Karl tilted his head, tick-tock fashion, weighing it up. “Fair enough.”
Thomas felt the sweat clinging to the small of his back. He picked up binoculars and flicked around the Customs officers to see if anyone seemed interested in the silver van. Then he swept along the lane of traffic for a suitable decoy. “Control, from team three,” he kept his voice calm and controlled, “there’s a blue sports car, six vehicles down the line. It may be nothing, but it looks like one in the car park that went out yesterday.” He could feel Karl scrutinising him and turned slowly, matching him in a staring contest.
Karl reached for his walkie-talkie. “Driver was a red-head; large wedding band and a humming bird pendant.” He watched Thomas’s face the way a cat looks at a baby bird.
Thomas went back to his binoculars, hardly breathing until the silver van was clear. The static burst from the walkie-talkies made him flinch. “Control to teams two and three; we’re doing a check on the blue sports car, over.”
Karl clicked off. “I’m not sure what just happened there, Tommo,” he set his own walkie-talkie down carefully. “But I’ll tell you this for nothing, as a professional courtesy: it’s a fool who underestimates me.”
“Never have, never will,” Thomas replied, smiling until his face hurt.
Chapter 5
Thomas burst awake like a swimmer breaking the surface, gasping for air. He lay there panting. Jesus. Never again. That was the worst thing about drinking too much: it always brought on the nightmares.
First, he’d had one of his classics — finding Christine and Bob Peterson together at the country hotel. Only, in the dream, he confronted them instead of letting Christine shoo him on his way. Now, he pushed past her and landed one on Peterson from the off and didn’t stop until Peterson was a bloody pulp. Usually he’d wake up then with his fists clenched, but this time it tipped over.
Back in the house in Yorkshire; he and Patricia, kids again, huddled under the blanket as he read his Beano annuals aloud by torchlight to drown out their father’s rage downstairs. The jagged tension, building in degrees to an explosion of crockery or a door slam, followed by the muffled silence of their mother’s submission. Then the slow, heavy footfalls up the stairs until their father reached the very top step, the one nearest his bedroom. They always held their breath together beneath the blanket, listening. And just when he felt he couldn’t hold it any longer, the scene exploded into thousands of tiny mosaic pieces.
He snatched at the clock: eight thirty. It was Saturday, a day of leisure, and he was a little disappointed. The previous night gradually revealed itself in a blurred montage of images. Karl had been drunk too — he had an almost medical susceptibility to alcohol. In a parallel universe he’d have been a good, cheap date.
Memory stirred. What time had they arranged to meet today? And wasn’t there something about bringing his passport? He shook his head to loosen the memories, and pain signals rebounded from all corners of his brain.
He was drifting through the supermarket with the rest of the drones at ten o’clock when a text came in from Karl: Good craic last night. Don’t forget driving licence & passport. 3 pm Holloway Rd tube.
He filled his trolley with whatever came to hand and added in chocolates, flowers and a quality bottle of wine for Sunday. Couldn’t very well turn up at the Wrights' place empty-handed. As he pulled away, he checked the rear mirror and did the thing he always did, driving a full circuit around the car park, just to make sure no one was waiting for him. So far, no one had been.
On the way home, he pondered Bob Peterson again. Say Bob had been checking on the teams. Why that Thursday, particularly? The high-street gridlock soured Thomas’s thoughts as he waited at temporary lights. Maybe Peterson wasn’t there for them at all; maybe he was watching the ferry? But he was there well before the ferry arrived. Two things out of the ordinary had happened that week — the shooting on the Thursday and then Miranda’s brothers coming through on the Friday. The lights changed to green and he put his foot down. And what the bloody hell did Karl need to see his personal ID for today?
Karl was already waiting outside the underground station when Thomas arrived, at five to three. He looked in fine shape, untarnished by the previous night’s excesses. Lucky bastard.
“Great to see you Tommo; you won’t regret this — got your documents?” Karl seemed really chuffed that he’d turned up, as if that were ever in doubt — pub promises being the social equivalent of signing in triplicate.
