by Ian Patrick
Thirty minutes have gone and she appears. Ron drops her off then goes. He nods at me and waves. She smiles as she sees me. Her eyes look fresher than the previous meeting and the dark glasses are gone. She bends over and kisses me on the cheek. I don’t reciprocate but don’t dislike the engagement. Her lips are soft against my stubble with a brief but purposeful linger before departing. She drapes her coat over a seat next to her and puts her clutch bag on the table. She makes a point of showing me the battery from her phone before putting it back in her bag.
“So, lover. How have you been since you threw your teddy in the corner?”
“Good. I’ve slept and that’s a bonus.”
“I hope she was good.” She reaches out for a cigarette I’m offering and accepts a light. Her lips are accentuated by a deep plum lipstick. Not every woman’s taste but she knows she can carry it off.
“How long have we got this time?”
“Is that what she said?”
“Very good. Until your driver turns up?”
“We’ve got plenty of time. Lots to fill you in on, like I said on the phone. Things are happening quicker than expected. It’s all good but Big H needs you. He’s not begging or nothin’ but he don’t take no for an answer when you’ve already been given a job. He says it’s disrespectful.”
“Go on.”
She relaxes and takes a drag of her cigarette and a slug of her drink. She doesn’t hold back and goes for another. I order the same again and wait. This part I find the strangest. The joining together in a guilty act. An act that has more consequences, financially and of liberty, than a quick shag and who gets the house and kids. This kind of partnership can end in death. Death isn’t high on my hierarchy of needs. She returns with the drink and crisps. Salt and vinegar. Class.
She throws me a packet and we open one right down the middle and share. The romance is not lost on me.
She’s in the seat next to me now. Her toned thigh is against mine. I don’t move and neither does she. It’s good for appearance, if nothing else.
“Let me tell ya what’s goin’ down and it ain’t my skirt.”
The story she relates makes sense. Big H is getting pressure from way up the food chain. The guy at the very top is sat on ingredients for a cake he doesn’t want to bake. He’s happy with the recipe but now wants shot. There isn’t anyone that will move on this deal without having a slice of part of the product. Big H is one of these. He wants a taste before he commits. He’s like a king who has a chief taster. The taster for Big H is called Sugarman. Sugarman just needs the parcel to conduct what’s known in the trade as an MOT. If the parcel makes the grade and passes the checks the main haul can then start moving. Where do I come in? I have to collect and deliver the parcel to Sugarman. All sounds straightforward – except that Sugarman is in Pentonville prison.
“How in the fuck do you expect me to get charlie into the Ville?”
She looks at me. Her face says it all. “How the fuck do I know? I deliver the message, you sort out the problem. The amount ain’t big, a baggie full. Enough for Sugarman and his little shop.”
She looks around sits back and takes in some early evening sun. She carries on talking as she takes in the vitamin D. Her shades are back on and obscure her eyes, which is a shame as they’re beautiful when she’s not coming off the sniff.
“If it’s good he’ll call me and I’ll tell Big H. After that it’s all on. Job’s big and that means good money. I wouldn’t mess you about with anything shitty. I don’t know no more right now as he keeps his cards close to his chest. But he only moves in bulk and large amounts of it. He’s been talking of retirement after this one so it must be fucking huge.”
“What’s in it for me? I’ve done one job and seen nothing. So far it’s promises and wind.”
I wasn’t expecting the next move. Stoner reaches into her handbag by her feet. I can feel an object the size of a hand brush on top of my leg. It isn’t a hand, it’s an envelope so fat that it’s incapable of sealing.
“Expenses rendered and all that. He don’t normally do part payments but appreciated the way you handled the last job and wants to keep you on board.”
I move the wad and store it under my upper leg against the seat. I have a jacket I can put it in but nothing else and the pressure against my leg is enough to tell me this is about £2,000 in cash. He must really need me. The gun was worth £1,000 tops even with clips.
“Tell him thanks. How long have I got?”
