Seven Daze

by Charlie Wade

  Off limits.

  He shook his head. “Sorry, that probably didn’t make sense.”

  Her lump of hair flopped down but she didn’t push it back up. “I did this course on sampling at college ...” Jim wasn’t sure what sampling meant, but he guessed she didn’t mean taking a loop or riff off a song to create another tune. “Sometimes the sample doesn’t have to be large to give an accurate end result.” He got what sampling meant, but he didn’t like where this was going. She left her sentence hovering, dangling in the wind like her lump of hair. He was surprised as she shook her head. “No, it’s a revised figure. Sampling theory breaks down doesn’t it?”

  Jim nodded, he didn’t have a clue what she was on about now. He just wanted the bill. Maybe a toilet break was needed.

  “You have to see all the parts or else it’s as much a guess as the first reported result.” She seemed to ponder this for a minute. “That’s quite clever really, isn’t it?”

  Again, Jim nodded before standing up. “Little boys room,” he said, walking away.

  The bill paid, and the topic of conversation altered, Jim wondered what was next. A taxi home and a peck on the cheek would see him in bed before News at Ten. He wanted more, not more between them, but more time with her. She seemed different tonight, and he was only just working out why. What he’d thought were bored signals weren’t. She was relaxed. The motor mouth had gone too. She was herself with no need to talk for the sake of it. He thought he was falling for her too, in a big way, but this wasn’t the time for that. He’d be dead in three days if he didn’t get rich soon.

  “Do you fancy a drink before we get back?” He realised after saying it that it kind of hinted he’d be going back to hers. He clarified, “I mean before I go back to my hotel and you go home.” He realised that sounded worse. Her face joined his in going red. He wanted the restaurant to swallow him or the huge Chinese warrior dragon on the wall to come to life and eat him.

  “Probably ought to get back. Early start and that. Shall we share a taxi?”

  Jim nodded. He couldn’t help but think he’d set his cause back a week or so. God knows what Harry would have said on the subject. “Second date? Second date? You should be rutting her in empty doorways by now you big ponce. You’ve disappointed me again, son. Disappointed me. Again.”

  The taxi hailed, Jim half leaned on her as their stop-start journey headed south. Turning towards her, her face and lips next to his, he kissed her. Expecting her to pull away or slap him, she didn’t.

  A minute later, his face numb, and mind pulped to a mash, he breathed. He’d smudged her make-up and lipstick, and the droopy lump of hair was now joined by three other lumps. But he hadn’t dislodged her smile. Taking her hand, he held it until the cab pulled up outside her flat.

  Another kiss outside her door and Jim was ready to go. He didn’t want to go, but he didn’t want to stay and ruin it either.

  “I’d better ...” He pointed down the road.

  She nodded. “Me too, I ...”

  One more kiss, then he stepped back. Opening the door, she stepped inside then turned to face him. “Thanks for dinner.”

  “Thank you. It was your choice.”

  “Thanks anyway.” With one last smile, she closed the door and triple-bolted it.

  Walking down the street, Jim looked at the sky. “Why now?” he asked. “Why the fuck now?”

  Chapter 18

  Jim woke with a curious gurgling in his stomach and a clear head. The first day in many without a hangover, his mind rushed with thoughts of Charlotte.

  Morning x, the text said.

  Morning. Thanks again for last night x, he replied.

  Breakfasting on burnt sausage and partially raw toast, he received the reply, Thank YOU for last night x. Smiling, he finished his breakfast, paid for two more nights then hopped into the shower.

  Within two hours of waking, he walked the familiar East End High Street towards The Queens Arms. Still an hour from opening, he headed for Filthy Alan’s. Inside, the familiar unpleasant smell hit his nose. Filthy, despite his apparent poor vision, recognised him straight away. “I’m trying to get hold of Terence,” said Jim. “You haven’t got a number have you?”

  Filthy did a wily head shake Terence himself would be proud of. “Might have.”

