by Neil Rowland
“Hey there! Mr Pitt, are you back?” he called.
Clive stiffened, staring down with apprehension.
“What’s wrong Clive? Are you all right, boss?”
If he truly knew the man, why didn’t he recognise him?
“Coming back to pay us your visit?” he beamed, getting in close.
“Do we know each other?” Clive wondered, drawing back.
He assumed a default stance and pushed his fringe from his eyes.
The little man laughed; long stained teeth, enormous shining black eyes, probably Middle Eastern in origin. “’Course I know you Mr Pitt! Would I forget? I have a very good memory, a very good memory,” he said, knocking the top of Clive’s arm. “So did you move back into the area? Or you just enjoying old times?” he asked.
“Trying to remember what it was like,” Clive agreed.
“Anything the matter?” asked the man. “You look stressed, boss.”
“What’s your name again, sir? Excuse me, because my memory is appalling these days.”
“Anwar Ahmed. You forget my name?”
“I’m sorry, Mr Ahmed. That’s really rude of me. What happened to the antiques shop?”
The man’s face crumpled in anguish. “Oh, God save us, some guys came here...two months... and they smash the place to pieces. They destroy all the stock.”
“They did? Why would they want to do that?” Clive replied.
“Thousands of pounds of damage. I don’t know. The lady had to move out. She was insure’, but decided not to open again. And they even destroy your place as well. Your nice flat upstairs. I came home and found that wrecked. When you had it so nice. Though you were not living there at the time. Very lucky, eh?”
It made simple sense now. “You and I used to speak to each other?” Clive asked.
“That’s right. Sure we did, Mr Pitt,” said Mr Ahmed, giving Clive’s chest a little enthusiastic chop. “How you keeping, boss? Always a pleasure to talk to you, Clive.”
“I assume that I was buying a lot of flowers from you,” Clive remarked, recalling Pixie’s descriptions of his conjugal behaviour.
“Every evening when you come back from work? Lots of blooms for Mrs Pitt.”
“Pixie?” he wondered.
“Pixie. Lovely lady. How is your wife?”
Pitt considered himself a foolish hypocrite. “She’s very well, thanks very much. But I have to tell you, we were not married.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” replied Mr Ahmed. Yet his smile had turned uneasy.
“Pixie and I were really happy together, but we were not married,” Pitt confirmed. “We were definitely living in sin.”
Mr Ahmed’s face compressed with sincere sorrow. “Are you sure? That is a pity, Mr Pitt. Such a shame. But you sound as if you are married. Shada and me could hear you two frequently fight. I would listen to your shouting at each other and she was crying, some time,” he recalled. His face held an expression of melancholy resignation. “Just like married.”
“Really? Pix and I fighting? Right, well, I suppose we were under a lot of strain,” Clive said, trying to recreate the scene.
“Lucky for you there was a florists’ nearby, eh? So you can make peace with her. So I’m sorry to hear your marriage ended.”
“Our relationship ended,” Pitt confirmed. “But lately I’ve been seeing her again.”
“Good for you, eh? Really lovely lady, Pixie.”
“What did we talk about? You and I? When we got together?”
“Everything. Money, football, politics. Women! You come into my shop, buy flowers, we drink coffee and have a little talk. Happy days. You must remember?”
“Not so well, Mr Ahmed. I suffered a bit of a trauma.”
“Something bad?” he wondered.
“A knock on the head, at least,” Clive told him.
The florist considered. “You think connected to them destroying your flat?”
“Who’s running the shop these days?”
“A new couple there now. They don’t like flowers, they sniff coke. That’s right, in the flat above the new business. A boring pair of bastards. They own that furniture shop there. And they don’t speak to me. Why don’t you come in for a while Clive? Like we used to do. I’ll make us some coffee and we’ll catch up. How’s your work these days? Going better?”
“Take my apologies, Mr Ahmed. I’m forced to let you down. Let’s make it another time, shall we?”
