Conman

by Richard Asplin

  Fortunately, there was no way Grayson or indeed anyone in the back office could have heard me, such was the deafening, room-shaking blast of the alarm.

  Outside, over the teeth-loosening din, we could just make out the shop erupting into bedlam – chairs falling over, people yelling, shouting, Laura’s screams. We made out the scuffle of everyone barging into the back office, a click and light suddenly spilt underneath the kitchen door. Shouting, arguing. Then a crash. Loud. Like splintering wood. Among this, the shouts continued, the alarm continued, throbbing the kitchen, throbbing the world, fading up and down, tone adjusting in sweeps for what felt like an age before it suddenly stopped with a whimper.

  Leaving silence. Breathing.

  And then the yelling.

  Pete bellowed at Julio. Julio bellowed at Pete and Grayson. Grayson bellowed at Julio and Pete. Laura shouted everybody shut-up! over and over again.

  Pete was blaming Julio for moving off his post and not locking the door. Julio was blaming Pete for making him look after angry Americans when he should have been on his post and locking the door. Grayson was still yelling about coming all the way to London to be swindled, tearing out Christopher’s throat, giving him a horse-whipping, Kansas style (whatever the hell that was).

  Then Pete’s yelling dissolved into panic. He began to wail a million dollars! A million dollars! Over and over, which made everybody else stop for a moment and pay attention.

  “A million?” Grayson shouted.

  “Yes!” Pete yelled. “That’s what the tablecloth … Aww shit.”

  “A million …”

  “Everybody wants it. Museums, collectors. Jack Nicholson, Nicholas Cage, they’re all bidding – dammit!”

  “Jesus Christ,” Julio said.

  “Call the police! Don’t just stand there cursing. This is your fucking fault! Check the street! Check the street! And call the fucking police! Awww Christ.”

  Footsteps. Up and down. Doors slamming. Car horns. Voices.

  “Police please … Hello? Yes, there’s been a robbery …”

  All the while, Pete wailed. His insurance. Not covered. What’ll he do? What’ll he do?

  By the time Julio had got off the phone, having explained all breathlessly to the speaking clock, the talk in the shop had got a little personal.

  “Yes!” Pete was yelling. “Yes I do happen to think I’m in trouble! I’m sorry but I do!”

  “Ah came five thousand miles to buy a comic book for mah museum, only to have some con artist try and swindle me with a fake! Ah think my problems are a little more –”

  “I don’t give a shit about your problems! So you spent two hundred quid on a bag of photocopies! I just had a three grand display case ripped off the wall and someone’s walked off with a million dollars’ worth of priceless pop-culture pants. My insurance only covers me for three hundred thousand US dollars! Where the fuck am I going to get the other seven hundred grand!”

  “The police are on way,” Julio said. “They want everyone stay here.”

  “Here?” we heard Laura pipe up. “I’m not staying here. This has nothing to do with me. I’ve gotta get back to work.”

  “Gimme the contact for this Christopher fellah. Conman thinks he can pull one over on me does he? Ah’ll show him, the sonofabitch.”

  “You’re waiting here, Bob?” Laura said. “For the police? Er, aren’t they going to ask you what you’re doing here? Where you got the case?”

  “Case … ?”

  “The comics, idiot,” Pete said. “Forged or not Bob, that case is stolen goods buddy.”

  “Hmn. Maybe … maybe you’re right. Sweetheart, maybe ah’ll come with you. Drop you off at yur l’il café there …”

  “No you wait,” Julio protested. “I have tell the police –”

  “C’mon honey, let me grab yur bags here,” and there was a rustle as Grayson hauled up the shopping.

  “Wait!” Pete said loudly. “Conman?” The shop fell into a sick, queasy quiet. “That’s what you called him. This seller, this Christopher bloke. Conman. Right? Who just happened to tell you to meet him here yesterday?”

  In the dark kitchen, Christopher and I looked up, hearts hammering. We listened.

  “I don’t like yur tone, fellah. Now you juss back off …”

  “Made sure we all got his attention right, with his convenient mugging story? Right?”

  “Just wait for police –”

  “Giving you the opportunity to come back here today with your prize. Throw a tantrum? Trip the alarm? Keep us all busy out the back there?”

