by Charlie Wade
Jim ignored the moans and groans from the partially drunk group and tried to settle on his plan. Three goes at a hundred. Six at fifty. Ten at thirty. Maybe even up the ante. First spin ten, second twenty, and carry on. Yeah, that was the way. Whether to bet on the corners or the numbers themselves was a harder problem. It had to be corners; the chances of winning were slight anyway, but winning just based on single numbers? He wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Here goes nothing,” he said, partially to the woman but also to himself.
Ten pounds on the corners of twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-six and twenty-seven.
The ball spun, teased for ten seconds then landed on six. Again, the same corners with a twenty pound bet. The ball landed on fifteen. The woman next to him and her gang had stopped betting. Watching Jim lose all his money seemed more fun.
Forty pounds, same corners. The ball spun, shot round and dived into twenty-four.
“Woah.”
The ball flickered and teased with the side but stayed there. Screams and hugs all round. Jim’s heart was going like the clappers. It felt like it would explode. The croupier pushed over his winnings, a big pile of chips. He tried to count them but his head was spinning. He knew it was only about three hundred. Taking a deep breath he counted them. Three hundred and twenty. Still down on the night.
“Same numbers, eighty pounds.”
His heart now pumping hard, the ball rocketed round and hovered over twenty-seven before settling in thirty-six. The woman next to him placed her arm on his shoulder. Just for a split second, he felt guilty. It wasn’t fair on Charlotte. None of this was. He should have brought her here. It should be her hand comforting him.
They looked at him. Was he going to quit while still sort of ahead?
He took a deep breath. “One sixty. Same numbers.”
Gasps all round. They could see his pile of chips and knew he was going for broke. Again no one else betted. Everyone keen to watch and see what happened.
Nearly shaking he watched the ball fly round and land in five. Again moaning and groaning and furtive looks at him as it seemed to dawn on the watchers that unlikely means just that. Looking at his chips, he had about three hundred left. Keeping back ten, he stacked up the rest. “All in. Same numbers.”
The ball seemed to hang in mid-air as it swung round the side. Time slowed down and the laws of physics changed to allow the ball to keep swinging all night. He must have breathed six or seven times before the ball clattered down, flirted with twenty-seven, before landing in sixteen.
The world speeded up to a crescendo. His previous slow and immensely focused mind suddenly opened to take in the loss around him.
“Shit.”
He looked to the mirrored ceiling and shook his head. He knew a CCTV operator would be looking down, laughing and calling him a tosser. Sighing, he looked back at the table.
“Sorry,” the woman beside him said. She squeezed his arm gently. If it wasn’t for Charlotte he’d have said something back; returned her friendship. Tried for more.
“Pick a number,” said Jim. He held up his last ten pound chip looking at the croupier.
She shook her head. “I can’t. Not allowed.”
Jim nodded then turned to the woman next to him. “A number?”
“Four,” she replied.
The wheel spun.
The ball landed on six.
The walk back was sobering. Despite expecting and almost wanting to lose everything, it was still humbling. Just a dream, nothing more. He could kid himself with “what ifs” all night, but the reality was just what he’d thought. There’s only one winner in a casino: the owner.
The city now quieter; he walked for hours. He should have saved that last ten and got a cab. Maybe he should have split the last hundred into three goes. Would that have improved the odds?
Sliding back into the hotel at just after one and hitting his bed, sleep took time to come. The last full day was ahead. If it wasn’t for Charlotte and the thought of dinner in her luxury apartment he’d do a runner. Yeah, he reckoned he would.
Chapter 21
His alarm went off at six. A headache accompanied him into the shower as he tried to wake himself up. Breakfasting at seven, partially raw sausage and burnt toast, he received the message.
Morning x.
Morning x. he replied.
He had no real plan for today. How do you plan to make four grand in a day? His mind was blank. Blagging and robbing would get him nowhere. Today had to be the biggy. It just had to be.
