‘You’re right Mickey. There’s never room for three in a marriage.’ His voice dropped slightly as he added, ‘I’m sure one day you’ll get your chance to take him out.’ My cup clattered noisily in the saucer as he continued talking. ‘And I’m sure all that high-powered City life wasn’t good for you in the end.’
‘Yeah,’ I said nervously. It was starting to feel like Herb already knew everything about me, even though I hadn’t spoken to him for years. ‘I was ready for a change. I didn’t need hassle at work and at home, so I’ve dumped them both. I haven’t felt this liberated since I was a teenager back down here.’
‘That’s what I wanted to hear, Mickey.’ The devilish smile had returned to his face. ‘I imagine all those years of pinstriped conformity got a bit restricting for a man of your potential.’ This time, when he held out the plate of biscuits, I couldn’t resist.
‘When I heard you’d made these changes and were heading out in a new direction…’ He had suddenly become animated. ‘I thought to myself, perhaps you might be keen to get back to a… less conventional lifestyle? And I thought you might be in a position to help me with a problem I have.’
‘Sure... if I can,’ I said cautiously, wondering what I could possibly do to make his life more comfortable.
‘The thing is Mickey, I doubt I have a lot of time left. And I’m buggered if I’m going to let them destroy me and take everything I’ve fought for while I’ve still got the strength to defend myself.’ He was looking straight at me, his face had set like cement, and he spat his words like bullets. ‘They say they’ve got evidence that would put me away for life, and they want me to pay a heavy price for it. For a guy like me, prison might as well be a death sentence. The alternative they’re offering would put me on the streets with nothing. And that would amount to the same thing. I know I’ve done some things in my time. But I’ve tried to keep a low profile these last few years and stay out of the deep end, so I don’t know what they think they’ve got on me. I’m pretty sure it’s all a con. My problem is there’s plenty of Old Bill still waiting to take me down, and so it’s a risk I can’t afford to take for any of the past to be stirred up by some fabricated evidence that even suggests I’m still a player.’
I was sitting there, chocolate melting on my fingers, trying not to drop crumbs on the upholstery, and listening to his confessional on a life of crime. Mum always said Herb was trouble, and I knew he was no angel, but I had no real idea what he was involved in, and hearing all this from the horse’s mouth was raising more questions than it answered. But the one burning a hole through my skull was: what the hell was he going to ask me to do to help him? Before anything came together in my head, he got to the point.
‘They say they’ve got photographs and they’ve given me a fortnight to come up with the first instalment. I have no intention of giving the bastards a penny, so I need to get those pictures and I’ve got just over a week left. They’ve got a shit hole of a place they use as a hideout not far from where you are. Do you know South Woodford? Of course you do, lad. Well, it’s not really my domain. I’ve been up there a few times but I don’t have the stomach to go back. I’ve still got a few contacts who owe me favours, and I’m told the photographs they’re talking about haven’t even been printed. Seems they’re not in a hurry to put them on paper. Apparently, they’re on one of those disposable cameras, you know the sort. Well, as long as that camera stays intact, I figure I’ve got a chance to call their bluff. That’s where you come in.’
He finally paused and I sat there in stunned silence. I’d managed only the occasional nod, trying to convey the impression this was no more than a normal conversation with an old friend. Herb might have been convinced; The Banker certainly wasn’t buying it. He was crapping himself.
More questions came thick and fast into my head: did he really say disposable camera? Could you even get them anymore? In the iPhone age, why the hell would your average blackmailer have relied on last century technology? I remembered my old instamatic on which half of the photos I took missed the most important part of the main subject altogether – usually their head – and occasionally all but the right arm of the person standing next to them. And yet these guys were sure they had material worth exploiting without even developing the film? Before I got a chance to voice any of these concerns, Herb continued.
