Half an hour later the car still wouldn’t start. He’d tried then waited, tried then waited again, but still nothing. It was now 8.15am and the pressure was building.
Jake had no breakdown cover but he’d phoned several garages and recovery services anyway. They were all extremely busy due to the weather and could not get to him for at least several hours. No good, the clock was still ticking.
Jake decided that a hire car would be the answer. It would wipe him out financially but he had to get to Manchester whatever the cost.
He rang three before he found one that could help him. Everyone it seemed had the same problem. All he needed was his driving license, last month’s unpaid electricity bill and his passport as proof of identity. After collecting all three, he set off as quickly as he could to the nearest bus stop a quarter of a mile away and stood there for fifteen minutes in his best suit and shoes until the shuttle bus turned up. By the time he sat down he was soaking wet and frozen to the bone.
The bus was slow and so was the traffic, the weather getting steadily worse as the morning went on. But he finally reached the car hire depot, after yet another long walk from where the bus dropped him off, by 10.15am.
Using the three forms of identity, he hired himself a BMW 4x4, paying the £300 rental fee by cheque, knowing full well that it would undoubtedly bounce if he was not awarded the contract. Fortunately he knew that wasn’t going to happen.
The BMW was far too pricey but it was the only 4x4 they had and in this weather it was what he needed to guarantee his safe arrival in Manchester. It was worth it too because it carved through the snow without so much as a slip.
By now though, Jake was absolutely freezing. His suit was soaking and his shoes were ruined. He’d have to go back to the flat and change. Quickly. But the BMW was well up to the task and he arrived back in no time. He shot upstairs and changed into a pair of clean jeans, a denim shirt, his old corduroy sports jacket and a knitted brown tie. He changed into some fresh warm socks and slipped his feet into his trusty tan brogues. It was a much more casual look than he had originally intended but at least he was still reasonably smart and looked suitably ‘arty’ which many people expected from someone in his profession, so he could carry it off quite easily he felt.
It was 11.15am by the time he was back in the car and on the road. Still forty-five minutes ahead of schedule. Warm, dry and in a very nice, very reliable 4x4. After calling by his office to get his portfolio he was on his way at last. It was 11.30am.
However, by now there was over two inches on the ground and it was becoming pretty treacherous even on the main roads. The gritters were out but they were fighting a losing battle.
By the time he was on the motorway traffic was almost at a stand still with the roads getting ever more worse. Slowly he inched his way towards Manchester, the time ticking steadily away. It was absolute mayhem on the roads, broken down and abandoned vehicles littering the motorway and cars skidding and slipping about endlessly. Even the BMW skidded a few times but in four-wheel drive there was never any danger of Jake getting stuck. It was the other cars holding him up, not his. But still the snow kept falling.
By 2.30pm he was still only a third of the way to Manchester and with hope giving way to desperation he knew, finally, that there was no chance of him making the four o’clock meeting.
There was nothing for it but to call Bob Hart and explain the situation.
But when Jake called Plancom and asked to speak to Bob, he was told that Bob Hart no longer worked for them. Bob Hart, it seemed, had been ‘let go’ along with his PA.
With a sense of rising panic, Jake called Bob on his mobile to find out what was going on.
“It’s true, mate. The bastards fired me this morning.” Said Bob. “Someone told ‘em that me and Julie have been having an affair and they sacked us both there and then. Instant dismissal. I can’t bloody believe it.”
“But you’re a director, Bob,” Jake said, “Surely they can’t just get rid of you as easy as that?”
“Director in name only I’m afraid, mate. It was just a fancy title to go with my fancy salary, but I had no shares. Still, I’ve got a bit put by so I think me and Julie might go away for a bit. Australia, Thailand - maybe Bhali, I’ve always fancied that, seeing a bit of the world. Julie’s up for it so I reckon it’ll be a laugh. Every cloud, mate, as they say.”
