Dead Man's Gift and Other Stories

by Simon Kernick

  ‘I understand your position, Jim,’ I say, trying to sound reasonable, ‘but my aunt hasn’t got the money to pay you, it’s as simple as that. However,’ I add, wanting to avoid a confrontation I know I can’t win, ‘I haven’t come here empty-handed. I’ve got five grand in my pocket. Consider it a deposit on what’s owed. Then, when I track down Kevin, which I promise I’m going to do, I’ll make sure I get you the other twenty-eight. You’ve got my word on that.’

  ‘Twenty-nine, you mean – and I want the lot now.’

  The trick in circumstances like these is always to have some room for manoeuvre. ‘I can get you ten by the end of tonight,’ I tell him, hoping this’ll act as a sweetener.

  It doesn’t.

  ‘I don’t think you’re hearing me right, Billy,’ he growls. ‘I told you what I want; now if you ain’t got it, we’ll have to see if we have better luck extracting it from your auntie.’

  ‘He came in a nice car, Mr Sneddon,’ says The Knife, his voice a reedy whisper, like wind through a graveyard. ‘It looks like one of those new BMW 7 Series.’

  Uh-oh, I think. Not my pride and joy. But oh dear, The Crim’s craggy, reddened face is already brightening. It is a most unpleasant sight. ‘Now that’s what I like to hear,’ he says. ‘And it’ll cover the cost of your cousin’s misdemeanours, no problem.’

  I shake my head, knowing I’m going to have to nip this one in the bud pretty sharpish. ‘That car belongs to me, Jim, and it’s not for sale. I bought it with the proceeds of my last fight.’

  ‘I remember that last fight,’ says he. ‘Against Trevor ‘The Gibbon’ Hutton. I had a bet on it. Cost me five grand when you knocked him down in the eighth.’ His expression suddenly darkens at the memory, as if this is somehow my fault.

  ‘Well, you know how hard I had to work for it then, don’t you?’ I tell him, making a final stand. ‘I’m not giving it up, no way.’

  The Crim nods once to The Knife and I feel the touch of cold metal in the curve of skin behind my ear.

  My heart sinks, especially as I still owe fifteen grand to the finance company. I love that car.

  Although I feel like bursting into tears, I keep my cool. ‘You’ve changed your weapon, Johann,’ I say calmly, inclining my head a little in his direction.

  ‘A gun’s less messy,’ The Crim replies, answering for him. He puts out a hand. ‘Now, unless you want The Knife here to be clearing the contents of your head off the tarpaulin, you’d better give me the keys.’

  So, pride and joy or not, I have no choice but to hand them over.

  The Crim thinks he’s doing me a favour by driving me home. Instead, it is akin to twisting the knife in a dying man.

  ‘This really is a sweet piece of machinery,’ he tells me, as we sail smoothly through the wet night-streets of the city, the tyres easily holding the slick surface of the tarmac. As if I don’t already know this. ‘Ah, this is what it’s all about,’ he adds, sliding his filthy paws all over the steering wheel and reclining in the Nasca leather seat. And he’s right, too. There’s nothing like the freedom of the open road, coupled with all the comforts the twenty-first century has to offer; it’s like driving in your own front room. The problem is, it’s now The Crim’s front room. And it’s his music too: a Back to the Seventies CD that he picked up from his office, which is blaring out track after track of retro rubbish.

  As we drive, a Range Rover containing The Knife and The Gang brings up the rear. The Crim tells me he never likes travelling in the same car as his two bodyguards. He strokes the car’s panel and tells me that they’re Neanderthals who don’t appreciate the finer things in life, although quite how ‘Tiger Feet’ by Mud fits into this category is beyond me. He tells me all this, even though I am hugely uninterested, and when he drops me off, he even gives me a pat on the shoulder and requests that I punch Kevin for him, next time I see the treacherous bastard.

  I tell him that I will – meaning it – and clamber, lonely and humiliated, from the car as the Range Rover pulls up behind us. The Knife is driving and he gives me a triumphant little smirk. The Gang just stares with bored contempt, like he’s viewing a side-order of green vegetables. Then both cars pull away, and I’m left alone.

