by GJ Minett
‘Honestly, Abi – you’re so talented. I wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to go about something like this. You really ought to do it professionally.’
‘You haven’t forgotten that you’re paying for it, have you?’ she joked.
‘No, seriously. I mean full-time. Why waste your time working in a bookshop when you could be doing this for a living? Oh Lord, look at that!’ She pointed to the upper tier – a model of a huge book with lines of print running across the open pages. ‘That’s . . . those pages are taken from the new novel.’ She traced the title at the top of the page with her finger – The Hard Way by Mary Kowalski. ‘How on earth did you manage to reproduce the pages?’
‘Photocopied,’ said Abi, pleased to have a chance to explain. ‘You can copy onto edible printing paper nowadays if you have the right printer. You’d be amazed what you can do.’
‘And is it all edible?’ asked Mary. ‘I don’t know why I’m even asking. I can’t imagine cutting this up. It would be like . . . I don’t know, slashing a Vermeer or something.’
‘Well, you can keep the models if you like,’ explained Abi, checking an arm here, a leg there to make sure they were still adequately supported. ‘They’re just sugar paste. Everything else, I’d cut it up if I were you. You’ve probably got a week or so to eat it unless you decide to freeze it. Just don’t keep it in the fridge, OK? It’ll make the sugar paste go all wet and shiny.’
Mary took one more lingering look, then turned to hug her.
‘I’m not paying you enough,’ she said. ‘This must have taken you hours. I’m going to parade it round the garden and make you take a bow. You are coming tonight, aren’t you? Both of you?’
Abi picked up the nuance – the last three words carried about them more than a whiff of reluctant afterthought. ‘Of course. Callum might be a bit late but I can be there to help you set it up if you like.’
‘If you’re sure you don’t mind,’ said Mary. She raised one finger to suggest a light coming on. ‘You’re not in any hurry, are you? Have you got time to come and look at something?’
Abi checked her watch: ‘I’m OK for five minutes or so.’
Mary took her by the arm and led her to the back door. ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ she said, opening the door and stepping outside onto the patio. ‘You saw this place when we first moved in, right? Remember what a shambles it was out here and how Max promised he was going to get it all sorted by the end of the summer? Well . . . tell me what you think.’
They crossed the patio, tiptoed their way along a path littered with gardening tools and half-empty compost bags and turned left into what, only four months ago, had been little more than an overgrown, weed-ridden, bramble-infested jungle. Now it was completely transformed. For one thing, the whole area had been cleared and flattened which was no small achievement in itself. Bushes had been uprooted, trees cut back and years of neglect by the elderly couple who had lived there previously had been reversed in a matter of months. Then borders had been dug and planted on either side of a footpath which led to a brand new summer house, perfectly positioned at the end of the garden to catch the early afternoon sun. It was a different garden altogether.
‘I’m not even going to ask if Max did this,’ Abi said, shaking her head in amazement.
Mary laughed. ‘As if. No, it’s this guy I came across a while ago. Found his card in the post-office window, believe it or not.’
Abi looked again at the summer house and thought how bland their own back garden was by comparison. Drab. Uninspired. It needed a radical overhaul, nothing on the scale of what had been done here maybe, but if someone who knew what he was doing were to take hold of it and devote some time and imagination to the project, the potential was definitely there.
‘His name’s Owen,’ said Mary. ‘Owen Hall. I can give you his number, or he’s got his own website if you prefer. Just Google Hall Gardening Services.’ She paused, noticing the quiet smile on Abi’s face. ‘What?’
‘No, nothing,’ said Abi. ‘It’s just I used to know an Owen Hall, years ago. We were at school together.’
‘An old boyfriend?’
‘Owen,’ Abi chuckled. ‘God, no.’
‘Well, this guy’s six foot six and absolutely ripped. Don’t tell Max but I’ve been spending hours sitting at my writing desk on the off chance he might take his shirt off, so if it’s the same boy you went to school with I’d have to ask how come you didn’t nail him there and then. That sound like him?’
