All Fun and Games Until Somebody Loses an Eye

by Christopher Brookmyre

  She lay and soaked for a while with her head half-submerged, closing her eyes and letting the water block her ears. She could imagine other circumstances under which it would be close to heaven, but for now it served only as respite. Nor did it last, her mind still too full and busy to let her relax. She lay only a few minutes then got on with her ablutions.

  When she emerged, wrapped in a heavy cotton dressing gown, she found that a tray had been left on the low table and that her clothes were gone, but for the open plastic pack of underwear she’d purchased last night at that twenty-four-hour supermarket. The tray bore a plate of quiche, cheeses, cold meats and relish, as well as a baguette, a small bowl of fresh fruit, an earthenware pitcher of water, two glasses and a bottle of wine.

  Jane fell upon it ravenously, devouring the quiche and tearing into the bread before pausing to take a drink, surprising herself with how hungry she was. Calmed a little by this glut, she examined the bottle. There was no label, nor any impressed markings, not that she’d have known a Cabernet from a Cranberry. Curious, she poured a little into the unused glass and had a sip. It was lighter than she was expecting, less bitter. It didn’t have that diluted-perfume taste of the white stuff Catherine had insisted she try, nor the blood-like thickness she remembered from sampling a red before. She took a bite of Stilton and then had some more. The wine tasted sweeter in contrast to the cheese, pleasantly warming going down her throat. She could feel it right across her chest, in fact, and after another few mouthfuls, in her face too.

  Jane almost giggled with a childish kind of pride when she saw that she had actually finished a whole glass. She ate a forkful of carpaccio and poured herself another. Ten minutes later she was sound asleep.

  She awoke to find herself stretched out on top of the bedclothes, still wrapped in the bathrobe. The dinnerplates and glasses were gone and in their place there was a silver-coloured jug from which she could smell coffee. She looked at a clock on the wall. It said seven twenty-five. From outside she could hear a low chug-chugging, some gardening device being put through its paces.

  Jane sat up and walked to the table. As she poured herself a mug of coffee, she spotted that there was a black lycra dress draped over the back of an armchair, roughly where she’d left her own clothes last night. She picked it up, causing a pair of black nylons she hadn’t noticed to fall on to the upholstery. Jane shook her head. What age did they think she was? She couldn’t wear that. She never wore skirts these days, never mind a dress. It was too small as well. She’d never get into it, let alone walk in the thing.

  Faced with the alternative of going downstairs in only the bathrobe, she decided to try it on. As it turned out, it wasn’t too small, though the hemline was six inches higher than anything she’d contemplated in a decade. Nor was it restrictive, the material comfortably snug and accommodating as it stretched and contracted with her movement. The colour did, however, serve to emphasise the grey streaks in her hair, though they were the least of her tonsorial worries at that point. She hadn’t dried it before the wine zonked her last night, so she had that Bride-of-Frankenstein thing going on. She noted a brush and a comb on the dressing table, but there was little they might achieve that would improve upon tying the whole thing back with an elasticated scrunchie.

  Her mane thus restrained, Jane had another swallow of coffee and ventured downstairs. The chugging sound got louder as she neared the open front door; it was powerful but still unexpectedly muted. She wandered outside, where she discovered that this was because it was coming from the rear of the house, where the rotor blades of a helicopter were rhythmically chopping the air.

  Walking around the building, she could see Rebekah at the controls, Bett and Nuno standing to the side a prudent ten yards away. Nuno noticed Jane’s arrival first and tapped Bett on the shoulder. He turned, saw her and beckoned her forward.

  ‘Good morning,’ he hailed as she approached, calling loudly over the sound of the helicopter.

  ‘I’m ready,’ she said.

  ‘Ready for what?’

  ‘Anything it takes, remember?’

  Bett nodded. ‘Welcome aboard.’

  Several hours later, she was in another set of someone else’s clothes, once again a good enough fit, though this time a little more formal. The peaked cap was her particular favourite, accompanied by wraparound shades that she was supposed to wear at all times, indoors and out. They were for concealment and disguise, but she’d have been surprised if Connelly had ever paid enough attention to know what she looked like anyway.

