by J. S. Monroe
When there were only three people left between me and the counter I looked out of the window for someone to pass, someone with a bag. Where was the street life in this place? A woman in her thirties, plastic bag in each hand, walked into frame. Perfect.
“Excuse me,” I said suddenly. “That lady’s just left without paying.”
“Which one?” a cashier asked. Heads turned and there were murmurs.
“Her, with the bags,” I shouted. “I saw her filling them with rolls a second ago, just now.”
Both women moved to the door. I followed them, aware of the commotion brewing nicely behind me.
“Disgusting,” someone said.
I turned to join in the chorus. “And it’s us who have to pay in the long run.”
“Where did she go?” the cashier asked.
“There, just crossing the road,” I said, pointing down the street. “With the bags.”
The cashier walked, then started to run awkwardly after her, wobbling on her clogs. “Hello? Excuse me!” she called.
The other woman stood on the doorstep, hands on hips, watching her colleague.
“Can someone kindly serve those of us who choose to pay for our sandwiches?” a man said from inside the shop.
The lady went back in. I took one look at the other cashier, now talking to the woman with the bags, and stepped out of the shop in the other direction.
It wasn’t the most relaxing lunch-break and I had a problem on my hands next time around. I couldn’t go back to Pret A Manger. Would anyone notice if I ordered from elsewhere? These people were connoisseurs. They would notice.
Dropping Toxo’s Spicy Chicken in front of him, I hung around, leaning against the edge of his desk. Pete was across the other side of the floor.
“Do you know a bank called Kiruna Kredit?” I asked, tucking into my Icelandic prawns.
“Never sold me anything,” Toxo said. “Why?”
“They called on Swedish kronas against pesetas. Made 32/28 in three months.”
“Crazy, man. It’s probably some part-time outfit in Dubai, somewhere like that. They come on occasionally, time wasters. Don’t touch them. Dan, have you…”
“… Why do they call you Toxo?” I said, interrupting him.
“Why?”
“Just wondered,” I said, smiling.
Dan overheard the conversation and came over. “Because he arrives in the morning still intoxicated, that’s why. Toxo Thompson. A very toxic individual.”
Toxo smiled proudly and turned to his screens. At least he had a nickname, a bit of character. I suddenly wanted to take him into my confidence, explain what I was doing, why I was asking questions. There was no need to pretend with him, he would understand.
Instead I went back to my desk to watch the PIBOR futures rise and fall all afternoon.
*
When I got home that night Charlotte was out. She had been back and gone again. No note, just her work coat draped over a kitchen chair. I felt exhausted. If something had happened in the afternoon I might have been less tired, but nothing happened and that was even worse. Pete shadowed me through a small deal, but I was made to hedge it, which irked me. Then it annoyed me that I was irked. I hadn’t made a killing, but so what? I had to remind myself what I was doing.
Remember the coffee farmers.
I found the money where I had left it and took my suit off, treading on the trousers as I left them. I briefly contemplated some coke but decided against it. Until I had the measure of my new routine, I would keep the nose clean. I owed it to Annalese.
Downstairs I wandered around listlessly, flicked through the TV channels, read a Blockbuster Video catalogue, went back into the kitchen, thumped the wall. What was I doing, working in the City? A Tops Pizza menu had been pinned to the side of the dresser, left thoughtfully by Walter. I ordered a Four Seasons, then rang back, cancelled it, had a row. I hadn’t heard anything from Walter. Charlotte was my only contact, the only evidence that my fake life was real. Walter said he would drop by at the end of the week. I was looking forward to reporting back, letting him know that I could shovel this capitalism shit, that my old life was one of choice, an informed decision. “We need to talk,” I scribbled on a scrap of paper, and was asleep by the time Charlotte returned.
*
Sleepy-eyed, Charlotte stood by the sink, looking out over the black common, shivering in the cold. It was ten to six in the morning and I was surprised to find her making coffee.
“I got your note,” she said.
