Paint It Black

by Mark Timlin

  ‘Want anything else?’ I asked, as I made two mugs of tea.

  ‘Not right now. Unless you’ve got a biscuit.’

  I did as it happened. A new packet of milk chocolate fingers. They lasted as long as the tea.

  When it was all finished, I said, ‘So tell me. What’s up? What are you doing here?’

  ‘I ran away again.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Paula.’

  ‘Rhiannon.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what they call me now. Rhiannon. Like in the Fleetwood Mac song. It’s my favourite.’

  ‘Who calls you that?’

  ‘Everyone.’

  ‘Not your mum, I’ll bet.’

  She pulled a wry face. ‘Mebbe,’ she said.

  I suddenly had a moment’s panic. ‘And what about Judith?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She’s not . . .’

  ‘Course not. You’d’ve heard, wouldn’t you? No. Judith’s working hard at her books. We don’t see much of each other these days.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘I just blew into town. I remembered your address.’

  ‘And here you are.’

  ‘Here I am. You haven’t got anything to smoke, have you?’

  As a matter of fact I did. Plenty. But I wasn’t about to share it with her, so I shook my head.

  ‘Pity.’

  I felt the same way. There was nothing I fancied right then so much as a spliff. But I had some JD, so I went for that. She wanted some too, but I refused and offered her straight coke, which after the usual in-joke, she accepted.

  ‘So,’ I said, when we had our drinks. ‘What are you going to do now?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Do you want to go home?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Fifteen. Sixteen in a few months.’

  ‘I think you should try it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Going home. Just for a bit.’

  ‘And share a room with my sister?’

  ‘It’s better than walking the streets.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it.’

  ‘Is your mum on the phone now?’

  She shook her head again.

  ‘Is there anyone you want to talk to up there?’

  Another shake.

  ‘What about the police?’

  ‘What about them?’

  I was getting a bit pissed off with the cryptic way she was answering my questions. ‘Do you think they’re looking for you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I doubt it.’

  ‘I still think you should give it another try.’

  ‘They think I’m weird up there, dressed like this.’

  I could see why, and smiled. ‘I’ll pay your fare,’ I said.

  ‘Can we talk about it tomorrow?’

  I knew we were approaching an uncomfortable phase. ‘What about tonight?’

  ‘What about it?’

  See what I mean? ‘Have you got anywhere to stay?’

  ‘No.’

  It was late and I was half pissed. ‘Do you want to stay here?’

  She nodded.

  I looked round. It was just a small studio flat. One room with bathroom attached. It contained a bed, a sofa. A few bits of furniture. A lot of mess. Dawn and I had never got around to moving. We were going to do it once the baby had arrived.

  ‘I was very sorry to hear about your wife,’ said Paula – Rhiannon, whatever – as if picking up on my thoughts. ‘She was nice. Nice to me.’

  ‘She was,’ I agreed.

  ‘Judith told me about it,’ said Paula. ‘And your poor little baby.’

  I didn’t want to talk about it. ‘I’ll make you up a bed on the sofa,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t have to.’ She looked at the bed.

  Fucking hell, I thought. ‘Sofa,’ I said.

  ‘It’d be all right.’

  ‘You’re only fifteen. The last time I remember looking, that was under age.’

  ‘Where have you been, Mr Sharman? I had my first period when I was twelve and I lost my virginity two years ago.’

  ‘Were you sleeping with that guy?’

  ‘Which guy?’

  ‘That guy in Banbury. The traveller?’

  ‘Eno?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  She nodded.

  ‘And Judith?’

  This time she smiled. ‘No. We told you. She was too young. Too innocent. She only ran away to keep me company.’

  I believed her and was relieved. I went and found some sheets, blankets and a pillow. She moved to a chair and I made her up a bed on the sofa. ‘Bathroom’s in there,’ I said, indicating the door inside the kitchen. ‘Wait.’ I went and found Dawn’s robe. I hadn’t chucked anything of hers away. It smelt of her, and my guts hurt. ‘Wear this,’ I said.

