by Graham Hamer
“Except I never will get a bloody job over here. Everything is different, Claire. Even the accountancy rules are different. And anyway, speaking technical French is even tougher than holding a normal conversation in French.”
“It'll just take time, Cheri. You'll get used to it in the end.”
“I don't think so,” he said. “It could take years and I don't even know that I want to any more.”
Claire looked at him with deep sadness in her eyes. “Ian, I love you. I love the Ian Gidman who makes me laugh, the Ian Gidman who's tender and caring.”
“Yes, but not the Ian Gidman who's bloody useless, can't get a job and can't support himself. We've lost the spontaneity, Claire. Our relationship was based on both of us putting in the same amount of effort and getting the same amount of reward. All that has gone now.”
“No, you're wrong. You're being defeatist.”
“Don't give me 'defeatist',” he snapped, banging his beer glass on the table. “Do-not-give-me-bloody-defeatist. I'm a bloody liability, Claire, full stop. Meanwhile I either stay here and watch our relationship go down the pan or I bugger off back to the UK without you and try and get a job. Whichever way you look at it, it's not a very nice option. I'm not being defeatist, I'm being realistic.”
Claire's face expressed the same anger and frustration that he felt. “Ian, you've been snapping and snarling at me for the past fortnight,” she said, her voice unusually hard. “I'm trying very hard to be supportive and understand, but you're not making it any easier for me.”
“Well it's not exactly very bloody easy for me either. I might as well just pack my bags and go before we start hating each other.
Claire's steel-blue eyes moistened. “If you want to go - go!” she cried. “Just stop picking on me and making my life hell.”
“Alright,” he shouted - the other diners, turning and staring. “I'll bloody go. I've got no bloody future wherever I am, so I might as well piss off now.”
Claire stood up and threw back her chair. “So leave me in peace!” She grabbed her handbag and stormed from the crowded bar, watched by the silent diners.
Ian reached into his pocket and threw a bank note on the table. It was too much money, but he didn't have time to wait for the bill. Storming from the room, he marched onto the pavement.
The shining blue Jaguar raced around the corner from Boulevard Sebastopol. “I'll show these froggies how to drive,” Tweedle muttered to himself. “You can't beat a good British motor.” A Citroën came towards him, headlights blazing, then swerved at the last moment to avoid him. “Bloody Frogs. Look what you're doing!” he shouted, watching the swaying car in his rear view mirror as it dodged back onto his side of the road. Another car came towards him – then he realised. Oh, shit, it's me. Wrong side of the road, aren't I. He swung the wheel of the Jag hard to the right as the oncoming car braked. The bulky vehicle responded well, changing direction straight away and regaining the right-hand side of the narrow street. But he was too intent on watching the approaching car to see the grim-faced lady who stepped off the curb.
Ian would replay the scene over and over in the days ahead. There was no question in his mind that it was deliberate. When he left the Frog and Roastbif, Claire had been twenty yards away, striding towards Boulevard Sebastopol where they had parked the car. Glancing back over her shoulder, she had seen Ian emerge from the pub and had changed course, to cross the narrow street.
Neither of them had seen the blue Jaguar on the far side of the road – they'd been too pre-occupied with their own thoughts and their own anger. It was only as Claire set one foot in the street, still looking back towards him, that Ian had seen what was happening behind her. As she had turned her head away, he had called - screamed - her name. “Claire! Stop!” It had been enough for her to falter. Just a split second that made the difference between crushed bones and a badly grazed knee. But it had been enough.
Tweedle heard, rather than felt, the bump. It was just a dull thud on the side of the car, certainly nothing serious. The lady would be fine: it was probably just her handbag hitting the wing mirror. He gave the accelerator an extra push, grateful that the road ahead was clear and that the street bent away to the left. The car was out of sight making for Calais earlier than planned, before anybody had time to look at it —
—anybody, that was, except for Ian, who not only recognized the letters MAN on the registration plate, but also stared in disbelief at the face of the driver, before rushing to help Claire, who lay on the pavement.
“Claire, Claire, are you alright?” he asked, supporting her shoulders.
“Ooouch! Oh hell, that hurts.”
“Where? Show me.”
“My knee. Oooh — No, don't touch it!”
“Sorry.”
It was a few minutes before the crowd dispersed and she was back on her feet, hobbling and hopping to the wall of the nearest building for support. “What the hell happened?” she asked, as she clutched her knee. “I didn't take a good look to my left, I just sort of glanced. But the road seemed clear.”
“It was, love. It was some idiot pulling across the road from the other side. He must have been parked over there or something. The car coming the other way had to brake hard.” But Ian thought differently - he knew differently. Tweedle's vendetta against him had now extended to Claire. He wasn't satisfied with what he'd already done, he now wanted to destroy the one thing that Ian had that was worth living for. The plan that had, up till now, only occupied his waking dreams was about to be activated in real life. Tweedle had now crossed the line in the sand and left Ian with no choice but to take drastic action.
When they arrived back at the apartment, Ian supporting Claire as she limped into the hallway, he knew what had to be done; though it would have to wait until she was out of the room before he could make the call. “Why not take a nice hot bath, love? It'll help the pain, and clean up the wound.”
