End of the World Blues

by Jon Courtenay Grimwood

  “That CTV camera above the door is live,” said Alan. “We’ve jacked a feed. De Valois has a man at the top window watching the courtyard below. Since he’s been there for the last six hours we figure he’s shitting in a bag and peeing in a bottle…” Catching Amy’s eye, Alan raised one hand in apology. “That’s the truth and it works in our favour.”

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “He’ll be bored,” said Kit. “Also pissed off. That’s never good.” Turning to Alan, he asked, “How about sound?”

  “The phone bug went down again, when Mr. de Valois ran a sweep. We’ve still got parabolics on his windows but the fooler loops are keeping us out. We can get it all back up by morning, if necessary.”

  “Should we be worried?” said Brigadier Miles.

  “I doubt if he even knows we’re here,” Alan said. “It’s all pretty low level.”

  The Brigadier smiled, as if the technician was about twelve and not a professional in his early twenties. “And the Japanese kid?”

  “Sat in one corner, drawing a weird-shit comic strip and talking to herself. At least she was last time we checked.”

  “Which was how?”

  “Man in suit.”

  “We report noise to the local council,” Alan told Kit, “then wait for a local official to come out to inspect the club or bar or whatever we’re watching.”

  “Isn’t it dangerous?” Amy asked.

  “Not really,” said Alan. “We don’t tell them anything in advance. Just grab them when they get back and debrief them out of sight. You’d be surprised how much a bureaucrat with a clipboard notices—it’s their blind ignorance keeps them safe,” he added. “Even our best people can’t fake it.”

  Kit began by refusing to wear the flack jacket. This was more a vest than a jacket, made from woven Kevlar and reinforced with callous-like pads over the heart and across the sides.

  “Liver,” said Alan, producing the garment. “And kidneys. More of a target than you think.”

  “No.” Kit shook his head.

  “Come on,” said Alan. “It’s regulations.”

  “Not my regulations,” said Kit; so Alan went to fetch the Brigadier, and to give Brigadier Miles her due the first thing she asked was, Why not?

  “Because it will show.”

  “Not if you wear a jacket over the top.”

  “Think about it,” said Kit. “It’s hot, it’s muggy, we’re at the beginning of July. No way is anyone round here going to wear a jacket, unless it’s a hoodie.”

  “Which would look absurd on you,” said the Brigadier.

  “Exactly.”

  They compromised on clothing, Kit agreeing to wear black jeans and a white cotton tee-shirt, one thin enough to make it obvious he wasn’t wearing a flack jacket, pocket recorder, or receiver.

  “Here’s your gun,” said Maxim, producing a heavy-looking Colt automatic from his briefcase.

  “What?”

  “Ben Flyte always went armed. Stupid little prick. Besides—” Maxim grinned and dropped out the clip, jacking out the first five bullets. “We need you to take this inside for us.” Extracting what looked like the next five slugs, Maxim passed Kit a tiny tape recorder. “Old school,” he said happily, before reloading the clip and snapping it back into the gun.

  “How does it work?”

  “Noise activated,” said Maxim. “It’s already running.” When Brigadier Miles looked worried, the old man smiled. “We need to check it’s working. I’ll reset the chip when he leaves.”

  “I want another gun,” insisted Kit, before the Brigadier could say anything else. “As back-up, and a knife in an ankle sheath. If you want me to carry then we do this properly.”

  Arguing this out took five minutes, with another fifteen wasted while a motorcycle courier collected the items and delivered them to the walk-up. By the time Maxim signed for the items, the sky had darkened through three different shades of blue and the neon girl outside cast enough light to turn the net curtains purple.

  Without even thinking about it, Kit dropped out the clip to check it was full. The Beretta was tiny, in better condition than the Colt, but so small it only took short-length .22s. Clicking the clip back into place, Kit spun the little automatic in his hand and then tucked it into a sock.

  “You know how to use it?” Alan asked.

  Kit nodded.

  The blade was black, double edged, made from transformation-toughened zirconia—good for slicing, though not recommended for high-impact applications. It said so on a gold label that Alan peeled away, slipping the crumpled paper into his pocket.

