Civvies

by Lynda La Plante

  At King's Cross they came up the escalator to the mainline station and walked briskly across the marble-slabbed concourse to a side exit leading to the warren of back streets fanning out eastwards to the Caledonian Road. Dillon didn't know the area all that well, but Jimmy seemed to, and eventually, as they came into yet another indistinguishable street, he nodded and said, This is it.'

  A door with a tarnished brass nameplate and creaking hinges led them into a wooden passage that smelled of dust and mildew, and up a narrow staircase that doubled back on itself. Jimmy rapped lightly and after the sound of locks and bolts, a door opened a cautious three inches, held by a heavy chain. A pair of pouchy eyes appeared in the gap.

  'This is Frank, Morris -' Jimmy motioned Dillon forward, to be scrutinised – he's a friend of mine, okay? Just the two of us.'

  They sidled in, following Morris's shambling bulk into a tiny workshop that was sweltering to death from a Calor gas stove, the single grimy window screwed up tight. A youth with lank greasy hair parted in the middle sat on a high stool picking his nose, pin-prick eyes impassive as Dillon unfastened his belt and lowered his trousers, releasing the leather carrying pouch strapped to his waist and dropping it on the workbench. Morris switched on a powerful desk spotlight, swung a magnifying lens on a bracket into position. With long slender fingers he extracted the velvet bag from the pouch and tipped it out. Dillon felt his mouth go dry as the stones tumbled out, mesmerised, dazzled, the diamonds like a heap of white-hot embers flashing sparks on the blue velvet pad in the stifling, airless room. He ran a finger inside his collar. Couldn't take his eyes off Morris, who set to work, closely examining each stone through the lens, then weighing it, making a notation in a ledger, setting it aside and taking up the next.

  'We on the move?' Dillon whispered to Jimmy as Morris, task done, funnelled the stones into the velvet bag, pulling the drawstring tight.

  'Yep. I'll wear them now, just in case.' Jimmy dropped his pants.

  Fine by me, Dillon thought. The more he saw of this set-up, the less he liked it. Taking risks for Barry Newman, he must be out of his tiny skull, with brains to match.

  Back on the street, walking quickly, Dillon glanced behind. The young lad from the workshop was following them, keeping up the same brisk pace. 'What's with the kid?'

  'So we don't switch stones,' Jimmy explained. 'An' he knows which apartment, I'm not sure.' He called back, 'Eh, kid. Is it much further?'

  'Two minutes now.' The youth jerked his head, indicating a large block of flats, stained concrete and tiny balconies fronted by corroding ironwork, an architectural gem with a grandstand view of the gasworks. 'Better follow me in,' the youth said, and scuttled on ahead, the wind whipping up his hair like bits of dead grass.

  'Money for jam this, I told you,' Jimmy chortled as they went in through a pair of glass-panelled doors, one of them boarded up with plywood. 'But keep your eyes peeled. Anyone gonna clobber us, this place is perfect. What a dump!'

  The thought stayed with Dillon as they followed the youth along a dim corridor and turned a corner, arriving in a cul-de-sac at what appeared to be the porter's flat, judging by the spyhole in the centre of the door. Standing in plain view, the youth knocked, and then stood aside to let Dillon and Jimmy enter as bars slid back and chains rattled. A big, bearded man in a fawn polo-neck with a beer gut he'd been nurturing for some time did a rapid, expert frisking job. From Jimmy he took a portable phone, a neat little folding item in black and silver, and placed it on a side table. He went on down the passage, tapped on a door, pushed it wide, waving Dillon through.

  As Jimmy went by, the man barred his way, and very lightly brushed the small of his back. Raising both hands, Jimmy smiled and gave a little shrug. 'Just for protection.'

  Unimpressed, the man nodded, reached under Jimmy's jacket and removed the Browning 140-DA semi-automatic, dropping it in his pocket.

  Dillon was fidgeting by the door when Jimmy came in. The small room smelled of stale whisky and even staler sweat, and the wheezing thick-set man in the shabby suit, brown Hush Puppies and black shades, standing at the open safe in the corner, neatly rounded off Dillon's stock memory of a British B movie circa 1953. He felt lost, out of his depth, and besides, Dillon thought moodily, this was Jimmy's picnic. Let him get on with it.

  A silent ritual took place. Jimmy fetched up the velvet bag, held onto it until the man in shades had transferred several thick bundles of notes from safe to table, fifties and twenties. The man spread the diamonds on a velvet cloth, wheezing whisky fumes as he bent over to examine them. Jimmy flicked through the bundles, a quick rough tally, but enough to satisfy him. Confident, done it before. No sweat. He straightened up, opening the front of his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt. 'You got the belts for us?'

