by J. S. Monroe
“You would be in the same firm as the terrorist who was killed. Foreign exchange. Derivatives. I’ve spoken with the chairman, he’s an old buddy. You won’t have to do much. Just turn up on time, don’t mess up and find out what you can.”
Walter was still not blinking. Did he know about Henley, the time I had dressed as a toff, bluffed my way into the private members enclosure and started a small war over the strawberries? (I wouldn’t have minded seeing a photo of that.) I had a reputation for cover work, but I was never under for long; just enough to crash posh parties. He had to be joking.
“How much will you pay me?” I asked, trying to assimilate what he was saying.
“I won’t pay you a dime. I thought the scheme might appeal to your warped vision of the world, that’s all.” He paused. “I’m serious, Dutchie. You’ll earn a salary, like everyone else, if you’re good.”
“A salary? How much?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. The going rate. Does it matter?”
I walked around the table, thinking fast. Where was the catch?
“Do I have a choice?” I asked. He ignored me, and returned to opening the tin. Within seconds he had nicked his thumb on the jagged lid.
“Damn,” he said, sucking the cut and pulling out a handkerchief. “This is where you would live.”
“Here?”
“Here. In this house. Do you have a problem with that?”
Yes, I did. A big problem. I didn’t like Walter’s tone. It didn’t sound like there was an alternative. And this was Clapham for fucksake. I had a reputation to think about.
“The place is yours,” Walter continued. “Your room’s upstairs, across the landing. But please, try to use the back door until you’ve got a haircut. It would be a pity if the neighbours mistook you for a squatter.”
He put a key on the table and a white envelope, a wad of notes clearly visible. I stared at the purple money.
“Chop it all off and buy yourself a suit,” he added.
I glanced briefly around the kitchen, looked at the money again and tried to think clearly.
“What if I decide I don’t want to do this?” I asked.
Walter appeared genuinely hurt. He put the opener down on the sideboard but he still had his back to me.
“Would you mind saying that again?” he asked.
“I said, I might not want to live in Clapham, work in the City. In fact, I know I don’t.”
The idea sounded even more absurd when I repeated it back to him.
“I don’t think you quite get it,” he said, turning. His voice was on a level, but there was more behind it, greater depth. “Sit down Dutchie, take a seat.”
I hesitated, then reluctantly leant against the table, wanting to know more. Walter adjusted the handkerchief. He had wrapped it loosely around his thumb, making it look enormous.
“You came to me wanting to ‘help’,” he started. “Well, I’m giving you that chance. But I’m telling you Dutchie, I don’t warm to ingratitude. The police have enough information to put you away for life, do you know that? But for some reason, I’ve watched your file over the years, kept it thin. Maybe it’s because I like your father.”
“You’re blackmailing me,” I said, stopping him. These were serious allegations he was making. I didn’t get arrested because I never got caught, not because of family favours.
“I wouldn’t call it blackmail, exactly.” He paused. “I’m giving you a break. Discover who the terrorists are, and you can be around when we bring them in. Have a few minutes on your own. Introduce yourself.”
7
I turned on to the river and walked towards the wharf. To my right, a pile-driver was squeezing a concrete post inch by inch into the earth, the double knock echoing across the water and back again. To my left, a rusty barge was listing on the mud, abandoned by the cruel tide to balance a load of steel piping. Beyond it seagulls were pecking at something in the shallow water. For a moment I thought it was the toff, back to see us, then I realised it was a cat, stiff-legged and bloated, like a set of bagpipes.
Walter wanted an answer by six. I sensed it was a formality, to humour me. There was something suspicious about his relaxed manner, the lack of concern as I had left the house with his money. I tried to weigh up the options. The notion of me, of all people, working in the City was ridiculous, a non-starter, strangely appealing. It brought my revenge into focus, made it easier. Annalese’s killers were rich bastards. It didn’t matter that they were living a lie. I could lie too, then kill them. Perhaps Walter knew that. There was something of the Trojan horse in the plan, entering the heart of the establishment by the front door. Apart from my few brief stints undercover, I had always been on the wrong side of the barriers, running, circling; here was a chance to hit them from within. Who knows? After I had found the bombers, I could have some fun, wipe off a few millions, a few smiles.
