Skewered

by Jones, Benedict J

  “We got time?” I asked and she nodded.

  I smiled and pulled her close feeling the heat beneath her skin.

  When we were done she lay half wrapped in the duvet and I sat in a chair with a sketch pad and a pencil. I tried to catch the faraway look that sat on her features, a look that I had failed to capture in the drawings I had done from memory. She sat up.

  “What was it like in prison, Charlie?”

  I shrugged and carried on drawing.

  “Was it as easy as people say?”

  I took my pencil off of the paper.

  “You really want to know?”

  She nodded and a raven’s wing of black hair fell across her left eye.

  “There was a guy I knew inside, big guy from up north called Kenny. He was from Newcastle, Sunderland, somewhere like that and he was the size of a monster. He’d worked as a doorman and done strong arm work for the club owner, ended up with six years for beating a guy’s head in with a golf putter. Anyway, Kenny used to love playing pool and he loved to win. Used to play against this skinny Somalian kid called Mo from out of Woolwich and every time he beat him he’d make some joke about how Mo looked like that Starvin’ Marvin off of Southpark. So one afternoon Kenny was sitting there eating his lunch and Mo walked up and threw a pan of boiling butter in his face. While Kenny was flipping around on the floor like a break dancer on meth one of Mo’s little Somalian mates stepped over and stuck a sharpened piece of drainpipe plastic into Kenny’s gut. All the time Mo’s standing there shouting ‘Look we killed Kenny!’”

  I looked away.

  “Did Kenny die?”

  I shook my head.

  “No. But they had to remove a third of his stomach. I heard he skinnied up after that and I guess he didn’t make any more Starvin’ Marvin jokes…”

  “Fuck! And it was like that all the time?”

  “Nah, but often enough that I wouldn’t call it easy.”

  I thought about Sean Spicer trying to shank me with a piece of glass in the showers. I thought about it for a second, blood in the water, and then I put it back in the box in which it belonged and put my pencil back on the paper.

  Afterwards I dressed for the evening; black beanie hat, dark grey tracksuit and a pair of black Nikes. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked alright, not someone I’d like to fuck with; real big and scary. But deep down I knew I wasn’t – just another five ten white boy with a half decent right hook. I swallowed, hard. No way was I going to this meet with nothing but my dick for company. I went to the sink in the kitchen and pulled out the bucket I kept under it with a few tools in. There was a large screw driver, a hack saw, a plumber’s hammer and an old drill. I took the hammer and tucked it down the leg of my trackie bottoms. The heavy head hooked over the waistband and I pulled my top down to cover it. As soon as I moved it was obvious it wouldn’t work. The head kept slipping and the shaft was obvious through the thick fabric – that a hammer down your pants or are you just pleased to see me? I grabbed an old football sock and upended the stereo in the kitchen. I took the four ‘C’ size batteries out of it and dropped them into the sock - they rattled around in the toe like hot dice in a gambler’s hand. I knotted the sock just above them. I took a couple of practice swings with the weapon. As long as I was careful I found that I could throw a decent lick with the weighted sock, it was all about watching the backswing and making sure that I didn’t break my own hands. Better than nothing, I’d seen one used in Brixton and the bloke who got clocked with it ended up in the infirmary for two weeks. I stuffed the battery filled sock into the pocket at the front of my hooded tracksuit top.

  Jaz reappeared from the bathroom – dressed this time. Heels and nakedness replaced by Ugg boots, sheer black leggings that left nothing to the imagination and a chunky jumper. I nodded at her and tried my best to look like I knew what I was doing, she’d left the coke on the bedside table and I stared at it for a minute, heard it whispering.

  “When this is over...”

  I left it hanging to see what she’d say. She smiled at me instead and winked. That was enough for me and sad as it sounds it felt as though someone had shot my heart into orbit. I pushed the feelings down. I learnt a long time ago that if you want a woman then you have to try not to show it and they’ll like you twice over. You start throwing four letter words that start with L, whether that’s love, like or lust, into the mix or talk about feelings and they switch on you like a hungry pitbull.

  “Okay. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

  “Just don’t fuck up tonight, Charlie. Or I don’t think we’ll have much to talk about.”

  I nodded as much to myself as to her. There was a lot riding on this drop; the other fifteen hundred quid from Mazza, my thing with Jaz, whatever it was, and maybe getting a bit more work out of Mazza as well. My luck looked to be finally changing.

  “Let’s go.”

  I let Jaz out and then locked the door to my flat.

  There was little traffic and we flew through Deptford and up to Blackheath. Jaz was driving too fast but by then I’d realised that was just what she was like. I didn’t look out of the window, I stared at the pattern on the dashboard and tried to keep myself in check. Fear was turning my stomach to a pool of acid and I could feel a shake in my hands like an alkie before his first can of the day so I gripped my seat and continued to stare at the dashboard. I needed something to take my mind off what was going to happen later in the evening so I looked at Jaz and started talking.