“Yeah, listen. I saw Simon Briggs yesterday, the chairman. He’s a friend of MI5, right?”
“A very old friend.”
“So that’s why he says to me, ‘I’m only too pleased to help again’.”
“Is that what you’ve got me up for?” she asked, turning.
“Yeah.”
She sighed and took two mugs over to the coffee pot. “He’s helped in the past. That’s all he meant.”
“You see, I thought he might have meant that I wasn’t the first person to go after the bombers. That others had tried and failed. Which means someone is lying to me.”
“No, He didn’t mean that. I’ve told you. No one is lying. You’re the first.”
*
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. The quiet markets allowed me to blend in seamlessly as a spectator. I wasn’t going to risk dealing again. I might get hooked. Charlotte had put my mind at rest, but an unfocused doubt still lingered. Walter hadn’t told me everything, I was sure of that.
After work I dipped seven pints, the same as everyone else, and just resisted headbutting Chuckster. He was too easy-going, too affable. On Thursday I went to the pub again, only it was eight pints this time. Friday, they said, was drinking day.
The remorseless schedule was taking its toll, physically and financially. Being skint was the only real threat to my cover. Rounds were expensive – £18 a shout – and bets were constantly being placed in the office – £500 that Manchester United would beat Newcastle on Saturday, £50 on the Dallas Cowboys winning the NFL Super Bowl. I had £40 left in my pocket and explained I wasn’t a gambling man, but it was untypical, eye-catching. Dealers gambled.
Homelife was no more eventful. I accepted that Charlotte could have been worse. In the mornings we went through the charade of kissing each other goodbye; in the evenings, we talked briefly about any developments at work, but kept our distance. She was more wary of me when I was drunk. We didn’t share any more joints and she kept out of the bathroom when I was having a bath. The anonymous routine suited us both. If we discussed anything other than work we would argue, maybe even fight, we both knew that.
I tried a few times to ring Annalese’s mum, but without success. I wasn’t sure I could cope anyway. Leafe would be missing Annalese. At least my life had a purpose of sorts. One night I had a nightmare about Matt, Katrina’s old boyfriend. When I woke up I couldn’t remember much, but he had been talking about Annalese again, making wild accusations. Katrina had kept shouting that it wasn’t true – “she would never do a thing like that” – but I didn’t know what either of them were talking about.
On Saturday morning, at the end of my second week at work, I slept until noon. Occasionally I broke the surface, peered out at the magnitude of my hangover, and slid under again. I had lost count of how many pints I had drunk. When I finally stirred from my room for some breakfast, Charlotte kept an eye on me, more so than usual. She called out my name when I climbed back upstairs, checking to see if I was still in the house and she came with me when I went out for some air. She apologised, said it was orders, and linked her arm through mine as we walked across the common to the shops. She smiled a lot and told me not to look so glum. People might be watching. Walter was satisfied with how things were going, she said. He wouldn’t be visiting. Officially he was giving me two months to come up with something; unofficially, he had expected results in two weeks.
If things continued in the way they were going, a
part of me wouldn’t mind if it took two years. Samantha West and the other bombers had chosen well when they settled on the City for their day jobs. I had worked out what I was supposed to be doing, which was a mistake. I was beginning to savour the mayhem. I liked trying to bust the complex systems designed to hold us in check. I was warming to the anarchy of it all.
18
“It’s no different from a bingo hall,” Charlotte said, stepping out of the taxi.
“You don’t have to wear a jacket and tie for bingo.”
I followed her on to the pavement. She nodded at me to pay the driver. I looked at her for a moment – why couldn’t she pay him? – and then turned to the cabbie. We had to keep up appearances. I had taken black cabs before, but this was the first time I had paid for one.
I wasn’t happy. It was approaching midnight and, unlike me, Edgware Road was showing few signs of tiredness. The shops were still open and people were buying their groceries, even getting their hair cut. The entire dealing room, in its wisdom, had decided to meet up at a West End casino, just in case there wasn’t enough adrenalin coursing through our bodies already. I couldn’t get out of it. Toxo had taken the trouble to sign me and Charlotte up as members on Friday (thereby complying with the casino’s twenty-four-hour membership rule).
