Jake was lost after that. As Angie found a job, a boyfriend and a new lease on life he found himself in a pit of despair.
The house was sold, the car re-possessed, but he battled on, he still had talent, a passion for design and, ironically, it was work that saved him, even though it had brought him to his knees, cost him his wife and family, it was also his salvation. Bob Hart had given him the chance to pitch on the Plancom contract. Lucrative, long-lasting and his for the taking and he grabbed the opportunity with both hands.
Today was the day that it was all supposed to change.
Jake eventually arrived in Manchester at five thirty and an hour and a half late for the meeting. The Plancom building was in darkness, all locked up. Everyone, including Tess Brennan, had gone home for the night. Ironically the snow was only light in Manchester with only a mild dusting on the ground, nothing like the kind of weather Jake had driven through to get there.
During that long, hard drive, Jake had tried to call Tess Brennan many times but at no time was he able to get through to her directly.
It was over and Jake knew it. The email that came into his iPhone just as he was getting back into his car confirmed it. It was from Bob Hart.
“Sorry, Jake. Just heard from a friend at the office that the contract was awarded to Wade & Walker Associates - Tess Brennan’s old firm.
Don’t think it would have helped even if you got there on time from what I understand. Hope that cushions the blow a bit mate. Anyway, just thought you’d like to know. Speak to you when I return. All the best, Bob.”
As Jake read it, he felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. He slumped into the car, bent his head over the wheel and felt despair wash over him. He had nothing more. There was no Plan B. There was just Plancom, Angie, the kids and a fresh start. That was it. Nothing else. And now that was gone.
An hour later he was still there in the car park, in the dark. It was freezing cold and the snow was coming down harder now. The cold roused Jake and he switched on the engine and began to drive, the heater warming him. But he was unaware of it. Subconsciously he was heading home, crawling along the snow clogged roads for hours, but his mind was lost in other thoughts.
The initial hysteria had passed along with the breathlessness of utter panic. These had been replaced by a weird sense of calm, an almost detached sense of rationality as he observed his predicament with a kind of out-of-body pragmatism. Jake was eminently aware that he had nowhere left to turn, nowhere else to go and, possibly the worst of all, no one he could call who could possibly help or understand. Certainly not Angie. That ship had sailed long ago, he now finally realised. She was never coming back, and neither were the kids, she would see to that. Would they had he got the contract? He doubted that too now. She was in a new relationship which Jake had long tried to deny, but she was happy and was not about to give it up for him. Reality had well and truly set in.
The business was finished. Bankruptcy a certainty. Thank God his parents were dead so they weren’t around to witness this, his final failure.
As he thought of his parents, the tears finally came. He couldn’t help it. They poured down his face as he wept uncontrollably. With his eyes so blurry he could barely see the road ahead, so Jake slammed on the brakes and skidded the car to an icy halt. The car behind, a Volvo, the only other vehicle on the road, very nearly crashed into him and the driver honked his horn violently and glared at Jake as he slid around the BMW, missing it by the narrowest of margins. “Wanker!” he shouted. But Jake was deaf to him.
Eventually the tears subsided and he was left with just a general feeling of sadness in knowing that his life was irreparably broken.
He dried his eyes and studied himself in the rear view mirror.
If Jake had had a razor blade or a piece of hosepipe, he’d have just sat there in the car and ended his stinking, miserable, useless life. But he didn’t have those things, he didn’t have anything apart from a portfolio and he doubted he could beat himself to death with that.
He turned on the windscreen wipers and swept away the thick coating of snow that had formed since he’d pulled over. It was dark now, although with all the snow, strangely still light. The country road he was on was completely deserted and through the curtain of heavy flakes he could just make out the shape up ahead of a bridge.
The idea occurred to him immediately, almost as if he was receiving a message from above. He didn’t need a razor blade or a length of hose anymore because now he had a means to end his suffering.
The bridge was there for him. Just waiting for him on that deserted road offering him a way out. And he was more than ready to accept.
Chapter 2
The thick acrid cigar smoke curled upwards into the heavy white sky. Snow was coming, the clouds were full of it, and Charles Khan wondered if he would make it back to London before it really started coming down. He hated the snow, hated the winter but after all his years abroad it was good to finally be home again for longer than just a few days. But not here, not in Liverpool and certainly not at this God forsaken container terminal on the banks of the freezing cold Mersey.
Home for Charles now was a plush new apartment in London’s Docklands; swanky, stylish, incredibly expensive and all his. Not that he had spent much time there since his recent return from Johannesburg but, now that he was retiring, there would soon be time enough. He had certainly earned it - fought long enough and hard enough for it and now, after all that fighting, he was going to take a well deserved, very wealthy, rest.