  “Sticky tape,” Kit demanded.

  Even Amy was finally looking at him. And somehow Kit didn’t think it was because he was standing on a dusty floor in a crappy little flat with one leg still rolled up like an initiate to the Freemasons.

  “The weapons are for show,” said Maxim. “Okay? Nothing else…”

  As Maxim began to repack his briefcase and Brigadier Miles collected up her cigarette ends, decanting them into a small plastic bag, Amy took a call, glancing across at Kit before looking away.

  “Yeah,” she said. “He’s ready.”

  Kit shook his head, pulled the Colt from the back of his belt, and put it on a table in front of Alan, who was adjusting a parabolic mic with a tiny screwdriver. “I’ll be back in a few seconds.”

  That got everyone’s attention.

  “Nothing serious,” Kit said. “Just…” He nodded towards the bathroom. I want to roll the dice.

  “Can’t it wait?” said Brigadier Miles.

  Kit should already have left. At least that was the Brigadier’s plan. Out of this flat to a café on the corner, where he would wait for a passing uniform to ask the owner if she’d seen a missing teenager. His cue to move.

  “No,” said Kit. “I don’t think it can.”

  Armand de Valois answered his phone on the third ring.

  “Mr. de Valois?”

  “Oui. Who is this…”

  Who did he think it was?

  “It’s me,” said Kit. “We’re meant to be meeting.”

  A moment of silence and then, “Meant?” In the club a man stopped talking, probably shocked by the fury in that single word.

  “It’s a trap,” said Kit. “I’m being used by the police and I’ll be carrying a tape recorder.” Now was when Maxim, the Brigadier, and, quite possibly, Alan and Amy should start breaking down the door. All Kit got was silence at both ends of the phone.

  “You there?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said de Valois, “I’m still here, and I can tell you now, it’s a bad idea to try to fuck with Armand de Valois. You bring my consignment tonight or the girl dies. No tricks, no more extra time.”

  “But…”

  “Now,” said de Valois. “You bring it now. Because if you don’t, then we kill you.”

  “Neku…”

  “Oh yes,” said de Valois. “We kill her too. Only we rape her first.”

  Kit splashed water on his face and rinsed out his mouth, then ran his hands through his hair and waited until the shaking stopped. He looked older than he remembered, hollow-eyed and hollow-cheeked, a long way from the Englishman abroad he once was.

  But he’d discovered something.

  The safety glass between himself and his past had cracked. In its place was a sharp-edged clarity that had Kit adjusting his mind for angle, distance, and the wind drift of a life almost wasted.

  Four sixes. Charlie would be proud of him.

  “Are you all right?” Brigadier Miles looked worried.

  “Oh yes,” said Kit. “I’m fine.”

  It felt odd to wheel a fortune in heroin between East European kids in jeans and leather jackets. Odd, but interesting. One of the older boys looked as if he might be reluctant to move, but something about Kit’s certainty made him step aside. To save face the kid whistled, a staccato trill that announced he had drugs to offer.

  Shaking his head, Kit kept walking.r />
  “Someone should do something about them,” said a woman in the café.

  “Someone will,” said Kit. Life expectancy among teenage drug dealers in South London was short. It had been that way for much longer than those kids had been alive.

  Anywhere else, the café’s décor would be ironic. Pine tables and pottery mugs, leather place mats and a framed Bob Marley poster. A nod to the simplicities of the 1980s. A chrome espresso machine behind the counter was undoubtedly the most valuable thing in the place.

  The West Indian woman who’d been complaining about drugs brought Kit a menu, having waited politely while he chose a table and parked his case. “We’re closing soon,” she said. “But I can do you soup or a grilled sandwich.”

  Ackee, Red Bean, Pepper Pot…having dismissed the soups, Kit chose a jerked chicken sandwich and fries.

  “Been somewhere nice?” the woman asked, after taking his order.

  “Japan.”

  She raised her eyebrows at this. “Strange place for a holiday.”

