Stay Another Day

by Mark Timlin

  Next, I checked the safe I’d sunk into concrete under my bed. Inside was a bundle of cash in dollars and sterling, my other guns and ammunition. I had a nice little collection. The .22 auto I carried at all times, a .45 Glock and a 9mm Sig. There was a sports shop in the town where I’d bought them over the years. I didn’t bother with licences and nor did the owner of the shop. Every so often I’d rent a jeep, buy a few watermelons, then drive up into the mountain in the centre of the island where it was quiet and shoot the shit out of the fruit. Very satisfying. I took out the money, folded it into a wallet, stuck the .22 next to the other weapons, and locked the safe again. There was no way I was going to try and take a weapon with me. I knew all about the increased security since 9/11. Christ, I remember that day so well. Time after time we’d watched the planes crash into the towers on the cranky old television in the bar, until we couldn’t take any more, and by consensus had shut it down. There’s only so much shit you can take before you become hardened to it.

  Then I walked to Clive’s. He was pottering around, and I asked if I could use the phone to call Jack. He was the owner, mechanic and pilot of the plane that hopped around the islands. We fixed a price that would keep him on the airstrip until I arrived later that day.

  ‘You really leaving?’ asked Clive as he cooked me ham and eggs, which he served with black coffee laced with a slug of dark rum.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Coming back?’

  ‘I still don’t know.’

  ‘Remember what I said about the seat.’

  ‘I will mate.’

  ‘We’ll miss you Jim.’

  I couldn’t leave it like that. ‘Listen Clive,’ I said. ‘You and Cyril, and everyone here have been such good friends to me, I can’t leave you with a lie. My name’s not Jim.’

  ‘I think we figured that one out years ago. But like I said before, your business.’

  ‘Yeah. I imagine it was that obvious. Anyway, my name’s Nick,’ and I stuck out my hand.

  He took it in his. ‘Pleased to meet you Nick,’ he said. ‘Clive.’

  ‘Clive,’ I replied, and hugged him tight. ‘Now listen,’ I said. ‘You’ve got a spare key to the house. Feed the cats and look out for the place will you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘It’s bought and paid for. And if I don’t come back soon, it’s yours.’

  ‘I’ll guard it with my life,’ he said.

  ‘No need to go quite that far. There’s a safe under the bed.’ I wrote down the combination on a scrap of paper. ‘There’s all sorts inside. Probably illegal some of them. Do with them as you see fit.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Here’s some money for my tab and the cat food,’ I said, pulling out some notes.

  He waved it away. ‘Tab can wait ’til you come back. We’ll have a party. You can pay after that.’

  ‘It’ll be my pleasure. Where’s Cyril?’

  ‘At the market.’

  ‘I’ll catch him before I go. I’m off to Rita’s. Get spruced up for the journey.’

  ‘You could use it man,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘Cheers. And one other thing.’ I put my old teddy on the bar, that I’d carried up in my pocket. ‘Put this fella somewhere. Somewhere to keep an eye on you lot.’

  He grinned. ‘My pleasure,’ he said, placing the bear onto a shelf next to the TV set.

  5

  When I’d finished my breakfast I headed for Rita’s. She was getting the kids, Jacey and Little Gloria, ready for school. It was the last few days of term before the Christmas break, and they were going crazy, all excited about the play they were going to be in that day. When I knocked on her back door she shooed them off to clean their teeth. ‘What can I do for you big man?’ she asked. She never called me Jim. I’d told her my real name when we were an item, but she knew not to call me that either.

  ‘I’m going back to England,’ I said.

  ‘So I heard.’ I couldn’t read her expression.

  ‘I couldn’t leave without seeing you, and I can’t go looking like this. I wondered if you had your scissors handy.’

  ‘Never without them. Sit down, I’ll get a towel.’

  I sat on the hard kitchen chair as she brought me coffee, and then started. My hair’s still thick, thank God, but flecked with a lot of grey. ‘How you want it?’ she asked, running her hands through it.

