Red Mist

by Jan Swick

  At the end he was talking so fast he hardly made sense. Neither Daz nor Lisa knew what to say other than to agree that it was probably the best course of action. But the look they gave each other was worrying. Go through with the job? Pay the Watchdogs to perform for them?

  They were driving away from the casino, Daz and Lisa up front, Matt alone in the back. Matt stared out of the window with a slight smile on his face. He had worn the same look ever since they left the building, but he hadn’t spoken until they were in the car. It was the look of a man at peace with developments.

  “You sure?” Daz said, eyeing him in the sun visor's mirror. "A car chase across London? For real? A police chase?"

  The confidence in Matt’s smile was also in his eyes as he returned Daz’s look. Yes, he was sure, Daz realised. And this was Matt’s event, so how could they argue against his plan?

  “Okay, Daz said. “So we wait. And we do it. But they want a hundred and fifty grand, Matt."

  He knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment the words left his mouth. Did he really expect Matt to give up because of the cost?

  "Pay you back," Matt said. "It's on, it's fucking on."

  Again he and Lisa exchanged a look. It was pure worry.

  The next day Daz got a message from an unknown number. Puzzling. It gave simply a postcode and said NOW. The postcode was in Surrey. Thirty odd miles away.

  Daz and Matt drove there. The location turned out to be a former airfield now called Longcross Proving Ground. It was a race track, one of those places where you could get a day’s insurance to drive a fast car around. The place was busy with drivers who’d probably gotten a gift experience for their birthday. Matt drove in and was stopped immediately by a guy in a tracksuit. He looked like nothing more than a janitor, but they expected to be asked for some kind of membership card or voucher proving they were allowed access here today, Instead, he directed them to House 13. Seemed to know exactly who they were.

  One of Orbach’s men, no doubt. Matt committed his face to memory, just in case he had to find the guy later.

  The Houses were actually a row of garages in a long building backgrounded by woodland. Some were shut, but many were open. Cars were pulling in, their time here done, while others were exiting and joining the racers on the track. The vehicles were mostly fast breeds like Porsche and Ferrari, but there were a few whose drivers either couldn’t afford to buy such models or hire from the track’s own pool of supercars, or maybe they were guys who simply liked the idea of bombing their own repmobiles around. Men in oily coveralls milled around and girls sauntered about, maybe seeking someone rich and single.

  House 13 was in the middle, and when they pulled up outside the door immediately rumbled open. Another guy in a tracksuit came out, and a guy in a suit jacket and jeans. Jeans carried a briefcase. The original tracksuited guy appeared.

  Inside the garage was a Suzuki Swift in red. It was a hatchback, quite cool-looking, and Daz and Matt exchanged a look. If this was the car they were going to drive, it made sense. Small and nippy, just right for London’s crowded streets.

  They knew why they were here, but Daz said, “Why am I here?” He was careful not to say WE: this was meant to be all about Daz, of course.

  One of the tracksuits pointed at the car. Explained that Orbach wanted to whet Mr McKinley's appetite by letting him try out the vehicle on this track. But first, he said, you need to go with this guy.

  The man with the briefcase waved Daz into the garage.

  “Who’s he?”

  The tracksuit said, “It’s a medical. Need to make sure you’re fit to drive.”

  “You mean Orbach wants to make sure the thrill won’t give me an embolism and I can’t pay?”

  “Something like that.”

  Daz went with the guy with the briefcase. There was a table at the back of the garage, grimy and oily, and there they did the blood pressure and other tests.

  Matt admired the car. There was another guy here. He was under the car, on his back, just a pair of legs showing. This guy wore a mechanic’s outfit.

  “This thing had work?” Matt asked.

  Tracksuit said yes, and explained what enhancements the car had had. Matt nodded approvingly, although he didn't really know what the guy was talking about.

  The mechanic slipped out and came over. He wiped his palm and shook Matt’s hand. He was middle-aged, short, stocky, but had a wiriness to him that showed fitness. A guy who didn't look like much, but Matt knew what to look for and he knew the guy would be able to handle himself in a fight. His eyes captivated Matt. They were different colours, a condition known as heterochromia. He tried not to stare. He wondered what the girls thought of it.

  “Name’s Jenkins,” he said. His accent was English, but nothing Matt could place. He handed over a business card. It said that Antony Jenkins sold fitted kitchens. "Get you a good deal on anything you want."

  "Not here for kitchens, I'm afraid," Matt said. “So they hired you to make sure this baby runs well?”

  “I know my cars, yes. They called me because they said they needed a driver. Word of mouth, I guess. I do rally racing in my spare time. Although I have no idea who I'm working for or what exactly is the job? Better not be a bank job. Not a getaway driver, I hope." He gave a laugh.

  At the nearby table, Daz looked up. He and Matt exchanged a look of concern.

  “Driver?” Daz said to Tracksuit #1. “No, my man here is the driver.”

  They all argued about this for a while. Tracksuit #1 said he needed to consult Orbach, but the driver, Jenkins, said they'd be mad to want anyone other than him. And he'd want paying for his time thus far if they turned him away.