  “I live there,” said Kit. Well, maybe…

  “Bet London’s changed.”

  He smiled.

  “And not for the better,” she said, nodding beyond the window. When Kit said nothing, the woman sniffed. “What do you want to drink?”

  “Tea,” said Kit. “I could really do with tea.”

  “Coming up,” she said, unfreezing as quickly as she’d taken offence.

  The tea was warm and weak and tasted as if it had been made from leaves swept off a factory floor, while the milk was so rich that fat skated like oily insects across its surface. All the same…

  Sentiment, he told himself. He didn’t do sentiment.

  And yet here he sat in some crumbling café in an area known for its high levels of unemployment, prostitution, and street crime, mourning the passing of a world he’d done his utmost to avoid. But which he might be about to leave, if that was what it took.

  Kill me, so this thing I love keeps living. The words Kate O’Mally had quoted beside the little waterfall in Shinjuku Park crowded his head. It made no sense. And yet it was true.

  He would die if that was what it took. Worse than that, he would kill. Why? Because Mary O’Mally once told him every debt must be repaid. It had just taken Kit longer than it should to realise debts could be carried over and repaid to someone else.

  What he owed Neku, what he owed Mary, what he owed himself.

  “Here,” said the café owner, slapping down a poster. “Take a look. He won’t know,” she added, talking to someone behind her. “He just got back from Japan.” The picture showed a young black girl. Missing was written across the top.

  “Shit,” said Kit.

  The West Indian woman frowned.

  “You know her?” demanded the police officer.

  Kit shook his head. He could feel their stares all the way from his table to the pavement.

  CHAPTER 51 — Sunday Night, 1 July

  Shut for renovation, the sign proclaimed. Open soon!

  Three locks, a peep hole, and a camera above the door secured the entrance to Bar Poland. Kit wondered why, if the club was closed, the neon girl still swung in circles, and decided it really didn’t matter. There were bigger questions to answer, like how to retrieve Neku and talk his way out of there alive.

  He’d been given three hours. After that it was out of the Brigadier’s hands and Neku took her chances with an extraction team. Kit didn’t believe the bit about it being out of the Brigadier’s hands, though it had been repeated several times.

  Having knocked, Kit counted to ten and began to walk away. The door to Bar Poland opened before he’d taken five paces.

  “Oi,” said a voice. “You Mr. Flyte?” A teenage boy with cropped skull, checked shirt, and tight jeans stood sneering in the doorway.

  “What do you think?” said Kit.

  “You got Mr. de Valois’s stuff?”

  “All sixty kilos of it,” said Kit. “Vacuum packed, grade A…”

  The boy scowled, then glanced round in case Kit’s comment had been overheard, which it undoubtedly was, and taped as well, not to mention filmed from between the slats of blind covering a window high on a wall behind his visitor.

  “Better let me in,” said Kit.

  The young man stepped aside, slowly.

  As Kit walked into Bar Poland, he heard the door shut behind him and the click of one lock after another. As a final touch, a steel bolt was slammed into place.

  “Scared of burglars?”

  The boy hit Kit hard, from behind.

  Red carpet, with a worn strip down the middle where endless feet had headed towards velvet curtains beyond. On the far side of the curtains was a sound system, turned way up. Kit knew this because its bass line was loud enough to shake the floor next to his ear.

  “Up you come.” Hands dragged Kit to his feet. It was the boy, only now his sneer had become a smirk. He was rubbing his fist, although it was probably unnecessary, as the shot-weighted leather glove he wore looked designed to offer protection. “We’ve got your girlfriend dancing,” said the boy. “She’s pretty good.”

  “You’ve got…”

  “Hey,” he said. “Be grateful. For Mr. de Valois that’s mild. It could have been so much worse.”

  Could it? “I’ll bear that in mind,” Kit said.

  Matters of great concern should be treated lightly. Matters of small concern should be treated seriously. So said the book Mr. Oniji gave Kit in the hospital. It said other things as well, but the most important of these he had worked out for himself. Regard yourself as dead already.