  “So why are you called Kaur and your dad’s called Singh?”

  “I wondered when you’d ask. White guys always do. It’s a Sikh thing, Kaur means Princess. Well, either Princess or Lioness. All girls are meant to have it as their middle or last names. Same with the men and Singh – that means Lion.”

  “Oh.”

  “What kind of name is Charlie Bars anyway – you think you’re a player or an original gangster or something?”

  I laughed at that.

  “Nah. I moved eight-bars of hash when I was starting out and people laid on me as a nickname ‘Charlie with the bars’. After I did my first stretch the name seemed kind of ironic. Prison bars, get it?”

  “We’re here.”

  I looked over at her.

  “We’ll get him back you know.”

  She turned away and opened her car door. Then she was gone walking towards the house and I was left to follow.

  Eleven

  Jimmy Khan was standing in the hall, waiting for me. I went to push past him and he grabbed my arm.

  “You okay?”

  “Be better if you got your hand off me.”

  He let go of my arm and forced a smile.

  “Listen, we got off on the wrong foot. You’re going to be carrying a hundred grand tonight, money that’ll save my friend.”

  “What, so now you’re willing to trust me?”

  “Not as far as I can throw you but I haven’t got much choice. If this goes wrong...” Yeah, yeah, another one piling on the pressure, that’d help.

  “Where’s Toshak?”

  “In the kitchen bundling up the last of the money.”

  I nodded and headed into the kitchen. Jaz was stood with Mazza looking at the bundles on the work top. The money was bound up in cellophane and the bundles looked a lot smaller than I would have thought they would.

  “That’s it?”

  Mazza threw a grin my way.

  “Doesn’t look like much does it, mate. A hundred grand...”

  He shook his head. Jaz looked my way. I tried to give her a reassuring smile. She looked away, guess the smile was about as useful as a knife in a gunfight.

  “You ever seen Dirty Harry, Charlie?”

  I nod, seen a lot of films that are running through my head on loop.

  “Yeah, you wanna tape a switchblade to my leg?”

  “You just watch yourself tonight, Charlie.”

  The phone began to ring and we all looked at each other for a second before moving
towards the sound. Mazza reached for the phone. Jaz’ stepmother, Nisha, and Jimmy appeared from the hallway. I looked at them and tried to read their body language. Jaz thought they were having an affair but I couldn’t tell a thing – were they standing too close to each other? Did Jimmy just give her a special look?

  We crowded around Mazza as he lifted the phone to his ear. He pushed out his arm to clear us away and create space for himself.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, it’s Mario. Okay. Yes. Yes.”

  He looked me in the eye and held out the phone

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  I took a breath and then the ‘phone.

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  Calling me boy but he sounds at least a decade younger than me.

  “Charlie.”

  “Okay Charlie, here’s how it’s going to go down. You’re going to put the money wrapped in a bin liner in a bag, one bag, and then you’re going to walk out of the house. Alone. I’ll know if you’re not. The others all stay there. Anyone tries to follow you and you’ll be getting bits of this cunt in the post.”

  “And then?”

  “You’re going to take a drive to New Cross. You know a pub called The Hobgoblin?”

  “Near The Venue on New Cross Road?”

  “Yeah. Be in there by eight. You’ll get more instructions when you get there.”

  “From who?”

  “Just fuckin’ be there.”

  I said “Okay.” But the line had already gone dead. I passed the phone back to Mazza.

  “How does he want it bagged?”

  “In a bin liner put inside one bag. He said he’ll be watching and you lot are to stay inside. He reckons he’ll know if I’m followed.”

  “Where are you taking the money?”

  That one came from Khan.

  “Pub called The Hobgoblin in New Cross.”

  “I’ll get someone down there.”

  Khan reached for his ‘phone but Nisha grabbed his hand before anyone could say a word. She shook her head at him.

  “Catch them after, Jimmy. Let’s get Dev back first.”

  Khan sighed and put his ‘phone away. Mazza had already moved off into the kitchen.

  “Time?” he shouted.

  “I have to be there at eight.”

  “Jesus, it’s nearly half seven now.”

  He ran back out of the kitchen zipping up a black sports bag. Mazza pushed something into my pocket before offering me his keys.

  “You want to take my car?”

  “Take mine.”

  Jaz held out the keys to the Audi.

  “Cheers.”

  She didn’t look at me as I dashed out of the door. My heart was beating like a drum and bass remix and I fumbled with the keys as I approached the car. I took a breath. This was just a drive to a pub - nothing to be shaking over. I wasn’t calm when I climbed behind the wheel but I was steady. Whatever it was that Mazza had pushed into my pocket dug into my leg so I took it out; it was a can of Police issue pepper spray. Cheers, Maz. I thought for a moment about what had gone down in that very seat between me and Jaz a couple of nights ago and then I started the car and took off for New Cross.

