The Money Star

by Jon Lymon

  Spain went down and stayed down after a swift double punch from Argentina. France skirted around the edges, fists in front of face in a protective gesture. Germany was strangely calm and didn’t leave her seat until it was tipped over by Algeria.

  The UK stood by the USA.

  China threw the first glass of water at Taiwan and that’s when it started to get really nasty. Security guards were drafted in to separate the warring diplomats but ended up throwing punches of their own at anyone who looked an easy target. Libya, Iran and Australia were knocked out in this manner.

  The Secretary General, a gaunt and nervous little man who neither looked like nor had the skills to be a secretary or a general, was escorted out of the hall by his personal bodyguards and was soon surrounded by microphones and cameras on the steps of the UN building. “Today’s discussions have been very fruitful,” he said with no irony, even as a few metres behind him out of sight of the cameras, Mexico lassoed a chair around his head like a central American cowboy. He let fly and watched as the chair leg thudded against Sri Lanka’s temple, sending him crashing down.

  “We feel a resolution is within sight,” the Secretary General continued as Portugal thrust South Africa across a desk and both tumbled down a staircase littered with spilt coffee cups, spilt blood and split lips. “It is very possible we have brought this planet back from the brink of self-destruction today.”

  By now, Tunisia had had enough of being mercilessly targeted by Morocco who had been delivering repeated punches to the same area of his upper arm. Tunisia grabbed a microphone, ripped it from its mounting and thrust its wrong end purposefully into Morocco’s mouth. Such was the force with which it was delivered, its sheared end pierced through the back of the mouth and lodged itself in the lower brain. Morocco fell, slain by its African neighbour.

  There was no turning back now.

  Madagascar had grown to like Morocco who had never been shy when it came to making the coffee for all the ‘M’ nations, and had even shared a few jokes with him in broken English, as they sat so close together. To see his friend fall like that, microphone sticking out of a mouth that had barely been able to get a word in throughout the time he had been in the UN chamber – that hurt. Madagascar reached for his fountain pen, pulled off the lid and thrust the nib squarely between Tunisia’s eyes.

  The USA looked on, feeling slight pangs of guilt. They had been told by anyone to whom they were prepared to listen that their refusal to allow other nations access to information about the location of the diamond asteroid was responsible for setting nation against nation. All wanted to reach a deal with the USA and grab a share of the asteroid’s wealth, but the USA was being selective over who it did business with.

  It made for gripping television that kept Remnant’s mind off the events of earlier in the week, and the angry messages from Elena that he’d been regularly deleting from his voicemail.

  When daylight had disappeared behind the western high rises, he began packing the orange bag Edgar had given him. The bag was the only luggage they were allowed to take on board the ship. Any more would seriously compromise the launch dynamics, Edgar told them. Remnant didn’t really understand what that meant, but understood that the bag could be filled with whatever he liked, provided it could be zipped shut. If it couldn’t, Edgar would remove items until it could.

  Not having been away for nine months since that brief prison sentence almost a decade previously, Remnant was unsure what to pack. Socks and pants were a given. Seven of each. He plumped for three shirts, three t-shirts and three pairs of jeans. Good things come in threes, he thought. Or was that bad things?

  But the first thing to go into the bag was the four-pack of Gates he had recently acquired from a small-time supermarket in a procedure that was eerily familiar to and equally successful as the last one, the only difference being there were no cans of Gates with fifteen per cent extra free remaining, such was the popularity of that particular promotion.

  He squeezed his clothes into the bag around the cans, and added an extra pair of trousers as soon as he discovered there was room to do so. Finally, he placed the little toy man with the hard hat on the top of the clothes and zipped shut the bag over him.

  The television news was re-running scenes from the UN and they were no less captivating second time around. Afterwards, Remnant turned off the television, thinking it would be at least nine months before he watched one again, maybe forever if the launch didn’t go to plan.

  There he was, at it again, the negative thinking seeping in, expecting to fail before he’d given himself a chance to succeed.

