Stealing People

by Robert Wilson

There was another twenty metres of warehouse space, which had been walled off, where the atmosphere was noticeably drier. There was a small forklift and the boxes were piled in three levels almost to the ceiling. They were stored by brand.

  ‘We keep the humidity under control,’ said Pink, pointing to machines around the room. ‘The place been insulated to fuck. We don’t send out no damp smokes, you get?’

  ‘Looks good.’

  They went back to the office. Cox was at his desk, reading glasses on and smoking a strong-smelling cheroot. Pink took up his position leaning against the wall behind him. Boxer opened the small holdall with the money.

  ‘This is six thousand two hundred and fifty for the first five hundred cartons.’

  ‘You want delivery to Bristol, that gonna be another two hundred,’ said Pink.

  ‘I wanted to ask you about another London supplier I’d arranged to see,’ said Boxer. ‘We had the meeting all set up and then he disappeared. I wondered if you’d ever heard of Marcus Alleyne?’

  ‘We heard of him,’ said Pink. ‘Small dealer. Fencing other goods. Smokes just a part his business.’

  ‘You know what happened to him?’ asked Boxer, putting the money on the table.

  ‘Maybe he got picked up by the po-lice,’ said Pink.

  Cox had turned to look at Pink as if he’d noticed some change in tone.

  As Boxer reached in for the last pack of banknotes, he released the catch on the false bottom and retrieved the gun, which he pulled out of the bag and pointed at Pink. Cox stiffened in his chair.

  ‘Thought you too good to be true,’ said Pink.

  ‘I knew you weren’t,’ said Boxer. ‘Now look, Delroy, I’m not interested in anything except what happened to Marcus Alleyne. Clarify that and I’m out of here.’

  ‘You know what he’s talking about, Pink?’ asked Cox.

  Pink nodded slowly and with eyes gone so dead that Boxer thought he might have had some kind of seizure. His instinct told him otherwise and he took three fast steps to one side of the office door, which slammed open. First thing across the threshold was a Walther P99 held in a black hand. Boxer gave the wrist an upward chop and the gun went off, putting a large hole in the ceiling before falling from the now paralysed hand. One step across and a sharp punch to the solar plexus and Jarrod went down. Boxer picked up the Walther P99 and pointed it at Pink and the FN57 at Cox. Jarrod crawled around on the floor in circles trying to persuade air back into his lungs.

  Cox was rigid in his chair, hands flat on his desk, the cheroot still smoking, ears ringing.

  ‘You were saying, Pink,’ said Boxer.

  Pink had come off the wall, eyes widening to visible whites, which was the closest he ever got to an expression of surprise.

  Cox turned to him, suspicious, questioning.

  ‘You doing things behind my back, Pink?’

  ‘Just a little business on the side ’t’s all.’

  ‘Talk us through it,’ said Boxer.

  ‘I get a call from a woman called Jess. She running security for Glider. She offering me twenty-five thousand if I can deliver this Marcus Alleyne to a disused warehouse in Clapham. She telling me he’s a fence, does smokes. So I set up a deal where I buy a thousand cartons from him. I’s worried about him calling Glider to check. She telling me she’s using G’s old phone, said she’d set him straight.’

  ‘How did it work?’ asked Boxer.

  ‘I set up the deal with Marcus. We take delivery of the smokes. Jarrod here,’ said Pink, looking down at the floor, ‘he hit the man on the head with a SAP glove, take him out. We deliver him to the warehouse. Some white guy there make sure the man all right, paid us our money, we split.’

  ‘Tell me about the white guy.’

  ‘What’s there to tell? He white, shaved head, I mean to the skin, maybe six foot tall, looked like he could handle himself. London accent. Took Marcus away in a white van, didn’t catch the plates.’

  ‘Where’s the warehouse in Clapham?’

  ‘On the Clapham Road. Borg and Ranelli the name, can’t remember the number.’

  Boxer looked at Jarrod still groaning on the floor. He leaned forward and hit him hard on the head with the butt of the Walther P99, knocked him right out.