“You’ve got twenty-four hours. Sugarman is expecting the package. He works the gardens. He loves his horticulture. Sniffing flowers and gathering the pollen. The last bloke lobbed it over the wall and got caught. So that’s not an option. I’ll leave it with you but he expects to find it outside. It’s up to you how you get it in there. Are you gonna get me dinner then or is crisps the lot?”
“I’ll shout you some nuts. You don’t look like a dry roasted kind of bird, salted suit you? I’ve gotta work.” I drop her a £50 note, kiss her on the cheek and go. The prison is across town and although I’ve passed it and been in it, this is different and time is running out. I need eyes on to plan my next move.
10
I’d left the car in Highgate. Tube, bus and my own two feet will be my transport from here. Traffic’s calm and as the bus makes its way down Caledonian Road I stare out of the top deck. My mind’s churning over the solution. I have one in mind but it will take planning and every minute counts at the moment. We stop outside the tube entrance and a black guy, twenties, black hoodie and Nike Air basketball boots climbs up and sits behind me. He’s listening to drum ’n’ bass on what appear to be a new pair of Beats headphones. Behind him is a whiteguy, well built, same age but making his way along the bus aisle with a purpose. I can see him in the window’s reflection. His eyes are everywhere. He’s conscious of where the bus will stop next. He’s not sitting. If he was looking to jump off at the next stop he’d wait downstairs.
The guy behind me is oblivious to his surroundings, music his only solace at this time. The standing man moves his hand towards his pocket as the bus slows for the lights. He pulls a knife and holds it to the man’s throat behind me. “Give me the phone and the Beats, now.”
I move across to a seat opposite. “Now! You fucking shit! I SAID GIVE EM UP!” The man seated is frozen, his brow a creased page. He doesn’t know what to do. In fairness, I do but don’t need the grief. I just hope he gives them up. Fat chance.
“Yo, bruv.” The standing guy looks at me then towards the front of the bus as it moves off. “Just let him off, move onto someone else.”
“Who the fuck are you to tell me who to rob, you spic fuck.”
Spic, that’s a new one.
“No need to get personal, just saying that’s all.” I turn away. He’s still looking. I make a point of checking the time. I can see in the window he’s clocked the fake Breitling. Not even he could tell it’s fake from the distance between us. He lets the man go and moves towards me. Never bring a knife to a fight if you’re not prepared to use it properly. He broke the first rule by approaching me from the side, knife arm out. The brakes of the bus provide good forward motion, for me not him. He staggers forward. I grab his knife hand and smash it down on the seat rail as I get up. This brings his head closer to the solid metal edge of the bus seat. His forehead connects with the edge on several occasions. I carry on smashing it against the chrome until the knife drops and claret starts spraying from his split nose. I cannot afford to get blood spattering on my clothing. He passes out in a heap on the floor.
I nod at his first victim who gets up and follows me down the stairs as we alight at the next stop. I point out to the driver through the open window that there’s a man upstairs needing medical aid. He turns off the ignition and puts on his hazard lights.
The man behind me has waited and walks with me a short distance. “Cheers, man. I…I…didn’t know what was happening.”
Why would he? Not everyone in London has been m
ugged. I simply nod and leave him. I go into a newsagent’s. He doesn’t follow me in. I make my way towards the prison. My public deed done for the day. No one on the bus will give a statement. Why would they? Justice has been served. One man’s crime is another man’s passion.
The intervention has delayed my progress and I’m a stickler for time when it’s on my watch. Good criminals keep good time. The higher up the food chain the more business-like the venture runs. Most of the top men I’ve met will not answer a call after five p.m. They have a life outside the office. A wife, children, mistress to attend to. Me? I work when required. I’m required more than I’d like to work. If all goes well then my career won’t be a long one. Take your bus mugger, he had it all wrong. You don’t pick a heist on a London bus, it’s full of people, the bus has cameras and there will always be some have a go hero who will have a go. The game is high risk. Ideally he should have ditched the knife in favour of an item of clothing like a scarf, wrapped it around the guy’s neck, choked him till he blacked out then taken his Beats and phone. Not in public, of course. A simple follow off the bus would have presented an opportunity.