  He looked around his flat, the carpet and furnishings the same as when Elena and Chloe had lived there, only years older now, showing more wear, tear and lack of care, looking and feeling like they were from another era.

  Remnant closed his eyes and thought back to the times when Chloe’s juvenile laughter bounced off the walls, and the times when he bounced off the walls. Chloe running to show him her homework, asking for help and running away crying because he’d shouted ‘no’ or ‘ask your mother, I’m too tired’ when really he knew he didn’t have the skills to help her. He replayed the rare occasions they gathered around the table for a family meal. Christmas, when Elena’s mum was still alive, always smiling at Chloe, never losing her patience, never telling her off. Unconditional love, the sort of love parents are supposed to feel, but Remnant never quite did.

  He shouldered his bag and scanned the room one last time, knowing that if he ever saw it again he would have failed. Again.

  He walked out, not bothering to lock or even close the door. There was nothing left in the house worth stealing, protecting or fighting for. Let the council find someone else to live there. Or let Ramage climb the stairs and find nobody home, Remnant gone, never to return, never to answer those questions or address those nagging doubts about that diamond robbery.

  24

  DT had insisted they meet outside The Old Mitre a few minutes before midnight in what was not so much a beer garden, more a beer patio, dominated by overgrowing plants and two cigarette scarred and pint glass stained beer barrels.

  Gordon was oblivious to their presence as he settled down upstairs with the evening’s disappointingly thin evening paper. DT was dressed in a full suit replete with clipped tie, looking like he was heading for an important meeting. As he periodically sipped from a bottle of mineral water, he checked the expressions on Bettis’ and Remnant’s faces. Both looked old at this time of night. Defeated by life, in need of an escape route, a get-out clause. “Are you ready gentlemen?” he asked them. They both nodded and picked up their orange bags and followed DT up the alleyway, single-file, onto Hatton Garden. The road was quiet, save for their footsteps, a pisshead searching for Chancery Lane tube and a dog walker exercising a pair of designer shih tzus who cocked their legs in unison against one of the parade of trees on the west side of the street.

  They turned left into Greville Street, Remnant deliberately avoiding taking one last look at the grey entrance to his block, DT unable to ignore the boarded up façade that was once his business.

  With each step, nerves frayed. They reached the lock-up where Edgar was waiting by the vessel which now had its name painted on one side, alongside the Union and Nigerian flags.

  “Is that a word?” Remnant asked, pointing at the name.

  “It is not,” said Edgar.

  “Myself and Mitch came to a compromise” said DT.

  “I’d hate to think what you disagreed about,” said Remnant. The ship had been named the ‘Baton Uric’ which had been neatly painted in red on the fuselage.

  “It’s unusual and therefore memorable” said Bettis, seeking to head off criticism before it materialised. “And its personal significance renders any criticism of it wholly inappropriate,” he added without a hint of humour.

  Remnant didn’t take the argument any further. A ship’s name didn’t matter to him. Its engines mattered. Its oxygen supply mattered. Even
the quality of its bedding mattered.

  Bettis boarded first, eager to get started on the myriad pre-flight checks and procedures he needed to carry out if they were to launch before the 2am deadline DT had insisted on.

  As Remnant prepared to jump on board after him, DT’s firm hand stopped him.

  “Sorry, my friend. Change of plan.”

  Remnant instinctively looked at Edgar who looked puzzled.

  DT pulled out a bag from under the vessel. An orange bag. “I have decided I will go after all,” he said.

  “You what?”

  “I’ve been thinking about what you had to say last time. About how Edgar would be of more use on the ship than you. And although Edgar refuses to fly, I thought why not? Why not you, Damilou?”

  “But you can’t operate the arm, drill the diamond, catch the jewels in the net.”

  “I have four and a half months to learn, Sye. You said yourself that anyone could learn it.”

  “But I’m missing my daughter’s wedding for this.”

  “Go home, Sye, get some sleep, then see your daughter get married in the morning. Give her away. It is what she wants. It is what you want.”

  Remnant was shaking his head. “It’s too late for that. She don’t want me anywhere near her wedding. I’m a dead man if I show up, my ex will see to that.”

