“We have no powers to evict persons living legitimately on the premises,” whined the other man, turning from the window. “Squatters have rights you know.” He was bearded and weedy-looking, with a strange, semi-aggressive demeanour, half-way between a truculent schoolboy and a recently beaten dog. I suspected he might be a passionate socialist.
“Well that’s a shame,” I chimed. “An appalling bunch of lefties they are, too, always going on trade union marches and that type of thing. They won’t pay me rent and they’re always inviting blacks round. Shouldn’t be allowed.”
The weedy man bristled. My intuition had been correct. In my experience, public servants prefer to pick on the conservative and generally law-abiding. The more I could paint our residents as a conspiracy of political rebellion, the more likely we’d be left alone.
The moustachioed man piped up again, self-importantly. “We have reason to believe you have converted this housing into premises of multiple occupancy. We request that you allow us inside to inspect the property.”
“Your information is incorrect. And no,” I replied, smiling tightly. Bugger. How the hell was I going to get rid of these interfering wankers?
There was a pause. “Furthermore, we have reason to believe there may be health and hygiene issues at these premises.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me, these foreigners have awful eating habits,” I said, conspiratorially. “Mrs Hall next door and I were saying just the other day we’d prefer this to be a whites-only road.”
The two officials looked appalled, as was I, to be honest. Maybe I’d been a fascist rabble-rouser in a former life. Anyway, it did the trick. It must have been foul old Mrs Hall who called them, as Dr Shah had guessed. My nasty little comment had clearly damaged the credibility of her official complaint.
“Come on George, there’s nothing to detain us here,” said the bearded official, eyeing me with distaste.
His colleague considered me, balefully, his moustache twitching as he considered his next move. His eyes moved past me and looked down to survey the garden area below. His eyes came to rest on the pink tent, iridescent in the evening gloom.
“What is that?”
“Oh, the squatters are growing vegetables. They’re in to all that sustainability nonsense,” I said airily. Bugger! I was pretty sure digging a six-foot deep latrine in your back garden was against some hygiene law or other, even if it was constructed by East Africa’s finest engineer. If they examined it closely they’d probably have grounds for a warrant and the game would be up.
“Doesn’t look like a vegetable patch to me. I think we’ll take a look.”
The two of them moved towards the stairs. I stayed put, blocking their path. “There are no vegetables there yet, obviously. It’s still winter. The tent’s just protecting the earth from waterlogging.”
“We’ll take a look anyway. These gardens are council land and ultimately our responsibility. It might be a health and safety hazard.” They brushed me aside and descended the metal steps. I watched them, miserably, as they picked their way over the muddy ground and approached the tent.
“Don’t tread on the tarpaulin areas, you might trip,” I called, helpfully. I followed them down, frantically trying to think of a way to discourage them.
To my dismay, the moustachioed official pointed at the sign hanging over the entrance stating ‘Vacant’ and said a few words to his companion. He crouched, searching for the zip at the base of the canvas.
“Don’t do that,” I called, catching them up.
“Why not?” asked the bearded official.
“You’ll disturb the seedlings,” I blurted, idiotically.
“Why should you care? I thought you didn’t like all that sustainability rubbish.”
He located the fastener and unzipped the front flap. A breath of warm, yeasty sawdust and fermenting leaves wafted from the tent’s interior.
“What’s that funny smell?” asked the bearded one.
“It’s winter fertiliser,” I improvised, pathetically.
“Pass me your torch, Gary,” ordered George. “I’m going to check for vermin.” Gary fished a slim flashlight from his jacket pocket and handed it to George.
“There’s nothing to see,” I pleaded.
“I’ll be the judge of that.” George clicked on the flashlight and, before I could warn him, he stooped and placed a foot inside the tent without looking. There was a snapping as the slender canes covering the pit gave way. With a squelch, his leg plunged thigh-deep into the pit and his body pitched sideways. I heard his head chime against the toilet bowl, his other leg still protruding through the tent flaps.
