by Ray Banks
"I wouldn't do that."
"You did do that."
"Seriously, Graham." He drew closer, his aftershave dancing around my tear ducts as he put a hand on my arm.
The skin flared at his touch. I flinched. "Get off me."
"I just think you should—"
I turned, dropped my voice. "I mean it."
Dave removed his hand, stepped back. "Okay. Have it your way, Graham."
"Thank you." I smiled at him. I felt good. I felt released. "You can't keep a good man down, Dave. You should know that by now."
19
The atmosphere at the Riverside was muted for the rest of the week, and as the robbery rumours spread through the rest of the staff, I felt myself under constant scrutiny.
I was an anomaly. I wasn't supposed to be in. Everyone else on shift that night had taken at least a couple of days off, citing stress or exhaustion. I didn't blame some of them – they were trainees, they'd never been through so much as a kick-off on a table before. That much condensed aggression probably had them questioning their career choice. The others were, as Clive used to say, "having a warm one". I was the only one who kept clocking in, the only one who showed no signs of trauma beyond the stitches in my head. I kept to myself as always – it would be a shame to contradict the consensus opinion of me, after all – did my job and didn't engage on anything other than a professional basis. But now that the story about me standing up for Jacqui had been through the club staff, they regarded me in a different light. Where I'd once been reserved and stuffy, now I was strong and silent, Jason Statham in a Burtons suit. In the absence of any proof to the contrary, I was the hero of the club, which made for a much better working environment. The only member of staff who didn't show admiration was Dave Randall, and I didn't care what he thought about anything.
Meanwhile, I waited for Pollard's call. As far as I knew, his team had gotten away with the money and everything was tickety-boo. I followed the gossip in the club and the news outside, but there appeared to be few if any leads, and if the police had nailed Pollard for the robbery, then they were keeping quiet about it. I found myself checking the burn phone two or three times a shift just in case, and watching the crowd of punters for any sign of Jez or someone who looked like they might have been one of Pollard's lads. It was distracting, and it wasn't long before Dave noticed.
"You functioning correctly there, Graham?" He grinned at me over the side of the pit desk. He'd taken to being extra friendly with me. It made me reach for the calamine.
I looked up from the burn phone. "Excuse me?"
He nodded at the phone. "New, is it?"
"Old. Other one's playing up. This one has buttons."
"I don't hold with the touchscreens. They look good, but they're a bugger if something goes wrong." Dave pulled out his iPhone and stuck out his bottom lip. "Curse of the early adopter, eh?"
"Can I help you with something, Dave?"
"No. I'm just checking to see how you are."
"I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"Yes. When's Jacqui coming back?"
"I don't know." He shrugged, poked at his phone. "Whenever she's ready, I suppose."
"Have you spoken to her?"
"Yeah, I talked to her a couple of days ago."
"How's she doing?"
He frowned at his phone. "Fine, I think."
"How's the leg?"
"I don't know." Another shrug, this time with a certain degree of irritation. He was checking his email. "I don't think it's the leg that's keeping her off."
"Well, it was a traumatic experience."
Dave stopped playing with his phone and looked at me. "You know she's been there before, right?"
I nodded. "She said something about Odessa."
"You know what it's like over there?"
"I've heard stories."
"It's all run by the Ukrainian mob. The whole shebang. Every club in the Ukraine, they all pay their dues to the mob. Course, it makes them a target, too. Crazy stuff."
"Like I said, I've heard stories."
"You like her?"
There was a smile on Dave's face that I wasn't particularly keen to see twice, so looked at the pit sheet. "She's a good manager. Nice person too, from what I could tell."
"Alright, don't overdo it." He opened his eyes wide in mock horror. "Sounds like you fancy her."
"Don't be so puerile." I didn't need to see myself to know that I was blushing. I could feel the heat in my cheeks. And when I heard Dave Randall chuckle deep in his throat and push away from the pit desk, I felt the churning in my gut.
