Layer Cake

by J. J. Connolly

  ‘What the fu-!’

  Trigger. Dooff. Trigger. Dooff. Top of Jimmy’s head disappears. His body falls in an untidy pile. Give him another one! He’s fuckin dead already. What, you paying for the fuckin bullets or something? Give him one more. Trigger. Dooff. No neck. Jimmy’s head’s got all expansive all of a sudden. Very good. Shame he ain’t around to hear that one, would’ve liked that, all expansive. Jimmy’s brain, looking like frog-spawn across the lawn, in the low branches of the fir. I’m covered in splashes of his blood, didn’t plan on that. I should’ve shot him from a distance. Ya wouldn’t listen to fuckin reason. Had to be fuckin clever. Had to let him know he was going. Who’s in the fuckin house I wonder? Wife and fat-slag daughters? Shall we do them as well? Have you gone fuckin mad? fuckin ‘ell. First you shit yourself about doing it at all, now you wanna start slaughtering non-combatants, in cold blood. This ain’t a fuckin arcade game, son. Breathing through me nostrils, rushing, trembling with adrenaline, it ain’t fuckin pretty. Hose’s dancing like a epileptic green snake over the lawn. Let’s go. Make it quick. Through the garden, fly over the fence, nothing left to chance, nothing left behind ‘cept shell casings, nuffin we can do ‘bout that. Jog back to motor. Nobody about, open back door, deep breathing, a car goes by up the lane, duck, didn’t see me, binliners on back seat already opened out, ready to receive. I’m scared. I wasn’t back there. I’ve just fuckin killed a human being. Big deal. I’m trembling so I can’t get the boots untied. Composure. Think about the consequences if you get caught. You do sixteen years, that’s five thousand, eight hundred and forty days, heavy bird, and that’s if you behave and get remission. Focuses the mind, don’t it. Boots off, in the binliner, damp boilersuit off, same, mask with blood and brain on, off, careful! Watch the fuckin fabric on those back seats. Any forensic could get yer well nicked. Don’t panic, now. Driving gloves off, latex gloves same, in the sack. Shooter in the door panel, case we get a pull. Sacks, double-bagged then triple-bagged, in the boot. The murder squad’ll be all over this patch of ground at daybreak, it’ll have a tent over it, so check you ain’t left nothing behind. Drag any footprints you left around with the Standard, like the Indian tracker in the cowboy films. DC, double-check. Okay? Okay. Let’s go, chunky clear-glass spectacles on, old tosser’s hat on, case I get caught in someone’s full beam, let the motor free-wheel down the slight hill, listen for other cars, nothing, hit the ignition. ‘Beware! This is a neighbourhood watch area.’ See ya later, Totteridge. Head towards the route in red marker pen on the street atlas, all the narrow lanes, quiet roads. No ready-eye, CCTV, to control traffic flow. Need to put some distance in. Pick up the North Circular at Finchley again. Don’t wanna go down the main road. ‘A job is not finished till the clearing up is done,’ said the sign in the hardware shop. ‘No conspicuous fires either,’ said Gene. Bob and weave for an hour. Glasses and silly hat off. Round to Acton. Park up motor. Put on black nylon Prada jacket, latex gloves. Bring new best friend over park fence, final wipe down with rag, find spade first time, dig hole, three foot deep by one foot wide, hard fuckin work, sweating, huffing and puffing, crows shrieking, won’t fit, dismantle gun, does now, bury, start to back-fill, pat down, cover with earth, check footprints, none, latex gloves off, in bin, keep Britain tidy.

  In car. Back over to industrial estate and bitta luck. Dustcart doing a night round with a big hoist on the back to empty industrial-sized bins. Touch. These dustmen ain’t got time to be pulling bags apart. Drive ahead of it, round the corner. Quick. Bags outta boot, into the dumpster. Quick, drive around block and park up. They don’t even fuckin notice you with your big silly glasses. These guys are on a bonus, on Lou Reed as well, driven to get the round done and get away. Sit, snort a big fuckin line, watch as the bright red industrial bin is raised, tilted, its cargo of rubbish comes tumbling out into the grinding mangle of the dustcart never to be seen again. Bye bye boilersuit, boots, specks of Jimmy’s blood and brain on the sleeve of a nearly-new Gucci sweater. They’ll be buried for ever in a land-fill site somewhere out on the Thames estuary. Wipe down and drop the cutters and unused hacksaw in water-filled oil drum without getting outta the car. Home for a few hours. Park up Rover on a yellow line. I’m gonna be gone before eight in the morning. Strip naked. All the clothes I went to Totteridge and Acton in, off, ripped in two with kitchen knife, in another black sack, left by the street door. In the shower and scrub and scrub. Scrub till ya red, son, under nails and in yer ears, cos you never know. Never know what? I don’t fuckin know, do I, son, for fuck’s sake. Get dressed in tracksuit, trot this bag down to the bins outside for safe-keeping till the morning. Sling the fuckin coke and all, it’s starting to weird you out. One last big line, okay? I’m not sure I like you on cocaine, you can turn on a sixpence, as your old man says. What was that word Eddy Ryder used? Omnipotent, God-like. Calls on the answerphone? Three. Social. Nothing to do with business. Good. Sit and watch the programmes you taped last night, attention to detail, drink coffee, come down a bit, keep ya shit together, son, almost there. Don’t wanna be asking anyone for alibis cos if they crumble the spell’s broken, away you go, you’re gonski. Hurry up, clock, for fuck’s sake, hurry. I wanna get going, wanna get done. Getting ready to leave, phone rings. Clarkie’s voice on the answerphone. Clock says seven-fifteen.