An appalling stench of shitty filth rolled from the tent’s interior. “Arrrghhhh! Fucking Jesus!” he shouted.
“Are you all right George?” called the other man.
“It’s just organic fertiliser,” I reassured him through the tent flaps. “It’s non-toxic but a little pungent if you stir it up.”
“Get me fucking OUT OF HERE!” he screamed.
We grabbed George’s foot and I reached through the flaps to find his flailing hand. With a huge effort, and accompanied by an obscene sucking sound, we pulled him out of the fermenting mash of turds and vegetable matter, and clear of the tent. His buried leg was shiny with a slick of foul brown slime and sawdust, as was one arm and one side of his jacket. He had lost the shoe from his immersed leg as well as the torch. The smell was mind-blowingly revolting and I staggered backwards, trying not to retch.
The official bawled like a toddler, his moustache bouncing as he goggled at his shoeless, shit-slicked leg and arm. With his fouled hand he grabbed hold of his colleague’s jacket, trying to stand. Gary wailed and hammered his fists on George’s arm, frantically trying to loosen his grip. Little droplets of fermenting crap splashed from the shit-sodden fabric onto both men’s faces. Gary suddenly stopped his hammering and made an ominous, low gurgling sound, his face white against his dark beard. Then a wave of puke exploded from his mouth, covering his shirt and his colleague’s clean arm.
Holding my breath, I retreated from the garden and back up the stairs to the front door, feeling I had little of value to add. I watched the two men limp away from the garden and back to their car, pausing now and then to empty their stomachs. That would be a fun drive back to the office, I mused.
I let myself into the flat. It was as silent as the grave. I walked through to the kitchen and spotted a naked foot under the table. I crouched to see Fistule sitting cross-legged, completely still, his eyes focused on the composting bin before him, into which he had stuffed various utility bills and the instruction book for the central heating.
“Fistule!”
He looked up. “We’re still on lockdown,” he whispered.
“We can call off the lockdown, Fistule, we’re clear. And you can separate the electricity bill from those vegetable scraps, we need to pay it.”
“Lockdown is lifted. We are now clear. I repeat, we are now clear,” stated Fistule, in a small robotic voice. I wondered how many mushrooms he’d imbibed.
I bounded up the stairs to find Mercedes demonstrating tai chi to the fascinated Somalis. I have no idea what they made of it but it had certainly kept them quiet. “Cawaale, I’m afraid there’s some damage to the toilet,” I said. “Please could you take a look?”
He and a couple of the men checked it out – luckily there was nothing that couldn’t be repaired with a few bamboo canes and a couple of shovels of soil.
We’d had a narrow escape, but nothing could prepare me for the horror that was to come.
***
Christmas was racing closer and it was all-hands-on-deck at Gatesave. I spent all my time checking that all our supermarkets had plenty of Asti Spumante, not to mention my other wines. Running out of stock before Christmas was a hanging offence, not to mention drawing, quartering and a swift kick to the nuts, in no particular order.
My days started early – around six in the morning – and finished around
seven in the evening. Then the younger half of the office would pile down the pub, get utterly bladdered and cop off with each other. After that I’d stagger home, set my alarm and do the same the next day. It wasn’t the healthiest lifestyle but I was young and frankly, didn’t give a toss.
It was a couple of weeks before Christmas and I’d had a good day – my Asti Spumante had broken the all-time record for sparkling wine sales – and I’d had an even better evening, snogging recently divorced Felicity from Credit Control round the back of the Kings Arms, and agreeing on some filthy New Year’s resolutions.
I tumbled off the train and strolled the few hundred yards home. If I’d been sober, perhaps I might have spotted the shadows lurking at the corner of my building, but I was wasted and as I reached for the stair rail to hoist myself up to the flat it was too late.
“Felix-a.”
My blood ran cold as I recognised the lilting accent. I turned to face Marco Rizzo as he stepped out of the shadows. There was no pretence at his charming little smirk, his face was cold. The polo-shirted man, who’d accompanied him on our last encounter, stood beside him.