“You're right,” she said. “I'll be glad to take the weight off my leg.”
He helped her off with her coat, hanging it in the armoire as she leaned against the wall and held her foot off the ground.
“Are you sure you don't need to go to hospital?”
“I'm certain, Cheri. It's just a bad knock. It will be alright in a few days.”
Listen, Claire, I'm sorry about what happened in the pub. It's just that—”
“You don't need to keep apologizing,” she said, a fond but sad look in her eyes. “We're both on edge over the situation.”
“Yes, but I'm not making it any easier for you, am I?”
“We'll sort it out, Cheri. Things will improve soon.”
“Yes, they will, love,” he said, with a secret smile. “Very soon.”
The bathroom door closed and, after a moment, he heard the quiet sound of music as Claire turned on the portable stereo, which he'd placed there 'to help her relax'. He grabbed the phone and dialled without looking for the number.
“Dave Kelly's submarine base. What can we do for you today?”
“Hello, fool, it's Ian - don't say anything, just listen. Is Irene there?”
Silence.
“Dave. Is Irene there?”
“You told me not to say anything, just to listen.”
“Don't bugger about, Dave, this is important.”
“Sorry, boss. Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, Irene's here.”
“Oh Christ, Dave, this is serious.”
“It's alright Ian, she's not in the room at the moment. I'll revert to just 'yes' or 'no' if she comes back in.”
“Okay. Question — are you still involved with the Gun Club?”
“Yes.”
“You're still Secretary?”
“Yes.”
“Has Irene come back in the room, Dave?”
“No, but you've not asked me anything difficult yet.”
“Alright, here's the difficult one — can you get hold of a handgun that I can borrow for a few hours
?”
“What?”
“You heard, Dave. Can you get me a gun - one that can't be traced?”
“Yes.”
“Irene's in the room?”
“No, but I've given you a straight answer to a straight question.”
“Ermm — I didn't expect it to be as easy as that.”
“It's not. It's an old one that I was given and there are a couple of parts missing, which I'd have to get hold of before it was serviceable. Are you planning using the thing?”
“If necessary.”
“Tweedle?”
“Yes.”
“Don't do it, Ian. It's not worth it. What do you plan doing?”
“I can't tell you. If you know nothing about it, you won't have to tell any lies for me.”
“Just supply you with an illegal weapon.”
“That's all. Will you do it, Dave?”
There was a pause before Dave Kelly answered. “Yes,” he said. “I guess it's time somebody had a bloody go at him.”
“So when can I pick it up?”
“Yes.”
“Pardon?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, Irene's in the room.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, a week? “
“No.”
“A month?”
“No.”
“Two months?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Thanks Dave. I'll call you nearer the time. Have a nice day.”
Ian replaced the receiver and smiled. Your day is coming, Tweedle. Your day is surely coming. He flicked at the stereo remote and gunned the bass, waiting for the blast of the drums as Phil Collins began to sing 'In the Air Tonight'.
WEDNESDAY 1 OCTOBER
Ron Scott glanced at his reflection as he passed the mirror. He was as content as a dog with a belly full of pee and a street full of lampposts. It was all coming together fast now and life was looking up for the former double-glazing salesman. A deal had been agreed on the eight acres behind the factory, and the bank had agreed in principle to the secured loan on the buildings that would considerably boost their liquid assets.
He hummed a little tune to himself as he stood at the urinal, relieving himself copiously; thunderously even. And that's how the money rolls in, rolls in. Richard had just completed a second successful trip to Paris and the Al-Sabah brothers had surprised them by placing a large order, to be shipped direct to Iraq, cash in advance. Yes, indeed, he'd come a long way since he and his half-brother had played on the urine-smelling stairs of their tenement home in the polluted streets of Liverpool; unwashed and with no backsides in their trousers. Life as the unwanted son of an unemployed and unemployable alcoholic had never been easy. His father could piss their welfare cheque up the wall in one evening; and usually did. But at least it had taught Ron self-survival in a city where truth and honesty were considered an alternative lifestyle.
There was a knock on the door.
Ron shook himself vigorously. “What is it?”
“Telephone call, Mr Scott.”
“Thank you. I'm just washing my hands, Miss —”
“Williams.”
He emerged from the rest room and adjusted his bow tie.
“Who was it Miss —?”
“Who was what?”
“Who was on the telephone?”
“I don't know, I don't answer the phone any more, do I,” she muttered, staring at the damp stain next to his fly. “Mr Tweedle said to get you.”
He grunted and left the reception area towards his own office.
Richard sat behind the desk, smoking furiously. As he held the telephone out towards him, he mouthed the word 'Legg'.
Ron took the receiver. “Good afternoon, Mr Legg,” he said, cheerily, as he switched the call to the office speakers for Richard's benefit. “What time of day is it where you are?”
“Nine o'clock in the morning,” Sean said. “But the sun's shining and the water's like a mirror.”
“Good, you're enjoying yourself then?”
“Excellent, Mr Scott. I just wanted a quick word with you about how things are going. I had a rather worrying phone call last night from Alain Abattu in France.”