Returning to the room he ripped the gaffer-taped bag from the toilet cistern and lay on his bed. Gloves on, he unzipped the bag and pulled out the gun. The thing that had got him into this shit was getting him out of it. What else could he do? After treble checking the safety was on, he unloaded the weapon. Replacing the bullets in the bag, he tidied up.
On the bed, the comedy mask, additional gloves, reading glasses, coat and weapon. Putting the coat on, he pocketed everything and left the room.
The air felt colder and more polluted. He reckoned summer had finally buggered off south leaving autumn and winter ready to wreak havoc. Walking south, he was conscious of his coat and whether or not the piece could be seen. It felt like six days ago except for the weather. But the anxiety, the nervousness, everything. Today was different though, the gun wasn’t loaded. No one was getting killed today.
He hadn’t killed anyone anyway. He never would have, he knew that. Knew it was a fact. If Geoffrey hadn’t had his heart attack he’d have pissed around for two more days following him. The time would never have been right.
Through Kennington and Stockwell, Jim strolled mainly against the oncoming tide of workers rushing to their jobs. The time now half eight, he was far too early. A stop in a cafe yielded a tea and bacon sandwich. Looking round at the chipped Formica tables, grubby tablecloths and pepper pots that didn’t have a grinder attached, Jim felt he’d returned to the pre-coffee shop age. It hadn’t taken him long to get here. It was just a case of picking the right area. Economists would no doubt call the area deprived because they sold fried food instead of muffins. To Jim, this was home.
A couple of builders opposite ate fried breakfasts noisily. Jim wished he’d found this place earlier. Just like the Queens Arms it was a home from home. A little place to unwind. There was probably a pub just round the corner he could have come to with its own Mick the Prick and Tim by Four.
He stretched the tea out for half an hour. The thought of what was coming wasn’t the only thing that made him want to stay. Eventually leaving, he wandered through the streets passing shuttered shops, halal delicatessens and fruit shops selling weird shaped fruit he’d never seen before. Brixton, with its knife crime, hatred and diversity, was approaching.
Lurking round the back streets he looked inside a post office window. An early morning rush of two pensioners filled the little sub-post office. There’d be CCTV, he knew that. Plus a button to ring the police which would be pressed quicker than he could say, “This is a stick up.”
“This is a stick up.”
He’d always wanted to say it. It was just so glamorous and proper gangsterish. It was the very words Harry must have said before he robbed the security van and brained the driver with a crowbar. “Don’t do it, son,” he heard Harry say. “Don’t end up like me. Don’t spend your life in a cell.”
Sighing, he turned and carried on. The post office wouldn’t have got him four grand. No, that was a close shave. He’d have got five hundred or a grand plus the rozzers everywhere and his picture on the six o’clock news. That wouldn’t have gone down well with Charlotte.
Charlotte again.
Tonight weighed on his mind. She’d become such a big part of his life he couldn’t see how all this could possibly fit in with her. Or without her.
Walking back to the hotel he came across a small bookies. Inside, the smell of sweaty, unwashed man and stale cigarettes greeted him. The walls yellowed through smoke and lack of m
aintenance gave a good idea of not only the punters, but also the takings. Though still early, a few punters were looking at form and reading the papers ready for their afternoon bets. Again, aware of the gun in his pocket and his dire need for money, he considered it. There were two CCTV cameras, neither over the door. He could slip the mask on, no one had seen his face yet. The two oldies wouldn’t put up a fight. One of them might be a have-a-go hero, but seeing a gun tended to relieve potential heroes of their bottle. He might get a grand, maybe two. Would they accept seven and leave him alone?
Of course not.
Jim looked at the boards. The day’s races hadn’t yet been chalked up, but a few old and long running bets were still there. White Christmas 10-1. Arsenal to win Premiership 8-1. GDP +0.5% 100-1.
GDP.
It hit him with a rush. This GDP thing he was supposed to be doing for the ONS would report tomorrow. Maybe that was the answer. A few of Charlotte’s contacts would stump up four grand easily.
No, he wasn’t going to use Charlotte.
