Thin Men, Paper Suits

by Tin Larrick

  On-off? Who partakes in an on-off relationship for seven years? He was thirty-four, for God’s sake. Why didn’t he just take the plunge and commit to the poor woman? She clearly deserved it; she had never turned him away whenever he showed up on her doorstep after weeks or sometime months of silence, and yet he kept stringing her along, with no plans for the future, nothing beyond the cold light of morning.

  What were they both so afraid of? Oh sure, they had both seen other people, but never seriously, and they seemed reluctant to completely sever their ties to the other. Neither of them were getting any younger, for Christ’s sake.

  There and then, he resolved to go straight home and ask her to marry him. She might say no, she might laugh, she might tell him it’s too late, I got fed up waiting, there’s someone else, but at least he would be proactive for once in his life. He could make something happen.

  She wasn’t too keen on the job, though. Sometimes he would visit and she would say he smelled like dead bodies, which was not conducive to quality time together. But hell, he wasn’t married to the mortuary. His skills and experience could be put to use in another field. Something better paid, more sociable, and which involved daylight. And quitting for a woman? For Celandine? He decided he was more than willing to do it, more than willing to put someone else first for once.

  There was a jolt. Then a groan, and another jolt. And then the car began to move, being shoved and churned along by the tide, the water level now up to the sill of the door, spilling into the interior of the car and rising up around the seats and gearbox. Craig, again feeling strangely liberated by the decisions that seemed to be consolidating in his mind, clutched the doorframe as the car began to drift.

  Fuck this, thought Craig, and got out. He had a life to live. He waded back towards the shore, making the conscious decision to abandon the car. There were lights in the distance, belonging to a row of beachfront houses down near Cooden. They were probably closer than they looked – twenty minutes’ walk, max. It was time to admit that he had been a bloody idiot – the shame would probably only last a day or two – and then get on with proposing to Celandine and getting on with the future.

  He passed the boot, and his eye caught the towbar, bobbing up and down in the water. His head was still pounding and slightly fuzzy, and rational thought was proving elusive as a consequence – sudden thoughts of marriage were surely proof enough of that. Had it not been, he would have perhaps thought twice about using the towbar as a foothold so he could clamber onto the car.

  Balancing precariously with his knee on the boot lid, his other foot on the towbar and one hand on the roof, he pulled out his mobile phone again. Holding it aloft in some bizarre appeal to the cellular gods, he scrutinised the screen for a signal.

  Nothing.

  The car lurched again.

  Craig slipped.

  His shin banged against the towbar as he went down, the pain like a sudden sickening light flashing up his body. He was aware of blood rising to the surface, but this was fleeting; as he slithered helplessly down the car, his head was the next thing to connect with the towbar. It rammed his temple, and he slid into the sea. His head was only fully submerged for five seconds or so, but the impact on his brain had shorted out his basic respiratory functions, and in that brief window the predatory tide wasted no time in racing into his lungs.

  No! his brain screamed. He wasn’t ready. He had come here to contemplate death, but in doing so had decided that he wanted to live more than anything. All his New Year’s resolutions had come at once, and bloody Mother Nature had stuck two fingers up at him before he’d had time to act on them.

  His thrashed his arms about helplessly, feeling the metal rim of the car sill and the rough rubber of one of the tyres under his fingers, but he could not gain purchase. Then the small, plastic shape of his mobile phone drifted under his hand and he made a flailing grab in the water for it. The firm resilient plastic was like a lifeline under his fingertips, but it slipped from his grasp and he lost it.

  He was aware of the cold, a freezing black sheet of it shrouding his body. His brain and body seemed to be completely disconnected entities – he could comprehend the danger and what his body needed to do to reduce it, but that’s where it ended. He was a baby again, aware of the world on some passive, wide-eyed level, but problem-solving skills and rational thoughts of cause-and-effect were dormant.

