by Charlie Wade
Disgusted, he left his bench and headed for the tube. His destination east, in search of a proper pub and proper people.
Chapter 4
Four tube stops was enough to rid him of the city and enter the relative warmth of the under-city. The Queens Arms was the nearest pub to the tube and possibly the only pub left in east London where you could still smoke, drink a warm pint and have a fight with a builder. Half deserted at lunch time, he approached the bar.
“Yeah?” said the barman.
“Pint of best.”
Pulling a chipped glass from under the bar, the barman pulled the pint, avoiding eye contact. In jeans and t-shirt, Jim felt he fitted this part of London more than the city, but he wasn’t known. He could be anyone from anywhere and this was a local’s pub. Occupants of local’s pubs never welcomed newcomers; they always looked for an ulterior motive. Jim just wanted a drink and the company of others. Earning their trust was the first step.
Paying half the price he would have four tube stops earlier, he took the pint and sat on a bench near the pool table. Two builders, probably a plasterer and chippy, playing pool nodded at him. Jim nodded back and took in the rest of the bar.
The pub was old. He reckoned the term rising damp had been invented with this pub in mind. It had been built a hundred years ago and redecorated only a few times since. Two pensioners with red noses and half-pint pots sat round a rickety table reading their papers, occasionally stopping to moan about foreigners. An old television above them beamed out racing from Chepstow through a dust-covered grille. The barman sat on a high stool pretending to wash glasses while he fiddled with his mobile phone. At the end of the bar a family of flies hovered over stale cheese sandwiches sweating in a Tupperware box.
Taking a glug from his pint, he rested it on a ripped beer mat. Breathing deeply, he pulled out the fags he’d bought earlier. Despite no smoking signs everywhere the whole pub was at it, including the barman. Even the flies seemed to be enjoying the second-hand smoke.
He’d been to east London before, though not this pub. After getting friendly with a few people inside, they visited London on release five or six years ago. The intent of the trip was mugging tourists. After all, they didn’t think it fair that London’s thieves got to bag all the American’s and Jap’s wallets. No one ever visited Coventry on sightseeing tours. The lads from the provinces should be given a chance. They’d booked into a cheap guest house further up the road, drunk themselves stupid in a West End pub then bottled it when it came to the actual robbing. Though he returned with less than he came with, he still remembered it as a good night.
“Wanna play the winner, mate?” asked the plasterer. He’d more plaster on his clothes than any walls he’d ever been near.
“Yeah, go on then.” Jim flicked a sausage-shaped lump of ash from his fag and waited for one of them to lose.
Five hours, six pints and two cheese sandwiches later he left the pub. Though a tense start to the game of pool, the atmosphere soon defrosted. After Jim had bought a round of drinks, the plasterer and chippy opened up with questions and jokes flying round. It turned out Jim had been in Hewell Prison the same time as the chippy, though neither recognised the other. Jim tended to keep his head down when doing a stretch but the chippy, a serial grievous bodily harmer known as “Tim by Four”, was a more social inmate. Their joking and shared stories about the screws, prison food and Fatty Fred’s shower room antics had the desired effect. By the time he left he’d forgotten all about Geoffrey, Charlotte and contract killing. For some reason, he didn’t know why, this pub felt like home, or the nearest thing to it in London.
Squinting as he re-entered daylight, he walked along the road remembering the fun he’d had in London last time. He reckoned it was the nearest he’d ever come to a lad’s holiday. Of course they all lost contact. Most of them, like himself, ended up back inside within a few months.
He found himself walking towards the guest house. He’d never have found it on a map, but his subconscious seemed to know the way. Soon finding it, he looked the place up and down. Tired, peeling paint coated in city grime. The curtains hadn’t been washed, the sign was still missing a H from House, and the “Vacancies Tonight” sign hung in the window where it seemed destined to spend its life.
