Mr. Suit

by Nigel Bird

  To make the most of their location, Liza took Archie for walks, window shopping in the boutiques and antique shops or stopping for drinks on the terraces of cafes where the price of a coffee didn’t allow for much change from a note.

  Wherever they happened to be, Charlie Suit phoned on the hour. He hadn’t left a single message and that, somehow, made the calls hugely intimidating.

  Because Little Venice was such a popular area, Liza felt increasingly exposed. She decided it was time to head north. To Birmingham. For better or for worse.

  She set off with no regrets, eyes fixed on the future and the two-hundred or so locks she was going to have to get through without any help from a soul.

  Fate seemed to turn against them from the off. They got stuck straight away behind one of the party boats hired out for some corporate entertainment or other, which plodded on in front of them like it was still being pulled by a horse. Liza watched impatiently, the men in their casual smarts and the ladies in the finest cocktail dresses with cardigans to cover the goose-bumps. The boat was like the swimming swan, all grace above and all madness below. Liza tried to keep herself calm about the snail’s pace by watching the chefs and waitresses graft away like they were in a movie on fast play, but her jaws were tightening and her language was getting bluer by the minute.

  The party boat eventually stopped to moor up at a pub, employing the sensible strategy that boat-owners use to make sure the toilets aren’t overfilled by heavy-drinking guests.

  Liza broke protocol when Wol overtook. She rammed the throttle to full and made sure the wash she created was as large as she could make it.

  The pleasure-craft rocked and bobbed when the waves hit and Liza cheered when glasses and bottles slid from the tables to the floor. She gave a two-fingered salute to the cabin staff who shouted after her.

  An hour later, they reached the supermarket on the waterside. She set about pulling in to the bank. Arriving at the shops like this was one of Liza’s favourite parts of the canal experience. Only in London, she suspected, could such a thing happen.

  Mooring up wasn’t an easy thing, however. Hadn’t been since Archie’s accident.

  In the good old days, Archie took control and Liza acted only as the glamorous assistant.

  Now everything was up to her.

  Before setting off anywhere, she needed to lay the rope from the bow along the roof so that she could take it when she jumped to land.

  As she came close to the bank, she pointed the bow at the wall. The front fender made contact and she put the throttle in to full reverse and pulled the rudder hard starboard to allow the bow to move into position.

  She took the ropes from bow and stern, jumped to the bank and pulled as hard as she could. Owning a steel boat might have made it strong, but it was a bugger to manoeuvre.

  Eventually she had things under control.

  Wol was tied up in minutes and Liza checked her hands - not a broken nail in sight.

  A small crowd gathered to check things out as she pushed Archie up the ramp, off the boat and went inside to buy food and gin for the rest of the journey.

  The phone rang when they were in the wines-and-beers aisle. If it had been 2 o’clock she’d have ignored it, but it was twenty-past and that didn’t fit the Suits Martin pattern.

  On the screen, the name ‘Greg’ flashed while the speaker pumped out a tinny Spice Girls’ tune. It needed answering.

  “Jesus Mum, where the hell are you?” It was typical Greg. Not a hello or a how are you or anything.

  “That’s for me to know.” Greg might be a slow learner, but he’d remember to use his manners one day if she had anything to do with it.

  “Christ almighty. What kind of shit are you pulling?” He was speaking quickly. Troubled. Anxious.

  “Deep breaths, son. You’re spit’s wetting my face.”

  “It’s Mr Suit. He’s just been on the blower. Suits Martin, for God’s sake.”

  Liza wasn’t sure she liked the way things were going. And the concern in Greg’s voice seemed justified all of a sudden. “What was he wanting?”

  “Wanting? Are you serious? He’s wanting you Mum. Revenge, he said. An eye for an eye. Holy crap. Suits Martin, you stupid cow.”

  If he’d been there in person, Liza would have given him a slap for that. Either that or a knee in the bollocks.

  “I didn’t mean...”

