‘I lied to you earlier, just to test the water between us. Sorry!’ Karen said, the smile dropping from her face, ‘I’m really meeting an old friend. We were at school together. We got in touch through that web site, Friends Reunited, Alison contacted me, and we’ve agreed to meet up after all these years. I hope she hasn’t changed too much.’
‘I hope you have a good evening,’ Greg said implying that he had already forgiven her for lying to him. Greg felt that Karen was a little nervous about meeting up with her old school friend after all this time.
‘I bet she’s as excited or as nervous as you are,’ he said, thinking he would try to set her mind at rest.
‘I’m not nervous!’ Karen snapped.
‘Don’t give me that, that’s a load of bollocks and you know it! I’d be shitting myself,’ Greg felt a little angry with the way that Karen had snapped at him. After all, he was only trying to be sympathetic and set her mind at rest.
‘I’m just a bit apprehensive, that’s all. Wouldn’t you be?’ Karen fired back, trying to justify the way she had spoken to Greg previously.
‘Apprehensive? That’s just another way of dressing it up to me, and it means the same thing if you ask me,’ Greg said with a smug look on his face, like the proverbial I told you so.
A short silence followed with Karen not wanting to admit her nervousness and Greg not knowing what to say. It felt just like old times.
‘I bet your mate from school is just as apprehensive as you are, so stop worrying,’ Greg said, deciding to break the deadlock.
‘OK, I’ll try,’ Karen replied, trying not to smile.
It was then that the train pulled into the station. Karen glanced out of the window noticing that this was where she needed to change trains.
‘I still love you. Please call me and we’ll meet up,’ she said softly as she stood up from her seat.
‘I will,’ Greg replied without thinking, not allowing himself enough time to digest what Karen had just said. ‘What did you just say?’ he enquired, feeling his guard lower for a brief moment.
‘You know what I said,’ Karen blushed. ‘Promise me Greg!’ Karen added in a sexy way that only Greg could understand.
‘I’ll give you a bell soon,’ Greg replied, unable to cement the promise that Karen had demanded.
The doors closed and the train started to pull away. Karen was still standing on the platform, frantically waving. She was shouting something, though her attempts to communicate were in vain. Greg had no chance of hearing her given the surrounding noise.
Unknowingly, Karen had made Greg feel a little embarrassed by the way that she had attracted so much attention toward them. It had made him feel like the whole world now knew that, in the past, he had hurt Karen, and, even now, after all this time, she was still hurting. He had no idea that Karen’s feelings for him still ran so deep. Greg thought for a short while about whether or not this was a good thing. Maybe he could use Karen as an alibi: start seeing her again – but this time it would be much slower. Would she become too clingy? He would need her to understand this, though in a way that she would believe that the slower pace was a joint decision. His time would no longer be his own. If only he could somehow see her on his terms – when he wanted. He needed to dictate the pace. Both his sex life and his ego would get a massive boost. He made a decision that he would phone her, lay out the bait, and she would come running. This was not part of his original plan, though adaptability is always a much-needed strength. Adaptability eliminates the need to panic. Being able to think quickly and be flexible whilst wholly dedicated to your goal gives any career criminal the clarity to avoid conflict with any authority.
Greg knew that he would have to lead more than just a double life. Karen could be a very useful tool, an ironclad alibi.
As the train slowed, Greg glanced out of the window. He had reached his destination. He had not heard the driver announce that the train would be terminating. In a dreamlike state, he cut off from the real world, mentally adding to his already thickening plot. As he stood up, an elderly man spoke to him.
‘Call her. She is obviously mad about you. You’d be a fool to let her slip through your hands!’ the elderly man told him.
The man looked very well presented – perfectly groomed. His age was tricky to guess, but late sixties would have been a safe bet. His grey hair, though receding, had been slickly combed back. His carefully shaped moustache suited him. It looked like it belonged. The pinstriped suit he wore with a plain white shirt and colourful bow tie made him seem almost eccentric – the patent black leather shoes complemented his attire perfectly.
