by Hugh Fraser
‘Rina.’
‘I, Rodrigo.’
Carmela takes a deep breath, sits and says, ‘OK. Sure, but we’ve gotta move this …’
Rodrigo raises a hand and says, ‘Until we find the assholes …’
‘Yeah,’ says Carmela, reaching for the coke again.
Rodrigo swipes the blotting pad away from him and puts it in a desk drawer. He stands and leads us to the leather armchairs grouped round the fireplace at the other end of the room, his long scrawny body contrasting sharply with Carmela’s elective deformity.
He sits and says, ‘I am glad you locked up the chief asshole. I always knew he was dangerous, but my stupid brother insisted on keeping him because his old man saved my brother’s life once.’
‘I assumed we’d need Guido to communicate with Lee,’ I say.
‘Sure,’ says Rodrigo.
He gets up and crosses to the fireplace.
Carmela says, ‘She’s into doing a little business with us from London also, once we’re clean.’
Rodrigo says, ‘That’s good. With Manuel gone, Carmela and I are getting things together and we need someone in London. You have connections there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cool. We’ll talk.’
The last thing I want is to get involved in the drug trade, but if they think I can do them some good they might be less likely to kill me once they have Lee.
Rodrigo tugs at a bell pull hanging beside the mantlepiece, turns to me and says, ‘Go relax for a while, and we’ll see you later for a drink on the terrace after we figure out a few details.’
I smile and nod, delighted at the prospect of getting out of my Haight Ashbury costume. The door opens and Juanita enters, looking neat and trim in her white uniform.
‘Take Rina to her room,’ says Rodrigo.
I follow Juanita out onto the gallery. Below I can see Carmela’s men carrying bodies across the hall and out through the main door. As we approach the door to the dining room, two more of his team emerge carrying the mutilated body of the crucified guard. We follow them down the stairs, across the hall and out of the door onto the drive where the corpses are being loaded into the back of the truck, like so much merchandise. I see that the gates are shut and guarded once more. We walk past the pool.
Juanita says, ‘Your room is as you left it.’
‘That’s good,’ I reply.
Juanita unlocks the door to the bungalow and we enter the familiar interior. I feel strangely relieved to be back. I head for the drinks table and pour three fingers of whisky.
‘Would you like a drink, Juanita?’ I ask.
‘I should not really.’
‘Tequila?’
‘Just a small one. I have to help in the kitchen.’
I give her a drink and we sit on the sofa. I say, ‘How come you weren’t killed?’
‘Guido is my husband.’
‘I see.’
‘He did not kill the servants, they are nothing to him, only Manuel and the guards who were not with him.’
‘Did Carmela know what he was planning?’
‘No.’
‘So she just happened to be on her way here?’
‘I telephoned her, also Rodrigo, and told them what Guido had done.’
‘Why?’
‘I thought that they would kill him when they found out, and kill me as well unless I told them first.’
‘You did the right thing.’
‘My husband is crazy.’
‘Aren’t you afraid he’ll find out?’
‘They will not tell him. I am too useful to them.’
I see what she means. I’m about to probe further into the nature of her relationship with Carmela when she says, ‘They will kill him after they get the American.’
‘Is that OK?’
‘I hate him.’
She finishes her drink.
‘I have to go now.’ She smiles and walks to the door. ‘If you need anything, just ring the bell and I come.’
I watch Juanita walk alongside the pool, sure-footed and purposeful with her neat hair and her neat figure in among all this killing, and wonder what kind of future she has in mind for herself. I take my clothes off, take a hand mirror from the dressing table and stand with my back to the full length mirror beside the wardrobe. In the hand mirror I can see the small round scab between my shoulder blades, left by the insertion of the transmitter. I think of Georgie in the hospital and how much I want to be out of here and on a plane. I reach up my back with one hand and down with the other, but although I can join my fingers, I have no strength in them in that position and there’s no way I can get it out.
I go into the bathroom and run a bath. While it fills, I pour another whisky and look at the clothes in the wardrobe. I take out a white cotton dress, lay it on the bed and select a pair of silver slingback shoes. I go into the bathroom and sink into warm, welcoming water.