  “Well you’ve got us well and truly up to our eyeballs this time. He’s got Miriam. All of her for the minute. If you’ve not turned up at his place by noon tomorrow he’ll have all of her minus her left thumb. And he’ll have less of her every time twelve hours has passed and you haven’t shown.”

  It was her turn to speak, but there were no words for her to use. She dropped her head onto a shelf next to the Newcastle Brown Ale bottles and felt the cool of the metal. And then her arm moved out of some kind of reflex. Like it was throwing a punch. It swept through the bottles and knocked them over like skittles, those that fell to the floor smashing and filling the air with musical notes and the smell of yeasty beer.

  Archie’s eyes were blinking like the clappers.

  “Mum? You all right Mum?”

  A brilliantly stupid question.

  The words came this time. “I’ll be at the Assembly House at 4.” And by then she’d have a plan to sort this whole mess out. She was convinced of it.

  Chapter 9

  The Assembly House. Kentish Town noir.

  Greg was nursing a pint of Guinness over by the Jukebox, his leg bouncing up and down the way it did when he was nervous or on speed. He was in his blue Adidas tracksuit with the trainers to match. Looked like he was in between football games.

  Liza didn’t waste any time in joining him. Put her bag on the floor. Reached over and kissed him on the cheek. Couldn’t resist messing up the tiny spikes of his gelled hair.

  “Mum! For heaven’s sake.” His tone was laden with the intonations of a five-year-old.

  “You’re a handsome fella, sure you are.” The pub brought out the Irish in her, her Dublin blood moving faster than the Kilburn stuff. “Mine’s a pint.”

  Greg held up his glass until the barman noticed. Held up 2 fingers like he was offering the sign of peace.

  Patrick O’Leary wandered by, banging Liza’s back as he went. “Sorry love,” he muttered through the matted, grey fuzz of his beard. “Sorry. Just need some music.”

  “No bother, Patrick. Help yourself.”

  Liza felt a maternal glow inside her chest. Wanted to take Patrick home and give him a wash. Maybe get rid of that old coat of his and get him a new pair of jeans. The poor fellow stank of piss as he rocked back and forward trying to focus on the choices. And to think he’d been the man back in the day. One of the roadies for The Pogues. An original and not just one of the sheep.

  He dropped some coins into the slot. They chinked with the kerching of money meeting money when they landed.

  “Josef bloody Locke,” Greg said when the music filled the air.

  “It’s one of your dad’s favourites.”

  “Hear My bloody Song. Speaking of Dad, where is the old sod.”

  The barman placed two pints right in the middle of a couple of beer-mats on the table and walked away without speaking. “Thanks,” Liza told him, then admired the three loops of the shamrock that decorated the creamy foam at the top of the glasses. Life, she thought, was a lot like a pint of Guinness – full of darkness and with a little froth to keep you interested. “He’s on the boat. Tell me, has there been any word from Mr Suit?”

  “He’s said all he needs to say. Noon tomorrow remember?” He looked at his watch, a heavy diver’s watch that could still tell the time if he happened to be 50 metres under water, not that he could swim – even taking a paddle made him nervous. “That’s twenty hours in case you haven’t counted. Less than a day.”

  “I know how many hours there are, son, don’t think I don’t.” Patrick O’Leary swayed to the music, spilling their Guinnes
s on to their beer mats. Liza’s maternal feelings towards him had disappeared, replaced by irritation at the wafts of urine that kept clouding around her face. “Now off you toddle, Patrick, and get yourself a drink on me.”

  O’Leary tugged a greasy forelock and stumbled to the bar.

  “And the plan?” Greg asked. That was the thing with Greg. Always needed bailing out. Now if the secateurs had been on his thumb, if it was Jenny in the pub and Greg they were chatting about, the maps would have already been on the table.

  “You still have that bag your father gave you to look after when you left home?” She took a sip of her drink to lubricate her throat.

  “The suitcase with the lock on it?”

  “That’s the one.” And took another drink.

  “Nah. Left it behind in the cellar of the old flat. Wasn’t like we’d be taking it on holiday or anything.”

