by Mark Timlin
We stood in the foyer behind a twenty-foot-high sheet of plate glass that cut the volume level of the music and allowed some conversation, and looked into the disco room. That night it was empty except for two or three punters at the bar, the DJ, half a dozen waitresses wearing not much but their underwear, and a sad-looking geezer in a tuxedo. There wasn’t one table taken in the restaurant section, which had once been booked solid a fortnight in advance, and where you could watch a wall full of big-screen TVs showing the share and currency prices on all the world markets any time of night or day. As the Tokyo market opened, breakfast was served, and you could check the Nikkei Dow index and work out how much loot you’d made overnight as you dug into a kipper or bacon and eggs.
I thought I’d rarely been in a more depressing place in years. ‘Slow night,’ I said.
‘Every night’s the same.’
‘Why don’t they close down?’
‘You can’t just close a place like this.’
‘Why not?’
‘The boys wouldn’t appreciate it.’
‘What boys?’
‘The boys. The guys who opened this place as a laundry for dirty money.’
‘So you were serious. You reckon the people who own this building and this place are your drug barons we’ll be dealing with?’
‘Sure I do.’
‘And you come here?’
‘I’ve told you a dozen times, I like to know the territory. I come here a lot. I like it.’
‘So this is what a laundry looks like?’
‘Sure.’
‘I think maybe the washing machines broke down.’
‘You said it. But they insist that the good times are coming back. Listen, you go in the quiet bar.’ He pointed towards a set of smoked-glass double doors. ‘And I’ll fetch the boss and introduce you.’
‘Who does he think you are?’
‘Someone with a high disposable income.’
I did as he said, and pushed through the doors. Inside it was very quiet, and deserted except for a barman behind a chrome-covered bar, polishing a glass as if he was trying to wear it out.
‘Evening,’ I said as I entered.
‘Good evening, sir,’ he replied. ‘What can I get you?’
‘How about some excitement.’
‘We’re fresh out,’ he replied.
‘OK. A Tom Collins will do, then.’
He reached behind him for the bottle of gin, and I sat down at an ornate, leather-upholstered captain’s chair, and watched as he mixed the drink. Before he was finished, Brady came into the bar with the geezer in the tux. ‘Nick Sharman,’ he said. ‘This is Derek. He runs the place.’
‘Welcome, Mr Sharman,’ said Derek, and stuck out his mitten. I took it and we shook hands. ‘It’s always good to see friends of Mr Brady’s. Almost like old times.’ He looked round the empty room. ‘Christ, but it’s dead in here,’ he remarked. Then, to the barman, ‘Put some music on, Mikey. Liven the place up a bit. You could store bodies in here.’
‘It is supposed to be the quiet bar,’ said the barman petulantly.
‘But not the morgue. Put on some music. There’s a good boy.’
The barman shrugged and reached down and pushed some buttons, and Anita Baker’s voice oozed softly out of the speakers.
‘That’s better,’ said Derek. ‘Get me my usual, and…’ He turned to Brady. ‘What do you want, Mr Brady?’
‘Scotch,’ he replied.
‘A large scotch, and whatever Mr Sharman’s having. Stick them on my tab.’
‘Thanks,’ I said as the Tom Collins arrived. It was perfect. I felt it was up to me to say something. ‘Nice place.’ It was all I could think of.
‘Used to be,’ he said sadly. ‘Dead now.’
‘Things’ll get better,’ I ventured.
‘Are you serious? I keep the doors to the roof double-locked now, so many punters threatened to jump off. The city’s dead, my friend. And when the city’s dead, the country isn’t far behind.’
‘Leave it out, Derek,’ said Brady. ‘We’re supposed to be here to enjoy ourselves, not top ourselves. It’s Nick’s first time, so why don’t you show him the dance floor?’
‘What?’ I said, wondering why the hell I’d be interested.
‘Good idea,’ said Derek. ‘Come on, Mr Sharman. It’ll give you a kick, I promise.’