  ‘Keep it long, but stylish, you know.’

  ‘Trust me.’

  As there was no mirror in front of me I had no choice but to do just that and soon the floor was covered in hair. She stood back, cocked her head, and said. ‘That’ll do. Now for the beard.’

  ‘Make it short please.’

  It only took a few minutes and she scrutinised me again. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘You’re almost handsome.’

  I shucked off the towel and went to the bathroom to look in the mirror. Pretty good. I hardly recognised myself. There was no beard on James Stark’s passport photo, but it was old and I figured it would pass muster. If not I was for the cells as soon as I got into Heathrow – but that was a chance I had to take.

  The kids had been racing in and out as she worked, but eventually they calmed down enough to speak. ‘I’m the queen,’ said Little Gloria proudly to me. ‘In our play. Will you come?’

  ‘I can’t sweetheart,’ I replied. ‘I’m going on a trip.’

  ‘Very far?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can’t you stay another day?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’d love to. But I have a daughter too. Just like you. She needs me.’

  Rita showed no surprise. I’d told her about Judith too.

  ‘Then you have to go,’ Little Gloria said.

  I nodded.

  ‘Will you come back?’

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘No more questions,’ scolded Rita. ‘Get off now, and I’ll see you at lunch for the play. Your costume’s OK?’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Little Gloria and kissed her mother, then me. She examined me critically, and said, ‘You look different to me.’

  ‘I hope that goes for a lot of people,’ I replied as the children ran out of the house.

  Jacey stopped at the door. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he said.

  ‘The same to you,’ I said back, shaking his small hand.

  ‘So listen big man,’ said Rita. ‘You take care. I hate good-byes. Just get the hell out of here.’

  ‘Is that a tear I see in your eye?’ I asked.

  She shook her head, but she lied, and I must confess I filled up too. I regretted the fact that we hadn’t made more of an effort, but that was history. ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I was going off island next week to get you a Christmas present. And the kids, and Gloria too. Sorry, but I can’t now.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Yes it is.’ I took out my wallet, and peeled off a lump of cash. ‘Get them all something from me will you? I know it’s not the same, but I had no idea this would happen.’

  She tried to shrug off the money, but I said, ‘Rita. Take it please. Not just for them but for me. You’re all important to me. More important than I realised until now.’

  ‘OK, big man,’ she said. ‘As it’s you.’ The tears were rolling down her face freely now.

  ‘I love you,’ I whispered, embracing her in a big bear hug and kissing her on both cheeks. She shooed me away, and as I walked down the path I wondered if I’d ever see her again.

  6

  I walked back to the house, had a quick shower to get the loose hair off and decided what to take for my journey. I had a leather holdall that I filled with toiletries, what there were of them, socks I hadn’t worn for years, and underwear. I knew all about these new rules about carry-on luggage from tourists at the bar complaining about them, so I took nothing else. No scissors, no nail files
. Then I had to choose what to wear. It wasn’t much of a choice. Jeans, cowboy boots, a Hawaiian shirt and a tan linen jacket. Cigarettes, lighter, passport and wallet and I was ready to go.

  I said ta-ta to the cats, hoisted the holdall on my shoulder, locked up and left. Seven years, and it took only a few minutes to quit the place.

  I headed for Clive’s for the last time, the boots killing my feet after going almost barefoot for so long. When I walked into the bar there were jeers of derision at my appearance but I took them like a man. I went into the kitchen to bid goodbye to Cyril. He was cooking something gorgeous featuring crab and lemongrass, and I wished I could stay for lunch. Back in the bar, Clive said, ‘You’re limping man. How you going to get to the strip?’

  ‘Painfully,’ I replied.

  ‘Hey Horace,’ he called to one of the regulars. ‘You got your truck?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Then give this man a ride to Jack’s.’

