The City Trap

by John Dalton

  ‘You’ll get them, Bertha.’ Des suddenly began to feel sleepy. ‘I’ve got a few things to sort out, and then we’ll settle up – you know, the photos and the money . . .’

  The weight on his eyelids was growing heavier and the deep-flowing river was beginning to drown his thoughts.

  ‘Why don’t we go to bed?’ he heard himself saying. ‘It seems like ages since we snuggled up all hot and steamy . . .’

  As Bertha looked at him with alarm, Des sank smiling into a deep sleep.

  * * *

  ‘Me know you, ennit? Didn’t we a meet at a New Year’s do down at the George?’

  ‘I doubt it very much.’

  ‘Surely we did.’

  The guy hovering over Bertha was definitely on his way down. His brown cheeks were lined and his frizzed, thinning hair was tinged with grey. The thing that turned off Bertha the most, though, was his suit – wrinkled, stained and half off his shrunken shoulders.

  ‘I never forget a face and I know I’ve never met you.’

  ‘Well, would you like a drink anyway?’

  ‘I’d just like to be left alone.’

  The guy’s pale hazel eyes didn’t persevere. Indeed, his whole body language seemed to say he knew he was lost before he began. Another no-hoper going through the motions, Bertha thought. The pub is full of them. Dreams turned sour. Hard-luck stories and tight-lipped bitterness. They’re all here propping up the bar. Bertha tried to dispel her observation, but could still feel a sense of desperation. She was part of the scene and it was getting older and scarier. The yearly shrinkage of the horizon to the point where life becomes those few shabby streets you’re able to walk down. God – awful!

  Bertha picked up her gin and half emptied it. If I can get a few years in on the game through Ross and milk it hard, then, then maybe I will get out, set up my own number and worry no more. Hotel Erotica by the sea. Or perhaps Hotel Claudette for the sexually adventurous. A discreet but popular little establishment. A niche in the market. A potential goldmine.

  Bertha stifled a smile. Don’t go too far ahead! There was McGinlay to get out of the way first. There was Ross to be forced into line. Why do things always get hard when you see a way out? She could see but two alternatives. Get Des bumped off and grab the photos. Paddy could well arrange that. Or, get Des back into her bed and sneak the snaps off him. The idea wasn’t unpleasant. On the contrary, it was very appealing and that was the problem. He seemed to be able to have his way with her. Bertha picked up her gin and gulped the rest down. ‘No blame, girl,’ she said to herself. ‘You do what you have to.’

  * * *

  The battered Ford Transit groaned and clunked through the dark streets, leaving a trail of poisonous fumes behind it. Mouse, driving erratically, was with Jerry. Both wore balaclavas and dark sunglasses and were keeping a lookout for street names.

  ‘How you feeling now, Stray?’

  ‘B-Better. You were right about the g-gear. I k-kind of feel safe.’

  ‘That’s good. Guess it’s like soldiers and stuff who go out on a mission.’

  ‘Yeh, we’re on a m-mission.’

  ‘Too right!’

  ‘Shit, is that the r-road there?’

  Mouse turned the steering wheel drastically to the right and the old van slewed across the main road and into a tree-lined lane.

  ‘This is where it gets difficult. These fucking country places, you don’t know where you are.’

  ‘Yeh, it’s all t-trees and b-bushes. Urgh, scares the living d-daylights out of me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Stray, we shouldn’t need to get out of the van.’

  ‘God, if I wasn’t with you . . .’

  Many a leafy lane had a dousing of exhaust fumes before the Transit, faded blue and rusty, reached its place of call. Mouse kept the engine running as the two of them inspected the wrought-iron gates.

  ‘Jesus, p-posh eh? You d-don’t think p-people actually live like this.’

  ‘That’s why they live out here, so you don’t see.’

  ‘And this is the b-bastard who g-got M-Mary k-killed! I f-f-f-f . . . shit!’

  ‘Take it easy, Stray. We’ll get the sod.’

  ‘B-But how? Look at those g-gates.’

  ‘Hold on tight and I’ll show you.’

