping for a lucky break. Like Jim, he’s got pound signs dancing in front of his eyes. It didn’t take him long to find out where I was. Good news travels fast. In fact a damn sight faster than we travelled that night, eighteen years ago, easing back into the London traffic like a party of nervous geriatrics. It would have been quicker to catch a bus. I can still remember Dixie leaning forward and screaming: Move, you fucker, move! And now, like some cockroach crawling out of the woodwork, Tate’s back again hoping . . . hoping what? That I might be stupid enough to lead him straight to the end of the rainbow?

  Still, it’s useful that he’s here. It gives me the perfect excuse to sit tight while I lay those extra sticks of dynamite. Going on the offensive I ask: ‘And how the fuck did he find out where I was?’

  ‘Not me,’ he whines plaintively, shaking his head. ‘I’ve not said.’

  I give him a long interrogative stare before eventually bestowing my gracious benefit-of-the-doubt smile. ‘I’m sure you haven’t, Jim.’

  Truth is, I didn’t expect to have to dangle the lure of the diamonds quite so early on. I thought I’d have a month’s grace at least but last night he began enquiring about the rest of the money. He hated to ask, didn’t want to put any pressure on me, but would he be able to have it soon? Pressing obligations and all that. He’s already had five grand but he’s eager to see the rest – worried, probably, that I’ll get my act together and do a bunk in the middle of the night. Then there’ll be no more cash, no ice, no nothing.

  So I didn’t have any choice, not having the other five, but to raise the stakes. It was what he wanted anyway, what he was hoping for: a share in the big bonanza. Of course, I pretended to be unhappy, dragged my feet for a good hour or two and only gave in after a convincing show of reluctance.

  Now, naturally, he wants to rush straight out and get them. Like a fat kid staring through the window of a sweet shop, he can’t wait to fill his face. So it’s good that Eddie Tate’s impeding any hasty action. It gives me the extra time I need to burrow deep inside the Buckleys and feed that ever-present rot.

  ‘So have you talked to Dee about it?’

  Jim mumbles an incoherent response.

  ‘Still mad at you, huh?’ I give him one of those man-to-man sympathetic glances. But I know it isn’t Dee that’s really worrying him. She’ll jump at the opportunity of a fresh start, of a new life out on the Spanish Costa – luxury villa, limitless sunshine, new cars, expensive clothes. No, what’s still nagging at Jim, although he’ll never admit it, is that he’s about to commit a crime.

  Now Jim could always talk the talk but when it came to anything more you wouldn’t see his heels for dust. Sure, he’d hide the occasional firearm, launder a little iffy cash, even turn a blind eye to a spot of illegal gambling on the premises – but that was his limit. Although he encouraged the villains, the hard men, the gangsters, to frequent his tiny East End bar, it was only to bask in the thrill of it. He was always an onlooker, never a participant.

  So what he’s getting involved in here is handling stolen property – but not just any stolen property. Those rare pink diamonds have passed into the archives of criminal mythology. Hidden for nearly two decades they’ve acquired an almost religious significance, a Holy Grail of sparkling carbon. And he knows what that means: if we’re caught he may have to face a sizeable stretch inside. He’s the same age as me, fifty-four, and he doesn’t fancy spending his remaining years at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

  I can’t help smiling. The very idea gives me a nice warm feeling in the pit of my gut.

  But it isn’t going to happen. And Jim isn’t going to get his grubby little fingers on one single perfect pink-blushed diamond. Still, he can hope . . . and the bigger the hope, the greater the disappointment.

  I light a cigarette but keep silent, letting him advance towards his own irreversible decision. He’s in the process of doing what he has always done – justifying the unjustifiable. In this case, he’s saying to himself that the gems were taken so long ago that they can barely be classified as ‘stolen’ any longer, more missing than stolen, and that all he will be doing is reclaiming something that was lost. He will keep saying it, over and over, until he eventually believes it to be true.

