A Good Day To Die

by Simon Kernick

  ‘And,’ I continued, taking a gulp of my beer, ‘I want you to look into Mr Pope’s background. Find out anything you can about him. Clients he’s had, associates he’s got, any controversy he’s been involved in. Same with Khan.’

  She looked at me in the way an old girlfriend of mine used to do when she thought I was taking the piss. Put-out, but in a playful sort of way. ‘You don’t want much, do you?’

  ‘It’ll help with your own investigation.’ I pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of my new jacket and put it on the table in front of her. There were five phone numbers on it, taken from the records section of Slippery Billy’s mobile. I didn’t know if they’d elicit any information, but it was worth a try. ‘Do you know anyone who could trace these numbers, and find out whose names they’re registered in?’

  She asked me whose phone I’d got them from and I told her that it belonged to Les Pope. ‘And they’re calls that he recently made and received.’

  ‘How did you get hold of his phone?’ she asked, taking the piece of paper.

  I flashed her my most businesslike expression. ‘One of his phones. I believe he’s got several. Let’s just say, by stealth.’

  ‘Does he know it’s gone?’

  ‘It’s back with him now.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. I can’t promise anything.’

  ‘If you use any of your police contacts, be very careful. Don’t, whatever you do, mention Pope, and don’t use the same source for all the numbers.’

  She gave me a puzzled look, followed by a suspicious one. ‘You’ve got a very unorthodox way of operating.’

  ‘In a land of conformity, it’s always best to be a little different. It boosts business.’

  ‘I bet it does.’ She looked at her watch again. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to make a dash. But I’ll see what I can do with this. I also need a number for you.’

  She keyed my number into her mobile, then put everything in her handbag and stood up, stubbing out her cigarette. She put out a hand, but she was no longer smiling. She was more wary of me now. ‘It was nice to meet you,’ she said as we shook, ‘and thanks for the drink. Let me know how you get on with Pope.’

  I told her I would, said it was nice to meet her too, and watched as she walked out of the pub. It was, I thought, one of the terrible injustices of life that as a man grows older he still experiences the same sort of desire for attractive young women that he’s always had, and yet, at the same time, age makes him become steadily less attractive to them. I’m not a bad-looking bloke, but I look my age, and in ten years’ time, if I’m still here, I’m going to look fifty. Eventually, I’m going to get to the point where no one wants me. Already I was too old for Miss Emma Neilson. I could see it in the way she looked at her watch. She was interested in me because I might have some information relevant to her story, but that was all. When she’d heard what I had to say, she’d wanted to get away to see her friends. Even her boyfriend, maybe.

  I thought about getting another drink, but decided that this place wasn’t for me. It was beginning to fill up now as the evening’s revellers arrived in force – mainly a twenties crowd, with a few thirty-somethings sprinkled in – their faces rosy from the cold outside, their laughter echoing through the bar. If I had to drink alone, then at least I was going to do it somewhere where I felt comfortable.

  I drained my pint and left.

  16

  Out on Oxford Street, row upon row of Christmas lights were strung across the road in a riot of festive colour. Shops were still open and the pavements remained dense with the last of the hardened shoppers and the now far more numerous gaggles of boisterous and drunk youths, the girls among them looking worryingly underdressed for the weather conditions. No one caught my eye as they passed, no one took the least bit of notice of me. Given my situation, this should have been something that pleased me, but tonight it didn’t. It made me feel even more like an outsider. Someone who’d long ago ceased to belong.

  I was at the wrong end of Oxford Street for my hotel, so I started walking in the direction of Oxford Circus, and managed to grab a cab with a driver who thankfully wasn’t interested in talking, and who took me back to Paddington without saying a word.

  I got him to drop me off in Praed Street, and wandered along it for a few minutes, enjoying the relative quiet, until I found a pub that looked about right. A song by Oasis – I couldn’t remember which one – drifted out of a gap in one of the stained-glass windows, accompanied by the buzz of conversation and clinking of glasses that I’ll always associate with a proper London boozer, and which up until that moment was a sound I’d forgotten how much I missed.