I don’t study this kind of behaviour. Why waste an education on what is obvious and common sense? I don’t need a degree in criminal psychology and cognitive science to work out the bus isn’t a viable option for a quick gain. Am I bothered about the CCTV? Have you ever seen an image off one of their cameras that identifies the assailant? Also why would the old bill chase the hero when they have the mugger and the knife? That is unless he dies of course. By the time I reach the prison the light is fading. The steady hum of engines is constant as commuters escape the city. The prison gates are closed defying entrance and exit. There will be no vans ferrying the detained today.
The outer wall is three times my height and I have no intention of scaling it. I’m all for getting the job done, but not at any cost. I’ve seen what I need to see and must find an internet cafe that’s open. I head back towards Seven Sisters and Holloway Road. I’m guaranteed finding one there. It doesn’t take long. The cafe is full with one spare booth. I pay my money and log in. Across from me is a middle-aged guy who’s obviously looking at porn. His left hand is in his pocket and he’s not playing with change. I put this out of my mind and bring up a Google satellite map of the prison.
Zooming in I can see an area that Sugarman can access, and will have an excuse to. It looks like it’s full of bags of building sand. I check my email. Nothing. I find the Argos site, order what I need and leave. I have time to collect today.
The plan is this: I now have my £400 drone that I intend to fly over the wall, lower into the sand area, where Sugarman will collect the baggie attached to said drone. The drone will come back to me courtesy of the return home function. Clever? I hope so. The kit has a camera so I will be able to see and record it getting collected via my iPhone. Hopefully the bum I paid twenty pounds to collect it for me won’t be pulled in by the old bill should they trace where it was bought. Now I need the cocaine and the luck of the gods.
I have about twenty minutes flying time to get airborne, over the prison to the drop point and back without anyone noticing. The drone has a range of two kilometres and will auto take off and land, if I need this. I phone Stoner.
“Aye, aye lover what’s up?”
“I need an appointment for the MOT, tomorrow at ten a.m.”
“Okay. I’ll let the mechanic know.”
“Tell him I’ll leave the motor near the building sand area. Tell him to look up at the clouds at ten a.m. and wave if it’s clear.”
“Fine. You about after? I’m free for a couple hours whilst he’s taking it for a test.”
I don’t want to but I have to. The quicker Sugarman feeds back the result then the quicker I can move this job on or not.
“Sounds good. I have a hospital visit later. Meet me in the canteen at Great Ormond Street Hospital. At ten thirty.”
“Okay, babes, laters.”
“I need the motor to take to the testing station…”
“Shit. Yeah, no problem. I’ll get Ron to bring it over in an hour. Where will you be?”
“I’ll wait outside Tufnell Park station, he can pick me up there.”
“Alright, see ya tomorrow.”
The line’s off.
I can’t help noticing the longer I speak with people like Stoner the more my language develops into abbreviated street bollocks. I need to keep up to date with it so I can’t complain.
I need to clear my head and walk towards Tufnell Park. Ron is on time. His cab approaches from the East. He doesn’t see me but I watch as he’s looking around. He pulls over outside a kebab house. As I look, no other cars pull in or pass that could contain surveillance. The junction couldn’t be covered by one person. Too many points of exit that would need covering by cops on foot and in cars. I step out from the doorway I was propped up in and flag him down as he starts pulling out again. He pulls over, I jump in and he kills the ‘for hire’ light.
He looks fucked. Bags under his saggy-skinned eyes. He never seems to change clothes. Bedecked in a Lacoste polo shirt that looks as if it was second hand when he got it. His nails are bitten down and the nicotine-stained fingers are engrained more than a Charmouth fossil. I settle back and he drives off.
“Where to?”
“Vauxhall station.”
“What? Fuckin’ Vauxhall! I hope you’ve got the cash.”
“Drop the bill on Zara, I need to get there.”
Ron is gazing at me from the rearview, shaking his head like a drugged pit bull. If he owned a dog it would be a British bulldog. Like owner, like dog. The fat fuck would never walk it. It would sloth wherever he lived and eat fish and chips and god knows what other takeouts the slob lived off. I don’t like Ron. I’m finding it difficult to trust him. He’s done nothing to make me doubt his credibility, but let’s just call it gut instinct.