Maybe he could stay here a while. He couldn’t go home. Having broken his parole terms, all the usual coppers would be queuing up to put him away. This had to be cheaper than the hotel. Of course, he needed money to pay for it, but he reckoned he could get by. He’d find the right contacts, he always did. Yeah, maybe he could. The Queens Arms seemed like a good pub, the builders friendly enough too. Stay here a while, under the radar, make some money then move on.
He sighed. It wouldn’t work. Perhaps he should just give himself up now. What was the point of waiting for that knock on the door. They’d find him. He could go back inside and serve another year. At least then he could go home. Not that there was anything in Coventry for him.
He turned back to the road. A Range Rover with blacked-out windows pulled up, its back window level with him. The eighty-grand car stood out immediately. From the corner of his eye, Jim noticed people looking. A few even dived into the nearest shop.
He stood rooted to the spot as a large, absolutely huge man with a crooked nose and gold teeth stepped out. Catching Jim’s eye, he nodded for him to get in the back.
In Jim’s experience of big blokes asking you to get into cars, he’d discovered it was best to do as he was told. After all, if they wanted to hurt you, they’d just hurt you. They wouldn’t ask you to get in the car first. As far as Jim could see, someone wanted to talk to him. Someone who drove expensive cars and hired seven-foot thugs.
He thought he knew who it was.
He sat in the back next to the big-muscled lump as the Range Rover sped off. In front, sitting next to the equally large driver was a small, wiry man. Gold bracelets and cufflinks told his wealth in case it had been overlooked. His suit not Burtons or Top Man, but made to measure. The scent of expensive aftershave soured the air.
The man turned, his well-tanned face not via spray can or sunbed. “Well.” He spoke in a quiet, measured tone. “That didn’t go to plan, did it?”
Although a question, Jim knew it didn’t need answering. Questions like that didn’t. It said shut up and listen. “You see, I’m in an awkward position after what happened.” He spoke confidently and fast, as if reading from a script. “I believe our contract was three thousand up front with another seven on completion. Now, I know the circumstances surrounding this morning’s events. It’s been on the fucking radio all day; you could hardly miss it. Fact is, he’s alive.”
Jim felt relief leap across his face. He knew this wasn’t a smiling occasion but was unable to stop his muscles forming a grin. Clenching his fists and biting his bottom lip, he hoped the smile hadn’t been noticed.
“Now of course he’s on life support, but even if he does die it doesn’t get the message across I paid for. You see,” he turned back to the road, “I’m a businessman. I take risks. Calculated risks. The credit crunch has hit us all hard you know. Certain decisions and risks had to be taken. Writing off twenty gees with another ten in costs may sound foolish, but it was necessary to release other funds I’m owed. Funds that I need urgently for an ...” He paused. “An opportunity.”
Jim knew that despite this man loving the sound of his voice he wasn’t someone you could actually talk to. You couldn’t criticise or disagree. Just yes, yes, yes. Whatever he needed the money for, and it didn’t bear thinking about, Jim knew he’d messed up the plan.
“You see,” he continued, “the interesting world of accountancy has a term called the opportunity cost. To me, the opportunity cost of everyone paying me now offset, in quite a large way, the cost of employing you. By our mutual friend having a heart attack, I now have to reconsider my plans. In short, the opportunity I’ve missed has cost me.”
Jim nodded. He hadn’t said a word since getting in the
car and they seemed to be halfway across London already. The traffic, usually gridlocked, seemed to part in their path.
“Now to the nitty-gritty. In my opinion, and obviously you’re entitled to yours, but my opinion is you should have finalised the contract yesterday. You watched him for two days and did nothing. For all I know today was a trial run too. I have no proof of that, but as I say, in my opinion, it should have been yesterday.”
He had a point. Jim himself would admit he’d made too many dry runs. He’d struggled with the physical part of killing. The theory was easy - pull the trigger - but the practise? He’d bottled it yesterday. At the last minute he left the gun in the toilet. Somewhere inside, he knew he’d have bottled it today. Tomorrow too.