I shrugged. ‘OK,’ I said to Derek. ‘You coming?’ to Brady.
‘I’ve seen it. I’ll stay here with this drink and the nice barman.’
‘Sure,’ I said.
I followed Derek out of the quiet bar, over the smooth carpet, and into the club proper that was still shaking to the music. I suppose another two or three people had arrived since we’d come in. But not enough to make the place look even slightly busy. The TV screens still pumped out their columns of figures, but no one even pretended to be interested.
We walked across the empty space between the bar and the DJ’s booth, up a flight of four wide steps, and suddenly we were walking on thin air, or so it seemed. I was looking straight down forty storeys, and my stomach lurched. There seemed to be nothing between me and the street below. Derek grinned for the first time, and leant over and bellowed in my ear, ‘Six-inch-thick plexiglass. Clear as crystal. Strong as cement.’
The street that ran along the embankment below looked to be about half an inch wide, with its lamps like a string of fireflies. They followed the river, which resembled a piece of black mirrored glass, and on the opposite bank I could see blocks of offices and flats, and a vista of yellow light, neon and black shadows that reached to the hills of south London.
Derek beckoned me out of the disco. When we were back in the relative quiet behind the viewing window, and we could speak without shouting, he said, ‘Amazing, isn’t it? People take it differently. One or two have actually been physically sick. Others just freeze and have to be carried off. Some lie down and stay there for hours, with other people stepping over them. We found one geezer flat on his back in the road outside with a pair of bins, looking up the girls’ skirts. Apparently he’d been there every night for months, wanking himself silly during the slow songs.’
‘Weird,’ I said.
We walked back into the quiet bar. Brady was getting into the scotch. I sat down next to him and picked up my drink. ‘That’s incredible,’ I said.
‘I knew you’d like it. I remember the first time I saw it.’
‘The good old days,’ said Derek sadly. ‘But there’s not much happens anymore. We used to hire out the place to all sorts. Arabs, Germans, Colombians – you name it. We’ve had orgies in here. A thousand people groping, sucking, fucking. You’d never believe it. Dogs. Pigs – you name it. We even brought a donkey up in the lift once. Shat all over the place. Donkey shit don’t ’alf stink. I videotaped every one. Got them all in my office. For insurance, you know. You’d be amazed some of the people whose cocks and cunts I’ve got on film in there. One day I’m going to splice all the juiciest bits together and sell it. I’d make a fortune.’
‘If you live that long,’ said Brady.
‘One of the reasons I haven’t done it so far. We’ve got videos in the toilets, too. Now, that’s even more interesting. Funny how many people pick their noses when they’re taking a shit. And worse.’
I made a mental note to hold my water as long as possible.
‘Let’s have another round,’ said Brady, and the barman got to it. When we were served, Brady said, ‘You’ll have to excuse us, Derek. Business, you know.’
‘Of course, Mr Brady,’ said Derek. ‘I have to check the front of the house anyway, to make sure no one’s dying of excitement. I’ll see you gentlemen later.’
‘Later,’ said Brady, and Derek left us to our fresh drinks. ‘Let’s sit over there, Nick,’ said Brady, and we moved to a table in the cor
ner, furthest from the bar.
When we were comfortable, with cigarettes lit, he said, ‘The first buy is tomorrow night.’
‘Just as well I’m not working, then,’ I replied.
‘Just as well, or you’d have to be sick, wouldn’t you?’
I didn’t answer the question. We both knew the answer anyway. ‘Where?’ I asked instead.
‘I’ll let you know tomorrow when I bring the cash round.’
‘Aren’t you taking the secrecy aspect of this thing a little too far?’ I said.
‘Two guys died because they didn’t. I don’t want to be another… or you, for that matter,’ he said as an afterthought, which wasn’t exactly reassuring. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything. I’ll be at your place about ten with the dough. Be ready.’