  I stopped at the door and stepped inside, immediately breathing in a lungful of warm, smoky air.

  It was a nice place, recently decorated, with the emphasis on wood-panelling. The room itself was long and narrow with a bar running three-quarters of its length. Several irregular rows of round tables took up the rest of the available space, and tonight they were filled with a loose collection of drinkers, exclusively white and almost exclusively male, and varying in age from twenties to seventies. Most of them seemed to be facing roughly in the direction of a raised platform in the far corner of the room, which I took to be some sort of stage. At the moment it stood empty. About half the stools lining the bar were in use, but there was a cluster of three spare at the end furthest from the stage, and I took the middle one of these. A couple of punters looked round as I passed, but their expressions registered no interest as I ordered my second pint of Pride of the evening from a barman with a sagging head and a prehensile lower jaw who bore more than just a passing resemblance to a well-built Barbary ape. Not someone you’d want to pick trouble with.

  No longer having to worry about impressing attractive female company, I took a huge gulp from the pint this time and sunk about a quarter of it down in one. Now, finally, it was tasting like nectar, but as I drank again, I realized that a vital ingredient was still missing, and I knew immediately what it was.

  Two seats down, an old geezer in a grey raincoat and cloth cap, who must have been knocking on the door of his eightieth year, puffed thoughtfully on a Lambert & Butler while staring at his reflection in the mirror on the other side of the bar. I watched him for a few moments, following the cigarette out of the corner of my eye as he dipped the tip in his mouth and noisily sucked in smoke, then slowly withdrew it and, with bony soft-veined fingers, tapped the end against the side of the Heineken ashtray, before repeating the process all over again.

  It had been three years since I’d last had a cigarette, and for most of that time I hadn’t missed having one, but then for most of that time I hadn’t been in a smoky London pub drinking Pride. It was, I had to admit, difficult to do one without the other.

  I drank some more of the beer, trying to supplant the urge by wondering what Emma Neilson was up to now and whether her efforts would turn up anything of use. But it was no good. The seeds of doubt had been planted. Three years might have gone by, but that was irrelevant. I needed a smoke, and, worse still, I’d already subconsciously made the decision to have one. I could see that, unlike a lot of pubs, the landlord here sold them behind the bar. They were stacked in four separate rows on a shelf beneath the spirit optics – Marlboro, Marlboro Light, Bensons and Silk Cut – like whores beckoning a happily married man. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.

  I finished my pint, motioned Apeman over and ordered another one, along with a pack of Bensons and a box of matches. It felt like a momentous, life-changing decision, and I hesitated before I removed the cellophane wrapping. People who start smoking again usually justify their decision by saying they’re only going to have the one, or that they’re only going to do it when they’re out socially, or whatever, but this was different. I knew straight away that if I had this one then that was it, I was back on thirty a day. Which represented supremely bad timing, since they cost twenty-five times more per pack here than they did back in the Philippines.

>   Still, the line had been crossed, and it was a testimony to smoking’s long-standing hold on me that as soon as I’d taken the first sip of the new pint, I was ripping off the wrapping and pulling one out. I lit it without further thought and took a short, hesitant drag. There was no lightheadedness, no feeling of sickness from the poison pouring down my throat and into my veins. Instead, there was just an easy feeling of coming home. I took a longer drag and finally found myself relaxing properly for the first time since I’d got back.

  A tuneless, half-hearted cheer went up from the tables and I turned to see what it was in aid of. A tall young lady with very long legs had entered the room from a door beyond the end of the bar and was strutting towards the platform. She was wearing about an inch of make-up and not much else – just a glittering gold bra and thong, and high-heeled court shoes of the same colour – and her overall demeanour suggested she thought she was one hell of a lot better looking than she actually was. Not that you could call her unattractive. It was difficult to tell through all the foundation, but I suspected that she would always look better in a pub at night than in bed the following morning.

