Pretend We're Dead

by Mark Timlin

  I stood up and moved to the side of the desk. The side closest to Dawn. I was thinking that maybe if I hid behind her skirts everything would be copacetic. From the look in Brother Anthony’s eyes as he followed me with them, I was wrong.

  ‘Brother Anthony,’ I said. ‘I know that you’re a bit handy. I understand that, and I admire you.’

  Flattery now.

  He nodded his agreement.

  ‘So listen. I’m not a rucker. Not any more. If I took you on I’d be fighting well out of my weight. How old are you anyway?’

  ‘Twenty-five, sir.’

  ‘See. I’m nearly fifteen years older than you, and you outweigh and outreach me. Besides, I’ve not been too well. And, you know… Well you don’t know, so I’ll tell you. I’ve been shot, stabbed and beaten up several times in my life. It wouldn’t be right. You’d hate yourself if you hurt me. I mean, the whole point of the discipline that you practise… the art, is that you don’t pick on the defenceless. Am I right?’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’

  ‘So if I won’t fight back, it kind of negates the whole point of it. The almost religious intensity of the experience. And I know that you’re a religious boy. The honour. The chivalry. Get what I mean?’ I was on a roll by then and I could see that Dawn for one was well impressed. I wondered how Brother Anthony was reacting. ‘And besides,’ I said. ‘I’ve only been married for a little while to this fine woman here.’ I gestured at Dawn. ‘Just think how she’d feel to see me humiliated in front of her. It could ruin our relationship.’

  With that I thought I’d covered every base.

  ‘But, sir,’ he said. ‘Brother Julius sent me to stop you asking any more questions.’

  ‘And, Anthony,’ – I dropped the ‘Brother’ bit, I just couldn’t carry on with it – ‘as far as I’m concerned, you’ve done it without one blow being struck.’

  He looked puzzled. ‘But Brother Julius said that I should insist.’

  ‘Surely only if I didn’t listen.’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘You’ve done it,’ I said again. ‘You’ve convinced me. I’ve learnt my lesson.’

  He looked puzzled again. ‘So I can go back and tell Brother Julius that you won’t bother us again?’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘But what happens if you’re lying?’

  Shame on you, I thought. ‘Then, Anthony, my old son,’ I said, ‘you come and find me and beat the shit out of me.’

  He reddened. ‘I’d rather you didn’t use that kind of language, sir.’

  ‘I apologise, Anthony,’ I said. ‘From the bottom of my heart.’

  He thought about what I’d said and came to a conclusion. ‘That’s good,’ he said.

  ‘I knew you’d see it my way.’

  ‘So I’ll say goodbye, sir, ma’am,’ he said, and shook hands, first with Dawn, and then I moved round the desk and shook his hand too.

  ‘Give my regards to Brother Julius,’ I said.

  ‘I will, sir.’

  And he turned to leave, and I picked up one of the empty lager bottles that was sitting on the edge of the desk and slammed it down on his head. He heard the sound of the air being displaced as I aimed the blow, and he half turned, and the bottle caught him just above the ear. Another second or two and he would have managed to do some karate move and taken me out there and then. I was lucky.

  Brother Anthony hit the carpet in front of my desk like a log and a small cloud of dust rose from the pile. I’d have to get the vacuum cleaner out soon.

  Dawn looked up at me. ‘Haven’t been well?’ she said.

  I shrugged.

  ‘Chivalry?’ she said.

  I shrugged again.

  ‘Honour?’

  ‘I never said I was Sir Lancelot.’

  I knelt down beside Brother Anthony’s prone form. The skin above his ear was broken, but not badly, and there was some blood in his yellow barnet. I felt for his pulse. It was strong and regular. ‘He’ll be OK,’ I said.

  ‘You were lucky,’ she said, echoing my previous thought. ‘Another half a second and he’d’ve had you.’

  ‘Whole second,’ I said. ‘Maybe longer. Do try to be a little more exact.’

  ‘What are you going to do with him?’ she asked.

