Usman came bounding in from the kitchen, the exhilaration clear on his face, his mind still up in the clouds somewhere. The goofy big grin was back. He had a bottle of beer in each hand, passing one to Martin and dropping down onto the couch.
‘Think we should be celebrating a wee bit, don’t you?’
‘A job is not finished until we know we are safe,’ Martin told him, surprised by the miserable tone he was using. This wasn’t him playing up to Usman’s image of him, this was Martin feeling down. He had never thought of himself as depressing before, but here he was, killing the mood.
‘Come on, we fucking nailed it back there. All right, okay, I know what you’re going to say, I know. You’re going to say that we claw-hammered Nate Colgan into the carpet and we battered a bookie, and that other guy saw my face. You’re right, that ain’t great, none of it. But, you know, we got the score. And we’ll get away with it, trust me. They have nothing to chase after. We did good.’
Martin didn’t say anything to that, just sat and watched Usman drinking in large gulps, the grin getting ever wider. Usman’s comedown was still a long way off, although Martin felt determined to bring it closer.
‘I thought your people didn’t drink?’
‘What, Scottish people? Mate, you have been grossly misinformed,’ Usman said, enjoying his moment. He leaned forward and pulled the bag from the floor; plonking it on the coffee table between them, the guns and hammer clanking together. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got then.’
He took the three guns and the hammer out first, placing them carefully on the table and looking at them.
‘We need to clean them,’ Martin said. ‘You did not have gloves on when you handled two of them back there. Then we have to get rid of them as soon as we can.’
Usman nodded. ‘Shame we have to ditch them, there’s good money sitting there.’ People paid a good price for a weapon, and Usman hated to swerve a good price when it was right in front of him.
‘We have to get rid of them. Nobody can know that we ever had those extra guns. Or our own gun.’
Another nod. ‘I know, I know. You leave them three wee beauties with me and I’ll get well rid of them. No risks.’
That had always been the plan. Usman had assured him that he knew how to get rid of dangerous and unwanted items, said he could ditch the gun they had bought for the job without difficulty. Now there were three, which made the task three times harder. Or maybe not; if he really did have an excellent site for ditching the guns then three would be little more of a chore than one.
‘Right, time to get counting.’
Usman got up and went across to the window, pulling the thick curtains shut, swinging a hand to swipe at the dust that fell off them. He switched the light on, a bare bulb. They both wanted to do this quickly and without error. Also made it easy to take a good look at each other, the jolly Usman and the miserable Martin. The strain was written in bold over Martin’s face. So this guy wasn’t going to be a barrel of laughs then. Fine, okay, a prancing personality wasn’t the most important thing. The most important thing was that he was good at the job.
‘You want to take one packet and I’ll take the other?’ Usman asked him. He was quieter now, going for a calmer approach. If the other person was on a downer then you showed them respect. Usman knew he could grate if he got his tone wrong and that would scupper his hopes of working together again.
Martin nodded and Usman passed him a package.
‘We will need knives.’
‘Will we?’
It didn’t seem to matter to Usman if they ripped the packaging; it was the contents they wanted. Anyway, no arguments, so he trudged to the kitchen and found one sharp knife and a whole drawer full of blunt ones. This flat wasn’t well stocked, too rarely used for anyone to spend money on it. Usman had the keys for twenty-four hours, and it might be weeks before anyone else used it. He rifled through another drawer and came away with a pair of scissors that would do as a substitute. He went back into the living room and found Martin sitting exactly where he’d left him, his bottle on the table, unopened.
He gave Martin the scissors. He was already miserable; let him have the awkward tool. Usman took the knife and began cutting at the edges of the thick brown Sellotape.
‘Jesus, did they not want to get back into these things themselves?’
Martin didn’t say anything, nipping tiny cuts carefully with the edge of the scissors. It took them each a few minutes to get through the various layers of paper wrapping. Usman was the first to get his open, the contents smiling back at him. Blocks of cash, bundled together individually and then tightly packed together with thin elastic bands. He started to laugh.
‘Look at that. Fuck’s sake, man, will you look at it? How much you reckon is there?’
Martin looked, genuinely trying to work out a number in his head. He closed his eyes.
‘I don’t know. We will have to count it anyway. Is all the money the same?’
‘Same notes. Uh, hold on.’ He turned them all over, checking back and front of each. ‘Nah, they’re not. These blocks are all twenties, these are all tens. Shit. Imagine if they were all fifties, huh?’
Martin said nothing, cutting away at the last of his, not wasting a thought on what might have been. He found the same prize waiting inside his parcel. Bundles packed tight, some twenties, some tens. Nothing else.
Usman took a swig from his bottle. ‘Now we count?’
‘Now we count.’
It took over an hour. Wouldn’t have taken that long for people who were used to handling this sort of money, and it would only have taken minutes if they had a counter to use. They couldn’t have gotten a hold of one without someone getting suspicious, wondering why either of them suddenly needed to count cash. So every note passed through a human hand, carefully logged. It meant loose bundles being counted, not always accurately and having to be counted a second time. It meant a bundle falling on the floor and spilling everywhere, picked back up and counted again. It meant Usman going back to the kitchen for a second and third beer, the one thing he had made sure was stocked, and then to the toilet. Then Usman asking if Martin minded if he smoked, and going to the toilet to smoke because of the glare he got in response.