  Two black money-belts were produced. Jimmy stashed the notes away in the zippered pockets, handed one of the belts to Dillon, who wrapped it round his waist, securing it with velcro fasteners. When they'd finished, Jimmy said to the man in shades, 'Kid stays put until we're out of here, okay?'

  The man nodded, pointed to a chair. The kid sat, picking his nose.

  Dillon waited until they were clear, had put a corner between them and the concrete block. 'You think I'm blind?' Jimmy gave him a guarded, puzzled look. 'You're carrying, aren't you?' Dillon blazed, the tension erupting out of him, making his neck muscles bulge. He pushed Jimmy roughly. 'Aren't you!'

  'I got a licence, Frank – it's okay!'

  Fists clenched, Dillon walked off. He stopped and turned, nostrils twitching. 'Where do we go now? Come on, what's next?'

  Jimmy took out the portable phone, pressed numbers as they walked back in the direction of King's Cross. Jesus Christ Almighty, Dillon was thinking, I must have fucking scrambled eggs for brains. Walking down some poxy back-street with fifty grand, a hundred grand – he didn't know how much and he didn't care – strapped to him, talk about a soft target…

  'Everythin' watertight this end,' Jimmy was murmuring low into the phone. 'We're on our way back to base -' He listened, brow furrowing. 'What?'

  Forward, sideways, back, Dillon was doing slow sweeps, wishing he had eyes in the back of his head. There was a bloke, forty, fifty yards behind, red anorak, pasty-faced, who might be out for a stroll, or going to the shop for fags, but Dillon had his doubts.

  'Well what you want us to do with it?' Jimmy's voice rose half an octave and he brought it down. 'Strapped round our waists, where you think?' He glanced meaningfully at Dillon. 'Wants us to hang onto it!'

  'You're bloody joking – you tell him we're coming in. I've had enough.' Dillon grabbed the phone. 'We're not wanderin' around friggin' London with… hello?… hello?'

  Dillon thrust the phone back, eyes swivelling over Jimmy's shoulder. 'I think we've got a tail on us. Guy in a red anorak, see if he's still with us…'

  Jimmy sneaked a look, a quick nod at Dillon. They kept on walking, picking up speed but trying not to show they'd rumbled him. The street they were in branched into another, running parallel with the lines that went into King's Cross. As they neared it, Dillon said, 'He's still behind us, an' he's still on his tod. What you think? Next corner? Make a run for it!'

  'Okay. Soon as we hit the bend, next left, do a runner, split up. See you at King's Cross taxi-rank…'

  The instant they turned the corner it was heads down, diving into a sprint, running like crazy; they'd covered all of thirty yards before either of them realised. Dillon skidded to a stop, staring at the high brick wall topped with broken glass, blocking off the street.

  'Shit! You don't even know where we are! You prat! It's a dead end… it's a dead end!'

  They whipped round, but it was too late. Red Anorak had turned the corner and was coming towards them.

  Jimmy said, 'We're gonna have to take him -'

  Before Dillon could say anything he was charging back, running like the clappers. Red Anorak stopped, started to turn and run, but Jimmy was fit and fast, on top of him like a ton of bricks, b
ringing him down with a flying tackle. The man's head bounced on the pavement, and before he'd rolled into the gutter Jimmy was up and at him, putting the boot in.

  'For chrissakes, take it easy,' Dillon panted, coming up as Jimmy delivered another kick, seeing blood pouring from the man's gashed head.

  'You see anyone else?' Jimmy's eyes were rolling in his sweating face. 'Go on, get to the corner, see if he's got anyone else with him – hurry. Move it!'

  Dillon ran off. Jimmy ferreted inside the anorak, found a wallet and flipped it open. 'Oh shit!'

  Encapsulated in a 4 x 3 inch plastic slip cover, a colour print of the man's ruddy face and ginger moustache. Above it, his name, rank and number: D.C.I. RIGGS.

  'Come on,' Dillon hissed, racing back. 'What you waiting for?'

  Shielding it with his body, Jimmy snapped the wallet shut and slipped it into his pocket.