  Once I’m convinced he’s at least halfway towards this resolution, I resume the conversation. Picking up where I’d left, referring to Dee, I say despairingly: ‘Women! You never know what they’re thinking, do you?’

  Jim gives a shrug of resigned agreement.

  Although I know exactly what Dee was thinking when she came to my room yet again last night, her blouse opened a button too far, her eyes sly, her speech slightly slurred. ‘Johnny! You didn’t come down to dinner this evening. I was worried about you.’

  It’s not as though she really desires me, not any more, only that she’s got a point to prove – that she’s still attractive, that she could have me if she snapped her fingers. And there’s no harm in pretending that she might be right. There’s no harm in playing along. Especially if it gets me what I want.

  ‘Best to be cautious,’ I’ve been busy advising her, ‘especially when it comes to money. Best to keep an eye on things. Not that I believe any of this Aimee stuff but . . .’

  Now, Dee’s built for suspicion; it courses through her veins like blood. And the more she suspects, the more she thinks she has good reason. It’s a self-perpetuating cycle and one I’m more than happy to exploit.

  So all’s well on that front.

  Turning back to Jim, I ask softly, ‘So have we got a deal?’ I’m suddenly sick of his company, eager to be free.

  ‘How long will it take? How long before we can—’

  I produce a noise from the back of my throat, an exaggerated sound of irritation. ‘How long’s a piece of string? It’ll take as long as it takes. A month, maybe two. What’s the rush? You’ll need some time to prepare, to get the club sold – and the rest.’

  I see uncertainty rise like a wave into his gaze.

  ‘No loose ends,’ I insist. ‘I’d have thought that was pretty obvious.’

  He grunts, not liking my tone. But then there isn’t much he does like about me. Just to rub salt in the wound I add nastily, ‘Perhaps you need to talk to Dee about it.’

  Jim flinches. He knows what I’m implying – that she’s the one in charge, that she’s the one who makes all the decisions. And no man likes to be accused of being under the thumb. Even if it’s true, perhaps especially if it’s true. His face turns pink and then scarlet. Hate flashes in his eyes. He bares his teeth for a second before recovering his senses, before hiding them behind an impassive smile. Even he’s not so stupid as to cross me at such an important time. No, he’ll store away his resentment like he’s always done, saving it up for a rainy day.

  I shift a little closer, invading his space. ‘So is that a yes? Do we have a deal?’

  Jim stares back. My tobacco breath’s in his face and he’s trying not to grimace. The words of the last few minutes are still firing down on him; like tiny arrows they’re piercing the skin of his pride. He wants to punch my lights out, but he won’t even try. In Jim’s greedy little world there are greater priorities than dignity – and he knows he’ll never get a better offer for as long as he lives.

  ‘So it’s a deal?’

  Eventually he nods. He can’t actually bring his mouth to utter the word, can’t trust himself to speak, but the rest of his
body’s busy doing the talking. He even puts out his hand to shake mine. I see it there, suspended, too large and white, too fleshy, too dirty . . . stretched out . . . waiting.

  I have to force myself to take it.

  Quickly, briefly.

  Then he’s gone, thank God, mumbling some excuse about the club. I’d like to fuck off too but I can’t – not until he’s left the building, not until he’s out of reach. I’m too afraid of my rage. It’s taken every ounce of self-control to stop myself from . . . I don’t even want to think about what I might do, could do, if I lost control. It’s in my head, twenty-four hours a day – that angry vicious voice screaming for revenge. It’s eating away at me.

  So I sit on the sofa, confined to base, while I wait for him to leave the house. It’s safer this way. I stare at the walls, at the chintzy curtains, at the cabinets filled with flowery china plates, and try not to go insane.

  It’s over fifteen minutes before I finally hear his footsteps in the hall, before the front door opens and slams shut. Walking quickly upstairs, I’m into my room and stripping off my clothes before Jim’s even reached his car. I head straight for the bathroom and turn on the hot water. I fall into the shower, sloughing off the feel of him. I scrub and scrub until my flesh turns pink. I can sense his presence on my skin and under my fingernails, ingrained as coal dust, dark and filthy. I brush my teeth until my gums bleed. There’s a sour taste in my mouth that never goes away.