Greg looked at him in utter amazement and responded, ‘Would you want her back?’ he paused. ‘She slept with my brother, and he gave her clap.’ Greg kept a straight face, and looked hard at the elderly man.
‘I’m sorry, son!’ the elderly man replied feeling a little deflated by what Greg had told him.
‘What you sorry for?’ Greg questioned.
‘Sorry that she did that to you!’ he replied, trying to be tactful, though by this time the elderly man was feeling uncomfortable.
‘No, she didn’t, I haven’t even got a brother. I’m just winding you up. Now piss off and mind your own business!’ Greg said laughing, ‘you nosy old fucker!’
The elderly man glared, only briefly, at Greg before snapping, ‘You foolish boy!’ and storming off making large striding steps as he did. Greg’s laughter grew louder.
Greg left the carriage, made his way up the escalator and continued until he reached the exit. On his way past, he gave the ticket collector his ticket and then continued to make his way outside. As he exited the station, he looked across the road and there it was – The Globe Tavern. Built in 1735 it was full of character and the ambience was that of a busy friendly place. From the outside the forecourt beer garden was large in capacity, having a big seating area, as well as plenty of standing room.
He paused, though only for a moment, whilst he looked to his left and then to his right as if to confirm that he had arrived.
Chapter Four
Baker Street was a busy place, full of tourists as well as people who either lived there or were just passing through. There were also those on a night out, like Greg, or at least that was what the unsuspecting public thought.
Greg crossed the busy main road, Marylebone Road, not bothering to use the pelican crossing. As he walked through the already open main door, he found himself pausing without realising again, though only for a few seconds. This pause allowed him time to soak up the atmosphere, a calming atmosphere that had kept itself alive for centuries. The noise of simple chitter-chatter with added laughter made any visitor feel instantly welcome. Greg could smell the history of the place, especially now the smoking ban had come in to force. The place was buzzing – packed to the rafters.
‘Perfect,’ he told himself, ‘no one will remember seeing me in here!’ He negotiated his way to the bar, squeezing and pushing his way through the crowd. Once there, he waited his turn to be served. He made a couple of unsuccessful attempts to jump the queue. A young-looking barmaid from behind the bar looked at Greg.
‘Yes, what can I get you?’ she asked, showing her almost perfect teeth as she gave her best, professional smile.
Greg lent forward on the bar, closing the gap between them and replied, ‘A pint of Fosters.’ There did not seem the need for politeness.
‘Coming right up,’ the barmaid replied, her smile remaining the same. Greg gave her a flirtatious wink.
The barmaid placed his pint of lager on the bar and said, ‘Anything else?’
This time Greg just responded with a simple nod of his head, ‘Your phone number.’
‘That’s three quid for the Fosters, and you’ll have to try harder than that if you want my phone number, cheeky,’ the barmaid laughed as she held out her hand.
Greg gave her the right money. ‘You can’t blame a guy for trying,’ Greg replied as he picked up his pint and took a b
ig gulp.
‘Well, sometimes persistence pays off,’ the barmaid chuckled as she fluttered her eyelids.
Greg gave her another flirtatious wink before turning away in order to survey his surrounding area to see if the chubby guy was in there. He looked hard; it was no good. The pub was far too busy, far too full. Greg decided to circulate.
Once Greg had reached the bottom of his pint, he proceeded to make his way back to the bar but, just before he got there, he felt as though he was being shoved from behind as if someone was pushing him forward.
‘Come on, get out of the way!’
He automatically knew the voice and turned round so that he could confirm the identity of the owner. He could not believe his luck. It was the chubby guy. Greg looked at him and the chubby guy glared back.
‘WHAT?’ the chubby guy shouted.
‘Take it easy, mate,’ Greg said looking the man up and down and then shaking his head. He had other plans for him and this was not the time or place.
‘DO YOU WANT SOMETHING, WANKER?’ the chubby guy asked Greg, still shouting in an aggressive manner. Other people in earshot deliberately moved away.
‘Just for you to take it easy,’ Greg replied, choosing to remain calm.
