by Timlin, Mark
‘No goodbyes?’ I asked.
‘I would have woken you.’
I believed her; dozens wouldn’t.
‘Come and see me,’ she invited, and placed a card by the telephone, on the table next to me. ‘This is the address.’
‘I’ll try,’ I said. I knew I wouldn’t.
‘I’ll give you a call,’ she said. I knew she wouldn’t.
‘Tess,’ I said, ‘don’t go.’
‘Don’t ask,’ she said, and bent down and kissed me briefly, then left. ‘Bye,’ she said, just as the door closed behind her. I said nothing in reply. I got up, made some tea and went back to bed to watch breakfast TV.
I still miss her.
The video finished and Eddie moaned and rolled over. I switched back to the regular channels but they were all closing down. I got up and cleaned my teeth, then I went back to bed but didn’t sleep for hours.
3
When I woke up the next morning the rain had stopped and a watery sun fought with the clouds for domination of the sky. Eddie split in a cloud of Poison and a new BMW that her daddy had bought her out of the profits of his sausage shop. I ate breakfast alone in a draughty café with only the Daily Telegraph crossword for company.
I sat around the office all morning thinking about the sort of person who could afford a Bentley Turbo.
Eventually I put on my Crombie and schlepped over to Richmond just after twelve. I’d agreed to take the job and I couldn’t settle without my conscience nagging until I’d at least tried. I found Hillside Close just as a solid bank of grey cloud cut the sun out of the sky.
It was no slum. It stank of money, just the sort of place a retired pop star would live. The Close was maybe a mile long and as far as I could gather backed directly on to Richmond Park. The houses were huge and set well back of the road. The grounds of ‘The Chimneys’ started when the Close petered out in a muddy half-circle of crushed stone and gravel. A wall of dark red brick reared up from behind a muddy ditch. It was just as J.R. had described it, at least twenty feet high, topped with vicious looking broken glass, and the only entrance I could find was a rusty iron gate fastened by heavy locks and bolts that looked as if they hadn’t been opened for years. There was no bell or any other way to communicate with the house to be seen.
I prowled around looking for a break in the wall, but it just kept going. I wasn’t about to struggle through some neighbour’s thorn hedge and follow the wall as I had a shrewd suspicion that if I walked for an hour I’d just get back to where I started. I also had a shrewd suspicion that anyone who saw me would swiftly call the Old Bill, and that I didn’t need. No, whoever owned this pile liked his privacy, as it appeared did most of the residents of Hillside Close.
I peered through one of the narrow gaps between the bars of the gate and saw an overgrown drive flanked by dozens of evergreen bushes. The drive disappeared round a curve and into what appeared to be a small wood. I couldn’t even catch a glimpse of a building through the trees. I looked down at my coat which had given me little change from a monkey, then up at the top of the gate and figured that I was on a hiding to nothing with this particular little bit of debt collecting. I was just about to give the whole thing the elbow and go home when I saw a movement just where the drive curved out of sight. For a moment I thought I was imagining things, then a small figure appeared through a gap in the trees before vanishing again. As I kept watching I saw someone in a shapeless blue coat wandering towards the gate. Whoever it was didn’t notice me and kept coming. As the figure got closer I saw that it was an elderly woman in a duffel coat, galoshes and a woollen hat, carrying a gardener’s basket. I let her get to within ten feet of where I was standing before I made my presence felt. I tapped my car keys on the lock and half-said, half-shouted a greeting. ‘Good afternoon.’ It came out like a bark.
She’d been looking up at the top of one of the evergreens and spun round with surprising agility. ‘I hope I didn’t startle you,’ I went on.
‘Not at all,’ she said calmly. ‘Are you a friend?’
‘I’m sorry?’ I replied.
‘Of my son’s,’ she said.
‘Sure,’ I lied.
‘Good, we don’t get many visitors – in fact none at all these days. Who exactly are you a friend of?’
She wasn’t as soft as she looked.
‘McBain.’ I stabbed a guess.
She smiled. ‘Good, you look like a friend.’
‘That’s nice.’ I smiled. I was getting to like the woman. ‘Can I come in?’
‘I don’t know – are you expected?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘You’re sure you’re a friend?’
‘I’m not an enemy.’ I replied, and I wasn’t. All I wanted was a bit of cash.