“Sounds as if you still face terrible problems, Clive? Have trust, everything shall be well in your life and business. Have trust in God. You are always welcome here.”
“Cheers, Mr Ahmed, but I should be moving away from here,” Clive told him. “Maybe for your good too.”
Pitt left Mr Ahmed smiling but a little puzzled, and wandered confused along the street himself. He was absorbing the information that their apartment had been ransacked by intruders.
The Hampstead prospect was generally quiet and reassuring. A distressing sense told him he shouldn’t hang about. He wanted to find her pink Porsche and get out of there. He must have strolled around these very streets with her, hand in hand (?), sharing a balmy evening after work - not that long ago. What did they say to each other, between patching up arguments and admiring floral arrangements that is?
There was love between them, going by the evidence so far. They had rediscovered the spark. There was also conflict in their relationship, if Mr Ahmed was to be believed. Did this come from their personalities, or was it triggered by conflict and conspiracy at the office? If they’d had an affair, cared about one another, then should he ask Pixie to stay with him in future? That would be possible if his marriage had been terminated, as it had been, after his wife had cleared off to America. Should he persuade Pixie to pick up where they had left off? Or was their relationship merely an office affair or - not even a fling - but simply an illusion? A flirtation that had transgressed?
Noreen had her reasons to leave and, if he discovered them, he might be able to repair his marriage. How could he resume communication with Noreen, and hear her side of the story? That felt quite improbable and difficult. The situation at work was exceptional; it had pushed them to the limits, their marriage under pressure, Clive considered, not just Pixie and he.
Clive was disturbed by the idea of setting up home with Pixie, or any other girl for that matter. He had indulged in fantasies about Pixie, but these were merely an escape route in times of stress. There’s an inner voice, a wiser counsel, isn’t there, reminding us about what is right. Apparently this wiser voice had been ignored in regard to Pixie, at some stage. However he still couldn’t remember the specifics. What he recognised came through his fingertips and nerve ends; or at best insights and impressions, bypassing memory and wisdom. Pitt was somehow able to vouch for her past support, even though he couldn’t exactly say why.
He hadn’t so much lost memories as failed to retrieve them. Now he was washed up in his own life; stumbling about London, trying to gain clues about his position, while fearing that he was already caught in his enemies’ net.
28
In the course of tackling another Hampstead hill, Clive became aware of footfalls behind.
The thought of being followed caused instant GBH against his coronary muscles. He was trying to keep a regular heartbeat, to measure his paces, to regulate breathing, as if taking on a challenge. He prided himself on dangerous sports, risky adventure, walking and running challenges. But that wouldn’t hold; he was not doing this for self-satisfaction or leisure, or bonding with friends. He was not even battling with competitors in cyber space. These guys mean business, he told himself, almost as a joke.
Probably he was being naïve by looking back over his shoulder. But he wanted to get some idea who was tracking him. In fact there seemed to be m
ore than one guy following; perhaps there were as many as three.
Absurdly the burly trio were wearing bowler hats. Blokes didn’t wear bowler hats any more, he argued, other than a few club door men trying to impress. They were intent on their prey (the time of watching and waiting had expired). Possibly his enemies judged that a corner of Hampstead was an ideal hunting environment.
Despite a quaint dress sense, his pursuers looked like standard thick necks. Pitt wasn’t used to playing the quarry, but he felt that these attack dogs were closing in. When Clive looked behind and began to jog, they made no attempt to disguise their intentions. Unlike Mr Ahmed at the florists, they were not in a mood to chat about the affairs of the world. Rather, with the brutality of a Victorian publican along the Mile End, they were determined to call time.
Pitt had nearly killed one of them already, after the vicious attack near to his former home. Or maybe he’d really snuffed that guy out by accident. The memory of the man’s destroyed bloody features haunted him still. They wouldn’t be pleased by the shock result of that violent episode. That would have frustrated his enemies - whoever they were - but it would have strengthened their resolve. Equally their urgency made him wonder if he could potentially nullify them.