I drew myself up to my full height but I knew my chances of bluffing my way out of this one were slim to none. It didn’t stop the self-righteousness rising in me though. What the hell was he doing at my house? “What the hell…”
“Save-a your breath!” snapped Rizzo. He studied me for a second. “You are a good liar, Felix. For a young man, a very good liar. I’m sure you have a lot of practice, telling your suppliers how poor your mighty supermarket is, how you can’t afford to pay so much for their goods. To be able to say this when everyone can see it is not true requires a special skill.” He gave a little smile. It wasn’t warm.
“But you are not good enough. We know what you have done. We know you have stolen the goods we shipped…”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Marco, and I resent being ambushed outside my home. How dare you! If you don’t leave I shall call the police.”
Rizzo glanced at his companion who removed a large knife from his coat pocket. It was fat and broad with a serrated back, the kind of knife that unhinged survivalists use to kill grizzly bears. My bowels turned to water.
“This is Franco. If I tell him, he will push this knife into your guts for a few seconds, then remove it. You will die, but it will take around ten minutes as you bleed to death inside. It will be extremely painful.”
I had no intention of testing Rizzo’s blood-curdling hypothesis – I trusted him completely. My stomach groaned in panic as I glanced around, trying to spot an escape route.
“Franco followed you home last night from the Institute of Directors, Felix.”
That wouldn’t have been difficult, I’d been thoroughly trolleyed last night, too. I’d been to the annual awards ceremony for the Anglo-German Wine Institute – a small affair but prestigious in its own way – where I’d received a gong for ‘The Most Promising New Talent in the Field of German Wine Exports’. But it was all for nothing. I would die in agony tonight, behind an obscure parade of shops in Little Chalfont, cut down in the prime of a glittering career in international wine buying.
“So we know this is a dead end, the only way out is through us. You are a big man, Felix, and I’m sure you are quick. But not as quick as Franco, I think.”
I stared at the knife, glinting dully in the low light. I was rooted to the spot. I had no doubt that Franco was quick, and I had no intention of running towards his knife to find out.
“Do you know how we know you are a liar, Felix?”
I remained silent.
“When we last saw you at your Head Office you asked what we had done to Sergio. Why would we have done anything to him? Only someone in fear would ask a question like that.”
He was right, of course, the cunning bastard. I’d have to remember that for next time… except there wouldn’t be a next time. This was it. I shuddered as I imagined Franco’s knife julienning my innards.
“So Sergio is ok?” I gibbered. If Morelli was all right then maybe they weren’t so bad. Perhaps they were just trying to scare me and we could come to some kind of grown-up arrangement.
“No, Sergio is-a dead,” stated Rizzo, flatly. “He had a simple job to do and he messed it up.”
Oh Jesus fucking Christ. I was absolutely fucked.
“We visited Braintree and talked to the security guards. It does not take much to persuade a security guard to talk, Felix, they are not paid very much. They told us an interesting story about you arriving at the depot with a colleague, then leaving in a bus. I wonder what was in that bus?” Rizzo didn’t look as though he was wondering at all. But he certainly looked pissed off.
“And we spoke to your neighbour earlier. A strange woman. She accused us of being Polish, I don’t understand why. I do not look Polish, neither does Franco.” Rizzo shook his head and looked at Franco before turning back to me. “She confirmed that you have our people in your apartment. They will be coming with us, they belong to us.”
“Fine,” I replied in a small voice.
“No, not fine. The other things that belong to us. Where are they?”
Coating the nostrils of half London’s dinner party guests, I thought. But I sensed my answer might determine whether I lived or died. Play it cool, Felix. Very, very cool.
I glanced at the dilapidated shed at the end of our patch of garden, then looked down. I had to look defeated, my life depended on it. “In there,” I said, miserably.
“All of it? In there?”
“We wanted to sell it but we didn’t know how,” I muttered, my eyes downcast. That part wasn’t a lie.