  They’d arrived in Barcelona by mid-morning. It took Bett less than an hour to organise the vehicles and Nuno little more to suggest and secure a suitable venue. The longest single stretch had been Jane’s driving lesson, first getting used to the vehicle and then learning the route. She’d have liked more time to practise, given the thing had a turning circle of about a quarter of a mile, but them’s the breaks. Somehow she didn’t anticipate her driving being the biggest thing her passengers might have to complain about.

  In the meantime, Rebekah had gone to the hotel and run a tail on Connelly, picking him up on his way to lunch and following him around a few bars until he decided it was time for a pre-match siesta. Jane pulled up in front of the Gran Havana at bang on four o’clock, Nuno in the passenger seat, Bett in a hired A6 just around the corner. The place was utterly swarming with guys in Celtic tops, waving and grinning stupidly to each other whenever they encountered another of their kind. Nuno opined that they wouldn’t be smiling in a few hours, but Jane suspected he was overestimating the importance of the actual game to such a trip. Bevy and parties were going to be top of the agenda, win or lose. However, she did know of at least one Celtic fan who definitely wouldn’t be getting the result he wanted.

  Having seen them approach, Rebekah walked out through the glass doors and made her way to the Audi, while Nuno picked up the car phone and asked to be put through to Connelly’s room.

  ‘Señor Connelly? Si. Is just a call to say that your limousine is waiting downstairs whenever you are ready, to take you to Camp Nou. No, Señor, I eh … I comprendo, you no order, si. But is okay, you no pay. Is ordered by friend. He say is, how you say, gift, in interest of business, comprendes? Siiii,’ Nuno nodded, grinning. ‘That’s right. A “wee thank you”, si. Okay. Is … my driver, she is outside now, she take you, okay? But she not speak English, Señor. Only right and left, okay? Si. Okay. When you are ready. Si. De nada, Señor.’

  He put the phone down.

  ‘A wee thank you?’ Jane asked.

  ‘His words. Meaning he’s already made the sale.’

  She nodded, understanding. Their default gambit was to play it as a perk from a prospective buyer, Bett carefully phrasing ‘in interest of business’ to keep the tense neutral. Connelly had assumed who the gift horse was from, and instantly taken it as a gesture of gratitude. He wasn’t looking it in the mouth. Too bad for him it was Greek.

  ‘Time to go to work,’ Nuno said. They both got out of the car, Nuno heading for Bett’s Audi, Jane taking position, arms folded, leaning against the side of the black stretch limo.

  Ten minutes passed, throughout which Jane was anxious that Connelly might be calling someone to acknowledge the gesture. In any eventuality, Bett had anticipated that both curiosity and flattery would get the better of him and he’d get in anyway, keen to discover who was behind the gesture and what opportunities they might have to offer. Bett had therefore reasoned that any caution on Connelly’s part would be overcome by the sight of a lone and female driver, predicting further that the booze-lubricated back-seat conversation would be less circumspect if they thought she didn’t understand a word of it.

  Finally, the concierge held the doors open and Connelly stepped into view, accompanied by a tall and heavy-set minder she recognised from her taxi days. Charlie, his name was, or Big Chick. She felt her chest tighten as they both looked at her, their stark familiarity making reciprocation seem inevitable. Now she understood why B
ett insisted on the sunglasses; they were as much to hide her reactions as her appearance.

  Neither of them exhibited the slightest glimmer of recognition. They were mainly looking at the car, grinning at each other with a nauseating self-satisfaction. From behind her shades she felt as though she was looking at them through a two-way mirror. She could see them, but they couldn’t see her, and the membrane that protected her from their view was much thicker than glass.

  ‘Hola,’ she said, holding open the door and offering a thin, professional smile. Don’t look too friendly, Bett had coached her. It hadn’t been hard.

  Connelly climbed inside, but Big Chick paused on the pavement, his expression looking suddenly uncomfortable.

  ‘Eh, we want … we’re hingmy, you know, no’ wantin’ tae go straight tae the gemme. No … football … yet? You understand?’

  This was the guy’s pitch at bilingual communication. Connelly’s abilities were doubtless no better, but he had the seniority to leave making an arse of himself to his minion. She almost felt for him. The guy’s face couldn’t have looked more contorted or pained if he was straining for a jobbie.