  When Paula went into the bathroom with her little black bag I sat down and lit a cigarette and poured more JD. The smell of Dawn had been almost too much to bear.

  When she came back she was wearing the robe and carrying her clothes over her arm. I grabbed a robe of my own and went off to clean my teeth, take a piss and undress. Which I did, down to my boxers and T-shirt, then shucked on the robe and went back next door. Paula was on the sofa, sheets up to her chin, and fast asleep. I turned off the light, slipped out of the robe and jumped into bed.

  Christ knows what time it was when she came in with me, but it was late and I was as fast asleep as Mr Jack Daniel could make me. She woke me up by pushing up my T-shirt and attaching her mouth full of sharp little teeth on to my nipple.

  Jesus, but I jumped. Where I was in my dreams I don’t know, but when I came awake it was to find I had my arms full of a tiny, slippery little female who wanted a fuck.

  So I gave her one. Right or wrong, that’s what I did. And I enjoyed it, and so did she. It had been a long time, but I soon caught up. She was extremely horny and had a lot of energy. But I kept thinking of Dawn and wishing it was her I was holding, and because it wasn’t, I felt like I was being the worst kind of unfaithful.

  But it was good, and I remembered what a woman’s skin feels like.

  The next morning we did it again, then I put her on a train to Aberdeen. It was the best thing for both of us. I carried memories around like luggage, and something was going on top. Having Paula around would have only made us both miserable. So I paid for a one-way ticket and gave her a ton. It wasn’t a payoff, at least I didn’t see it like that. If it had been my daughter on the loose, I hope someone would do the same for her. I’m not so sure about the fucks though.

  She didn’t want to go. She said she’d get off the train at the first stop and come back. I told her that she could if she wanted, but maybe a little time in Scotland might be best all round.

  She reluctantly agreed, then told me she’d be back one day, and when she did she’d come and visit. I told her she’d be welcome. And I told her the truth.

  She leant out of the window of the train as it pulled away, all young and pretty, even in the Gothic gear that made her look like she was in mourning, and I knew I’d miss her.

  And I did.

  The money was in the bank Friday morning. I phoned in and checked.

  Over eighty-three thousand pounds. It doesn’t sound like much if you say it fast.

  Toby Gillis phoned about an hour later. ‘Got the cash?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. We should talk.’

  I agreed.

  ‘I’m at the Dorchester. Come over for lunch. Have you studied the maps?’

  ‘I’ve had a look at them.’

  ‘Good. One o’clock suit you?’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  He gave me his room number and told me to come straight up.

  I cabbed it to the hotel. I’d spent the morning looking again at the map and plans he’d given me.
Schofield’s country house was roughly equidistant between Great Yarmouth, Lowestoft and Norwich, in the marshes off the A143. It sounded nice and remote. Just right for our purposes. The plans of the place were detailed. It was big. Massive. Built in the fifteenth century, and added to regularly ever since. I was surprised it hadn’t slipped into the marshes long ago.

  When I got to the Dorchester, I body swerved through the foyer and caught a lift to the fifth floor. I knocked three times, just like in the movies, and Toby answered the door. He let me into a suite that had to be a monkey a night without breakfast, and we shook hands. He was dressed in a white shirt without a tie, grey suit pants and socks without shoes. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and said, ‘I’ve ordered food up here. Is that all right? It’s more private than the dining room.’

  ‘Suits me,’ I replied.

  ‘Take your coat off. Sit down. Drink?’

  I did as he said and ordered a bloody Mary which he made at his own little personal bar. It seems that if you worked for D’Arbley you went first class.

  The food came almost straight away. There was a good mixture. Cold meats and fish, salad, hot new potatoes, apple pie and coffee in the poshest thermos I’d ever seen. Plus a couple of bottles of white wine, that normally I’d need a mortgage to drink. But this was a special occasion, and I was mum with the booze, whilst Toby tipped the waiter and told him we’d serve ourselves.