‘I have sixteen thousand pounds, exactly,’ Martin said when he had finished. He had tied his bundle back together into a neat block.
‘Uh-huh.’
Usman finished counting and looked across. ‘I got sixteen grand, exactly. So I guess we’re getting sixteen grand each then.’ Said with a grin. Surely now that the miserable little sod had sixteen grand sitting in front of him, begging to be a part of his life, he would be a bit more cheerful.
He wasn’t. Not outwardly, anyway. He was just sitting there, original bottle still untouched, looking at the wads of cash. Six wads of twenties and four wads of tens, ten perfect little bricks of wealth. He was looking at the money and looking back at Usman, making him uncomfortable. There was something in the back of his mind, something pushing its way forward.
‘The first time we met, you told me there would be fifteen thousand pounds for me.’
‘Yeah.’
‘How could you know?’
Usman shrugged a little. ‘I didn’t. I was guessing, that was all. I said you’d make about fifteen grand because I figured that was a reasonable shout. I was right.’
Martin said nothing for a few seconds, letting the silence get uncomfortable again before he broke it. ‘I don’t think you were guessing. There is no reason that you would guess fifteen thousand. You would say, maybe, a few thousand, or ten thousand. There is no reason why you would decide that fifteen thousand would be the right amount when it could have been anything.’
‘You ain’t very good at having a good time, are you, pal? I’m starting to work out why they ran you out of Poland.’
‘I was never in Poland. I am Czech.’
‘Yeah, well, you ain’t welcome somewhere, I know that much, and I think I know why.’
‘You knew,’ Martin said, pulling at a thread he was sure he had a good grip on.
‘Knew what?’
Martin leaned back and sighed. He wasn’t looking at Usman when he spoke next. ‘You knew how much money would be there. Somebody told you there would be that money, that amount. I am sure of this, so don’t say no. You knew.’
‘And if I did?’
‘If you did it’s dangerous for both of us. If you did then someone told you, and the person who told you knows that you know. It means someone will be able to point a finger at you for doing this job.’
Usman leaned forward, hands together. ‘Listen, right. One of those guys in there tonight saw my face. I mean, it was dark, maybe he didn’t get a proper look, I don’t know, but some dangerous bastard had a chance to see my pretty face. They had a chance to see the car as we were driving away as well, if they ran to the front door and looked out for us. There are loads of ways that they could identify that it was me. Not you, me. You’re safe, right. You’re off the hook no matter what. You had a balaclava on, you didn’t say a fucking word and we didn’t use your motor. I’m the one that’s swimming in the shit here, if that guy got a look at me or the car. I ain’t worrying about it, I’m a good swimmer. Look, I’ll work this out if I have to, but you got nothing to worry about.’
‘You knew.’
‘Fuck’s sake, man, you’re like some gif on repeat. You knew, you knew, you knew. Fine, right, I had an idea. Of course I fucking did. You think I would go in there not having a good idea what we were going to take out? All that risk and we might come out with four pound twenty and a bundle of fucking betting slips. I knew that was where they put their money. I knew who to look out for. Yeah, I knew there was a deal going down that was going to be a one-off payment for them, something they weren’t expecting either. I had heard whispers about it. Rumours, you know. This business runs on the bloody things. Nobody knew that I knew. I wasn’t supposed to know. I thought they’d have more than that, if you want to know the honest truth. I thought we were looking at a clean fifty grand, but they must have split the money up, hidden some of it away someplace else. Or maybe there were more people getting a cut of it than I realized. Anyway, I knew the deal they were doing and I tried to cash in. That a bad thing? Having all that information and doing something with it? We cleared thirty-two fucking grand off this job.’
‘I did not say it was bad. Not if you’re sure they can’t work out that you knew. Trace this back to you,’ Martin said, waving a stubby finger at the piles of money.
‘Look, they had this deal. Something to do with importing, came about after Angus Lafferty pulled his disappearing act. You know about that?’
Martin shook his head.
‘Right, well, never mind then. Point is, I heard a rumour about the deal when it was in its early stages. I had known about them using the bookies for awkward cash for a while and I was waiting for a big score to come along before I tried to work the place over.’
Martin wasn’t here to argue. Seemed stupid, sitting here and creating conflict when they had sixteen grand each to walk away with and plenty of bigger issues to worry about.
‘We must not be in touch with each other for some time. Weeks should be, at least,’ Martin said sternly. ‘Be careful with the money; don’t let people know that you have it. And then we can be in contact again.’
None of this was news, just common sense. Usman nodded, the grin starting to spread across his face again as Martin stuffed his money into the plastic bag to take home with him.
‘And then after all that time away from dear old me, you’ll want to do another job together, right? Another big score.’
Martin looked at him. ‘Let us wait and see what happens with this one first. If nobody has taken my kneecaps away from me then I might want to work with you again. Only if you have a good job for us to do though. I have no interest in small things.’