“Yeah, sure, Bob, that’s good,” Jake said, “But what about the contract? What do I do about that?”
“Not my job now, Jake, sorry. I ‘spect bloody Tess will be in charge of it.”
“Tess? Who’s Tess - do I know her?” said Jake, trying to hide the desperation in his voice.
“Tess fuckin” Brennan, cold-hearted bitch. If you’d met her you’d certainly remember her. Bloody man hater - except for the bosses of course, and she crawls all up their arses whenever she can. I reckon she’s the one who shopped Julie and me. Can’t prove it though, but I’m pretty sure it was her.”
“Do you think she’ll still sign off on the contract?” Jake’s heart was in his mouth as he waited anxiously for the answer.
“Can’t honestly say mate, but I wouldn’t count on it,” Bob said. “Best thing you can do is get there as quick as you can and try to get on her good side - not that she’s got one.”
“Yeah, but Bob, do you think–” Jake began.
“Look, sorry, Jake, but it’s been a bit of a traumatic day what with one thing and another,” Bob interrupted, “And truthfully mate, I’ve really got to get going and I’ve just about had enough of Plancom for the rest of my life - so, good luck with everything and I’ll speak to you when I get back from wherever, okay? I’ll let you know if I hear anything but I’m persona non grata now, so I can’t promise.”
That was pretty much the extent of the call and as Jake hung up he could feel the panic wash over him. Tess Brennan. Cold-hearted bitch. Man hater. Jake had never met her but he had to call her, appeal to her better nature, explain that he was going to be unavoidably late because of the snow. Maybe she was not as bad as Bob had said. Surely he was just bitter.
Jake rang, but he couldn’t get passed Tess’s PA. “Ms Brennan is not available but if you’d like to leave a message....”
Of course, Jake did leave a message but it was with a growing sense of doom. Somehow he already knew the outcome of the day’s events. He knew that he was only going through the motions. Defeat, failure, disappointment upon impending disaster were all too familiar to him now. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what he did, everything always seemed to turn to shit.
He used to be an optimist - confident, successful, happy. He was a talented designer - good at his job but also good with people and everything he touched seemed to turn to gold. He married Angie, had some great times, holidays, cars, a fantastic life. Then the kids came along. Zack first, then Poppy eighteen months later. Great kids. Great kids.
But then everything just seemed to go so terribly wrong. A business hiccup, a downturn in the economy for a while, a bad decision or two. Then the loss of a major client, then another - both victims of the first recession. But he struggled on for years, helped by bank loans and re-mortgaging.
Angie left after the second missed mortgage payment, taking the kids with her to her parents. She came back and left twice more after that but when the bailiff’s came round and threatened to take the furniture, she finally left for good.
Jake was lost after that. As Angie found a job, a boyfriend and a new lease on life he found himself in a pit of despair.
The house was sold, the car re-possessed, but he battled on, he still had talent, a passion for design and, ironically, it was work that saved him, even though it had brought him to his knees, cost him his wife and family, it was also his salvation. Bob Hart had given him the chance to pitch on the Plancom contract. Lucrative, long-lasting and his for the taking and he grabbed the opportunity wi
th both hands.
Today was the day that it was all supposed to change.
Jake eventually arrived in Manchester at five thirty and an hour and a half late for the meeting. The Plancom building was in darkness, all locked up. Everyone, including Tess Brennan, had gone home for the night. Ironically the snow was only light in Manchester with only a mild dusting on the ground, nothing like the kind of weather Jake had driven through to get there.
During that long, hard drive, Jake had tried to call Tess Brennan many times but at no time was he able to get through to her directly.
It was over and Jake knew it. The email that came into his iPhone just as he was getting back into his car confirmed it. It was from Bob Hart.
“Sorry, Jake. Just heard from a friend at the office that the contract was awarded to Wade & Walker Associates - Tess Brennan’s old firm.