  “Bob, Bob don’t listen to him.”

  “Now you just wait one second buddy …”

  “Bob!”

  “Ah’m comin’ sweetheart. This young fellah is lookin’ for to learn his-self some manners.”

  “You’re going nowhere. You’re going to talk to –”

  “Getcha hands off-a me, fellah. I didn’ have nothin’ to do with no robbery. Ah wanna talk to this Christopher guy as much as you do, believe me.”

  “Hey you aren’t leaving, you come back here …”

  The front door jangled roughly. Traffic. A cold breeze slid beneath the door, dancing about the kitchen, prickling my forearms.

  “Get yur hands off me, boy. Miss, less go, c’mon, less go.”

  “Hey. Hey!” Pete hollered.

  The door jangled again, closing firmly with a slam.

  Christopher and I stood motionless. An age passed in the dark, inky silence.

  “All clear!” Pete called.

  Armpits soaking, face drenched, heart going a mile a minute, I squeezed out and followed a giddy Christopher into the shop.

  God it was a state. Racks pulled over, glass cracked. Everyone saying okay? Okay? All right? Okay? I began tidying up, gathering pictures and postcards from the filthy floor as the team debriefed, when suddenly there was a knock on the fire escape.

  We all stopped as Julio hurried through to the back office and swung the door open.

  The visitor struggled in, through the office and into the shop.

  “G’day fellahs,” he said, a heavy, stolen display-box in his arms and a big Aussie grin on his face.

  That night. Tuesday night.

  I couldn’t sleep.

  I lay under the duvet in the chill, still blue light of the bedroom, blinking at the radio-alarm clock. It blinked back at me. 01:35. I rolled onto my back gently and eased myself up a bit, the aging mattress groaning, head hard against the greasy board. Sitting up for a while, listening to the dark creaks and clanks of the aging central heating, I got up silently and joined the cat in the kitchen. I put some milk on to boil as quietly as I could.

  I took a silent tiptoe down the landing, beneath the silent black and white stares of Brandon Routh and George Reeves to the nursery, easing the door open and moving quietly in, teeth tight, shoulders hunched.

  The Where the Wild Things Are curtains glowed with the orange streetlight gas, light spilling between them onto the cot where, lying on her podgy tummy, Lana lay. I crept in, pushing the door to and moved over to the washing-piled chair.

  I sat. Lana lay still among the dead-eyed soft toys, shallow baby breath clicking and sucking, tiny wrinkled fingers curled, face lit by the soft green plastic glow of her caterpillar night-light.

  I would stop lying to Jane soon. One more day. Money in the bank, solicitors off my back, everything back to normal. I planned on telling her, you see. When it was all over I mean. When all was well. After Lana’s first birthday maybe.

  Or second.

  Definitely by her thirtieth birthdayyeaahhrghh!

  Streaky yowled, scrabbling out of the room and I dashed through into the lounge where the white phone was bringgging shrilly, my teeth gritted in an attempt to stop Jane waking up. Like that ever works.

  I snatched it up.

  “Hello?” I whispered, heart thundering in the darkness. I tiptoed to the lounge door, sliding it closed. “Hello?”

  There
was a clatter and a chatter on the other end. A party?

  “Neil? Neil it’s me.”

  “Laura? Are you all right? Christ, it’s nearly two o’clock, where – ?”

  “I’m at some restaurant. Some club or something, I don’t know. It’s off Park Lane somewhere.”

  “With Grayson?”

  “He’s scaring me. I mean it Neil, he’s really scaring me. I don’t think this is a good idea. He’s shouting. Slamming his plate, throwing things. They’ve asked him to calm down like three times. He’s drunk, swearing. I think whoever decided he was a good victim made a big mistake.”

  “You still with him?”

  “I said I was powdering my nose. He’ll track Christopher down, have him killed. Saying he knows people, won’t be made a fool of. Who the hell does that shopkeeper think he is, accusing him of being a crook. Ranting, rambling on. I don’t like it.”

  “It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s bluff, it’s all bluff. He’s a nobody, he doesn’t know anybody. Christopher was saying he –”

  “I want you to get me out of here.”

  “What?”