‘The place is empty most of the time, unless they’ve got a job underway,’ he said, staring straight into my eyes, despite what must have been a look of bewilderment across my face. ‘I’m told there’s something big going on tonight and the place will be deserted again next week. They tend to stay well away until things cool off. All I’m asking you to do is go along and take a look inside. See if you can find the camera. It’ll help me sleep better at night knowing the film hasn’t been developed. It’ll make me very grateful… generously so, you understand… if they no longer had it. So here’s the deal. I’m sure you used to be able to claim expenses at the bank and expect… what do they call them these days?’
‘Variable benefits?’ I heard myself say.
‘Bankers’ bonuses!’ he said and his eyes lit up like a cash register. ‘Well, if you can take a trip up there a week from tonight, let’s say your travel expenses would be a hundred. Does that sound reasonable?’
He seemed to be getting carried away and was clearly enjoying this, despite my obvious discomfort. Before I could even start to contemplate what he was asking me to do, let alone work out how many times I could make the return trip on the tube with £100 credit on my Oyster card, he continued.
‘And if you can establish whether the camera is still in one piece and the film undeveloped, let’s add a subsistence allowance of two-fifty. I suppose that might just cover a nice meal and a bottle of wine in one of those fancy bistros up there.’
I nodded involuntarily.
‘Okay, here’s the real performance incentive,’ he continued, parodying my previous remuneration arrangements. ‘If it’s still there and you can acquire it for me without leaving a trail, we’ll round it up to a grand and call it a golden handshake. What do you say?’
The room was silent for several agonising seconds as he stared straight into my eyes. I was unable to look away, but I didn’t know what to say either. Where to even begin?
‘Look, I really don’t need the money,’ was all I could come out with, and he nodded like he already knew that. ‘Things aren’t great,’ I continued, ‘but I’ve still got the house and some savings that’ll keep me going until I get back on my feet.’
That’s probably what he was expecting me to say. Still, he wasn’t getting the message. He kept looking at me, his wry smile increasingly out of place as I tried another tack.
‘Herb, what I’m saying… This really isn’t my scene. Not anymore. I’d love to help you, really I would. It’s just the last thing I need is to be getting involved in something I don’t understand. I’m sorry… you’re asking the wrong guy.’
He nodded slowly back at me, the fun no longer in his eyes, replaced by a distant look that made me believe I had been his only hope. I felt like a complete loser and a heartless bastard and it was pathetic, I know, but I needed a way to break the tension.
‘Sorry Herb…’ I said. ‘I need to use your loo.’ He huffed and shook his head, and at least there was some humour back in his smile.
I exhaled deeply as I got up to leave the room. It seemed like for twenty years we’d been heading in opposite directions, but to Herb nothing had really changed. I felt bad that I’d probably blown any credibility I had in his eyes, because I suppose I did want to show him that I had a backbone, and I really didn’t want our reunion after all these years to end so badly. But I was relieved to be momentarily off the hook as he eased back in his chair and directed me to the door along the hall.
Ahead of the kitchen door were two others, either side of the hall, and I was drawn to the one on the left. An easy mistake you might say, but if I’m honest I had noticed the twin Chubb locks
in the centre and the deadbolts at the top and bottom. No one’s that security conscious when they’re taking a dump. Back in the lounge, Herb’s phone had started ringing, and hearing the low hum of his voice gave me the push I needed. I didn’t think for a second it would open and if it hadn’t, I’d have gone through the other door, stood in the cloakroom for a minute or so, flushed the toilet, washed my hands and gone back in to give Herb my final answer – no 50/50, no phone a friend – I definitely wouldn’t be helping him out. That’s if it hadn’t opened. But it did. And I found myself looking into an integral garage, organised like something I’d seen only once before.
