by Charlie Wade
It was obvious to Jim that one of the lads had history with her. Maybe they’d recently broken up or had some long-term unreciprocated longing. Either way, daggers had been flying at him for the past hour. His phone had also just buzzed inside his pocket so he pulled it out and shrugged.
“Nah, thanks though. You know, you’re really great, beautiful people.” He’d been trying not to over-milk the loved-up atmosphere, but reckoned that might have gone too far. “If I get the next train, I can be back in Coventry for midnight.” He pointed at his phone. “Loads of other mates’ll be there.”
She nodded, seemingly pleased he wouldn’t be on his own for the night. As he left Jason handed him a slip of paper with a mobile number on it. “Give us a call next time you’re in London. We can meet up in a club or something.”
Jim thanked them all and left after much hugging and talk of being beautiful. He tried to smile but couldn’t. Sure, they were loved-up pretend hippies with too much money, but they were genuinely nice. They probably didn’t deserve what he was about to do.
Chapter 14
Finished now. Off to bed x, had been Charlotte’s message.
Sleep well x, he replied while finding his bearings on Stockwell High Street.
In some ways Jim thought it more deprived than the East End. Graffiti on shutters of long closed shops, dimly lit alleys and pavements with group of youngsters hanging round. Litter placed everywhere but in bins completed the picture. He’d no idea where to start looking for the best fish and chip shop in London, but decided the High Street would be a good start.
A few kebab shops, Chinese takeaways and the odd Indian littered the road. Hard-looking pubs offered little friendship and even less opportunity for crime. Not that he’d feel comfortable robbing in them. They weren’t much better off than himself. Okay, they might not have a life sentence hanging round their thick, tattooed necks, but no, he couldn’t rob them.
The ravers however, were different. They had money to waste on pills and fifty quid entrance fees so they could afford to lose a few belongings. Nothing that would really hurt, just a few bits. They’d be insured anyway, so it didn’t matter. He wondered why they chose to live here and not some upper market area. Guessing that student life had left them poor for decades to come, he figured they’d gone for cheap rent.
The street was long with endless traffic flying by. He eventually found the chip shop off a side street. In the middle of a row of shops and takeaways he wondered just how you actually got in. He stalked past twice looking for small doorways or some communal entrance hall, but found nothing. Realising there must be a back way, he thought he’d lose his bearings once the chip shop was out of view. Sighing, he walked up the street, counting both the number of shops and roughly the number of flats above them. An alleyway ten shops down gave him the chance to get slightly nearer.
The alley ended soon; the rear of the building was back to back with another main street. A small road, it was barely large enough for a modern car. He imagined it to be the sort of lane police chases on The Sweeney was filmed in. Cardboard boxes flying everywhere when handbrake turns were pulled. A high brick wall with broken glass set in the top wasn’t welcoming. Walking down the lane, counting as he went, he passed fifteen small wooden doors, some open some locked while others rotted in neglect. Reaching what he thought was their door, the obvious flue from the back of the chip shop snaked into the sky next to a stairwell to the second floor.
The door was solid and locked. Backing down the road, he pushed open one of the rotting ones and entered a small back yard. The second floor stairwells weren’t linked to each other which Jim guessed was to keep people like himself out. Climbing over three partition walls would see him cut to shreds on broken glass.
The dark yard, which smelt heavily of urine, had a broken pallet in a corner. Staring at it for half a minute, he was unable to put it to any use. Wishing he’d brought a screwdriver, he was about to admit defeat when he saw a broken spade lying in the corner. Rusty and devoid of a handle, it was almost perfect. Hiding it by his side, he sneaked out and back to the locked door. After a final check no one was around he forced the door open. The crack as the wood split echoed round the enclosed yards. He was convinced someone would have heard it. He’d probably not only end up battered but also deep-fried when they caught him.