  Mouse suddenly put the van in gear and slammed her foot on the accelerator. With a loud groan, the van lurched forward and then trundled fast straight at the gates. Jerry covered his eyes as they crashed, but the bolt of the gate easily snapped and the van went hurtling through.

  ‘Wow-wee!’

  ‘D-Did you see that?’

  ‘A piece of piss. Now, get ready to slide your door open and we’ll give the bastard hell!’

  Mouse drove into the forecourt of Sir Martin Wainwright’s pile at speed. The headlights of the van had been smashed by the gates so she couldn’t see too well. On hitting the gravel, she turned the steering wheel hard, slewing stones all over the place and knocking over a lion rampant by the front steps. Jerry slid open his door. He picked up half-bricks he had under his seat and began to lob them at the windows.

  ‘You b-bastard!’ he yelled. ‘You murdering scum, we’re on to you!’

  Mouse opened her door. She brought up a couple of Molotov cocktails she had wedged under her seat. As she fumbled around for her lighter, the front door to the house opened. Two men came cautiously down the steps.

  ‘Stray! Fling a few bricks at those bastards!’

  Jerry did. And with relish. He was beginning to feel better than he had for a very long time. His stutter seemed to have left him.

  ‘Here you are, you bastards, get a mouthful of brick!’ he shouted as he sent the men into retreat with well-aimed missiles.

  Mouse then lit the petrol-soaked cloth in the bottles. She stepped out of the van and sent one bottle through a smashed window. The other she hurled at the front door. The two men dived for cover as the door exploded in flames. A room then burst alive with fire. Mouse saw more people coming from around the back of the house.

  ‘Shit, Stray, it’s time to beat it!’

  Jerry continued picking up bricks from around his feet and chucking them out into the flame-smeared night, relishing the articulation of unhindered expletives. Mouse, meanwhile, got back in the van. She grated into reverse, then swung round and back into the darkness of the drive. As the van disappeared from view, a group of shocked people heard a singsong of swearwords piercing the cool night air.

  * * *

  There was a question as to where Des was. Yes, he was sitting in the snug of the George pub, but he wasn’t exactly sure that the pub was real. Or maybe he wasn’t real? Des looked at the bland walls and shivered. Whatever, he thought, I’m sure this is just a temporary dislocation. He looked down at his whisky. It appeared to wink. Jesus . . . In the circumstances, it would’ve been better if Des had been allowed to sleep, but the phone had ruined all that. First of all, Liam had rang and told him the prints were ready. And then Pearl had come on the line and a woozy Des had suddenly found himself turned liquid with emotion. He was practically sobbing to her with a frog-filled voice about how the river was flowing away and time was running out.

  ‘We can’t let the moment slip,’ he rambled on to her.

  Pearl had sounded concerned, both about his sanity and his sentiments, and it was not without some reservation that she agreed to meet him. But since then Des had felt a little more composed. He managed to pick up the prints from Liam, who seemed pretty anxious to be shot of the situation. Des then went back and stashed the photos under his carpet in various places. The obvious can often be the best, he felt. It was all very smooth, very professional, but then, once in the pub, faced with the prospect of Pearl . . .

  She came in wearing a black astrakhan overcoat. Her face and hair positively glowed with the contrast. After drinks were sorted out, she sat down opposite Des and gave him a worried inspection. Des knew it was incumbent on him to explain and he did so in a detached, matter-of-fact
way. The words came out calmly enough, but inside Des felt he was riding waves. One second Pearl was a vision seen through whisky, the next she was far away and looking vexed.

  ‘You should be in bed, Des, you look dreadful.’

  ‘I know, but I didn’t want to miss you.’

  ‘This isn’t good.’

  ‘We both know about our shitty jobs.’

  ‘But we were avoiding that, and now look what’s happened.’

  ‘I’ll be fine tomorrow.’

  Pearl looked as if she was going to say more, but she pulled back and made her mouth small. She shook her head at Des and gave off a tight smile.

  ‘It is good to see you. A bright light in a lousy day.’

  Des felt that his mouth was working well, but was conscious that maybe the language of the rest of his body didn’t quite match his words. Certainly Pearl seemed cautious as though expecting him to keel over or freak out at any minute.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Des insisted.