In the centre, with barely walking space around them, were cardboard boxes of every shape and size, stacked neatly, floor to ceiling. Around the outside, shelves were filled with cellophane sealed packages that protruded in irregular bulges, reminding me of the kind of serious luggage you sometimes see wrapped in heavy duty cling film on airport carousels. Standing at the threshold, with the only light coming in from behind me, I wasn’t able to see any labels on the boxes. I glanced furtively back along the hall, anxious not to move abruptly for fear of rousing a treacherous floorboard. My heart was pounding, but there was no sign of Herb having finished his call, so I slowly shifted my weight and took a step inside. The first package on the shelf at eye level lit up, its symmetrical two-tone pattern clearly visible beneath the plastic covering. At first I only saw the shiny glint of metal in the shape of the letter G. As I stretched the plastic with my fingers, a second G, a mirror image of the first, intersecting it like links in a chain, completed the unmistakeable logo of Gucci. Looking along the rows of shelving that filled the rear wall, there must have been fifty pieces, and I had to assume the sidewalls were similarly stacked.
I closed the door quietly, tiptoed across the hall into the toilet and coughed loudly as I flushed. With hot water draining away wastefully, I looked at myself in the mirror above the basin. The eyes that stared back told me this little respite wasn’t helping in the slightest. I was struggling with what I’d just seen and trying to reconcile it with what I knew about Herb. In particular, I was trying not to think about a particular night some years ago when I’d last seen a similar array of high-end merchandise. The night I’d got in over my head. The night Herb had come to my rescue.
I returned to the front room and sat down opposite Herb without saying a word. He was still on the phone and this time he continued without regard for my presence.
‘Yes, Ying-Son. Exactly as you said it would… More? Perhaps... Let’s see how this goes. Same terms… yes? Good. I like the sound of that. I’ll be in touch.’ He put the phone down and wrote something into his book and I waited for him to finish.
‘Why don’t I make us some lunch?’ he said and got up to leave the room, taking the Moleskine with him.
‘Herb. No, really. Don’t go to any trouble. I was going to pop in to see Mum so I’ll have a bite to eat with her.’ I hated using her as an excuse to leave but he had already disappeared, I assumed into the kitchen.
‘Herb?’ I called after him, ‘Don’t make me anything, I’m going to walk round to Mum’s.’ I sat there for a while and could hear him moving around. I started to think he hadn’t heard me and was out there making sandwiches, but when I walked out into the hall he was standing at the door to the garage with keys in his hand. We both seemed to freeze for a second until he casually dropped them into his pocket and came back towards me.
‘You’re a good lad, Mickey,’ he said, ‘visiting your mother whenever you get a chance. Watching you grow up all those years ago and seeing you now, I’d be proud to have a son like you. I really thought we could have helped each other out.’
He looked down at his quivering hand and I could only shake my head and hope that he would just thank me for visiting and let me go. Instead, he looked straight back into my eyes.
‘I’ve got no one else to look out for when they put me in the ground, and that could be anytime soon. Life’s all about lending a hand where you can. I scratch your back, you scratch mine and we all get along.’ Though I might have imagined it when he tilted his head back in the direction of the garage door, there was no mistake when he added: ‘You know what I mean… don’t you Mickey?’
There was something sinister in the way he said those final words, and I understood the unspoken reference to the favour he did for me all those years ago, the one he’d made a point of alluding to in his telephone message. I could no longer meet his stare and had to look away, stung by the realisation this was far from an optional proposition. It wasn’t his style to spell it out for me; nevertheless this was payback time.
‘Look Herb,’ I said, reaching for the door handle. ‘I’ll call back in to see you again before heading home.’ A light seemed to come back on in his face as I added: ‘Let me think about it, okay, and we’ll talk some more this afternoon.’
As I opened the door, I already knew I would be helping Herb with his little problem. It was madness, but what real choice did I have?
Walking down the path, the white-collar conformist within me began his usual descent into the realms of self-pity and victimisation, like he always did under pressure. Then something happened as I reached the gate. It was like all those years had slipped away; the veneer of respectability shed like an old skin. The Rebel was re-emerging inside, keen to reclaim the excitement of his youth.
