Long Reach

by Peter Cocks

  Benjy French was straight on to me.

  “Oh. My. God,” he said. “You were talking to Sophie Kelly.” He put both hands to the sides of his head as if his massive brain couldn’t process the information.

  “Talking’s a bit of an exaggeration,” I said. “I just opened my mouth and words came out.”

  “You were walking alone with her and talking,” he went on. “You are one brave man.”

  “I asked her out.”

  Benjy walked over to the wall and pretended to bang his head against it. “Sorry,” he said. “Not brave, just completely and utterly mental.”

  “She hasn’t said yes yet,” I told him.

  “Well, let’s hope she doesn’t. Or her mum will be getting a pair of Eddie-testicle earrings for Christmas this year. Steer well clear.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” I said.

  SIXTEEN

  Sophie had obviously said something to her posse.

  At lunchtime in the canteen, her table of girls kept throwing glances my way, whispering. If I returned their stares, they tried to look bored and disinterested. Sophie was nowhere to be seen. Benjy stuck to me like a limpet. In a way, his presence gave me a sense of security. Hanging with the arch-nerd of my year made me less interesting to anyone else, which suited me fine, though I had got on to nodding terms with one or two other blokes who also sat on our table at lunch. Finally, one of Sophie’s girls broke free and approached our group. The other guys’ eyes widened at this unusual behaviour. Benjy French nearly wet himself and left the table. It was the black girl, Anita, who floated over and sat down opposite me, folding long legs around the chair.

  “Hi,” she said, without cracking a smile. “You Eddie?”

  “Yup,” I said. “Me Eddie. You Anita?”

  She nodded. Still no smile.

  “You’re really confident.”

  “Am I?” I said.

  “You must be. Do you know what you’re taking on?”

  “I don’t get you.” I didn’t, really.

  “Sophie wants to know what you know about her,” Anita said.

  It was as if an envoy from the Kelly Gang had been sent to negotiate a peace deal.

  “Er, she’s a girl,” I started. “Not bad-looking…” Even Anita managed a smirk at this. “That’s about what I know,” I admitted. “I’m new here. I know nothing.” I held up my hands in surrender. She looked at me, unsmiling again.

  “I’ll talk to Sophie,” she said. “And get back to you.”

  “Cheers,” I said, and from the corner of my eye I could see Benjy French across the room, shaking his head and mouthing No!

  Donnie’s day wasn’t shaping up too well.

  Ever since he’d dropped her off, things had gone tits up. First there was the altercation with a bus driver: not serious, but an indication of the way things were going. He’d sat in traffic all the way down to Croydon, then just when he was pulling off the main road, lighting a fag, some muppet on a bike had nipped out in front of him and gone across the bonnet.

  Donnie had got out of the car and picked the bloke up off the road, all huffing and puffing. He wasn’t really hurt, just had bloodied knees and elbows. Then Donnie’d picked up the bike and thrown it over to the pavement, its front wheel bent in half.

  The cyclist had called him an idiot. Said he wasn’t looking. Called him stupid. Donnie tried to square it with a ton, but Bicycle Boy said he didn’t want his money, he wanted his insurance details.

  Donnie didn’t do insurance. He was beginning to get hot and bothered, especially when he found the smashed lens on his headlight and the scratch on his bonnet. He told the cyclist it would cost a monkey to put that right.

  The cyclist still went on – knew his rights. Probably a social worker or something, Donnie thought. He didn’t like him, so he slapped him. Then Donnie got back into the car while the cyclist writhed on the pavement, a bloody nose added to his knees and elbows, and drove off.

  It was late when Donnie arrived in Croydon. The offices of the Kelly management company, Goldaward Holdings, was on the seventh floor of an office block. Donnie bumped into the firm’s accountant, Saul Wynter, as he got out of the lift. Wynter acknowledged him but said little. He could see Donnie wasn’t in the mood for a chat. Donnie went to the safe in the back office, got out what he had come for and left.