  ‘Tell him that’s for hitting Marcus,’ he said. ‘He’s a friend of mine. Now I’m going to walk out of here and you’re never going to see me again unless I find that you called Jess. I hear that and I’ll be back and I won’t be alone and you’ll be out of the cigarette business for a long time. When I find Marcus, you’ll return his cigarettes to him plus ten grand. How’s that sound, Pink?’

  Pink gave one of his imperceptible nods, wary of Boxer, like he was the bear in the room. Boxer packed his money back into the bag, with the FN57. He checked his watch.

  ‘Let’s take a walk, Pink,’ he said, and waved him forward with the Walther.

  They went out of the office and into the reception area. Pink stood there waiting.

  ‘Keep going, Pink. You know where the door is.’

  The rail-thin body started to shake. Boxer shoved him forward so that he hit the door, bounced off it, blood on his cheek.

  ‘Don’t like dogs, Pink?’ said Boxer. ‘Maybe you don’t feed them enough. Give them a nice bit of leg. Mind you, they’d come away hungry from your skinny arse. Now show me the way out.’

  Pink shouldered past him, fierce with anger at having his cool exposed as fake. They went through another door and into the warehouse, worked their way through the cars to a steel door on the other side, which had four bolts and a heavy lock. Pink let him out into the cold night air.

  ‘Don’t let me down, Pink, or I’ll be back with a platoon of me,’ said Boxer, tucking the Walther P99 down the back of his trousers.

  He found his way around the warehouse and back on to Latona Road. He turned his mobile phone back on as he started to think about how he was going to deal with Jess, direct or through Glider.

  He listened to his messages and started running.

  ‘You’re on,’ said Siobhan. ‘We have to leave our mobiles like I did the last time. They’re a nervous bunch.’

  ‘How do we know where to go?’

  Siobhan shrugged, put hers on the table. Amy did the same, but underneath it she hid the screwed-up piece of paper with the mobile number on it that she’d found under the bed when Siobhan had disappeared the first time. They left the flat, heading for Upper Street and the Highbury & Islington tube. On the crowded pavement someone brushed past Siobhan, knocked her shoulder back. She was about to remonstrate until she found a mobile phone in her hand, which rang.

  ‘Cross the road, take a bus down to Angel.’

  Off the bus they were told to head past the York pub and beyond some gardens, down some steps, to the towpath of the Regent’s Canal. They stumbled along in the pitch black with street lights high above them, cars occasionally flashing overhead. A lone figure looked down on them from a bridge. A dog walker on the other side of the canal flicked a cigarette into the water.

  They came off the towpath and walked up to Canonbury in a big circle, almost back to Highbury & Islington until they were directed into a park - New River Walk. A path led them along a narrow river and it was as if they were no longer in London. A silence descended. Traffic disappeared. City life backed away. Beyond the park were large houses with extensive gardens in front of unpeopled streets. Yellow-lit living rooms revealed book-lined walls opposite expensive art and gilt-framed mirrors.

  ‘Where are we?’ asked Amy.

  ‘Hampshire,’ said Siobhan. ‘Let’s take a seat.’

  They waited on a bench for the next instruction. Siobhan took Amy’s hand.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Amy.

  ‘Comforting you on your first mission.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said, starting to tug her hand away, but Siobhan held on, pulled her in, kissed her.

  Amy struggled. Siobhan hugged her tight and she was stronger. Amy gave up
all resistance.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ said Siobhan. ‘You know you want to.’

  Amy lashed out with a fist. Siobhan took the blow on the side of the head just as her mobile went off. She took the call, glaring.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ asked the voice.

  ‘Lovers’ tiff,’ said Siobhan.

  ‘Well stop it,’ said the voice. ‘You’re drawing attention to yourselves. Now walk up the river, cross the gardens and wait on the road for a cab to pick you up.’

  Siobhan cut the phone, nodded to Amy, who was ranting.

  ‘Calm down, drama queen,’ said Siobhan. ‘Let’s move it.’

  They crossed the river, came out on the other side of the park. A cab pulled up and they got in. Amy rammed herself into the corner, feet up ready to kick out.