  Liza snorted into the glass. Sent the shamrock and the froth across the table and all over Greg’s tracksuit top.

  Greg rose up, cheeks flushing, ready to tell her what he thought of that.

  He fell right back into his chair when Liza’s palm flew into his cheek. “You what? You left the bag? Your father told you to keep it safe in case of emergencies.”

  “I figured that him not being able to speak or walk or wipe his own arse was emergency enough. What the hell would he be needing it for?

  “His guns, Greg. His bloody guns.”

  Chapter 10

  Greg drove his VW Golf up the hill to Highgate. Needed the radio turned up loud to stop his mum from rabbiting on and causing him to lose concentration. If they crashed, he’d be done for being over the alcohol limit and off the amphetamine scale.

  At Jackson’s lane he took a right turn and headed to his old parking space behind the flats.

  When he’d moved in with his mates, they thought they’d made the big time. A ground floor place with a patio out the back and not a parent in sight to tell them how to live their lives. Six months of take-away food, beer and women made the Archway Road seem like paradise.

  Shame that Sid and Rod were sent down for setting off fires in the cemetery in a protest against capitalism. Almost singed Karl Marx’s beard, they did. It was the CCTV that put them in the frame for the job and the petrol cans and the stink of their clothes that saw to the rest.

  Greg couldn’t afford the flat without them and had to move out. Ended up in a flea-pit of a bedsit that was more in keeping with his student life at the lowly institution of the University Of North London.

  Pulling up at the old flat, it was like nothing had changed since he’d gone. Just like when he’d lived there, he had to parallel-park into the space between the old camper van and the convertible Audi, and just like the old days, there were only six inches to spare between his bumpers and theirs’.

  “Jesus,” Liza shouted when he turned the radio off. “Could you not have picked out a decent station for your ma, now? Something with a little bit of fun to it?”

  Greg ignored the question. He got himself out of the car and went over to open the passenger door.

  “You got the keys?” his mum asked as she got out.

  Greg nodded before setting off for the back gate. He hadn’t known why he’d kept a set at the time. Now it was as if it was meant to be. “Sure, it was meant to be,” his mum said as they walked into the backyard and strolled casually to the door.

  The key still fitted, thank goodness, and one simple turn of the lock and it was done.

  They entered the kitchen at the back of the flat. It was so clean that Greg hardly recognised it. The surfaces were uncluttered and there wasn’t a chip-wrapper or an oily tin in sight. Pervading the place was the faint odour of joss sticks.

  All was quite. Nothing to worry about. The occupants were probably out at work.

  “Bloody hippies,” Greg said when he saw the assorted ornamental Buddha’s sitting cross-legged about the sitting room. “They haven’t even got a bloody telly.”

  “Now, now son. I’ll put the kettle on while you do the business. Make a nice cuppa to calm your nerves.”

  Greg turned his back on her and mouthed a couple of swear-words. He went straight through to the hallway and stopped between the two doors. Couldn’t resist looking in at his old room, so he opened the one on his right and poked his head in.

  It was pink now. Pink walls and pink everything to match. There were posters from Strictly Come Dancing, boxes of dolls and neatly arranged shelves full of books. He felt a strong urge to take a dump on the bed just to spoil the atmosphere, but he’d only just taken a crap in the pub. Besides, he had other things to be getting on with.

  He closed the door behind him and went over to the other one.

  The handle needed to be turned anti-clockwise, same as always, and when he opened this one he was greeted by the smell of dust and damp.

  There was a tight turn to be negotiated as he went down the steps, but he’d no problem managing it. When he’d lived there, he’d pop down every time Sid or Rod had a girl in their room, then he’d press his ear to a glass that he pushed up to the floorboards. Never really heard much other than the plumbing and the traffic unless they had a screamer in. He hadn’t felt bad about eavesdropping - Sid did exactly the same when it was him doing the shagging.