  ‘No probs,’ I said, and went to the door. Donny, one of the cabbies with whom I was quite pally, was lounging on the bonnet of his Ford Sierra in front of the cab office.

  ‘Donny,’ I said. ‘Want a fare?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said and came off the bonnet and walked up to my door. ‘Who?’

  ‘Him,’ I said, gesturing to Brother Anthony’s body.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Donny. ‘What’s up with him?’

  ‘Too many of those,’ I said, pointing at the lager bottles on the desk.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Notting Hill. Pembridge Square. A church. He’s a God-fearing boy. Just likes the sauce a little too much for his own good.’

  ‘He won’t throw up in the car will he?’

  ‘No.’

  Donny noticed the blood in Brother Anthony’s hair. ‘He looks like he needs a hospital more than a church.’

  ‘He’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Doctor.’

  ‘Twenty quid,’ I said.

  That clinched it. ‘Give me a hand with him, then,’ said Donny.

  We lifted Brother Anthony up and half carried, half dragged him to Donny’s motor and wedged him into the back. I gave Donny a pony in fivers, the address of the church, and Brother Julius as the man to deliver him to. Donny got in behind the steering wheel and drove off in the direction of town, and I went back to the office where Dawn was waiting. ‘What now?’ she said.

  ‘Now we go off and have something to eat at that Caribbean restaurant near the George Canning, and you drive us back to Pembridge Square where we can have another chat with Brother Julius.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I got to him yesterday. If I hadn’t he would never have sent that stupid lump round to try to shut me up. He over-reacted. There is something going on in that bent little church of his. Something to do with Jay Harrison. I was only guessing before, but now I know for certain.’

  ‘But why would Harrison pretend to be dead for all this time, and now suddenly ask for money?’

  ‘The only way to find out is to go back and see Brother Julius.’

  ‘And Brother Anthony,’ she said.

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘He won’t let you get away with the trick with the lager bottle twice.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘He won’t,’ she said again.

  ‘But this time I’ll be packing iron,’ I said. Packing iron. What a glorious term. Just like Gary Cooper in High Noon.

  ‘Sometimes I don’t know why I married you,’ Dawn said in exasperation.

  ‘For my brilliant personality,’ I said. ‘And the raw excitement of my animal magnetism. Not to mention the sex and drugs and rock and roll. And there’s plenty of all those in this case. So are we off?’

  She sighed, but came along anyway.

  She drove me home and I went up into the crawl space in my roof where I had amassed quite an armoury over the last few years. Early that evening, for comfort and convenience I chose a nifty Glock 9mm automatic with a fifteen-shot clip and weighing in at about two pounds fully loaded.

  I checked the clip and wrapped the gun in a Sainsbury’s plastic bag and put it in a lockable compartment in the back of the wagon. I don’t know if Mr Chevrolet planned it that way, but the Glock fitted perfectly, and didn’t rattle a bit as we drove over Tulse Hill.

  ‘Park right in front, love,’ I said as we went. ‘And I hope we get the window table. I want to keep an eye on the car. I don’t want it stolen. The
thought of some idiot, probably stoned half out of his head, driving around in this motor with that pistol in his possession is not a pleasant one.’

  ‘You later, you mean,’ said Dawn tartly.

  I didn’t bother to answer. The woman already knew me too well.

  We did get a parking space right outside the restaurant and the table by the window. I ordered a Yellow Bird from the waitress as soon as we sat down. It’s a cocktail made from five kinds of rum, banana liqueur, coconut liqueur and fruit juice. I believe the islanders use it to get well stoned when the marijuana crop gets blown away by a hurricane. And by Christ it works. After a couple of those fuckers it’s hard to tell which way is up.

  For dinner we had shark soup, chicken gumbo, ackee, rice, peas and sweet potatoes. Delicious. After all that and three Yellow Birds, by the time we left, I felt no pain.

  Dawn drove us up to Notting Hill and parked the Chevy round the corner from Brother Julius’s money machine. We arrived at about eight. The street was pretty much deserted and I got the gun from its hiding place, discarded the plastic bag and stuck the pistol in the waistband of my jeans at the back, under the lightweight silk Hugo Boss double-breasted jacket I was wearing. I always like to be smart when I’m going to church.