  As he lay face down in the water, his phone drifting away from him, his car bumping and grinding along the flats, his suitcase on the roadside, he thought of the seagulls. His will, his personal choice in the matter of his death had been removed, and it did not seem right that he could not even see the gulls. A final wretched sob hitched his chest, drawing yet more water into his lungs.

  With a tremendous effort, using the last of his strength and a closing shred of conscious thought, he twisted his body so he was on his back. As the world faded, he saw the gulls above him, arcing and soaring, free above the world. A tiny smile broke on his face, and the last of his breaths seemed that little bit easier as they melted away.

  The wad of money had slipped from his pocket in the fall. Fifty-pound notes floated around his body. As his lungs filled completely, he wondered if they would still be usable when they were found.

  ****

  Mr Solitaire by Tin Larrick

  1

  The plan was my baby. It wasn’t genius, but it was simple, and effective. Feature: Amsterdam in November time. We were waiting at the east end of the Warmoesstraat, in a cobbled black dead end beyond the reach of the neon beams and shoe-polish canals.

  Next to me, Dane, my gringo partner, shivered and sniffed violently, and we simultaneously turned up our collars against a curled fist of wind. He was nervous. I didn’t blame him. It was his first time with me, but I trusted him, even if he wasn’t the most subtle of operators. A freezing sheet of rain battered our heads; so hard you could smell it. Dane may have been built like a fridge, but even he felt the cold.

  I had arranged the meet with the others for eight-thirty. It was now ten to nine, and only Dane had showed up. I clenched my fists in my pocket, and tried hard not to grind my teeth.

  There were five of us in the crew, and part of the plan involved flying out from London under assumed names. We had all booked the break separately: different hotels, different flights, leaving no evidence anywhere that any of us knew the other. Taking the time to cover one’s tracks can save hassle – and years – further down the line, but the downside of separation was getting everyone to rendezvous on the other side. And like I was finding out, words flowed easier than actions.

  We were there for a dope deal, which in itself was nothing hardcore, nothing like a major complication – until people started turning up late. I don’t like admitting it, but we’re nothing like an empire. More like a high street retail chain. We’re still at the stage where we’ve got to smuggle the shit through the airport. I had a five-year plan, all worked out properly with revenue and projected returns and inflation – the culmination of which was a handful of salaried staff, a healthy turnover and enough capital receipts to buy a boat. Moving the stuff over water would remove a lot of necks from the line. But you’ve got to start somewhere.

  Dane shuffled his feet next to me. He was staring at the pills in his palm he had just bought off a canal rat. He looked shameful.

  “They're probably aspirin,” I said, voicing his doubts. “That price, reckon they must have seen you coming.”

  He looked hurt.

  “None of the natives buy from these guys,” I said, gesturing around us to the sneaking black shapes weaving in and out of the shadows. “They go to the proper dealers.”

  In defiance, Dane threw two of the tablets he was convinced were E's down his gullet and shoved his hands in the pockets of his donkey jacket.

  “Fuck you too,” I said. “How do you feel?”

  He snorted with derision. I produced a tube of Extra Strong Mints, and offered him one.

  �
�Probably get more of a buzz from one of these,” I said.

  Another snort. I don’t touch drugs, ever, so Dane, being so typically holier-than-thou in a way that most road-testers are, likes to talk down to me whenever I talk about either of his hobbies – drugs and fighting. He sees me as an easy target. He's the same with anything he thinks he knows more about than I do. But I'm used to it. I just make it sound like I always know what I'm talking about, and that's the trick in this life, isn't it?

  "Where are the others?" I was getting itchy. After making sure we had all arrived safely, I had set up a meeting with Mr Solitaire, and I didn’t want to be late.

  “You want to walk back down through the district?” Dane said.

  I looked at him for a second, then stomped off back down the Warmoesstraat.

  “Where is Vincent?" I asked as he caught up.

  “I told you. He just took off to look around, you know, case the place. He'll be here. Where are Natalie and Henry staying?”

  “At the Eden Hotel. It's on the river.”

  “Do you think he’s sleeping with her?” he said, with all of his seasoned innocence.

  “Right now? I should hope not.” I lit a JPS Light.

