by Charlie Wade
The bag was mainly full of junk. Women stuff he’d always called it. Tissues, lipstick, hairbrush and the like. Using the coat as a glove, he opened the purse. Two cards and fifty in notes. He shook his head. This wasn’t worth it. Risking arrest for fifty quid wouldn’t get him anywhere. He didn’t really know what he’d been expecting. He supposed he was lucky to find anyone actually holding cash these days.
One other item in the handbag caught his attention. Another large phone that wasn’t a phone. This one was like Charlotte’s. The Apple symbol on it could only help its resale value. Ditching the Sim card, bag and coat, he re-entered the street, made a point of checking his flies then hailed another taxi.
He went further west, the roads now clogged with evening traffic. With this being the norm for London, he wasn’t surprised everyone used the tube. Though everything seemed close by in reality it wasn’t. He reckoned everyone would be better off living on the outskirts of Bristol or Nottingham, and drive to work there. But there’d be one thing missing: they wouldn’t be able to say they lived in London.
He stopped the taxi after fifteen minutes. Now not having a clue where he was, apart from being past St Paul’s, he walked down the street. Again the combination of takeaways, eateries and drinking establishments, but this time interspersed with shops, both touristy and normal ones. Finding a fairly plush-looking wine bar, he entered.
His first thought was he’d drawn another blank. Groups of people either sat or stood round tables, open ground between them. Two men sat at the bar on stools slowly drinking themselves into a weekend daze, while another stood ordering a round of drinks.
Sitting next to the habitual drinkers, he thought of playing the long game. He could stay there for the night. Eventually, as more and more drink was gulped and people became less stable, they’d leave themselves open. The problem was, the longer he stayed, the more chance someone would recognise him.
Ordering a pint and scotch, he settled in and looked round. The two men nodded as he glanced round, taking everything in. Not really in the mood for conversation, he instead watched the barmaid wipe down the bar area. She was thorough, almost obsessive, about wiping drips. Catching her eye and smiling, she didn’t smile back. Work, especially on a Friday night, was just work for her.
Looking at the array of optics behind the bar, a mirror reflected the rest of the bar. He looked at the room full of heavy-walleted Londoners. Ten grand was nothing to this lot. Three or four hundred each would be nothing. Maybe he should ask them. Make up some tat that he was dying or needed it for an operation. They’d just shun him. A few hundred quid to save a life wouldn’t impress them. Sure they probably all had standing orders to a Third World Charity, but that was different wasn’t it? No, they wouldn’t be interested.
Sat in a booth, almost out of sight, but reflected between a bottle of Glencadam and Mexican tequila, Jim noticed two people. A balding man in a suit and a good-looking thirty-something woman with a stray lump of hair. His stomach twisted as he recognised the owner of the hair lump.
Charlotte.
Leaning on the bar, he covered his face with his hand and carried on watching. Unsurprisingly she was doing most of the talking, yet that happy beaming woman he’d dined with hours ago was now a stern and efficient businesswoman. The man had a glint in his eye. Even in mirrored-reverse Jim couldn’t fail but notice it. His stomach turned again. Had he read this wrong? It was her job to be pleasant and meet people she didn’t necessarily like. She said as much earlier. Was he winding himself up, and making something out of nothing? Breathing out heavily, he leaned further against the bar.
It suddenly hit him. He was a wide boy, a no-good thief. Why did he think she’d be interested? They’d saved someone’s life together, that’s what had happened. Two random people in London pushed together. Friendship was all it was, and that wouldn’t last when she found out where he’d spent the last three years.
Or maybe, just maybe there was more. His stomach cramped. Pulling a mobile from his pocket, he realised it was one of the stolen ones so quickly replaced it. Pulling his own out, he turned it back on. Clumsily deleting the last message he’d nearly sent, he wrote a new one.
Just wanted to say thanks for earlier. Really enjoyed it. Taking a deep breath, he pressed send. The barmaid moved further up the bar wiping the clean surface as she went. Now blocking his view, Jim sighed and moved forwards on his stool. He could just see her face. She stopped talking. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her phone.
