The City Trap

by John Dalton

  ‘Fucking first chance to get away, Jesus, man, I’m off – bleedin shit heap! I used to think you should never stay in the same place too long. I let that slip. I can feel the moss growing all over me.’

  ‘Tek it easy, boss. When you see a way out, den tings, dey can seem panicky.’

  ‘I don’t know that I do see a way out. I mean, what d’you make of it? A phone call this afternoon from McGinlay saying he wants to do a deal on the photos, and now the same bleedin call from Bertha.’

  ‘The photos dem’re like breedin rabbit.’

  ‘Too right. Sounds like the whole world’s got them cept us. Hardly seems any point getting them back.’

  ‘What Wainwright im say?’

  ‘He’s a pretty angry fucker. Says don’t do any deals, just pull out a gatt and take the stuff.’

  ‘Should work wid Bertha, but wid McGinlay . . .’

  ‘Pity he crocked up Scobie.’

  ‘I can handle a gun, man, don’ worry.’

  ‘That ain’t the worry; it’s the fucking tricks he might have up his sleeve.’

  ‘What do dey call dat der ting, man? You know, mekkin the bes out of a lousy situation.’

  ‘Damage limitation.’

  ‘Dat’s the fucker.’

  ‘Yeh, well, that’s all I’ve been doing since Wainwright had his “unprotected” sex.’

  ‘Bes ting be to blow im away.’

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought about it, the pompous prick. Never trust a bent straight, Gus. They’ve got fingers all over the place. You never know where you are.’

  ‘So what’s the plan den, Ross?’

  ‘Damage bleedin limitation. We rip off the snaps from Bertha and McGinlay and bung em down Wainwright’s throat. End of relationship. Then we bugger off down Waterloo and by dawn we should be supping Pernod by the Seine.’

  ‘Soun’s cool.’

  ‘Yeh, just a case of keeping our distance till we see what happens.’

  ‘Fine. Me hear dem say French chicks get pretty hot for guys like me.’

  Ross poured himself another drink of whisky. He looked at the soles of Gus’s shoes and then at the small office. Too long in one place.

  ‘Gus, take your stinking shoes off my desk! And while you’re at it, why don’t you fix that fucking light?’

  23

  Des got almost sentimental about the big wallow. It maybe wasn’t so bad to drown your sorrows and soak in self-pity. Those sleepless nights under low lights riding great monologues of thought. Boozy, smoke-filled dawns where the clarity of light was impossible to believe, as though he’d reached an hallucinatory state. It all seemed so cosy and safe compared to the fraught actions he was caught up in now. And the psychology was there, just like the reluctant worker who can’t leave his bed. Things’ll go on with out me. What does it matter anyway? Des was tired. He dragged himself around his house collecting the many copies of photos he was about to do deals with. In some way, he felt the case was over, and the dangerous business of wrapping things up was a burden he didn’t have the heart for.

  Think of the pay. Think of never seeing Bertha again. Think of Pearl and Las Palmas in the fall . . . Des suddenly felt a twinge of guilt. No, don’t think, don’t think at all!

  Three envelopes eventually piled up on Des’s kitchen table. For Ross, half a dozen snaps and half the negs. The same for Bertha. The third envelope was a bloody-minded whim. A little sequence which made a story to be sent to the local paper. A felt-tip note: ‘Sir Martin Wainwright.’ An equals sign. One of the snapshots. Another equals sign and then a press cutting about Claudette’s murder. What the hell? Des put a stamp on it and then went out of the house to the post box which sat collecting smog on Argent Street. On his way back, Des saw the guy sitting in his car. It was fifty-fifty, of course, that the man was just waiting for someone. However, guys sitting in cars have to be regarded as dodgy. Social Security snooper, debt collector or someone keeping an eye on Des. There’d be but one way to find out.

