by Morton Bain
‘Huh?’
‘Guy I was telling you about who did a long stretch thanks to me. He’s out now, and probably wants to get even.’
Joey walks towards us. ‘Did I hear the words “get even”? One of the most beautiful phrases in the English language.’
‘Just that guy I was telling you about who doesn’t wish me well,’ I explain.
‘Only one way to deal with that sort of thing,’ Courtney explains. ‘You gotta get to him before he gets to you.’
‘Don’t know where he lives . . .’
‘Then you’d better find out. He sure as hell knows where you live.’
‘I’m really impressed at the way you fixed that guy,’ Joey says. ‘Not the sort of thing you college boys normally get up to.’
‘They don’t normally get involved in bitch-smuggling, either,’ Courtney chips in. ‘But our guy is different.’ I’m given a playful punch on the arm by Courtney to punctuate this remark.
I grin. It’s true. I’m very different.
We exhaust the subject of Jake and move on to discuss our Haitian mini-mules. ‘All going well so far,’ Joey informs us. As Joey fronted almost all the money for the deal he’s taken charge of the whole operation. ‘One kid took a dump in the back garden of the house he’s staying at, but apart from that everything’s cool. Main thing is they got through. Should have most of the powder sold by next week. Kerching!’
‘You reckon you can get some more kids over soon?’ I ask Courtney.
‘Should be cool,’ the Jamaican says.
Conversation turns to whores. Joey has managed to source some ‘exotic’ Moldovan prostitutes, and he wonders which of us wants to take delivery of them the following day. ‘We’ve got a one-legged one,’ he explains, ‘one, that’s about thirty stone, and one that has three breasts . . .’
‘Bullshit!’ Courtney exclaims. ‘No woman was ever born with an extra titty!’
‘This one was,’ Joey says tetchily. ‘I’ve got a photo of her.’ He gets his phone out, and we’re soon looking at a tri-titted lady, naked from the waist up. ‘We should be able to get good money for her. I bet lots of men will pay top dollar to sleep with this freak.’
‘You’d have to pay me top dollar to sleep with her,’ Courtney says, a grimace on his face.
‘Don’t be such a snob,’ I say. ‘I don’t think she looks too bad. Better three tits than one. One would freak me out.’
‘None of yous are going to be sleeping with her,’ Joey says, ‘cos she’s going to be busy sleeping with Johns, but Adam, as you seem to have more interest in her than Courtney, maybe you’d like to take care of her collection. Her and the other broads.’
‘I don’t mind. As long as you don’t want it done on a Sunday.’
We move from talking about the details of the pick-up to discussing money. ‘We haven’t done too bad this last month,’ Joey says, reaching into a holdall. ‘One of these for each of you,’ he continues, throwing Courtney and I a bundle of cash each. ‘That’s ten grand for you. If we keep on top of things I think it might be twenty grand next month.’
I look at the wad of notes I’m holding, and think about all the screws that have happened and are going to happen to pay for this money. I feel happy. It is fitting that I earn this way. Not only am I holding proper dirty money, it’s also a lot of money. I’m holding over a third of my annual wage in my hands. At this rate, maybe I can soon move on from the Church. I’ll be financially capable of doing so soon, I figure, though I would miss abusing my position in the way that I do.
Just then the sound of smashing glass makes us all jump.
‘Fucking poltergeist!’ Joey says, getting up as if he wants to physically confront it. ‘If it had a body, I’d wring its neck,’ he adds.
‘Aren’t you going to tidy that up?’ Courtney asks, pointing at the broken remains of a coffee cup that are lying on the floor.
‘No point,’ Joey responds. ‘Fucker’ll break something else soon. Breaks things in threes, so I’ll wait till he’s finished.’
‘How do you know it’s a “he”?’ Courtney wants to know.
‘It’s gotta be a “he”. Female sprite wouldn’t go round making such a mess. She’d want to live in a nice environment.’
‘I don’t think spirits necessarily confirm to normal gender stereotypes,’ I say.
‘What does that mean in English?’ Courtney asks.