  “Come and get me. I don’t like it. I want to go home, I don’t want to be involved anymore. It’s dangerous.”

  “Look, Laura. Look, I can’t come and –”

  “Please. I don’t know what he’s going to do. Please Neil.”

  “Can’t you tell him … I dunno, tell him you don’t feel well? That you want to go home?”

  “I tried that. He won’t listen. You’ve got to get me –”

  “Neil?”

  Jane called out softly from the bedroom. Shit.

  “Neil?” The squeak and rustle. She was getting up. Shitty fuck arse.

  “I’ve got to go, Laura. Hang in there.”

  “I don’t know if I can keep this up. He’s threatening to –”

  “Try … just try and keep him happy,” I hissed.

  Jane was coming down the hall. Lana was crying.

  “Jesus Christ!” she yelled. “Neil!?”

  “Oh God. I’ve got to go. Just … just do what you can. Come round in the morning. No. Shit, Henry’s taking me to Bloomsbury. Lunchtime. Come round lunchtime. But be careful, okay?”

  “Neil!?” Jane shouted again.

  I hung up and hurried back into the kitchen. Or rather, where I thought I’d left the kitchen. It now seemed to resemble a Dresden dairy after particularly heavy shelling. Steam and stench and hissing and dripping and burnt milk all over the hob.

  “Jesus Christ, you want to burn the house down?” Jane scowled, bleary eyed, Lana on her hip bawling. She began to roll off great florets of kitchen towel.

  “I-I, sorry, I … the phone …”

  “Get the mop. Jesus, look it’s everywhere. Who was calling?”

  “Hn?”

  “On the phone, who was it?”

  “Oh uhmm, I dunno. They thought we were a cab firm. Couldn’t work out what they were saying.”

  “Look it’s all burnt in …”

  “Sorry. Give me the towel, I’ll do it.” I hurried sleepily to the sink and began to skoosh the cold tap.

  “Leave it now. Just leave it.” Lana was tearful and irritable, Jane jigging and shushing her absently. “Forget about it now. I’ll worry about it tomorrow. Did you pick up that cleaner for the bathroom floor?”

  “Shit, sorry. It’s on my list.”

  “We’ve got Jack and Catherine coming over Thursday don’t forget.”

  “I know, I know. It’ll be fine.”

  I dumped an armful of soggy paper into the swing top bin while Jane tramped off to the toilet, trying to placate Lana with a bit of ooze-a-silly-daddy-den. I threw the burnt pan into the sink, adding a squirt of Fairy and another skoosh of water to let it soak.

  I went back to bed, mind reeling with thoughts of Laura and Grayson.

  Knows people. Won’t be made a fool of.

  Bluffing. Surely bluffing?

  “G’night,” Jane said with a kiss, lowering the baby into the bed and snuggling back down, body squirming to track down the warm spot.

  One more day.

  “Sleep well.”

  Bluffing. Bluffing about having us killed.

  Killed? Was that what she said?

  I sat up and watched 02:13 become 07:00.

  Ooze-a-silly-daddy-den.

  eleven

  “Is … is everything all right?” I yawned, wiping gunk from my face and licking the early oily film from my teeth. “You seem –”

  “Move it, aaairse-hole!” Henry bellowed, slamming the horn down with a piercing blare and pulling the Bedford van sharply into the oncoming Wednesday morning traffic. Behind me, I heard boxes tumbling over, clanging against the rusty shell. “No,” he spat, revving aggressively, the van lurching forward three angry feet at a time. “Everything’s not awlroit. Everything’s shot to – aairse-hole! Getcha fuckin’ pommie wreck outta my – and the cabin vibrated again with the blare of the horn.

  One clammy hand on vinyl seating, the other gripping the dash, I quickly decided to leave my I-Spy suggestion for another time and contented myself with a game of Hanging-On-For-Dear-Life.

  “Bloomsbury’s off,” Henry said, pulling away at speed, throwing me back against the seat. More boxes tumbled behind us.

  “What? Off? But – ?”

  “Fuckin’ estate agent screwed us. Got all his dates ass about face, the bloody idiot. We were meant to – aairse-hole! Learn to fuckin’ droive! Meant to have delivered all this shit last night. Got there to find balloons on the door and a lounge full of students dancin’ to Abba and painting their Doc fuckin’ Martens. Said they had another month on the lease.”