  Slowly, I dry myself, wrapping a towel around my waist. When I look in the mirror I hardly recognize my reflection. The more I stare the stranger I become. Someone else’s face, someone else’s hair. I’ve never been handsome, only younger. Now age has invaded, creating lines and hollows. My cheekbones rail against my skin, too sharp, too protuberant. Where did he go, that other man whose flesh was hard and firm, that man who looked towards the future as a place to be lived and not just to be survived?

  Time. I know all about the passing of time. I can break it into weeks and days, hours and minutes; I can divide it into memories, split it into expectations. I’ve sliced it thinly and examined it under a microscope. Inside, there is no worse enemy than time. Like a long empty tunnel it stretches ahead, the nothingness, the barrenness, the cold eternal walk. It turns men inwards, against themselves; they curl and diminish, corrode and crumble away. There’s something else too, equally terrible but never spoken of – the vicarious excitement that whispers through the prison wings, the watching, the listening, the silent, almost grateful witnessing of other people’s suffering. There but for the grace of God . . .

  It’s just after six when I make my way downstairs again. Like an over-eager puppy, Carl jumps up as soon as he sees me, loping across the room as if he’s going to lick my hand. I recoil from him, disgusted.

  At that very moment Simone comes through the front door and stops, key in hand, to stare at us. She has seen the flinching and it confuses her. She looks briefly from me to Carl and then back, two tiny vertical creases appearing on her forehead. Her hair is damp from the rain and one small strand has slipped free to fall across her cheek. She nods in her peculiarly neutral way, not even bothering to smile, before walking quickly up the stairs.

  I turn to Carl and see his blue eyes, accusing and doleful in equal measures, as if I haven’t just shunned him but landed a good hard kick in the process. The truth is, I don’t like anyone too close. It makes me uneasy. It makes me want to lash out. And Carl is as bad as his mother, always crowding me, always in my face. However, I force myself to slap his shoulder in a comradely fashion. ‘How are you doing, mate? It’s good to see you.’

  Instantly he brightens. ‘You want a beer?’

  I follow him into the kitchen where he opens the fridge and takes out a couple of bottles. He snaps off the caps and hands me one. I’m sure he’d rather stay inside where it’s warm and dry but I can’t stand the enclosed space. I need to be outside, breathing the fresh air, even if it has started to rain again. Perhaps because it’s started to rain again – I like the cool feel of it against my face. I like the cold chill that seeps through my blood, cleaning and sterilizing, keeping me free from Buckley infection.

  Darkness has fallen but I could walk this garden in my sleep now. I know all its nooks and crannies, where the paving stones are broken, where the ground slants up or suddenly dips down, where the gnarled roots lie hidden in its wilder part. Anyway, it’s not pitch black; the light from the kitchen floods gently across the grass and, at the further end, the distant street lamps cast a faint orange glow.

  I let him make the conversation, pretending to pay attention. I nod and grunt while my eyes sweep the shadows. He likes me to talk about the past, to tell him how The Palace used to be, to recite the stories of my life. What he really wants to hear about – but cannot quite bring himself to ask yet – is the killing of Roy Foster. He wants to know the gruesome details. He wants to see the picture and hear the noises. He wants to know what it’s like, what it feels like, to commit murder.

  Carl Buckley revolts me almost as much as his father. But I need him. I need to have him on side. So I go along with his endless requests for information. I feed his fascination with a mixture of old anecdotes, myths, facts and lies. I play down the sordid angles and exaggerate the glamour. Disguised as a plush red carpet, I roll out the shoddy path that led me to the here and now.

  Tonight, I have a new story for him.

  He’s heard about the diamonds of course. Everyone in this house has – except perhaps for Simone. He’s heard about Hatton Garden, about the perfect robbery, about how Dixie and I got arrested over Foster before the pink ice could be sold on. But he hasn’t heard the details. And he hasn’t heard about the offer I’ve made to Jim.