The car went silent. This was where it got nasty. He took a deep breath, and tried to prepare for what was coming.
“The result is this. I believe I’m owed money from you. The three you were advanced and also an amount for, well for want of a better term, compensation for the loss of opportunity. As I say, feel free to voice your own opinion on this.”
He turned round and looked back. Jim found his head nodding and his mouth saying, “I agree.”
Turning back to the front, he continued, “I’m glad we’re in agreement. Under different circumstances we could have enjoyed a successful business relationship for many years. However, things weren’t to be, were they?” He paused again. “Anyway, how about we make it a round ten? That’s three for the advance and another seven for the loss of opportunity.”
Jim nodded again. Of course it wasn’t a question. The man in front wasn’t expecting an answer, and had neither turned nor looked in the mirror.
“Good. Now, I’m a reasonable man and as time is no longer of the essence, you’ll want some time to sort your affairs out. Shall we say payment is due this time next week?”
Again, not a question. Again, Jim nodded.
“If you plan on leaving London, please let me know in advance. Ralph will give you a card. Please only ring from a call box, not a mobile. They’re so insecure these days.”
Jim thought the ogre next to him was more a Knuckles or a Harry than a Ralph. Still this funny old world took all sorts.
The Range Rover skidded to a halt at the kerb. Ralph exited then held the door open. As Jim got out, Ralph pushed a business card into his hand. Not looking at either the card or Ralph’s eyes, Jim pocketed it and started walking.
He appeared to be near Westminster beside the Thames. For a summer’s early evening, it made for a pleasant if highly polluted setting. Unfortunately, there was nothing pleasant in Jim’s head, it having been fried both by the thought of owing ten grand and also by a knuckle scraper called Ralph.
He stopped at the railings and took a deep breath.
“Where am I gonna get ten big ones?”
His phone rang.
Checking the display, it showed his one and only contact.
Charlotte.
Chapter 5
Charlotte could talk. After five minutes he had both a hot ear and a detailed breakdown since she’d left the coffee shop. She’d gone to work, but hadn’t done much having spent the day either talking or searching the internet for news on Geoffrey. As Ralph’s boss had pointed out, it had been a big news story. She told him the term “two mystery city workers” had appeared regularly when describing them. On reflection, Jim thought someone helping a stranger in London was big news. A community spirit long gone had made a temporary return. Charlotte was so obviously buzzing after her good act that her voice and brain were speeding away. In other circumstances Jim may have felt the same. But he needed ten grand in a week. And his plans had gone up the swanny when his new life failed. She was the only person he knew in London. And, he had to find ten grand in a week.
He couldn’t.
Could he?
When her first pause came, he made an effort to speak before she restarted. “I didn’t go to work.”
“Right,” she said. Her opening tirade finished, he felt she was giving him time to respond.
“I don’t know.” He’d never been good at thinking on his toes. Besides, he’d taken in so much this past hour his mind was chucking stuff back out. “I just didn’t feel up to it.”
“Right,” she replied. “I needed to go in, I mean I probably could have worked from home. They set up a home office last year in case of tube strikes or well, the other strikes, you know, terrorist ones. Anyway, I’ve got a deal ongoing with a client in the Emirates and you know Arabs, they don’t like half measures. Everything’s got to be done right. It’s important for them that they hear the trading floor in the background. I mean, I’m stood there, trying to get Gerald opposite me to make as much noise as possible and ...”
Jim stopped listening. Her attempt to give him time to word his sentences was very noble but she was obviously too pumped up to come down to his level. There was far too much noise in his brain for this. Was she nervous and this a release? Or was this a normal London thing? Either way his psychology skills were worse than his thinking skills so he conceded defeat.
Trying to picture her stood on the platform waiting for her train, iPhone crammed to her ear alongside all the other lonely people, he wondered why and when London had become so unfriendly. They all had so much in common yet they’d be in isolation, almost scared of talking. What a city. What a shite city.
