by Jeff Gulvin
Webb looked at Swann. ‘We’re doing Kinky Boots, right?’
Swann shook his head. ‘Pink Void.’ He pointed. ‘Kinky Boots is the other side of that outcrop.’ The abseil rope had hit the beach. He let it go and pointed to a jagged gathering of rocks that broke open the path of the sea.
Webb fastened his harness and sat down to pull on rock boots. He moaned about the size, then Swann reminded him that all good climbers wear their boots two sizes or more too small.
‘Whoever said I was a good climber?’
‘Right. You just wanted to look good in the shop.’
Webb wagged a finger at him. ‘There you go again, Flash. Judging everyone by your own piss-poor standards.’
Swann shook his head, feeding the abseil rope through the figure 8 on his harness.
‘We climbing on 11 or two 9s?’ Webb asked.
Swann indicated the twin coils of rope over his shoulder. ‘Steep pitch, Webby. Use the 9s, eh?’
‘Whatever. You got the right sticht plate?’
Swann patted his harness, winked at Caroline and stepped backwards to the edge of the cliff. He paused, not looking down, just allowing his weight to come to rest against the figure 8 at his middle. He stood upright, pivoting on the balls of his feet, crammed and buckled into the Asolos. He looked beyond Caroline, beyond George Webb, up the empty clifftop to the sky and beyond that. For a moment he closed his eyes. He could feel Webb watching him, sweat moved against his skin, then he looked between his feet and eased himself backwards.
At the bottom, he waited for Webb and checked the guidebook. When Webb hit the ground, they began to make their way along the short stretch of beach to the foot of the route. The sea broke against the shingle. Swann could smell salt, the damp rancid seaweed that choked the edge of the surf. On the clifftop, Caroline looked down at them and waved.
Swann knew what was going through her mind, what was going through Webb’s. He unwound the two 9mm ropes from his shoulder and laid them out carefully. Webb moved up to him, his face dusted by sea spray. Above them, a grey-winged herring gull flew across the path of the sun and cried to them on the wind. Swann felt the need for a cigarette. He had some in his chalk bag and took one out, fighting with the wind to light it.
‘Thought you were knocking that on the head,’ Webb said to him.
‘Pia, Webby. Smokes like a bloody chimney.’
Webb scratched his head and looked for a suitable rock to mount a belay. ‘That’ll do,’ he muttered, then wrapped an eight-foot sling round it and pulled it tight, before clipping in a karabiner. ‘Don’t want to go yo-yo when you peel off.’
Swann looked up at him. ‘I’m leading, then.’
‘First pitch, Jack.’
‘First pitch, my arse.’
Webb made a face. ‘Hard Very Severe, Jack. You want to know how long it’s been since I led HVS?’
‘You told me you could lead Extreme.’
‘I used to be able to dance like a Cossack too, but I’m older now.’ Webb made an open-handed gesture.
‘And fatter, eh.’
‘Shit happens, Jack.’
Swann bent to one knee, resting the length of his arm over his thigh. He looked up at the 320-foot climb that awaited him and dropped his cigarette in the shingle.
Webb stepped back and looked up. Swann tied both ropes to his harness and checked his sling full of runners. He had all the Rocks and three sizes of Friends. He even had a couple of ancient Clogs and Hexentrics. Some of the line was a bit worn now, but the knots were still good. He lowered the sling and felt the weight pull against his middle.
He looked briefly out to sea. The gull called again, then dived for something in the surf. He did not see it surface, but faced the cliff, which stretched flat and all but vertical above him, grey and brown, looking damp where the sun set the smooth rock gleaming. He dipped each hand in turn in his chalk bag and rubbed them together, then he moved up to the rock.
‘First pitch is the hardest.’ He looked above his head and to the right. ‘Need to make the groove up there.’
Webb was looking at the guidebook. ‘Says there’s a peg to tie off on.’
‘Hundred and twenty feet. See you in a bit.’ Swann dusted his hands and felt out the first holds, a thin crack that arced upwards to the main groove sixty feet above his head. ‘Climbing,’ he muttered and started.