  A song I didn’t recognize by a female singer I also didn’t recognize started playing loudly as the girl reached the stage, stopping to smile and blow a seductive kiss at a group of half a dozen young drunks at the nearest table, who whooped appreciatively. I had to give her her dues: she was doing a good job of acting like she was enjoying herself, which couldn’t have been easy in a place like this. It reminded me of the beautiful young girls in the Philippines you often saw on the arms of older, badly dressed Western men. Always smiling, regardless of how ugly the guy they were with was – and they were usually pretty damned ugly. All part of a woman’s natural ability to pull the wool over a man’s eyes, I suppose.

  She got up on the stage and started doing a slow, supposedly sexy dance routine which involved a lot of swaying and wiggling and not even a negligible attempt to stay in time with the music. Not that the audience seemed to mind. As the bra came off to reveal a pair of small but perky breasts, a louder cheer went up from the audience, and someone at the drunks’ table yelled at her to get the rest of it off. I noticed Apeman screw up his face into a scowl when he heard this, as if he sensed that that particular table might give him trouble. Overall the atmosphere in the pub was jovial, but I’d spent enough of my life in this town to know that things could change in an instant, especially when drink was involved.

  And they did.

  It was after the stripper had removed her thong and was gyrating naked with her back to the audience that it happened. Slowly, ever so slowly, she bent down to touch her toes, her naked arse rising higher and higher in the air as she did so, giving the whole room an eyeful of her nether regions, which were so cleanly shaved they could have featured them on an advert for Gillette. As her fingers touched the floor in an impressive show of physical flexibility and her arse reached its zenith, one of the drunks with impeccable timing blew a loud, dry and very realistic raspberry.

  Which was the moment all hell broke loose.

  Several older members of the audience jumped to their feet and began remonstrating angrily with the drunks, who were all out of their chairs in an instant. There was the usual pushing and shoving, accompanied by loud threats, and one of the drunks threw a punch that sent the recipient stumbling backwards. Scuffles erupted and a table went over in a cacophony of breaking glass.

  But the drunks had made a mistake. They’d turned their backs on the stripper, who, not surprisingly, was none too happy with the way her routine had been hijacked. With a deft movement, she pulled off one of her shoes and turned it round in her hand so that the heel was jutting out like a weapon. Then, snarling and cursing (all pretence of sultry seductiveness now gone), she launched a ferocious surprise attack that I’m not afraid to admit had me wincing.

  The nearest drunk got the heel right in the top of his head, the blow landing with such force that I swear it actually penetrated bone. In fact, she had to work hard to get it out again, but it finally came free, and as he shrieked in pain, she let him have it again, although this time her technique for retrieving her weapon had improved, and it was out almost as soon as it went in. The victim went down to his knees, clutching his head, and one of the older regulars took advantage of his state to catch him with a sly kick to the ribs.

  ‘You fucking bastards!’ the stripper yowled in a voice so high that one more octave and only dogs would have heard it. The rest of the drunks turned round in unison, and she let the nearest one have it with a scything swipe of the heel that opened up a vicious gash on his cheek. He was hurt but he ignored that fact and lunged forward, trying to grab her by the legs. With a deft movement, she hopped backwards on her bare foot like a naked gymnast, and launched a karate kick with the other foot, the one with the remaining shoe on, the heel catching him right between the eyes. Which was him out for the count.

  ‘Christ, she’s good,’ I said to the old geezer who, like me, had turned in his seat to watch events unfold. ‘She should be in a martial arts film.’

  ‘Does judo,’ he rasped, turning my way with an amused expression. ‘Don’t ever want to mess with Judo Julie. Got a wicked fucking temper on her.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll be all right?’ I asked, taking a sip from my drink and watching as a bottle of beer sailed through the air in her direction. It narrowly missed her head before smashing against the wall behind the stage. The whole group of drunks – at least those still standing – started to fight their way towards her en masse.

