Charlotte looked at Roach and noticed he had tensed. He was ready to fight even if he couldn't.
"Who are you?" Charlotte asked.
The bandanna stayed silent.
"His name is Jobs," Roach said. "Is this a mugging? You sure wear some fancy clothes for a mugger."
"I'm here to warn you,” Jobs said. “Back off."
"From what?" Roach asked.
Charlotte would prefer to be alone. Men, always needed to be the big one in an argument. No finesse, no brains. Two butting heads, who never think to feint. Here size is important, and Roach's was all loose and flabby and on his gut. He had the metaphorical heart for it, but physically he did not.
"We aren't backing off, and you have come unarmed. So you're either confident, or stupid, or maybe even forgetful," Roach said as he moved within ten centimetres of Jobs.
Charlotte had seen this among drunk men, the bravado before the fight, chests swollen out like an exotic species of bird trying to attract a mate. A few pushes, a few steps and then a badly thrown punch. If one connected it was finished. If nothing did then a wrestle on the floor and nasty bites.
Jobs looked down at his hands.
"See," Charlotte said. "You forgot to bring your gun."
"You need to back off," Jobs said.
"Or what?" Roach asked.
"I’ve been told not to hurt you unless I have to,"
"Oh please," Charlotte said. "You want that very much, but you are too scared to take a risk, one against two especially when one is a woman and the other is a fat old man."
Jobs stepped forward and drove his right forearm across Roach's left cheek. Roach dropped to the floor unconscious before his knees gave way.
Charlotte looked and was sure he had fallen in such a way as to not block his breathing.
Jobs watched Roach fall, admiring his timing and the result it caused. He did not rush to her, which was a mistake. He should have ridden the surprise. Now, one on one with pause for thought and an analysis of opposition, Charlotte could formulate a plan. The first depended on how predictable Jobs would be. Charlotte guessed original thought was not his strength.
She was right.
Jobs stepped forward to deliver his right forearm. Charlotte was ready. If you try something once with such success then it is only reasonable to try it again. Hell, she had seen most try things unsuccessfully and then try them again and again because they couldn't believe it hadn't worked. Charlotte crouched and drove her left shoulder into Jobs' advancing knees. He flipped, head over heels and landed heavy. He was not familiar with gymnastic rolls and had left his weight free to take his body in as many spins as it wanted. His timing was off and he landed sitting down. There was a crack as his lower spine hit concrete slabs. Jobs arched his back and Charlotte was on her feet, she ran two paces, jumped and swiped her right foot onto the side of his head. She connected well, her shin extending the impact, and Jobs slumped. He shook his head and pushed up with his large forearms and stood. He swayed slightly and Charlotte drove her left palm forward, stepping into the shot, pushing her shoulder behind the line of the punch. She connected with the heel of her hand into the solar plexus. She felt his ribcage give, and her hand push in, and she heard Jobs belch air and watched him slump to the floor. In the cage now, she would be on top of him, legs wrapped around his upper body, elbows and fists reigning down, trying to grab an arm to use in a lock that breaks souls or joints. But Jobs was a big man, and regardless of his concussed state and lack of air, if he grabbed her, she would remain grabbed.
Charlotte edged toward Jobs, reached out and grabbed the hair on top of his head. Jobs tried to grab Charlotte's arm but he was too slow and Charlotte too experienced for the ruse to work. She slapped his hand away and twisted her hand so his uncovered face looked at hers. She did not know who he was, had never seen him before.
But Roach had called him Jobs.
She knew Roach would expect to see Raucous. That was logical to him. Raucous was nothing but a hired meat-head for a minor pimp in a small area of the city. But Charlotte knew. His eyes were angry but unfocussed.
"We got your message," she said. “We are suitably scared. But, and I need to confirm this with my partner here, I think we're just going to keep on going as it is, if that's alight with you."
Charlotte saw Roach, breathing but unconscious on his left side on the floor.
"Roach isn't going anywhere in a hurry. I'm fine, you're rapidly losing the use of parts you really should keep injury free. Now, I could drag Roach away, I could knock you out continuously till he's OK to go, or you could just leave. Your choice, but I'm not accepting number one."