  Twelve

  The pills had calmed Stanton for a time but now his hand danced like a drunken tarantula and beat an irregular tattoo on the arm of the chair in which he sat. Three mobile phones lay next to him and he had rolled his parka around his machete, it sat on the floor next to the chair. He had sent Mook and Elissa out. Elissa was keeping a watch on the house in Blackheath and Mook should be at the pub in New Cross by now. Eamon sat in the corner of the sofa chewing his nails.

  “You want some music on?” Eamon asked.

  “Nah. I need the quiet.”

  Stanton dry swallowed another fistful of pills. Eamon stayed quiet.

  “Is the car ready?”

  Eamon nodded.

  “I asked if the car was ready,” Stanton repeated.

  “Yeah, it’s sound. It’s parked downstairs.”

  Stanton nodded his head as though in time to some silent rhythm only he could hear.

  “Petrol in it?” he asked suddenly.

  “Course,” replied Eamon and Stanton cast him a look from beneath hooded lids. “Prick,” said Stanton loud enough for the other boy to hear.

  Eamon went back to chewing his nails. One of the phones next to Stanton rang.

  “Yeah? Okay. You stay there and make sure, you get me? Yeah, you too.”

  Eamon looked over.

  “Man’s left the house with a bag.”

  Stanton checked the time on the phone then nodded. He took out a few more pills and considered them for a moment before throwing them at the sheet that hung over the window in place of a curtain.

  “You got any of that chang left?”

  Eamon nodded and pulled a small baggie of cocaine from his pocket. He tossed it to Stanton who smiled at him.

  “Good shit, yeah.” said Eamon and Stanton smiled again.

  “Nice, bro. Get us a couple of beers out would’ya I reckon it’s gonna be a long night.”

  Thirteen

  I parked the Audi in a side street and checked the time. Ten to eight. The Audi could really move and the lights had been with me. I got out and looked around before I grabbed the bag off the passenger seat. I walked down to The Hobgoblin and pushed open the door. There weren’t many in; a couple of middle aged men in saggy tracksuit bottoms at the bar, three girls working their way through a couple of bottles of white wine and a huge black guy, who looked part troll, sat on his own playing with his phone. The only person who took any notice of me was the barmaid.

  “What’ll it be, darling?”

  Vodka, brandy, whisky, lager, stout, wine.

  “Just a diet coke please.”

  She turned away.

  “You want bottle or pump?”

  “Bottle’s fine.”

  “Pepsi alright?”

  I nodded and she brought me a diet Pepsi and a glass filled with ice.

  “Cheers.”

  I barely had time to pour it before I heard the door open behind me.

  “Cab for Charlie?”

  Shit - hadn’t seen that coming. I raised my hand to the cab driver and knocked back half the diet Pepsi and made to rise. A hand stopped me. I say a hand but it was more like a sixteen ounce rib eye with five Cumberland sausages attached. It was the black guy who’d been playing on his phone.

  “Big Time says you’re to go to the roundabout at the Old Kent Road. Leave your phone on the bar and take this one.”

  He put a battered Nokia down on the bar. I laid my phone down and slipped the other into my pocket. I tried to memorise the big man’s face as I slid off my stool.

  “Where to?” asked the driver as I climbed into his Astra.

  “Old Kent Road roundabout.”

  I stared out of the cab window at the pound shops, internet cafes, burger joints and African restaurants that line the Old Kent Road. I took the Nokia out of my pocket and checked the contact list. No numbers saved. I dialled Mazza’s number from memory.

  “You are out of calling credit. Please arrange a top up.”

  I knew then that I was on my own - no one following and no way of contacting Mazza. I fingered the pepper spray in my pocket. Mazza had been right, these guys wanted to jerk on our, well, my strings since Mazza wasn’t sitting in the cab with me. That guy in the pub could’ve just told me to leave the money with him. Maybe they were just being careful but that wasn’t the feeling I was getting.

  The cab dropped me at the bottom of the Old Kent Road, near the fly over, and I stood about in the night all too aware of how much money was in the bag. The Nokia began to ring and vibrate in my pocket.

  “Hello?”

  “What’s up, Charlie? You enjoying your night?”

  “Just give me your next direction.”

  “You telling me?”

  “You want this hu
ndred grand?”

  The line went silent for a moment.

  “Get your arse across the roundabout and get on the one eight eight bus towards North Greenwich. I’ll call you in half hour.” I killed the call and slipped the phone back into my pocket.

  I jogged down towards the underpass that ran beneath the roundabout. I had to think. As my air bubbles squeaked on the concrete I thought up a plan. I needed to get ahead of Big Time’s schedule, find a pay phone or buy some credit for this phone so that I could get in contact with Mazza. As I descended the stairs into the underpass I wondered whether I could hail a cab. Could Big Time really watch me all the time? No. But maybe just now and then he’d had someone like that big goon back at the pub check on me and if I deviated from his orders, what then? Maybe Mr Singh lost a finger or worse - but maybe not. He did want this money, didn’t he? Fuck it. I had to stay with this, ride the rollercoaster to the end even though I could see the wheels coming off.