Abi smiled again, shook her head. ‘Not really. No.’
DANNY
The first he saw of the girl was when she was about a hundred or so metres away. She’d come to a halt in the middle of the cycle path and was peering anxiously at her front wheel. There was room for him to pass on either side if he wished but as he drew closer she threw him a beseeching look and spread her arms to make it clear she needed help. He braked hard and stopped a few metres in front of her, his rear wheel swinging round in a satisfying skid.
‘Everything OK?’ he asked, lowering the bike to the ground and walking over to her. ‘Can I help at all?’
The girl thanked him for stopping and explained that the wheel felt as if it might be coming loose. ‘I’m worried it’s going to send me flying over the handlebars or something.’
‘Here,’ he said, squatting next to her and checking the wheel carefully for excessive play. ‘Let’s have a look.’
While he was doing so, a black Mercedes pulled out of the queue of traffic and came to a halt on the grass verge. The rear door opened and a shaven-headed youth, probably a couple of years younger than Danny himself and dressed in wife beater and joggers, walked over to them. Danny looked up, grateful for the implicit offer of help, and was surprised when the supposed Samaritan walked straight past them both and picked up Danny’s bike. He swung his leg over the crossbar and bounced his backside off the seat two or three times as if checking it out for comfort.
Danny climbed slowly to his feet and walked over to him.
‘You mind?’ he asked, fairly pleasantly under the circumstances. ‘That’s my bike.’
‘Piece o’ shit,’ mumbled the youth without even bothering to look at him. ‘Wanna get yourself some decent wheels.’
‘Well, thank you for that,’ said Danny. ‘You think you could get off now? I’d like it back.’
The youth tugged at the brakes and pushed hard, causing the back wheel to lift into the air. ‘Get in the car,’ he said.
‘What?’ Danny turned to look at the Mercedes. The back door was still wide open but he couldn’t see clearly enough to make out who else might be inside. He wondered what the girl was making of all this and was surprised to see that she’d remounted her bike and was now leaning on the handlebars, watching closely, as if intrigued by what would happen next. She mouthed the word Sorry, and flashed a quick smile which conveyed all the sincerity of a game-show host. What the hell was going on here?
‘I said, get in the car, Danny.’
‘You serious? I’m not getting in any car.’ He stopped suddenly, his brain only now catching up. ‘And how come you know my name anyway?’
The youth stopped playing with the brakes and looked Danny in the eye for the first time. No hint of a smile. No hint of anything. He got off the bike and lowered it to the ground with exaggerated care.
‘I’m asking you nicely. Want me to say please?’
‘No,’ said Danny, stepping forward and trying to reach past him. ‘I don’t want you to say please. I want you to give me back my bike before I –’
The speed of the assault was what did for him, although there was something about the slickness of the move that suggested the outcome would have been no different even without the element of surprise. One minute they were brushing shoulders, the next he’d slumped to the ground and was lying across the rear wheel of his bike, struggling desperately to suck air into his lungs. The punch had slammed into his kidneys, just below the ribcage, with
stunning force. He hadn’t seen it coming, had made no attempt to protect himself, so the aftershock was immediate and excruciating. He wasn’t sure where his next breath was supposed to come from.
‘There you go,’ said the youth, bending over him as he struggled to find anything resembling a comfortable position. ‘Please . . . get in the fucking car.’
‘Thank you, TJ. I think we’ll take it from here.’ The voice, cultured, measured, utterly incongruous under the circumstances, came from somewhere deep inside the Mercedes. ‘If you could just help Mr Locke into the car, that would be excellent.’
Danny was still gasping for breath and in no position to offer any resistance worthy of the name as the youth grabbed him under the armpits and, with a strength which belied his slender frame, hauled him into an upright position. He slumped forward again, clutching his ribs, and a second man stepped from the Mercedes to offer assistance. Between them they half-carried, half-dragged him over to the car and tossed him into the back seat where he landed next to a sharply dressed middle-aged man who clearly bought and applied his aftershave by the vat. The second man climbed in next to him; the youth in the wife beater hovered by the door.