  ‘You there, brov? you awake?’

  I pick up, pretending to be half sleeping.

  ‘Fuckin ‘ell, what time’s it? Shit. Fuckin ‘ell, it’s seven o’clock.’

  ‘Listen,’ he says.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘The Legend got the worst.’

  ‘What!?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah. Last night,’ he says.

  ‘The worst or the very worst?’ I ask.

  Nicked or killed, like I don’t know already.

  ‘The very, very worst. Could be the overseas or outta-town crew.’

  ‘Really? Shit,’ I say, glad the blame’s travelling in the other direction.

  ‘The Mister says you’re to go offside for a while till him and Chief Scout can work out what’s what, okay?’

  Morty says I’m to disappear for a bit while he and Gene, Geronimo to me and Clarkie, try and work out what’s going on.

  ‘I’ll catch ya later,’ I say.

  Dialling tone. He’s gonski. Hope anyone listening in was convinced. Offside suits me fine. He don’t sound exactly grief-stricken, does Clarkie. Wonder if he’s a sociopath? Anyway, things to do. Gotta get Mister Clark’s rental motor back, drop the keys in the handy little box provided. One can rent it in one place and drop it off in another, if one desires. They simply total it off on the credit card, very civilised. No point worrying Clarkie about where the car’s been, what it’s been up to, worrying the poor boy half to death. Out the door, pick up the black sack from the bins, back up to King’s Cross. Glasses and hat on. African geezers doing the car-cleaning look like they couldn’t give a fuck what yer been up to. I used to have a navy boilersuit just like that. Why you telling me for? After I’ve gone through the serious buffing machine they drive out with high-pressure hoses every last bit of Totteridge dirt and dust from every nook and cranny, even underneath. They wipe down every surface, inside and out, and leave enough finger prints to confuse the issue. It pays to go deluxe every time.

  I go for a little stroll with the bin bag, drop it in another large bin outside a council block. I come back and tip the guys three quid and drive over to the drop-off point. Park up, put the last pair of latex gloves on. Wrap some heavy-duty tape around my hand, play patter-cake, patter-cake, baker’s man, dabbing my hand over the front seats to make sure, DC there’s no incriminating, guilt-ridden little fibres knocking about. I wipe down the steering wheel, plastic surfaces and door handles. Shut the door with a paper hanky, Howard Hughes style. It looks like it just come off the production line. If the murder squad did get a plate number from some busy cunt out in Totteridge the motor wouldn’t come back to me. Clarkie would certainly be alibied-up cos he’s never a
t home. They’d need forensic to get a guilty. I drop the keys off in the drop-off box and walk. I can start to relax.

  Back at the Churchill I pay for another night. Now listen, this is very important, you hear? If you get nicked, stick to your story, son, everything’s gonna be all right, okay? You’re getting weird, son. I don’t know why you think you gotta be sat talking to mirrors all the time. You’ve done well. Why don’t yer have a drink, a vally and go to sleep. Nobody knows you’re here. Stop it, it’s spooky. You’re starting to scare me, laughing like a fuckin lunatic, drinkin toasts to geezers you shot dead last night.

  ‘Raise your glasses. Alas, poor Jimmy, we knew him too well.’

  Saturday, PM Savoy for Drinkipoos?

  Years ago you could wake up in a gaff like this, the Churchill, fuck the chambermaid, stick it on the bill. These days you gotta suffer with a Continental breakfast or make your own arrangements. I feel like shit. I’ve been taking care of business but I ain’t been taking care of me. I crashed out about ten this morning. It was hazy. My watch says it’s three-fifteen now. I could kip for another ten hours but then I’d be living on Los Angeles time, wide a fuckin wake at three in the morning. That’s guaranteed to weird yer out and look a bit suspect. The plan of action now is to see if anything’s happening with the pills. If nobody wants to punt, and punt quick, I’m gonna sort out my affairs and scarpa on an extended holiday. North Vietnam could be the place to lay low, take a breather, or Curaçao, off the coast of Venezuela, short hop from Amsterdam via Caracas.

  The law are gonna be all over Jimmy’s affairs like a nasty rash, any known associates can expect a pull. When they realise it’s been Jimmy who’s been feeding them juicy titbits on all the top London firms, north and south of the pipe, for the last couple of decades, they’ll increase the list of suspects to about two hundred. It muddies up the cesspool very nicely. Who’s got a motive? Who ain’t fuckin got one is a better question. I hope Albie Carter, jeckle cozzer, knows better than to tell his colleagues that he did the tape and sold it to Edward Ryder. My hunch is Albie’s got enough self-preservation instincts to keep that bitta severely incriminating data to himself.

