“What is it?” Rollin asked.
“I’m a little bored; I did the touristic thing yesterday with the man here-”
“All of it,” Jobs said.
“The bits that interest me. And now I want in.”
Rollin stared at Jean, no smile came. He had a dead business face. He looked up to The Follower.
“When are you due to start the rounds?” Rollin asked.
“Tomorrow morning, Mr. Rollin.”
“Would there be a problem if we moved it up to today?”
“None that I can envisage,” Jobs said.
Rollin looked to Jean, his face as passive aggressive as he had been before. “This man here goes by the name of Jobs. Go clean yourself up. Meet Jobs in the foyer. He’ll tell you what to do and what not.”
******************************************************************
“Cash or protection?” Jean asked as she and Jobs passed the fourth estate of the day.
They were the monstrosities of the sixties and seventies. Huge, multi-storied semi circles of grey and moulding concrete, designed as a futuristic paradise but rapidly becoming the brothers of communist functionalism with much lower production costs. They collapsed and crumbled and the poor never moved away. Large green areas thought of as social meeting places, no doubt designed in publicity to show a young mother in a pencil skirt and bouffant, socializing while husbands went out to earn their keep. They were waste grounds now, the territory of youths who had nothing better to do than protect their worthless piece of earth from the encroachment of other youths who wanted in. A turf war among teenagers for land without value.
They had not spoken, Jobs aloof and concentrated as he paced steadily on. Jobs had knocked on two doors. The first was answered by a woman who were she to be aged by counting rings would be just short of a hundred. She had a wrinkled face and a lot of gold on her hands. It drew attention away from her face, which was cracked, red and broken. Jobs asked if everything was ok, she replied it now was. There were no warm hellos, or invites in. An exchange and on they moved. The second they climbed the three floors by the emergency stairs. Two groups of four kids sat inhaling from silver foil. They made space for Jobs. An old lady answered the door. “Are they still making noise after midnight?” “No,” the old lady said, looking at the floor and closing her door.
But he stopped when Jean asked and turned to her.
“Cash or protection? Neither. Simple inquiry to see if everything is OK. No problems, no hassles.”
“Bullshit. Rollin makes you promise not to tell me the dirty side of his empire?”
“There is no real dirty side to this, excepting some of the obvious local tenants. It’s a good business. Rollin owns the property, the rent he charges is a little higher, five to ten percent in most cases. But that extra hires us. A safety net that works.”
“And it’s just you?”
“I’m the face, I front up to disgruntled customers. I’m a big guy, six six, seventeen stone, a bit of it fat. I’m a decent fighter. My pro-boxing career came to an end after seven fights because I’m slow and lumbering for that elite level. But I can fight, when I’m told to.”
“You’re the BFG,” Jean said.
“Big Friendly Giant. It’s been said, had to look it up to understand. Literary references are mostly wasted on me.”
“You offer protection.”
“I offer a calming influence.”
“You don’t seem to enjoy it.”
“I don’t. But it pays well, and I’m always moving up. Started as a guard, now I’m here.”
“You don’t take any for you?”
“Money? Everything is electronic. Recorded. It’s not the eighties no more. No cash collections, weekly salaries. It’s all bank transfer. Criminality in that system requires skill. We don’t have it. Their money comes in, and before they can touch it, ours comes out. No threats needed. The bank does the work.”
“All this is Rollin’s?”
“The rent side of things, yeah. That’s Rollin. Took him a while, competition, Chinese, Europeans, Jamaican and so on. But boundaries are defined, borders maintained. No need for fighting. Money for everyone.”
They heard a shout, they turned to its origin. Eight boys on low slung BMXs. Baseball caps of teams from another continent, oversized basketball jerseys over long sleeved shirts. All trousers four sizes too big.
Jobs spoke, his voice low, “the problem is the kids. They are just plain dumb.”
The boys circled, nothing fancy, a simple snake with no leader: an interchange as they tried tricks. Ollies, spins and jumps. Most placed Nike covered feet to the floor to protect balance and pride. But they circled, weaving in and out of a wavy line.
Jobs watched, standing still, waiting for the attempt at intimidation to reach an end. He looked bored, as if this were how every walk he took panned out.
A bike broke free, spun clockwise on and around its stationary front wheel as the rear rode up and swung. The back wheel fell to the tarmac and the rider lifted the front and spun again. He couldn’t finish the move, his balance went. He stamped his left foot down on the ground to stop his fall. The rider, a small youth of sixteen was wearing American basketball apparel seemingly stolen from a professional power forward of two-metres-twenty. He looked at Jobs and smiled.
“Not see anything you like, Jobs?” The kid asked. “We too old for you now?”
Jean watched, the boys paid no attention to her. She was free from any curiosity. The kids formed a line of stationary bikes. Jobs stood with his arms folded across his chest.
“You are all grown up now. Nice to see,” Jobs said. “Do we have a problem?”
The small kid of failed bike tricks stared at Jobs. Jobs unfolded his arms.