Sneaking past two bicycles and up the stairs, he came to the flat’s entrance. A very solid wooden door with deadbolts at the bottom wasn’t a good sign. Bending down, he opened the letterbox. Though he knew some of its occupants were out, he wanted to check they were all out. No noise came from within. He whistled a few times hoping a high pitch would attract any dogs. No barking. No noise at all.
He saw a piece of string dangling inside just to the left of the letterbox. Jim shook his head. Surely people didn’t still do that did they? This wasn’t the fucking sixties anymore after all. There were some right nasty buggers around these days.
Pulling on the string, it was just that. String, no key, just string. Maybe they weren’t as stupid as he thought. However, it did mean there’d been a key at some point, perhaps they’d been broken into before. What it meant was they were forgetful. They’d locked themselves out a few times and used it as a backup, but later realised it was the obvious place a thieving scrote would look.
Turning round, he looked at the three flowerpots on the small balcony. Probably tomato plants but maybe cannabis. Lifting one, he scraped away some earth. The key was hidden just below the surface of the largest pot.
Using his sleeve, he inserted the key in the lock. It turned easily. Shaking his head, he hoped to God the two girls used a security chain or bolt when they were alone at night. He practically fell inside the house; they hadn’t bothered with the deadbolts either. Jim thought of ringing Jason, getting him to tell the girls off. Maybe he’d do it tomorrow.
Inside the flat, he took off his jumper and covered his hands. DNA couldn’t be helped but he’d make sure he left as little trace as possible. The flat was small, tiny even. A corridor led straight into a kitchen cum living room. An old electric cooker stood right to the side of the solitary sofa. Against the wall stood an old telly with a pile of clean-looking washing in a basket. Two doors led from the room crammed into the space between the sink and television. Behind the sofa, and crammed against the other wall, was a table and two chairs filled with papers, magazines and more clothes.
The laptop on the sofa immediately caught his eye. While inside he’d had computer training courses. He wasn’t bad at it. Finding the right keys was the hardest part. Though access had been restricted, a few diehard techno-freaks found ways round everything. Jim classed himself as a more manual person than a computerised one. The most important thing Jim had learnt about laptops was a good one sold for at least a hundred. For some reason, if it was an Apple, it went for double.
This one wasn’t an Apple. Some cheap Taiwanese or Vietnamese brand; it was fairly clean and looked new. Definitely worth a ton. The telly was too large to take; a thirty-inch flat screen would cause some questions on the tube. The Wii and Digibox connected to it were worth money as was the Nintendo DS on the sofa arm. Walking to a kitchen cupboard he found a few Waitrose bags for life, and stacked the Wii, controllers and games in one and the Digibox, DS and laptop in another. A couple of dark coloured, flimsy jumpers from the clean pile of clean washing added to the top made them look like bags of clothes. Though late at night to be walking round with clothes, London had taught him anything went in the early hours.
The two doors hid a bedroom and a small corridor leading to a bathroom and another bedroom. He didn’t want to search the bedrooms. The girls were okay, if a little trusting. Some villains would upturn drawers and go through underwear in the hope of a fiver. Jim hoped he had higher standards. He looked briefly round the rooms for anything small and electrical. An iPad was in the bedroom obviously belonging to the insurance exec. The other bedroom had nurses’ uniforms hanging from every spare inch.
Back in the cramped living room, an iPod in a dock caught his eye. He had two of the things already, but guessed a third wouldn’t hurt. Bags packed, he paused, wondering about the nurse. She’d been drinking Bacardi in the pub while the others had bottles of beer or cocktails. He guessed she was the hardest up and wondered if she’d be insured. Going back through the bags, he wondered if the laptop was hers or not. Without turning it on he couldn’t be sure. What about the DS? The iPad was the city worker’s; there’s no way a trainee nurse could afford one. Leaving the DS, he left the flat, locked the door and replaced the key. After walking a couple of hundred yards he hailed a taxi to the hotel.
Lying on the bed, he added up his takings while taking a look at the laptop. He thought he had just over seven hundred quid plus the electricals. Grand total, thirteen hundred tops. Not bad, but he was still a day or two behind. Tonight had been the night too, the biggest day of the week.