“... but it’s only because my sister moved out, she’s getting married again next summer by the way, but I had to get rid of the car. I mean, I’m far too old to be sharing flats these days. And after the divorce, money’s been tight ever since. I’m sure you know what I mean. The cost of living in London’s terrible isn’t it? I’ve got a friend in ...”
Why, he thought, why is she talking to me about money? It’s got to be a nervous thing. Maybe Geoffrey nearly dying had pushed her near the edge. They say death or near death does that. How near the edge was she? Or, how close was she before?
“... but after she came back from Peru all her flatmate’s stuff had gone. This flatmate had just cleared off in the middle of the night and not paid two months rent. She’d taken her espresso machine too, which Jenny said was meaner than not paying the rent. I’ve got this other friend, Katie, she ...”
Definitely nerves. In Jim’s slightly drunk and sex-starved view of the world, he thought maybe a few bottles of wine and male company could cure her nervous disorder. If he got a word in edgeways, he’d ask. Nothing too heavy. Just meet for a drink. After all, she must live near the hotel, she was going towards the same tube as Geoffrey.
Of course there was a problem. He couldn’t meet her, he was already drunk, though the drive in the Range Rover had done a fantastic job of sobering him. Also, he was wearing his casual, scummy clothes which transformed him back to the no-good scrote he was.
Maybe he could meet her later. She was waiting for a train; he could go back to the hotel for a quick shower and a change of clothes. Considering his recent business dealings with the East End entrepreneur, he could do with being sidetracked.
She never paused long enough for him to suggest it. After what may have been ten minutes, she got on her train. To his surprise, the one-sided conversation continued another twenty minutes. She’d barely stopped talking as she got on and tried to find a seat.
As her train rattled on and Jim watched the river peacefully, she at last appeared to be nearing a natural pause. Whether she’d run out of things to say, or thought she ought to include him wasn’t clear. Her sudden question, “Where do you come from?” caught him by surprise. His head was so fried he was unsure whether to use his carefully thought out cover, or his own, real and murky past.
“I was born near Coventry.” It wasn’t a lie.
“Really,” she continued, “I used to know someone from Warwick when I was at college. That’s quite near, isn’t it? Like most friends at college we lost touch. What brought you to London?”
The truth felt good while it lasted, though it was just o
ne short sentence. “After college I moved to Northumberland to work for the Office of National Statistics. A few years ago they moved me to Newport in Wales. Then, six months ago, the chance to move here came. You know, I thought, come to London, make a million, get out of small town life. You know, hit the capital.”
“Doesn’t really work like that does it?”
Watching a particularly rowdy launch boat go by, Jim looked at the Houses of Parliament then the luxury flats south of the river. “They’ve put me up in a hotel at the moment, until I can find somewhere to rent.”
“Finding somewhere decent is so hard isn’t it? I mean ...”
And she was off.
As the train reached her stop so she could change to the tube, they said goodbye. Curiously, Jim thought it was a very quick goodbye considering the length of the call. There’d also been no mention of future calls or contact. Again, curious. He expected at least, “I’ll ring you tomorrow,” or maybe even a pause so he could ask her out. But nothing.
Starting the long walk back to the hotel, Jim wagged his hot ear trying to clear his head.
How do you make ten grand in a week?
The waiting and wonder of Charlotte’s swift entry and disappearance was soon over. A text message buzzed onto his phone less than half an hour after her call. He retrieved it with a smile.
We’ve just been on news again; they called us mystery heroes :)
Though disappointed by the smiley, he was glad there was no lol or omg. He wasn’t quite sure what either of them meant. The whole mobile phone and texting phenomenon had passed him by on his last stretch. Everyone seemed to have sprouted a phone from their forearm and be constantly sending and receiving messages. What was so important that had to be read there and then? He didn’t get it. If you had something to say, something important, why not ring?