  ‘Like fuck you are. I think you’re still in shock.’

  ‘Yeh. Guess I am still a bit wobbly.’

  ‘We shouldn’t have had this meeting. It’s messing up the magic we had, it’s making me doubt the situation.’

  ‘You could always take me in hand.’

  ‘I’ll take you home, Des, that’s all.’

  ‘Good enough, I guess.’

  ‘But, Des, this worries me. It’s depressing. The shit, we both have it but it shouldn’t come between us. It shouldn’t be here now.’

  ‘Guess it’s bound to happen.’

  ‘No, and if it does, well it’s just like the rest of the shit, no difference.’

  ‘I didn’t exactly plan to be strangled.’

  ‘I know, you daft bastard. Let’s leave it for now and I’ll take you home.’

  Des made the most of her smile before he thought of his house and the trashed up mess he was going to have to recuperate in.

  21

  There was a shaft of sunlight in the bedroom. As Des opened his eyes, he saw it catch an upended vase and sparkle. Des smiled. All was quiet; his body felt rested and refreshed. Yesterday was a bad dream departed. Des squirmed around under the duvet, thought of staying put and leaving the clearing up of his house till later. He tried to focus his thoughts on Pearl, but then the cold mechanical tones of the phone interrupted him. An irritated hand flopped over.

  ‘Yeh.’ Des found it hard to say it and the word came out as a croak.

  ‘McGinlay! This is the last straw! I’m going to break you, you bastard, and your pathetic little life!’

  Des swallowed phlegm to try to ease his throat. He needed a coffee, a fag and not a phone call. ‘Who’s the fan?’ he managed to say.

  ‘You know full well and you know that today your time has run out!’

  ‘It ran out yesterday, mate, but I got a second chance.’ His throat was easing.

  ‘Are you on something? I guess I should expect it.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Wainwright! The one whose house you arranged to be attacked. I’m sure it was you. You’re just the sort of low-life who’d get yobs to throw bricks and petrol bombs!’

  ‘Sir Martin, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.’

  ‘I expected you to say that. However, regardless of denials, McGinlay, today is your nemesis, so expect a call. Only the photos can save you now.’

  ‘So what’s the cash offer?’

  ‘That deal’s off.’

  ‘Huh-uh. Well you’d better go fuck yourself then.’

  The coffee went down like molten metal but it did the trick. Despite some soreness, Des decided he was almost one hundred per cent. He picked up a chair in his living room and looked down at the chisel-shaped shoeprint. One job among many. As Des surveyed the mess of his house, he knew it was time for decisiveness. The world was closing in and he had to make some moves. He stood up abruptly and picked up the phone.

  ‘Hi, it’s Des. You still talking to me?’

  ‘Dunno, depends on what you’ve got to say.’

  ‘Well, Errol, I reckon it’s time for some co-operation.’

  ‘Ah. You do, huh? That’s very nice of you, Des. I mean, I feel so honoured.’

  ‘Yeh, yeh. I’ve been an arsehole.’

  ‘Huh, tell me something I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, I got throttled three-quarters to death by Scobie Brent yesterday and Sir Martin Wainwright’s promising to finish the job today.’

  ‘The situation is becoming clear. You’re in deep shit and you want help.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like –’

  ‘An now you got the cheek to come runnin to me after holdin out on me for days.’

  ‘I guess I’d have to say I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘Wow, such contrition! The power of fear!’

  ‘What was that word again?’

  ‘What’s on your mind, Des?’

  ‘Some kind of set-up, Errol. I was thinking, all these shits, they want to deal. So why don’t I make one? Photos for cash and information; a hidden mike up my sleeve.’

  ‘Who you got in mind?’

  ‘Constanza, I reckon. Scobie Brent probably did all the dirty work but Constanza must’ve given the orders to protect his smarmy client. He can shop them both.’

  ‘I dunno, man. You’ve gotta be careful about such setups, entrapment and the like. Then there’s the question of what my bosses’ll think of me using a dickhead like you.’

  ‘Come on. It’s bona fide undercover work. And even if it is inadmissible, it could provide the basis for action, like giving Scobie a forensic once-over.’