Usman was grinning. ‘Of course I got some big ones lined up, of course I do. Here, now, let me give you a lift home, you can’t go on the bus with sixteen grand of Peter fucking Jamieson’s cash in a carrier bag, can you?’
Martin shook his head. ‘You have drunk too much. If the police stop you, we will both be in prison. I would rather take the bus or a taxi.’
‘No way to either of them,’ Usman was saying. ‘Buses have got security cameras on them and you don’t know that a taxi driver isn’t keeping an eye out for you. Some of them work for Jamieson, right. They might have word out to look for a miserable wee Russian. I’m telling you now, the safest way home is in the passenger seat of my car. I drive better with a drink anyway, makes me less, what’s the word, complacent. I have to go do something about the car anyway, change the plates or something, take the heat off it. And I got to get rid of these guns as well, might as well be now. Come on, I’ll drop you off first.’
There was no argument, only the realization that he needed his own car if he was going to do this again. Martin wouldn’t do another job in this city until he had one. They walked out of the flat, Usman locking the door with its only key, his money safely inside.
8
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. Ah, Jesus.’ Nate was grumbling as he tried to get back to his feet, unsteady and angry. A hand against the wall, struggling to get up. Something was on his legs, pressing him down, he wasn’t sure what. He had to twist round onto his backside to see Gregor sprawled there, unconscious or dead. There was no sign of Gully. Nate kicked Gregor off, showing little pity. The bookie didn’t make a sound, just rolled on the floor and lay there.
Nate got onto his knees, touching the back of his head and feeling the sticky wetness in his hair. There wasn’t much blood there, but a head injury was always enough to make you nervous. Not as nervous as Gregor was making him, looking like a dead man on the floor. Nate, still on his knees, shuffled across to him. Gregor was breathing, his round mound of stomach slowly rising and falling. Nate leant down and gave him a gentle slap on the face. That got a groan in response, which was all that Nate needed to hear. The man wasn’t dead, wasn’t dying and this disaster hadn’t just turned into a complete catastrophe.
Nate had to put his hand back against the wall before he could stand up. Bloody hell, the back of his head hurt when he moved. Felt like the skin had been ripped, the sort of pain you get from a glancing blow, where someone hesitates just enough to not hit you cleanly. Could have been a hit with a sharp object, but there would have been a deeper cut and more blood if that was the case. Nate had experience of every kind of punch, kick and weapon attack that was ever likely to be dished out; he could tell in an instant what this was. It was a different wound from Gregor’s. Nate’s was no big deal, painful and annoying but once the shock wore off he would be fine. Couple of stitches might be needed, but nothing more gruesome. Gregor had been knocked out cold, Nate hadn’t. Gregor’s was a vicious blow to the back of the head, there could be something more serious and long-lasting there.
Never mind Gregor, he had to find Gully. There was no sign of him at all; he must have gone after the pair of little shites that were responsible for this. Could be dangerous, he might need some backup. Nate stumbled forward, stopped, shook his head and started again. He felt lightheaded, damaged. He wasn’t used to the feeling of vulnerability that came with it, or the feeling of defeat.
Gully stepped in through the back door just as Nate lurched round the corner. Glass crunched under his foot, he looked down and grimaced, then across to Nate.
‘You finished your siesta?’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ was all Nate could manage. ‘Bastard snuck up on me.’
‘You okay?’
Nate nodded. ‘Not sure about our friend back there though, he’s still half asleep. What did you see?’
‘Got the car number plate. The one who hit you was a Pakistani boy with a hammer. Face wasn’t covered, so I’m guessing he was supposed to be the driver for the other one. They got our guns.’
That didn’t matter; N
ate didn’t like the bloody things anyway. The expense would be covered by the organization, and it would save him going to the effort of returning them. What mattered was that Gully had seen a face and had a car they could track down.
Gully led the way back round the corner to Gregor.
‘Try and wake him up,’ he said to Nate, ‘and I’ll find somewhere to write down that number before my ageing mind forgets it.’
Gully went into the office, found a pen and a sheet of paper and scribbled down the plate details, taking a glance at the open safe as he did. Smart little bastards, he thought to himself. Nate knelt back down beside Gregor. He was starting to get concerned; the guy had been properly unconscious for nearly a minute and he wasn’t waking fast. That was always bad news. He slapped him gently again, the extent of his medical expertise.
‘Come on, Donny, talk to me, you clown.’
There was a mumble, Donny trying to say something, slurring his words badly. Gully came back out and stood in the doorway, looking down at them both. Nate shook his head.
‘I think we’re going to have to get a doctor onto this one. He was out for a while. Concussion, or something like that. Could be serious. We can’t afford to have him dropping dead on us. This is a big enough fuck-up already without a body.’
‘We got a company doc or will I run him to the hospital?’
Nate had to think about it. They had a company doctor, a pill popper who technically wasn’t a doctor any more, but he seemed to know what he was doing and he could at least give them a better idea of whether they needed to get Gregor to a hospital.
‘Company doc first, see what he says. I’ll write you his address. Don’t know what state he’ll be in mind you, this late at night. Get this one round there, I’ll phone the doc up and warn him you’re coming.’
For Those Who Know the Ending Page 8