  We didn’t talk business until after we’d eaten. Instead we caught up a bit more on what had happened since we’d last met.

  It was a depressing conversation and it soon petered out.

  Only when the dishes were stacked on the trolley, the wine bottles were empty and the coffee and brandy were on the table did we get down to brass tacks.

  ‘You know where we’re going?’ said Toby.

  I nodded.

  ‘And what we’re going to do?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And you’re happy about it?’

  ‘Ecstatic.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Just one thing.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When do we collect the rest of our money?’

  ‘In cash. On the night.’

  ‘How come he believes us?’

  He caught my drift right away. After all, nothing would be easier than to say we’d done the job, pocket the cash and vanish. ‘Simple,’ said Toby. ‘That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Schofield wears a very distinctive ring on his little finger. A cluster of rubies and diamonds. Before we get paid, Mr D’Arbley wants us to give it to him.’

  ‘What happens if we do it from a distance?’

  ‘Too bad. He wants at least one of us close enough to get the ring.’

  ‘That makes it harder.’

  ‘It’s a lot of money.’

  ‘Fair enough. What about Tyson?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Doesn’t Mr D’Arbley want his Y-fronts or something? Just to prove that we did the deed?’

  ‘No. He’ll take our word for him.’

  ‘Magnanimous.’

  ‘You pissed off or something, Nick?’

  Pissed off? Me? No. I was fucking great, wasn’t I? Halfway round the bend was all. If I hadn’t been I’d’ve never got mixed up in this madness. ‘No. It’s just me,’ I said. ‘Ignore it.’

  ‘OK.’

  And Toby wasn’t the same either. I could tell. Not that I’d known him that well. And why would he be the same? He’d lost the woman he’d loved too. We were both on a downward curve. Mad, bad and dangerous to know.

  ‘So how do we get in?’ I asked. ‘This place looks pretty tough to take from the plans. Electrified fences and shit. And I imagine that Schofield has a lot of soldiers.’

  ‘He has. Maybe ten or twelve on the night. No one said it was going to be easy.’

  ‘I’ll say yea to that. I’ll need to see the place before we go.’

  ‘You will. I already have.’

  ‘So how?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve got some ideas.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Later. How are you with automatic weapons?’

  ‘I make out.’ I thought of the Uzi I still had hidden away at home.

  ‘Good. I’ve got a stash of them. I’d like you to choose what you’re going to carry on the night.’

  ‘A pleasure.’

  ‘Right. Next week you’d better come down to where they are and choose your poison. You can see the place then.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  ‘So there you go, Nick. Come New Year’s Day, Mr D’Arbley will be a happy man.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. I didn’t mean it. Quite frankly I couldn’t have cared less about D’Arbley’s feelings on New Year’s Day or any other. It was mine that mattered.

  ‘And you’ll’ve nailed the ones that murdered your wife.’

  ‘Or died in the attempt.’

  ‘There’s always that.’

  There didn’t seem to be much more to say, so after one more drink, I split.

  It was now early December, and the days were shortening fast. Toby rang again the following Wednesday. ‘What are you doing at the weekend?’ he asked.

  ‘Same old thing,’ I said. ‘Fuck all.’

  ‘Good. Fancy a trip to the country?’

  ‘If you like. Where?’

  ‘Norfolk. I’ve got a cottage on some land about ten miles from Schofield’s place. It’s very quiet. We can get into some training and take a look at the target.’

  ‘Nothing too strenuous on the training front, I hope.’

  ‘No. Weapons and tactics.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up Friday afternoon about two. If we can beat the rush out of London, we can be up there in plenty of time for dinner. There’s a decent restaurant not far away.’

  ‘Sounds like my kind of training.’

  ‘Friday. Be ready.’ And he put down the phone.