Charlotte expected compliance. Jobs placed his palms on the tarmac and pushed up, trying to stand. Charlotte stomped down on his left hand and heard at least one bone snap. He was dumb, she thought. A man not wanting to be humiliated by a woman. She slapped the back of his head.
Another mistake born of arrogance.
Jobs snapped, a surge of adrenaline pulsed, he pushed forward and Charlotte could not avoid, she was bent over his left shoulder as he charged forward. He was bent at the hips, sprinting, low-down, a force hurtling forward and Charlotte was caught. He flung her with his left arm and she flew faster and not in control and thudded against a low brick wall. The top edge caught her under her right arm, between two ribs. She felt her skin break. She gasped, but air wouldn’t come, she tried to stand but her legs wobbled and wouldn’t hold her weight. She wanted to vomit, sick came and she felt her throat engulfed in a large, strong, tightening hand. She tried to choke and swallow but she couldn’t. Jobs was lifting her. She scrabbled her feet against the floor trying to find friction so she could fight against his strength. She couldn’t find a hold and he lifted her further. Only her toes touched the ground. She kicked out, but hit nothing. Charlotte grabbed, pinched and scratched the hand that enclosed her neck. She dug her nails and pulled and she knew she was stripping flesh, but the man’s muscles pulsed again, squeezing, crushing, shaking her and she could not resist. She was not inhaling. Her last breath had been a short intake on impact with the wall. The oxygen level in her blood was dropping. Her head was light, and her lungs burnt and screamed for air. She blinked but she saw blurs, not a face not a street, a mixture of color blending into a pattern made by a child. She stopped scratching, her strength gone. She felt her thoughts fading, her brain slowing down. She slapped the hand around her neck, a stupid attempt at forcing release. Pain exploded in her stomach, her lungs collapsing, her windpipe crushed. She hung loosely, the last of her strength making one last grasp for the hand around her throat. Her head felt light, oxygen wasn’t coming. She told herself to lash out with her feet but nothing happened, nothing moved. Her hands slid down, to her sides. She had no strength her muscles did not work, did not answer. Her mind said breath, she smiled, she was going. Her mistake, she should have run.
She heard a car pull up, a door open but no one stepped out, a voice she recognized said, “Jobs, in the car. Now."
The hand crushed hard once more and released her and she slumped to the floor, her back resting against the wall. She watched legs and boots walk to a silver Mercedes, she glimpsed inside and saw Raucous at the wheel, leaning across, looking at her. Jobs entered the car and pulled the door closed. The car moved away slowly as Charlotte watched. She turned to Roach. Her body fell sideways and she lay, gasping for air. His eyes were open; his chest was rising and falling. Neither of them was dead.
CHAPTER FIFTY TWO
“It hardly seems fair,” Rollin said.
He was carrying a 12-gauge shotgun, the barrel broken over his right arm. To his right Chamberlain walked in the same pose with an identical shotgun. They were a matching pair as far as Rollin could tell. The metal plate was intricately engraved and the wood matched in colour and shape. He was no experts on these types of guns, but Chamberlain had called them Holland-and-Holland, side-by-side. They were lighter than he imagined, but as expensive as they looked.
> Rollin liked the chances of the pheasants they were hunting on Chamberlain’s land. Chamberlain had described the usual routine, beaters sending up birds and posh men in costumes from the 19th century taking pot shots with 12-gauge pellet guns. Rollin had asked for a private walk. Chamberlain insisted on the guns. Rollin agreed. He figured it would make him at ease and confident. Rollin needed Chamberlain to open up.
They walked through heath, wrapped up warm. Chamberlain wore a Green jumper, green jacket, and brown woollen trousers. Rollin hoped he had something smoother underneath because that looked like pure itch on every inch of skin. Rollin wore new, a red waterproof wind-breaker over a hiking under-shirt and thermal jumper. He wore dark brown cargo trousers and hiking boots. They walked, birds flew, they kept their expensive guns hanging over their inner elbows as Chamberlain’s two sheepdogs bounded back and forth begging for something to fetch.
They walked in silence, broken by occasional calls to Chamberlain’s dogs. They walked until the house was a mile behind them; they turned right and walked toward a raised, barren moor.
“How has his death affected your inner circle?” Rollin asked.