  The medical guy declared Daz fit for the job and after that the argument was forgotten. The medical guy vanished, work done. Jenkins got in the car and the two tracksuits pushed it out of the garage.

  Daz came close to Matt. Said, “He took blood and prints. They might be checking me out.”

  Matt nodded. “So no lies. We tell them exactly how we know each other. Remember that they won’t be thinking we’re anything to do with their last job.”

  Daz nodded.

  They went out into the pale sunshine. Matt climbed into the back of the Swift. Daz took the front passenger seat. Jenkins looked at Daz and said, "Sorry, pal, back seat." His window was open. He whistled into the air.

  "Up front," Daz said. "I'm paying."

  "Not for this."

  Just then there was a knock on Daz's window, and they saw a boy standing there. He had green snot dried under his nose and wild blond hair. He was no more than four. He started trying the handle.

  "Bobby rides up front."

  "What?" Daz said. It turned out that Jenkins' son, Bobby, went everywhere with his dad. Daz reluctantly got out, once the boy had realised he needed to move away from the door. He slipped in the back, while Jenkins pulled a booster seat from the passenger footwell. Bobby clambered in and waved and said hello and then started to cry when he couldn't put his seatbelt on. Jenkins helped him, soothing him, and Matt and Daz just watched.

  "Is this a joke?" Daz said. "How can we see what this car can do with a child inside."

  Jenkins said, "My boy's not scared of speed."

  "That's not what I meant. Don't you think it's a risk? What if we crash? Get him out, please."

  Jenkins would have none of it. He threatened to refuse to drive, but that only pleased Daz, who told him he wasn't wanted anyway: Matt was his driver. They started arguing. Matt just sat there, didn't know what to say, couldn't work out if Daz was playing a role or genuinely didn't want a child in the car. Daz said, "Don't you care about him?"

  Matt thought he might have to intervene here, given the look that Jenkins gave Daz. The man raised his hand, and Matt got ready, but there was no strike. Jenkins yanked down his sleeve and showed a tattoo. Latin writing.

  "Filius est pars patris," Jenkins said, angry. It was meant to be a poignant moment, maybe, but Daz didn't think so. He
just laughed.

  "Can we go?" Bobby said. "Daddy's a good driving."

  That made Daz laugh again. "Okay, fair enough. The boss has spoken. Let's just do it.

  Daz and Jenkins shook hands to show there were no hard feelings. Then they got to it.

  Afterwards, the car was shut in the garage and one of the tracksuits approached Daz and Matt. He confirmed that Daz liked the car, thought it would be up to the task, then handed over a tiny slip of paper.

  “Half needs to be paid before the job. This account number is good until midday two days from now. After that, if the £75,000 isn’t there, Mr Orbach will take it as a no and the job is off the cards. You do not contact him again, even if you change your mind. One chance. Understand?”

  Daz took the slip of paper.

  “How hard was it to avoid killing those four men?” Daz said when they were back in their own car.

  “Not hard. They’re just plebs, just cogs.”

  “Any one of them could have been part of the machine that killed Karen.”

  “You trying to talk me into murder?”

  “Just trying to read your mind.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not after every little cog. Not anymore. There are just three men in my sights."

  Daz looked puzzled. "Three?"

  "Don't forget the man who put his hands on her throat, Daz."

  Daz blushed. He had forgotten, given all the emphasis on Anderson Orbach/Teddy Riley and the faceless man called Damon Mason.

  He said, “I imaging you’re working on a plan to get in that car come the day?”

  Mat nodded.

  Daz pushed open the hotel room door six inches and knelt and fed his arm through the gap. He felt around and looked back at Lisa and Matt and shook his head. He stood and slowly pushed open the door. Four feet from the door was a tennis ball, just sitting there on the carpet. It should have been behind the door, six inches away. Daz should have grabbed it when he felt for it. He hadn’t. Their little trap had worked. Someone had opened this door, which had pushed the ball away.

  They shared a look. All three knew that the room might have been searched, might have been bugged.

  “Good to be back,” Daz said as he walked in. “My feet are killing me. Make tea, Matt, please.”

  “Sure thing, Mr McKinley,” Matt said. Daz put the TV on and sat with Lisa on the sofa while Matt made the tea. They chatted about the great day they’d just had. They chatted about Daz’s desire to take the guys up on their driving offer, but he had to think about it for a while. They chatted about the weather and other bullshit. All of it innocent and designed to tell their watchers that these were just three normal people, nothing to worry about. And they acted normal, too, because there might also be cameras set up. Cameras made using the bug finder impossible

  But while they talked, text messages flew between them. By written word they discussed the impact of having their room bugged, if indeed it was. Clearly the Watchdogs still needed to make sure they were on the level. If the room was bugged, then surely they were still being watched while out and about. Neither would be problematic if they made sure they said and did nothing suspicious. But Matt was concerned about his sister’s funeral, which was tomorrow. He could not attend. He could not risk being followed. If Matt was spotted at the funeral of one of the Watchdogs' victims, it would undo everything. So he definitely couldn't go.

  But he definitely had to go.

