The Magpie Trap: A Novel

by AJ Kirby

  Martin Thomas was visibly shocked when Mark ritually handed over his company mobile phone, van keys and uniform; as though he were expecting Mark to suddenly admit that it was all a big joke. Mark had the ready-made excuse that he needed to return to Newcastle to care for his mother, and his white lie almost made things worse for him.

  ‘Take all the time off you need to set things straight,’ said Martin Thomas. ‘As long as you eventually returned to work, everything will be fine.’

  This was a side of Martin Thomas which Mark had never seen before; desperation; the EyeSpy Security staff were dropping like flies these days, and Mark especially, would be hard to replace.

  In the car park, shocked at his own duplicity, Mark felt lost. He felt as though his whole being had undergone a nuclear attack; all that was left was the small core of himself which was desperate to survive. He was dramatically losing weight; his rapidly receding, already thinning hair was beginning to fall out; he looked as though he had radiation sickness. Or maybe he was like the eels he read about in his fishing books, thrashing about while his head had been cut off…

  Mark’s comforting security blanket had been yanked out from under him, but he still had to perform the mechanical tasks to ensure that life went on. His garage became a makeshift operations centre in which he worked tirelessly on the dummy systems with which they were planning to fool Edison’s Printers into thinking that everything was hunky dory. He was glad of the everyday nature of the work; he was so used to tinkering with systems that he could sometimes fool himself into thinking he was doing nothing out of the ordinary.

  He pinned a copy of the site plans which Danny had provided onto the back of the garage door, but in a fit of conscience tore it down when all started to seem to real to him. God, it seemed, was a fickle kinda guy. One minute he’d be telling Mark that he was doing the right thing; the only thing he could do to help his mother. The next, he’d be whispering in his ear about all of hell’s fires waiting for him. They were going to roast him like a piece of meat on a barbecue.

  Testing. Testing. Testing.

  Mark was testing the systems but he was also testing himself. How far into this could he push himself before it became unavoidable reality? He bought a van from a former university acquaintance of Chris and Danny, utilising the last of his savings. The white van looked real. It was so real that he could reach out and pick off some of the rust which surrounded the wheel arches, but the engine had been well looked after, and it would perform the job needed of it. Steve Elton, a friend of Chris and Danny, delivered the van to Mark’s house in Wortley.

  Steve stepped out of the van looking every inch the used-car salesman; hair slicked back with what looked like three coats of thick gel, a shirt with no tie; unbuttoned to show a forest of chest hair; pin-striped trousers. He greeted Mark with a breezy thumbs-up sign and pranced towards him. Steve Elton was a man who could get things for you, no questions asked. Mark had been told by Chris and Danny that in his time at university, Steve had dabbled in dealing soft drugs; he seemed to have built upon his disregard for the law, and now was healthily remunerated for turning a blind eye to the histories of the products he sold.

  ‘Tip-top condition, this van mate,’ Steve announced, handing over a set of keys with a Ferrari key-ring attached that was surely ironic. ‘I know she’s not got a pretty face, but she’s a goer; like a good-un man.’

  ‘Thanks; as I said; as long as the engine is still in working order, I don’t care about any of the rust or bumps.’

  ‘Yeah, well, she looks like she’s been round the block a bit doesn’t she; not exactly one careful owner… but treat her right and she’ll do you fine.’

  ‘Exactly where did you get it from?’

  ‘You know me. I have contacts all over the place. Believe it or not, this beauty used to transport cold meats; it has a generator in the back which used to run the refrigeration unit.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. This isn’t a re-painted Parker’s Fine Foods van is it?’

  ‘Now that would be ironic wouldn’t it?’ grinned Steve Elton. ‘But if truth be told, this beauty comes at very cheap… and at that price; you don’t get to ask questions. Do me a favour though, don’t tell Chris about this… I knew I shouldn’t have told you…’

  Mark handed over the remainder of his savings in a brown envelope and turned his back on Steve without even a wave. Once back in the house, he immediately dialled Chris’s number on his mobile.