But his life depended on it. Leaving the bookies, he made a decision he’d regret. One he knew would lead him down several dark alleys. One he hoped wouldn’t ruin what they had, but also knew it would.
A newspaper shop supplied him with a Financial Times which had a GDP report inside. He wished he still had that laptop. He could have found out more on the internet, but he really was no computer whizz despite the courses inside.
Walking back to the hotel he’d no idea how to play it. Her words from the other night both in the taxi and at the Chinese were clear. She was after the information. What had she said? People would pay well for it.
Maybe he should just ring her now and say he could get the info if she was interested. No, he doubted she’d want that over the phone. It had to be face to face to know just how much information she really wanted. And, more importantly, how much he’d get for it.
One thing was determined, even set in stone. It wouldn’t be her money. It would be her contact’s money. If his prediction was wrong, which it would be, he’d offer to repay them. That would buy more time. He could carry on living at the hotel, or find a cheaper pad. Maybe a few card tricks. Yeah, he could do that. Maybe take a month or so to pay them back. He could do this.
But Charlotte. She’d be annoyed he’d got it wrong. How annoyed though? He reckoned this whole thing had gone far enough for him to talk his way out of it. Yeah, a bit of banter and she’d be fine.
He stopped and sighed at a pedestrian crossing. Cars whizzed by as his mind leapt from idea to idea. He knew this might just work. One day of course, he’d have to be honest with her. Tell her the truth. Or part of the truth. Hopefully, by then, he’d be sorted. A good enough story and a bit of cash to carry this on.
As the light turned green, he walked across the road. Halfway across the phone in his pocket buzzed.
Do you like Mexican food? her text said.
Yeah, really like it, he replied.
Entering the hotel, he hid the gun before making for the bar. Though open all day its customers were few and far between. Jim waited five minutes for the solitary barman to appear and unlock the bar before serving him a flat pint of lager. Sitting down with the pink paper he tried to read it, but the long words and complex explanations of things he knew nothing about weren’t going in.
Drinking more lager, he tried again. As far as he could see, GDP was the cost of what the country did. It was like the gross pay on a payslip except for the whole country. Sure, he could see it was important, but he couldn’t tell why people were so concerned if it went down 0.1% or up 0.5%. From what he could remember about maths at school, that was surely a rounding difference. Unless it fell by whole percents why was the whole country so bothered about it? And, how did these traders make huge sums betting on the outcome? He read further, his mind taking more in, but he didn’t feel confident to blag his way through. Another pint wasn’t helping either.
Now sat outside in the concrete mini beer garden, he read again through the expert opinions and forecasts. Apparently two quarters of negative growth meant the country was in recession. Jim wondered why they just didn’t say, “if it goes down for six months”, instead of “two quarters of negative growth”. He suspected big words were used to make a simple explanation appear more complicated. He knew most people would be bored shitless and put off by now. Maybe that was their aim.
It did explain the hoo-ha over the figures. Going into recession was bad news, Jim knew that. He remembered the last recession well. His own takings were well down; people’s spending money disappeared. With that, the honest thief’s earnings disappear too.
Most of the experts in the paper reckoned on very small growth. This seemed to be the consensus though one wild-haired doomsayer seemed to be arguing for a half a percent fall. Though Jim had little idea how the city worked he thought most people would bet with the majority. They’d be expecting an increase. Maybe he should say it’s a fall. That half a percent fall the long-haired geezer reckoned looked a good bet. People, or Charlotte’s contacts, would be more interested in a figure that was out of the ordinary. Four grand would be his by the end of tonight, he was sure of it.
He sent her a message, These GDP figures are going to surprise everyone x.
Really? Why? x was the almost instant response.
I’ll tell you tonight x.
Chapter 22
He showered hard washing London from his skin. After walking past traffic most of the morning, he felt covered in a plague of soot. The time only five o’clock, he had considered re-hitting the square mile for one last look around. Maybe that stray set of Porsche keys would be dangling today. He didn’t go. The only thing he was sure of was he’d get arrested if he tried.