As I drew close to the jetty, I could smell the refinery further down stream. It supplied sugar to brewers. On some days, when the wind was from the east, our barge smelt of nothing else. I used to tell Annalese that was why South London was so full of alcoholics. The slightest whiff had everyone diving for the nearest pub.
I couldn’t see the barge from the path – it was tucked behind a carcass once used to ferry passengers up to Charing Cross – but as I approached, something struck me immediately as wrong. I walked up to the Portakabin where Vic, the wharf foreman, usually sat. I could see the top of a head, but it wasn’t Victor’s. His son sometimes covered but it wasn’t his head either.
“Alright?” I said. The stranger pushed open the sliding window. He had a crew-cut and a dense, soldier’s moustache.
“Yes mate, can I help you?”
I looked over towards the barge. I could normally see the stem from where I was standing, but there was nothing there. I felt my stomach twisting into a tight ball. Glancing at the unfamiliar face again, I walked past the Portakabin.
“Oi! Where do you think you are going?” he said. I could hear him pushing back his metal chair.
“Go fuck yourself,” I said quietly. I was running now. The boat had definitely gone. There was no trace of it. I even had difficulty trying to work out where it had been moored. The boats had been moved about. Two new ones had come in – a crabber and an old tug – and our neighbour’s boat had also disappeared.
I looked around. The new foreman was walking briskly towards me. He seemed bigger now, more thick-set, a large beer gut hanging over his jeans. He was too big to take out, and in his left hand he had a thin metal bar, about two feet long.
“Where’s my boat?” I asked, turning to meet him.
“What boat?”
“My fucking boat. It’s been moored here for the last six months.”
“I ain’t seen you or your boat before.”
I stared incredulously at the man. My mind was humming, checking through the possibilities. It had to be Walter.
“Now get off the site,” he said, raising the bar a fraction. I didn’t wait around. As I was leaving, a flash of colour caught my eye. I bent down and retrieved something from the mud without stopping. It was a small card, partially sealed in seethrough plastic. One side was blank. On the other it had a picture of flowers and some blurred biro writing, distorted by water. I could just make out Annalese’s name.
8
I stood at the front door, knocked and waited, pulling nervously on the cuffs of my jacket. My shoes were ridiculously shiny, like two little pools of still water. I could hear someone walking down the hall.
“I thought I said the back,” Walter said, fiddling with the chain. His voice tailed off as he opened the door.
“Jesus…”
“One rich bastard,” I said coldly, and tugged at my cuffs again. Walter stood there admiring his new creation. All my earrings had gone and my dreadlocks had been cut off. My head was completely shaved. The suit was double-breasted, dark and lightly herringboned. My tie was sober blue and patterned with bubbles shape
d like quotation marks.
“All you need now is a copy of the FT,” he said quietly. “Come in, come in.”
I squeezed past Walter, who remained standing in the doorway, his right arm outstretched, directing traffic. There was a whiff of sweet sherry on his breath. It was a familiar smell, rushing me back twenty years to when I used to stand on his toes, hold his outstretched hands and lean back, pretending to water-ski. For a moment, I wanted to turn around and run past him into the night. But the warmth of the kitchen drew me in. The lighting was low and the room smelt of baked potatoes, burning onions, home. Walter came in behind me, went straight to the microwave and removed a lump of grey, sweating meat.
“I’m off the pace. Pour yourself a drink,” he said, and began chopping carrots with a blunt knife. “Are you hungry? You look hungry.”
“It depends. I don’t eat meat.”
“You don’t eat meat? Of course you do. How can you be English and not like meat? You used to like it. I got a piece of beef in specially, just like old times.”