It might have only been a remnant of The Banker’s paranoia, but as I walked away from Herb’s house, I felt I was being watched. It was bound to be someone Mum would know so it was probably for the best that I was going to see her anyway. She doesn’t generally like surprises. I can’t say I blame her; she has good reason not to. But she was thrilled I’d driven down just for her.
***
That Nigh t
Dry, hardened eyes dart around a cold, bare chamber, mouldering in the bowels of an abandoned house that stands detached and unseen by the night-blind neighbours of a suburban street.
The sound of breaking glass makes her shudder, but fear is no stranger. It’s usually temporary, replaced by the pain of punishment. And followed by relief and frequently disgust at her abusive husband’s pitiful remorse. But this man is different. Dispassionate. Clinical. She tried talking to him, at first. He wouldn’t look at her eyes or acknowledge her voice, even when it changed from a reasoned appeal to a desperate scream. He ignored her protest, remained distant. Unmoved.
Rarely has fear escalated to panic. Yet these last few hours, maybe days, terror has been her constant state of mind. Even the physical trauma and the resulting throb, gnawing at the side of her head, can’t disguise that.
Like a dilating pupil, the door opens slowly and an arc of light invades the room, at once eclipsed by his looming shadow. Soft heels, bound at the ankles, dig vainly into the rough concrete floor, pressing her back into the comforting darkness of the corner. But the walls won’t yield. And the movement only tightens the cord that binds her hands and ends in a spiteful loop around her neck.
Onto the sturdy bench he drops a small plastic box, its wrapper criss-crossed with rubber bands. His note, scrawled in red, matches its grisly contents:
KNOW WHAT YOU DID RIGGS, NOT FORGOTTEN.
WHAT ABOUT THIS ONE? WHAT’S HER LIFE WORTH?
In a different hand, large black words cut across it like a stamp:
TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT
EITHER WAY, GO TO HELL
Lifting a large metal tray from the bench, he carries it towards her, and only the refocusing of her eyes conveys any change of expression. The ceramic ball held with gaffer-tape in her mouth denies her face its instinctive response. Blood pulses in her disfigured ear, reopening the wound. He stares at the black scab that begins to glisten red again. A slow trickle paints a fresh track along the contour of the vein swelling in her neck as globs of snot pulse like molten pistons from her nostrils.
‘Aye… she’s… already… there.’ The only words she’ll hear him say are punctuated by the sou
nds of tools being placed on the floor. They mean nothing to her, but the sound of his voice at last is strangely soothing. Mercifully, she can’t look down. She doesn’t see the Stanley knife, the cleaver or the bolt-cutters. Only when he removes the small heavy hammer and begins to grind it into his palm, does urine seep through denim into a warm pool around her feet. And when he raises it above his head her eyes finally close. He holds it there for eternity.
3.
Thursday, 17th
A week later and here I am driving south over the QE2 Bridge again; heading back to Herb’s. I’m dosed up on coffee, three shots already this morning and it isn’t even seven o’clock. Sleep came at a high price. After failing to reach Herb on the phone, I laid awake for hours, being tormented by the thought of a torch-lit shadow peering at me through the darkness. When my conscious mind succumbed at last to a fitful sleep, it was punctuated by a claustrophobic sense of dread and nausea, accompanied by a cry for help, initially distant and weak, but which seemed to grow into a resonating scream of Hammer House proportions. I gave up on any chance of a lie-in, having woken at five-thirty in a sweaty contortion of pillows and sheets. Through the mist of a single malt headache came a vague and disturbing recollection of Torchy’s menacing shadow breaking into my subconscious and, with the bony hands of the Grim Reaper himself, throttling me whilst demanding his money back.
Oh yeah, the money. That other package languishing mysteriously in that torture chamber; The Banker wanted me to leave it there. I managed to persuade him the two brown envelopes looked very similar in the gloomy light and it wasn’t easy to be sure which was which.
Mickey Take: When a debt goes bad... Page 4