  ‘I just got here man,’ he moaned.

  ‘And you’re just leaving again. Have a heart.’

  I pulled out the last of my local currency and slapped it on the bar. ‘A drink for the house,’ I said. ‘And a bottle of rum for Horace.’

  There were cheers, more jeers, and farewells. But I think it was the drink for the house that did it, rather than my leaving.

  ‘See ya fellas,’ I said to the assorted punters, as I left with Horace to find his ancient pick-up. ‘Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.’

  It was only ten minutes drive to the airstrip where Jack was waiting with his little twin-engined Cessna.

  He was ex-RAF, had flown in the first Gulf war, resigned and headed for the island to find some peace. He hadn’t liked bombing civilians, and who could blame him.

  I paid him in dollars, which he appreciated, and climbed into the cramped cabin. Jack checked his instruments, fired up the engines and we were off. I looked back at the paradise that had been my home for the last seven years as we headed away over the water, bound for Jamaica and a big silver bird that would take me back to civilisation – if you could call it that.

  I speculated exactly what I would find there. Nothing pleasant, I was sure of that.

  7

  Flying with Jack was not dissimilar to riding with Clive. Both seemed to have a disregard for human life, including their own. Jack flew so low over the sea that I could almost smell the ocean, and I swear the waves lapped at the cabin. But if anyone ever protested, he’d just go even lower, and he always delighted in telling the story of pulling fish out of the undercarriage when he got to his destination. How true that was I don’t know, but I just stayed silent and let him get on with it.

  We touched down less than an hour later. I shook his hand, and watched as he turned the plane and headed back to the island. I wished I was returning with him, but instead picked up my bag and headed for the terminal to get a ticket to London.

  I got lucky. There was a direct flight to Heathrow that evening. 9.52 to arrive the next day at 12.45, so I booked a one way ticket. First class. If I was going to be led off in handcuffs, at least I wanted to get there in comfort. I used James Stark’s Black American Express card to pay for the flight and headed to the first class lounge to wait. I had to put my bag into the hold, which suited me fine. I settled down with a pile of magazines, the new Harlan Coben and that day’s Telegraph, bummed a pen off the woman who served me complimentary champagne and got stuck into the crossword. Some things never change.

  It was a long flight, but I didn’t care, safely tucked up as I was in a large leather reclining seat with plenty of legroom, in an almost empty first class cabin. I enjoyed free booze and a very decent dinner, plus the attentions of two tasty looking flight attendants, one male, one female. I think they assumed I was a superannuated middle-aged rock star heading home for the holidays to a number of ex-wives and several trustafarian children – just the impression I was trying to give.

  As we headed over the English coast, the pilot gave us our landing time and the weather in London. Cold, as per usual. I wished I’d worn something more suitable. Still, I could sort that out when I got there.

  We circled over the city for a few minutes and I looked down at East London where the river ran through it like a silver snake. Canary Wharf caught a ray of sunshine, and I was amazed at the changes. So many more towers than when I left. And I spotted The Gherkin, which I’d only seen in photographs. I knew I was heading back to a town I’d barely recognise, and the sinking feeling in my stomach wasn’t just from the plane’s descent.

  I was one of the first off the aircraft, collected my single bag and headed for the exits through the green channel. No one stopped me. No one gave me as much as a second glance. Home and dry. The draught through the doors of the terminal was as cold as Christmas. Maybe because it was.

  But the people. Christ, during the last six years, the biggest crowd I’d seen was at Gloria’s seventieth birthday party. Maybe a hundred people gathered together. But this place was rammed and I started to freak out, getting outside as quickly as possible to light up a cigarette and calm me down.

  The airline had offered me a complimentary limo ride to London, but I wanted to cut the thread that attached me to the island as quickly as possible, so I crushed the cigarette after just a puff or two, and headed for the taxi rank.

  8

  Of course there was a queue at the rank, and I stood there shivering as a fine drizzle began to fall. Welcome to London!