  “I am sorry, my mind is made up. Mitch and I will fly, and when we return, we will make sure you are well looked after.”

  DT threw his bag on board and grabbed the sides of the hatch, but as he pulled himself up, Edgar yanked him down by his legs and clamped his fingers around DT’s jaw.

  “I’m going to say this once, so hear me,” said Edgar. “Sye’s going on the ship, whether you like it or not. You think I’m going to let you two ride off into the sunset in a ship I’ve slaved long and hard over? You haven’t got a prayer. I built this ship for me and Sye and he’s flying on it. Got it? Either that, or I’ll blow it up now and destroy half of London in the process. So what’s it to be?”

  DT could tell by Edgar’s stern facial expression that he was ready to kill. “But the ship is only kitted out for two,” DT struggled to say, given the location of Edgar’s fingers.

  “Which is why it would have been nice if you’d told me you intended to fly a little earlier than an hour before launch.” Edgar loosened his grip.

  “I am sorry, but seeing a hundred thousand pounds of my money go into the fuel tank got me thinking. I am making a big investment in this ship, and I think I have earned the right to be on board.”

  “No one’s disputing that,” said Edgar, through his teeth. “Give me half an hour.” He pushed DT away.

  Edgar swiftly made adjustments to accommodate an unexpected third crew member, adding an extra seat to the cockpit, made from half of the rear seat of the Bentley, and more food to the galley. As he worked, Bettis busied himself with pre-flight procedures in the cockpit, noting that few of his stipulations had been realised. There was no seat heating facility, and worse still, his chair didn’t look as luxurious or as leathery as the one beside him, on which DT soon sat. Remnant strapped himself into the new rear seat by the cockpit door.

  “And so we are three now, are we?” Bettis said wryly.

  “There’s still only room for two bunks in the cabin,” Edgar told them. “But one of you can always sleep in here. Or in the hold.”

  Bettis turned to face Edgar. “So not only is this chair not heated nor adjustable, but I have no private cabin with wash facilities?”

  “Yeah, sorry about that,” said Remnant. “We also forgot to roll out the red carpet when you arrived.”

  “These were important stipulations,” Bettis added, ignoring Remnant. “I’ve a good mind to refuse to fly.”

  “Mitch, Mitch, Mitch,” said DT, gently resting his fingers on Bettis’ forearm, “we will make sure you are fully compensated on our return. Now come on, enough of this arguing. We’ve got some diamond to steal.”

  After ten minutes of further checks, Bettis looked at DT and uttered the words the jeweller had been waiting to hear. “We’re ready for take-off.”

  DT nodded, inhaled deeply and nodded again, purely through nerves.

  “Good luck,” said Edgar to Bettis and DT in the front seats. Then he turned to face Remnant, who was suffering from a dry mouth and a bout of the shivers.

  “Good luck, Sye. See you when you get back.”

  Remnant looked up at him. There were so many things he wanted to say to him and thank him for, but such were the nerves Remnant was battling, all he could do was smile and nod.

  As Edgar left the cockpit, Remnant was seriously tempted to unbuckle himself and follow his friend off the ship. But sacrifices had been made to get him here. He couldn’t abort now. It would merely confirm his status as a failure. So he gripped the arms of the seat and tried to tempt some saliva back into his mouth.

  As Edgar disembarked, he felt nerves leak into and flood his stomach. Was he sending these men to their deaths? Were his engineering skills good enough?

  He removed the woodblocks from in front of the wheels and beckoned Bettis to fire the engine. Bettis pressed and held the correct red button on the dashboard, prompting a deafening roar that shook the tools on the walls inside the lock-up.

  The runway was to be Leather Lane, a road the police thought too short and narrow for anyone to use for take-offs, so it hadn’t yet fallen victim to the speedbumps that had been laid on virtually every long and straight stretch of road in the capital. But the authorities hadn’t banked on anyone having a nuclear powered ship which could reach take-off speed in a fraction of the distance it took rocket propelled vessels.