Pitt took flight through the red hot afternoon, bolting for his life from one turning to the next, in the way they expected.
Yet he wasn’t exactly sure who ‘they’ were. Who really ran the world? If you made enemies in the City as a high ranking figure, then the outcomes were serious. There were a number of candidates, including his former boss. Who was responsible for setting these wild dogs on him? Right then it was not so urgent to hear the name of their employer.
How could he shake their fangs from his trouser seat? The thugs would catch him eventually, unless he found more cunning. Pitt knew instinctively that his flight was too direct and visible to his chasers; as they strode out and held him in their sight. Therefore he began to be more erratic, unpredictable, as he’d seen in war movies. Soon he dashed suddenly to one side, when an opportunity arose; running at full tilt down a pathway. The tactic worked to a degree, as there was a delay before they picked him up again; the trio of bowler hats bobbed along in his direction across the top of a hedge.
Perspiration flooded his new shirt, which still retained showroom creases. Nobody had the time to iron his shirts at the moment, least of all himself. He was glad to be in physical shape, even though he was pushing the limits. But he didn’t consider himself to be any kind of secret agent or hero, just a mathematician turned City banker, who had upset a few powerful guys by saying the truth.
As a youth he was an idealist using technology to make a name and possibly his first billions. His father was dismayed at that time. He considered Clive a bedroom fantasist and tried to persuade him to start at the building society.
Clive remembered his first introduction to Sir Septimus. The banker had been impressed, warmly welcoming, fizzing with enthusiasm. It always helped your negotiating position Sep argued, if you could produce a particularly beefy, confident guy, with a brilliant mind into the bargain. That had been a successful strategy. Not only on the trading floor, to strut along peacock walk; but in meetings with clients and rivals; to gain business, to consolidate agreements, as well as, of course, to intimidate any competitors or naysayers.
Nobody knew what made Pitt tick back then - including himself. Clive wasn’t aware of any particular business ethics. At first he didn’t know where the moral line could be. But at a late stage of the ZNT deal Pitt got a feel for that moral line. Like a ballerina who refuses to sweat off extra pounds, he refused to cross that border.
How could he have suspected - either as an intern or as an associate - that his exciting career at Winchurch Brothers would, one day, push him out and force him to run for his life?
Clive became aware that one of the guys split off. The suit separated from his cohorts, no doubt thinking to double back and cut Clive off. They probably had a navigation device to orientate them. They found their way with ease around the complex plot of Hampstead paths and lanes. Pitt had broken his sophisticated wristwatch days ago, so couldn’t take that aid. The watch had been a gift from the director of a Bavarian forestry company. It was thanks for helping him secure the timber from Hungarian woodland.
At some point the bowler hats would intercept him. Then it would be check-mate in their favour. From Clive’s point of view the business couldn’t be allowed to end there. The details of this hidden scandal would stay secret and be buried with him. But he’d be damned if he allowed them to win out. How could he keep ahead of three of them? He could try to keep them separated, baffled between each other, like a careless group in a hall of mirrors.
Soon he would be sandwiched between them, a bowler hat at each end of the lane. Pitt clambered over a brick wall, rolling over pieces of glass at the top. With an effort he got over the top and fell over to the other side. He crashed down with an inelegant thump into someone’s back garden. He’d fallen awkwardly, as pain shot through his right knee and thigh. But he got to his feet, and judged the demands of the terrain ahead as it swam about his vision.
Fortunately the pain was instantaneous. He strode out across a spongy green lawn, which was basking under sprinklers. He enjoyed a few moments to cool down. But he couldn’t waste another second. This was the complex territory of a classic English garden. Not every day did you flee for your life in someone’s back garden, he thought.