I feel a tingling in my ankle, and then I am swimming underwater through a foul swamp. The slimy water is sucking at my arms and legs. Reeds are clinging round my neck and my waist, pulling me down towards the blackness far below where tumescent bodies writhe and slither over and under one another. I try to resist and swim up towards the light, but I am pulled down and down past craggy buildings with ancient cadaverous faces staring through lit windows. I plunge into the roiling stew of sopping flesh. A fin curls round my neck and wrenches me up and up. A gargoyle face lunges at me screaming …
“Rina! Rina!”
Pilar is pulling me out of the water. I sit up, cough violently and vomit water. I scramble out of the bath and sit on the edge, gulping air.
Pilar is holding my head and saying, ‘It is OK … it is OK … you are all right now.’
She gives me a towel. I bury my face in it. My head is swimming. I feel a burning pain in my left leg. I can see a swelling like a red boil on the outside of the ankle. As I reach down to touch it, Pilar kneels in front of me, clamps her mouth over it and sucks. She spits something gloopy onto the floor, sucks and spits again and then presses her thumb on the wound. My head starts to clear. Pilar ties a hand towel round my ankle. She reaches into the bath, ladles a handful of water onto the floor and stamps on it.
‘A spider,’ she says. ‘You were bitten. Some of them go in water.’ She sits next to me and puts her arm round me. ‘It is OK now.’
I put my head on her shoulder and say, ‘I passed out.’
‘It happens sometimes.’
‘From a bite?’
‘For some people, yes. The poison is gone now.’
‘Thank you.’
I am beginning to feel my strength returning. The pain is fading and my head is clear. I try to stand. Pilar puts her arm round me and leads me into the bedroom. She sits beside me on the sofa.
I say, ‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you come back?’
‘It did not seem right to leave you.’
I feel her fingertips stroking the inside of my forearm. ‘You saved our lives.’
Her fingers walk up my arm and caress my breasts. She teases a nipple with her tongue, while her hair wafts over the tops of my thighs. I close my eyes and let go of myself as she kisses my stomach and says, ‘I must put you to bed, I think.’
She takes my hand and guides me across the room. I slide between the silk sheets and wonder at her perfect body as she undresses.
20
I’m sitting in a stolen Ford Consul with Sammy and Claire, watching the Post Office in Jamaica Road. It’s three o’clock in the morning and there’s a light rain giving a shine to the tarmac. Claire’s fallen asleep in the back of the car and Sammy’s nervously drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. I’m not feeling too calm myself, but I decide it’s time to go and I lean over and give Claire a shake. She wakes up and looks out of the window.
‘All right?’ I say.
‘Yeah, sorry,’ she says.
Sammy turns round to her and says, ‘Give u
s the tools then.’ Claire passes a canvas bag over the front seats to him.
‘Can you stay awake?’
‘Of course I can.’
Me and Sammy get out of the car. Claire gets into the front behind the wheel. She lets the handbrake off and we push the car over the road, onto the pavement and hard up against the front of the Post Office. Sammy takes a jemmy out of the tool bag and climbs onto the roof of the car. He reaches up to the alarm box on the wall and levers it open. The bell gives a muffled ding as he clips a length of wire inside the box. He gets down onto the pavement and we push the car back onto the road. I get another jemmy out of the tool bag and work the forked end in between the edge of the front door and the frame, just below the lock. Sammy nudges his jemmy in above the lower lock. We lever the door open as quietly as we can and we’re in.
The safe’s an old Phoenix, on the floor behind the counter at the back. I turn on the torch, lift the flap in the counter and we crouch down beside the safe. I take out the drill and a diagram of the drilling points that I’ve bought off an old peterman mate of my Dad’s. He can’t do safes any more, not since he had his knees smashed for grassing.