Instead, he read and reread the paper. GDP wasn’t that boring when you got into it. Actually, it was. But the interesting thing was a whole new world of numbers and new words had been invented to describe its smallest aspects. People devoted their whole life to the study of a three monthly press release. People were paid to give their opinion. If they were wrong it didn’t matter. By the next release everyone had forgotten the last.
Choosing one of Raif’s expensive polo shirts, Jim got ready. He felt light-headed and knew it wasn’t the drink. There was anticipation over tonight. He was trying hard not to think about what may happen. Dinner. Just one little word, but the expectation was on what followed it.
Of course money was weighing on his mind, but Charlotte was close to pipping it and taking over. Not for the first time, he couldn’t understand what she saw in him. She was perfect, intelligent and liquid. He was either a good liar or she a bad judge of character.
Finished work. On way home x, she said.
Okay. I’m already at hotel x, he replied.
It didn’t help his butterflies. A couple of double whiskies in the bar might, but he knew turning up smelling of Scotland’s finest was the worst way to ensure tonight went well. The fluttering was moving down his chest towards his stomach. He wasn’t sure if he’d be sick before the night was out. Eating a hot chilli was going to be a test.
Laying back on the bed, he turned on the television. Some late afternoon quiz program was enough of a distraction. It reminded him of afternoon’s inside. “Cobby Harris” would be playing pool with “Barney Barnsey”. “Mad Luke” would be cheating at draughts with “Knifey Dave” and Jim himself would be sat on a plastic orange chair watching some afternoon TV drivel. Harry would be sat beside him telling a story about a robbery or a piece of gangland revenge usually involving hammers and kneecaps. Jim would have taken it all in. It’d been like a family party. He’d never been to any family parties because he barely knew his. But that’s what it had always felt like. Like he belonged.
Approaching the high security front door of the warehouse flat, Jim’s stomach once again leapt. It had settled down over the afternoon. While in the off licence buying a bottle of wine, it had almost been normal. The nearer he got, the harder
it churned.
Pressing the buzzer, he waited.
A very long fifteen seconds passed before her voice came through the intercom. Crackly and devoid of any tone it was still recognisably Charlotte.
“Hi.”
“It’s me.” He waited. “It’s Jim,” he added.
“Come up.”
Heavy bolts dropped from their place and the door buzzed. Pushing it, he walked in. The fresh scent of pine and pot pourri was fighting for nose space with the smell of tomatoey-chilli. The combination smelt like an explosion in a Mexican air-freshener factory.
Legs like jelly, he walked up the stairs. Appearing round the top with a spatula in her hand, and wearing an expensive apron was Charlotte. Smiling, she said nothing but flicked her head briefly backwards.
Her face had colour. Jim wondered if she was as nervous as he, or whether she’d just tasted a too-hot chilli. Being normally so calm and unflustered he settled on the chilli. She wouldn’t possibly be feeling as nervous as himself. She couldn’t be.
“Sit down, it’s nearly done.”
Reaching the top of the stairs, Jim handed over the wine. A mid-price bottle of Australian white, the label said it was the perfect accompaniment to fish and meat. It said nothing about vegetarian chilli. She read the label, her face not quite turning into a frown, before she said, “I haven’t had this. Looks nice.” She offered her cheek for a quick kiss. Just a European thing, Jim told himself. It doesn’t mean anything.
He walked past her. Being so near, within touching distance, every muscle in his body had clenched. Taking the edge of the nearest huge sofa, he sat, but cricked his neck round so he didn’t break eye contact.
“Good day?” she asked.
“Busy.”
He’d planned to say that. It was part of the GDP conversation he’d memorised. Now he’d seen her, seen her face and eyes and that smile, he was having second thoughts about the plan.
“Me too,” she started. “Had another investor pull out today. Not what I need at this late stage. I mean, despite the meals and the bottles of champagne I bought him and his wife, it’s not just that, it’s the time wasted isn’t it?”