  He made several pick-ups and drop-offs in Thornton Heath, South Norwood and Crystal Palace. Two drops were to clubs, dark and smelling of stale beer in their down time, and one to a private address just outside East Dulwich. A smart house where he dropped a large quantity of stuff. Restaurant and wine-bar owners. Business was clearly good – paid cash. Two more pick-ups of monies owing went without too much grief and the morning’s work was done.

  Donnie stopped for a swift pint on Peckham Rye to take the edge off the morning’s aggro. Then had another one for the road. And a Scotch. He finished with lunch at a pie and mash in Nunhead to sustain him for the afternoon.

  The sun had been shining on the car, and when Donnie got back in it made him feel warm and sleepy. He needed a livener. He reached into the glove compartment and took out a small bottle. He didn’t skim off much as a rule, but saved enough from a larger consignment here and there to keep himself a ready supply for moments like this. The amounts were too small to be noticed, but enough so that Donnie never went short.

  He pulled out the little mustard spoon attached to the lid and scooped up a small pile of the powder and sniffed it straight up his nostril. The movement was so well-practised and discreet that even a passer-by would have thought the big man in the Mercedes was just picking his nose.

  Donnie sniffed and lit a fag, started the engine and headed off towards Catford. Now he was ready.

  Hyrone Brown’s club, Chilli Peppa, was halfway between Catford and Lewisham, tucked up a side road in what had once been an old music hall, then a cinema and more recently a bingo club.

  Hyrone, of mixed race, drew a mixed crowd. His punters were not exclusively black, but included a few whites from the colleges and middle-class slummers from the fringes of Blackheath. He was close to the boundary of Yardie territory, but his clientele and their narcotic of choice meant that the Chilli Peppa enjoyed the security offered by the long arms of the Kelly family.

  As long as Hyrone paid his bills on time.

  Donnie pulled into the tight parking space round the back of the club. There were beer crates and barrels stacked against the chicken wire, and a new-looking, black Mazda CX-7 four-by-four. Black windows. Registration plate HYR0N3.

  Twat. The money was going somewhere, Donnie thought.

  He pushed open the fire door at the side of the building and stepped into the darkness. The smell was mother’s milk to Donnie: stale beer, illicit fags, manky carpet, yesterday’s hormones. His eyes adjusted to the half-light and he walked across to the office behind the DJ booth. A black girl with straightened hair and extremely long, painted fingernails was listening to an R & B station and half-heartedly looking at Facebook on a computer screen. Donnie hadn’t seen her before. She glanced up as he walked in, and if she was frightened of him she didn’t show it.

  “Mr Brown in?” Donnie asked, in his most charming voice.

  She looked at him with big, dark eyes.

  “Who shall I say?”

  “Ron Tiddlywinks,” Donnie mumbled, using one of his many self-invented aliases. The girl got up and opened a door behind her.

  “Ron Somefink,” she announced. A voice grumbled from inside the office. “He’s not in,” she told Donnie.

  “Tell him it’s Mr Kelly’s associate,” Donnie said. He was already on his way into the back office. He shoved the girl out of the way and levered the door from her grasp.

  Hyrone realized in a split second that it was an unwelcome guest. He was a big bloke and perfectly capable of frightening people or dishing out the odd stab wound. He’d done time for a shooting and knew how to handle himself. But he also knew he was no match for Donovan
Mulvaney.

  Donnie was a legend.

  Hyrone Brown leapt out from behind his desk and, by the time Donnie was in, was trying to make his way out through the open window at the back of the office. Donnie grabbed the back of his shiny trousers and yanked Hyrone back in again, dumping him in the chair behind the desk. The club owner tried hard not to look terrified.

  “Eager to get in your nice new motor?” Donnie asked. Hyrone wriggled in the chair.

  “A mate gave it to me,” he gabbled, mouth dry. “He owed me one.”

  “In that case you’ll have some wedge, won’t you?” said Donnie. “Because you owe me one.”

  “Business hasn’t been good,” Hyrone bluffed. He appeared to be regretting the brand-new, three grand’s worth of Breitling chronometer that he was trying to retract into his sleeve.

  Donnie grabbed his wrist. “Nice watch.” Hyrone twisted his arm, but Donnie’s grip was like a wrench. “I suggest you open the safe, Mr Brown, and withdraw the five large you owe my boss.”