  ‘Something’s not right here. You know that you told me to get a hold of the van? Well, the only lead that I got was that mate of yours from university, Steve Elton.’

  ‘That slimy shitbag?’ Chris interrupted. ‘Was there nowhere else you could go?’

  ‘Not in the time-frame you gave me. Look, I’ve got the van now, but it’s a re-paint job; a stolen van. Surely that’s a bit risky? And I didn’t want to tell you this, but I think it was stolen from your dad’s factory.’

  Mark was shocked, and then relieved, at the outburst of guffawing laughter from the other end of the phone.

  ‘Really? Well, all is forgiven. Think about it; the father’s stolen van being bought by the son, and then used in another robbery. Even the police wouldn’t credit us with that much stupidity! Fuck it Mark; you do make me laugh. What did I tell you? I will never speak to that man again; it’s finished. Once we complete the job, the van will be burnt out anyway, but this gives us another option. If the van’s found maybe they’ll start investigating that lying shit once again. Look; the van is the least of our worries; I’m starting to seriously worry about Danny…’

  ‘I know; he’s falling apart. He’s a nervous wreck; we need to chill him out,’ Mark replied, concern evident in his voice. Reality was starting to bite; its bloody jaws were clamped around his injured leg and couldn’t be shaken off.

  ‘Right, well what we need to do is to get his mind on something else. We need to plan some kind of big farewell party… it’ll be part of our cover story anyway. We know a lot of people in Leeds, Mark; we can’t just disappear off the face of the earth. We should tell them all about Backpacker Heaven; throw them off the scent of what we’re really doing.’

  Mark was aware that Chris’s phoney company project had been moving forward, but he still didn’t know the lengths to which he had gone.

  ‘How’s Backpacker Heaven coming along then?’

  Chris laughed again: “The way things are going, we could just forget about the Edison’s Printers job and set up this thing full-time. I’m having to knock-back corporate sponsorship schemes already - big money - and also hoards of rich kids are just dying to get their hands dirty out there…

  Since I set us up as a registered charity, we’re going from strength to strength. The fake website I set up gets some obscene amount of hits a day… If it wasn’t so much like what my father did, I could really see myself playing some kind of King of the Swindlers role.’

  ‘Have you ever thought that we could just do something like this for real?’ Mark said, bitterness rising in him. ‘That maybe, just maybe, we could still make something real, something tangible, from our collected brains. We could just set up a charity and go and live in paradise, actually working for something worthwhile.’

  ‘Don’t be bloody stupid. Whoever heard of anyone making money from a charity? Remember why we are doing this, Mark; for your mother,’ Chris interrupted again.

  Mark was angry now: ‘And what about you, Chris, why are you doing this? Why are you risking so much? Why have you given up your job? You’re just like Danny really, you never think of the consequences of your actions…’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ said Chris, a note of sarcasm cutting through his characteristic reserved tone and lending it an ugly, screeching quality, ‘All I care about is myself. I don’t have to answer to anyone. I don’t have any promises to keep… look, just come round to my flat at the weekend for the farewell party.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mark tried, guilt edging into his voice, but
Chris had already clicked off. There was no turning back now; the route back had already been blocked off. They were about to navigate the road to hell; they were to undertake the unspeakable…

  The Last Supper

  Mark was dreading the indulgence of the last night farewell party almost as much as the heist. He knew that Chris was planning a major blow-out, and he knew that Danny was so close to the edge that he was liable to have some kind of nervous breakdown, or else let the cat out of the bag. He imagined Chris and Danny being wracked with a nervous excitement which would transform them into frenzied incarnations of the arrogant brats they sometimes were. He could almost picture one of them pulling off a trick like Bilbo Baggins in Lord of the Rings, when on his eleventy-first birthday party, he slipped the ring on his finger and disappeared, to gasps of wonder and awe from the audience.

  Chris planned the party as a part of their cover story for their fleeing the crime scene. He also threw himself into the compilation of the invite list, booked the restaurant and elected to host pre-dinner drinks at his flat. Mark became more and more concerned at the scale and ambition of the evening; this all looked too much like tempting fate. They were celebrating before any of the hard work was done.