Charlotte was genuinely looking forward to it and had dressed up for the occasion: pearl choker, ankle length evening dress (black and split), fur collared coat, heels. I was in my only suit. I had wanted to wear a discreet earstud but she had forbidden me. She liked it, she said, which surprised me, but the casino management might not.
We found the casino easily enough. It was the building with the string of white limos outside. The doormen, two chiselled blocks of granite, searched me more thoroughly than the others in the short queue. Charlotte stood patiently, smiling as I held my arms out. I sweated trouble like garlic.
“What the fuck are we doing here?” I said after they had finished, making sure they were still in earshot. I strode up some stairs under a huge chandelier and on into the main gambling hall. Charlotte followed me, catching up with a trot.
“We’re here because dealers like gambling,” she said quietly. “We’ll do more harm than good if you start behaving like a child.”
I stopped, turned towards her, checked myself. The cavalry had arrived. Chuckster was coming towards us, cigarette in hand.
“Douglas, splendid to see you,” he said. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
He shook my hand, beamed at Charlotte, then looked back at me. I turned away, gazing out across the roulette wheels.
“I’m Charlotte,” she said, looking briefly at me and greeting Chuckster.
“Charlie. The lads in the office all call me Chuckster,” he said, glancing at me again. I was still ignoring him. “Have you spent your entrance chip?”
“We’ve only just arrived,” Charlotte said.
“Follow me, follow me. I’m feeling so incredibly lucky tonight. Anything could happen.”
Charlotte tugged my sleeve. “Come on. Try to be human.”
I followed on behind them, dropping back a few yards. Chuckster was wearing a dinner jacket, wing collar and scarlet bow-tie. His waistcoat looked Indian, woven from gold and silver thread. The entire hall had an air of unrestrained opulence. The carpets were deep piled, blood-red, the low slung chandeliers throwing clandestine light on the gamblers below. There were four roulette wheels towards the front of the hall, one of which was crowded with punters, Arabs and Chinese. The others were empty and staffed by young croupiers – short red skirts, diaphanous white blouses – spinning the wheels listlessly, chatting amongst themselves.
In the shadowy distance six kidney-shaped blackjack tables stood waiting like banquet stalls, cards fanned across the blue beige. There were two more tables in the centre of the room, one of them crowded, the other with a man playing on his own, shoulders hunched in deep concentration. Along the side of the hall another game was in progress, a bald croupier flicking cards over with a flat wooden palette. Ten, maybe twelve people were playing.
Chuckster signed Charlotte in at the reception desk, and beckoned me to join them. I left them to it, watching as they moved over to one of the empty roulette tables, where they sat down and spread a few chips. Charlotte was smiling, enjoying herself. I was drawn by a large crowd around the main roulette wheel. After signing in, I went over to stand at the back of the group, jostling to see what was happening. An immaculately dressed Arab pushed me to one side. The atmosphere was tense: money mixed with muscle. I moved around to the rope which cordoned off the wheel, and had a better view down the full length of the table.
At the far end a man in his sixties with wind-tunnelled grey hair was smoking a cigar. The people around him studied every move he made. On his right a stunning woman in crimson whispered something in his ear, then checked numbers off a list with a pencil in front of her. She looked like his moll, a third of his age. The man half-heartedly waved a hand in the air. A croupier dropped a chip into the tip box. “Thank you sir,” the staff all chimed, obsequiously. As the wheel span again, silent, oiled, the man began to build a small house on thirty-six, yellow rectangular chips with 10,000 written on them. I had heard about high-rollers but never seen one before. I had never been near a casino, except to break the windows of one in Birmingham a few years back. (Once or twice I had watched a game of poker at The George, in a back room after hours, but never played it.)