  Eventually it was my turn and I fell into the back seat of a taxi which thankfully had a working heater. ‘West End,’ I said. There was a big THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING sign in front of me, so I didn’t. It was too early to upset the natives. Plenty of time for that later.

  ‘Whereabouts?’ asked the cabbie, a bullet headed bloke of about forty.

  ‘Somewhere I can get a coat and some other stuff,’ I said. ‘I’m bleedin’ freezin’.’

  ‘You don’t look like you’re dressed for the weather,’ he said, as he put the cab into gear and drove off. ‘Come far?’

  ‘Dubai,’ I lied.

  ‘Warm there?’

  ‘Warm enough.’

  ‘Home for Christmas?’

  ‘That’s about it. Rush job for the firm.’

  ‘Oil?’

  ‘Minerals.’

  ‘Nice work if you can get it.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You travel a lot then?’

  ‘All over the place,’ I answered.

  ‘Must be lonely.’

  ‘I manage.’

  Typical London cabbie, didn’t know when to stay quiet.

  ‘Been away long?’

  ‘Long enough, as they say.’

  ‘It’s all change round here. Even got a new mayor.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘Got rid of that bleedin’ Livingstone.’

  ‘Red Ken.’

  ‘That’s the bugger.’

  ‘I know one thing that’s changed for sure,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that then?’

  I squinted through the glass between me and him. ‘The price of taxi fares,’ I said.

  Oh, how we both laughed.

  ‘Still got family here?’ he said when he calmed down.

  ‘Just a daughter.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Twenties,’ I said.

  ‘You’re lucky. Mine’s fourteen. Right little madam. She’s just had her tongue pierced.’

  ‘Dear, dear.’ I remembered Judith at that age. She did a runner from home and ended up with a bunch of travellers on the music festival circuit.

  The motorway into town hadn’t changed much, except for a bus and taxi lane I didn’t remember, but was thankful for, as the traffic was crazy and backed right up to the services. Of course the cabbie sailed through, and across the flyo
ver, before we hit more traffic coming up to Hammersmith.

  ‘Bleedin’ mug punters,’ he said, as we sat in the queue.

  ‘Busy,’ I replied

  ‘What do you expect? Only two more Saturdays ’til Christmas. Now, what about this coat?’

  ‘Could try Oxford Street?’ I said.

  ‘Don’t bother. I was there earlier. Couldn’t move. There’s a decent place on the Strand. Next to the Savoy.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Anything warm would do me. And I need a hotel.’

  ‘Got nothing booked? Christ mate, you’ll be lucky.’

  ‘Surprise visit,’ I said. ‘Not planned. On the hurry up. I need somewhere decent.’

  ‘You’ll have to ring round.’

  ‘No phone.’

  ‘No mobile?’ I saw him give me a funny look in the mirror.

  ‘Left it behind, would you believe. Sitting on the dresser. Told you, I was in a hurry. I’ll pick up another tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say mate.’

  ‘You must know places,’ I said, feeling foolish.

  ‘Cost ya.’

  ‘That’s OK, I’m on exes. Firm’ll cough up.’

  ‘Didn’t your office book you something then?’

  This bloke was sharper than I gave him credit for. I realised I was out of practice. I’d have to watch it. ‘Short term contract,’ I said. ‘No time. Just get on a plane. I’d be obliged if you could wait for me when I’m in the shop. I’ll make it worth your while.’

  I saw him clock me again. The faded jeans, loud shirt and jacket, and just a battered leather bag as luggage. I didn’t blame him for being a bit suss. He hesitated, then said. ‘Listen. I’ll do you a favour. I’ll phone a few hotels where I know the people on reception.’

  ‘That’s terrific,’ I said. ‘But I want somewhere central. And I’ll pay whatever. Maybe The Savoy itself.’

  ‘Closed for redecoration mate,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you know?’