He felt terrible, sat so close, watching her. Waiting to see her reaction, yet he had to do it. It would end this once and for all. Sleeping at night was going to be hard enough without this as well. She pressed her phone screen a few times, her eyes scanning it. He watched, waiting for some acknowledgement.
The reaction came.
His stomach churned harder. Shivering he tried to finish his scotch but couldn’t. He felt sick. He needed fresh air. He left the drinks and walked outside. His legs wobbled everywhere; drink had caught up with him. It wasn’t just that, it was her reaction. He stopped and leaned against a sandwich shop door, gulping down breaths.
Slightly calmer, he remembered the look. The look when she realised who the message was from. Her face had changed. The sternly efficient gaze melted, a smile taking its place. Her face seemed to lift as her mind absorbed into the phone.
Jim didn’t fully understand why his stomach was turning. Sure, he felt something for her. Three years of her majesty’s pleasure had left him yearning for other pleasures, but this was different. He’d never experienced or even believed in the L word. He’d had friends that were obviously fond of each other. He’d had girlfriends himself too, but it was always just a laugh. Never serious. He ran out of the bar because watching her didn’t feel right. He was seeing things he shouldn’t. None of this was right. Being in the city, the heart of London. This was her domain and he was pissing all over her doorstep.
Heading towards a tube station, his stomach in tatters, his phone bleeped.
Chapter 11
:) I enjoyed it too. Just in meeting. I’ll ring soon x. As much as he stared at the phone, the x wasn’t giving anything away. He knew that x’s had become popular. Some women used it for everyone and everything, while others kept it more personal. What sort was she? It was her first, so he doubted she was a habitual x-er. Why now for the first one? Why? In some ways, he wished she hadn’t sent it.
The tube chugged electrically towards Victoria. Jim wanted to go east, towards the Queens Arms, but had settled for the first train out to avoid bumping into Charlotte. He was also wearing a suit, which wouldn’t go down well in the Queens Arms.
As messed as his head was, he knew the bank cards and mobiles in his pocket needed offloading. Devoid of any contacts, the Queens Arms was the only place he knew. He was sure he could offload them there. Not that they’d be worth much. All this chip and Pin shit was ruining the average card thief. God knows what Fingers Harry would have to say on the subject. Before, it’d take days for stop notices to get round, and if you made small enough purchases you could run up huge debts. Nowadays, you were talking hours, even minutes if you made a large purchase or bought in the wrong place. Luckily, the cloners still wanted cards. Copies of the cards would be winging their way round the world to countries without chip and Pin readers. He’d probably get a hundred for the seven cards, maybe more as this was London. Everything seemed to cost more in London.
Waiting for his stop he looked at the message again. Her meeting must have dragged on. He hoped she’d ring before he arrived at the Queens Arms; trying to talk to her there would be awkward. He was tempted to ring her, but she said she’d ring. He thought of the bald-headed city letch opposite her and curled his fists. A different time or place and he’d have smacked him, and no doubt been arrested or more usually been smacked back ten times harder.
Changing at Victoria, Jim waddled through the crowded terminal for his connection. The next tube was rammed, sweaty and
embarrassingly quiet. Though a good opportunity for petty theft, Jim knew that tube trains were notoriously difficult. There was literally nowhere to run. Following the herd off the tube, he walked back to the hotel. Approaching the door, his phone rang.
Charlotte.
“Hi, it’s only me,” she said. “I’ve been stuck in a really bad meeting for hours; you wouldn’t believe it. The bloke’s a moron. Still, that’s life isn’t it? You have to take the good with the bad ...”
Jim nodded at the receptionist as he walked towards the stairs. She shrugged her shoulders back. Whatever he was doing, she didn’t care.
“I mean some people just don’t know a good deal when they see it. He almost needed it spelling out. Apart from that the afternoon just sort of flew by. I went back to my office for a bit ...”