Rizzo removed the left hand from his coat pocket. He held a small silver pistol and pointed it at my chest. My stomach turned a somersault. He had me with Franco’s knife, why the hell did he have to pull a gun as well? “Show me. No tricks, Felix.”
Franco stepped forward and poked the end of his knife at my stomach, piercing my coat. I yelped involuntarily.
“Shut up!” hissed Rizzo. “And get moving!”
“Follow me,” I said, my voice quavering. I didn’t have to fake the fear. I turned and quickly strode across the muddy ground, taking care to avoid the ‘Wildflower Zone’ inside the bamboo canes. The pink tent stood like an absurd tit in the centre of the garden, its ‘vacant’ sign swaying in the frosty breeze. In the half-light I could just make out the knee-height strand of wool marking the perimeter of the filled-in pit.
“We’re trying to grow flowers on this ground and we’ve just planted seeds. Please come around the outside, we don’t want them damaged.” Maybe it was the fear, but my tone was even prissier and more condescending than I thought possible.
Rizzo’s face turned dark, he looked at Franco and jerked his head towards me. “Fuck-a your fucking flowers!” he snarled. The two men walked straight towards me, snapping the woollen boundary thread, Franco holding his knife as if he meant to thrust it into my guts the second he reached me.
Christ! This was it. The end! My last throw of the dice and I’d come up snake eyes. I took a step toward them, held up my hands and gibbered in panic, “I’ll pay you back, I promise!”
They were over halfway across the little garden now and barely a knife’s thrust away from me. Then there was a muffled crack, followed by another. The two men paused for a second and Franco looked down. His foot had sunk into the ground up to the ankle and he stumbled slightly. “Cazzo!” he muttered.
There were a few more snapping sounds in quick succession, then Rizzo’s feet plunged into the ground, up to his thighs. He fell forward and his gun discharged – I heard the bullet crack into the wooden shack behind me, right past my left ear. I nearly shat my pants.
“Eeaargh!” shouted Rizzo in dismay. He put his hands down to break his fall, but they sank straight into the ground, up to his elbows.
Franco was flailing his arms as his legs were sucked deeper and deeper into the ground. He grasped the pink W
endy house with one hand, but it offered no support. As his waist disappeared into the ground, he pulled the tent from its moorings and it folded over him, unveiling the porcelain toilet and the neat little buckets of compost to the night sky.
“Mmmmfff!” he shouted, as the pink canvas engulfed him and he sank heavily into the ground. Like a chunk of banana dropped into an obscene breakfast cereal, he was consumed in a series of snapping, crackling and popping gurgles. A hideous smell of faeces and fermenting vegetables flowed from the gaping earth as his cries were muted by the pink plastic smothering his face. He sank below the surface and, within a few seconds, completely disappeared.
Rizzo looked up at me, his eyes bulging. He extricated his left arm from the soggy earth but the other, holding the gun, had sunk in up to the shoulder. He flung his free arm out and grabbed the toilet bowl, which tipped free of its pedestal and thumped to the ground next to him. As his body sank further into the morass, he tried desperately to use it as a prop to keep his head above the surface. He was on his stomach now, both legs buried, as the filthy ooze crept across his back and his torso sank slowly into the pit. He wailed like a child. “Help-a me! Help-a me!”
I was extremely disinclined to help. I watched in morbid fascination as his body was consumed by the sucking earth, only his head and free arm remaining above the slurry, hugging the upended toilet bowl to his face. Then that too began to sink, dark liquid filling the porcelain bowl, as the ground enveloped his writhing body. Rizzo’s final sound was a hideous gurgle as the fermenting juices flowed into his mouth. Then the mud closed over his head and, apart from some gentle bubbling, all was quiet.
The only trace remaining above the ground was a stray pink corner of the tent. A wide-eyed fairy princess with flowing blonde hair winked back at me, gold stars flowing from her wand. I felt myself all over, checking whether I’d been penetrated by a stray bullet or thrusting knife point, but the Hart body had maintained its integrity. I was in the clear!
“Felix? Is that you dear?” Mrs Hodfurrough’s voice floated over the garden fence.
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