Seconds later, he watched the two suited thick-necks follow in the same direction. They tumbled awkwardly over the wall, like poor nags taking a lunge at Beecher’s Brook. They suffered an equally rough landing, with the extra point of a trellis. All the air was smacked out of one of the guys. The character emitted indignant grunts of complaint, face shoved into the dirt. They were soon on their feet however. They didn’t even brush down before picking up the chase. Obviously they enjoyed the rough British sporting culture. Pitt had never enjoyed it exactly but he’d learnt to survive from an early age.
Pitt found himself under tree cover, darting between intense light and shade. He took a swift course among shrubberies, crumbling walls and hidden nooks. At the top of the garden he noted a glowering gothic mansion. Some fantasy castle for a Victorian banker or lawyer. Yet the thugs were rapidly following, even closing on him, running not far behind. Pitt could only sprint as hard as he knew, praying that he was the strongest and fastest of four men. How likely was this? Perhaps people somewhere in the world were gambling on-line for and against him. It was down to physical competition for survival. It wasn’t about cleverness, or challenging unseen opponents with your gaming knowledge.
He confronted the limits of the garden, with no place left to turn. He was forced to scramble over the next dividing wall into the adjoining garden. In the struggle he dragged down honeysuckle and pulled out lumps of old brickwork. His lungs reached a burning limit, and lactic acid took bites out of his muscles. He dragged himself up on his deeply scratched leather soles, as if he was being whipped through an alternative London marathon.
There were indignities to endure as he jumped at the next wall. His new chalk-stripe pants were rent on a thorny trellis, his shirt patterned by chlorophyll. Yet he still had the will to escape.
His pursuers vaulted down again, missing only their bowler hats (left to confound someone’s deductive thinking). Indeed they were suffering, judging by the anguished snarls; which didn’t sound in English, although that was hard to tell. One of the thugs proved fitter, as he was pulling away from his comrade, Clive realised, dashing a concerned look around.
Pitt began to sense that he was not the fittest and strongest. One of these thick-necks had apparently given up the ghost, but his mate kept running hard and, within minutes, he caught up with Pitt. Luckily there didn’t seem to be firearms or any lethal weapons involved, at this stage. Why didn’t they try to kill him immediately and be
done? They wanted something from him first. He was surprised that they didn’t try to take aim.
Losing stamina Pitt decided to stop, to set out his stall and fight the guy. He’d run out of strategies and had nowhere to turn. This one was huge; by then drenched in sour sweat, with a reek of spirit and spices. Bowler hat missing, he presented an entirely shaven head, top skin peeling and slick with sweat. His eyes popped with effort, showing little sense, beneath a burnt bullish neck, snorting like a bull too, as the fellow summoned remaining strength; lifting his head he put up fists as massive as limestone lumps on the moor.
The guy took a wild swing around the block, nearly lost his footing, and a struggle commenced. They each landed blows to the body, then fell on each other wearily, straining for a dominant grip. Pitt felt like one of those daring athletes that used to ride bulls in ancient Crete. He was oddly filled with strength and resolve, as his blood surged powerfully.
“Give it up Mr Pitt,” the guy urged.
“Never,” Clive returned.
“Hand back all what you stole.”
“After you!” Pitt urged.
“You’re finished.”
“Who wants me?”
“You’re done,” the guy grunted.
“What do you think I am?”
“You are Lucifer,” the guy insisted.
Clive noticed - peripherally - that somebody else was approaching, across that stretch of lawn. Neither the hoodlum nor he was in a position to identify this other individual. The thug assumed his colleague had caught up and he gained a definite surge of confidence. Clive lost spirit because he also expected the other thick-neck to come and finish him off. Pitt experienced some despair, he felt weak and doomed, unable to resist any further.
“We got Lucifer,” the guy declared. He had Clive in a strangle hold and was grinding his short teeth in appreciation.
But at this the villain was given a hefty blow to the head. An instant later he folded. He was a pile of unsavoury sausage meat on the turf; all mince and gristle. Pitt staggered, in and out of the dark, astonished by the sudden release. Then there were stars, even in a deep blue afternoon sky, and he suffered a blackout.