by David Mathew
Dorman hung his head.
Connors, on the other hand, stood his ground. ‘With due respect, I think we’re entitled to at least a percentage of our fee. For the work so far.’
Massimo drew closer. ‘Oh you do, do you? For a table full of shit I’ll be hard pushed to punt at a car boot sale.’
‘That’s not what you said five minutes ago.’
Massimo smirked. ‘So what sort of percentage did you have in mind, eh? I’ll tell you what, son. Here’s me best offer: take it or leave it. Nought per cent and a kick up the arse on your way. Or you can go back to the right house and do the fucking job I told you to do. Now get out of my home.’
‘It was an honest mistake,’ Connors persisted. ‘The Continental style of those ones – we both thought they were sevens.’
‘Well you were both wrong, weren’t you?’ Massimo told them.
5.
‘Nothing we can’t replace,’ Chris concluded, drawing Bernadette in for a squeeze. ‘It’s nothing, babe. Don’t let it worry you. It’s random. We were out, they came in,’ he sing-songed. ‘They don’t know anything.’
Bernadette sighed. ‘I think Billie bit him. She had a tiny bit of blood on her tooth.’
‘Good. I hope it was on his dangle.’
‘…I’m sorry I spoiled your game. I don’t suppose you really had a flush, did you?’
‘No. I made a hundred, though.’
‘Excellent. We can put a down payment on a new laptop,’ Bernadette said sourly.
6.
‘Now we face an uncertain but interesting premise,’ said Dorman, indicating left.
‘We need a different vehicle,’ Connors interpreted.
‘Exactly.’
‘So what’s the interesting part?’
‘Concept of two birds with one stone,’ Dorman answered. ‘Have to go back there anyway…’
‘No. I’m not standing there while you do in a dog! Forget about it! We’re going to the right house and we’ll see how the land lies.’
‘It’s just up the road!’
‘I don’t care, Dorman. You didn’t think I’d accompany you, did you? This is you and the dog’s problem, not mine. The bugger didn’t bite me.’
‘No. He wouldna been able to catch you.’
‘…What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You’re light on your feet, that’s all. The benefit of youth.’
‘Oh…’
‘Why, what did you think I was implying?’
‘Nothing. So what do you say? We park this – and what?’
‘Well let me think now. If we park, we add on the inconvenience of having to lift the stuff, maybe two or three streets away. Or more.’
‘As I say: we need a different vehicle.’
‘Right.’
‘And we ain’t got one.’
‘Right.’
‘…So your suggestion is?’
They had drawn up to a red light. There were two cars ahead of them. Dorman drummed on the wheel; he revved the engine as if he was going somewhere in a hurry.
‘What do you think he was expecting?’ he asked, ignoring Connors’s question.
‘I’ve been curious about that for the last twenty minutes,’ Connors admitted.
‘He got a laptop, some electrical shit,’ Dorman continued in a ruminative manner. ‘I thought it was pretty decent.’
‘We both did.’
‘No jewellery, I suppose…’
‘No; but there weren’t any!’
‘No. It’d be helpful if we knew what we were actually looking for.’
‘I don’t think he knows,’ said Connors.
For the moment Connors declined to comment further. He engaged first gear and pulled away, but he didn’t keep his counsel for long.
‘Should’ve trusted my instincts,’ he said. ‘This had a funny feeling from the start.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, for openers – why did it need two strangers? No disrespect intended, but you get to my age you get a good idea who you want to work with. Then Benny’s telling me, “You’re working with a new kid.” I’m like, “Why? Everyone on holiday or summing?” He’s gone, “It’s a job for Massimo. Bloke don’t need to supply reasons.” So I went along with it – obviously – but I had a taste in my mouth. No offence.’
‘None taken. I thought it was odd too,’ said Connors. ‘And the urgency of the thing. Has to be Monday night. Homeowners at a funeral up north. Well okay. I don’t doubt that exactly…’
‘I’m starting to.’