  “A month – ? Shit, so what happens … God sorry, what happens now?” I yawned. Christ it was early. I pumped down the passenger window to get a little air between my ears.

  “Well Julio is about ready to walk. Says the whole play’s jinxed, what with your lady friend stickin’ her oar in and – move it!” Henry pulled the van off the roundabout, grinding the gears, north onto Fulham Road, “and Christopher acting like some first year novice. This Kensington move of his is a bad idea. A baaaaad fuckin’ idea.”

  “Kensington? What’s Kensington?”

  “A baaaaad fuckin’ idea. Liable to get us all pinched.”

  “No, I mean what – ?”

  “Christopher wants to use a Kensington pad for the final play. In place of Bloomsbury. That’s where we’re going now.”

  “And this new place is definitely empty?”

  “Empty? HA! Not – move it! C’mon! Shift yourself! Not exactly empty, no. Hold tight.”

  A quarter of an hour later, the glass front of Imperial College flashed with the reflection of a tense young Australian face and a pale, terrified British one as the van whipped past and swung wide off Kensington Gore. We slowed, crawling through the quiet curling avenues behind the Royal Albert Hall.

  Henry was right. This was a very bad idea.

  “Here we go,” Henry said, rolling to a halt with a squeak. “Through the purple door, first floor, flat six. I’ll check the back. Go.”

  I clambered out into the chilly stillness, wind whipping between the cavernous mansion flats either side of the street, winter sunshine glinting off the high attic windows. Henry, his broad surfer’s frame squirming in a revolting navy suit, heaved open the van rear doors and tugged out a battered burgundy briefcase.

  “Go. C’mon, whatcha waiting for?”

  What I was waiting for, in all honesty, was the squawk of megaphones, the whoop of sirens, the thump of overhead helicopters and the immediate arrival of a vanload of short-haired men with Kevlar on their chests and overtime on their minds. But I made do with just shrugging nervously and pushing through the purple door into the echoing tile of the ancient flats.

  I slapped up the cold stairwell. The place had a hospital smell, a sick, stale antiseptic odour like bedpans and lino. Hands clammy, heart throbbing loud and fat in my ears, I reached t
he dark wood door of number six. The smell was stronger, sharp and yellow, biting my eyes. I knocked gingerly, the door swinging open with a creak. I held my breath and stepped through. I could hear a voice. Croaky. Sick.

  “He-hello?” I said, moving inside slowly.

  “… Yes, I-I am afraid you have me banged to rights there m-my yankee friend. Sorry, excuse –”

  A dry hacking cough spluttered from the room at the end of the bare hall.

  “Urgh, God. I did indeed have an accomplice lift the garment from the store during the fracas and deliver it to me … If I could, Mr Grayson, I would …”

  More groaning slithered out into the hall.

  I peered around the first door. A bedroom. Average-sized, tidy. There was, however, something unplaceably not quite right about it. Feeling a frown settle between my eyebrows I pushed further on. On the right, a second door. I eased it open. Bathroom. I let my eyes drag over the glass and tile.

  “You – cough hack splutter – sorry, you can check with who you like Mr Grayson …”

  Chewing the inside of my cheek, I moved softly down the hall, mouth and eyes full of the tight antiseptic pong. It was horrible. The smell of death and cleaning. I confidently expected to turn the corner and find weeping widows, coffee machines and a gift shop selling lilies and throat sweets, but I didn’t. What I did find, however, was a small through-lounge kitchen-diner arrangement and a pair of red underpants in a large Perspex box leant up against a sideboard.

  Oh, and a Christopher, laid out wearily on a couch under a blanket. Unshaven, head bandaged, eyes closed, face pale, murmuring weakly into his mobile phone.

  “You do that. I-I’ll speak to you later …” he coughed, wiping his feet on death’s doormat, exhausted at the effort. “Uhh-ntil then,” and he closed the telephone, letting it drop to the carpet. Christopher breathed deep and slow, chest rising and falling.

  “Hello?” I said softly. God, was he all right?

  Christopher opened his eyes wearily, focusing about the room until he found me. He licked dry lips and smiled.