Don’t think it would have helped even if you got there on time from what I understand. Hope that cushions the blow a bit mate. Anyway, just thought you’d like to know. Speak to you when I return. All the best, Bob.”
As Jake read it, he felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. He slumped into the car, bent his head over the wheel and felt despair wash over him. He had nothing more. There was no Plan B. There was just Plancom, Angie, the kids and a fresh start. That was it. Nothing else. And now that was gone.
An hour later he was still there in the car park, in the dark. It was freezing cold and the snow was coming down harder now. The cold roused Jake and he switched on the engine and began to drive, the heater warming him. But he was unaware of it. Subconsciously he was heading home, crawling along the snow clogged roads for hours, but his mind was lost in other thoughts.
The initial hysteria had passed along with the breathlessness of utter panic. These had been replaced by a weird sense of calm, an almost detached sense of rationality as he observed his predicament with a kind of out-of-body pragmatism. Jake was eminently aware that he had nowhere left to turn, nowhere else to go and, possibly the worst of all, no one he could call who could possibly help or understand. Certainly not Angie. That ship had sailed long ago, he now finally realised. She was never coming back, and neither were the kids, she would see to that. Would they had he got the contract? He doubted that too now. She was in a new relationship which Jake had long tried to deny, but she was happy and was not about to give it up for him. Reality had well and truly set in.
The business was finished. Bankruptcy a certainty. Thank God his parents were dead so they weren’t around to witness this, his final failure.
As he thought of his parents, the tears finally came. He couldn’t help it. They poured down his face as he wept uncontrollably. With his eyes so blurry he could barely see the road ahead, so Jake slammed on the brakes and skidded the car to an icy halt. The car behind, a Volvo, the only other vehicle on the road, very nearly crashed into him and the driver honked his horn violently and glared at Jake as he slid around the BMW, missing it by the narrowest of margins. “Wanker!” he shouted. But Jake was deaf to him.
Eventually the tears subsided and he was left with just a general feeling of sadness in knowing that his life was irreparably broken.
He dried his eyes and studied himself in the rear view mirror.
If Jake had had a razor blade or a piece of hosepipe, he’d have just sat there in the car and ended his stinking, miserable, useless life. But he didn’t have those things, he didn’t have anything apart from a portfolio and he doubted he could beat himself to death with that.
He turned on the windscreen wipers and swept away the thick coating of snow that had formed since he’d pulled over. It was dark now, although with all the snow, strangely still light. The country road he was on was completely deserted and through the curtain of heavy flakes he could just make out the shape up ahead of a bridge.
The idea occurred to him immediately, almost as if he was receiving a message from above. He didn’t need a razor blade or a length of hose anymore because now he had a means to end his suffering.
The bridge was there for him. Just waiting for him on that deserted road offering him a way out. And he was more than ready to accept.
Chapter 2
The thick acrid cigar smoke curled upwards into the heavy white sky. Snow was coming, the clouds were full of it, and Charles Khan wondered if he would make it back to London before it really started coming down. He hated the snow, hated the winter but after all his years abroad it was good to finally be home again for longer than just a few days. But not here, not in Liverpool and certainly not at this God forsaken container terminal on the banks of the freezing cold Mersey.
Home for Charles now was a plush new apartment in London’s Docklands; swanky, stylish, incredibly expensive and all his. Not that he had spent much time there since his recent return from Johannesburg but, now that he was retiring, there would soon be time enough. He had certainly earned it - fought long enough and hard enough for it and now, after all that fighting, he was going to take a well deserved, very wealthy, rest.
Charles had driven up the night before to oversee the container’s arrival, a job which, in truth, he would not have trusted to anyone else as its contents were too valuable, both in worth and to his own future. But he had arrived in Liverpool earlier than anticipated and out of sheer boredom had gone out to find a bar and some female company for the evening. Needless to say it had turned into quite a heavy night and a rather late one.