  I let off the safety catch but didn’t rack a bullet into the chamber. Doing that is a sure way to shoot yourself in the arse if you carry a gun like that.

  We walked round to the front arm in arm. Just a couple of the faithful going to worship. We went straight to the front door. It was locked and Brother Thomas was nowhere to be seen. I rang the bell, and after a minute or so it was answered by an acolyte I hadn’t seen before dressed in a long white robe.

  ‘I want to see Brother Julius,’ I said.

  ‘We’re in the midst of recording next week’s services,’ said the robed figure. ‘He’s in private meditation now.’

  Probably counting his cash, I thought. ‘Tell him that Nick Sharman wants to see him.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the man. ‘It’s impossible at this time. The strain is enormous. We have to record two more hours tonight. He cannot be disturbed.’

  ‘It’s very important,’ I said. ‘A matter of life or death.’

  ‘What is it concerning?’

  ‘The future of the Tabernacle,’ I said sincerely.

  The acolyte hesitated, then said, ‘Very well. Come inside.’ And he allowed us to stand in the foyer while he went through the door that Brother Thomas had taken us through the previous day.

  Ten minutes passed and I was starting to get impatient. I wondered what would happen if I got the Glock out and let off a few rounds into the ceiling. I was just curious. That was all.

  Before my curiosity could get the better of my common sense, the door opened again and Brother Julius stood in the doorway. He was alone. He was dressed in his usual white three-piece suit, a white shirt, white tie and white shoes. I would have bet my life that his shorts, socks and T-shirt were white too. My life and Dawn’s. Perhaps I was about to. ‘Two choc-ices and a vanilla cornet,’ I said.

  He wasn’t amused at my levity. After all, making money is a very serious business. ‘I have a service to conduct,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A little chat.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘You know very well.’

  ‘I have nothing further to say on that subject. I’ve told you all this before. You are getting rather tiresome, Mr Sharman.’

  ‘You can talk to me or the police. Take your choice.’

  ‘The police wouldn’t be interested. Unless of course you are referring to the unwarranted assault on Brother Anthony that you perpetrated earlier this afternoon. I think they might be very interested in that.’

  ‘You sent him round to threaten me. I dealt with the threat as I saw fit. Reasonable force and all that. And you owe me twenty quid for the cab.’

  ‘You tricked him,’ said Brother Julius through gritted teeth.

  ‘Then he was easily tricked. You should have sent someone with a little more experience.’

  ‘Next time I will.’

  I took a step towards him. That was the sort of old bollocks I was used to, but I’d had it done by experts in the past. Brother Julius was just an amateur as far as I was concerned. A joker. A punter who was beginning to get right up my nose with his piousness. ‘Don’t try and frighten me, son,’ I said. ‘You’re way out of your league. And even if the Old Bill don’t want to know, and I’m not a hundred per cent convinced of that, perhaps Her Majesty’s Inland Revenue would. All the money you collect from donations in a year. And a large part of it in cash. A slimebag like you is bound to cream some off the top. You wouldn’t be able to resist. How are the books? The people I’m working for have got plenty of money too. And money talks. If I make enough noise, someone is bound to take notice. I don’t care. I’ve got nothing better to do. And I’m being well paid to do it.’

  He thought about what I’d said and asked, ‘Who exactly are you working for?’

  I told him. It was no secret.

  He hesitated. He obviously knew exactly who Lifetime Records were. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’

  He led us back through the corridors to his office. We met no one as we went. He opened the door, and stood back to let us in. I entered first, Dawn followed. Standing against the wall opposite us was Brother Anthony.

  22

  He stood looking at the three of us. I noticed that there was a large strip of Elastoplast above his ear, half hidden by the fall of his blond locks. ‘Hiya, Tone,’ I said. ‘How’s the head?’

  Brother Julius ducked out of the room and closed the door behind him. I heard a lock click. ‘Stepped out for some air?’ I said. ‘It is kind of close in here.’