Charles had driven up the night before to oversee the container’s arrival, a job which, in truth, he would not have trusted to anyone else as its contents were too valuable, both in worth and to his own future. But he had arrived in Liverpool earlier than anticipated and out of sheer boredom had gone out to find a bar and some female company for the evening. Needless to say it had turned into quite a heavy night and a rather late one.
Now, in the afternoon, after the night before, Charles felt particularly rough. Too much whiskey, not enough sleep and a horrendously early start this morning was the cause, but he could blame no one other than himself. He just wished they would hurry up and get his container off so he could begin the long drive home. It was still only early afternoon yet already his king-sized bed back in London was calling him.
Khan had the bearing of a soldier which was not surprising after all his years in one uniform or another. He was well built, wide at the shoulder, thick at the neck and beginning to thicken at the waist but he was still in good shape. His closely-cropped hair and strongly carved features gave him a hard appearance, which was an image he was happy to cultivate.
Although as Charles pulled up the collar on his cashmere overcoat, he laughed at how quickly he had become soft. For too many years he had lived a soldiers life of little sleep and early mornings having had nothing more for a bed than a sheet on the ground and the stars for a blanket. Drinking, smoking, playing cards with the enlisted men until the break of dawn and then marching God knows how many miles on a half-empty belly. Yet he had thrived. But after just a month back in the real world he was already whining like a little girl. He smiled at himself as he puffed noisily on a long King Edward cigar, his fifth of the day and only one of his many vices.
The ship had docked the night before and had started unloading at eight this morning. Charles had been there since seven, waiting, watching, itching to get his hands on the contents of one particular container. Anxious not to miss the moment when it was offloaded, eager to get inside it, recover his property and get home to London.
But it was taking forever. He looked at the sky again as the first flakes of snow glided down from the packed clouds. This was just the start of it, he knew, more was forecast. It had apparently been snowing hard down South since the early hours and was becoming extremely treacherous. On his car radio the police were advising those thinking about driving to stay at ho
me unless the journey was absolutely necessary.
Charles’s journey was. He wanted to get his precious cargo back to London as soon as possible no matter how bad the snow was. He had hated the snow and cold since his time in Chechnya when he never thought he’d feel warm again, but he had learned to cope with it having fought, marched and driven through weather the English could only imagine. So the drive back didn’t faze him, especially not in his brand new Range Rover with heated seats and climate control. As for the road conditions, well they would be just child’s play compared to Chechnya.
At last, in the late afternoon, as a light dusting of snow lay upon the dockside, the much anticipated container was offloaded. Charles lit up yet another King Edward as a large docker in filthy yellow oilskins approached him. “You’ll be Mister Khan?” he enquired gruffly in a thick Glaswegian accent.
Charles surreptitiously checked the heavy bulge of the holstered gun underneath his overcoat as he replied. “I am. I take it you’re Crowe?”
“Aye. You got my money?”
“All in good time. Open the container first.” Replied Charles, puffing on his cigar.
“I don’t think you heard me, old son. No money, no container. Understand?”
Charles understood all too well and smiled inwardly.
“Of course, I understand. My apologies,” he said. He looked furtively around him, noticing several other dockers working nearby, although none were paying him or Crowe any mind. “But perhaps we should move out the gaze of prying eyes first, agreed?”
“Aye. Whatever, old son. Just as long as I get it or they’ll be no container, know what I mean?” Crowe said gruffly.
“Yes, I know exactly what you mean,” said Khan.
“You’d better follow me,” Crowe said and as Charles followed, he led him from the parked Range Rover to the container a short distance away where it had been set down neatly by crane, in the middle of a long even row of others. After satisfying himself that they were not being watched, Crowe led Charles over to the far side of the container where they could complete their business without being seen. When they got there he said, “Right. No eyes. All nice and private. Now where’s my fucking money?”
Charles smiled with the smoking cigar clamped between his teeth. “I have it here.” He said and reached inside his heavy coat. Crowe shuffled, nervously as he eagerly awaited his pay off. But then suddenly, as quick as a flash, Khan seized him by the throat and pushed him hard against the cold metal side of the container. Then something else cold and metallic was shoved firmly up under his chin. Crowe knew instantly that it was a gun. “Jesus Christ!” he yelped,
“What are you doing?”
Charles Khan put his mouth an inch away from Crowe’s ear and with smokey breath whispered, “What I am doing is getting you to open the fucking door of this container before I blow your ugly fucking jaw through the top of your ugly bloody head, understand old son?”
Crowe nodded meekly. “Sure, sure, no problem - just don’t shoot me, alright?”
“Just do as I say and you get to keep your good looks. Now open the door!” Khan growled as he shoved Crowe towards the front of the container, transferring the barrel of the shiny chrome-plated gun from the man’s jaw to the small of his back. “Move!” he demanded.