I plug the drill into a powerpoint under the counter and buckle the soundproofing cover onto it. I hold the torch in my mouth, put the diamond tip of the drill bit against the front plate of the safe, just above the combination dial, and squeeze the trigger. I drill through the shell of the safe and get to the steel plate that protects the lock gates. I lean hard on the drill and after a while it goes through the plate and I pull out the bit. I shine the torch into the hole and I can see the lock gates inside. I turn the combination dial back and forth until I see the lock fence fall and release the bolt. I turn the lever on the front plate and swing the door open.
Sammy reaches into the safe and takes out three bundles of notes and some plastic bags of coins and puts them in the bag. I find a sheaf of Postal Orders that he’s missed and put them in my pocket. I put the drill in the bag and wipe the front of the safe over for prints. There’s a creaking noise from upstairs. Sammy picks up a jemmy and stands beside a door by the end of the counter. As I take the other jemmy out of the bag, I hear someone coming down the stairs. I slip my balaclava over my head and Sammy does the same. The footsteps stop at the other side of the door. A key turns in the lock and the door crashes open, knocking Sammy against the wall. A small man with a shotgun comes towards me.
I flash the torch in his eyes, whack the barrel away with the jemmy and make a dive for his legs. He hits the floor and Sammy grabs the gun and kneels on his back. We turn him face upwards. He’s an old boy with long grey hair, in his pyjamas and dressing gown, and he’s shaking like a leaf. Sammy points the shotgun at his head. The old geezer starts squirming and whimpering underneath me.
‘Take it and get out,’ he says.
Sammy cocks both barrels and says, ‘Shall I kill you first?’
‘That’s enough now,’ I say.
I pick the old boy up and sit him in a chair. He’s no more than a bag of bones.
He pulls his dressing gown round him and says, ‘That’s pensioners’ money, that is.’
‘Keep quiet and you won’t get hurt,’ I say.
‘You’re a woman,’ he says.
‘There’s no flies on you, eh Grandad?’ says Sammy.
I put the jemmies in the bag and shine the torch round the safe. It looks clean and I turn to the old boy and say, ‘Where’s the phone?’
He just stares at me. I look around and spot it at the end of the counter. I go over and rip the phone wire out of the wall. I stand in front of the old man, shine the torch at the door and say, ‘Get back upstairs and stay there.’
Sammy raises the shotgun and the old boy gets up and goes to the door.
He turns, looks at us and says, ‘Slags.’
Sammy laughs and lowers the gun. The old boy whips round, grabs the gun and whacks him in the balls with it. He raises the gun towards me and I charge at him, grab him by his scrawny neck and smash his head down on the counter. His skull cracks open and he drops onto the floor.
Sammy crawls over to him, looks at him and says, ‘He’s dead.’
I look down at the twisted wreck of him. His legs are folded underneath him and he looks no bigger than a child. There’s blood and some grey stuff oozing out of his head into his grey hair. ‘Pick him up,’ I say.
Sammy gets up slowly and leans against the wall, holding his balls and shaking his head. I duck under the counter, open the front door and look up and down the street. No one’s about, so I signal to Claire to back the car up to the door. I go behind the counter, put the old man over my shoulder and tell Sammy to pick up the bag and the shotgun. He follows me out to the car and shuts the door of the Post Office behind him. I open the boot and put the body in. Sammy puts the bag and the shotgun in after it, closes the boot and opens the driver’s door. Claire moves over and Sammy gets behind the wheel. I slip in the back seat and we’re off up Jamaica Road and onto Tower Bridge.
I tell Sammy to stop half way across. I take the body out of the boot, drop it into the river and throw the shotgun and the balaclavas in after it. I sit back in the leather seat, breathe deeply and look out over the river. The moonlight’s shining like silver on the water and I think about the old boy lying on the mud underneath. I reckon he would have shot me if I hadn’t stopped him, but I wish he’d stayed in his bed.
We drive to Bethnal Green where we nicked the Consul and left Sammy’s car. He tells Claire what happened with the old man as we drive. She seems half-shocked and half-excited. When he tells her about getting the shotgun in the balls she laughs, then she reaches over and strokes him between his legs.