  “I think he's sweet on her.”

  “Fine. We want to keep up appearances.”

  We walked on rigid legs down the Warmoesstraat towards the garish neon in the distance. We had been talking in a very dark spot – probably unwise, but we're big lads, and Dane had been made up with the switchblade I bought him.

  “These canals all look the same. How do you know where you're going?” he said.

  “This is the red light district,” I said. “Just follow your nose.”

  I pointed to a thickening throng ahead of us, and we plunged into it. A man in a top hat and long overcoat gesticulated wildly with a silver-topped cane from the leopard-skinned doorway of a strip club.

  “Boys! My boys!” he called to us. “Come in, for much show! Come in! Only fifty euros for adventures in penetration!"

  We walked on past. His diction was clear and crisp, like a wealthy Sussex lord. It seemed appropriate, somehow.

  A car shuffled down the narrow cobbled road. He couldn’t get through the mass of pedestrians, despite furious revving and much hooting of the horn. A man leaned out of the passenger window and swore furiously in Dutch. At least, it sounded like swearing. For all I knew, he could have been politely asking everyone to move out of the way. You never can tell with Dutch. We moved over and the car pushed slowly on.

  At the next bridge, a man almost identical in size and attire to the one that had sold Dane the fake E's, approached me. I didn't change pace or look at him, but he walked with us anyway. He was short, and had trouble keeping up. He looked put out. We were the only ones on the Warmoesstraat walking at such a purposeful speed; everyone else was ambling through in wide-eyed awe.

  He had a go anyway.

  “Hey man, charlie?”

  “No, I think you must have me mistaken for someone else.” I kept my eyes straight ahead as I spoke, and I heard Dane snicker next to me.

  “Get you good gear, man, you want uppers, downers, pills, poppers, wizz?”

  “Get out of here before I get upset.” I turned to him and glared, and he scurried off. We were central now, the neon signs illuminating the place almost as bright as day. We hung around on the corner by the water, outside a sex boutique. I leaned on the window while Dane stood in front of me, shifting from foot to foot. He kept looking past me at the paraphernalia displayed in the window, Debenhams-style.

  “When can we hit the coffeeshops?” Dane asked.

  “You’ll get your R&R later. I want to make sure we're all here first.”

  “You think they're all right? None of them speaks Dutch.”

  “None of them have to. Look around. Everyone speaks English, probably better than you do.” I flicked my cigarette over some heads, and watched it land on the cobbles.

  “There's Vincent.” I looked to where Dane was pointing, and saw Vincent approaching us. He was short and thin, and the flat cap and glint in his eye made him slightly ratty-looking; he was, in fact, the sort of person that someone in authority might want to victimise. And that was why I had chosen him.

  He punched Dane on the shoulder, and they touched fists. They were good at their roles, mainly because they were halfway there in real life anyway.

  “Good flight?” I asked, looking over at a police patrol trying to cruise past the punters.

  “Bloody shocking,” he said. “Screaming kid, no legroom and six quid for a beer. Can’t we go Virgin next time?”

  “Provided you don’t cock this, up then maybe,” I said.

  “No pressure. Where are the love-birds?” Vincent said.

  “We don't know,” said Dane. “They haven't shown up yet.”

  “Come on, let’s walk,” I said. “Let’s not give the cops a reason to remember us.”

  We started off back in the direction we had come.

  “Try not to look at anyone, Vince. You'll get pimped,” said Dane.

  “Fuck you very much,” he grinned. “I'm safe with you.”

  “Look. There they are,” I said, anxious to keep a lid on the school-trip mentality that tended to emerge when these two got together.

  I pointed ahead to where we had been standing a few minutes before. A man and a woman were standing there. They saw us and walked over, arm in arm. They looked like a young, dignified, happy couple of newlyweds – which was the desired effect. When we congregated together and they had all said their hellos, I spoke.

  “You’re nearly an hour late. I should bollock you, but I believe in democracy, so I’ll just be nice and make you feel guilty about it instead.” There were mumbled apologies and foot shuffling.