We reach Vauxhall Bridge and he’s said nothing more. He’s looking at the Argos bag but hasn’t asked what’s in it. We arrive at Vauxhall and I get him to drop me outside Tesco. I need milk. I get out and he leans over and hands me a small padded envelope. He nods and drives off. I look around me and all appears as it should. No obvious signs of being followed. No unwanted attention. I flag down the next cab and direct them to home. Milk can wait. I need to store the envelope. Who’s going to run the risk of raiding a Buddhist community to look for drugs? Not the law, anyway.
It feels good to be back in the sanctuary of the centre. The people’s lives here flow like the positive energy the monks imbue. For me it doesn’t rub off. I’m happy with my set of laws and abide by them. They’re simple, really. Be of service. Do what it takes to survive. If that means harming others, so be it.
Brief, I know, but they’ve served me well so far. Society has created too many laws. It’s no wonder people end up breaking them. Law enforcement is changing. The five-year cuts are kicking in. I’m only doing what the public really wants but is too afraid to say. On the outside it may appear to be a selfish pursuit, but really I’m only doing what anyone else would, given the opportunity. If those guns and drugs were to end up in the wrong hands chaos could ensue.
I put on another pair of surgical gloves and assemble the drone. The controller is on charge. I managed to get some duct tape from the centre’s handyman. I secure the parcel of cocaine to the underside of the drone with the tape. Secure enough that Sugarman can remove it without instructions. I have no time for a dummy run.
Tomorrow will be a busy day. Cometh the hour, cometh the coke. Lewis “Chesty” Puller, would not approve. I decide to eat with the community this evening. I need to switch off; my mind is mayhem and its after five p.m. so the clock’s stopped. Eating here is an interesting affair. The cafe has a fresh selection of vegetarian and vegan fare. A welcome break from the shit I’ve been eating. I select the quiche and salad and sit at a four-place table. I eat alone. I don’t feel I give off a vibe of ‘don’t come near me’ but I’m cle
arly not on the reservation list. I eat and become aware of someone joining me. I stop mid-mouthful and look up to see the resident monk sat opposite. He’s not eating. He won’t eat again until tomorrow morning.
He says nothing and neither do I. I adhere to etiquette when I’m a guest and joined by the resident owner. He breaks the silence.
“It’s okay to speak. This isn’t a silent retreat. How are you finding your accommodation?”
“Wonderful thanks. A lovely room with no view.”
He laughs heartily.
“Yes…yes. A cell with a view would be most unkind to a person.” He drifts off, looks towards a statue of the Buddha and sips some water.
“I’m afraid your stay must come to an end, my friend. You have a week to find other accommodation. We have other students who need the bed and you seem reluctant to join us in study. I hope you understand.”
He gets up and leaves the eating area, his maroon robes embrace him in a gentle hug and for the first time I feel I’ve met someone who intuitively knows humanity and its flaws. I’m aware I’m one of the flaws but can accept this from him. Even a Buddhist monk has his limits of tolerance.
I finish my meal and take it over to the kitchen. On the way I collect others’ empties and find myself at the sink filling it with warm water and washing up soap. I remain here until I’ve washed all of them. Another young person dries and another puts away. We say nothing. Each of us lost in our own worlds. I would invite no one to visit mine. I shake that shit off and grab a coffee and head to bed. The phones I’m carrying are my heaviest burden now.
11
I’m awoken by the melancholy voices of twenty or so retreat-goers chanting at different tonal levels. Not so much a call to prayer, more a snooze button in its final stages of death. My head is clear. I slept well. The ceiling fan is off and this seems to have alleviated the dreams. I sit up and check my watch. It’s 0500 hours. Time for work. The advantage of living here, other than it’s free, is the endless supply of coffee and tea that well-minded decent people ensure is on tap. I dress appropriately before going to get my first cup. By appropriately I mean I cover up what shouldn’t be shown to strangers. Not in this setting.
