“Ah, nothing.”, the reply, “You gave me something to eat, I gave you a gift back. We’re even. Glad it worked out.”
At least, that was the gist of what was said, to the best of Philian’s ability to interpret it. As he listened to Nathan talk, he looked more closely at the features that slowly emerged from the blanket. The face was dirty but the eyes were surprisingly bright. The teeth were clearly in need of some attention, but the greying beard appeared to have been trimmed recently. The hands, like the face, were filthy, but the nails were cut smoothly and had little dirt underneath them. Whoever and whatever Nathan was, he was certainly a man of contrasts.
Being mid-afternoon, the half-bottle of whisky didn’t take too long to be emptied. Philian had gone on benders before, but had never understood how anyone could down spirits before lunch. Mid-afternoon was early for him but then again, this was still Winter and if you needed to escape, you needed to be out of it before the daylight disappeared. He wondered whether buying an alcoholic a bottle of booze was appropriate. He was one of those people who would rarely notice anyone panhandling on the streets but who, when he did, would either avoid them or make it clear to them that he was not going to give them money. They’d only use it on drugs. Not the most sophisticated of arguments, he knew, but it justified his walking by. Now, thinking about the bottle he’d bought, he understood a little better. Nathan would get the drink one way or another, so him buying it as a present wasn’t an issue. Those drug addicts he’d tried to preach to would have got their fix one way or another. That was the flip-side to the argument. His denying the cash for drugs translated to a moral righteousness for him, but for the addict it translated to another blow-job given to a stranger in a dirty alleyway somewhere.
After twenty minutes, during which time Philian had learnt that the man was called Nathan and that he wasn’t homeless as such, as he lived in a squat about a mile away. He’d learnt that he had a serious alcohol dependency (not by confession but by his witnessing the amount consumed), and he also learnt that prison was involved in things somewhere. This latter fact was revealed to him when Nathan pulled up a sleeve to show a crudely tattooed forearm with several prison names scrawled on and a number of prison numbers.
“Never forgot.”, Nathan slurred, “They didn’t like me doing it. Might cause an infection. But I had to. Didn’t want to forget where I was and when, and I don’t want to forget now.”
He took another long drink and rubbed the tattoos before continuing.
“You see, you can blame me. That’s fine. I don’t want any sympathy. But these are a reminder. These people didn’t help. They gave me a number, they fed me, housed me, then they just let me go. One day, I’ll show you the other arm.”
That last comment was accompanied by a cackling laugh that soon turned into a hacking and rasping cough that was only eased a little when Philian lit a cigarette for Nathan and passed it to him. When he’d done that, he could tell that the faraway look in Nathan’s eyes was one that effectively ended their conversation. He patted him gently on the shoulder, a gesture that was extraordinarily alien to a non-touchy-feely person like Philian, and, picking up his briefcase, walked slowly away.
Looking back, he gazed at the steamy breath coming from the hidden den beside the flowerbeds and then up at the towering office block that was gradually lighting itself as the dusk began to fall. He wondered at the difference between the two worlds A difference not as separate as he’d once believed, given what had happened when those two worlds had collided last night and banked a millionaire another wad of money. And he thought about his place in the whole thing. Somehow, a few snacks and a few drinks had built a bridge between those two worlds. Monday may have been a rough day, but the week had turned out all right in the end.
Chapter Four
Six months after his brush with unemployment, Philian Gregory’s fortunes had changed immeasurably and very much for the better. He now sat in the top ten of the LMBA performance league and the most tangible reflection of this was the money that he had accrued in his bank account. Despite what many believed about successful city traders, the reality was a little less fantastical. Philian was debt-free, had been able to replace the numerous trinkets and baubles that had gone with Amanda, and each month’s salary and bonus payment delivered a surplus to his living expenses.
Bob Dexter had also come through with his pledge to help Philian if he’d ever needed it. As a wealthy entrepreneur, turned property developer, he’d welcomed the opportunity to install a tenant into a half-completed apartment block that he was renovating. Aside from the rental income that this yielded, somewhat below the market rate as the block was only half-finished, the presence of Philian as a permanent inhabitant meant that there was a reduction in the insurance that Dexter had to pay. It was noisy at times. Drills, builder’s radios, hammering, builder’s banter and numerous assorted construction-related sounds rattled through the building into the early evenings and sometimes at weekends. But Philian wasn’t there so much that he suffered for these interruptions. In fact, the solitude of being alone in the block when the workmen were absent more than made up for the times that they were there.
As for his social life, it was quieter than ever. A replacement for Amanda wasn’t a top priority, nor was the need to fill every hour with human contact. Contact that Philian now understood to be far removed from true friendship. Contact that was broken as easily as it was made. No, these were times when human company could be found in the very fabric of city life, in the pubs and the cinemas and the theatres that he attended. It was enough to allay any isolation that he might feel but not so much that he didn’t have time for himself. The hours he worked remained long. There were always other people to interact with in the office, but when he wasn’t there, he enjoyed the new-found freedom of simply having time with himself. Of course, he still spent time with Nathan.