Chamberlain was confused, he opened his mouth but Rollin spoke.
“The DJ. The nation’s monster. The new personification of pure evil. How has it affected your circle of acquaintances?”
Chamberlain, head down, walked on. Rollin paused but followed.
“It is, in a certain sense, a shame he died when he did,” Chamberlain said.
“He wasn’t going to live forever now, was he?” Rollin said. “Nasty little bastard that he was. Never could figure his influence. A man who never married, lived with his mum, kept her clothes when she died. I’m no head doctor, but that’s firing up signals immediately.”
Chamberlain didn’t break stride. He whistled as the older of his dogs was drawn to a hedgerow. The dog listened to his owner and bounded back toward Chamberlain.
“He was a clever man,” he said.
“Only so far,” Rollin said. “Clever enough to tie-in people with influence. Hell, he had royal approval. A man with the regal friends. Politicians too. You guys. What happens at your boarding schools to make you that way? I’m just an armchair psychologist, but a boy who is abused has a higher chance of growing up to be an abuser, right? That big fat bastard, politician, one of your boys. Everyone knew, the police, the head of his party. The locals. They all knew, but they voted him in and kept him out of trouble. Now you, you were different. I don’t remember you ever socializing with the DJ.”
Chamberlain stopped now. His dogs sensed feelings and started to circle closer. The eldest lay down at Chamberlain’s feet.
“I never did. He was a repulsive man,” Chamberlain said. “Dangerous when young. A man of violence.”
“Same when he was older,” Rollin said. “Everyone in the business knew. Journalists, the whole media world knew the guy was the way he was. A lot of the public had their suspicions too. But he lived to a real good old age. Now why is that?”
“He was clever manipulator.”
Rollin accepted the idea with a single exaggerated nod.
“A man who recognized influence,” he said. “Recognized it when he was young. Identified people with strange tastes in powerful positions and supplied then blackmailed. That sound like someone we know? Bring him down and they bring themselves down. And he’s gone, and now the police, the new generation, are going to take everyone down. Just a sniff of shit on you from what the world now says is evil and you have the end of any type of career.”
Chamberlain locked his gun in place, the barrels clicked into a well machined mechanism. He held the butt in his right hand, and let the barrel point downward, its tip close to the floor.
“The world has a strange sense of morality,” Chamberlain said. “Jerry Lewis marries a thirteen year old cousin and he’s just some weird musical genius. Chuck Berry had his legal problems. That utter joke of a man from the 70’s, the DJ’s friend. The man with the wig. The singer. He married kids too. But it was OK, the church gave its blessing.”
Rollin stared, unhappy with the answer.
“I don’t know if that is an argument, or even intelligible,” Rollin said. “And without going into details, I know about your operation. I’m not the only one. Word spreads, suspicion sinks in. Hell, there are those that think you are one of them. You never remarried. Twenty-five years a bachelor. You are never seen with women. You must hear the rumors."
Chamberlain smiled to hide his anger.
“And you know very well that they are not true,” he said.
“Not really, but I am always willing to believe a friend, always have.”
“If there is something in it for you.”
The dogs started to growl. They sat up, one either side of Chamberlain. Rollin looked at them in turn with contempt. He hated dogs.
“Friends help each other,” Rollin said, his eyes still on the dogs. “But the point I’m making is that we are entwined. The shit that sticks to you, and they are coming for you. You will be spoken to. And I don’t care how much you believe in the solidarity of your little perverts club, because the choice between giving up your name or spending years in an institution where they become prey, the little boy that the big men want to abuse is easy.”
“I can ride it out," Chamberlain said. "The worst has already happened. The biggest talker I silenced. Raucous did me the favor, and now I have him.”
“Maybe, But I don’t think so, and I honestly don’t think you truly believe that either. The DJ died twelve months ago and the story runs in the papers and more have been arrested. But the problem occurs by the shit sticking. You’ll be investigated, deeply. If they can’t get you on your operation, they’ll get you on something else. And I’m concerned that something else will be me. More specifically our business dealings. As much as you wrote it up and hid the details within the small print of the small print of documents no one will see till we are long dead, they have been illegal. I don’t really have the desire to be broken down into pieces and told to start again. This, my friend is the problem. Your fondness for power and leverage over men with deviancies is directly related to my own economic well-being.”