‘All right then.’ Now I don’t know how I expected her to open the gates. With a set of rusty keys on a massive ring I suppose. But I got a surprise. The old lady pulled a radio transmitter from her basket, pointed it at the gate and pushed a button. The rusty locks clicked back gently, the bolts slid smoothly out of their sockets and the gates swung quietly open on oiled hinges.
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Mark’s up at the house.’ I walked through the open gates and the old lady shook my hand. I felt like a rat, conning her. ‘I’m Mark’s mother,’ she introduced herself.
‘My name is Sharman,’ I said, ‘Nicholas Sharman.’
‘Do you think I should cut the trees back?’ she asked.
I looked at the evergreen forest. ‘It’s a big job,’ I said. ‘Do you have any help?’
‘Not any more,’ she said. ‘There used to be ever such a nice man came in and did the gardening, but I think he’s dead now.’
‘I’d leave it if I were you,’ I said. ‘Maybe until the spring.’
‘Do you think it’s going to snow?’ she asked, ignoring my advice.
‘It might,’ I replied.
‘Would you like some tea?’ She seemed only to ask questions.
‘I’d love some,’ I replied.
‘I’ll make you some, come up to the house – it’s not far, but perhaps you could take my arm: I’m not as young as I used to be.’
‘No one is,’ I said. I tucked her hand, which felt as fragile as a baby bird, under my arm and we walked together up the muddy drive.
I couldn’t begin to imagine how much ground ‘The Chimneys’ stood in. I’m a city boy and acres mean as much to me as a microwave oven would to a Cro-Magnon man. But it was big, and being situated where it was it must have been worth a small fortune, even though it seemed to be neglected. The drive went on forever and I wished I’d invested in a pair of wellies as the two of us picked our way through the puddles. The old lady was good company and pointed out some interesting varieties of luscious plantlife as we went. In its heyday, and in the summer, the gardens must really have been some sight. I told her about the roses I’d used to grow, and it was a pleasant walk even though the clouds were getting darker and the temperature was falling.
Eventually the house came into sight. It was some sweet hacienda, even if it was a little large for my taste. If I’d had a couple of football teams to lodge, I might have been interested, though. It was gabled and domed and cupolad and pantiled and timbered and everything else you might expect. It was also neglected and ramshackle and looked like it might fall down at any moment. Especially the chimneys after which it was named. There were a good score of them, but no two seemed to be upright.
The massive front door was standing open and on the paved porch, which was about the size of the average double bedroom, was one of the biggest men I’d ever seen. He was leaning against the door frame with his arms folded and his legs crossed. On his bearded face was an expression of bored patience as if he was used to waiting. When he saw me he came upright in one smooth motion and bounded down the ornate steps towards us.
4
The huge man was as light as a butterfly on his big feet and he’d almost reached the old lady and me before it
clicked that he was about to try and do me an injury. Try, Christ, the nearer he got, the bigger he got. It was like being charged by a rhino. He was going to do me an injury, period, and probably keep going and demolish the fucking gate, wall and all. The old lady saved my skin and probably my bones too. She stepped into his path and held up her hand. I felt like asking if she was a policeman. The giant slowed down and stopped. He wasn’t the slightest out of breath. The look he gave me over her head could have slaughtered a horse.
‘Who’s he?’ he demanded.
‘Algy,’ she said, as if addressing her favourite teddy bear. ‘I’d like you to meet Nicholas, Nicholas, Algy.’
‘Who is he Missis Mac?’ asked Algy wearily.
‘It’s all right dear,’ she said. ‘He’s a friend, he told me so. He was waiting outside the gate and he looked so cold I asked him in for a cup of tea.’
The big man sighed. ‘Missis Mac, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. No visitors without my say-so.’ He looked at me again. ‘So, out you, before I knock you out.’ Usually in books and shit this is the moment when the rugged hero crinkles his firm brow and makes his move so that he can take the heavy who is facing him down out of the game. Not this kiddy, he’d fucking murder me. I don’t mind a fight, but only when the odds are on my side. For the second time the old lady saved the day.