At least once a week, occasionally every day, the delivery of food, drink and other essential supplies to Nathan yielded a stock market tip that Philian could work with. He realised early on in this bizarre relationship that the complexities of the factors that influenced share prices could never be something that one person could ever fully understand. Nathan was no mystical guru with a paranormal gift for seeing into the future. Even so, he remained incredibly astute in his predictions and the balance was very much in Philian’s favour. Alongside the undeserved gifts that he received from Nathan, Philian resolved to hone his own skills and renew that passion that had first led him to success. He would never be as good as the ravaged alcoholic, but he could see opportunities enough to content himself that his success wasn’t all due to another’s skills. That said, he never underestimated how important Nathan was to him. For that reason, he kept aside a certain percentage of his gains in a separate bank account, waiting until the pot was big enough before using it to help his helper.
By the first week of August, that separate account had a healthy enough balance to prompt Philian into action. It was never going to be easy. Despite the amount of time that they’d spent together, the substance of their conversations had remained fairly bland, to the extent that Nathan still remained very much a mystery. His surname was never mentioned, his exact whereabouts on leaving the plaza was never determined and there had certainly been very little to tell Philian any more about the circumstances that had placed Nathan in the position he was in. Wanting to help his enigmatic new benefactor some more, Philian resolved to answer some of these questions. There were practical reasons why he needed to build a more comprehensive profile of this man he called his friend. And there were moral ones too. Nathan had helped Philian to start again and rebuild his life. Didn’t he, in turn, owe that to Nathan? This was an inevitable path for Philian to take. It was a path that he had planned only cursorily but which was becoming more of a priority. With July disappearing and leaving in its wake, the start of a mini-heatwave, Philian decided to take a few days off work and begin to lay
out that path. This would prove to be a decision with life-changing consequences for both men. At the time, neither knew just how life-changing those consequences would be.
******
That same August heatwave greeted the three men who were dispensed from the English prison system over a two-week period in locations as diverse as Leeds, Liverpool and Devon. They’d been sentenced together for crimes that they had committed together and each for the same twenty-year period. Their crimes were not the sort that garnered any public sympathy, nor were they of the nature that the prison authorities felt compelled to be supportive about. That was how, despite their being located in very different facilities, they had ended up serving the full term of their sentences, give or take the odd day or so of benevolently given remission or maliciously added penalty. They hadn’t been allowed to keep in touch over those long years of isolation and abuse, however, the prison grapevine was robust enough to offer them an understanding of their joint release dates and the locations where they were likely to be housed. Besides which, they knew instinctively that their twenty-year sentence would mean just that. They were resigned to it and had each marked off the days in their own preferred way. It was all about waiting. And it was all about keeping as sane as possible throughout that waiting period, pretending as much remorse as was necessary, whilst feeding the desire for vengeance that would see them through their incarceration.
Paul Roberts, the youngest of the trio, had completed an Open University Bachelor’s degree, which he’d followed up with a Masters. He’d chosen sociology as being the easiest option for someone with a limited educational background, however, he’d been pleasantly surprised to find that it wasn’t necessarily a soft option, and there was an awful lot in it to keep him stimulated. Jeremy Sutherland, the oldest of the three, had chosen to take up music. It had been difficult to earn the privilege of any sort of musical instrument but he’d persevered and had been allowed a guitar at the end of his second year. Tony Wilkins, middle in both age and rank, was the third of the group that had once named itself ‘The Three Hombres’. He’d chosen reading as his way of passing the years. Reading that he had developed into writing. Some of it was pretty good. In fact, it was eminently publishable. It would forever remain on the rejected pile though, as no publisher would taint their name with his.
Three men, three friends and three displacement activities that had seen them through twenty years of prison. Although different, those activities each reflected the solitary nature of their prison life. Which, in turn, reflected the unspeakably heinous crime of which they had been found guilty. They were paedophiles and they were child-killers. Singularly, categories not looked on favourably by other inmates. Taken together, pretty much a death sentence. The fact that they had secured a fixed-term sentence and the reason that they had survived throughout the term was nothing short of miraculous until you understood that they had certain ‘protections’ that surrounded them. The judge had faced the onslaught of public opinion and weathered the storm for two reasons. Firstly, he and those who heard the appeals, accepted the plea of manslaughter that they proffered as they had only intended to rape and sexually abuse the seven-year-old girl they had abducted. Her death had been an unintended consequence. Secondly, there was certain information that The Three Hombres held which he didn’t want releasing into the public domain. For the same reasons, a number of high-profile individuals had also resisted the call to demand a heavier sentence. Not only had the information that they held given them a chance of life after prison, it had also ensured that they suffered less than others as they had each agreed that, on death, all bets were off and their solicitors would be free to release certain documents.