Chamberlain felt confident. His two dogs were ready to attack, his gun was cocked and ready. Rollin was essentially unarmed, in a weaker position.
“Then cash out and get out,” Chamberlain said.
Rollin understood why his arrogance was flowing. Rollin knew he was at a disadvantage in the moment. But he hadn’t come to cause physical harm. He knew his temper could occasionally explode. But not as much or as extreme as when he was young. But he was here, in Chamberlain’s place because extra barriers to making excessive decisions were an extra comfort. He wouldn’t, and couldn’t cause Chamberlain harm.
“A lovely thought,” Rollin said. His voice calm. “But it can’t be done quickly. I’m a millionaire in property. Assets. All objects the police and government will take, or block. My cash assets are not sufficient to cover me for a year. Most would go on legal costs to keep me out of jail. And then a new start with no money. I’m too old and too accustomed to my way of life for that to happen. You see where I’m going?
Chamberlain looked around at his land, at his large house in the distance.
“You don’t want me to get caught,” he said.
“You are already caught. The word is out there. They just need to be sure, to have proof, to come after a man of your influence.”
Chamberlain tightened his grip on the stock of his shotgun. He raised thee barrel slightly, heading toward horizontal.
“You want me dead?” he asked.
Rollin took a step forward and rested his left hand on the top of Chamberlain’s gun and gently pushed it down. The two dogs snarled, baring teeth. Rollin’s face was twenty centimetres from Chamberlain’s.
“If it happened natural, yeah, that would ease my worries. But killed, bumped off by foul means? What would that achieve? It
’ll be investigated the same and the conclusions won’t change. My business, my property, my buildings and my accounts all closed down. Alive or dead, it is the same. I guess I could get the satisfaction of your death, but I would honestly rather see you alive and inside. I’m all for a tooth for a tooth and all that other biblical claptrap. But I think the greatest pain I can cause you is by letting you be caught and seeing you try and survive inside. I know you’ll get a cushy number, a free prison, gardening and all that, but at a certain point, the media are not going to be happy with your easy life, and then you’ll be moved to a real prison, the ones you used to legislate. I can’t see you being happy. So, no, you have no fear I’ll kill you. But cause you pain if you fall into this investigation? Yeah, I can guarantee you that.”
CHAPTER FIFTY THREE
“Are you trying to seduce me?” Charlotte asked.
She looked tired, a little weary. There was no humor in her voice although she tried to inject some.
Mitch was sat on the park bench. He was sure he had lost Jobs. The walk through Paddington station, the crowds, the six single tickets he had bought to gain him access and exit to two underground areas but never taking a train after the first he used to arrive. A myriad of people, half knowing through routine and experience where to go and how to avoid the other fifty percent of lost souls and amazed tourists. Mitch had walked from the tower block, he saw Jobs follow the same distance behind, not too far and not too close. Mitch nearly lost him once on a large escalator at the first underground stop. This was not his plan. He needed Jobs to be moving away not waiting at an exit or blocking a staircase. There were a series of tunnels that led into what seemed a maze of platforms and corridors but was one single area. It would make the perfect paint-ball zone. A million places to hide, an infinite number of routes, a confusing sequence of signs, but essentially a unique area divided by one way systems not everyone followed. Mitch darted onto a platform as a train arrived, luck more than timing, Jobs followed, Mitch jumped into a group of people waiting for passengers to leave the carriage. Jobs had no reason to believe Mitch was escaping. Mitch turned as the wave of passengers stepped from the carriage. He had ducked and drifted away with those who left. He didn’t dare to look around or poke his head above the masses. He followed the crowd, walked over a bridge inside the station, one seemingly built in a more artistic architectural century and waited. He stayed still, hidden in a corner of white tiles. He watched people walk and push and jog and stand still. He heard the guitar music of a busker, and the continual, non-stop clatter of feet on concrete floors. He stayed for thirty minutes, watching the seconds climb to sixty and crash back to zero on his Casio watch. He removed his jacket, letting it drop to the floor. He placed a cap on his head and joined the crowd. Jobs was lost and Mitch made slow overground progress on ever-stopping red double-decker buses back into the heart of the city.
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