  ‘No comprendo.’

  ‘Eh … hingmy, it’s a restaurant we’re after the noo. Restaurant?’

  ‘Restaurant? Tapas?’

  ‘Aye. Si.‘

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Charlie, show her on a map,’ Connelly called from within, where he was already removing the foil from a bottle of Cava.

  ‘Huv ye got a map?’ Chick asked.

  ‘Map?’

  He mimed unfolding and pointing, or at least that’s what she assumed from already knowing what he meant. Marcel Marceau could rest easy.

  ‘Ah, mapa?’ she asked.

  ‘Naw, map,’ he insisted.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, man, mapa is map.’

  ‘Oh, right. Aye, mapa, hen, mapa.‘

  Jane opened the driver’s door and retrieved a map from the side pocket. It was handed through to Connelly, who pointed out a destination to Chick, who in turn demonstrated it to Jane. She pretended to examine it. ‘Si, si,’ she assured, nodding her head. She’d no idea where the place was, nor did it matter. What did was that the big eejit climbed in and she was able to get going, Bett’s A6 pulling away swiftly at her tail.

  There was an almost giddy air of self-congratulation about them as they stretched across the back seats and guzzled the Cava. Connelly in particular was enjoying the chance to demonstrate how such complimentary luxury reflected upon his status and acumen.

  ‘It’s turning into a very successful wee trip,’ he observed. ‘Have to fancy our chances the night, the way everythin’ else has been goin’.’

  ‘Too right,’ Big Chick agreed.

  ‘Noo and again you get these wee gifts from the gods, but they mean fuck-all unless you’re sharp enough to make the most of them.’

  ‘Opens doors for the future as well.’

  ‘Aye, you’re tootin’ there, Charlie. Wee touch of class fae that Felipe, sendin’ this. It’s aw aboot respect. Two days ago, we’d never heard of each other. But we do business, we deliver what we say we will, and he recognises he’s dealin’ with the real thing. We baith knew the boy was worth a sight mair tae him than he was payin’, but we also baith knew he was worth fuck-all tae me otherwise. I could have asked for more, he could have offered less. Respect, Charlie. Nae need for him tae dae somethin’ like this efter the deal’s done. Touch o’ class. And if he’s ever in Glesga, we put the boat oot for him.’

  ‘He’s got his ain boat, but.’

  ‘Figure of speech, ya tube.’

  The restaurant they had pointed out would only have been five or ten minutes away in light traffic had they been driven there, but they were well into their second bottle of fizz before Connelly began paying any concerned notice to what was passing outside the windows. They were speeding along a broad dual carriageway, medium-rise apartment blocks lining the route. In just about any city in the world, even after a few drinks, it would be clear that they were heading away from the centre.

  He tapped on the thick glass partition and spoke through the narrow gap behind Jane’s head. His mounting anxiety prevented him from deferring the task this time.

  ‘Haw, Señora, where we gaun? This isnae right. We’re away the wrang way.’

  ‘No hablo ingles, Señor,’ Jane told him.

  ‘We are going the wrong way,’ he enunciated. ‘Restaurant, remember?’

  ‘Restaurant, mapa, si,’ she responded.

  ‘Naw, haud on. Stop.’

  ‘Pardon, Señor. No hablo ingles.’

  He slammed the glass angrily with his hand.

  ‘I says stop. Stop the fuckin’ car,’ he shouted.

  Jane reached back and slammed home the sliding glass panel behind her head, locking it with her free hand while the other remained guiding the steering wheel. She briefly turned her hazard lights on and off, a signal to Bett that Connelly now knew something was up. She’d been briefed to pull over if it got hairy, at which point Bett would board the limo armed with a pistol, but she was only minutes from their goal. She was also enjoying the look on the bastard’s face when she glanced in her rear-view.

  It got even more satisfying when he tried the handle, Jane having engaged the child-locks before she shut them in so that the rear doors could only be opened from the outside. She could see the growing panic, the smug words about Felipe and his touch of class turning to ashes as he realised how credulously he’d walked into a trap.