  The first place he had to visit was Bertha’s pad. Bittersweet, this. A tangle, a badly snagged knot of string that might take a long time to unravel. Des got into his Lancia and set off for the permanent crawl of Argent Street. The guy sitting in his car didn’t move but a flashing indicator showed that he was about to. As Des was let into the traffic flow, the car pulled out, a Japanese job, grey and anonymous. The attention was unwelcome. According to Hollywood, Des would now zoom off, jump a few lights and screech around near-impossible turns. Des looked at the long line of traffic. Maximum speed ten yards a minute. Great. He looked back and could see his tail slotting into the flow some five cars back. So who was he working for? Ross? The police? It seemed to Des that this was an element in the situation he did not need, an element that could jeopardize his pay cheque or even his health. He began to feel annoyed, partly at being tailed and partly because of the moronic pace of the traffic. Des stopped his car completely and jolted the handbrake on. Tension was wrapping iron bars around his head. He got out and walked back to the Jap job. The guy sitting in his car had the window down.

  ‘You’re violating my rights.’

  ‘Eh, I’m just –’

  ‘I’m not in the mood for being followed. I’m very fussy about my personal space.’

  Horns from the stalled cars around them began to blow. A few irate heads appeared from behind windscreens and standard motoring oaths added to the cacophony. Des reached into the car and grabbed the ignition key.

  ‘Hey! Come here you!’

  ‘Who you working for, huh?’

  ‘Give me those bloody keys and get out of here!’

  Des dangled the keys high in the air. He saw a burly builder-type hauling himself out of the car behind, his face contorted with rage.

  ‘We’re about to have a major scene. You going to tell me?’

  ‘Shit! All right, I’m doing it for Wainwright. I’m just supposed to make sure you do the deal with Constanza and no funny business. If you do that you’re in the clear and you don’t have to worry about me.’

  ‘What the bloody hell are you lot doing blocking the fucking road?’

  The irate builder was but a few yards away and he had a tyre iron in his hand. Des looked down at the guy sitting in his car.

  ‘Oh well, the way it goes . . .’ Then he threw the keys across the road and dashed back to his own car. The noise behind him was growing, the builder had his head in the Jap job, but Des suddenly had an open road in front of him. He got his car going and put his foot down. A few red lights to cross, a few impossible turns to try . . .

  * * *

  ‘The end of the road then, Bertha?’

  ‘You sure this is all there is? There’s not many negatives.’

  ‘They’re copy negs. There are only two prints to make copies of.’

  ‘I suppose I should settle up, then.’

  ‘I reckon you should.’

  Bertha was dressed up for the occasion. Full make-up that brought back former glories and a dark red dress that shimmered across her ample curves. Des took one look down her cleavage and felt an unwanted surge of desire. One of those places, an old pleasure haunt he was seeking to move on from. Bertha began to count out the money.

  ‘You’re sure this is the end of the line for you, Des?’

  ‘From now on I’ll refer all queries to you.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

  ‘Loose ends, Bertha, like Wainwright pressuring me.’

  ‘Doing it my way will stop everything.’

  ‘I hope you’re making a good deal, my dear.’

  ‘One day I’ll tell you all about it.’

  Des sat back on the plum red sofa and allowed himself a sigh of relief. A major job done. A real wad of cash. Las Palmas in his pocket. He could just pack it in and let things go on without him. He could, but he knew he wouldn’t. He fingered his throat, a throat that had known the same hands as Claudette and Mary. He had to see it through.

  ‘I’m
going to miss you, Des.’

  Bertha was leaning towards him and she had her hand on his thigh. A familiar pose this one and, despite himself, Des began to feel rumblings of desire.

  ‘You always do it, don’t you, Bertha? Go right down to base instincts.’

  ‘Come on, that’s in your mind, and you love it.’

  ‘As if you make sure the thoughts don’t arise.’

  ‘Men, Des, you’re all the same. It wouldn’t matter what I did.’

  ‘Well, you certainly have the chemistry.’

  ‘So, will you miss me?’

  ‘Like wild nights on the town.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You know, it was great while it was happening, but the mornings-after were hard to deal with.’

  ‘Well that’s nice.’

  Des shrugged. He braced himself for flak.

  ‘Sex and business. That’s about as far as it goes for men. The rest is just hassle, to be evaded or shrugged off.’

  ‘I don’t know as you’re any better.’

  ‘You never dared come close enough to find out.’