When we get to Bethnal Green, none of us can remember the name of the road and we have to drive round a bit until Claire recognises a bombed-out house on a corner with yellow wallpaper hanging off an upstairs wall. We find Sammy’s car, dump the Consul and drive west. Sammy drops me outside Kensal Green Cemetery and I tell them I’ll see them back at Portland Road. I get the bag out of the boot and watch them drive off.
I throw the bag over the wall and climb over after it. I pick up the bag and walk to the far end of the cemetery where there’s a big family grave under a tree. I kneel down at the back of it, push two fingers into a hole where a piece of masonry is chipped off and get a grip on the edge of a stone slab. I pull the slab towards me, reach inside the grave and pull out an old army ammunition box. I take the money and the Postal Orders out of the bag. I count the notes and make it one thousand seven hundred pounds. I peel off the seven hundred and put it in the money belt round my waist. I put the rest into the box on top of the other cash, and remind myself that I must have a proper count up one of these days. I shut the box and put it back in the grave. I stuff the bag with the tools in there as well, push the slab back in place and rake over the leaves where I’ve been kneeling.
Dawn’s breaking as I walk back among the gravestones. I stop at our Jack’s grave and I feel calm and peaceful. I listen to the breeze rustling the leaves and I look up at the stars way above through the branches of the trees and, for a moment, I can feel Jack with me. I remember how tiny he was in my arms when he was a little baby, and how proud I felt when he started walking. I feel so bad that I didn’t get help for him sooner. I sink down beside the grave and I’m crying and telling him that it’s my fault that he’s dead and I’m so sorry.
Then something tells me to look up and I can see his face in the tree above and he’s smiling at me and telling me something that I can’t make out and it’s almost like he’s glowing and he looks peaceful and happy. Then he fades away and he’s gone. I feel calm again and somehow I know he’s all right. I wipe my tears away and walk on.
There’s a milk cart rolling up Portland Road on its way to Holland Park. I recognise the driver with the red face I used to nick from. I think about giving him a few quid to make up his losses, but then I reckon he’s probably doing all right on some fiddle of his own. Th
e houses are in a bit better nick than our old street but it’s still a slum, thanks to Bielsky and his mates keeping it like that so that they can overcrowd the houses with blacks and Irish who can’t get lodgings in the better parts.
I can see lights on in the flat. I go in the front door, past Georgie’s new bike in the hall, and up the stairs. I can hear the radiogram rocking and rolling in the front room. I go in and Sammy and Claire are asleep on the sofa with their arms wrapped round each other. I lift the needle off the record and turn off the radiogram. I pick the bottles and glasses up off the coffee table, take them into the kitchen and put the kettle on.
I stand at the window and watch the sun coming up over the houses opposite. The kitchen clock says it’s nearly half five, too late to go to Lizzie’s and get back in time for Georgie. I turn off the kettle, make myself a cup of tea, go through to the front room and shake Sammy awake. He grunts and rolls off the sofa onto the floor.
Claire sits up and says, ‘What’s happening?’
‘Pay day,’ I say.
I put my tea down and give Sammy a nudge with my foot. He moans a bit, then he pulls himself up onto the sofa and sits next to Claire.
I take the two hundred out of my pocket, hand it to Sammy and say, ‘There’s a ton each.’
He leafs through the notes and says, ‘How much did we get?’
‘About seventeen hundred.’
‘Not bad,’ he says.
He hands Claire her share. She takes it and says, ‘What about the rest then?’
‘After I’ve squared Dave, there’ll be about another two hundred each for you two, but go carefully with it. I don’t want you splashing it about and raising suspicion. The rest is my share and expenses.’
Claire looks a bit put out.
I say, ‘You could always go and work in John Lewis.’
She laughs and says, ‘Not after we’ve robbed it.’ Sammy stands up, takes her hand and says, ‘Night night, Reen.’
They go through the door and up the stairs to Claire’s room. I sit down on the sofa, drink my tea and sink back into the soft cushions. A bird tweets outside the window and I feel myself drifting off.