  Bettis nervously steered the vehicle out of the lock-up. Edgar marvelled at the sight of his ship getting its first taste of fresh air. He directed them to turn and Bettis spun left ninety degrees, relieved and not a little impressed by the responsiveness of the control stick. There was no reliance on computers when it came to steering. He was the man, he reasoned to himself. When it came to hanging lefts and rights, no computer could outperform him.

  Once on Leather Lane, he drew the vessel to a halt. A red button flashed on the dash, denoting auto launch was ready to be enabled. Bettis’ finger hovered over the flashing red. How easy it would have been to press and sit back and relax. The computer wanted him to, he wanted to. He withdrew his finger, then brought it back over the button. DT looked over, a little concerned at the flashing red and the indecisiveness of his pilot.

  “What’s going on?” DT asked.

  Bettis took a deep breath and pressed the button, surrendering control to the computer. He fixed his gaze straight ahead, too embarrassed to look at DT.

  The whole length of Leather Lane stood before them, ruler straight but not coffee table smooth, nor cricket pitch flat. Edgar had calculated there was enough space for them to get up to speed and off the ground before they hit Clerkenwell Road and the cabs cars buses of disaster.

  ‘Are we cleared for take-off?’ Bettis glanced at DT, who nodded. Remnant gripped the arms of his seat harder.

  Bettis’ shaking right arm and clammy fingers waited for the computer to do something as Edgar watched from the shadows of one of Leather Lane’s shops.

  Fed up of waiting, Bettis reached for the thruster, but DT grabbed his arm and pointed at the windscreen. Up ahead, a cat scampered across the lane, its eyes catching the ship’s lights and shining like huge tantalising but elusive diamonds.

  “Let’s do it,” yelled Remnant, his voice sounding more confident than any other part of him felt.

  Bettis’ adrenaline was pumping. He hadn’t felt this kind of excitement in a cockpit since the last time a stewardess pleasured him in the late Nineties. These were the thrills he recalled. This is why he’d trained so hard to get his pilot’s licence. He gripped the thruster. Edgar gave the nod from outside, standing under the tangerine streetlights. The computer pushed the thruster forward and Bettis’ hand followed the move, making it look like
his own. The engine reacted with a roar that startled the few local residents who weren’t yet comatose.

  They rumbled forward on Leather Lane’s uneven surface, their insides shaking. As they built up speed, the Japanese restaurant became the paint shop became the newsagents became the fish and chippery until they all blurred into one. Bettis gripped the control stick with fear, his hands tight, his arms loose enough to be ready to react to any decision the computer made. The vessel shook violently, then the onboard computer pulled the control stick back hard, thrusting Bettis back in his seat. A red light flashed on the dash, never a good sign, but the timing of this one was critical.

  “What does it mean?” DT yelled, preparing for scenes of his life to flash before him.

  “We’re not going fast enough to take off,” Bettis guessed.

  “Give it more thrust,” DT yelled.

  Bettis’ heart thumped in his throat.

  “Do something, or we’re all going to fucking die,” Remnant yelled.

  Leather was fast running out of Lane. The computer forced the control stick towards Bettis again who rocked back in his chair. The screws that held the dash to the front of the vessel strained under the pressure. Two more red lights joined in the flashing. DT buried his head in his hands and said a short, nonsensical prayer. He wanted to shout ‘abort abort’, but he couldn’t summon the breath and knew it would be futile. Even Bettis had his eyes tightly shut, but as an agnostic, did not resort to prayer. There was nothing else he could do, other than hope DT’s prayer found the ear of something divine.

  The vessel left the ground a few yards before they hit Clerkenwell Road. A cabbie swerved to avoid contact with its underside and cursed the crew. It was his second near miss of the day.

  The Baton Uric banked sharply left, and DT’s Friday fish supper followed. No one saw that Bettis’ hands were no longer on the controls, as all eyes on board were clamped shut. The vessel skimmed the top of a few sorry-looking street elm trees before rising above the tops and the towers of the office blocks on Theobalds Road.