  ‘Yeh, there could be mileage in that.’

  ‘You up for it then?’

  ‘Give me a few hours.’

  ‘Right, and I’ll get some of those snaps over to you.’

  ‘Did you really nearly get snuffed?’

  ‘I saw the river, man.’

  ‘Jeez, you are a mad bastard.’

  After putting the phone down, Des began to sort out the mess that surrounded him. It was a highly motivational activity. Each item righted provided a cause for what he wanted to do next. He sorted out most of everything as best he could, leaving only the footprint on the carpet and the hammer lying by the front door.

  * * *

  ‘I’m not happy, Bertha. I don’t like this. There’s too many ifs and buts. Really, to be honest, it all seems half-cocked.’

  ‘Come on, Paddy, you can’t expect things to be written down in black and white. What is in this line of business?’

  ‘If it’s run as an escort agency, then most of it can be legit, just like the saunas.’

  ‘We can make it that way. Ross, he just likes playing the role of pimp to the rich.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m getting old, I like things clean and straight. I’m hooked on security these days.’

  Paddy Conroy’s Mercedes was parked on Vyse Street. This gave him and Bertha a view of an old graveyard where the soot-blackened tombs and defaced angels of Victorian high society still stood. Paddy was paranoid about meeting Bertha in anything other than the most austere circumstances. He justified this on the basis that he ‘still wasn’t sure about her’, but really he knew that, even now, she could charm his trousers down and that was another risk too far.

  ‘Look, Paddy, you don’t have to fret about these things. We’ll set up a legit agency and I’ll filter out all the contacts I get from Ross; anything dodgy, I’ll handle that personally.’

  ‘There’s the thing, can you trust Ross?’

  ‘Once the deal is set up, then yes. I was surprised when I saw him. Still a revolting bastard, but he seemed tired, maybe even glad to get a few things off his hands.’

  ‘I can’t believe that.’

  ‘No, really. The photos he said would put him sweet with Wainwright and some deals they’ve got planned.’

  ‘You can’t trust the man.’

  ‘There is a problem, though
.’

  ‘One among many I’m sure.’

  ‘Des, this private investigator I’ve got working for me, I reckon he’s got too involved. He’s talking about getting the police in.’

  ‘I told you, Bertha, didn’t I? I told you this thing was half-cocked.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Paddy. We can handle this.’

  ‘I would’ve thought you’d’ve had him round your little finger.’

  ‘Yeh, well I thought I had, and I still hope I can get him in line because he’s got the photos and I need those in our deal with Ross.’

  Paddy stared at a nearby stone Jesus, arms once raised to the heavens but now lopped off, and he groaned inwardly. Put her off, he thought. String things along to the very last and hope that she screws up.

  ‘That’s the first job then, isn’t it, Bertha, before we can do else all,’ he said. ‘What’s the point in tackling Ross until you’ve got the leverage?’

  ‘I think I can swing it, but as a standby, Paddy, we might need some of your doormen.’

  ‘Bertha, I told you, I’m not happy with this kind of thing!’

  Bertha leaned over and put a hand on Paddy’s thigh. She smiled, one of those smiles that dispel age and bring back memories. Paddy tried to keep his eye on the armless Christ.

  ‘Come on, Paddy, don’t be a daft sod, it’s just a fall-back, I’m not asking you to rub the guy out.’

  * * *

  The sun was a red balloon caught on the steel gantry of a container crane. The crane, normally yellow, had burned black and it cast a shadow right over to where Des was standing. The days were drawing in. A foreground and forethought of a colder darkness, pale pinks and violet receding to the horizon of someone else’s summer. Des shivered. The idea was alarming. He looked away from the pastel fires of the sky and concentrated on the road that stretched before him. From the phone call he’d made he’d learned that Scobie would come in around seven. There was no suspicion from the guy who answered the phone, to him it was just a call from a crony down the Lime who owed a few quid. Des was propping up a wall at the side of Conference Cars and making a fag-end carpet. He’d already sussed that Ross was still inside. A prospect of decisive times, if only the sneering shit with the floppy hair would come.