  I give the room a wipe down before I leave, it’s becoming second nature to me, pay my room-service bill and head for home to see what’s occurring. The mobile I use for work says I’ve got fourteen missed calls. I get a pen and make a list. Billy’s rung up irate, I don’t fuckin blame him, after getting released without charge from the nick in Brighton, wants to talk, sounds like he wants a row. Later he rings up, says don’t be avoiding me. Finally he rings, concern in his voice that I might be dead somewhere. Gene’s rung the once to say ‘Ring me as soon as possible’. That’s a long message for Gene. Clarkie’s left four messages, one saying that there’s method in my madness, him and Terry have got a bittova result with the binoculars. That could be interesting. Morty wants me to give him a shout as soon as. These are all from yesterday, Friday, before Jimmy died. Everyone’s keeping a low one today. Last but no means least, Mister Edward Ryder’s rung. His message is more than interesting.

  ‘Hello, son. I enjoyed our chat the other day. That two million you were looking for finance on, I think I may be able to help. Listen, it’s Saturday, midday, give me a ring on this number.’ He leaves a number, I write it down. ‘Oh, and have a little punt on Jolly Smuggler in the two-thirty at Kempton Park. It’s priced at forty-to-one but don’t let that deter you. Ring me when you get this message.’

  Nothing about his old pal Jimbo and he’d fuckin know, all right. I’ve missed the race and getting a bet on. I turn on the telly to get the result but I kinda know already that Eddy’s horse pissed it. Forty-to-one usually means they’re just showing a young gee-gee what a racecourse looks at. Here it is, Jolly Smuggler, won by seven lengths, but they’re holding a steward’s inquiry. I ring the mobile number Eddy’s left.

  ‘Hello. This is Ryder,’ he says in his best swell’s voice.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mister Ryder. I’m returning your call.’

  ‘Well done, son. Can you meet me in the Thames Foyer Bar at the Savoy in about an hour?’

  ‘I guess so. Sooner if you wish,’ I say.

  ‘Good. That’s what I like to hear. Half an hour, then. Smart dress essential, but I don’t need to tell you that.’

  ‘Half an hour. See you then.’

  He’s a smug bastard, is Eddy, but he may be the answer to my prayers. I need a quick pit-stop, a change of clothes and a splash about in a sink full of cold water to liven me up. I walk downstairs, get a cab and nonchalantly tell the driver, ‘The Savoy, please.’

  The bar is quiet as I arrive but Eddy is plotted up at a table by the window, facing the door so he can watch all the comings and goings. Old habits die hard, I guess. During the week at this time, six-thirty, this bar would be heaving but on the weekend it’s slow. We shake hands, I sit down, the waiter comes over. I order a vodka and tonic. Eddy says, ‘Make it a large one,’ with a wink to the waiter.

  ‘How are you son?’ he asks.

  ‘I am in the best of health, Mister Ryder. Thank you for asking.’

  ‘You okay, son?’

  ‘Yes. I am very well today. How are you today, Mister Ryder?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ he says.

  ‘How was Thursday’s performance of The Damnation of Faust?’

  ‘Too loud. I heard the overture then got my head down till the interval.’

  ‘I hope your family are in good health.’

  ‘Fucking hell. What’s this, a fucking English-conversation class? What’s with you, son? What’s the fucking problem?’

  ‘Well, Mister Ryder, you have been known to record conversations for posterity.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s it. Trying to be a clever bastard, are we? How do I know you ain’t wired up?’

  ‘I ain’t,’ I say.

  ‘Right, so we are going to have to trust one another, aren’t we? This is one conversation I definitely would not want recorded. Those space pills, I want to buy them, how much?’

  ‘The lot?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The price is two and a half million sterling but we will take the equivalent in dollars or gilders. Cash, used, large denominations.’

  ‘Sounds about right,’ he says.

  I wish I’d asked for more cos he don’t bat a fuckin eyelid, two and a half mill’s fuck-all to him.

  ‘Are these going to Moscow? Get the Ivans and Ivanas livened up?’

  ‘No,’ he says, shaking his head, ‘Tokyo.’

  ‘Japan?’

  ‘That’s where Tokyo was last time I looked.’

  ‘You’re gonna sell them to the Japanese?’

  ‘I’m going to give these to the Japanese,’ he says, lighting a fag.

  ‘Give? What, free in packs of Rice Crispies?’

  ‘No. You’re being slightly foolish, now, slightly English as well, if I may say so. How much would one of those tablets fetch in the United Kingdom?’

  I do that thing builders do, intake of breath, and drop the rap I gave JD on Monday night. ‘Well, that all depends on the quality, availability, seasonal fluctuations, police activity . . . blah . . . blah . . . and then if you factor in the–’