I looked up and saw him heading for the rope. The man was a pig about women at the best of times, but it had never burned me up before. Dave liked to have an inventory of discomfort for each employee, and he'd just added Jacqui to mine.
I turned from the desk, checked the sheets, and did a round of clickers. We were up on a Wednesday night with three hours to go, but there was no pride in it. Now that Dave was acting as temporary GM, I was expected to pull in winners as a matter of course. I missed Jacqui's surprise and admiration, no matter how mild it might have been.
What the hell, I might as well admit it, I missed Jacqui herself. I might have been uncomfortable around her, but she was a far more pleasant presence than Dave Randall. If she'd been seriously traumatised by the robbery, then there was a chance that she wouldn't be back at all. It wasn't something I liked to think about, but it was a possibility that made me all the more adamant to leave. Without her, and with the prospect of Dave coming on full-time, there was nothing left for me in Manchester.
Of course, leaving in two weeks' time meant I'd have to get my twenty percent from Pollard sharpish. There was no way I was leaving without it, because the longer it got, the less likely I was to see it. Pollard wasn't a stupid man. If anything, he seemed like someone who planned ahead and used his brain and if he hadn't been in contact, well, there was probably a reason. I just hoped the reason didn't involve him doing me out of what was rightfully mine.
Money did strange things to people. It made them greedy, ignorant and aggressive. I'd seen it on the tables night after night, punters putting down bets like they were body parts with dealers who didn't seem to understand that the money they were paying out wasn't theirs. Pollard was a bigger man than that. He'd participated in robberies before. He didn't make a habit of letting irrational greed cloud his mind, or else he'd have been grassed up or killed already. So it stood to reason that he hadn't called because he was waiting for the dust to settle and the investigation to stall. He was waiting for something else to grab the Met's attention. Then and only then could he go about splitting the take.
An admirable, sensible decision, but one that didn't jibe with my plans or my paranoia. So I used the burn phone. I left messages for Pollard, three of them over the course of two days. And while I waited for a call back, I went to work as usual. I ran the pits every night, I ignored Dave Randall's further attempts to make me blush, and I made a point of booking that week of the fifteenth off. I also went to see my doctor and we went through the medical form. It took less than twenty minutes. When he asked how my skin was, I told him everything was perfect. I didn't want him to refuse to sign the form because of something as irrelevant as my ill health.
On the face of it, I was as composed as usual. At home, I went on the computer and scoured my regular forums for fish to fry. When someone posted something devoid of intellect, I took time to compose and fact-check my devastating response, which would then sit there on my screen like a full stop, killing the discussion stone dead. I was acting out, I knew it. I was picking fights. I was looking for someone to hurt, even if it was just a glancing blow to their pride. And I was doing all this because I couldn't sit still and wait for Pollard to keep my money.
He knew I was planning to leave. That was a problem. Maybe all he thought he had to do was wait me out.
Because after all, what was I going to do, sue him? Get violent? He'd s
nap me like a Kit Kat.
I finished off one final post about the last episode of Lost and how it wasn't confusing and how of course they weren't dead the whole time – they weren't really even in purgatory until season six, for crying out loud. It was obvious, and only an idiot would argue otherwise. I hit send with a flourish, then grabbed the burn phone from the table, called the contact number and waited until it clicked inevitably to voicemail.
"Mr Pollard, it's Graham Ellis." I cleared my throat and tried to lower my voice. "This is the last time I'm going to call this number, and the last time I'm going to use this phone. If I don't hear from you by closing time tomorrow night – that's five in the morning – then I'll assume our previous agreement has been superseded by one of your own invention. If that's the case, then first call I'll make on Friday morning will be to Detective Inspector Kennedy. Speak to you soon."
I killed the call, slapped the phone onto the table and breathed out, a low, insistent ache spreading across my chest and a bug-leg itch starting in the palm of my right hand.
20
The Costa wasn't exactly full, but there were still enough people making enough noise to grate on my nerves.