Ron raised his eyebrows to Tweedle. “What was it about, Mr Legg?”
“He was a bit concerned about your new European Sales Manager - Mr Anthony, isn't it? The guy who just spent some time in Paris.”
Tweedle pointed to himself and nodded.
“Yes — Mr Anthony — that's right. What was the problem?”
“Well, Alain told me that he and this Mr Anthony had a few disagreements over the price structures. Mr Anthony — what's his first name, by the way?”
“Richard.”
“Well it seems that this Richard Anthony was selling stock at ridiculous prices, just to get rid of it.”
Ron winked at Tweedle. “Well, first of all, I think that Alain Abattu is exaggerating the situation somewhat. It's true that Richard offered larger discounts than normal, because we wanted to make some space in the depot for the new range of hoists and compressors, but he did so under our strict control, and with our approval. If you feel it necessary, I'd be glad to send you a copy of the minutes of the last Board meeting.”
“No, not at all necessary, Mr Scott. I knew when I sold the shares that there would be bound to be changes. After all, a company doesn't just invest three million without wanting to adopt their own style of management. I just thought I'd let you know what Alain's feelings were. You know, ear to the ground and all that.”
“Well, I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Mr Legg. I'm sure you'll find that, in a few months, Mr Abattu will see the logic of what we've done.”
“Ah good,” Sean said. “that's put my mind at rest. Anything else new over there?”
“No, no. Things tick along much the same as before. One or two minor changes in direction, in preparation for the expansion scheme, but nothing major. We'll talk to you about it all when you return. Any idea how long you plan being away?”
“Well, if you think it's necessary for me to come back—”
“No, not at all. I promise you Three Leggs is being well looked after in your absence. There'll be plenty of time to discuss future plans with you when you get back.”
“Good. I'll let you get on then. Nice chatting to you. Give my regards to everyone — 'bye.”
Ron slammed down the phone. “How the hell did Abattu get Legg's number?” he muttered, to no-one in particular.
Tweedle paled and drew relentlessly on his cigarette. “No, bloody idea, Ronald, but it's got me rattled, I can tell you. When that girl said it was Legg on the line, I nearly had a heart attack. I don't like it, Ronald, I don't like it at all.”
“Calm down, Richard.”
“Calm down be buggered. There's so much we hadn't thought of. I mean, what if the girl in reception had told Legg that I was running the show? What would have happened then?”
Ron sat down facing Tweedle. “It wasn't the girl in reception who plugged him through to you,” he said, keeping his voice calm and even. “When we bought Three Leggs, there were individual phone numbers for each office. General calls went through a switchboard in reception and the receptionist forwarded them as necessary. Now, however, all incoming calls are diverted through a switchboard in a little office I rent in Douglas. That young lady friend of mine, the one who rang the travel agency and pretended to be Legg's secretary, now takes all calls, so she knows exactly who is calling who.”
“But the switchboard is out in reception, Ronald, I walked past it not half an hour ago.”
“The old switchboard is still there, Richard, but it's not even wired up. Our pretty young receptionist is now no more than a pair of legs to greet occasional visitors. She doesn't like it much, but too bad.”
Tweedle's mouth fell open and he gawped at Ron. “So Legg could never talk to anyone here without us knowing about it?”
“Correct. And we would know exactly what had been said - even t
erminate the call if necessary. My young lady is under instructions to monitor any calls that she feels might threaten the operation. She would have been listening to our conversation just now.”
As if on cue, the telephone rang and he hit the speaker button again.
“Ron Scott - Mr Tweedle's with me,” he said, keeping his eyes on Richard.
“Hello, Mr Scott.”
“Good afternoon, my dear. You listened?”
“Yes. I've got Nick on the line.”
“Okay, put him on. Thanks Cindy — Hello Nick - Mr Tweedle's with me.”
“Morning, Mr Scott,” said the distant voice.
“It's afternoon here. What can I do for you?”
“Did you just take a call from our friend?”
“Yeah.”
“Any problems?”
“Not so far as he's concerned,” Ron said, adjusting his bow tie. “He was just checking that things were okay. Is he still content?”
“Sure. I can keep him here as long as you like. The diving's good and the dive operator is helpful.”
“Well I think it's time to move him on actually,” Ron said. “The TLM manager in Paris has managed to locate him somehow, we don't know how, and has been stirring the shit a little. See what you can do to relocate him will you?”
“No problem. Give me a couple of days.”
“Thanks Nick. Stay in touch.”
Ron clicked the phone off and studied Richard's amazed face. He looked like a squirrel who couldn't recall storing away any nuts but had just found them anyway.
“You're having Legg watched?” he gasped.
“Of course! That's not something we could leave to chance. My contact, Nick, is making sure he's happy and he stays where we want him. If he shows any signs of coming back, we'll know in advance. I'm just annoyed that Abbatu in France managed to track him down. We knew that Sean didn't have a mobile phone before we set all this up, so we thought he would be impossible to find. That's why I've now asked Nick to move him on.”
Tweedle smiled in relief and admiration. “You've thought of everything, haven't you, old boy.”
“Just doing my job and protecting our interests, Richard.”
“You clever sod.”