  On his drive across Leeds, Mark’s wariness grew; with an almost superstitious zeal, he obeyed every possible Highway Code. His law-abiding driving stemmed from a desire not to risk capture - surely anyone would be able to read his dark intentions in his eyes, and discover the stolen van, but also because he wanted to be late. He considered dropping in at the Adelphi for a nerve-settling pint, but thought better of it when he saw the row of opulent parked cars outside Chris’s flat; he knew he just had to get through this torture, and if he popped into the pub, he would have been sorely tempted to stay there, Danny-style.

  Parked-up, he took the time to collate a damage report on his battered trousers; his self-consciousness cranked up a notch. He knew that he didn’t fit in amongst these people. He had never seen himself as one of the bright young things that populated Leeds on a Friday and Saturday night; people whose clothes were more expensive than his monthly rent. He looked wearily in the van’s sunvisor-mirror and gingerly smiled at himself, before noticing that smiling exacerbated his squint.

  Shaking his head, he wrenched open the transit van door and unsteadily craned himself out of his rather-too-low seat, which was so sunken through years of some other driver’s slouching so that it almost touched the floor. He was met by a barrage of angry beeping as a speeding black Mercedes swerved to avoid him, clipping the edge of his van door in the process.

  Suddenly alert at the prospect of confrontation, Mark realised simultaneously that he had dropped the bottle of port he’d brought as his contribution to the night, and that his heart was drumming its own tune, matching that which pumped out of the speeding black car. But the Mercedes didn’t stop, and instead had already turned the far corner of the road; and skidded out of sight by the time Mark had yanked his own van door shut.

  Breathing heavily, he kicked the smashed remains of his treasured port to the side of the road and leaned back against the van door closest to the pavement. Traces of blue paint from the paint-job he’d given it imprinted onto his shirt. Within a couple of minutes, he knew that the car was not coming back - it was probably stolen - and he felt an unavoidable, creeping sense of foreboding, darkening his spirits. The near-miss was an unwelcome reminder of that world which he was trying to forget, trying to get away from; the heavyweight underbelly of the city burbling indigestive anger at him. He wanted simplicity in his life; he didn’t want to be reminded of the braggart modernity of the city which he simply couldn’t fit in with.

  Mark sloped haltingly down

  Dock Street’s Dickensian cobbles. That particular area of Leeds had been immaculately restored to its Victorian splendour, without losing any of its charm. Wisps of an early evening fog lent the street an other-worldly atmosphere which made it look like a film set but the buildings were reassuringly real; old mill buildings which had been powered by the current of the River Aire now were fuelled by the new money of the Leeds glitterati. A lonely red balloon floated pointlessly on the door handle of the loft-style apartments, marking the way to the lifts. Mark sighed, called the lift and prepared to face a reality he couldn’t comprehend.

  As the lift doors opened, he could hear the deep thudding bass of Chris’s music. For a moment, he almost turned back, but something - a relentless desire for self-punishment perhaps – drove him onwards. When he reached the door, he didn’t even bother knocking; nobody would hear him.

  Danny was already there; Mark was immediately greeted by the pungent fog of that new, cheap brand of cigarettes he’d started to smoke as he stepped into Chris’s sparsely decorated, clean-lined entrance hallway. He could also hear the outspoken Jed Burton, another of Chris and Danny’s university pals, spouting forth his usual drug-induced nonsense, and surely that was Steve Elton’s guffawing in the background.

  Mark steadied himself, putting his palm against the wall, still unnerved by the close call with the black Mercedes and his dropped port. He heard pockets of conversation above the music, and managed to pick out the individual voices of Dave Redford, Paul Sellars and Andy Gregory; the Leeds brat pack. Drawing a deep breath, he entered the arena to mocking applause from Danny and Chris.

  ‘About time!’ Chris brayed, already sounding drunk. ‘I thought you weren’t going to come. Here, have a glass of wine.’