A man in the corner made obnoxious barking sounds that could have been words into his mobile. In front of him were the largest cup of coffee they did and the crumbled remains of a chocolate muffin. The man's eyes were unnaturally wide, his short-fingered hands in perpetual motion and he was shouting about someone named Dan, who was apparently a friend, but whose nickname was the C-word, apparently now being used as a term of endearment. I looked around, saw the usual single mothers and their children and wondered if anyone was going to say anything. They didn't. In fact, most of the people in here seemed to be deliberately ignoring him. If he didn't exist for the mothers, then perhaps he didn't exist for the children, who were too busy making a mess of their own to pay the swine any attention. I would have said something, but I didn't want to draw attention. I didn't want people remembering me, just in case they remembered the man I was supposed to be meeting here, too.
Jez had called the night before, left a message to meet here. I hadn't heard anything since, but I took it on trust that Pollard would be coming. I sat by the window, watching the road. If his Mercedes pulled up, I'd move us to the back of the place, but I knew if I started out there I'd go nuts wondering if he was just outside.
So I waited.
And then I waited a bit more. The morning staggered by.
When I was on my fourth hot chocolate, my mobile rang. It was Pollard.
I looked at my watch. He was late. "Where are you?"
"None of your fuckin' business."
"Excuse me? I thought we agreed—"
"We never agreed nothing."
"I talked to Jez."
"And he told you to go to the Costa, I know. But he never said nothing about me meeting you there, did he?"
"Why on earth wouldn't you turn up?"
"Because I don't want to get fuckin' lifted, do I?"
"Lifted?" I looked around. Nobody looked like police, not even the braying idiot in the corner. "Do you know something I don't?"
"I know plenty you don't, son. Fuckin' truckloads."
"What I mean is –-" I lowered my voice. "Are there police watching the place?"
"How the fuck do I know? I'm not there, am I?"
"You said—"
"But more to the point, how do you know there aren't?"
It clicked. I sighed. "I don't."
"Which is why it's better if we stay at a distance, know what I mean?"
"Okay, I understand that."
"Then what the fuck are we talking about, son?"
"My twenty percent."
"Listen, Graham, you did a good job. The lads tell us it went off almost perfect, apart from that one woman—"
"I know. I couldn't help that."
"You said she was safe."
"I thought she was." I turned back to the window. It was grey outside, raining again. "I had no way of knowing she'd do that."
"Ach, don't worry about it. Just when you think you've got some people pegged, they show you how fuckin' stupid they can be. It all came off, that's the important thing."
"How much?"
"A hundred and forty-five and change. Two nights as promised. Yours is—"
"Twenty-nine thousand." I put my free hand on the hot chocolate. It was warm. "So when do I get paid?"
"Soon."
"When's soon?"
"You want a date?"
"I want an indication, yes."
"When I'm happy that it's all blown over."
"Which is when?"
"Fuckin' hell, you're persistent, aren't you?"
"If'I'm risking my job and my liberty, yes. It's important to me."
"Alright, we'll give it a week and see what's happened."
"What does that mean?"
"Fuck am I speaking, Swahili? It means we'll give it a week and see how things are. We'll review."
"How's that any more definite?"
"It isn't." He laughed, and it sounded as if he was laughing right at me. "Put yourself in my position, Graham, right? You're the only loose end here. You're the one closest to the fuckin' police an' all. So what happens when I pay you your cut? Let's just say I've got the means and inclination to send a courier round right now with your twenty-nine grand and he can be there in twenty minutes. And I say yes, I'll pay you, and I send the bloke round. You get the money and what happens then?"
"We're even."
"We're even? You think so?"
"I don't understand."
"You're paid off."
"Yes. What's the matter with that?"
"Means you can do whatever the fuck you want, doesn't it? You can take your money, talk to the fuckin' plod and then do one out the country. Leave my lads on the hook for something you planned."
"I wouldn't do that."