  I was. Leather jacket, jeans, denim shirt, Doc Martens. Everything the well-dressed assassin should wear. I slung some clean underwear, another shirt and toilet gear into a bag, and was waiting at the designated time when the doorbell rang. I went downstairs and Toby was standing in the porch. Outside the house was parked a dark blue Laredo jeep with wide wheels and a hard top.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  The Laredo must’ve had some modifications done to the engine, as it went like hell and we were soon over the river and heading east. We took the A12 out of London, switched to the A144 and picked up the A143 at Bungay, before coming off the main highway at a place called Kirby Row, then driving down back roads until we turned off on to a rough track that took us to the cottage. By then of course it was full dark, cold, with a clear sky full of stars and a crescent moon. In the cottage, from the first-floor windows where Toby and I had our rooms, we could see no lights in any direction. We dumped our stuff, went back to the jeep and off to eat. It was a decent restaurant, inside a small pub and hotel about ten minutes’ drive away. We saw no other traffic on the road there or back. The cottage was perfect.

  On Saturday morning Toby had me up at seven. He’d rented the place for all of December and January and had obviously spent some time there previously, because of what he showed me he had hidden in the deep freeze in the cellar. Under the neatly placed food were several rolls of carpeting. Inside each roll was an armourer’s dream.

  Roll one: a Heckler & Koch 9 mm MP5K–PDW submachine gun, complete with silencer. Six hundred rounds per minute, thirty bullets to a magazine. In with the gun were a dozen fully loaded mags. Fold back the stock and hang it over your shoulder on its sling and it could be easily concealed under an overcoat or similar.

  Roll two: a Czech V261 Scorpion in 7.65 mm fitted with suppressor so that you didn’t know what had hit you until thirty rounds tore through your body. Smaller than the H & K, but pretty much as devastating. It also came complete
with half a dozen full magazines.

  Roll three: two Winchester 1200 Defender pump action shotguns with pistol grips. Neither gun much more than two foot long, and their blue steel barrels caught the light from the overhead fixture in the cellar.

  There were four boxes of cartridges in with the guns. ‘Twelve gauge,’ said Toby. ‘Six-shot capacity, plus one in the pipe.’

  Roll four: two Colt Combat Commander semis, chambered for 9 mm Parabellum, plus a dozen full, nine-shot magazines and two leather holsters on webbing belts.

  Roll five: two Colt Detective Special .38 revolvers with two-inch barrels and shoulder holsters.

  ‘No howitzers?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  It was just a thought.

  ‘Choose your weapons,’ said Toby. ‘There’s plenty of spare ammunition buried in the woods. We’ll dig it up as needed.’

  ‘Pretty risky leaving them here,’ I remarked.

  ‘What else could I do? Everything in life has a certain risk factor. Now which sub do you want?’

  I took the H & K. It felt good in my hands, even if its metal was freezing. I helped myself to one each of the shotguns, the semiautomatics and the revolvers.

  ‘Let’s go outside,’ said Toby. ‘We can get in some practice with the carry weapons.’

  I took off my leather jacket and shrugged into the shoulder holster, then put my jacket back on and strapped the webbing belt around my hips, draped the H & K from one shoulder by its sling, put on a pair of thin black leather gloves and picked up the shotgun. The spare mags and cartridges went into my pockets and we went upstairs. I clanked a little as I walked, but that could be sorted. Toby was equally festooned with ordnance and we went outside into the cold dawn and took a hike.

  We walked away from the cottage, over a stile, across a field and into a copse of trees. Toby explained that all the land came with the cottage, so we shouldn’t have any unwelcome visitors, and if we did, just too bad for them. As we walked through the wood I could just see tyre tracks in the muddy earth. Thin ones, nothing like the Laredo would leave, and I pointed them out.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he said, and when we came to a small clearing I saw the gleaming red paintwork of a nearly new Peugeot 205 that was parked smack in the centre. It looked empty, but I grabbed Toby’s arm nevertheless.

  ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I brought it here. Stole it in Norwich a week ago.’