  I used to be a handy middleweight boxer. I never troubled the top division, but in a career spanning nine years and twenty-seven professional fights (seventeen wins, two draws and eight losses, before you ask), I managed to save up enough money to invest in property. I own a flat in Hackney outright, and I put down 50 per cent on a house in Putney last year, which I’ve been doing up ever since.

  But my main job these days is as a doorman. I don’t need the cash particularly, but it’s easy work. The place is called Stallions – not that there’s much of the stallion about any of the clientele. They’re mainly middle-aged men with plenty of money. It’s billed as a gentlemen’s establishment but, to be honest, it’s more of a high-class brothel with a bit of card-playing and drinking thrown in.

  Two hours after being dropped off by Jim The Crim, I arrive at the door of the club in Piccadilly, freshly showered and dressed in a dickie bow and suit, having had to get a taxi all the way down there. Needless to say, I’m not in a good mood, but I’m on floor-duty tonight, which is some compensation.

  The club itself is a lavish split-level room with cavernous ceilings, and was obviously kitted out by someone who liked the colour burgundy. It’s busy tonight, with all the tables taken, and the girls outnumbering the clients by less than two to one, which is rare. How it works is this: you pay an annual fee of several grand to be a member, but you don’t have to sleep with any of the women. You can just come and drink and play cards, if you want to, but most people indulge in the more carnal pursuits. There are private rooms upstairs to which you take your chosen girl. You pay her cash, usually along the lines of £200 an hour, and then pay a separate room fee to the management, which equates to the same amount. It’s pricey, but these are men without money-worries and ladies with very generous looks.

  As I pass the small, central dance floor I’m greeted by several of the girls. They wink and blow me kisses, and one – Chanya from Thailand – brushes against me like a cat as I pass, her expression inviting. But I know it’s only a bit of fun. She doesn’t want me. Like all the girls here, she’s after a ticket out, and someone of my standing simply hasn’t got the resources to provide that.

  Still, the attention puts me in a better mood, and this lasts as long as it takes to round the dance floor and take the three steps to the upper level. Because it’s then that I spot the man who’s my current nemesis – none other than The Crim himself.

  This is a surprise. I’ve not seen The Crim in here before. He’s sitting at a corner booth talking animatedly to one of our regulars, the Right Honourable Stephen Humphrey, MP, a former junior defence minister, who always seems to have plenty of money. There’s some skulduggery afoot, I’ve no doubt about that, and I wonder what it might be.

  I watch them from a distance for a full minute as they hatch whatever evil plot they’re hatching, and I think they make a right pair. The Crim is a big lumpy ox of a man with looks to match, while the MP is tall and dapper, with every pore of his Savile Row-besuited form oozing expensive education. He sports a quite magnificent head of richly curled, silver-white hair that makes him look like Julius Caesar on steroids. To be honest, I’ve heard it’s a very expensive rug, but then you hear a lot of intimate details in a place like this, not all of them pleasant, or true.

  I’m not so bothered about all that at the moment, though. What I am bothered about is getting my BMW back, since it was taken from me under duress, as I think you’ll agree. Clearly, if The Crim’s here, then so is the car. And what’s more, I’ve got my spare keys on me. I’m taking a risk by repossessing it of course, because The Crim is definitely not a man to cross, but I can’t bring myself to do nothing, when I know that it’s probably in the underground car park, only yards away.

  I take a look round for The Gang and T
he Knife, but they’re nowhere to be seen.

  However, when I look back at The Crim’s booth, I see that one of the girls – Vanya, a tall, statuesque blonde from Slovakia, with an icy smile and a model’s poise – has approached the table and leaned over, talking to Humphrey. The Crim meanwhile is surreptitiously peeking down the top of her cleavage and trying, without success, to be all nonchalant about it.

  As I watch, The Crim reaches into his pocket and pulls out what looks suspiciously like my car keys. With a reluctant expression he hands them over, not to Humphrey, but to Vanya, and she gives the big ox an enthusiastic peck on the cheek. What the hell’s going on here? I wonder, as the politician gets up and the two men shake hands.