  Brother Anthony didn’t bother to answer, he just went into some karate stance. One leg in front of the other, knees bent, his left arm extended from the shoulder, then bent at the elbow across his body, palm flat at chest height, his right arm straight down his side to the elbow, then up to form a T under his left palm. If that wasn’t terrifying enough, he began to move his arms around, clenching and unclenching his fists just like Bruce Lee in Enter The Dragon. And you remember what happened to Bruce Lee. He exhaled with a hiss and I took the Glock out from under my jacket and stuck it in his face. He looked sort of sad at that, as though I’d disappointed him somehow.

  ‘On the floor, stupid,’ I said. ‘Face down.’

  He did as he was told. I was quite pleased at that. Remember there was no bullet in the chamber, and I had a good idea that he could have offed me before I worked the action.

  There was a roll of sticky tape on Brother Julius’s desk. ‘Dawn,’ I said. ‘Get that tape. Tie him up.’ I knelt down beside Brother Anthony and cocked the pistol. ‘No tricks, son,’ I said. ‘Otherwise I’ll blow a hole in your head that’ll make what happened to you this afternoon look like nothing.’

  Dawn got the tape and pulled off about two feet of it and wrapped it around his wrists, then another and another until his hands were tightly bound. Then she did his ankles and finally wrapped a triple length around his head covering his mouth. I checked that his breathing was clear and tried the door. It was locked. ‘Key,’ I said.

  Of course he couldn’t speak which didn’t help. I should have waited until we knew we could get out before gagging him, but no one’s perfect, as I’ve mentioned before. I went through his pockets and found three keys on a ring. The second one worked the lock on the office door.

  I eased the door open and peered into the corridor. It was empty. Brother Julius had obviously thought that I was no match for Anthony. Just shows how much he knew.

  I beckoned for Dawn to follow and we went out. I shut the door behind me, locked it, and using the butt of the pistol as a hammer, broke the key off in the lock. Nifty, or what?

  Dawn hadn�
��t said a word the whole time. I looked at her and she was grey and sweaty, and I held her tightly for a second, not speaking, just sending get-well messages to her with the embrace.

  ‘I thought he was going to kill you,’ she gasped. ‘Or that you were going to kill him.’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘He’s just a big idiot. He hasn’t got a clue what’s going on. There’s other fish to fry here. Are you going to be OK?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Let’s go and find the shark then,’ I said.

  We walked down the corridors of the church, which were completely deserted, up some stairs and along more empty halls, until I heard something. I stopped, and Dawn bumped into my back. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Hear that?’ I asked.

  She cocked her head. ‘Someone singing,’ she said.

  ‘The song,’ I said. ‘Don’t you recognize it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘It’s “Just Do It”,’ I said. ‘Dog Soldier, number one, 1968. I bought it. I loved it. And it’s him singing. Jay Harrison. I swear.’

  She looked at me as if I was mad. ‘It’s a record,’ she said. ‘Someone’s got the radio on.’

  ‘No. There’s no music. It’s Harrison. It must be.’

  She looked at me as if I was mad again, but I ignored the look.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s go see.’

  We followed the sound along the corridor, and the closer we got to the source, and the louder it became, the more I was convinced that it was Jay Harrison singing. I’d recognize that distinctive voice anywhere. It had been one of the soundtracks of my adolescence, and it brought it all flooding back. The colourful clothes, the first taste of illegal drugs, the fumbling with skinny girls in mini-dresses at all-night parties where Dog Soldier records were compulsory. The whole bit.

  Dawn and I turned a corner and the voice was coming from behind a closed door in front of us.

  I touched the forefinger of the hand not holding the Glock to my lips and tried the handle. It turned, and I pushed the door open and looked inside.

  The room was small and light. The walls were white and the only furniture was a single camp bed covered with a thin blanket. Facing the window opposite the door, back towards us, was a massive figure. He was easily as big as Brother Anthony, dressed in something resembling army fatigues. His hair was long, halfway down his back, but the crown of his head was totally bald, like a monk would wear it. He was singing the chorus to ‘Just Do It’ and was totally oblivious to our entrance.