  Shaking his head, Jim pulled a twenty from his pocket. Filthy’s memory now clearer, he said, “No point ringing, he never answers. His flat’s just up the road. Floor two, number six, Che Guevara Tower. Just up the road. You can’t miss it.”

  Thanking Filthy he left, spotting an old foldable table on the way out. “Keep that for me,” he said. “I’ll come back later.”

  “Always a pleasure doing business.”

  A ten-minute walk and he realised Filthy was right. It was easy to find. The thing blocked out most of the East End’s natural light. Climbing the stairs, he knocked on Terence’s door before waiting. After the third knock Jim was convinced he was out, but shuffling behind the door told him he was in luck. Opening it, Terence nodded his head for Jim to enter.

  “Who gave you my address?” he said, bolting the door.

  “Filthy Alan. It’s okay, I’m only after the licence.”

  Terence leant past Jim and closed the corridor’s only door. Inside was the living room and a mountain of goods, some Raif’s and some from other unfortunate souls. Like Filthy’s shop, Terence’s flat had the same musty male smell. He wondered if they were in some way related.

  “You’re in luck.” Terence reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “Wouldn’t know it was fake, would you?”

  Jim grabbed it and looked. Though at first not recognising himself with glasses on, it was definitely him. The card was a good copy. Hologram and professionally sealed; he reckoned it would nearly fool the DVLA themselves.

  “Nice one.”

  “Does a good job. If you’re after a passport, he can do them too.”

  “This’ll do for now.” Jim turned and made for the door that Terence was opening.

  “I’ll see you for another drink next time you’re in,” Terence called after him as he made for the stairs.

  “Thought you might,” he replied.

  By the time he’d reached south London again, morning had gone.

  Having lunch now x, Charlotte had said.

  Me too x, he replied.

  Leaving the hotel with two bags for life containing an iPad, Wii, the laptop and Freeview box, he walked further south. He’d always thought the new, modern pawnbrokers were ideal for the criminal. Easy cash. Except for one thing: proof of address. Like everywhere else, cameras seemed to rule the shops too. It took a large pair of cojones to walk in with stolen goods and risk all for a few hundred quid.

  Jim smiled. He thought the glasses gave him a cultured look. Like a proper civil servant. Though why a proper civil servant would need to pawn electrical goods was a big question. He avoided four chain pawnbrokers before finding an independent one. They’d still do checks, he knew that, but he reckoned he’d more chance of succeeding in a small shop. He’d get less money too, but that went with the territory.

  Two days left. That was all. Just two days. He had considered ringing the big man when he woke this morning, telling him how near, or far, he was away. Admitting defeat. But he knew his sort. What he’d do is add on five grand interest and give him another week. He’d be going round in circles for months if he wasn’t careful. With every minute the police would get nearer, until eventually he’d owe fifteen grand to the nasty bastard from the inside of a prison cell.

  Seven grand in two days. It couldn’t be that hard, could it?

  Walking into the shop, he immediately spied a camera above and another behind the chicken-wire fronted counter. A large hatch to the side of the wire allowed goods to be handed over and returned. The man behind the counter, small, bearded and miserable, nodded his head.

  Walking forwards until he was face to face with chicken wire, Jim held up his bags. “Wii, iPad
, laptop and Freeview box.”

  The man screwed up his nose in a well-rehearsed bartering technique. “Not much cash around these days I’m afraid. How long do you want to borrow for?”

  Jim pretended to think for a few seconds; he knew he wasn’t ever coming back. “A week, maybe two.”

  “Let’s have a look then.”

  He pulled a handle, spinning the hatch round so the empty side appeared in front of Jim. Placing the bags of goodies inside, Jim waited as the hatch spun back round.

  Muttering and sighing, the man plugged the various items in except for the laptop. “You got a lead with this?”

  “No.”

  He tutted some more, but to his disgust it turned on. Jim realised as the screen turned pink with a yellow smiley face in the middle that he should have changed the background as well as deleting the files. Taking his time inspecting everything, he eventually turned back to Jim.

  “Eight hundred the lot.”