  A second later, Humphrey and Vanya turn and walk hand-in-hand the length of the club and disappear out the exit.

  Not for the first time in my life, I’m confused. What’s The Crim done with my car now?

  It’s one of the club’s rules that senior members (i.e. those the management wants to keep on good terms with) can take selected girls off the premises and back to their own places, by prior agreement. Stephen Humphrey is one such member, but since he’s married with a sizeable brood of kids, I doubt he’s taking her back to his place for a bit of slap and tickle.

  Which means they could be going anywhere.

  So, what do I do now?

  For the next half hour or so I don’t do a lot, just keep walking the floor of the club, making sure that everyone – clients and girls alike – feels happy and secure. But all the time I’m thinking about my car and the heinous way it’s been taken from me. And, of course, what I need to do to be reunited with it.

  Finally, I can take no more. I’ve got to have it back. It’s just turned midnight when I head outside and make a call to the firm that monitors the tracking device that’s installed in it. I tell the man on the other end of the phone that a friend of mine’s driven off in my car for a prank. I don’t want to involve the police, but I do want the car back, so can he please activate the tracker and let me know where it is? He doesn’t like the idea and, to be fair, it’s a bit of an unusual request, but eventually, having ascertained that I am who I say I am, he does the honours and informs me that my car is currently outside number 21 Bowbury Gardens in Hampstead.

  Ah, the wonders of technology. Now all I need to do is get there.

  As I turn round, putting the phone back in my pocket, I see The Crim hurrying down the steps, with The Knife and The Gang in tow. They don’t see me, but keep on going round to the entrance of the underground car park. Something’s up, I think, but I’m no longer so worried about them. The important thing is to get my rear across to 21 Bowbury Gardens before anyone else does. So, after a few quick words with my fellow doorman, Harry ‘The Wolverine’ Carruthers – so-called because of the thick black mat of hair that covers his body from neck to toe – he agrees to lend me his car. He’s not too happy about it, obviously, because number one, he’s going to have to cover for me; and number two, when finishing time comes round at the unearthly hour of 4 a.m., he’s going to have some trouble getting home.

  I tell him not to worry about this, since I’ll have his car back well before then, and anyway he owes me one. The Wolverine’s not happy, there’s no doubting that, but eventually he parts with the keys and I drive off towards Hampstead in the hunt for truth and justice.

  It’s just turned quarter to one and raining when I pull into Bowbury Gardens, a quiet residential road of rundown three-storey townhouses, and I’m immediately confronted by an alarming sight. The front door of one of the houses about halfway down is open, and I can see Vanya – the girl who left the club in my car – being manhandled by a number of men who all have their backs to me.

  Hearing my car approach, one of them turns round and I see that it’s Jim The Crim. He immediately turns back and grabs Vanya by the arm, pushing her into the house. I carry on driving, looking straight ahead and hoping they won’t recognize me, and as I pass the house, I see that they’ve all now disappeared inside. I also see my motor – sleek and metallic-black, like a crouching panther – parked at the side of the road.

  I find a space nearby and pull in. The spare keys are in my pocket. Now is the time to pretend I never saw Vanya being accosted by The Crim and his boys, grab my car and drive off, end of story. Obviously I’m going to have to get out of London for a while, in order to escape The Crim’s wrath, but I was planning a holiday anyway, and Stallions isn’t exactly a job I’ll miss.

  But the problem is that I’m an honourable man, as I’ve told you before. I can’t just walk away from a damsel in distress, it’s not right.

  However, there’s another problem. I am outnumbered, and if I remember rightly (which I do), The Knife is carrying a gun. Since I know that The Wolverine is a man who sometimes strays on the wrong side of the law, I check in his glove compartment for any useful accessories, and lo and behold, I find a can of pepper spray. It’s not a lot, but it’ll have to do.