‘Get out of my fucking way then!’ the chubby guy ordered, deciding to lower his voice as he continued trying to push his way past.
Greg’s calm demeanour quickly evaporated. The lava that ran through his veins started to boil. He repeatedly told himself that revenge was always a dish best served cold and never too sweet, though he was not willing to allow this fat fucker to push in front of him at the bar.
‘Wait your fucking turn!’ Greg told the chubby guy.
As the chubby guy turned away to walk to another section of the bar, he grinned at Greg, and said, ‘Fuck you, you toss-pot!’
‘Mess with me and you fuck with the wrong person!’ Greg said calmly, blowing the chubby guy a kiss.
The chubby guy turned, and looked at Greg. He paused in his stride and said, ‘I’ll see you again, you faggot!’
Greg looked back at him with a crazed look in his eyes, ‘You can bet your fucking life on it!’
The ironic thing was that the chubby guy did not realize that Greg meant it. It was all part of his plan. The only thing on his mind now was that if he followed this guy home now, the chubby guy would think that Greg was going to jump him.
‘What do I do now?’ he said to himself, as he tried to calm the internal rage that swept its way through his veins.
Greg decided to allow time to dictate his next step. Nothing was ever set in stone and if it meant he had to instigate their next dialogue, he was willing to do so. He would have another pint and wait for the chubby guy to make his move before making his decision on whether he should follow him or not. It was still early, so he had plenty of time to consider his options.
As he reached the bar, the same barmaid looked over at him. As she placed a pint of lager on the bar, smiled and said, ‘Three quid handsome.’
‘Here you go,’ he replied handing the barmaid a ten pound note. Within seconds, the barmaid placed Greg’s change in his hand.
‘Thanks,’ he said turning away; trying to focus on where the chubby guy had gone. The barmaid was of no interest to him anymore; he needed to concentrate on his mission.
‘Ignoring me now?’ the barmaid asked.
‘Well, either you’re gonna give me your phone number or not. I’ve asked you for it but, listen sweetheart, I’m not gonna beg you for it!’ Greg replied, turning to face the barmaid as he spoke. His brash reply was deliberate, fully intending to put the barmaid off.
‘Here you go,’ The barmaid smiled, as she gave Greg a piece of paper. ‘Call me, and we’ll see what kind of a man you are between the sheets – bad boy or…?’
‘We’ll see,’ Greg smirked, snatching the piece of paper out of the barmaid’s hand, kissing the paper before slipping it into his back pocket.
‘We will,’ the barmaid replied as she walked away in order to serve the hordes of thirsty customers that lined the bar.
As Greg casually pushed his way through the bustling bodies that crowded the bar area, he noticed the chubby guy standing by a fruit machine. Unable to avert his gaze, eye contact was made. Greg decided not to look away and continued to look over at his intended quarry; the chubby guy did the same. A few seconds passed then, out of the blue, the chubby guy beckoned Greg to go over to him.
‘What does he want?’ Greg said under his breath, ‘Only one way to find out. Here goes.’
‘Sorry about what happened earlier, mate,’ the chubby guy said with a hint of nervousness, ‘over at the bar I mean.’
‘Forget about it,’ Greg replied, deciding that brushing the matter aside would be his best course of action.
‘Let me buy you a pint, just to show that there’s no hard feelings,’ Greg said, trying to break the ice.
‘Yeah, OK… I’ll have a pint of Fosters,’ the chubby guy replied.
Greg did not understand what was going on, though he thought it may pay dividends to play along.
As he made his way back from the bar, it started to make sense all of a sudden. The chubby guy was all mouth; when Greg told him that he could bet his life on bumping into Greg again, the chubby guy had lost his nerve and thought that he had better somehow make peace with Greg. That was why he had called Greg over – to offer an olive branch.
It was obvious to Greg that the chubby guy may try to befriend Greg which would save Greg a lot of time.
‘Are we cool now?’ the chubby guy asked. He questioned whether or not Greg had forgiven him for his foul-mouthed outburst.
‘Yeah, we’re cool.’ Greg liked his directness.
‘Thanks for the pint!’