  “Sorry,” Henry muttered. He was a big man, but gentle-looking, harmless. And the beard was now fully-fledged. Bang on.

  “Sorry, Kenley,” Natalie said, her breath freezing in the air, her cheeks pinched red with cold. She smiled slightly sheepishly, one eye covered by the new dark pageboy cut. She always called me by my surname; I don't know why.

  “Now we're here, we don't need to be quite so secretive. Ground rules. Don't visit or telephone each other’s hotels. Don’t use cheques or credit cards. Pay cash for everything. If anyone needs money, say so now.” There was silence.

  “We’ll meet at Short’s of London in the Rembrandtsplein, tomorrow at midnight. All news can wait till then. No mobiles. If it is really urgent, then call the café and leave a message. But I don’t want to hear from any of you prematurely unless one of us dies, or worse.

  “Vince, tomorrow I want you to find us a secure lock-up of some description where we can RV and make preparations for return. Dane and I will go and meet with Mr Solitaire and close the deal. Natalie, Henry, you make like a couple of honeymooning tourists and keep your senses tuned for anything. Paranoia can save your life. Use the trams, they really work. Don’t get yourselves arrested. We’re in Amsterdam, so enjoy yourselves, but do it discreetly. Any questions?”

  Nothing.

  “Then go have fun. Tomorrow we work.”

  *

  2

  After the meet, I walked back to my hotel, the Europa. It was on the Constantijn Huygensstraat, not far from the Vondelpark. Unassuming place; simple, quiet, cigarette machine near the room.

  I showered and changed, then headed down to catch a tram back into the city to meet Dane for a drink. We were here on business, but you can mix pleasure. Just in moderation, like the poem goes.

  I met him in the Leidseplein, not far from his hotel. He looked a bit lost, and stepped out into the street excitedly when he saw me, waving with hands as wide as tennis racquets.

  I chuckled and waved when he collided with the cyclist, and watched from afar as the apologies and apportioning of blame were reduced to grunts and knuckle-scraping gestures. Eventually the cyclist accepted the blame when I appeared at Dane’s side, and he pedalled off rather h
urriedly.

  We were outside a steak house. Dane was shifting from foot to foot, itching to get going. It was only the second time he’d been abroad, and he was determined to enjoy himself. I wanted to stick to him while he did, because he sometimes has trouble saying ‘when.’

  The tram lines cut through the square, which was dotted with cafés, coffeeshops, jazz bars and restaurants. A parade of vertical neon signs jutted out from the side of the buildings, jostling for position along the walk.

  “Let's go in there.” Dane pointed to a pub on the east side of the square called The Bulldog. It was the largest pub in the square, the name brightly lit by halogens above the windows, framed either side by Union Jacks and titular cartoon effigies.

  “You've got to be joking,” I said. “You can hear the scousers from here.”

  “Just to see what it's like,” Dane protested.

  “Don't you want to sample a bit of Dutch culture?” I asked. “Second holiday ever, and you want to go where all the tourists go.”

  “Just to see what it's like,” he repeated.

  “Come on. Let's go down there.” I took his arm and began steering him down an alley adjacent to The Bulldog. It was crammed with pool halls, clubs and bars, more tightly packed than in the rest of the square. And it seemed darker.

  “Will there be cafés?” Dane asked.

  “You mean coffeeshops,”” I corrected. “Cafés are cafés, coffeeshops are where they sell the stuff you're after.”

  He pouted. “Maybe I want to go to a café.”

  “If you’re on the wagon we might have a problem.” I raised one eyebrow at him, and he tutted. “I didn't think so.”

  We walked past evil looking places, black and dingy, with satanic faces on the doors. Thrash metal – Dutch thrash metal, no less – bellowed out of all available escape routes.

  “How about here?” I suggested, pointing to a coffeeshop on the left. It looked pretty homely, a large cannabis leaf painted on the door, pasty white pseudo-Rastas lying in the gutter. They looked like polytechnic undergrads.