Opening his room, Jim started to switch off. He liked her talking, it felt like having the radio on, but it was too one-sided to really listen to. Emptying his pockets he lay down and, phone clamped to his head, properly examined his haul. Carrying the wallet had been a risk. He should have dumped it straight away.
“... but I don’t really know about that. I mean, you think you know someone and then they come out with that. That’s juniors for you, I suppose.”
Her slight pause caught him out while he was fiddling with his gloves. He was trying to pull them on without touching the outsides. A losing battle. She continued. “There’s a new mystery series on the telly tonight. Do you like mystery series? Or thrillers I suppose they’re called. I love them ...”
Finally getting one glove on, he held the other to get easier access. Pulling the cards from the wallet, he remembered that although he touched them using his jacket, his dabs or DNA may still be on them. They needed cleaning.
Besides the money, credit and other cards, there was also an emergency condom which was just in date. Jim copied Martin’s address onto the back of a Tower of London brochure. He hoped having Raif’s address would be enough, but it never hurt to hedge your bets.
“... and crime series too. They’re so cleverly done, aren’t they? Just keep you in suspense the whole time. Some of them are a bit unbelievable. I mean you know there are criminals out there, but if you watch these programmes you’d think everyone was at it ...”
There was no answer Jim could give to that. He just thanked his not very lucky stars she was still talking. Niggling doubts over where this could go resurfaced. He went back to counting his new money. He’d barely made four hundred after the drinks and taxis. He should have made well over a grand. This wasn’t a good start.
“... I can’t stand adverts though. I sometimes just pause the telly for ten minutes and do something else so I don’t have to watch them.”
Quietness descended.
After a few seconds, Jim said, “So, is there anywhere you want to go tomorrow? You know, anything you want to do?”
“Oh, that’s the other thing. I’ve got a really early start Sunday; got to work would you believe. On a Sunday. So anyway, I’m going to have to get to sleep early ...”
Jim knew it’d been too good to be true. She’d seen through him. Her next line would be, “you’re really nice and all that, but ...”
“So I was thinking,” she said, “are you free tomorrow afternoon instead?”
He gasped. Had she really said that? “Yeah,” he replied, forgetting about his ten grand debt.
“Good. I was thinking, perhaps, I mean say if you’re not interested, but, there’s an art exhibition at the South Bank I’d like to check out. I mean, if you don’t want to then say. I don’t mind. I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but one of my clients was talking about it and it sounds good.”
“No, that sounds great,” he lied.
“Excellent. Look I’m just about to hit the underground. I’ll have to say goodbye.”
“Okay. Shall I ring tomorrow morning then?”
“Yeah. Okay, got to go. Bye,” she replied.
A change of clothes, gloves and a wipe down of the cards took Jim fifteen minutes. Within an hour he was outside the Queens Arms. He was concerned he’d bump into Charlotte at the tube station, but luckily he didn’t. The East End was different at night. Jim wasn’t scared, but he understood how some may be. Daylight still clung to the streets, but the grime and dereliction made it darker, sinister.
Jim wondered what the world was coming to with all these thieves, muggers and fraudsters around. Harry would have a similar view. “Streets ain’t safe no more,” he’d say. “Was a time when you didn’t have to worry about being mugged, but now it’s as regular as taking a dump.”
The Queens Arms was busier than the previous day. Jim was surprised just how busy considering its other life as a sleepy, daytime pub. Looking at some of the clientele, well-dressed young people, he guessed they’d stopped for a pint before moving on elsewhere.
Seeing Tim By Four and the plasterer playing pool, Jim nodded then headed for the bar. A clear tension surrounded the group in front of the bar. Already half drunk and with plenty of spare seats around, they’d set their stall on blocking other people rather than having a quiet drink. The group of young lads, maybe too young to drink, seemed to gain pleasure in hindering others. Jim almost felt he had to ask permission to get through. Greeted with looks that said, “Not from these parts are you?” Jim held his nerve and struggled through. Things had changed in this country. It wasn’t just London but everywhere. Respect had gone.