‘That’s OK, mate. Let’s forget about earlier,’ Greg smiled encouraging further conversation.
‘My bird has been giving me a load of shit at home. Sorry if I took it out on you.’ The chubby guy seemed to be acting very humble, even if he was trying to pump his chest out.
‘Forget it. I’m Greg by the way. What’s your name?’
‘I’m Brian. Pleased to meet you Greg,’ Brian said, as he quietly breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Do you live locally?’ Greg asked, trying to continue the conversational flow.
‘Swiss Cottage. How about you?’ Brian replied. An uneasy pause had jolted him in mid-sentence.
‘Neasden,’ Greg replied, deciding that everything else he was going to tell Brian would be fabricated. ‘What do you do for work then?’ Greg asked deciding that he would play the old, question for a question game with Brian. Well, why not? He had to find out as much as he could, and if that meant spending a few hours with the guy, then so be it.
‘I sell cars. I’m a sales supervisor,’ Brian boasted. ‘I specialise in the used car market. I earn bucket-loads!’ Brian was in his element, his favourite subject: his job, his bullshit and himself. ‘I’m based at Wandsworth, my boss, who’s also my best mate – have you seen him in here with me before?’ Brian’s words racing out of his mouth, his grammar clumsy.
‘I don’t think so,’ Greg answered.
Greg knew it could have been the guy he had seen Brian talking to the last time Greg was in there, but he did not want to cut Brian short.
‘Well, he’s my gaffer. Anyway, he begged me to go over and wake those toss-pots up at the Wandsworth site, so I did! That was about a year ago now. I haven’t looked back. He wants to make me the sales manager over there but he reckons I’m too young, and he says that I need to mature my management skills first. See, I was crap at school and he gave me a job when I left school. I was out the front one Saturday morning, just giving a few of the motors a leathering, cos that’s what I did, I just kept the place clean and smart looking. Anyway, this mug walked up. I could tell he was a mug, just cos I can spot a mug punter a mile away! Anyway, right, I sold this right nail. This motor had come in on a part exchange, right. How the fuck was I supposed to
know? My gaffer was gonna scrap it. Honestly Greg, it was a right piece of shit. Anyway, right, this mug walked in and asked me about this motor, I told him it was shit hot, and if he wanted it he’d have to cough up five hundred quid! He looked at it for about three seconds and bought it. Can you believe that?’
‘You sound like you were born to sell motors, Brian!’ Greg knew that this story had bullshit written all over it. That did not matter, he was happy to listen. He just wondered how many times people had sat through this story thinking the same thing.
‘That’s what my gaffer said,’ Brian continued, ‘I had to carry on keeping the place looking smart, but Gaza, that’s my gaffers name, Gaza, anyway, Gaza said that I could do a bit of selling only on Saturdays only cos I wasn’t old enough to sell motors. I was just a kid back then.’ Brian paused to gulp down the rest of his pint in a truly gluttonous fashion. ‘You have to be over eighteen to sell motors you know. See, I was only sixteen so I just helped out in the selling side on Saturdays until I was eighteen. Then Gaza said even though I was shit hot, and born to sell motor’s, I had to go through all the training like the other lads had. I was training the bloke who was supposed to be training me!’ Brian laughed loudly, and then started to cough, ‘fucking fags!’ he cursed.
‘How old are you then?’ Greg thought he would try to move the conversation on.
‘Thirty, why? How old are you?’ Brian replied, sounding a little defensive.
‘I’m twenty-three,’ Greg openly answered. ‘You said your bird was giving you shit.’
‘Yeah, she’s still a fucking kid, only nineteen. You’re not long out of nappies yourself, are you?’ Brian said whilst sniggering to himself. He did not answer the question; it was as if he did not hear it. It was as though he switched off once he heard Greg’s age.
‘Thirty is still youngish though, mate.’ Greg needed to keep the conversation going. He had already pondered the idea of simply walking away but he knew that would have been far too easy as well as a mistake. ‘My turn now, do you want another pint Brian?’
The Ultimate Selection: Be Careful Who You Talk To Page 3