He moved upwards slowly, feeling out the crack, testing each hold with his fingers before placing any weight on them. There were no footholds to speak of, just pressure points where the slick rubber of friction boots would hold you. It was not vertical, but it was high and exposed, with the wind sending sea spray scuttling across the flatness of the rock for the first fifty feet or so. The twin 9mm ropes dragged at him and he put his first piece of protection in at fifteen feet, a small wire runner, clipping both ropes to it through the karabiner. Below him, he could hear Webb whistling as he paid out the line.
Swann’s movements were awkward; the smoothness with which his peers would have associated him in the past was gone. Every time he did this he tortured himself in some small way. It should be a bit better now, but it wasn’t. He knew that tonight he would dream. At least he would see Pia tomorrow.
He got through the first sixty feet, which were without doubt the hardest, and rested at the groove. He placed a runner and Webb took in the slack. Swann allowed himself a moment or two to catch his breath and adjust the weight of the ropes before going on. At eighty feet it grew steep again and he placed runners at shorter intervals. The sea stretched to his left, calm beyond the initial boil of the surf where restless waves broke against one another. He could see a ship all but stationary along the line of the horizon. He climbed on, gaining in confidence, more sure of the moves. The rock face was warm and firm and polished, the crack thin, and he used his feet for poise and balance while feeding his hands up and over one another. He could see the peg for the belay and the end of the first pitch about twenty feet above his head. The next hold was slim and he reached beyond it, pivoting round on one foot for extra pressure.
His foot slipped and he fell. Ten feet, fifteen, zipping off the rock. The runner popped and he careered fifteen feet more. At the bottom of the route, George Webb hauled the ropes hard across the sticht plate and groaned as he was lifted off his feet. The belay held and Swann dangled above him like a spider.
Webb got his feet firmly on rock again and saw Swann scrabbling for handholds. The second runner had held. He got himself upright and cursed, heart thumping against his ribs, guts aching where the harness had bitten his flesh.
‘What you trying to do, Flash, give me a heart attack?’ Webb shouted up to him.
Swann said nothing, moisture gathered above his eyes and he was not sure of his voice. He looked down at the rocks and the beach and Webb seventy feet below him, where the surf gained ground on the shingle. He let go a long stiff breath, closed his eyes and for a moment he was back there with the cloud all about him, damp over the cold that gnawed through every ounce of clothing until it chafed his bones. He opened his eyes, twisted his face to the sun and breathed. The gull called again from above him.
‘You’ll have to climb it all over again now.’
He looked down at Webb, looked in his eyes and even from that height he knew. Webb cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Go on, kidder. You can get there.’
Swann dipped in his chalk bag once more, looked up and wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand.
‘You want to get back on the wall, Flash, only my breakfast is coming up?’
‘Climbing,’ Swann said, and started.
At 120 feet, he tied off and relaxed. Webb swarmed up after him and clipped into the belay. He laid a hand on Swann’s shoulder.
‘If you’re going to peel off—tell me, eh, so I can prepare myself.’ He patted his middle. ‘Not as slim as I was.’
Swann wiped his hands on his thighs and saw that they were shaking.
‘I’ll take the second pitch,
yeah?’ Webb said.
Swann shook his head. ‘No. I’ll do it.’
At the top, he wound the ropes about his neck and sat down. Webb was waving across the clifftop to his wife. Swann stared out at the ocean. One man chugged towards the horizon in an open boat, the wake washing out from his inboard in a fan of white ripples. Gulls chased him, calling to one another, their cries as part of the wind. Swann looked at his feet, then wiped the sweat from his palms.
Caroline poured white wine, chill from the cooler, into long-stemmed glasses and handed one to each of them. She had food laid out on a red checked cloth from the hamper.
‘God, you’re so civilized, Caroline.’ Swann sipped the wine and it cooled the burning at the back of his throat.
‘Good climb?’ she said.
He looked at the soles of his feet, crossed underneath him. ‘Peeled off.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yeah. Just below the first belay, hundred feet or so.’
‘I held him.’ Webb drank wine and grinned. ‘Overstretching himself as usual.’