  “I haven’t got it.”

  “Show me.” Donnie gripped the arm harder and pulled Hyrone across to the cupboard where he knew the safe was kept. He let go for a moment to allow Hyrone to open it. The heavy steel door swung open. Inside there was a large bag of white pills, some piles of papers and a couple of passports, but no money.

  “See?”

  “Oh dear.” Donnie scratched his head theatrically. “I don’t want pills, do I? We have pills. Remind me, who owns this club, Mr Brown?”

  “I got a twenty-year lease, you know that.” Hyrone’s tongue was smacking noisily against the roof of his dry mouth as he spoke.

  “So who owns it?”

  “I do,” Hyrone said.

  “Well, I think from now on, Mr Kelly does,” said Donnie. “And you will work for us, OK?”

  “You’re f—” Hyrone was about to protest, but Donnie shoved four fat fingers into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue. He pushed his middle finger into the man’s throat and squeezed hard on his soft lower jaw with his thumb so that he was unable to speak.

  Hyrone gagged and struggled against Donnie’s grip.

  “As I was saying…” Donnie increased the pressure on Hyrone’s skull. “You’re a shop. You take merchandise from us, sell it, and then you pay us. If you don’t pay, we call that irresponsible. So we take over your shop and run it properly, and you keep your job. Simple. Oh, but we still need to be paid for goods sold so far…”

  Donnie took his fingers from Hyrone’s mouth and grabbed his left wrist again. Hyrone spluttered and choked, ready to vomit. Donnie led him back to the safe, as if he was about to take something out.

  Instead, he lined up Hyrone’s fingers against the lock and slammed the heavy door shut.

  The terrible howl that came from Hyrone Brown brought the girl to the door. She screamed.

  Donnie opened the safe again and, taking his wrist, lifted Hyrone’s bloody hand and its pulped, half-severed fingers out of the opening. He gently unclipped the Breitling and took it off, dropping it into his own pocket.

  “Call this a deposit,” he said. “Interest, if you like.”

  Hyrone fell to the floor, whimpering.

  “Now, have the five grand here for me next week, or I’ll come back and do the other hand … your wanking one.”

  He looked at the girl, shaking and open-mouthed in the doorway.

  “Where can I wash my hands, love?” Donnie asked politely.

  At 4 p.m. sharp Donnie parked the Mercedes in the bus stop where he had stopped that morning. Three minutes later Sophie Kelly opened the door and jumped into the back. She looked lovely.

  Radiant, that was the word.

  “Had a good day, princess?” Donnie growled in his best-behaved voice.

  “Yeah, pretty good,” Sophie replied. Donnie looked over his shoulder. She was smiling, as if she was keeping something to herself. Then she remembered her manners.

  “Oh, and how about you?” she asked. “Good day?” Donnie revved up and roared away from the bus stop.

  “Yeah, not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all.”

  SEVENTEEN

  “Sophie says OK.”

  “Sophie says OK, what?” I asked. Anita looked down at me as if I was mad. As if I was questioning her auth-ority.

  “She says OK, she’ll go on a date,” Anita said.

  “Will you be coming with us?” I asked. Anita cocked her head and gave me her “whatever” look. “It’s just I thought Sophie might have told me herself. Call me old-fashioned…” Anita handed me a piece of paper with a number on it.

  “Text her your number and she’ll contact you,” she said.

  “Cheers, Anita, you’re a star.” I winked at her and she sort of shrugged, screwing up her face. Sense of humour wasn’t up there on the list of Anita’s life skills. Diplomacy and reaching for things from high shelves were obviously more her thing.

  I hid away in an empty classroom and called Ian Baylis.

  “Ian, it’s me. Eddie.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ve spoken to her. I’ve got her number.”

  “What took you so long?”

  “I’ve only been here a week,” I protested. “And she’s pretty hard to get close to.”

  “OK. Text it to me. Then keep me updated on your progress. Over and out.”