  CHAPTER 8

  Dillon nearly lost all his shirt-buttons getting the money-belt off. 'Here, take it – I never want to see that bastard Newman again!' He thrust it into Jimmy's lap, sitting alongside him in the back of the taxi parked on the hard shoulder of the Shepherd's Bush flyover. Two close calls in one afternoon, and he was sick of it. First Red Anorak, then evading the cops literally by seconds, ducking into a cab at King's Cross as squad cars came zooming in from all directions.

  Dillon wiped his damp palms on his trouser knees. 'I lost half-a-stone sweatin' what would have happened if we got rapped over the head an' lost it.'

  He jerked round, staring out into the gathering darkness as a police car, lights flashing, siren wailing, appeared over the flyover behind them and shot past towards the main roundabout. They watched it vanish towards White City. Dillon flopped back, limp as a wrung-out dish-rag.

  'Come on, it's okay. So we had a bit of aggro,' Jimmy admitted, pulling the money-belt free and folding it with the other. His old cocky bravado was back, as if being chased by the police was all in a day's work, which probably wasn't far from the truth, Dillon was starting to realise.

  The cab driver was looking over his shoulder and Jimmy rattled his knuckles on the sliding window. 'Oi! Keep your face to the front. What you think we are, couple of woofters? We're waitin' for a pick-up.'

  A mite pissed off himself, the driver slid the panel open, beaked nose and bristly chin outlined in the green dashboard lights.

  'I don't give a shit what you do, but parkin' here is illegal. Pay the fare – you wanna wait, that's your business! I can get fired for parkin' here.'

  Dillon nodded curtly at the money-belts Jimmy was holding. 'Pay him, Jimmy. Sure as hell got enough dough!'

  Jimmy peered out, banging the window with his fist. 'Where the hell is he?'

  'How long does he expect us to wait?' asked Dillon, getting jittery all over again. 'You think we aren't drawing attention to us now, parked here?' He grabbed the door handle. 'Next thing a bloody cop car'll stop… I'm out of here!'

  'Wait!' Jimmy pulled Dillon back, face pale and twitching. The last time Dillon had seen him so hyped up was standing in the open doorway of a Hercules C-130, line rigged up, cheeks rippling like a rubber mask in the slipstream, ready to jump. 'That guy I whacked,' Jimmy said. 'He was a police officer.'

  Dillon slowly blinked at him, unable to take it in. Assaulting a copper and he'd been accessory to it. They were talking prison here.

  The cabbie's patience finally worn though, he stuck his head in, telling them straight, 'You think I'm stupid? I've given you the warnin', now I'm gonna call the law!'

  Without a second's hesitation Jimmy viciously slammed the panel shut against the cabbie's face, and in a fury started stuffing fivers in the gasping mouth. 'Here's your soddin' money… I know your cab number,' he was shouting, 'I know your name!'

  The driver dragged his face free, groping for the security lock button. Jimmy reached through, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and yanked his head back hard against the glass panel. 'Try anythin', Jimmy snarled, 'and I swear before God you're fuckin' dead.' Again he yanked the driver's head back – clunk - against the panel, and once more to make sure the idea had sunk in.

  Scooping up the money-belts Jimmy slammed the door shut and shouted after Dillon, walking head forward along the hard shoulder with the look of a man who's had it up to here.

  'Frank, where you going?' Jimmy broke into a trot. He looked up to see the Jaguar coasting down to the roundabout, signalling to make a left. 'Frank! He's here!'

  Dillon swung an angry face towards him, aiming along his pointing finger. 'I've had enough for one night, Jimmy, an' don't try an' tell me this is all legit! It reeks, it stinks. It's got nothin' to do with insurance an' you know it! I just got into civvies, an' I don't intend going to jail for you – or that bastard Newman!' He marched on, yelling over his shoulder, 'I got a wife, I got kids… I don't need it!'

  'Frank, listen to me -'

  'I'll make it, Jimmy,' Dillon shouted, marching on, his voice becoming fainter, echoing under the sodium-yellow streetlights. 'You do whatever you want, just stay clear of me!'

  Jimmy tried to shout, but nothing came out, his throat choked tight. The last thing he wanted was to alienate Frank Dillon, his best mate in all the world. Frank knew Jimmy, possibly better than anyone else. There was no one else. He saw Dillon moving away over the frozen tundra, pale Antarctic sunlight slanting down, his figure silhouetted against the blue wash of sky. That day they'd tabbed fourteen miles with thirty-eight kilograms of kit – L1A1 weapon, thirty-round magazine, fighting order, bergen stuffed with ammo and emergency rations – sneaking up the enemy's backside after a march the Argies thought humanly impossible. Dillon had set the example, and Dillon wasn't a man you let down, not if you wanted his respect. Worth more than rubies, and he was throwing it away for two money-belts of soiled notes. 'Frank… Frank, I'm sorry,' Jimmy whispered.