‘Am I ever anything else?’
‘That’s my boy.’
‘You don’t think Hughes or Seeley will pull any stunts, do you?’ I asked.
‘Not this early in the game. Later, who knows?’ I didn’t like the way he said it. But then I didn’t like anything about the whole deal. He picked up my feelings. ‘Don’t worry, Nick,’ he went on. ‘Have a few drinks. Relax. Be like me.’
Anything I wanted less I couldn’t imagine.
27
The next night was the first time that Brady was late. I wondered if something had gone wrong, but I waited anyway. What choice did I have? By the time he arrived I was sick of waiting. Sick of everything that was happening. I was in two minds whether to just forget the whole thing and go out and get lost between the light and shadow of the London night. Disappear into the gaps where the real people don’t go. I would have liked just to vanish like a puff of smoke. But I knew I couldn’t. There was no place left for me. Endesleigh and his little crew had me exactly where they wanted me.
So I stayed.
Brady turned up just after ten-thirty. He seemed nervous and spaced out. So what was new?
I was watching out of the window again when he arrived, and I met him at the front door before he rang the bell. He was carrying a small, cheap-looking briefcase. We went upstairs together.
‘I take it that’s the money,’ I said when we were inside my flat, with the door closed firmly behind us.
‘You take it right.’
‘You had some problems getting it?’ I asked.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘You look a little mussed around the edges.’
‘I’ll survive.’
I hoped that I would, too. ‘Show,’ I said.
He put the case on the table, and opened it. It was full of cash in bundles held by elastic bands. The notes on top were wrinkled and used-looking. ‘Thirty-five grand?’ I said with a question mark attached.
He nodded.
‘It looks like more.’
‘Small denominations,’ he said. ‘The way they wanted it. You want to waste time counting it?’
I took his word for it. ‘No,’ I said. ‘What time’s the meet?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What does that mean? You must know.’
He didn’t answer.
‘Where is it?’
‘I don’t know that either.’
‘So what the fuck do you know?’
‘I know I’ve got to give you the money, and you go to Lambeth High Street. You know it?’
‘I know it. Down by the river, right?’
‘That’s the one. There are two phone boxes about halfway down. Wait by them, and you’ll be contacted.’
‘What happens if someone’s using them?’
‘Wait.’
‘If there’s a queue?’
‘Jump it.’
‘This is fucking Mickey Mouse, Brady, you know that?’ I said angrily. ‘Why can’t they just come round here, do the deal, and go home?’
‘That isn’t the way they want it.’
‘They’re setting me up. I fucking know it,’ I said. Or you are, I thought.
‘For that?’ he said, nodding scornfully at the briefcase on the table. ‘That’s nothing. Maybe next time, when the real money comes out. But not for thirty-five grand.’ He made it sound like a pittance.
‘I don’t like this,’ I said. ‘I don’t like this one little bit. Are you going to have me followed?’
He shrugged. ‘We’ll have to see how it goes.’
‘Meaning no.’
‘Meaning we’ll have to see how it goes.’
‘Jesus Christ! What you’re saying is I’m totally dispensable.’
‘You knew that already.’
Maybe I did, but it didn’t make me feel any better saying it out loud. ‘I’m not going to forget this,’ I said.
‘Whatever. Now, why don’t you get going. You’re supposed to be there at eleven-fifteen. It doesn’t give you much time.’
I looked at my watch. It didn’t. If there was a hold-up I wouldn’t make it at all. So I went.
‘I’ll be here when you get back,’ he said.
If I get back, I thought. ‘Make yourself at home,’ I said.
‘I intend to.’