  Putting it in my pocket, I get out of the car and jog through the rain past my car, resisting the urge to kiss the paintwork, and carry on to the door where I saw the altercation. I try the handle and it’s locked. There’s a buzzer lit up on the wall beside it, and I see that the house is split into three flats. Taking a step back, I note that the third floor’s the only one with lights on, so I figure that this one’s Vanya’s place. I come forward again and launch a flying karate kick at the lock on the door. It looks pretty old and it gives easily, flying open with an angry crack.

  Surprise has never been my strong point, and I wonder again why I’m helping Vanya. She’s never been particularly friendly to me. In fact I’ve always thought her aloof and cold. I think maybe I’m simply a sucker for punishment.

  I shut the door behind me and move forward in the darkness, listening. I can’t hear any sounds from above, so I head over to the stairwell opposite and take the steps upwards, my shoes tap-tap-tapping on the cheap linoleum floor. It smells of damp in here and I suddenly feel sorry for Vanya, coming thousands of miles to work in a brothel servicing middle-aged men, and living in a dump like this.

  There’s a scream. It’s short and faint, but it’s definitely coming from the top floor. Before my fights, I used to get so nervous and pumped up that I’d be bouncing off the walls, counting down the seconds to the action. I get that feeling again now. I can sense impending violence and it’s weird, but I’m actually looking forward to it. It’s like I’m living again for the first time in months, years even.

  And now, of course, I know why I’ve come here, and why I’m defying Jim The Crim Sneddon himself. I crave the excitement. It’s like a drug.

  The pepper spray’s in my left hand as I mount the last step, see a door in front of me – all plywood and chipped paint – and do a Jackie Chan on this one as well. It flies open, and this time I’m confronted by a sight that’s alternately hilarious and shocking.

  First, the shocking part: Vanya, dressed in civvies, is sitting rigid on her threadbare living-room sofa, her pale blue eyes as wide as saucers. Above her, with one foot on said sofa, stands The Knife, the tip of his trademark stiletto touching the little fold of skin just below her left eye. In his free hand, he holds a thick lock of blonde hair that he’s clearly just lopped off, and it looks like he’s about to embark on some more physical damage. The expression on his face is one of cold pleasure.

  Now for the hilarious part and, believe it or not, there is one. Wailing like an angry baby in the middle of the room is the Right Honourable Stephen Humphrey, MP. Except that his resplendent silver mane is no longer attached to his head, but is actually bunched up in Vanya’s hand, like a sleeping Jack Russell, as she’s obviously removed it with some force. So, the rumours are true. Humphrey really is as bald as a coot, and I think it must have been his screams I heard, because his shiny dome is red and raw and laced with the remnants of torn adhesive.

  The Crim is the only other person in the room, and he’s having a bit of a l
augh at Humphrey’s plight. At least he is until he sees me bursting in, like some avenging angel. The MP is nearest to me, but I don’t bother with him. As defence minister, he had a reputation as a tough guy in Parliament. But it’s one thing making the brave decisions that send other men to their deaths, and quite another getting in the firing line yourself. He makes his intentions admirably plain by jumping out of the way very fast and burying his newly naked head in his hands.

  I identify the priority target as The Knife, since he’s the one with the weapons, and as he turns my way, I let him have it with a liberal burst of the spray. He tries to cover his face but he’s not fast enough, and as he chokes and splutters against the fumes, at the same time bringing his knife round in my direction, I knock him down with a swift left-hook. He hits the sofa, out for the count.

  But The Crim’s a bit quicker, having had that much more time to react, and he yanks his head away as I fire off another burst of the spray. He’s exposed in this position, and I come forward and punch him in the kidneys, twice in quick succession. He stumbles and loses his footing, and I grab him by his coat and pull him close, shoving the canister against his nose and spraying off the last of its contents straight up his nostrils.

  He starts gasping for air and twisting round uncontrollably, smashing into the stereo unit, part of which falls on his head with a loud clunk. I let go of him and turn round to look for Vanya, who’s giving the prone, mewing Humphrey a bit of a working over. I pull her off him and, at that moment, hear the sound of a toilet flushing round the corner, just out of sight.