I ignored him. Since the bomb I had been unable to walk past a butcher’s. There were two bulging suitcases in the hall, green with brown leather straps and brass buckles. A bottle of Californian red wine was standing on the table, uncorked. I picked it up, had a sniff and replaced it too hard. Pulling a chair out from under the table, I sat down, splaying my legs out in front of me. I then opened my suit jacket, removed a can of Special Brew and peeled it open.
“Where’s my barge?” I asked.
Walter turned around, squinted over the top of his glasses and resumed chopping. A pan on the stove started to smoke purposefully.
“Safe enough. There’s some Merlot on the table. Wash that pigswill down the sink and pour yourself a glass.”
I wasn’t too concerned about the barge. In fact, its disappearance had swayed me, made me get a haircut and buy a suit. It showed Walter had resources, that he was serious. Barges were hard things to lose.
Walter’s cooking was painful to watch. He took the pan off the red-hot ring and waved the smoke away. Then he dipped a fat finger into another pan, licked it and tipped some wine from his glass into it. The smoke alarm went off, making us both jump.
“Damn thing,” Walter said, shuffling over to the corner. He picked up a broom and tried to knock the red button on the alarm above the doorway. I watched him miss a few times. He was almost falling over with the effort. The alarm was piercing.
“Here, I’ll do it,” I said.
Reluctantly, I stood and pulled a chair over to the door, scraping it across the tiles. I climbed up and turned the alarm off.
“Goddam thing,” he said, a faint asthmatic wheeze thickening his breath. “It’s so unforgiving! Wouldn’t even let me cook toast this morning.”
Walter looked ridiculous, standing there with an upturned brush in his hand, and sweat glistening on his brow. He must have been bullied as a child, taunted for his fatness, forced to go on cross-country runs. I was in danger of feeling sorry for him when the doorbell went. “That’ll be your partner,” he said, and turned back to the sideboard.
“My partner?”
“Charlotte. Your handler.”
“I’m not a dog.”
“She’ll be staying here with you. Lay the table, would you mind?”
I took a swig of Special Brew and watched Walter wipe his hands on a tea-cloth. As he went into the hallway, the cloth slid off its hook and caught on the leaves of a yucca plant below. Events were moving too quickly. I felt a slight draught as the front door opened. I could smell the tangy night air – exhaust fumes mingled with rain. Again, I had a sudden urge to run. I glanced around the room for another way out, and then checked myself, listening for the sound of my partner’s voice. For some reason I expected to hear Annalese. There was silence. The door closed and I saw Walter coming towards me, followed by a woman, hidden behind his frame.
“Charlotte, meet Douglas,” he said. Douglas? I turned on Walter.
“My name’s Dutchie,” I said, ignoring Charlotte’s outstretched hand and taking another swig of lager.
“Not anymore it isn’t,” Walter said. “Did I forget to tell you? No one’s called Dutchie in the City. It’s too…”
“Too what?”
“Too… unlikely. Hey, Douglas is a nice enough name. It’s the one you were born with, for Chrissake. Pour yourself a drink. Charlotte, make yourself at home.”
Charlotte had been watching our tense exchange awkwardly, gradually letting her outstretched arm drop. She put her shoulder bag down by the door and went over to the stove to see what was cooking.
“Mmm, smells good,” she said, trying to lighten the mood.
“Scottish roast beef with Yorkshire pudding. And Dutchie eats plants.”
She glanced at me but I was consciously looking elsewhere. She leant with her back against the sideboard, turning sideways towards Walter.
“Nice place you have here Walter,” she said. “I was expecting something more… Manhattan.”
“There’s a loft conversion.”
“Really? But no views of Central Park.”
“Just good old Clapham Common. It’ll do for now.”
She looked across at me again. I had sat down, wrongfooted by the new woman in my life. Charlotte was immaculately dressed in dark brown jacket and trousers. Her hair was blonde and bobbed, rocks sparkled from her ears. She had a strong, muscular physique, about my height, perhaps a little taller. Not my type at all.
“The suit. Did you buy it today?” she asked, nodding at my chest.