Thomas tapped his coat emphatically and followed Karl to his car. He watched as Karl checked casually around the vehicle. Old habits died hard.
Inside, the Ford Fiesta smelled overpoweringly of oranges.
“Hop in,” Karl said cheerily, flinging an old newspaper on to the backseat.
“Did you murder Mr Del Monte and stash the body in here?”
Karl nodded and smirked.
“Oh, right. Yeah, ’scuse the aroma — I spilt a two-litre carton last week. It’s dried out fine but . . . anyway, I quite like it.”
Before Thomas could comment, Karl thrust in a CD of the Undertones, cued up a track and then did a murderous accompaniment to ‘Perfect Cousin.’ Karl would have made a perfect cousin himself — if only he'd taken a vow of silence. He waited until Karl had slaughtered the song to the very end.
“Okay I give up. Why the ID?”
“You’ll see,” Karl winked.
Top of the list of things that Thomas hated was surprises; second was more surprises. And the smell of oranges was now a possible contender for third place. He stared out the window as the streets of Camden flickered past, his mind rushing through the possibilities: white slave trade, booze cruise to Calais . . .
Karl tapped the wheel in time to the music, more or less, attempting to harmonise with the singers in places a lesser man would fear to tread. After a twisting series of back-roads, the car came out into a nondescript industrial estate. Karl parked and switched off the engine. “I thought it was high time we got to know each other properly, now that we’re acquainted professionally. And where better than at a club where we can unwind and be ourselves?”
Thomas nodded dumbly. Drinking club? Strip club? Poker club?
Karl got out and stood in front of the car, swinging his keys.
“Come on, then. Are you gonna sit there all day?”
Seeing the look of glee on Karl's face, he took his time. Karl showed his driving licence to the security camera then had him do the same. He pressed his hand against the reinforced steel door as Karl held it open. This underworld was clearly members only.
They went inside and Karl smiled at him briefly, as if he had passed some test of brotherhood. They crossed the lobby and walked up to a desk surrounded by reinforced glass. Karl took out his two forms of ID and pushed them through the drop chute. A woman retrieved them and kept them below eye level. When they were returned, with nary a smile, Thomas followed suit. This time she requested £40 for a visitor’s pass, which she informed him did not include the cost of equipment.
Thomas glanced at Karl and handed over two twenties. Thanks a lot. And he was still none the wiser. It could be an S & M club for all he knew.
“Right, Tommo,” Karl slapped him on the back, “Welcome to the club!”
An electronic buzzer hummed and clicked, releasing a door at the end of a short corridor. On the other side, to the left and right, there were rows of doors. Thomas breathed deep; the air tasted subtly of smoke and machine oil. He keyed up his other senses and became aware of a muffled thud thud in rhythmic succession all around him.
Karl twisted the handle on a side door and pushed. A woman stood with her back to them, legs slightly braced. If their presence distracted her in any way she didn’t show it, as she emptied her weapon into the target with calm precision. Thomas nodded to himself. So that was it — a Gun Club.
She placed the pistol on the counter, removed her ear-defenders and turned around. Thomas could see that all her actions were exact
and measured. She smiled their way and Karl shifted his weight side to side, like a dog waiting for treats.
“Glock, I presume?” he asked.
Thomas figured that was for his benefit.
“You know me so well!” she leaned forward and tapped Karl’s shoulder. He reddened.
“Teresa, this is Thomas — my pal from work.”
Thomas flinched; he never mentioned the ‘w’ word.
Teresa eased past Karl and checked a small screen on the wall behind him.
“I’m done here. The bay’s free for another hour. I’m off to the bigger equipment,” she made it sound like a gym. “Maybe catch you gentlemen later, in the bar?”
Thomas got the door. Teresa picked up her Glock 9 mm, removed the magazine and checked the weapon. She seemed to take her time about it, and Karl didn’t seem to mind.
Thomas waited until Teresa had gone.
“Glock?”