  An over-size glass was thrust into his hand; Mark grasped at it like it was a life-jacket.

  ‘Thanks Chris,’ he said. ‘Just had a nightmare parking mate. Then, just when I finally did park, I nearly got run over by a Mercedes; must have been stolen judging by the speed of it. I had to jump out of the way, and I dropped the port I’d brought for you.’

  Mark caught Dave Redford and Paul Sellars sharing a brief, knowing look. They thought he was too cheap to bring a bottle.

  ‘No worries Mark, as long as you’re okay,’ soothed Chris. He took Mark’s coat from him and made as if to take it into the bedroom; he had rehearsed his role as host very well. Then he paused at the door, saying: ‘We’ve had a spate of cars being stolen around here. Always the Mercs and the Jags though mate; I reckon your van might be left alone!’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. Cheers, by the way,’ Mark grinned, finally beginning to relax as the clouds of smoke from whatever was in Steve Elton’s roll-up began to cloud his brain. He took a deep draught of the red wine and gave Danny a friendly wink.

  Steve Elton piped up: ‘Hey! That van might not look great, but I did you three a real favour selling for that price; I even had a mechanic check it over. ‘First class condition’; his words.’

  ‘We all know that mate,’ Danny placated him, ‘We had to get it on the cheap as all the costs will go into shipping it to Mauritius…’

  Mark was impressed at the relaxed exterior Danny had adopted for the evening, a show which belied his mental disintegration of the past weeks.

  ‘Ah; the new jobs, finally we get to the point. What the hell are you guys playing at?’ Steve Elton asked the question which had been hanging over the room like it was part of the foggy cloud of smoke.

  ‘All will be revealed at the meal, my friends,” replied Danny, still maintaining an air of calm. ‘All that you need to know is that we have all decided that we need to do something different with our lives; we are going to make that giant leap into a new world and do what we’ve always wanted.’

  While Danny was regaling some of the group with part of the rehearsed tale of their new jobs abroad, Mark perched on the arm of the sofa, quietly listening; he marvelled at how easily both Danny and Chris managed to hold a crowd under their spell. They were like a double-act, first Danny would weave fantastic tapestries of stories, and then Chris would entertain with his cynical wit. Jed Burton, Dave Redford, Paul Sellars and Andy Gregory were all seated cross-legged on the floor in front of the sofa, as if they were primary school pupils at s
tory time.

  As Danny left to get a refill from the kitchen, Chris took centre stage; he clapped his hands and demanded silence before launching into a diatribe about the way that his Hi-fi simply ruined the fuller bodied flavours and colours of the jazz CD which was providing the be-bop backing music to the evening’s chat. With a flourish, he switched on his old reel to reel player and the crackly sensual saxophone of Rodrigues cut through the atmosphere.

  ‘This, my friends, is the maestro. Diego Rodrigues; none of you will have heard the name before but it don’t matter. I discovered him literally falling over drunk on stage on my Latin American jaunt a few years back.’

  Mark recognised that Chris’s appreciation for music played second fiddle to his joy of one-upmanship. Chris lived for those moments at get-togethers where a guest would astonishingly enquire as to who was playing such sumptuous jazz, and he could reply that it was an artist he himself had discovered. Mark had heard Chris play this game many times before, and Chris was this time regaling his audience with the fact that, ‘this music is the real thing; it can’t be copied because it was I who made the recording. It was music of the moment and for the moment. Pure escapism.’

  Steve Elton knew what was demanded of him, and played his usual sycophant: ‘I don’t know how you do it. I truly don’t: no matter how obscure the act, you seem to have a nose for hunting them out- it’s like me stalking a bargain… or a bird.’

  ‘Rodrigues was a wizened, nasty old drunk in a remote Mexican village who happened to play the sweetest most unconventional music I have ever heard,’ continued Chris, ‘until, of course, he had thrown back too much tequila; when his dark thoughts translated into the music and became a jagged, disjointed mess. I made the recording that very night, before he descended into his own personal hell. He will probably never even remember the numbers he played- it’s a true never-to-be-repeated performance.’