Feeling old, he got his warm pint and moved to the pool table. The lads at the bar were staying well clear of that area. Maybe Tim and them had had dealings before. Maybe there was some respect left, but you had to earn it. It wasn’t just given anymore.
“Alright lads,” said Jim.
“Jimbo,” said Tim. “Putting your name up then?” He pointed at a chipped blackboard with incorrectly spelt names dangling from the wall. Jim nodded and scrawled his name under the last. The split grain of chalk made it look like jjm.
Though Tim was playing with Mick, someone called “Danny Boy” was up next though the word “boy” had been written with a different hand to Danny.
“How’s tricks?” said Mick.
“Yeah, not bad. Mustn’t grumble. Yourself?”
“We gave up at lunchtime and came here. Brickies are taking too long; dossing round most of them.”
“Not bothered though, are we?” said Tim. “Still get paid, see.”
“Can I have a word, Tim.” Jim knew it sounded too serious. He should have waited or worded it differently. “Do you know any, er, fences, mate?”
Tim scrunched his nose up and shook his head. “I’m trying to keep out of trouble.”
“I know, mate. I won’t, you know, involve you. I’m just in a sticky patch. I need pointing the right way.”
Tim sighed and pointed his pool cue towards a scabby-faced loner nursing half a mild in the corner. “Terence the Ference we call him. Don’t get me involved, pal. I’m on licence.”
“So am I,” said Jim, walking towards Terence. “So am I.”
Jim pulled a barstool from under Terence’s table and sat opposite. Closer up, his face was clearer; like a weasel sucking a sour sweet. “Can I get you a drink, pal?”
“Maybe.” He swirled the dregs of his mild round, staring at the bar.
“You’re Terence? We might be able to help each other.”
Terence turned and stared at Jim. He felt his gaze hovering over his face, shoulders and stomach. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He spoke with too much pleasure and the dregs of an Irish accent.
“I’m a mate of Tim By Four.” Jim knew he was sounding desperate.
Terence looked behind him over at the pool table. Jim guessed Tim must have nodded because he turned back. “First things first,” he said, planting the nearly empty glass in front of Jim.
Jim nodded and stood up. A path cleared amongst the youths to allow him to the bar. Jim guessed they’d seen him talk to Tim and Mick. There was something betwe
en the lads and Tim. Buying four pints, he took two to Tim and Mick before returning to Terence with his mild.
He took a huge glug as if Jim might change his mind and want it back. “What you got?”
“Seven cards, driving licence and a couple of smart phones.”
“Same person?” Terence asked.
Jim shook his head. “Three different ones. The driving licence matches three of the cards.”
A smile crossed Terence’s thin lips which quickly faded as his brain appeared to hatch a plan. “Not worth a fortune, my friend, but I should be able to do something.” Terence took another huge mouthful of mild, leaving a third left in the bottom. “Wait a minute then knock on cubicle three.” Standing, he hobbled to the toilets. Flicking a glance back to the pool table, Jim nodded at Tim who smiled briefly then nodded back. After counting to one hundred, he stood up and went to the toilet.
Walking into the damp chill of the toilet block, Jim breathed through his mouth to negate the powerful aroma. Knocking on cubicle three, Jim wasn’t surprised when the door opened and Terence ushered him in.
The cramped and smelly office wasn’t needed for long. Jim handed over the cards to a muttering Terence and was handed fifty quid in grubby tenners.
“Is that all?”
“Not worth much more, pal. Driving licence is the best. Cloners like them, see. Got name, address and date of birth.” His faint drawl made birth sound like both.
Jim nodded. The tube fare and the drinks he’d bought hardly made it worthwhile. “Oh nearly forgot.” Jim pulled the Blackberry and iPhone from his pocket, the batteries and cases detached. “How much for these?”
“Yeah. Quite high demand for them. You’ve thrown the Sims away?”
Jim nodded.
Terence nodded back and pulled five more tenners from his pocket. Jim snaffled them from his hand still wondering what a Blackberry actually did.
“Do you get rid of bigger stuff too?”
“What you got in mind, son?”