  'Sorry about the wait, but the filth were crawling round my place, Newman said, placing the money-belts inside his pigskin briefcase and snapping it shut. He inclined his head towards Jimmy, sitting subdued in a corner of the back seat. 'Frank all right, is he?'

  'Yeah. Just needed some fresh air.' Staring without seeing anything, blur of lights, smeared faces.

  Newman held out two thick bundles secured with rubber bands.

  'This is your cut, and you both get a bonus. Three grand!' Newman permitted himself a faint smug smile. 'Glad Frank worked out, but then I knew he'd come round. Everyone's got a price.'

  'You can't buy Frank Dillon,' Jimmy said quietly, his chest so full he hardly had the breath. Then softer yet: 'I'm the type you can buy, Mr Newman…'

  The Jaguar sped on, Jimmy stared bleakly out.

  He was in luck. Dillon was mooching across the paved courtyard, hands in his pockets, just as the taxi turned the corner. Jimmy hopped out, told the driver to wait, and intercepted Dillon at the bottom of the stairs. 'Here's your cut!' The grin was back, but not quite sure of itself. 'An' we got a bonus!' Jimmy handed over the thick wad, keeping his back to the cab driver.

  'How much?'

  'Three grand – not bad for one night's work, eh?'

  Dillon's surly expression faded as he gazed wonderingly at the money in his hand. 'What – each? You kiddin' me?'

  'Naaahh!' Jimmy slapped Dillon on the arm. 'Look, I gotta go, Frank, be in touch soon, yeah?'

  Dillon looked him in the eyes. 'You sure, Jimmy… no strings?'

  'No strings, Frank.' Jimmy ducked his head, turned away. 'Night.'

  'G'night you thievin' bastard!' said Dillon, cuffing him. 'I'm sorry I sounded off on you… don't get in too deep, Jimmy.'

  Jimmy looked back. 'Steve Harris still dossin' down at your place?' he asked quietly.

  'He's got no place else to go.'

  'He'll bleed you dry, Frank.' Bitterness there, even a tinge of envy maybe. 'His kind always do.'

  'He doesn't lie to me, Jimmy.' Dillon's voice had icicles on it. 'I trust old Steve, an' I'll get him back on his feet.' He went up the stairs, footstep
s ringing out on the concrete.

  Jimmy nodded to himself, listening as the footsteps faded, knowing Dillon meant every word. He said to the empty stairwell, 'What about me, Frank? What about me?'

  Susie was mending the kids' shirts when Dillon walked in, snipping frayed cuffs, binding them with strips of cotton she'd bought down the market. There was soccer on the telly, but the sound was off, vividly coloured doll-like figures darting about on smooth emerald-green baize, chasing four shadows at once. She said, 'Where've you been?'

  'Ran into a pal of Jimmy's, did a bit of collectin'.'

  Dillon looked at the screen, at the carpet, at the ceiling fixture, and turned to go.

  'Buy you the suit, did he?' Susie carried on sewing.

  'What?' Dillon fingered the lapel as if seeing the suit for the first time. 'Oh… yeah.' He turned again.

  'What's the matter, Frank?'

  Dillon slowly faced her, tugging at his moustache, eyes on the screen. He said quietly, 'It's not going to work.'

  'What isn't?' The words like twin pistol shots.

  'Civvies.' Dillon cleared his throat. 'I'm signing on for mercenary duty…'

  'You can't do that to me – the kids.' She'd started to flush up, eyes bright and stony. 'The whole point of you leaving the Army was so you could be with us.'

  'But if I can't get a job…'

  'You telling me with eighteen years' experience training men they can't help you?' Susie said, incredulity straining her voice.

  'Who's they? Eh? Go on, tell me!' As if she had touched a raw nerve in him, the bottled-up resentment and bitterness spilling out. 'I was in the Army, now I'm out of it. That's it. And if you want the truth – I didn't leave for you or the kids.'

  'What?' Susie mouthed, stunned.

  'We used to pride ourselves we were the toughest, the best fighting men, but they want to change it all, change our image. It was my life, my lads… but I got as far as I could go, as far as they'd let someone like me go.' Dillon stood there in the cheap, wrinkled suit and battered Puma trainers, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, the thin line of the scar a whiter shade of pale on his cheek.