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ he cackled. ‘Ernie’ll sort it out.’

  ‘Him?’ I said, motioning towards Apeman, who was coming round from behind the bar, huge fists bunched somewhere down near his knees. He didn’t look very happy.

  The old geezer continued his cackling. ‘Yeah, that’s Ernie.’

  The drunks caught sight of Ernie only after he announced himself by bellowing incoherently – a sound that was not unlike a cross between a bull and a donkey – and when they did, the fight drained out of them with an impressive rapidity. Unfortunately for them, it was too late. For a big man Ernie was surprisingly swift of foot, and within a few bounds he was on them, the other battling punters parting like the Red Sea to give him easier access.

  ‘All right, mate, leave it!’ yelled one of the drunks desperately, but his words were unceremoniously cut short when his chin came into contact with Ernie’s left fist, the force of the blow lifting him bodily off his feet. He came crashing down on the floor somewhere out of sight, leaving the rest of his mates in the firing line. I’m sure I heard one of them let out a high-pitched scream.

  Ernie charged into them with a couple of swinging roundhouse rights that had those who were still on their feet scrambling madly for the door, not even bothering to pick up what was left of their mates. Ernie then allowed himself to be restrained by a couple of the locals while Judo Julie the stripper, a stiletto in each hand, stalked the pub floor naked, like something out of a pornographic version of Lord of the Flies, swearing and cursing, and occasionally administering punishment to any of the injured drunks who weren’t quick enough in following their mates out the door.

  Like all good pub brawls, the whole thing was over very quickly. The initial offending fart noise to the final denouement had taken less than a minute and the girl singer I didn’t recognize was still pining away on the CD. Something about her baby cheating on her. It made me think that I wouldn’t want to cheat on Judo Julie.

  But by this time even Julie’s anger had dissipated and she stepped back onto the stage to bring her act to a final, anatomically educational conclusion while the area around her was cleared up and a couple of the wounded locals bought themselves fresh drinks from the bar to ease their pain. No one seemed to be too bothered by what had happened, not even Ernie, who was having to do most of the clearing up, and I guessed that most of those present saw it as an event that was incidental to their evening. Something fo
r them to chat and have a laugh about in those moments when their conversation hit an unwelcome pause.

  Welcome to London. Home of Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament and the traditional pub brawl.

  I finished my pint and looked at my watch. The stage was empty now and the place back to normal, with the buzz of conversation drifting through the smoky air. I pulled two cigarettes from the pack, and lit one while I pondered a third pint.

  ‘Another drink?’ asked Ernie, lumbering over and lifting my glass, his expression the most friendly I’d seen it that evening. There was even the hint of a smile there. Obviously, inflicting a bit of pain lifted his spirits. I’d met a few people like him down the years.

  ‘Sure,’ I answered, replacing the second cigarette in the pack upside down, figuring that in this town I was going to need all the luck I could get. ‘Why not?’

  17

  I woke up the next morning with a sore head. It was difficult to tell whether it was courtesy of the whacks on it I’d received the previous morning, or the six pints of Pride I’d consumed on what was pretty much an empty stomach the previous night. Either way, I knew I needed some sustenance. I lay where I was for a while, my feet sticking out the end of the bed, mulling over whether it was worth going back to sleep for a few minutes or not, but the sound of kids running about and shouting in the corridor and the banging of doors coming from the floor below convinced me that it wasn’t. I leaned over and picked up my watch from the floor. Five to nine. Late, for me.

  I rose from my pit and showered and dressed, before heading into the big wide world. The weather outside was cold, grey and wet, and not unexpected for the time of year, but I didn’t fancy spending very long in it, not now my blood had thinned from my time in the tropics. I found a newsagent’s, bought the Sunday Times, Independent and News of the World, then ducked into an Italian café a couple of doors down and ordered a chicken-salad ciabatta with orange juice and coffee.