  ‘Look, you’ve paid me off, Bertha, so there’s no point in rowing. But if you want to play the who-used-who? game, then I reckon you’re ahead and just about to cross the finishing line.’

  ‘Yes? Well, maybe I am about to do that.’

  ‘It’ll end in tears.’

  ‘That’s what soft shits like you like to think.’

  Des was feeling pretty strange when he left Bertha’s block of flats. He didn’t really want to leave but wanted to return, call Bertha all the names under the sun and then make fierce love to her. It made him unwary. He didn’t notice the blue van that was parked some way behind his own car. It had been there before but he hadn’t noticed it then because of the Japanese job. Previously, the van had been up ahead of him on Argent Street and had since kept on his tail. He was more concerned now with easing Bertha from his thoughts, and as he set off of to meet Errol, the van barely registered. Des headed for the city centre, working through the crawling traffic and then onto the fast-moving expressway. He swept up Camp Hill, past the stone canyon vista of the city and on. He didn’t notice any of it. No panoramas, no horizon, just a blinkered route from an unsettling Bertha to an unknown scene where danger lurked. He got to the glasshouse facade of the railway station feeling calm enough, though a sense of seediness still lingered, old sweat needing to be showered off.

  ‘You’re late as usual, Des.’

  ‘Yeh, just been disentangling myself from my employer.’

  ‘You never really told me how entangled you were.’

  ‘Later, eh, Errol, it doesn’t bear thinking about just now.’

  ‘The things you get into.’

  ‘The main thing is, I got my cash.’

  ‘Right, let’s wrap it up then.’

  Des and Errol sat in the front of the unmarked black van and surveyed the meeting place. Three looming towerblocks encircled the space in front of the station where one broad main road fed into a large roundabout which in turn led to the expressway out of the city. The traffic was constant and busy. A slip road from the main road to the station was where the meeting was planned.

  ‘Whose idea was this?’

  ‘Constanza’s. Said he likes railway stations. Said they’re a good reminder that you should never stay still too long.’

  ‘He’s probably right about that.’

  ‘Yeh. I reckon he knows he’s stayed still too long and got his feet stuck. Bumping off whores is a sign of desperation. So, how you reckon it’ll be for the meet?’

  ‘It’s OK. Lots of people coming and going, cars and vans parked around so we don’t look suspicious. Bit of a problem maybe with the traffic noise.’

  ‘I hope I can pull it off.’

  ‘Getting nervy, huh?’

  ‘Yeh. When you see the end of something, you can’t help feeling that some unforeseen snag will crop up.’

  ‘By the way, you wouldn’t happen to know, would you, how Scobie Brent ended up in the hospital?’

  ‘Me? Nah . . . but it sounds like good news.’

  ‘He’s in bad shape apparently, concussion and stuff. We asked the doctors to keep him in as long as possible and we’ve got a plain clothes guy there keeping an eye on him.’

  ‘So he needs fingering soon?’

  ‘Yeh. And apparently he was half throttled as well. Didn’t he do that to you?’

  ‘Yeh, that’s another thing doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  * * *

  ‘So what are we g-going to d-do then, Mouse?’

  ‘Dunno, we’ll have to work something out.’

  ‘We ought to have a g-gun, that would be b-best.’

  ‘It’s good, though, isn’t it, what we’re doing?’

  ‘G-Guess so.’

  ‘I mean, “revenge”, we’re actually going to try and do it.’

  ‘Yeh . . .’

  ‘It’s got to be one of the biggest repressions around, you know, and that’s the way the system wants it. Your mother gets beat up on, your girlfriend gets killed and you’re supposed to sit meekly back and let some officious arsehole bring the culprit to justice. Huh! All justice is is punishment by boredom in the nick.’

  ‘And the v-victim’s friends or relatives b-bleed slowly to d-death inside.’

  ‘Right, when they should be getting it out of themselves and wreaking their own bloody justice. Of course, we can’t have that. People might start bumping off their neighbours. They might start attacking the bastard system itself! God knows, there’s enough to seek revenge for there!’

  ‘Too b-bloody right, Mouse.’