Another laugh. "What, I'm supposed to take that on fuckin' trust, am I?"
"We've been through this—"
"I know. And I'm not convinced." His voice had become deeper, scattered with gravel. "Else you would've been paid by now. But let's take your word for it, okay? Let's just say that I am convinced that you're too fuckin' shit-scared to grass us up, because you know I'll run you into the fuckin' ground if you so much as think about it. Let's assume that's the case."
I swallowed. It made a noise. "Okay."
"What you going to do with the money?"
I opened my mouth. Nothing came to mind. I cleared my throat. "Keep it."
"Right. You're not going to spend any of it?"
"No, of course not."
"Why not?"
"It would draw attention."
"Good lad. So when are you likely to spend it, then?"
"When I'm sure it's safe."
"And when d'you think that's likely to be?"
"When ..." I paused, realised what he was getting at. "When the investigation looks like it's run its course."
"Precisely. And you're a fuckin' expert on that kind of thing, are you?"
I looked at my hot chocolate. Put a hand on it. It wasn't even that warm anymore, but my face was. "No."
"You done many armed robberies before, have you? Got a lot of experience in how these investigations work?"
I shook my head, even though he couldn't see it. "No."
"What's that?"
Louder: "I said no."
"So d'you think maybes my experience in this matter is a touch more relevant than yours?"
"Yes."
"So what makes you think you're going to be able to judge correctly when it's safe to spend the money, eh?"
I cleared my throat again. I wished I'd bought some water to go with the hot chocolate. "I suppose I can't."
"And what makes you so fuckin' sure of your willpower that you won't go and spend all your money on fuckin' dollies and computer games?"
My neck felt warm now. "Excuse me?"
"You hear
d, son. You think I don't know what you're like? You're a fuckin' kid. You can't be trusted with money. So your Uncle Barry's going to hang on to your cash for a bit longer until you're a big enough lad to handle it yourself, alright? Think of it like a trust fund. You'll get it when you're responsible."
I found myself breathing hard. Didn't have any saliva in my mouth. I wanted to do something. I wanted to clear my table, pitch a fit, scream and shout. But I didn't. I kept it in. I was restraint personified. "That doesn't sound like a very good idea."
"Why's that?"
"Because you're being obnoxious. And it's not a good idea to be that way with people who could make trouble for you."
"Aye, and it's not a good idea to threaten people who wouldn't think twice about fuckin' killing you, neither, Graham. Listen, I can do whatever I want. You're lucky I'm still considering giving you your cut. I could keep the lot and tell you to get fucked. What're you going to do, eh? You going to the police?"
"Maybe."
"And what d'you think you're going to tell 'em? We bullied you into planning our fuckin' heist?"
"I don't know. I'll have to think—"
"Because they don't do plea bargains, son. That's the fuckin' telly, that. You're an accessory at least. You're involved. You're our inside man. You don't think you're going to do fuckin' stir for that, you're out of your fuckin' mind. You're just as responsible for that robbery as anyone else. Only difference is, everyone in that place can pick you out of a line-up because you were the only one not wearing a mask. I mean, yeah, you might not have shot anyone or drove the getaway car or owt like that, but you're definitely guilty. And all the fuckin' Met want is an easy collar. If they can't get me, you'll do nicely."
"Yeah, well, we'll see about that."
"Shut the fuck up, son. Hard doesn't suit you."
"Right." I nodded to myself. "Sorry, I—"
"First off, you're not getting your cut until I tell you that you can have it. Second, you can go right ahead and tell the police owt you want, but it won't do you any good because I'm covered. I'm sweet. And I know they won't come after me without a fuckload of proof to back 'em up because I've got briefs that'll strip 'em to bones. The only people they'll pinch up front are the lads on the job, and they won't say word fuckin' one. Which leaves me free to deal with a grass, doesn't it? And third – and this is a big one, so pin 'em back, son – don't you ever think about threatening me again, you little prick, else you'll feel the furry side, alright?"