Now, in the afternoon, after the night before, Charles felt particularly rough. Too much whiskey, not enough sleep and a horrendously early start this morning was the cause, but he could blame no one other than himself. He just wished they would hurry up and get his container off so he could begin the long drive home. It was still only early afternoon yet already his king-sized bed back in London was calling him.
Khan had the bearing of a soldier which was not surprising after all his years in one uniform or another. He was well built, wide at the shoulder, thick at the neck and beginning to thicken at the waist but he was still in good shape. His closely-cropped hair and strongly carved features gave him a hard appearance, which was an image he was happy to cultivate.
Although as Charles pulled up the collar on his cashmere overcoat, he laughed at how quickly he had become soft. For too many years he had lived a soldiers life of little sleep and early mornings having had nothing more for a bed than a sheet on the ground and the stars for a blanket. Drinking, smoking, playing cards with the enlisted men until the break of dawn and then marching God knows how many miles on a half-empty belly. Yet he had thrived. But after just a month back in the real world he was already whining like a little girl. He smiled at himself as he puffed noisily on a long King Edward cigar, his fifth of the day and only one of his many vices.
The ship had docked the night before and had started unloading at eight this morning. Charles had been there since seven, waiting, watching, itching to get his hands on the contents of one particular container. Anxious not to miss the moment when it was offloaded, eager to get inside it, recover his property and get home to London.
But it was taking forever. He looked at the sky again as the first flakes of snow glided down from the packed clouds. This was just the start of it, he knew, more was forecast. It had apparently been snowing hard down South since the early hours and was becoming extremely treacherous. On his car radio the police were advising those thinking about driving to stay at home unless the journey was absolutely necessary.
Charles’s journey was. He wanted to get his precious cargo back to London as soon as possible no matter how bad the snow was. He had hated the snow and cold since his time in Chechnya when he never thought he’d feel warm again, but he had learned to cope with it having fought, marched and driven through weather the English could only imagine. So the drive back didn’t faze him, especially not in his brand new Range Rover with heated seats and climate control. As for the road conditions
, well they would be just child’s play compared to Chechnya.
At last, in the late afternoon, as a light dusting of snow lay upon the dockside, the much anticipated container was offloaded. Charles lit up yet another King Edward as a large docker in filthy yellow oilskins approached him. “You’ll be Mister Khan?” he enquired gruffly in a thick Glaswegian accent.
Charles surreptitiously checked the heavy bulge of the holstered gun underneath his overcoat as he replied. “I am. I take it you’re Crowe?”
“Aye. You got my money?”
“All in good time. Open the container first.” Replied Charles, puffing on his cigar.
“I don’t think you heard me, old son. No money, no container. Understand?”
Charles understood all too well and smiled inwardly.
“Of course, I understand. My apologies,” he said. He looked furtively around him, noticing several other dockers working nearby, although none were paying him or Crowe any mind. “But perhaps we should move out the gaze of prying eyes first, agreed?”
“Aye. Whatever, old son. Just as long as I get it or they’ll be no container, know what I mean?” Crowe said gruffly.
“Yes, I know exactly what you mean,” said Khan.
“You’d better follow me,” Crowe said and as Charles followed, he led him from the parked Range Rover to the container a short distance away where it had been set down neatly by crane, in the middle of a long even row of others. After satisfying himself that they were not being watched, Crowe led Charles over to the far side of the container where they could complete their business without being seen. When they got there he said, “Right. No eyes. All nice and private. Now where’s my fucking money?”
Charles smiled with the smoking cigar clamped between his teeth. “I have it here.” He said and reached inside his heavy coat. Crowe shuffled, nervously as he eagerly awaited his pay off. But then suddenly, as quick as a flash, Khan seized him by the throat and pushed him hard against the cold metal side of the container. Then something else cold and metallic was shoved firmly up under his chin. Crowe knew instantly that it was a gun. “Jesus Christ!” he yelped,
Finders Keepers Page 4