‘…but if they’re away, what does it matter what time we hustle? Don’t make sense.’
Dorman agreed. ‘None of it does. If I thought I could get out of this with my reputation intact I’d be out of here, mate. I don’t like the flavour.’
Somewhat uncertainly Connors asked, ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’
‘We get killed.’
‘No, I mean – what’s the worst that could happen if we refuse to do the job?’
‘That’s what I was talking about.’
‘…Jesus.’
‘Oh, not directly, maybe,’ Dorman conceded. ‘But I seen it happen. Bad jobs leading to a... to a devaluation of a reputation. The next thing you know the guy’s frozen out and half blind with hunger. No work to be had, see. Moves on. End of story. Good as dead…But this one guy – Feathers his name was – he thought he’d tough it out. Started taking risks. Silly risks. The last time I see him, guy’s punting for change outside the bookies, slowly starving to death. They say they saw him strangling a pigeon. For a meal, presumably. Only, by then the poor cunt was so doo-lally with fatigue and the munchies and desperation, he tried to eat the fucker there – raw – on the street.’
‘Yuck.’
‘Exactly. Yuck. Thereafter he was busting into places just to get a cell for the night. For the toast and coffee…We’ll park here.’
Connors waited until Dorman had killed the engine.
‘What happened to him? To Feathers.’
‘He disappeared. Poof! In a puff of smoke, like.’ Dorman sighed reflectively. ‘I wish I had someone I could look up to in a situation like this,’ he said softly.
Connors was already bristling: the altercation with Massimo had had a chance to get back under his skin. And now this: the obligation to play the part of the grateful new boy.
‘Situations like what?’ he all-but demanded.
‘Like this! This amateur stuff, mate!’
‘It don’t feel amateur,’ Connors replied.
‘Well, that’s because you’re an amateur.’
‘Oh fuck off! We both got it wrong, Dorman, it weren’t just me... Oh very funny.’
Dorman had burst out laughing. ‘Don’t get me wrong, mate, but you’re gonna be a fucking cinch to wind up! Temper flaring up like a pack of haemorrhoids!’
‘Yeah yeah...’
Dorman parked a couple of streets shy of their destination. ‘I got it,’ he said, clicking his fingers. ‘Staring us right in the face. It’s like going for food.’
Connors twisted in his chair. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We bought food, right? Why did we do that?’
‘Because you were hungry? Because that’s what they do on this planet?’
‘Oh I see. You’re being humorous. You’re being a wag. Well listen up. We went for food and acted normal for people to remember us, Connors. And by remembering us – what happened?’
‘They forget us,’ Connors answered. ‘We’re just two blokes who bought chicken.’
‘Exactly. So what could be more natural, after a dog’s bit a bloke, than that bloke going back to the house? It’s acting normal...’
‘Except for two things,’ Connors told him.
‘What two things?’
Connors counted them out into the palm of his left hand. ‘One: it’s the middle of the night – not exactly a traditional time for making a complaint.’
‘But they’re night owls, mate! We just seen the bloke come home!’
‘Unless he’s burgling the place.’
‘Good luck to the cunt if he is. We already got it all.’
‘And two: we happened to be inside the place removing their goods when the dog bit you, as I do believe I’ve mentioned before.’
‘Ah!’ Dorman raised a finger: point of order, my lord. ‘Except we weren’t.’
Connors shook his head slowly. ‘Weren’t what?’ he asked.
‘Inside. We were outside. And what’s more, we saw the cunts coming out with a load of fucking computers and whatnot in their arms! It was them cunts burgling the place. We just happened to interrupt the proceedings.’
Connors smiled. ‘I see where you’re going –‘
‘Exactly.’
‘ –but why were we there in the first place? Why were we passing?’
‘We know someone in the next village… What do you think they’re gonna do, cross-examine us? We just stopped a burglary at their house!’
‘Or tried to,’ said Connors.