  Jim screwed up his face, but nodded anyway. It wasn’t a bad deal. He wished he’d come here instead of Terence with some of the other bits. He might have been one step nearer to ten grand. Handing over one of Geoffrey’s bank statements and his new driving licence for ID, he received eight hundred in twenties plus a small, carbon copy chit with a number and the details of his goods on.

  “Do you want the bags back?” he asked.

  “Nah, you’re alright,” said Jim.

  “Sure? They’re bags for life.”

  “No.” Jim walked to the door. “They’ll probably only last two days before breaking.”

  The tubes were quieter mid-afternoon. Jim preferred them that way. Too many suited important people and nowhere to sit made for an unhappy man. Alighting at his stop, he walked towards his next destination. Despite the hospital being huge, it was near impossible to find. Asking in a shop, and being forced to buy a packet of fags in return, he got directions.

  Walking inside the hospital, he approached the front desk wishing he’d brought some grapes or flowers. “Excuse me. Which ward is Geoffrey Morgan on?”

  “What’s he in for?”

  “Heart attack.”

  “Try third floor reception.”

  The flustered receptionist moved onto the next question asker as Jim waited for the lift. He’d never liked lifts and remembered why as the doors closed. He didn’t think it was claustrophobia, but just a minor fear of being hemmed in. Just like the cell walls. No room to stretch or move when you wanted to. Harry had said he was in the wrong game if he didn’t like being detained. “You wanna move into gardening or scaffolding or something, lad. Being banged up’s part of the deal here. Part of the deal.”

  The lift doors opened just as he felt sweat drip from his back. Walking out, he breathed heavily. At least he was in the right place if he collapsed. The clear and bright hospital walls and floors reflected the sun into his eyes. Squinting, he made for the third floor reception. The air was thick with a clinical, clean smell, and his head felt woozy from the heavy breathing.

  “Excuse me, do you know where Geoffrey Morgan is?” His voice faltered. After all, he was hardly on a mercy mission.

  “Ward three. Just down the corridor.” She pointed.

  Jim followed the signs and red markings on the floor to the Coronary Care Support Unit. He knew the man he was looking for. He’d studied his picture enough, yet he didn’t know Geoffrey at all. Chances were Geoffrey wouldn’t recognise him. Even if he did, Jim didn’t know what to expect. Surely he wouldn’t just say, “Thanks for saving my life. Here’s ten grand for your trouble.”

  No. Things didn’t happen like that. Not in the real world. Jim still didn’t fully know why he was here about to meet the man he should have killed. Maybe that was the reason.

  Lying on his back and wired up to various machines, Geoffrey turned from his television to look at Jim as he turned the corner. Jim pitied the man in front of him. Bare-chested, pale and helpless, he looked like the proverbial death warmed up that he was. Jim saw his eyes widen as he stared. He seemed to recognise him. Jim was surprised. After all he was dying, all but dead, the last time he saw him.

  “Hello.” A weak and frail voice. Like a ninety-year-olds. Jim half smiled and looked away from his eyes and towards the wall behind. Filled with electronic gadgets, wires and gizmos, Jim found himself wondering what he could get second-hand for the copper in the wires.

  He looked back at Geoffrey. “How are you?” He knew it was a stupid question, but couldn’t think what to say. This had been a bad idea. Surely he’d know what Jim had been planning. It must be written all over his face.

  “Been better.” He coughed. The bleeps and pulses of light flying across the monitors increased slightly in speed.

  “Sorry, I haven’t brought you any grapes or anything.”

  He kind of laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m sick of them.”

  Silence filled the gap as Jim wondered what to say next. He reckoned Geoffrey was wondering too.

  “Thanks,” Geoffrey said.

  That seemed to say it all. Just a small apology. Jim waved it away. He didn’t deserve thanks. Charlotte had done most of the work, and besides, if she hadn’t have been there, God knows what he might have done.