Sighing, he went back to the laptop. Definitely the city worker’s. Virtually everything was password protected; emails, some piece of bank software and most of the files. A few personal files, letters to their landlord about leaks and a CV were the only viewable things on there. Though he knew it would take ages, he started to uninstall the software and files. Like a twat he hadn’t brought the power lead and guessed, with his luck, the power would run out midway. He’d leave the iPad and ask about it first; he hadn’t a clue what sort of security they had.
He thought about sending Charlotte another message. It was only twelve, but she’d been quiet for over an hour. He reckoned she must be asleep. He wondered if her lump of hair fell down while she slept. Did she subconsciously move it back up, or was that just an awake thing? Yawning, he looked at the clock. Realistically, there was still more work to do. Pubs would be clearing out soon. People would be milling round the streets either going to clubs or home. A few of them would have overdone it; they’d be lying in a gutter somewhere or taking a few minutes rest on a seat. Their wallets would be nearly empty but easily pliable. However, ten grand was a long way off and petty theft wasn’t getting him near it.
He lay back on the bed. There had to be a better way. A way that didn’t involve stealing directly from people. Ten grand was a huge ask, and to do it a hundred quid a go was too much to ask. No, he needed to think of something bigger.
Chapter 15
Waking from what felt like his best ever sleep, he hit the shower.
Morning. Off to work. Catch you later x, the text that woke him said.
Have good day. I’m off to bosses house for Sunday lunch. He’d half fed the lie yesterday. It seemed reasonable enough that someone who’d moved to London would no doubt be bored of hotel meals and would be invited by a workmate or boss. He hoped it added realism.
Breakfasting on sausage, egg, beans and toast with the other hairless and hopeless guests, he then booked and paid for another two nights. The receptionist was different but possessed the same customer service skills as her colleague. As Jim went back to his room, he bumped into his neighbours who’d obviously had a late night and even later start.
“Morning,” she said. “How’s breakfast?”
“Awful,” said Jim, opening his door. “At least it’s not burnt.” Smiling then closing the door, he didn’t like to add the sausages were nearly raw if not partially alive.
Rechecking his stash in the cold light of day, which by rights should be approaching five grand, was a gut-wrenching disappointment. He was nowhere near. He could flog the gun for a few hundred if it came to it. But he knew he should keep it until the last moment. Just in case he needed it for an armed robbery.
Pocketing his gloves, he left the hotel to a drizzly Sunday. Taking the tube to Piccadilly, he kept looking in the glass, mirrored by the dark tunnels, expecting to see a face there. A face with a blonde lock of hair that wouldn’t stay attached to its head. A friendly face with a big smile.
He had it bad and he knew it.
Sighing, he looked at the tube map printed on the train’s side. He wondered just how many people looked at it every day for want of anything better to do. Whether they’d forgotten a book, read the paper too quick or were avoiding eye contact with a psycho, everyone read and reread it. He thought that the map with its simplified and downright incorrect geography must be the most viewed map in the country. Pondering that maybe subliminal messages had been hidden inside, he gave it another look. One definite benefit was everyone knew how to spell Aldwych.
At Piccadilly, he wandered round. He didn’t know what had drawn him here. Virtually no way to make ten grand. It might be a good place for wallet filching; everyone taking photos of the pretty lights, heads facing upwards and away from prying fingers. But, he’d given up on that. It was the easy way out, yet it wasn’t even a way out. He’d never get enough that way. He needed to think of a big job, not waste his time wandering about.
A touristy smiling couple walked towards him. Resplendent in their waterproof jackets and visible camera, they looked confused at a map.
“Excuse me, sir.” The obviously American man spoke with the sort of accent Jim thought only existed in parodies.
“Yeah,” Jim replied. He’d made eye contact with the woman, then man. He knew it’d be impossible to relieve them of their worldly, yet heavily insured goods. The crowds were just too thin.