‘Or tried to, exactly.’
‘...How many of’m were there?’
‘Three. Nice unround number, three. And big cunts. But white. White as us. This don’t look like the sort of place as gets too worried by racial tension, you know what I mean?’ Dorman laughed.
‘But we just robbed a black geezer’s house,’ Connors argued.
‘Who did?’
‘Well, they did.’
‘They did. Right. But they didn’t know it was a black geezer’s house, did they?’
‘I don’t know if they did or not,’ Connors admitted.
‘Exactly. You don’t. And do you know why you don’t know?’ Dorman asked him.
‘No. Because I’m an amateur?’
‘No. Because you’re not a bloody sociologist, are you? Let’s go for it, mate.’ Dorman did what his name suggested his ancestors once did for a living, or at least for tips: he opened the door. And he was about to slide out into the chilly air.
‘Just so I’m clear,’ Connors stopped him. ‘We were in the neighbourhood, maybe asking for directions...’
‘Yeah okay: we were lost.’
‘...and we see em coming out of the house, carrying stuff.’
Dorman was growing impatient. ‘That’s about the size of it,’ he told his pupil. ‘Except – one look at us and they think they’re onto a loser, even if we think they happen to be moving house.’
‘At midnight.’
‘It don’t matter at what time. We scared em off and got a bite on our arse from the dog for our troubles.’
‘Well I didn’t.’
‘Well I did. And they’ll be sorry about that. They might even reward us, mate! Won’t occur to em someone’d be dumb enough to return to the scene of the crime so soon afterwards.’
‘I can follow that,’ Connors added. ‘This is suicidal.’
‘No it ain’t. Even got a poetry about it,’ Dorman countered. ‘We’re completely in the clear – think about it. We sow the right seeds while they’re still awake inside the house.’
‘But why did we come back?’
‘We or they?’
‘We! Us! Why are we here after we went away for a bit?’
‘It’s obvious.’
‘Not to me.’
‘We were chasing the cunts, but they got away – they slipped us on the B road. Adios. Goodnight, Vienna. They’s too fast for us. Too skilful.’
For a second or two Connors said nothing. The information was processed in several compartments of his brain. ‘And then what?’ he finally asked.
‘Then we do the real place,’ Dorman answered.
‘...Why ain’t they called the filth, I wonder. Place should be oozing blue light.’
Dorman chuckled. ‘For a burglary? Grow up, son. What’s it like here? Not exactly the Bronx.’
‘That’s what I mean. Burglary round here’ll make the papers, I woulda thought.’
‘That’s your problem, son, in a nutshell. You think too much. Are we coming or we going? This ain’t getting a bonnet for baby, sitting here getting piles. We don’t want him going to sleep.’
‘No, I suppose not. But what about the dog?’
‘Jesus. What about the dog?’ Dorman demanded.
‘And your plans for it.’
‘They can wait.’ Dorman sniffed. ‘I’ll take the fucker out for his last walk in the near future. First, we introduce ourselves. Then we do the right house. Then in the morning, P.C. fucking Piddlestick’s hot on the trail of three white skinheads in a... in a plumber’s van. Yeah. Double burglary, dirty wankers. Don’t know what this country’s coming to. Now come on.’
Beyond the door to Number 77 the dog barked. Dorman twitched. He felt his cheeks fill with surface-level blood: embarrassment and rage. He felt ill-prepared, despite the lesson he’d given Connors. Of all the unfamiliar emotions that he might experience, he felt insecure. And there was no point being rational about this, he had decided. There was no point saying to himself: Craig, my son? You’re bound to feel a bit on edge. You just been bitten by a dog, son! The same one as wants to have another mouthful! No point. Because if he couldn’t deal with a dog, for Christ’s sake, then his name would be rubbish before the week was out anyway: with or without Massimo’s account of tonight’s failures doing the rounds. Then you notice your stock fall, he continued. Like it did for old George Feathers.