  ‘You were so keen before,’ said Siobhan. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t like being attacked.’

  ‘I get horny when I’m on edge.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Siobhan and stared out the window.

  She leaned over to the intercom and asked the driver if he had anything to tell them.

  ‘Told me to drop you at Clissold Park. That’s it.’

  The cab turned on to the Essex Road and headed north, dropping them at the corner of a very flat, huge dark open space where only the occasional jogging trainers beneath fluorescent jackets were visible in the gloom. They crossed the park taking the diagonal tarmac path. Some lads came off the steps of a building in the middle where a board advertised afternoon teas, followed them, muttering low words, until Siobhan stopped and turned.

  ‘Can I help you boys?’ she asked.

  ‘I reckon you could,’ said one.

  ‘Don’t be shy then,’ said Siobhan. ‘Just come out and ask for it.’

  Low, shifting laughter from the three men.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Amy.

  ‘No,’ said Siobhan. ‘I want to know what they’re after. I’m sure I can help.’

  ‘Walking alone in a park, two girls, mean only one thing,’ said one of the men.

  ‘And what’s that?’ asked Siobhan. ‘Don’t be coy.’

  Some uncertainty crept into their swagger as they saw her lack of fear. The bold, talkative one stepped forward.

  ‘How ’bout a fuck?’ he said.

  ‘Not with you … surprisingly,’ said Siobhan. ‘You’ve got work to do on those chat-up lines. Now piss off back to school.’

  He went for her, ducking low, aiming to drive her off the path and on to the grass, get her on the ground. Siobhan brought her knee up sharply, and crowned him with both fists on the back of the head so that his face ploughed into the tarmac. His arms and legs twitched, which freaked out the other two, who turned and ran.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Siobhan shouted after them.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Amy. ‘You’ve really hurt him.’

  ‘And he wasn’t going to hurt me?’

  ‘You can’t just be, can you?’ said Amy. ‘Something always has to happen.’

  ‘Only because people have been so fucking nice to me all my life,’ said Siobhan.

  ‘Let’s go. He’s coming round.’

  Siobhan took two steps and hoofed him in the groin.

  16

  19.30, 16 January 2014

  Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, Fulham Road, London SW3

  Boxer ran into the hospital reception. He hadn’t called Alyshia back. He didn’t want to hear things on the phone. He wanted to see Isabel. He wanted to hear her voice. He wanted the reality of her flesh, to hold her close. He was out of breath, a wildness in his eyes, and he had his case still in one hand with the money, the FN57 and the Walther P99. He got the words out: Isabel Marks, admitted to A and E, emergency C-section. He asked for a room number.

  The receptionist tapped the name into the computer.

  ‘According to this she’s still in ICU, fifth floor, lift bank B.’

  Boxer was running before she’d finished. Visitors, porters, administrators flitted past him in a delirium on his way to the lifts. He waited, barely able to contain his suppressed rage at the slightest delay. He filed into the lift with people looking cheerful, bored, resigned, indifferent and checked his mobile phone. There were messages, some from Mercy. He didn’t want to answer, turned his mobile off.

  He was the only person to get out at the fifth floor. He ran to ICU, blathered her name so that the nurse had to ask him to repeat it. She’d just come on shift. She entered the name and frowned.

  ‘She’s not here any more … if she ever was. She’s in room 574, which is just down the corridor here on the left-hand side.’

  He set off again, hurtling down the corridor, checking the numbers until he got to 574. Only then did he slow down. He straightened his shoulders, caught his breath, brought his head up and examined the laminate of the door and the steel numbers. He knew he had to prepare himself, as if what was beyond the door was going to be enormously demanding. He could feel himself changing, physically and mentally: diminishing in size, narrowing psychologically, conscious of his vital organs, his inflating and deflating lungs, his thundering heart, his quivering legs. It took great personal courage for him just to reach for the brushed steel door handle. Pushing it down seemed like an act of valour. The door swung open. The first thing he saw was a huddled form on the other side of the room like a sculpture, frozen in time. His mind reached tentatively for the title of this sculpture. It struck him as something universal. What came to mind was the word Pietà.