“The choice of champions! Standard law enforcement issue, 9 mm; seventeen in a clip,” Karl sounded like a survivalist train-spotter. “Now, wait here while I go get us some equipment and practice material.”
Left alone, Thomas looked at the end of the bay. Terrorist targets glared back at him. An options menu on a small wall screen told him there were fourteen pistol bays — one was closed and one designated private — clearly, a busy day today. The bigger equipment, as Teresa had politely put it, was another eight bays’ worth of fire-powering fun. He was about to venture into sub-menus when Karl returned with two cases.
“Right then. Before we start, a few ground rules.”
“Who uses this place?” Thomas cut in.
“Mostly armed forces and police, that sort of thing — current and former.”
“And all this is legal?”
Karl raised an eyebrow.
“I’d hardly bring you otherwise, now would I?”
“And Teresa; is she . . .”
“Now, now,” Karl waved a finger. “The first rule of gunfight club is that nobody asks what anyone does. Members expect confidentiality. You of all people can appreciate that.”
Karl ran through the essentials: only one person at the yellow line; no talking while using the equipment; loading, operating and emptying; the stance; breathing and squeezing; ear-defenders on unless everyone’s hands were empty. It was a regular Handguns for Dummies.
Karl had a Buddhist-like calm, if you could forget about the firearm. Stripped of banter and bravado, he was a man in his element, comfortably loosing off rounds in tight formations until the magazine was spent. He put his weapon down and shifted the headgear.
“Now, you; and remember to allow for the kickback.”
Thomas stood at the line and felt the cool weight of a Browning in his hands. The ear-defenders cocooned him, sealing him in with his thoughts. He gripped the handle tightly and watched the tiny, almost undetectable tremor of the barrel. The paper circles awaited him, and he leaned forward slightly, breathing into his stomach as he crushed his finger against the trigger in a single, fluid movement. Then he waited, statue-like, as the dulled whine of the bullet echoed in his head. After three more shots, he stopped and put the gun down. He was, even by his own estimation, shit.
Karl clearly thought that laughter didn’t count as speech.
“It’s fine — for a beginner and all. Let’s try something a little more provocative.”
At the flick of a button, terrorists swivelled towards them in a ragged line. Karl took the stand and quickly got into his stride. Head and heart, just like in the movies.
“Now you.”
Thomas stepped up and something clicked in his psyche. When he looked into the anonymous, printed faces, his mind went slipstream. He saw teachers, the Neanderthals at school, Bob Peterson and his own father. And now, when he pulled the trigger, he was rewriting history, redressing the balance of power in his head.
He finished the salvo and placed the gun down, touching it gently like a talisman. The targets bore the conviction of his thoughts; every one a body shot.
“That was much better, Tommo. I think we’ve found your brand!” Karl applauded. “Better than many I’ve seen, picking up a gun for the first time.”
“Thanks,” he acknowledged, justly pleased, except it wasn’t the first time.
* * *
The bar was actually a café, which was a relief. Guns and alcohol hadn’t sounded like a good mix. Karl pointed him to a couple of comfy chairs and went off for coffees. Teresa waved from across the room, keeping her distance. Thomas glanced from table to table at the crowd — singles, couples and groups, and presumably every one of them proficient with a gun. He didn’t feel reassured.
Karl seemed different somehow, since the shooting practice. But then, Thomas reasoned, thirty-six rounds from an automatic pistol would do that. “Right then Tommo, what’s on your mind?” Karl blundered up and slapped a tray on the table.
“What . . . what do you mean?”
It was a well-practised stalling technique; if in doubt, act distracted. He reached for a cup carefully, but Karl didn't look impressed.
“Come on, Thomas, cards on the table. I’ve brought you into my confidence, shown you part of my secret world . . .” Karl grinned and eased back in his chair, “. . . How about returning the favour?”
Thomas peeled his back away from the vinyl upholstery. Every breath seemed to spread the dampness.