  Eventually he put such dire thoughts aside and retired to his room. He lay on his bed and read a book, but could not concentrate on the story. He couldn’t shake Karen from his head, and he couldn’t shake the knowledge that people might be staring at him right now using a hidden camera. And in the brief moments that he did, the void was filled by an image of the person who had left Matt the clue on a car windscreen. He had no description, so in the visions the unknown person was a black shape, like a computer avatar for a user who had uploaded no picture. Matt imagined him/her on street corners, at high windows, lurking in cars, all the time watching Matt, watching his progress, like a father watching his baby trying to solve a simple jigsaw.

  Around ten p.m., he turned off the light and lay still. He could hear the TV from the adjoining room. He could hear Daz and Lisa talking about inconsequential things, still playing for the watchers. He wondered what would happen at bedtime. Daz and Lisa were supposed to be lovers – would they share a bed to keep up the pretence now that their one secret place, this hotel suite, had been compromised?

  He got his answer half an hour later. Raised voices. He sat up. Daz and Lisa were arguing.

  “I’m clearly not enough for you if you go sleep with some other woman, you asshole,” Lisa shouted.

  Daz’s reply was quieter and Matt didn’t catch it. Lisa told him she should end it, he wasn’t worth her, even said she would probably have dumped him ages ago if not for his money. Matt smiled as he realised what was coming.

  “I’m going to sleep in the other room, away from your stinking ass,” she yelled.

  “Yeah, good,” Daz yelled back.

  The door opened. In she came. Said something about needing space, time away, could she share his room because Daz was being an ass. He said he didn’t know, Daz being his boss and all. She said sod Daz, the twat. Daz yelled out, told Matt to let her stay to cool down, he needed peace anyway. Lisa shut the door and slipped into his bed.

  “The watchers will love this,” he whispered into her ear. They snuggled up, but both were clothed. “Must think you’re some right minx.”

  He could image the watchers in a stuffy room, wearing headsets, maybe staring at monitors that showed two black humps under the covers, dangerously close. Gossiping and laughing to take the tension off a long night shift.

  “Don’t worry about the funeral,” Lisa whispered back. Then she kissed his lips and put her head on his chest. He started to grow hard at the thought of her so close and began to panic, sure she would notice and be appalled. Tried to think uncomfortable things to beat it down, but nothing worked. By the time he was fully erect, desire overrode everything else and he decided to risk trying it on, but then he heard the deep, slow breaths of one already asleep.

  The next day morning, Daz and Lisa made up over tea and toast and then said they were going out. Daz needed Matt to drive and should wear his black suit. Matt asked where they were going. The answer was: a picnic somewhere. He waited for a text to reveal the real location, but nothing came through. In the lift riding down, he asked aloud, and all he got was the same answer. A picnic. This answer puzzled him, because for sure there was no bugging device in the lift or on their clothing. But he didn't question it.

  There was a hire car awaiting them outside the hotel, parked next to the Merc. A sleek limousine with tinted windows and side-facing bench seats in the back. Matt was directed towards Lee Valley Park. At the very first set of red lights they hit, Daz quickly told him to swap places. Daz took the driver's seat just as the light turned to green. Facing Lisa, Matt gave a smile.

  Later, the limo took a turn near East London Science School and drove alongside the Channelsea River. In the back, Matt looked as forlorn as some kid being taken to see a grandparent he didn’t like. Obviously he was thinking about the funeral, due to take place anytime now. Lisa talked about the nice weather today, which just pissed him off, although he didn't say so. He was about to bring up the funeral when the car drove through an arch in a low brick bridge over the river and stopped in semi-darkness. Daz turned to him.

  “You’ve got three hours.”

  The door was yanked open, and there stood a guy in a black suit, like Matt’s. He understood immediately and leaped out. The guy jumped in. The car continued on its way.

  There was a motorbike leaned against the brick arch with a big jacket and a helmet on the handlebars. Matt put them on and got on the bike. He watched the limo drive another hundred metres and then pull up in a riverbank car park filled with vehicles. There were sightseers at picnic tables. He watched Lis
a and Daz exit the back of the limo. Daz had swapped places with the other guy, because the driver’s window came down a portion and a black-suited arm dangled out.

  Matt smiled for the first time that day. Then he turned the bike around and got the hell out of there.

  But where to? His brother, Danny, had told him to call Mum to get the location of the funeral, but Matt hadn't made that call. And regretted it now. He figured Karen had probably not been a churchgoer, so the funeral director would have contacted the vicar of a local church to arrange the service. The nearest church to his parents' house was St. James's. But even if the service was there, it was doubtful the vicar would permit Karen's burial in the grounds. This in mind, Matt parked his bike outside some nearby shops in case he quickly needed to follow Karen's body after the service.

  Unfortunately, there was nobody in the church. Nobody. No early bird family member he recognised, no vicar awaiting the group. No sinner begging forgiveness or homeless guy passing time or janitor sweeping the floor.

  In a rising panic, Matt pulled his phone and scanned Google for nearby cemeteries, figuring the service would be held at a chapel in one of –