  An old Killers track blared from hidden speakers. It was before Neku’s time and quite possibly before de Valois’s too, unless his youthfulness was just a trick of the light and a good surgeon.

  “Ah, Ben…so you came.” Mr. de Valois smiled, his eyes visible behind lightly tinted shades.

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” said Kit, reaching behind him.

  “Kenka shinaide!”

  “What?” demanded de Valois, then added, “Keep dancing.”

  Neku did as she was told.

  So did Kit, who stopped reaching for his gun and wheeled his case across to Mr. de Valois instead. “It’s all here,” Kit said.

  “I certainly hope so.”

  No way will I look at her, Kit told himself, then glanced anyway. Seeing a half-naked child draped in the glare of a cheap spotlight that lit every scowl on her face.

  “Search him,” demanded de Valois.

  The crop-haired man found the Colt the first time, only finding the ankle gun when de Valois told him to search properly.

  “Anything else?”

  Kit shook his head.

  “You sure?”

  He nodded. “I’m positive.”

  “Good,” said de Valois. “So you won’t mind when Alfie breaks her arms if we find something, will you?” He raised his eyebrows at Kit, who shrugged.

  De Valois laughed.

  “Check the cases,” he told Alfie.

  Sixty individual bags of heroin. More oblivion than Kit could imagine. Each one heat sealed along its edges and then wrapped again, in polyethylene so thick it looked like oiled paper.

  “Well?”

  “It’s all there,” said Alfie, in a South London accent obvious enough to remind Kit of black and white films he hadn’t even seen.

  “Call Robbie down,” Armand ordered. “Tell him to test it.”

  A few minutes later a dreadlocked Rasta ambled from the shadows, holstering a gun as he came. His hair was thinning and had turned to grey. His red shirt had sweat marks under the arms. He looked almost as unhappy with life as Kit felt. So Kit guessed he was the man who’d been shitting in a bag.

  “Ah,” said Armand. “My friend…”

  Producing a scalpel from his pocket, the Rasta chose a package from the middle and slit it open, carrying a little of the powder to his tongue. “Well,” he said. “It’s the real thing.”

&
nbsp; Without needing to be told, Robbie slit open another five bags and carried them to a table near the stage. A small gas cooker, a glass beaker, and a handful of bottles appeared, along with a small pair of scales. Although, in the event, the only pieces of equipment Robbie used were a laptop, a glass of water, and a small white box with a glass lid.

  “Residual alkaloids, some methaqualone, also traces of diazepam,” said Robbie, amending it to, “Afghani, sixty-five percent pure,” when Mr. de Valois looked irritated. “Also, sugars for bulk.”

  “It’s been cut,” Kit said, “ready for market.” This was what he’d been told to say. “And I’m really sorry about the misunderstanding. I obviously had no idea…”

  “That I was still alive?”

  Kit nodded.

  In the background Razorlight replaced Kaiser Chiefs and were replaced in turn by a dance track with a single looped vocal and an idiotically simple synth line. Golden oldies, what the patrons would expect; and behind Robbie’s table, apparently forgotten, Neku circling her pole in time to the music.

  She’d lost weight again. Kit could see ribs beneath her skin and watch the muscles in her shoulders slide across each other as they propelled her round and round the same tight circle of misery.

  “Pretty,” said de Valois. “Isn’t she?”

  “She’s Kathryn O’Mally’s granddaughter. You know who that is?”

  It was obvious he didn’t, and equally obvious that Robbie did. So Kit suggested the Rasta tell Mr. de Valois, who listened in silence to a bullet-point breakdown of Kate O’Mally’s life, while Alfie looked increasingly impressed in the background.

  “This woman. She knows you’re here?”

  “Of course,” said Kit.

  Mr. de Valois shrugged. “Not my problem.”

  Kit caught the exact moment Alfie looked at Robbie; crop-haired thug and grizzled Rasta, whatever passed between them, it passed in silence.

  “All the same,” said de Valois, gesturing towards Neku. “The kid’s good. Where did she dance before this?”

  “Dance…?”

  “She has the moves, even has a couple that are new. I was just wondering where she’s been.”