Crowe staggered forward, fumbling hurriedly in the greasy pocket of his oilskin jacket, eventually pulling out a large set of keys. As Crowe stood at the door of the container, Khan kept to the side of it, puffing on the cigar and aiming the gun at the docker’s belly as he selected a key and hastily opened the padlock. He lifted the catch on the container’s door and opened it ajar. “There, it’s open, now please, put the gun away.”
Charles smiled broadly. “See, that wasn’t so difficult was it?” He pulled open his coat and pushed the big chrome gun back into its leather holster then reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a thick envelope which he thrust at Crowe. “There. Take your money and fuck off - and never let it be said I don’t pay my debts.”
Crowe began to stammer something but Charles fixed him with a hard stare. “Go!” he said and Crowe turned and shuffled quickly away, stuffing the envelope into the pocket of his filthy oilskin as he went.
Charles waited until Crowe was a good distance away, then finally opened the door to the container and stepped inside.
The large interior smelled of seawater and rust but was clean and dry. The forty foot container held a variety of cargo; stacks of polystyrene packed washing machines, boxes of plasma TVs, two bright red Ducati motorcycles, an S-Class Mercedes and several large crates of South African Chardonnay.
Charles, knowing exactly where to look, headed for one of the crates which had the initials P.B. scratched on it, then took a pen-knife from his pocket and prized it open.
He removed two layers of packed straw and a layer of expensive vintage wine before, at last, finding what he, himself, had placed in the crate over a month before in Johannesburg; a large black, leather-bound briefcase. He smiled greedily and briefly clutched the case to his chest as he would have a lost child that had been found safe.
Then he replaced the wine and the straw and, after re-locking the container, took the briefcase and stowed it behind the passenger seat of the Range Rover. Charles then took out his Blackberry and sent a text message to his brother.
“Got it. Should be back by eight. You supply the champagne, I’ll supply the ice!” it said.
He started the car, flicked on the wipers to clear away the layer of powdery snow and slid the heater control up to max. He also put on the heated seat for added warmth. No point in being chilly on this hellishly cold evening. Then, putting the Range Rover into gear, he began the long drive home, leaving two wet tyre tracks in his wake as the big 4x4 cut a trail through the snow covered terminal.
Driving conditions were not too bad for the first forty miles of his Southbound journey, sporadic snow flurries and powdery roads but nothing too worrying. But then, suddenly, the light smattering quickly turned into a blizzard and the powdery roads turned into a thick carpet of hazardous snow and slush.
It was slow going, what should have taken maybe half an hour to get to where he was had taken an hour and a half and he still had the major part of the journey to do. Furthermore, he was desperately tired, his activities of the previous night seriously beginning to catch up with him. Also, he was having to concentrate hard on the road ahead and that, too, was adding to his fatigue.
Charles was warm now. So with the Range Rover veering dangerously about the road he shrugged out of his heavy coat, allowing a brief glimpse of the big chrome gun concealed beneath the jacket he was wearing under his top coat.
With the coat removed Charles once again focused on the road ahead, staring into the relentless, mesmerising blizzard.
A hundred miles later, driving at a snail’s pace along a clogged, slippery and extremely treacherous M1, Charles was beginning to fall asleep at the wheel. Abandoned vehicles lined the motorway, snow ploughs were out but fighting a losing battle and Charles’ journey was getting longer and longer. He was tired, desperate for sleep and wanted nothing more than to get home to bed. He had tried several times to phone his brother, Arthur, to let him know he would be arriving late but the conditions were messing with the signal. And now his phone was dead. It had been on since the crack of dawn and the battery had finally gone.
On the outskirts of Northampton he hit a detour, due to an accident up ahead, which sent him off the motorway and onto the back roads. They were deserted and his was the only car on the road. It was late now, with the snow deep on the ground, but Charles, even though extremely drowsy was still keen to get home, and as the 4x4 was coping so easily in the icy conditions, he saw this as an opportunity to make up some time. He pressed down on the accelerator and the Range Rover immediately responded. Charles had over seventy miles still to go but with these back roads clear of strand
ed vehicles he could probably make it back in under two hours, if he pushed it.
However, before long, Charles began to nod. He didn’t even realize he had been asleep until he opened his eyes and saw the corner approaching much too fast. He span the wheel and the car slid into the bend. For a moment he thought he was going to make it but then he saw the BMW parked awkwardly at the exit of the corner, half covered in a thick layer of snow and Charles had to quickly spin the wheel again to avoid smashing straight into it.
The Range Rover, snaked wildly as he lost control of the back end and as the wheels on the passenger side lifted off the ground, as the whole car began to roll Charles Khan knew that he would not be getting back to London that night.
Perfect Day Page 58