The group, as if there had been a secret message sent through signs, started to pedal in a line again. They circled Jobs and Jean, once, twice, three times. Each of the eight boys staring at Jobs. They didn’t make the fourth circle. A boy broke free at speed and pedalled off, standing up, moving his bike quickly from side to side. The seven others followed in the same style, and Jobs watched them go. Jean saw a small smile flick on his lips.
“What was that?” Jean asked.
“Boys with pasts that are bad, but nothing compared to their futures.”
CHAPTER SIXTY ONE
“They prefer a first timer,” Jobs said.
Raucous looked at Jobs. It was late afternoon. Jobs had been late, giving an excuse of an unplanned collection route with a new recruit. He had brought unhappiness. Jobs and Raucous stared into each other’s eyes.
“What did I say?” Raucous asked.
“Don’t bring anyone who hasn’t been before.”
“So who aren’t you going to bring?”
“Anyone new.”
“Exactly, now go and make the pick up.”
The Villa was not how Raucous imagined. He had expected luxury, imagined an old-fashioned wild-west whore-house furnishing. But he had been very wrong. The place was bare and white. Tiles covered the walls until one meter sixty in height. Above that were whitewashed walls. The downstairs had four even sized rooms, four meters by four meters. Two each side of a long thin corridor. Each was empty. The activity happened on the first floor. Raucous walked a steep set of straight steps, with a sliver of carpet running down its centre, held in place with ornate brass strips.
The first floor had four rooms, spaced exactly as those below. The first was an aperitif room, a large circular table covered in bottles of expensive whisky, brandy and gin. Mixers were bunched together in a small square. The other three rooms each contained a double bed and an armchair. The quality barely more than a cheap bed and breakfast in a long since dead seaside resort.
Raucous walked to the bottom of the stairs. A tall bookcase stood at the bottom. He moved it away from the wall, plugged in the adaptor placed the box on the top shelf, making sure it was concealed between some original French literature, attached the wire to the se
cond device and pressed the button. He walked to the top of the stairs and walked down again. He checked the second device and was happy with the result. He sat down on the soft chair next to the door and waited.
******************************************************************
The phone in his pocket rang twice. Raucous looked through the gap between the thick burgundy curtains. Night had set in. He had been sat in the chair for two hours. Lamps on the top of tall hooked poles were illuminating the street, but the two on either side of the road directly in the front of the house were dead. They always were. Raucous looked down the corridor of the house. He never thought he would see inside. Once, long ago, he had feared this place. He wasn’t alone in that. They all had, no matter how tough they believed themselves to be, this house was their bogeyman. He looked at his watch. Nine twenty-five. They were running early. The ring was a ten minute warning. Raucous walked along the corridor and unlocked the back door.
Five boys filed in. Their eyes were glazed and their paces unsteady. They were all ten, eleven and twelve. Raucous knew where they were from. He didn’t know what they had been given, but he knew they took it gladly. A mixture, alcohol and some type of pill to relax their minds. He had heard of a drug that caused memory loss, a rapist’s friend. But he had heard this renders the victim immobile. The people who came here didn’t want that. Where would be the fun, right?
Jobs came in last. He closed the door behind him.
He walked along the corridor and Raucous watched. He was a confident man and stared at Raucous all the way to the bottom of the stairs.
“You got a problem,” Jobs asked.
“Don’t we all?”
Jobs scowled.
“What the hell does that mean?” he asked.
“Go do your job,” Raucous said.
“It’s done. Babysitting now.”
“Then go babysit.”
“I usually sit here. They’re in no state to do anything other than what they are here for.”
“Different management, different rules. This is my spot. Go upstairs and stay with them. No speaking, just watch.”
Jobs stared. Raucous stared back. Raucous imagined this guy got what he wanted with the dead-eye he was pulling.
“Go upstairs,” Raucous said.
Jobs squinted, turned and walked the steps. At the top, he stopped and turned.
“There’s something about you,” he said. “Something that doesn’t fit right.”
******************************************************************
The guests arrived. One by one. Raucous didn’t recognize any of them. They could be anyone. Important or not, famous or unknown. They could be actors hired for the day to fool Raucous into giving up his secret. Raucous didn’t know. No two arrived at the same time. Each had been sent a specific time slot and they all respected their schedule. Each man was accompanied by a body guard. Raucous answered the door, no one flinched. They had all seen an image of his face, they all knew what to expect. They shook hands, the bodyguard left, and the men went upstairs. Five men in total. Raucous sat in his chair and waited. There was little noise other than laughter at first. Chatter became more boisterous as an hour passed. They were drinking enough to relax. Then movement between rooms occurred, men and boys moving together to find time and space. The noise dropped to almost silence. Raucous dropped his head forward, thinking all the time that he had to stay quiet, he had to let this go. This was the first step. There was no other way to go. He looked up because of a feeling, an itch in his head. At the top of the stairs, Jobs was looking back, expressionless, without emotion. He looked at Raucous, as if trying to identify what type of animal he was by flicking through a database in his head. Jobs smiled, nodded and walked back to the aperitif room and stayed there until the men left and the boys remained.
******************************************************************
Raucous locked up. He did it quietly. Raucous told Jobs to go and enjoy more of the free booze on offer. Jobs was already half-cut.