  “It’s okay. Anyone would have, you know.” Jim stopped and looked again at the monitors. The pulses, peaks and troughs were quite hypnotic. He reckoned he could stare at it for hours checking for each little change or irregularity. If you were hooked up to it, after a while, just watching it would make it change. Would it be possible to change the rhythm yourself to one you preferred to look at by breathing faster or slower?

  “Sit down.” Geoffrey pointed at an orange plastic chair.

  Jim sat down. Geoffrey smelt of hospital and sweat. He’d obviously not had a bath in days. Maybe a bed bath, but they never really got you clean. Jim thought of himself if ever he had to get a bed bath from a nurse. He knew it’d be a fight to not stand to attention. Thinking of Anne Widdecombe or cricket batting averages could only hold off so long.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jim. The woman was Charlotte; she did all the work.”

  “I can’t remember much to be honest. It seemed to happen in double speed. It was like I was trapped inside a bubble or something. Couldn’t speak or move; just this pain.”

  He paused. His monitors and beeping had increased. Jim was terrified he was going to have another heart attack. Being next to him on both occasions would look suspicious.

  “What have the doctors said?” Again he was struggling to find things to say. Why was he here?

  “Warning sign. I need to wind it down a gear, take it easy in future.” He sighed. “Have to find another easier job, plus somewhere else to live.”

  Jim thought that in itself was probably more stressful than carrying on working. There was something he’d come here to do, but Geoffrey had just made that ten times harder. Of course it shouldn’t matter. He was fighting for his life here too. He knew Geoffrey was in so much debt he’d be bankrupt with or without the contents of his flat. But here, face to face. It didn’t make it easy.

  “Do you, er,” Jim paused, “need anything? You know, clothes, stuff, anything from home.” He realised how desperate and badly worded that sounded.

  “No thanks. My ex wife’s sorting some stuff out.” Geoffrey paused briefly and seemed to take in what Jim had said. “You’re amazing you know. Seriously, no one helps anyone in London. Yet you and that girl; what was her name again?”

  “Charlotte.”

  He nodded. “You not only stop in the street to help someone, but you actually then visit and offer to get them anything they need. You’re not from London are you?”

  Jim guessed it wasn’t just his accent that gave him away. “Coventry.”

  “Never been there. Maybe I might now. Maybe I might.”

  Geoffrey managed ten more minutes of talking before nodding off to sleep. Still sat in the little plastic chair, Jim placed his hand on the be
dside cabinet. The bottom part of the cupboard opened outwards. What would Geoffrey have inside? A washbag, house keys, maybe a couple of quid for the telephone? Or maybe not. The telephones and televisions seemed to work off some sort of payment card now. Again, the whole world had gone cashless leaving the honest criminal wanting.

  Looking around, Jim opened the cupboard. Squeaking and creaking, it made too much noise for his liking. Geoffrey was still sleeping, along with the other patients, but Jim didn’t like this one bit. He looked inside. A brown dressing gown lay next to a few pairs of pants. Behind them, the new washbag, hastily bought from a chemist by his ex. A leather wallet beside was tempting. Very tempting.

  Chapter 19

  Leaving the hospital, Jim felt a spring in his step. His confidence in something had been restored. It took him a while to realise what it had been restored in. Himself. The leather wallet was still inside Geoffrey’s bedside table. Its contents, forty quid and a driving licence, were also still there. Jim had walked away from it. Temptation had been fought back.

  He liked to think that if the wallet had two hundred pounds instead of forty and a few credit cards he still would have left it. Yep, it would still be there. If there had been house keys he wouldn’t have taken them either. Of course he wouldn’t.

  Sending a message, Just been to visit Geoffrey. He’s a bit weak but okay x, he headed for the tube.

  Getting off the tube in the East End, her reply came, You should have said. I would have come with you. What did he say?

  Opening his lock-up, and retrieving the three packs of cards he’d left there, he replied, He said to thank you. You saved his life.

  You did too, she replied.

  After closing the lock-up he went round the corner to the Queens Arms. With Mick and Tim playing pool it felt like time had stood still. He wondered if the pair actually did any work, but Mick’s new sheen of dusty white plaster said he’d at least put in an hour today.