He had something to prove, no doubt of that: no less than a defence of his honour... He could feel Connors slightly behind him; feel the younger man’s attention. It was getting on his nerves, this assumed responsibility. Maybe better men than he could hack it... The dog barked some more. How many seconds had passed? His buttock throbbed; the alcohol in his system – the quick one he’d had at Massimo’s – had been drained of any curative effect it had once possessed and was now sour and sharp in his bladder. He felt sick.
‘Dorman?’ Connors repeated.
Come on, Craig, he ordered himself. Grow a pair or fuck right off like the old man did.
Beautiful. Poetic timing, son! Bringing the old man in at this hardly-appropriate moment. You got enough room on your chest for another medal? You sulker. Perhaps we could pin it to your fucking spine.
‘Dorman?’
‘Yes yes,’ the older man hissed irritably. He extended his reach towards the doorbell.
7.
Unable to sleep, Bernadette lay in bedclothes that she felt guilty owning. It didn’t matter that honest gambling had bought them: it’s the way she was. All gamblers are guilty. This was fifty per cent of something she thought of from time to time: it came back to her at the oddest moments. Inopportune was not the word. All gamblers are guilty of something, was what he’d said – what Chris had said, returning home one daybreak after an all-nighter – and the words had chilled Bernadette. She’d thought he’d lost. She’d thought he’d lost at a time in their shared life when they couldn’t afford to lose.
Disgustedly she kicked off the expensive bedware; the smoothness was an itch to her skin. She stood by the window and touched the bronze-coloured curtain; the hem was as heavy as a ham.
Down on the street, two men walked towards her house. For less than five seconds they were framed in light drizzling from a lamp, which turned their faces the colour of beechwood.
The man a stride or two in the lead was of medium height and lean build; he was in his late forties. He wore either dark blue or black; it was impossible to tell which. His iron-filing hair bordered a rigid monk’s tonsure at his fontanelle; he appeared angry. A mood had tugged his eyebrow
s together into an admonishing frown.
The second man was younger. Mid-twenties, was Bernadette’s instant guess. He had a fuller figure; not fat, but broad in the beam. The look of a man who was serious when he arrived at the gym. A ratty face: something rodent about the small nose. He was wearing a navy tracksuit and a pair of formerly white trainers, now stained beige by mud or puddles.
Bernadette had no way of knowing it, but these two men were about to change her life for the worse.
Behind her, Chris snuffled in his sleep. Bernadette turned to watch him, to calm him; she believed that a loving unbroken gaze could soothe him when he suffered the nightfears, and on this occasion it worked too. If Chris had been worming his way up out of cover, Bernadette’s patient attention – her bedside manner no less – coaxed him back down again. Simultaneously his mouth and his rectum emitted proximate noises. Then he settled, and Bernadette returned to the scene on the road below.
Then Chelsea started barking downstairs.
Then the doorbell rang.
Chris lifted his head from the pillow. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’ll get it.’ Bernadette wanted this first hand, not reported back to her. She’d be safe enough: Chelsea had always been a good guard dog. Hadn’t tonight’s events, and Chelsea’s performance therein, proved as much?
All the same, Bernadette took the phone from the charger cradle on the bedside table. She thumbed 999. All it would take was a thumb on the green button to send the alarm. With the phone in her hand she pulled on her dressing gown as Chris sat up in bed.
‘Hell’s that at this time of night?’ Chris demanded, his voice slurred with half-dissolved sleep.
‘It’s nothing. Probably someone lost.’ Bernadette stepped onto the landing (the floorboards creaked reliably) and skipped down the flight, to where she saw Chelsea fronting up to the door. ‘It’s all right, girl.’
The dog turned. This was better, the eyes seemed to say as they watched Mistress descend. The bark altered: something friendlier now; something less territorial.
Aware that Chris was behind her – at the top of the stairs, in his dressing gown – Bernadette took a breath and opened the door.