‘I was perfectly safe, Algy,’ she said. ‘You worry too much. He wasn’t going to hurt me, I had this.’ She stuck her hand into the basket again, and stone me if she didn’t pull out a pistol. A sodding Beretta, I swear. She handled it as if she knew what she was doing, too. She held it like it was just another tool, another trowel or fork in her gardener’s trug.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ I whispered. She slid the gun into the pocket of her duffel coat and walked up to the house, leaving Algy and me to have a nice chat. Mano a mano, buddy to buddy, heart to heart, you get the picture.
Close up he was nearly seven feet tall, built like the proverbial brick shithouse and dressed in a blue work-shirt and the biggest pair of Levis in the world. This guy made ‘The Refrigerator’ look like an ice bucket.
‘So who the fuck are you?’ he asked.
‘My name’s Nick Sharman,’ I replied politely.
‘A friend you say?’
‘Well not exactly a friend,’ I explained. I was on extremely thin ice. ‘More of a business acquaintance of a mutual business acquaintance.’
‘Say what?’
I explained again slowly.
‘Who?’ he asked.
‘Ted Dallas.’
‘Who the fuck’s he?’
‘Dallas Autos, remember? A Bentley Turbo.’ I held up my hand. ‘I’m going to get a piece of paper out of my inside pocket. Don’t get any ideas,’ I said. If the mum, who must have been seventy if she was a day, packed iron, what the fuck did this big sucker have up his jumper? I fumbled around with sweaty fingers and found the invoice from J.R.’s garage, and after unfolding it, passed it over to Algy.
‘Oh that prat, I remember,’ he said. ‘Are you the fucking bailiff?’
‘Enquiry agent,’ I said.
He didn’t like that much. ‘Enquiry agent, you snooping bastard, I’m going to kick your skinny arse right out of here, you son of a bitch.’ And remember, I was taking all this. ‘I mean, fancy conning the old girl,’ he went on. ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’ He seemed genuinely upset.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Sometimes I hate this kind of work.’
‘Why do it then?’
‘Favour for a favour.’ I shrugged. ‘You know how it is.’
He wasn’t impressed. ‘Well you can just take a hike. You’ll get nothing here, you cheap shit liar.’
Now it was my turn to get aggrieved. ‘I didn’t lie, not exactly,’ I explained. ‘I said I wanted to see Mark McBain and that I wasn’t an enemy, and I’m not. I’ve just come to collect some cash that’s owed. No big deal. If you don’t have it I’ll go and no hard feelings.’
‘Don’t have it,’ said Algy. ‘Jesus Christ, I’m sure we have it.’
‘Then pay it,’ I said. ‘The debt’s well overdue and the geezer you owe is hurting.’
‘Fuck him,’ said Algy.
‘Typical,’ I said under my breath.
‘What?’ he demanded.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Can I leave a letter for McBain?’
‘You try, and you’ll eat it.’
His attitude was beginning to grate on me. ‘Listen you big bastard,’ I said, ‘you might impress the missis with all this crap, but I’m getting bored with it.’
‘That’s just too bad,’ he said. ‘Now do as you’re told and get the hell out. I’ll see you to the gate.’
For the third time Mrs McBain did the business for me. I was beginning to think I should offer her a job as my trusty assistant. Trouble was I might end up as hers.
‘Tea’s ready,’ she called from the doorway. ‘Come on Nicholas and drink it while it’s hot. Do you want a cup Algy?’
He looked to the heavens. ‘You jammy bastard,’ he said to me. ‘Go and get your tea, and then on your way.’ Then he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Yes please Missis Mac, a cup of tea would be lovely.’
Lovely, I thought; the woman has everyone eating out of her hand.
Algy and I walked together towards the house. Little and Large, and I ain’t that little. We climbed the steps to the front door and followed Mrs McBain through an ornate hall that was polished until it shone, down some stairs and through a door into a cosy little living-room.
‘This is my flat,’ said Mrs McBain proudly. ‘The kitchen is through there, bedroom to the right with a built-in bathroom. Mark has looked after me.’
‘It’s very elegant,’ I said.
Elegant, Christ she was getting to me too.
‘Do sit down,’ she invited. Algy and I perched on tiny, upright chairs with sharp little wooden arms. I felt like I was being squeezed into an electric toaster. I expected to pop up, all brown and crispy round the edges at any moment.