  ‘It’s starting to get dark.’

  ‘Yeh, c-can’t be long now.’

  ‘The dark’ll suit us, Stray.’

  The battered blue van was parked on the opposite side of the station entrance from Errol’s van. A bank of shrubbery obscured most of it from view. Jerry began to roll up a spliff on his knees as he sat in the front passenger seat.

  ‘It must be strange, though, Stray, to know a woman you’ve been to bed with is dead,’ Mouse said.

  ‘W-What d’you mean?’

  ‘Dunno, it just seems odd, creepy even, that you’ve been really physically intimate with someone, and now that body’s lying six feet under being caressed by worms.’

  ‘Jesus, M-Mouse!’

  ‘Haven’t you ever thought of it like that?’

  ‘N-No. I think back to when we made love, b-but it’s the f-feeling of the moment, the f-feelings about her I m-miss.’

  ‘Must be my warped mind. It does bring home the finality of death, though, the physical awareness of sex suddenly turned to putrefaction.’

  ‘C-Can’t you think of anything else to t-talk about?’

  ‘Well, yeh, this is a great spliff.’

  ‘D-Don’t I always make em?’

  ‘Mind you, this makes me think of sex too, or feel it more like.’

  ‘What is it n-now?’

  ‘I’m getting horny, Stray.’

  ‘N-Now? I mean we’ve go-got –’

  ‘Let’s go in the back of the van and lie on the mattress,’ she suggested.

  ‘What about the m-meeting out there?’

  ‘It could be ages, and I want you to shag me, Stray. And note when I say “you shag me”.’

  ‘Eh? I d-don’t –’

  ‘You know what I mean. Up till now it’s been me on top, me screwing you, and for once I want to be the one flat on my back.’

  ‘I thought you liked –’

  ‘Come on, be honest. It’s no great deal, but I reckon you can’t do it, can you? Like with the stutter, you’re half stuck in there and you need someone to squeeze it out of you.’

  ‘That’s n-not f-fair. If y-you want that y-you should say.’

  ‘Really? OK, let’s start with a little tickle, eh?’

  ‘What? Ow! No, d-don’t, you’re – oh, damn! Shit, Mouse, I’ve spilt
the d-dope, get off, I –’

  ‘Bollocks. We’ll have to hold on anyway, Stray. McGinlay’s appeared outside.’

  *

  Des walked out and felt a cool breeze on his forehead. He looked up. When darkness hits the city, the sky goes. A relief. Eyes can now be rooted to the ground, horizons lost behind ceilings of light. The sky is a distraction. It’s a void or a reminder of somewhere else. Des didn’t want to think of places beyond just yet; that could tempt fate and increase pressure when he was so close to the end. He looked over at the office towers with their grids of light. Thirty storeys of furtive labouring. People on the scale of ants. The way it goes, the way we are, thought Des, feeling weary once more, feeling the bruises beginning to ache. He physically tried to pull himself together and not to give in to dread. He saw a Bentley, silent and ominous, cruise towards him.

  24

  ‘The things we do, eh, McGinlay, for our employers.’

  ‘I’m not working for mine any more.’

  ‘Yeh, guess that’s true.’

  It wasn’t exactly a fair situation. Des on his own backed up against a timetable board and the two of them, squat Ross and bulky Gus, standing a little way back by the Bentley. But Des wasn’t going to complain; it could make them feel more at ease.

  ‘So you admit that you work for Wainwright, then?’

  ‘Nah, that’s not really the situation, although he’d like to think it was. Associates, I say. I’m just doing the guy a favour trying to sort this business out.’

  ‘Quite a favour.’

  ‘That’s business, McGinlay. A few favours here, a few deals there – confidence, self-interest. It’s complicated but it all hangs together somehow.’

  ‘You’ve lost me already.’

  ‘Yeh, well, it’s a different ball game, ain’t it? I mean, you’re just a self-employed grifter really, screwing what you can from people’s problems, like Bertha for instance.’

  ‘She got her money’s worth out of me, I reckon.’

  ‘I bet she did. Did you know I was shacked up with her once?’

  ‘Yeh.’