‘How long do you and Sonia think you’ll need?’ Mr Armani Code asked him.
‘Arun Leisure Centre? Twenty minutes, maybe.’
‘I’ll ask Trevor to take a bit of a detour and we’ll meet you there. You might like to take off your cycle helmet, Mr Locke,’ he added, turning to address Danny directly for the first time. ‘I think TJ’s need will be greater than yours for the next quarter of an hour or so.’
‘He’s broken my ribs,’ he managed to gasp.
‘Oh, I very much doubt that,’ came the reply. ‘For a young man, TJ has a lot of experience of this sort of thing and if he’d wanted to break your ribs, I think we’d know all about it. There could well be some bruising there in the morning though. I’d get some ice on it when you get in tonight, if I were you. And you might like to sit up a little straighter and take a few deep breaths just now. Get a bit of wind into your sails, yes?’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Helmet, please?’
Danny briefly weighed up his options and decided there were none. He unfastened the helmet and peeled it slowly from his head, thinking that sitting up straight might be easier said than done. He retained enough of his wits to wonder why no one was coming to his assistance. There was so much traffic around – surely someone had to have seen what was going on.
He watched as the youth took the helmet and started cycling off down the path with the girl alongside him. They were both laughing.
‘Where’s he going with my bike?’ he managed to ask, each word spent like marked currency.
‘Don’t worry – it’s quite safe, I assure you. It’ll be waiting for you at the leisure centre when we drop you off. In the meantime, Trevor here will take us for a little drive along the seafront. Much nicer than sitting here on this grass verge. Don’t want to draw attention to ourselves, do we?’
The indicator started to tick quietly as they waited for a chance to pull back into the stream of traffic on the A259. Then they set off towards North Bersted and Bognor, barely managing to keep pace with the cyclists for the most part. They certainly weren’t gaining on TJ and the girl who had long since disappeared.
‘I don’t understand what’s going on here?’ he groaned. ‘Who are you? What do you want with me?’
‘I apologise. You’re obviously alarmed, which is not that surprising under the circumstances. Perhaps if I were to introduce everyone?’ If this touch of civility was intended to come across as reassuring, it somehow missed its mark. ‘The gentleman behind the wheel is Trevor,’ he continued. ‘He’s the perfect chauffeur, really – safe, steady and hears only what he’s supposed to hear, don’t you, Trevor?’
‘What was that, Mr Cunningham?’
‘Very good, Trevor. Very droll. And next to him is Marshall . . . that’s his Christian name incidentally, not his surname. Parents obviously had an off day. He’s a bit of a whiz with all matters pertaining to finance, is Marshall. Don’t pretend to understand any of it myself. He could be cheating everyone left, right and centre for all I know but somehow I very much doubt it, don’t you, Marshall?’
Marshall smiled and said nothing.
‘And the gentleman sitting next to you is Mick. Big lad, isn’t he? I probably don’t need to tell you what he does. As for me, my name is Ezra Cunningham. You won’t have heard of me. I’m not anyone important. Just a sort of . . . well, factotum really, I suppose you could call me. You know what a factotum is, Danny? You don’t mind if I call you Danny, do you?’
He shook his head, a response which Cunningham interpreted as covering both questions.
‘So . . . factotum. Dogsbody, really – yes, that would be the best way to look at it. I like to think of myself as a bit of an all-rounder, jack-of-all-trades, but I’m probably flattering myself. Anyway, I digress. The point is, I’m employed by Mr Bellamy to keep an eye on things – Mr Freddie, that is. Mr Joey isn’t around much at present owing to an unfortunate misunderstanding which we’re hoping the authorities will put right very soon. Maybe you’ve heard of them both?’
Danny most certainly had – and the temperature in the car dropped by several degrees in a matter of seconds. There weren’t many people in the Bognor area who hadn’t heard of the Bellamy brothers. He’d never had any direct contact with them but he knew plenty of people who had and, even allowing for a certain amount of exaggeration, he was more than happy to stay off their radar.