‘Poltergeists are troubled spirits,’ I say. ‘They’re not “normal”, so you can’t expect them to act normally.’
‘Okay, let’s stop talking about poltergeists,’ Joey says. ‘Stupid thing causes me enough aggravation without spending the whole day giving it our attention . . .’
The next day I drive to a shabby house in Maidstone where our three ladies are waiting for me. In a bag on the front passenger’s seat is six thousand pounds in fifty pound notes, money given to me by Joey the day before to settle the transaction. I walk up a short pathway that divides an overgrown front lawn and knock on the door. After a couple of minutes a fat man wearing tracksuit bottoms and a stained vest opens up for me. He looks Eastern European; Georgian or Azerbaijani I guess.
‘I’m Joey’s friend,’ I inform him, and by way of reply he opens the door fully. I follow the man into a living room that has stained carpet and worn sofas. ‘I bring the girls,’ he informs me. ‘You have money?’
‘I do.’
The man leaves the room, and I’m left alone for about ten minutes. I can hear the sound of voices coming from upstairs; the man talking harshly, softer replies from the women. Then the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and four people walk into the room.
They are the motley assortment I’ve been primed to expect. They’re all wearing jeans, so I can’t tell which one has but a single leg. I figure I should be able to work it out by figuring out which one has three tits, as the fatty is obvious enough. One of the women has a very large chest, but I can’t be sure whether it’s because she has three boobs.
Ten minutes later we’re on the road. The three women are in the back chattering away in whatever stupid language they have the misfortune of speaking. I turn the volume on the radio up – I’m tuned into a station that seems to play nothing but Eighties classics. My mind starts to wander: killings, the topic I’ll choose for my next sermon, whether I prefer big butts or big tits . . . My thoughts are interrupted by an incongruous sight. There’s a car approaching me, but on my side of the road. For about a second I find the arrangement of vehicles merely intriguing – that’s not where the car is meant to be. Then the reality of what’s about to happen grabs me, and I swerve wildly. Too late. The front of the van clips the front of the oncoming car, and suddenly we’re spinning and sliding. With a crash the van collides with a low wall, and it’s at this point I lose consciousness.
I have no idea how long I’ve been out for when I come to. Could be hours, but I’m guessing minutes or seconds. What I do know is that my ribs and head hurt like hell. I lift my head from the steering wheel and look up to see a smashed front windscreen. Turning around to check on the girls I’m horrified to see they’re not in the vehicle. An open passenger door indicates how they exited. I can’t open the door on my side as the van is wedged up against the wall it collided with. Wincing with pain I edge over to the front passenger door. With some difficulty I get it open, and jump down onto the road. Despite being mentally foggy, I’m aware that it’s an offence to leave the scene of an accident. I need to find the girls. Joey and I have never exchanged angry words, but I’ve got a feeling that’s going to change if his cargo goes missing, accident or not. As I’m scanning my surroundings an elderly man approaches. ‘Are you alright, son?’ he asks me. ‘I’ve called an ambulance. You should sit down until they arrive.’
‘Thankyou,’ I reply. ‘Tell me, you didn’t see a number of women leave the vehicle? I had three passengers, and now they’re gone.’
‘No. I live over there.’ The man points at a house across the road. ‘I came
out as soon as I heard the bang, but I didn’t see anyone walk away.’ The man wipes his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘They must have scarpered pretty quickly. Can’t have been more than a minute after the crash that I first popped my head out the door.’
I sit down on the pavement, my back against a wall, and try and figure out what to do. I feel okay; I doubt I have any serious injuries. The question is whether to wait for the police and ambulance to turn up, or to start looking for the girls right away. I can’t see the car I collided with, and can only assume the driver didn’t bother stopping. I turn to the old man. ‘You wouldn’t mind waiting here for a second until the cops turn up, while I go and have a quick look for my passengers? I’m worried about them. They don’t speak any English, and I guess they could be injured.’
‘I can do that for you. Don’t be long, though. I expect we’ll hear sirens any second now.’