Mrs McBain poured dark tea into tiny china cups, then added milk, and at Algy’s and my request, sugar. I leant forward and picked up the cup and saucer and took a sip. The tea was hot, strong and delicious. I sat back and tried to relax on the hard chair. A telephone on a nest of tables rang once. Mrs McBain picked up the handset and said, ‘Hello.’ She listened for a moment. ‘It’s for you Algy,’ she said.
Algy got up, dwarfing the room and took the receiver from her. ‘Yes,’ he said, and listened for thirty seconds or so without speaking. Then ‘OK Boss,’ and he put down the phone. ‘He wants to see you,’ he said to me.
‘How does he know I’m here?’ I asked.
‘He knows everything that goes on in this house. He’s not stupid,’ said Algy.
I drank the rest of my tea, refused a second cup and took my leave of Mrs McBain. She was a sweet woman and I told her so. Algy was hopping from foot to foot with impatience.
‘Come on,’ he said, when I’d finished. ‘We’d better not keep him waiting.’
‘Don’t upset Mark,’ Mrs McBain said as we left. ‘He’s a very sensitive boy.’
I assured her that I wouldn’t.
‘No,’ said Algy as he closed the door behind us. ‘Don’t upset him. Because if you do, you upset me, and I’m not so bloody sensitive.’
I said nothing.
Algy took me back through the hall, then we headed through a maze of passages that finally led us to the back of the house. We went through a heavy oak door that complained bitterly as Algy shoved it open, into a paved courtyard and ducked through the thin rain into a whitewashed outbuilding that I imagined had once been stables.
The outer door to the building was wooden and opened at a touch. Inside there was a small, empty lobby lit only by a dim red bulb set high in the ceiling. Facing us was a grey metal door. Set into the wall beside the door was a fancy computerized, digitalized lock. Algy tapped in some numbers, pressed a button and the
metal door swung open. I caught sight of some steps leading downwards, also lit by a dim red bulb before Algy slid through the doorway.
‘Wait here,’ he ordered, and headed downstairs. Before I could protest the door swung to behind him and I was left alone. The lobby was freezing and I was getting pissed off so I tried to get back into the courtyard. No chance. Somehow Algy had tripped a lock in the outer door and I was imprisoned in the lobby. I didn’t even bother trying the metal door or the combination lock. I leant my shoulder against the wall and tried to relax. I glanced up once at the red bulb and waved. Ten to one there was a video camera blimping me. About five minutes passed and my bad foot was losing circulation when the metal door opened again and Algy loomed back to join me.
‘Have you ever heard of false arrest?’ I asked.
‘Have you ever heard of a fat lip?’ asked Algy back.
‘I believe I have,’ I replied, and that was the end of that conversation.
‘He’ll see you now,’ said Algy. ‘But take it easy, he doesn’t like unexpected visitors much.’
‘You don’t say,’ I said.
Algy stepped to one side and I squeezed past him, through the metal door and down the stairs. There were only half a dozen or so, then a short corridor and yet another metal door standing ajar. Algy was right behind me and gestured for me to go ahead. I could smell something strange in the air, something familiar and I hesitated.
‘Get a move on,’ said Algy, and I walked down the corridor and pushed the second door fully open. The smell was cordite, heavy and gagging in the air.
‘What the fuck is this?’ I asked.
‘Toytown,’ said Algy. ‘Go inside and see.’
‘No way,’ I said.
‘No choice,’ said Algy and propelled me through the door and closed it behind me. I was in a shooting range, recently used, and I wasn’t alone. Down at the target end was a lone figure. The room was even more dimly lit than the corridor and shadowy with it. Before my eyes could become accustomed to the gloom I heard the unmistakable double click of a firearm’s action being engaged and I hit the ground quick and hard and rolled towards the deepest of the shadows. A gout of flame seemed to spring from the midsection of the figure at the other end of the range, followed closely by the crack of a gunshot. Something heavy hit the wall beside me and whined off with the scream of a ricochet. The bastard was firing at me and using real ammunition. I clung to the wall, half deafened by the report but still able to hear him laughing like a drain. The figure walked towards me, pulling off a pair of ear protectors as he came. I lay where I was until I could identify the Colt Commander he held in his right hand. If I could get hold of the gun, McBain, or whoever the bastard was who was using me as a target, was going to wear it to bed that night and have serious trouble shitting for a week or two. I think he sensed my mood.