  So I tell him a little about the job, distorting the truth and jazzing up the thrills, watching his eyes widen as the tale unfolds. Oh, he loves this stuff! He wants to be a part of it, inside it. He wants to feel the rush. He wants to be cool, to be a renegade, a gangster. Not that I ever was. A criminal, yes, but never a gangster. There’s a difference. But Carl doesn’t realize that. He believes what he wants to believe. And that suits me just fine.

  After I’ve finished I throw him a look. ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘Yeah, man,’ he says, ‘amazing. One hell of a job.’

  I frown. ‘I wasn’t referring to that.’

  Carl frowns back. ‘Right.’ He glances at the ground and then into the far distance, suddenly afraid of making a fool of himself.

  I let a few seconds of silence pass between us. The only sound is the soft steady tread of our shoes against the path. He isn’t sure what to say next. Of course he isn’t. He hasn’t got a clue what I’m talking about. I look aside so he can’t see my smile, the parting of my lips, the slow smirk of satisfaction.

  Timing, that’s what it’s all about.

  As we reach the pond, I think about the last time I stopped here – Christmas Day with Simone. She’s barely spoken to me since. She’s said good morning, of course, always polite, but her eyes are cold and challenging. What colour are they? Not brown exactly. Lighter. Hazel? Like Sarah’s. She narrows them when we meet on the stairs, looks at me and forces a smile – no, not exactly a smile, more a polite widening of her lips. Her contempt rolls like a wave. I want to grab her arm, to touch her, to claim: ‘You don’t know me, you can’t judge me.’ But I don’t. I let her pass. I smile and let her pass.

  I turn and say quietly to Carl: ‘I meant about the offer I made your father.’

  Now he’s got a decision to make, and he’s got to make it quickly. Does he admit his ignorance or feign the knowledge that he craves? He scuffs the toes of his trainers against the chipped stones that line the bank. His eyes flash, hot and angry. Searching for an answer, he gazes briefly into the distance again. Curiosity gradually overwhelms any sense of pride or caution. ‘What was that?’ he asks, trying to sound casual, his head still turned away.

  ‘He hasn’t told you?’ I sound surprised. ‘Oh, perha
ps I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Maybe he didn’t want—’

  ‘To let me know?’ Carl interrupts, almost spitting the question out. He drives one hand deep into his pocket while he uses the other to draw the bottle to his mouth. ‘That bastard never tells me anything.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s just been thinking things over.’

  Carl kicks a few pebbles into the water. His mouth has formed a straight thin line. ‘What offer?’ he asks sulkily.

  It takes an effort but I lay my hand firmly on his shoulder, like a father standing with his son. ‘The diamonds, of course – without some help, how do you think I’m going to get them back?’

  Instantly his face changes. Christ, he can’t believe his luck. Now he’s in the big league; he’s working with Johnny Frank. And he can’t stop talking about it, asking questions, making crazy suggestions. For these few minutes he’s forgotten about Jim’s failure to inform him but later he’ll remember and he won’t be happy. He won’t be happy at all.

  ‘Good to have you on board,’ I murmur.

  As we’re walking back towards the house, I wipe my fingers carefully down my jeans.

  Chapter Nine

  Simone

  It’s a relief to be back at work, to be out of the house. There’s an atmosphere there. I can’t exactly put my finger on it: the rows are still going on – when do they ever stop? – but there’s something else too, a kind of restrained excitement mingled with a furtive whispering. Marc tells me I’m imagining things. Which make me all the more certain that I’m not.

  Just to make matters worse, every time I turn around Johnny’s there, on the landing, on the stairs, as I’m coming through the door. He’s like a permanent shadow. And he’s got this way of staring as if he’s taking in every detail, as if he’s saving it all up to use as evidence against me. I can’t stand the man. I don’t ever want to be alone with him again.