“I don’t need a drunk accident tonight," Raucous said. "Sit it out. Give me the keys.”
“They are in my jacket, get them yourself. You know where you are going?”
“I know the place well.”
“Then see you later. I’ll save you some,” Jobs said.
Raucous waited for Jobs to enter the room upstairs. He thought about killing him. He couldn’t risk this man being here next time. But he couldn’t risk killing him. And he didn’t seem the type to scare. He needed a reason, something believable.
Raucous searched the jacket. He found the keys in the first one he looked, but he kept on searching. He found two mobile phones. He imagined one was business and one was pleasure. Raucous took them both. The front door was locked but could be unbolted from the inside. Only the drunk upstairs could let anyone in. Raucous left through the back door and locked it. The VW transporter was open. Raucous opened the back door slowly. Five boys were inside. They had the chance to run but didn’t. They all sat, disheveled and comatose in a shared suffering. They were no good as witnesses. They wouldn’t even remember who they were. Raucous slammed the door shut. He looked up at the first floor. The right window was illuminated. Jobs was staring down. He raised a tumbler of whiskey and turned his back.
CHAPTER SIXTY TWO
Ben had placed a ten-pence in the slot. He scrolled through the list of games. He recognized most from the screen shot provided by the control system. He went through alphabetically, slowly, tapping the joystick down, giving time to the old whirring computer to change the graphics to match the highlighted name.
Ben stood in his pajamas. Mitch always wore them to bed. Ben liked waking in them. He had touched the arcade machine, almost caressed its shape. The long deep curves of the sides, the glass covering the heavy CRT monitor. Six buttons, all red, and the eight-way joystick. The blinds were closed, but a little light from the early morning sun broke through clouds and through the edges of the window. Ben read the names. Some games he had heard of, mythical creations with a limited release only in Japan, but never played. Others were classics, but most were games only those who had spent time in arcades could ever recognize. Most, to collect as many coins from kids as possible, had a difficulty arc so steep they could only be defeated with extreme obsession. Ben arrived at R-Type and pressed one-player.
The space ship appeared and zipped across the screen. Ben started to play.
A flash and he saw a boy and a ten pence piece, learning memorizing a pattern. No skill, all memory and deciphering the code. He saw another game, Punch Out. An arcade hall. He saw the plan, the Layout. Gamblers in the middle, two pence a play. One pound fifty jackpot. Beeps, noises, kids hanging out. Some champions, some skint. All lost and looking for thrills in animated adventures. Ten pence after ten pence to smash buttons. There were some girls but few of them played.
Other thoughts came. Ten cigarettes for less than a pound. Blue boxes, white writing, lights. An inhale. Menthol cigarettes. A scuffle, an argument. Someone drunk, someone sick. A speeded up slideshow of wasted weekends in a city with no green.
Kids playing at being their fathers. The drinkers, the aggressors, the jokers, the sports. Some having to find their own way because they were sons and daughters of lost causes, or physically too small or too fat to be accepted into the group they desired. Some did funnies to avoid defeat, others doing insane to back people off. Some dipped into an early weird madness. And it was these that were dangerous as they gave no indication of what they could do.
Music divided groups. Long-haired metal heads in black skinny jeans, leather jackets and they stuck together. Football boys, listening to the latest hits, cocky, loud, and sure in their group of banter and jokes. The rugby crowd, a group that looked after any that joined, listening to whatever took their fancy, and then the criminals who looked to bully so they could feel superior.
“You still remember how to play that thing?” Rollin asked.
Ben stared at the words written in the basic blocks of 8-bit graphics.
“I watched you do that as a kid. Pretty impressive back then. More so now.”
“First time I’ve played it.”
Rollin placed his hand on Ben’s shoulder. He squeezed. “No it isn’t. The memory is a strange thing. There’s a lot in there you know.”
CHAPTER SIXTY THREE
Raucous hated that these men thought he was one of them.
Raucous dropped the boys at their residence.
Two men, bearded and tall, in the low light of the street, waited for them. They could pass for twins. The boys were on automatic pilot. They stepped down from the transporter and walked toward the open door to the children’s home. Raucous would not follow them in. That was one promise he would not break today.
The two beards were smiling. Raucous imagined they would love to rub their hands in glee.
“You two, those boys are to be left alone. I hear of anything, done to anyone here, and the next pick up I make will be you. Am I clear on that?”
“You’re new,” the one on the left said.
“Yes, I am. And with that comes new rules. Are we clear?”
“That’s not how it works,” the other said.
Raucous stepped toward them.
“No, that is exactly how it works.”
The twins looked at each other. The one on the left rolled his eyes.
“I don’t think your boss would agree,” he said.
Raucous stepped forward smiling. He was half-a-metre in front of them. The beards showed no sign of fear. They smiled too, arrogant, and untouchable. The last of the boys entered the building. Raucous rocked closer to the nearest beard. He was the same height as Raucous, but his shoulders spread barely beyond his head. Raucous slapped his right hand forward and grabbed the beard’s balls. Raucous squeezed and the beard tried to double over.
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