‘I still don’t understand what you want from me,’ he said. It sounded horribly like a whine and he wished he could try again. ‘I’m nobody. I’ve never met you – any of you. I’m not looking for trouble.’
‘. . . which is what we like to hear,’ said Cunningham. ‘There’s nothing for you to worry about here, Danny. All this . . .’ he spread his arms wide to take in the situation as a whole ‘. . . just look upon it as Mr Freddie’s way of introducing himself. He likes to establish contact with all those he does business with. To break the ice, so to speak.’
‘What business?’
‘Always important to make sure everyone’s singing from the same cliché, don’t you think? And in your case he wants to be absolutely clear about the repayment structure.’
‘What repayments? I don’t know what you’re talking about!’
‘The loan you took out a while ago for . . .’ He snapped his fingers.
‘Five hundred pounds,’ said Marshall.
‘Five hundred pounds. Exactly. With a repayment plan for . . . ?’
There was a brief rustling of papers as Marshall searched for the exact figures. ‘The loan was taken out over three months at an APR of 345 per cent which means Mr Locke is due to pay £643.75 on the fifteenth of next month.’
‘Which, unless I’m very much mistaken, is just over three weeks away?’
‘Three weeks on Monday.’
‘But that loan was with Arun Readies,’ protested Danny. ‘It never said anything about Freddie or Joey Bellamy on any of the documents I signed.’
‘Indeed. Unfortunately, however, Jimmy Vince, who set up that particular company, has decided to sell up and move into other more profitable and, dare I say, less hazardous corners of the business world. As a result, all of the loans already agreed by said Jimmy have now fallen under Mr Freddie’s remit and he has asked us to speak individually with every one of the good people concerned to establish ground rules and make sure there are no misunderstandings. All we need from you just now is some idea as to your intentions when it comes to repaying the loan. He’s more than happy for you to settle with us this evening if you have it and that will mean our business relationship is terminated – at least until such time as you need to call on us again. But we do understand that immediate repayment may be neither convenient nor even feasible, in which case we have Mr Freddie’s authority to let you have until the agreed date of the f
ifteenth of September to settle the debt in full. You have to understand however that this will incur additional costs and the original loan will have increased to . . .’
‘One thousand and four pounds –’
‘What?’
‘And forty-five pence.’
‘A grand?’ gasped Danny, and this time the pain in his ribs had nothing to do with it. ‘You’re joking!’
‘Danny –’
‘I’m only meant to be paying six hundred quid. I never signed up for a grand. Jesus, if I could lay my hands on that sort of money at a moment’s notice, I wouldn’t have needed to take out the loan in the first place.’
Cunningham tugged at each of his cuffs in turn. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand that how you go about reimbursing us isn’t really any of Mr Freddie’s concern.’ He couldn’t have come across as less interested in Danny’s dilemma if he’d tried. ‘I’m sure you’ll find a way if you put your mind to it. Just keep reminding yourself of the important things in life. Like Evie, for example.’ Thin air again. Cunningham had a way of sucking the oxygen out of the car with no apparent effort.
‘Evie? What about her?’
‘Barely out of her teens and a second baby on the way already? Early December, isn’t it?’
‘How do you –?’
‘And little Kayla,’ continued Cunningham. ‘Such a sweetie, I’m reliably informed. But she can’t be more than about eighteen months old. That’s a lot for a young mum to be coping with and you all the way out here at work all day. She must be desperate for company half the time.’
‘Leave my wife out of –’
Again, the blow seemed to come from nowhere. This time it took the form of a short, sharp slap to the face, delivered with the open hand. It stunned him momentarily and when his senses unscrambled themselves, his initial reaction, oddly enough, was one of relief that he hadn’t taken another blow to the ribs. Neither did he want to think about the damage this slap would have done to his face, had it been delivered with a closed fist.