“Yeah,” I said, putting a cigarette to my lips and letting it hang limply. I didn’t want to open my mouth until I had calculated the effect my new appearance had on others. Before, people either crossed the street or gave me money.
“It’s a nice cut,” she said, smiling.
“How much has he told you?” I asked, lighting the cigarette and gesturing vaguely in Walter’s direction.
“She knows that’s not the accent you were born with,” Walter said, removing another smoking pan from the stove. “Got that broom ready?”
“I’ve seen your file,” she said. “That’s all.”
“I’m doing this for Annalese,” I said, exaggerating my accent. It had taken me years to shake off the one I had been born with. “I don’t usually wear suits. Or go to dinner parties in Clapham. Or work in the City.”
“Relax,” she said, pulling a chair out and sitting down opposite me. I looked at her intently, forcing her to look away. Her jaw was broad, masculine in its sweep, but she had a slight, tidy nose, and her lips were full. I got up and walked around the kitchen. She watched me cautiously.
“I know about Annalese,” she said. “I’m sorry. We all are. She was a very special woman.”
She glanced briefly at Walter for support. How dare she talk about Annalese? She had never even met her.
“You can trust her,” Walter said. “She’s here to take care of things, help you out.”
“What sort of help?” I asked.
“Advice, information,” she said.
“I’m not interested in information. I’m finding Annalese’s killers then I’m…”
“… I know,” she said. “We’re all in this together.”
“It’s important you don’t go after the wrong people, that’s all,” Walter added.
Charlotte turned the can of lager around on the table and read the label. “Nine per cent. Ouch. Do they drink this stuff in the City?”
I came back to the table and retrieved the can. “I don’t give a fuck what they drink in the City.”
“The terrorists will kill you if they suspect anything,” she said bluntly.
Her words surprised me but I tried to ignore them. I finished the lager in one long draught, leaning my head back further than necessary. I then jolted it forward and looked at her. I could feel the alcohol begin to dissolve my brain. Charlotte’s eyes were striking, not the irises, which seemed grey and indeterminate
, but the white around them, blanched and vivid, just like her teeth.
“Do we get to sleep together?” I asked as I crumpled the can.
“Regrettably, no,” she said, looking away.
“Shame.”
“Best not mix business with pleasure,” she said, smiling.
“Anyone for tomato soup?” Walter had arrived between us, holding two lukewarm bowls. Charlotte pushed her chair back and opened a drawer. She pulled out a sheaf of silver spoons and dropped them in the middle of the table. “Will you excuse me for a moment,” she said.
She got up and went down the corridor to the bathroom, taking her bag with her. Her hips were supple, confident. Cigarette in one hand, I spread the cutlery out into three rough places. The lager was taking the edge off my unease.
“Don’t think about her that way, Dutchie,” Walter said, blinking. “Think of her as a man.”
He put the last bowl of soup down on the table, spilling it a little. It was always a surprise when Walter spoke with a broken voice. In fact, he talked softly in deep West Coast tones, a lisp curling the edge of occasional words.
“Never crossed my tiny mind,” I said.
That wasn’t quite true. For a moment, I had imagined her sitting astride me on the kitchen floor, her skirt hitched up, but I dismissed it when Annalese walked in on us, jealous, mutilated. There would be too much to explain.
We both sat down. Walter produced three white linen napkins and tucked a corner of one of them in amongst his family of chins. He glanced awkwardly over his shoulder and then leant forward.
“She’s a dyke, really. You wouldn’t think so, looking at her. Sexy, no?”
This time Annalese and Charlotte were on the floor together. Walter smiled mischievously, blinking again. I had never heard him raise the subject of sex before. His lisp, more pronounced when he was drunk, chose to turn “sexy” into “theckthee”. The door opened at the end of the corridor.
“Don’t wait for me,” Charlotte called, walking in and sitting down. She leant back and ran one hand breezily through her hair.
“You’re a wonderful cook, Walter. The best,” she said, joining the conspiracy. His face sweated with pride.