I walk in what I can only hope is the right direction. It’s a pretty seedy part of town, all off-licences and kebab shops. I pull out my mobile as I progress, debating whether to call Joey. It makes sense to – if he and Courtney turn up quickly enough the chances of recovering the girls will be that much higher. Fear of his anger holds me back, however. Another couple of minutes; they could be just ahead.
Five minutes later I spot the one I think is the one-legged girl. She’s leaning against a streetlight as if drunk or exhausted after running a marathon. Approaching her, I put a hand on her shoulder and ask, ‘You okay?’ She jumps as if I’ve just given her an electric shock, and spins around. ‘You okay?’ I repeat. ‘We had an accident.’
The woman looks dazed. She seems to be staring straight through me. I can see a small cut on her forehead, and wonder is she’s suffering from concussion. ‘Come with me,’ I say, pulling her in the direction of the van. ‘Do you know where your friends are?’
I don’t get an answer to any of my questions, but the woman seems happy to be led. I decide to call Joey. At least I’ve recovered one of the women.
‘You fucking did what?’ Joey shouts a few moments later. I explain briefly what has happened, and give him my location. ‘Give me half an hour,’ he says, before hanging up.
When I get back to the vehicle both the police and an ambulance are on the scene. I approach an officer who is standing beside the van, writing in a little notebook. ‘I was involved in this accident,’ I explain. ‘Just went to look briefly for some passengers who wandered off after the crash.’
The cop waves one of the paramedics over, before asking, ‘Is anyone seriously hurt?’
‘We’re okay, but there were two other women in the van and I haven’t been able to locate them yet.’
‘If they’re able to walk they’re probably not too badly injured,’ the officer says. ‘Let the paramedics take a look at you, then I’ll take a statement.’
The girl and myself are checked over – we’re both going to live – and then I give the police a statement. The cops ring the car rental company to arrange the removal of the van. Five minutes later the emergency services leave – I’m told to take the missing girls to hospital if they show up in a bad way. Shortly afterwards Joey and Courtney pull up, with the two missing girls sitting in the back seat of Joey’s car.
‘That was quick work,’ I say, addressing Joey through his wound down window when he pulls to a halt.
‘You was lucky,’ he says. ‘They were walking away along the route I took to get here. I spotted them ‘cos they weren’t walking straight.’
I glance at his passengers. ‘Are they hurt?’
‘Nah. One’s got a bruise on her arm, but that’s about it. Anyway, hop in. Your girl will have to sit on a lap.’
The next day I drop by Joey’s to pick up some coke. ‘Mr Cuthbert!’ Joey says happily as he ushers me in. I’m pleased he’s in a good mood. Seems the whorecrash of the day before is forgotten. ‘What can I do you for, you limey prick?’
‘Ten grams of your finest,’ I say, throwing my coat over the armrest of a couch.
‘You wouldn’t be developing a habit, would you?’ Joey asks, a smile on his face. ‘You know the rules – we profit from it, other people fuck up on it.’
‘No chance of that,’ I reply. ‘Pity the same can’t be said for some of the call girls I’ve been hiring recently. I throw in a gram of your white gunpowder and the hour’s half price. Seems most dealers cut their stuff to fuck.’
‘That they will do,’ Joey agrees. ‘That they will do. Talking of coke, we’ve run into some trouble with our Haiti connection. Seems the Home Office are tightening up on visas for poor orphan kids.’
‘Shit . . .’ I’m aware how much we made from our first shipment.
‘But fear not. Working on something else – could be even more lucrative. I’ll let you know about it when it’s been firmed up.’
Joey brings me a bag that looks like it contains more like a hundred grams of coke. ‘This should keep you popular for a couple of weeks,’ he says. ‘Now I’m going to have to ask you to scoot. Little lady’s going to be pressing the doorbell any second now.’
Chapter Nine
The next day I decide it’s probably time to sort out Jake. I have a feeling he won’t go away, or forget about what I did to him, and I can’t stand the thought that he might try to harm me at some point. It’s just a distraction; one I can do without. I’m aware that killing him might risk getting myself onto the police radar, but I’m banking on my status as a vicar and thoroughness in not leaving an evidence trail to keep me safe.