“I'm not sure what you’re on about. You’ve obviously invited me here for a reason — if it’s to join your private army, on today’s performance, you’d best put me down as a driver,” he searched Karl’s face for a punchline. “Beyond that, I’m clueless.”
Karl smacked his lips. “You can play that innocent abroad line as long as you like, but I don’t buy it. Something happened yesterday — I’m not sure what.”
Thomas felt himself blushing. Stupid bastard. He tilted his head towards the coffee. Yeah, that’d work, hiding in the coffee steam.
“Anyway,” Karl continued, sipping at his cup, “I’m pretty sure you’re clean, so I guess that puts us on a level footing, whoever you represent.”
It sounded like a cue.
“Sorry, you’ve lost me — who I represent?”
“Come on now, Tommo, enough with the games. Why else would you be in the Surveillance Support Unit?”
“How d’you mean?” Thomas leaned forward, leading with his jaw. “It’s just a job, that’s all; forget the mission statement and the badge — we’re the hired help. All right, I grant you most of ’em are more ambitious, but not me or you, right?”
He stopped short; Karl was staring at him intently, still as marble.
“. . . And I s’pose it’s also a proving ground for the likes of Ann Crossley and Christine Gerrard, on their way up the greasy pole?”
He’d run out of things to say and opened his palms flat. If there were any aces in this conversation, he didn’t have them. No one spoke for a good minute, before Thomas braved the silence.
“You were expecting more?”
Karl toyed with the sugar sachets.
“Shit. You really don’t know, do you?”
“Not yet . . .” Thomas narrowed his eyes.
Karl slumped back in his chair and gazed at his hands.
“God, Tommo; what a pickle of bollocks. Let’s take a step back. You’ve been in the SSU for . . .”
“Two years,” he filled in the blank even though Karl already knew it.
“Okay, well it’s a little bit longer than that for me, and I started in West London. Some time ago, I was asked to participate in a covert review of the SSU, from the ground. There were concerns about information going astray . . . And before you ask, I don’t know what — and even if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“So how are you involved in all this?”
“Not at all, officially. I’m just a pair of eyes and ears, as you’ve probably figured out. But I thought, after that van yesterday, that you were definitely . . . you know . . . repr
esenting some other party as well.”
“I just felt they were innocent.”
“They? You have a good memory,” Karl blinked slowly.
Thomas swallowed hard; he could feel the heat at his armpits. They finished their coffee in uncomfortable silence.
“Look,” Karl said eventually, “I messed up, okay; I read the signs wrong. You don’t socialise, you doctored my report; you convinced me to let someone go through at the docks — Christ, you may even have picked out a gunman. It all added up to you being in the SSU for more than a mortgage and a pension.”
“Like you, you mean?” Thomas was still adjusting to the idea that Karl had another life going on.
Karl soon tired of being stared at.
“Let’s not let this screw up a perfectly good working relationship, eh Tommo? What do you say?”
“Deal,” Thomas stretched out his hand. “As long as you introduce me to Teresa when I bring the drinks back.”
As Thomas stood in line, watching as Teresa ambled over to their table, he had a revelation. Right up there with gravity, the faked moon-landing pictures and real men not liking opera. He rushed the coffees back then excused himself to the gents. He locked the cubicle door behind him, sat on the toilet lid and took deep, slow breaths. His pulse pounded in his ears. This was something he hadn’t felt in a long time: fear. He speed-dialled Miranda’s mobile and stared at the graffiti on the inside of the door. Even at a gun club, there was apparently someone willing to do the nasty with strangers for ten pounds. Some helpful soul had even added pencil drawings.
She picked up first ring.
“Miranda Wright — at your service!”
“Hi, it’s me. Listen, I’m going to ask you a question; it may seem a bit odd.”
“Are you okay, Thomas?”
She must have sensed the concern in his voice; she’d cut straight through the usual double-entendres.
“I need to know if an Irish guy has been at Caliban’s recently, asking questions. About five-foot eight; short, reddish-brown hair. Check with Sheryl and be discreet.”
STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense Page 3