  The cellar hadn’t changed much. Still had the platform on the right, like someone had built it for an underground gig or something. The pair of wooden clogs they’d inherited was still there in the middle, hogging the limelight as they’d always done. Pillars of red brick filled the other side of the room, thick with cobwebs and dust and crops of white mould in the corners.

  Slotted in between the pillars at the far end was the suitcase Greg had left. He wasted no time in going over and pulling it from between the old rugs and sheets that were supposed to hide it and let the bag drop to the floor.

  The relief he’d felt on spotting the case was soon replaced by a tightening of the shoulders and an inability to breathe. Sure, it was the same case – same colour, same size and same scratches – only this case didn’t have the padlock on the handles locking it shut that Archie had put on for safety’s sake.

  Greg clicked open the clasps and lifted the lid.

  Nothing.

  There was nothing.

  His mum was going to kill him.

  “These what you’re looking for?” The voice was a boy’s, all cocky and unbroken.

  Greg turned round to see a kid in his dressing gown and slippers, a mop of blond hair in some kind of fringe that angled across his face so that he could only have seen from one eye. His arms were stretched out and pointed in Greg’s direction and in each hand he was holding a gun.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Greg told him as he put his hands in the air in a gesture he hoped looked like surrender.

  “These guns, prick-eater.”

  “What would I be wanting with a couple of toys like that?”

  The boy laughed, all confident about what he was doing. Flicked his head so that his fringe revealed his other eye for a moment. He was a cocky sod, this one.

  “Want me to play with them for you, prick-brain? Show you what the toys can do?”

  The lad lifted his arms higher. Looked like someone in a cowboy film, dressing gown and slippers aside. Things suddenly seemed serious. Greg thought about appealing to the kid’s Buddhist nature – ‘all is sorrow’ and all that crap – and felt a movement in his bowels that meant taking a crap on the pink bed was no longer out of the question. He held up his hands a little higher.

  “You don’t need to do that. I know what they can do.”

  “And you’ll also know that they’ve just changed the laws on how far someone can go to defend themselves from an intruder in their home, prick-breath. How you can shoot a robber and get away with it.”

  Christ. It was time to go with the religious shit. “And what would your Buddha think about that then, eh?”

  At that moment, Greg saw his mum stepping into
the cellar in a pair of socks that were covered in roses. She made her way down and then looked over. When she appeared in full, Greg realised that she was carrying two mugs of tea.

  Greg’s eyes must have moved because the boy stiffened. “Think I’m going to fall for that ‘he’s behind yer’ crap? It’s the oldest trick in the book. You must think I was born yesterday.”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Liza flung the hot tea over the boy’s head. The boy’s hair had hardly been soaked when she threw the cups at him. One of them whizzed past him and smashed in the far corner, the other was a direct hit to the back of his skull.

  The boy flinched. Lifted his arms in the air. Accidentally squeezed the trigger of one of the guns. Sent a bullet screeching in Greg’s direction. Took a tiny hole out of Greg’s lobe and sent him hopping around the room in agony.

  Liza didn’t waste any time. She was on the boy and slapping him about the head and body like she was swatting at an angry wasp. “For the love of God, Greg, will you not do something to help me here?”

  Greg let go of his ear and stopped dancing on the spot. He went over, grabbed the guns and pointed them at the boy.

  “Freeze prick-tease, or you’ll be joining the Buddha before nature intended.”

  Everything was under control again.

  At that point, a teenage girl entered the cellar and screamed.

  She had long, straight black hair that had a bluish tinge to it. Her eye-makeup was heavy and her ears were pierced more times than a teabag. All she wore was a Spiderman pyjama top, one that came down just enough to cover her pride.

  “You naughty boy,” Greg said, patting the lad on the head, and putting the guns onto the floor.

  Greg reached into his pocket and took out the Stanley knife he carried in case of emergencies. He slid out the blade with one hand and took the mop of the boy’s fringe in the other. He chopped at the hair with rough abandon then held the scalp in the air like it was the FA Cup.

  The girl in the doorway screamed louder.

  “Time to go, Ma,” Greg said and he put the guns in the bag where they belonged.