“How do we get to Lye Cester Square from here?”
“You mean Leicester Square? Up the top, turn right for about a mile then you should see it on your left.”
As they thanked him, Jim wondered where those directions would lead them. Middle of the Thames probably. Continuing to walk away from Piccadilly towards Soho, the real futility of this came back. He’d only four days left. Wherever time was flying to, it wasn’t doing it productively. Finding a coffee shop, he ordered a tea and sat in the dry.
He had to do a big job tomorrow. And the day after. He’d no chance otherwise. This afternoon was different, of course, but he needed to plan what he’d been putting off.
Slurping his tea, he thought of bookies, banks and post offices. No one else held the sort of cash he needed. Banks were a no go. Too many cameras, security guards and do-gooders. Post offices? Maybe. Not here, not London. Maybe borrow a car, take a trip to a village in Buckinghamshire or Berkshire or Twatshire or wherever.
He sighed and sipped his tea. This wasn’t going to happen. He didn’t have time to find a good place, stake it out and get a second car to swap for the getaway. That was last resort territory. Plus, most post offices had time delays on their safes. The time delay was usually just long enough for the police to arrive.
Back to bookies. An upmarket bookies might be good for a few hundred, but the real money, the big amount he needed, wouldn’t be in the till. The big money would be in the night safe, dug deep into the floor. The keyholder or holders wouldn’t be around, or in some cases they wouldn’t even hold a key. Private security firms did. If he could disable the security alarms and cameras, take in some heavy duty cutting gear, the money would be his. Alone though, with three days to find somewhere and stake it out? No chance.
Back to square one.
His tea finished and the rain nearly stopped, he stood up. Once more he wondered where the hell he could get ten grand in four days.
His phone beeped. Charlotte.
First meeting done, just waiting for next to arrive x.
Jim sighed as he typed, Good luck x.
This thing between them wouldn’t go anywhere. If by some fluke he did get ten grand, how long before she found him out? A month, two maximum. How would he support himself? Realistically, if he fleeced her, he’d be doing her a favour.
“The girl needed teaching a lesson,” Harry would probably say. “It’s a tough old world out there, cookie. And the Charlotte cookie n
eeded toughening a bit more. Too trusting, that was that gal’s problem.”
Thinking again of her smile and that lump of hair, he shook his head. A bookies. It had to be a bookies. Maybe a jewellers. Continuing his stroll, he ended up near Carnaby Street. Finding a party shop that wasn’t too expensive, he bought a Darth Vader mask. Though poorly made from Chinese plastic, it did the job of covering his face and the eyeholes were big enough to see out of.
An idea struck him. He’d later wonder where the hell it came from. But, it just appeared like the proverbial bolt from above. Geoffrey. Geoffrey Morgan. The man responsible for this. The man who’d had the nerve to have a heart attack instead of being shot. Why should he get off scot-free?
Fiddling with his phone while avoiding a sudden shower, Jim typed, Did you hear how Geoffrey is? x He couldn’t work out if the x should go before or after the question mark. Either way it didn’t look right. He sent it anyway.
A minute later the reply came, OMG. Totally forgot. I ring hospital x.
He shook his head. She was too good to use in this way.
“You bastard,” he muttered while hovering in a clothes shop doorway. “Utter bastard.”
When the reply came, Still in hospital, recovering well x, he thanked her and started towards the tube and the East End. Today had just got busier.
The High Street that led to the Queens Arms was back to its usual quiet dearth after the hustle, bustle and bloodstained antics of a Saturday night. In the pub, Tim by Four and Mick the Prick were playing pool and on their second pint. Despite not having worked for two days, Mick was still covered in a sheen of plaster. Jim got himself a quick pint.
The lads were on good form and looking forward to their outing. As Jim explained the plan, Tim had the most questions. As he was on licence, Jim could only try his best to assure him that the plan was sound. The pint quickly finished, Jim squashed into the middle passenger seat of Tim’s work van as they headed towards north London.