Two along from the old man I spotted Pete, hemmed in on all sides by Chinese. Pete was concentrating hard, writing something down, playing the rocket scientist. He looked hassled. Across the table Dan was drawing on a cigarette. Sat next to him, presumably, was his woman, talking intimately in one ear. She looked older than him, more sophisticated, even taller. Dan watched the wheel as she talked, caught my eye through the smoke, and stared past me. I had a problem with Dan.
“Won yourself a fortune?” It was Toxo, grinning at my shoulder.
“Not yet.” We both watched the ball stop on eight. I glanced at the old man. He was unmoved as the croupier bulldozed his house.
“That man at the end, how much has he just lost?” I asked.
“Forty-five.”
“Grand?”
“He made sixty the go before. Hey Douglas, that your woman over there?” He nodded in the direction of Charlotte, who was listening attentively to Chuckster.
“Charlotte, yes. Have I introduced you?”
“Not yet. Far be it from me man, but Chuckster moves. He knows how to turn on the charm.”
“I noticed.”
“You rowed or something?”
“No.” I thought about the situation for a moment. I was being asked to feel jealous because a woman called Charlotte was being chatted up by a dickhead in a dinner jacket. Reluctantly I found it in myself to say something, to react.
“She likes casinos more than me.”
“She’s fit. I would get him off your screen.”
“Yeah. Listen, you’re right. I’m bushed tonight. Thanks.”
I put my hand on Toxo’s shoulder in appreciation and walked away from the roulette wheel. I wandered around the two central blackjack tables. The man sitting on his own looked like a Colombian gangster. Half his face was hidden by mopped black hair, the other half obscured by pillars of yellow chips. I looked closer. Each chip had “50” on it, running through the pillars like a stick of rock. The man was winning serious money. A senior member of staff looked on unimpressed, arms folded. Another punter, an American who was standing with his legs firmly apart, kept talking, offering advice, commenting, as if he knew better than the gangster. Clearly he didn’t.
“Give the guy a Rembrandt,” he said to the croupier. Everyone ignored him. “I tell you,” he continued in a drawl, turning to me, “when that paint hits the felt, and the bank busts, man, it’s the best feeling in the world.”
I moved away in case I hit him. Charlotte and Chuckster looked quite a couple, I had to admit.
Her in pearls, him in his techni-coloured dreamcoat. It was hard to believe but he now appeared to be smoking through a slender silver cigarette holder, waving it around as he talked. I wanted to go home, but I couldn’t. It was time to reclaim my woman.
Approaching the couple from behind, I came up fast and put my arm on Charlotte’s shoulder. In the same moment as she turned I planted a wet kiss on her lips and somehow spoke with tender intimacy.
“How’s it going, darling?”
It was worth it just for the expressions on both their faces. I couldn’t tell who was the more surprised. Charlotte, the professional, regained her composure quicker and put her hand gently on mine.
“Coming to join us?” she asked.
“Thought I might. Just had to get a feel for the place first, smell the money, check it was clean.”
“Quite right, quite right,” Chuckster said, moving his leg imperceptibly away from Charlotte’s. He didn’t know where to look.
“So, what do I do with this?” I said, holding up the chip I had been given on arrival.
“Put it on a number dear chap and pray to your god,” Chuckster said, exhaling smoke with a toss of his head.
“Charlotte, when’s your birthday?” I asked, regretting the words instantly.
“It would have been nice if he could remember, wouldn’t it?” she said, turning to Chuckster, covering for me with a smile.
“Happens to the best of us,” Chuckster said.
I thought fast.
“Eight it is, then,” I said, leaning across the table and placing my bet. At least I could remember Annalese’s birthday. We watched the ball bounce and clatter against the spin of the wheel, give up the fight, come to rest. Eight it was.
“Good call,” Chuckster said enthusiastically. He seemed genuinely pleased.
“Beginner’s luck,” I said, watching with surprise as the croupier pushed a stack of chips my way.