‘You hurt yourself?’ Caroline asked him.
Swann shook his head.
He lay back then, resting his glass on a rock, and closed his eyes to the sun. It was warm across the skin of his face and he felt himself relaxing. Caroline offered him food, but he shook his head and sat up. ‘In a minute, maybe.’
Webb’s pager went off and he cursed. ‘You got your phone, Jack?’
Swann took it from his rucksack and tossed it over. ‘Tell them it’s Saturday and we’re in North Devon. They’ll have to send someone else.’
Webb walked a little way from them and dialled. Caroline laid a hand on Swann’s arm.
‘You OK really, Jack?’
He let go a breath. ‘Runner popped out. Couldn’t have set it properly. Stupid.’ He shook his head.
‘How far did you fall?’
‘Thirty feet or so. Managed to get my feet round, kept me off the wall.’
She looked at him and her eyes were soft with pain.
‘I’m OK,’ he said.
Webb came back, tossed the phone into Swann’s lap and sat down. ‘Tania Briggs,’ he said. ‘Guv’nors are having a meeting with Special Branch and A4 surveillance in the morning, they’re going to decide what to do about the target.’
‘Hit him?’
‘Tania reckons yeah. Probably Tuesday morning. We’ve got to be in by 0700 on Monday. If the old man decides to scoop him up, SO19’ll do their recce then.’
Swann nodded and took a chicken leg from Caroline. ‘They’ll go for it,’ he said.
‘Rude not to.’
‘So you two’ll be busy next week, then.’
Webb patted his wife on the arm. ‘Looks that way, love.’ He smiled and stroked his moustache. ‘Some climbing to do before then, though.’ He looked at Swann. ‘Kinky Boots next. I do like kinky boots.’
April 1997
The Northwest Airlines shuttle from Washington D.C. to Detroit reached twenty-nine thousand feet. Two men sat drinking cocktails in the business-class section at the front of the plane. Both of them wore suits and carried leather briefcases. One of them had his lap-top set out on the tray table of the seatback in front of him, and scanned the pages of a report. Next to him, the other yawned and stood up.
‘Going to the john. Hold my drink, will you?’ He handed his glass across while he eased himself out of the seat, then made his way up the aisle and through the curtain. Economy class was less than half full. He glanced at his watch, twenty minutes before they landed. He made a swift calculation, then he moved back along the line of seats to a vacant one close to the rear section of the plane. Sitting down, he took his wallet from his jacket pocket and an AT&T phone card from the wallet, then he picked up the phone housed in the back of the seat.
He dialled a London number, and a sleep-filled voice answered.
‘Wake up. It’s morning,’ he said.
‘Not yet it isn’t.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘It’s all arranged, cars and drivers. Just like you told me.’
‘Good.’ He was watching the flight attendant serve a fresh drink to a woman seated further down the plane. ‘When it’s done, call me on the number we agreed.’ He clipped the phone back in the housing and stood up.
Three-thirty in the morning and the dark-skinned man drove the old Ford Cortina in from the East End. It did not run very well, the gears grinding, but it did not have to get him far. On the seat beside him was a home-made cigar box, and on the back seat a travelling rug. He drove with care, not wishing to draw attention to himself. He passed a couple of police cars and ignored them. The second car was following, he could see it in his rear-view mirror, one car between them. He moved on towards the West End, easing the wheel through his fingers; face set, eyes the colour of coal.
Two cars back, the driver of the Vectra tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in time to the music on the radio. He smiled to himself as he saw the Cortina turn up into Soho and he indicated right. Easy money, he thought, blue eyes looking back at him from the rear-view mirror, really easy money.