  The sculpture moved, disassembled itself and rising out of the folds of cloth and limb came two distinct bodies. A man and a woman. Boxer knew them, but struggled to compute from where because his senses were so overwhelmed by what was pending in the room.

  ‘Oh Charlie,’ said a woman’s voice.

  Alyshia stepped out of the deconstructing sculpture and stood before him. Deepak Mistry got to his feet behind her. They looked at him as if he was on a ledge about to jump off.

  ‘Oh Charlie.’

  It was Alyshia who’d said these words, and they were so plaintive that they held him, locked him in place, paralysed him. He was unable to cross the threshold, as if to do so would be to admit that something terrible had happened.

  They looked to their left and he was aware now that there was a bed in the room and that what was pending was on it. His feet wouldn’t move. He could only lean forward and look in. There was someone on the bed, a head on a pillow, staring up at the ceiling but with eyelids closed. No drips, no oxygen. Nothing. Boxer looked back to Alyshia, who had suddenly dropped to her knees and seemed to be retching. She rested her forehead on her fists and her body jerked uncontrollably. Mistry fell to her side, put his arm over her back, looked up at Boxer, beseeching.

  He couldn’t work it out. Nothing was making any sense. With cataclysmic effort he managed to put his foot in the room as if he too was emerging from marble.

  Looking to his right, he realised that the woman in the bed had dark brown hair. He managed to move closer even though something in his brain was telling him not to go there. He recognised the eyebrows. They were dark and very straight. Then he saw the slight declivity beneath the cheekbone. He was unaware of the delusional powers of the human brain at this point and still had not connected these well-known features to his pregnant lover. He reached her bedside and looked down on her face, which was so still and waxen he wasn’t sure whether he was looking at something human.

  ‘Who is this?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s Isabel,’ said Mistry, still kneeling, disconcerted, astonished.

  ‘No,’ said Boxer. ‘This isn’t her. She’s … she’s … not here.’

  Alyshia pulled herself up and went to Boxer’s side, put her arms around him.

  ‘It’s Mummy,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘She died on the operating table during the emergency C-section. Her heart stopped …’

  ‘But they said
she was in ICU. Are you sure this is … ?’

  ‘She never went to ICU. I think they reserved a place for her, but she never made it there.’

  Boxer put his case down and leaned over the figure in the bed. He put both fists on either side of her head and looked deeply into her face. He could see vestiges of the woman he loved but the lack of animation was startling. He realised that he’d never seen anyone really close to him dead. Even his mother when she was comatose after her suicide attempt had had more vitality in her than this … this carcass.

  ‘He’s in shock,’ said Mistry.

  Boxer straightened, stared at him, transfixed.

  ‘I didn’t mean anything by it, Charlie,’ said Mistry. ‘We’re all in shock. She was so alive only yesterday, and now …’

  Boxer stuck his hands into his pockets and looked down at her as if she was a job of work. Then he cast about the room as if the vital bit of her must still be around and all that was required was to get it back in there. Push the genie back into the bottle was the silly phrase that came to mind.

  A nurse came into the room with a paper in her hands, which she gave to Alyshia. She squeezed her shoulder and said:

  ‘Stay here as long as you like.’

  ‘This is Charles Boxer,’ said Alyshia.

  ‘Oh, right, I’ll tell the doctor. She’ll want to come and talk to you.’

  Alyshia thanked her. The nurse left, closing the door. Alyshia looked at the paper.

  ‘Cause of death: pulmonary embolism,’ she said. ‘It’s a blood clot …’

  ‘I know what a pulmonary embolism is,’ said Boxer, quietly.

  Alyshia gave him the paper. He looked at the details. There was no doubt now. Isabel Marks, date of birth, address; everything was as it should be except that this was the paper he should never have had to hold.

  A doctor came in. A woman. Impossibly young for such responsibility. She shook hands with Boxer, introduced herself.

  ‘We did everything we could,’ she said. ‘It’s difficult to know how long she’d been lying at the foot of the stairs …’

  ‘At the foot of the stairs?’ said Boxer.