My first task is to find out where he’s living. A Google search turns up the phone number of the business I know his father owns, and soon I’m talking to Jake’s old man, pretending to be a friend called Bob. ‘Yeah, I used to visit Jake in prison every couple of months. Got back from a trip abroad a couple of weeks ago and found out he’d been released.’
‘I’m pleased you found the time to visit him,’ the father replies. ‘I wish all of his friends had been as good as you. You say your name is Bob? Are you a university friend?’
‘Yeah, we were on the same course. Absolutely tragic what happened. Your son should never have gone to jail, as everyone with a brain knows.’
This last comment seems to eliminate any lingering scepticism the father might have had about my status as a real friend. Seconds later I’m taking down a phone number and address.
After putting the phone down I spend a few minutes thinking about my options. Jake lives only about a twenty minute drive from my home, in Tufnell Park. That’s convenient – for both of us.
That night I have a strange dream. I’m standing in front of a huge Jake, who lies before me on his front in a dark, cavernous space. His chin is on the ground and his mouth open wide, presenting me with an entry point to the man’s body. I clamber over Jake’s lower lip, and onto his tongue, as big as a trampoline, and covered with a thick film of mucus. The roof of the giant’s mouth is higher than the ceilings in my house. I feel afraid, worried that Jake’s mouth will shut and trap me in his huge gob.
I move forward into Jake’s throat, where I find that instead of being surrounded by moist tissue I’m in a chrome tunnel. Concave TV screens are set into the tunnel at irregular intervals, and seem to be showing random scenes from Jake’s life. I catch a clip of my former friend and myself whilst we were at university, the two of us sitting in a lecture. I really don’t understand why people don’t have more lucid dreams – become aware during a dream that what they’re witnessing couldn’t possibly happen in anything other than a dreamscape – but like most people I accept this outlandish environment I find myself in as perfectly normal.
After traversing a section of Jake’s ‘throat’ area I reach a gate. It is totally dark on the other side of this barrier, and I consider turning back. I’m about to do so, when a regular sized Jake steps up to the gate from the other side. Grabbing an iron bar in each hand he says, ‘Hello, Adam.’
‘Hello,’ I say. ‘Are you trapped there?’
‘The who?’
‘The astrologer. The only person that can save you, and maybe even me.’
‘I’m not interested in saving you,’ I respond. ‘No remotely interested.’
‘I know that, Adam, but he’s still our only hope.’
I’m about to reply, when a huge fireball rushes towards us from behind Jake. It engulfs both Jake and myself. I wake up, sweating and confused.
The following afternoon I’m scheduled to pick up some more whores-to-be from the nuns. I’m fervently hoping this collection goes more smoothly than the previous one. Courtney is scheduled to accompany me, something I could get offended about, but frankly it will be a relief to have him with me.
With a morning free of other commitments, I decide it might be an idea to get on with a bit of murdering. I’m aware that I seem to have floated away from my original cashpoint method of target selection, and decide to return to it.
An hour later I’m sitting in the same coffee shop where it all began, sipping a flat white, a copy of a broadsheet spread out before me. As before, my seat allows me to look outwards, towards the cashpoint machine. At my feet is a shoulder bag that holds my killing tools; in my head are thoughts of slashing and gashing.
I decide to finish my coffee, after which I will choose the fifth person to come along as my victim. A few minutes later I return an empty cup to my table, and look out at the cashpoint machine. No one uses it for about ten minutes, after which two people arrive in quick succession – first a builder-type wearing a hardhat, then an elderly woman holding a leash to which is attached a small dog. After these customers leave there is a wait of about five minutes, after which a man in his twenties turns up. He stands in front of the machine for a few moments whilst searching his trouser pockets, before, presumably having discovered he has left his wallet elsewhere, leaves. I debate whether to count this person as customer three, quickly deciding that I will. A five minute wait, then the same man returns. Hooray, you’ve found your wallet, and how lucky you found it when you did and not a few minutes later. I count him for a second time. The next person to come along will be my victim.