Billy Williams was washing down the surface of the American Diner on the junction of Moor and Old Compton Street in Soho. Quiet now, busy till about three-thirty, but tailing off after that. Dark outside, much of the neon burning only dimly. Out in the back, the two remaining waitresses were smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. The door opened and Jack the Hat stood there looking hopeful. You could set your watch by him, this old man who lived over one of the video shops on the edge of Chinatown. The first time Billy had seen him, he thought he was a well-dressed if ageing businessman, in a blue three-piece suit and a grey fedora hat. But on closer examination, the suit was rumpled and dusty and his twill checked shirt frayed at the collar and cuffs. He carried a cane and tap-danced down Shaftesbury Avenue. His voice was weak and his eyes the liquid blue of his age. His neck hung in folds and when he took off his hat, his hair was white and sparse across the broken veins of his scalp.
Billy smiled at him and poured a mug of hot, frothy coffee. Jack made his way to the metal counter and pressed his thin frame on to a stool.
‘There you go.’ Billy slid the coffee across to him. ‘No sleep again?’
‘Bad dreams, son.’
‘Again?’ Billy leaned with his arms across the counter. Jack sipped noisily at the coffee. Outside, one of the girls from the strip club screeched at her boyfriend, who revved the engine of his car in response. Billy and Jack watched, as she belted the side door with her handbag before finally tottering away on heels that ended in needle points.
‘Tell me something, Jack,’ Billy said, ‘what d’you do before you go to bed?’
Jack hunched his shoulders.
‘What d’you eat?’
‘Chocolate. I always have a bar before I go to bed. My treat for the day.’ He half closed his eyes, holding the coffee cup with both hands, and started humming to himself.
Gone, Billy thought. Never took him very long. When he landed again, he would tell him about the chocolate. He glanced behind him to the kitchen where the girls were still gassing. He shook his head, collected a cloth from the counter and began polishing the tables.
A car pulled up outside. Billy glanced at it—Mark II Cortina, looked in quite good condition. A figure in shadow stepped out from the driver’s side, away from the pavement, back to the window. Almost immediately a second car pulled up, much newer—a Vectra. Billy watched as the first man climbed into the passenger seat and the car sped off up the road. He glimpsed the final three letters of the number plate. RAH. Behind him, Jack’s singing had grown louder and the girls were beginning to complain.
Billy went back to the counter and tapped Jack on the shoulder. ‘You’ve got to be quiet, mate. Or I’ll have to chuck you out.’
Jack stared at him, blinking a little sheepishly. ‘Can I have some more coffee?’ he said.
Billy poured it for him, but a
ll the time he was looking at the car outside. He glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. Four-twenty. Funny time to park a car and piss off again. He passed the coffee to Jack and moved round the counter once more, then he went outside to look at the car.
He shivered. It was windy, the pavement still damp from yesterday’s rain. The metal of the car’s bodywork pinged as it contracted. Across the road, outside the Prince Edward Theatre, a drunk was trying to throw out a sleeping bag to lie on. Two women were talking together at the junction with Charing Cross Road.
Billy had a look at the car, green or blue, he couldn’t tell. Not bad condition. Not an E but a GT. The tyres looked pretty bald. Light from the Diner shone on the dashboard and he had a quick look to see if it was plastic or wood. He bent, framing his hand round the line of his eyes. Plastic. Then he saw something on the floor, poking out from under the seat. It looked like a small wooden box.
Back inside the Diner, he shut the door and lit a cigarette. Then he sat again, and watched Jack the Hat mumbling to himself. Cheryl came through from the back, filched one of his cigarettes and asked if she could go early. Billy was still looking at the car.
‘Yeah,’ he muttered. ‘Go now if you want to. Nothing’s happening, is it.’ Again he looked at the car and Cheryl cocked her head at him.
‘What’s up with you?’
‘Nothing. Just that car. Somebody parked it there a few minutes ago.’
‘So?’
‘So nothing. They got out and got in another one, that’s all.’
Cheryl shook her head at him and went back to the kitchen for her coat. Billy sat on his stool, smoking and thinking. Jack was up in the ether somewhere. Billy looked at the car, then at the phone fixed on the wall behind him. Four-thirty now. He was off at six. Again he looked at the car, then he moved off the stool and wandered over to the window. Two lads walked past on their way up Old Compton Street. Billy stood with his hands in his pockets, nose pressed to the glass. ‘Not right,’ he muttered, then turned back to the counter and picked up the phone.