There was a third factor that had played a part. It had to do with the nature of their capture and the treatment they endured prior to being handed over to the police. The girl’s father had caught them. To do so, he had infiltrated their clique and suffered the worst agonies as he’d smiled and cheered through the images of filth, degradation and evil that he had encountered. On being certain of their guilt, he had neutralised the threat that they posed. Carefully, scientifically and antiseptically he had removed their male organs, grafted a medical-grade catheter into each of them, closed and stitched the wounds then deposited them at his local police station. He didn’t just leave them on the doorstep. He carried them in individually from his car, explained to the officer on duty what he was doing and then sat through hours of interrogation as he proffered the evidence that he had gathered against them. To have killed them, he’d explained, would have been to have made it too easy for them. This way, he’d achieved his piece of vengeance and the law could now take over.
To many, that father became a hero. He was praised not only for his action but for given himself up and being prepared to accept the sentence that his crime must carry. To a few, he was a thorn in the side. Not only had he embarrassed the authorities by catching the offenders, but he had also put them in a challenging position. The public called for his release, the criminal justice system demanded his incarceration. Fortunately, he pled guilty. Numerous bodies were consulted prior to the sentencing and a suitable term of ten years was agreed. The father felt this to be a bit on the heavy side, but he accepted it. And he, like the three released during that August heatwave, had survived and was now a free man.
Unlike the others, he’d suffered many difficulties during his sentence. Certain people found certain other people to make his life hell. When he wasn’t enjoying the peace and quiet of solitary confinement, he was usually suffering the beatings and the buggeries that he knew he couldn’t escape. He never fought back though. His days of vengeance had been short and had cleansed him of the desire for revenge. Through it all, hard as it was, he continued to whisper forgiveness.
The nature of their crimes saw Roberts, Sutherland and Wilkins on conditional release only and confined to halfway houses for the first month of their freedom. After twenty years, this was little hardship and came with the benefit of allowing them to become accustomed to the technological advances that they had only heard about whilst incarcerated. They weren’t allowed to enjoy it all of course. Not officially anyway. Their phones were monitored, their web access secured behind a portal originally designed for primary school children, and their movements were restricted by the tags that they wore. All inconveniences, yes, but all of them short-term and therefore bearable. They had agreed a date and a location when they had last been together. Despite the multiple factors that threatened to impede them in making that date, they kept it firmly in their minds. If necessary, they’d make contact with those who would feel compelled to help them. There were enough of them, and all of them placed in positions that might be beneficial. However, there was a certain code of honour that they wanted to stick to and they were happy to have taken the rap and paid the price with their freedom, provided the other parties had done their bit and secured new identities and a substantial cash injection to help them start their new life.
With the Summer giving way to Autumn, any fears that they had rapidly diminished as they stood together for the first time on the platform of a barely-recognisable Euston Station. The choice of this location was no accident; their settlement gifts were stowed in nondescript bags that they would collect later from the lost property department. Each treasured the ticket that they had received. Euston also provided them with an opportunity to mingle amongst anonymous crowds, protected to some degree by the organised chaos of the place and the self-interest of travellers focused only on making their next connection.
It had taken them a few minutes to get together. Twenty years added a lot of changes to features and they certainly didn’t want to approach the wrong people. The biggest changes had fallen on Sutherland. At seventy-two, he was now an old man, gaunt, sallow-skinned and needing a cane to help him walk. He stood alone and watched the other two as they cautiously approached each other and shook hands. Wilkins was heavier than Roberts had remem
bered him to be, but recognisable nonetheless.
“Tony?”, he held out his hand tentatively as he approached his fellow Hombre.
“Paul.”, the reply was surprisingly soft, weary even, “It’s good to see you, after so long. I know it sounds lame but, how are you?”
“I’m fine. As fine as can be expected anyway. That was a long stint. You okay?”
“Surprisingly, yes. Funny how quickly you forget the prison walls.”
They stood awkwardly looking around. Neither recognised Sutherland as he limped towards them.
“Gentlemen.”, he closed in on them, “Please forgive my holding back. I’m hoping that you can at least recognise some of the old person in me.”
“Jeremy?”, Wilkins offered his hand, “I must confess, we weren’t sure. March of time and all that, I suppose.”
“More so for me, I believe.”, Sutherland’s voice was accompanied by a wheezing from his chest, “And I never was the healthiest of us. I should have kicked the fags into touch, but hey, you know how it is. It was always going to be tomorrow. Now, I guess I’m on borrowed time anyway. I’ve banked my three-score and then some, so, can’t complain. Come on, let’s grab a coffee.”
The trio walked slowly through the concourse, taking in the sights and sounds of a world that had evolved over the past two decades and which was so much the same, but also altered in so many ways. An observer would have pegged them as mismatched tourists on a day out. The chance of anybody remembering or recognising the three most evil men in Britain, jailed so long ago, was slim. Still, they kept their heads down and only relaxed when they were seated in a booth in one of the many refreshment franchises.
“It’s little things like that.”, Roberts smiled as he bought the tray of drinks over, “That’s what so hard to get used to. It used to be coffee, black or white. Now, it’s all cappuccino, mocha, latte and the like. I just got regular coffees for us. Hope that’s okay?”
Philian Gregory Page 4