  “OK,” I said, but he had already cut me off. I punched the number into the Nokia and sent it. Then I put the same number into my iPhone and typed a text:

  Hey Sophie. Eddie Savage mob… Call me?

  I watched the progress bar as it sent, then put the phone back in my pocket and felt it vibrate almost immediately with an incoming message. It was from Sophie:

  No. Call me @ w/e. S

  I smiled. It wasn’t exactly a come-on, but it was contact. No “x” at the end, but I guessed it was early days.

  Saturday morning: I was sitting on my bed watching TV. A couple of blokes from a has-been boy band were trying to be funny and clever as they were talking to the presenter, and failing badly. I got up and made some toast and a cup of tea, but I couldn’t settle.

  The idea of contacting Sophie Kelly was making me jittery.

  Apart from anything else, I was confused. I was supposed to be getting to know her as part of a job. Supposed to be taking a purely professional interest in her. But now I had made contact, I found my confidence deserting me a bit because I really, really fancied her. She was hot and I had her number, and the thought of her made my stomach flutter. It was ten-thirty, still too early to call. I kicked my heels and waited till twelve. At twelve-thirty I couldn’t wait any longer. I fired off a text:

  Hi. Can you talk?

  The message came straight back:

  No. Call me @ 5. S x

  It was a knock-back, but at least it came with an instruction to make contact later. And an “x”, which was an improvement. Or maybe I was reading too much into it. The afternoon dragged by. I sat out on the balcony and watched barges chugging slowly up and down the river. The skyscrapers of Canary Wharf sparkled in the sun and I must have watched twenty or more planes swoop down into City Airport, each of them looking as if they might collide with Canary Wharf Tower. I checked my watch. Four-thirty.

  It had been four twenty-nine last time I looked.

  Eventually five came around, and then I didn’t want to look too anal by calling right on the button, so I waited three minutes. It went straight to voicemail: “Hi, this is Sophie. Sorry I can’t take your call. Please leave me a message.”

  I didn’t. Instead I hung up, cursing myself that I hadn’t called at five sharp.

  Then my phone rang.

  “Eddie? It’s Tony. Can you talk?”

  The disappointment was clear in my voice.

  “Tony,” I said. “Listen, I want to talk to you, but I’m waiting for a call from Sophie Kelly.”

  “Nuff said.” Tony was quick on the uptake. “Good work. Call me back.” He hung up.

&nbs
p; I waited ten more minutes and tried again. Voicemail. This time I left a message, pissed off, but trying to sound light and cheerful.

  “Hi Sophie, it’s Eddie. Give me a call back when you have a minute. Or I’ll try again later. Cheers.”

  Cheers? I slapped myself on the head. Why did I say that?

  Then my phone rang again.

  “Eddie?” It was her.

  “Hi, how are you?”

  “Good, thanks.” No apology then.

  Awkward pause. I was going to have to do the talking.

  “Listen, I was wondering if you’d like to do something later? A film or something?”

  “I can’t tonight. Sorry, I’m out.”

  My heart sank.

  “Tomorrow then?”

  “I’ve got this big family Sunday lunch thing…”

  “Oh,” I said flatly. “OK, maybe next weekend?”

  “I could meet you in Greenwich Park later tomorrow afternoon, if you like?”

  She sounded as if she was trying to come up with a compromise. Good sign.

  “That’d be great. Where shall I meet you?”

  “There’s that statue by the observatory. I’ll be there at four.”

  “Four. Brilliant,” I said, as if her coming up with a time was itself an act of genius. I felt a complete plum. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

  “OK,” she said. “See ya.”

  “Bye.” Bye? The epic phone call I was expecting was all done and dusted inside sixty seconds of pauses and single syllables.

  But I had a date.

  I rang Tony back.

  “You are speaking to the man who has a date with Sophie Kelly,” I said, bursting with pride.

  “Nice one,” he said. “Top stuff. Have you let Ian know?”

  My heart sank.

  “Do I have to, Tony?” I groaned. “I don’t want him crawling all over it.”

  “He’s your case officer, mate, you don’t have a choice. He’ll probably just let you get on with it, but you have to tell him.”

  I sighed. “OK, I’ll let him know.”