  Both of them began hammering at the glass partition, no longer to get her attention but trying to break it. It was a desperate act. Connelly wouldn’t be able to fit through the gap, never mind his big pal, nor would they be able to reach forward far enough to even tug Jane’s hair. It didn’t deter them, though, and they kept at it until Big Chick finally succeeded in putting a foot through the pane. Unhappily for him, this coincided with Jane swinging the limo hard right around the final corner, sending him sprawling sideways into Connelly so that the pair of them ended their journey in a heap on the vehicle’s rear floor. Jane brought the car to a stop beneath the canopy of the disused petrol station that Nuno had appointed their destination, Bett’s car rolling immediately into place alongside.

  Connelly and his minder disentangled themselves and looked up hesitantly as the figure of Bett approached the limo. He pulled open the door and stepped back, Nuno standing behind him with his arms folded. The disused petrol station was on the outer edge of a run-down and largely derelict industrial estate, the kind of place Jane would normally drive through at high speed and with the doors locked. On this occasion, however, she knew the people on her side were far scarier than anything she’d ever feared meeting on such darkened straits in the past.

  Connelly, despite having demanded the car stop and having made such desperate efforts to escape its confines, was no longer in any great hurry to get out, though not from any apparent fear. Jane eyed his expression in the rear-view mirror: anger and defiance burned beneath the surface, but he was determined to present an air of control. He wasn’t jumping out of the door on anybody’s cue.

  Big Chick had fewer layers to his countenance. He looked psyched and aggressive, ready to bring his considerable weight to bear upon whoever incurred his boss’s displeasure.

  Connelly waited a measured few moments, then announced: ‘Let’s see what these cunts want.’

  He had Chick step out first, bristling with underlying hostility, taking position, arms folded, then Connelly followed him on to the crumbling tarmac.

  Connelly looked Bett and Nuno up and down, waiting for them to say something, or perhaps make a move. They didn’t.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Connelly eventually asked, his tone exaggeratedly weary, like this was all a big yawn to him.

  Nuno looked to Bett, who nodded. Nuno then began babbling in Spanish, asking incomprehensible questions, his tone increasingly aggressive.

  ‘No hablo español,’ Connelly stated flatly. ‘We only spea
k English. Comprendes? Now tell us what it is you want or fuck off. You understand that?’

  Nuno renewed his bitter inquisition, still entirely in Spanish, and stepped forward, prodding a finger just short of Connelly’s chest.

  ‘Fuck this,’ he muttered. ‘Charlie, let’s do these cunts.’

  With that, he picked up a bottle of Cava he’d left just inside the door and smashed it against the wheel-arch, while Big Chick produced a stiletto blade with a brass-knuckle grip from inside his jacket. Jane watched anxiously through the window, expecting Bett and Nuno to draw pistols, or perhaps Rebekah to emerge armed from the Audi. Instead, Nuno tutted – she actually heard him tut – and shook his head just before Connelly came swinging at him, Big Chick towards Bett.

  The expertise with which Bett and Nuno disarmed and dispatched their opponents was clinical; the ruthlessness with which they persisted coldly sickening. Jane winced as she watched Bett pick the big man from the floor again only to expertly inflict further damage. He and Nuno had guns, and the plan was to take the pair below, to the petrol station’s disused underground reservoir, so why hadn’t they just commanded their prisoners’ cooperation that way?

  As she watched the two beaten figures cower on the floor, utterly helpless in the face of further assault, she understood. Bett wanted them broken, wanted them to know they were hopelessly mismatched, not merely coerced by the advantage of weapons.

  He signalled to her and to Rebekah to come forward from their cars. It was time to take them below. Once again, Jane was grateful for the sunglasses, which hid the revulsion she couldn’t keep from her eyes. She held her mouth closed and her lips tightly pressed, and from the outside she must have looked coolly indifferent. Inside, she was concentrating on not throwing up.

  She watched Connelly climb to his knees, trembling in fear that it was only the prelude to another kick or punch. Blood was pouring from his nose, spluttering from his mouth as he coughed, doubled over in pain. She remembered her remarks of the previous night: Just give me five minutes with the bastard. What she’d witnessed hadn’t even lasted one, and it was more than enough to turn her anger into disgust.