I took the briefcase, went downstairs, put the case in the boot, got into the car, and headed towards Vauxhall, then north along Albert Embankment, and turned right into the High Street. I pushed the car all the way, and it took me a lot less time than it should to get there. Halfway along the street, I spotted a pair of phone boxes on the right-hand side, deserted, with their yellow lights beckoning like beacons. I drew up next to them, and got out of the car. I left the driver’s door open and the engine running. By my watch it was eleven-twelve. There was no one about, and the street was as deserted as an abandoned film set, and felt about as real. The card phone had an official BT sticker on the outside declaring that it was out of order. I lit a cigarette and waited. The card-phone phone rang dead on time. The sound echoed down the street like a death knell. I answered. I knew exactly who the bell tolled for. Me.
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Sharman?’ It wasn’t a voice I recognised.
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you alone?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Got the package?’
‘Yeah.’ Again.
‘There’s another phone box by the War Museum. In Lambeth Road, opposite the Churchill Clinic. Know it?’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘Get there now. You’ve got less than two minutes.’ And he hung up.
‘Shit,’ I said, dropped the receiver, and ran for the car. I slapped the stick into gear, peeled away from the kerb, shot down Lambeth High Street, did an illegal turn across Lambeth Road, cutting up a van as I went – and getting an angry blast from its horn for my troubles. I stayed in second and felt the G-force as the car hit sixty-five in the bus lane. I jumped the amber traffic light at the junction with Kennington Road, and pulled up opposite the telephone box and jumped out of the car. I heard the phone start ringing as I ran across the street. A passing pedestrian stopped beside the box, undecided whether to answer or not, and I shouldered him out of the way with a ‘Sorry’. I picked up the receiver. ‘Sharman,’ I said.
‘That was very good.’ It was the same voice again. ‘Do you know Cleaver Street?’
‘Sure.’
‘That’s your next stop.’
‘Another box?’ I asked. I was beginning to get tired.
‘No. Go there, and turn right into Bowden Street. There’s an old electronics factory on your left. You can’t miss it. There’s a For Sale sign outside. Go round the side. The fire door’s open. Bring the cash. And be alone. We’re watching you.’ And he hung up again.
28
I drove round the block, and back down the Kennington Road to Cleaver Street. It was just by the Cross, at the back of the wine bar wher
e Brady and I had met Seeley and Hughes and Jools.
It was like going home.
I found the old factory with no trouble, parked the car, got the case and went in. The fire-door was just where the voice on the telephone had said it would be. And open, too. I walked inside. A very dim light lit the FIRE EXIT sign above my head. I stopped and listened. It was an old building with thick walls. Nothing.
In front of me was a flight of stone steps leading upwards. I took them. At the top was another fire door. I pushed it open.
Inside was a big room. Empty except for the detritus of a factory that had shut down. A few wooden benches, tables, rubbish on the floor, yellowing page-three pin-ups on the walls. The usual. But with a big plus. Seeley and Hughes, and another face I didn’t know, presumably the mystery voice on the phone, were standing in the faint light from three more FIRE EXIT signs, waiting for me. The stranger was another thickset, hard-looking bastard in an expensive brown leather jacket, a roll-neck jumper, chinos and desert boots.
‘Welcome,’ said Seeley, like it was a marquee at Ascot.
‘Hello, Roy,’ I said. ‘Pat. Who’s your friend?’
The face said nothing. Nor did they. Another need-to-know scenario. And once again, obviously, I didn’t. I let it go.
‘Got the readies?’ asked Hughes.
I held up the case.
‘Let’s have it.’
‘Can I see the goods?’ I asked.
There was another case on one of the benches. Better quality, by the looks of it, than the one Brady had given me. Free enterprise, see. Hughes opened it. Inside was a single, cloudy plastic package of white powder, about the same size as a bag of sugar. I picked it up and hefted it. Felt about right, weightwise. I put my case next to it. Hughes opened it. He picked up one of the packets of cash and riffled the notes.
‘We’ll have to count it,’ he said almost apologetically.
‘Be my guest. I’ll need to check the merchandise.’
‘Carry on,’ he said.
All three set to work on the bundles. Brady had made it easy. There were thirty-five. It took them just minutes.
