by David Barry
‘They know he was with another woman. Course, they don’t know the sordid details. Funeral will be a farce, won’t it? What will anyone find to say about Gary?’
Craig looked embarrassed.
Still, it’s an ill wind,’ Maggie continued with false brightness. ‘Your brother-in-law’s about to give you a bonus. On his behalf - cos he can’t have been all rotten - I am giving you one of the shops. Well, you could look pleased about it.’
But Craig had remembered that on Saturday night he and Tony Rice planned to burgle the Working Men’s Club. And if there was a change of plan, how would Rice and Harvey Boyle take it?
Twenty - One
Andrew hit the buttons of the machine. His system wasn’t working. He was now down more than fifty pounds. He decided to wait until other customers had fed maybe another thirty of forty into the slot, so he returned to the bar and ordered another Coke, which he drank from the bottle.
Sitting on a bar stool, doing The Times crossword, a man with a florid complexion peered at him over half-moon glasses and said, ‘I expect you’re into computer games, as well.’
Andrew shrugged and grunted. He didn’t like the man’s patronising tone. Computer games polarised youth and oldies more than music these days.
‘So what sort of computer games d’you play?’ the man persisted.
Andrew rattled off a lot of titles he thought would be meaningless to the man.
The man smiled. ‘Sounds like a lot of war games. Ever thought about the end result of a direct missile hit?’
The guy’s a nutter, thought Andrew. Humour him.
‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘Every time I bring down an enemy fighter, I always imagine the pilot splattered into a million pieces.’
‘He’d be one of the lucky ones. The victims are the civilians unlucky enough to live within a certain radius of a military target. Tomahawk cruise missiles, for instance, have a circular error probability: they don’t have to be bang on target to be effective.’
The man spoke in a slight monotone, as if this was a speech he’d made many time before.
‘These computer games,’ he continued, ‘force feed us with the illusion that war is now fought without blood being spilled. You’d be too young to remember the Gulf War. At least eighteen years ago.’
Andrew nodded. ‘I’d have just been born.’
‘Well the television coverage of the Gulf War was a wonderful video game. From the comfort of our armchairs we didn’t see the retreating Iraqi soldiers being cluster bombed, napalmed and burnt to a crisp.’
Andrew glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve...er...’
‘I’m driving you away. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just I’ve lived with this for the past six years. I suppose I’ve become obsessed. I think I need another gin. Can I get you another drink? Go on, it’s the least I can do.’
Andrew hesitated. In spite of his suspicion that this man might be the pub bore, his curiosity was aroused. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll have another Coke.’
The man grinned. ‘Of course, if you were a baby during the Gulf War, you’d be breaking the law if you drank something stronger.’
‘Cheers!’ said Andrew after they’d been served. ‘When you said you’d lived with it for six years....’
‘I’m a writer. I’m writing a book about an arms dealer. Well, I’ve finished it, actually. My publishers paid me a handsome advance, then backed off. And no one else will touch it. But at least the advance means I can self-publish now.
‘How come your publisher backed off?’
‘I opened a giant can of worms. Not far from here, in deepest East Sussex, tucked away and impossible to find, is a large rambling house surrounded by high walls. The home of one of the richest and most powerful men in the country. He made a personal fortune of twenty million selling weapons to Saddam Hussein in the early Eighties.’
Andrew frowned. ‘But surely arms dealing is ... well, I thought it was just one of those things that goes on.’
‘If you went to a posh school, thinking your father was just a rich businessman, would you like your friends to know your father made money peddling death and destruction? And if you were his wife, cosseted from the truth, would you want it brought home to you that your husband deals in cluster bombs that explode into thousands of needle-sharp fragments, literally shredding people to death, women and children included? How would they feel knowing their father makes his riches out of other people’s tragedies. He even has a company to outsource army interrogation of Iraqi and Afghan prisoners. And it’s not just the money that motivates him. It’s the power. Otherwise he could have retired years ago. And this man is so powerful he can guarantee his anonymity.’
‘So he can put the frighteners on your publisher?’
The man smiled at Andrew’s choice of words. ‘What do you think?’
Andrew, who’d been distracted from the fruit machine, suddenly found all this intriguing. ‘I’d like to buy a copy of your book,’ he said impulsively.
‘Thanks. That’s kind of you but....’ The man hesitated, then took a dog-eared business card out of his wallet and handed it to Andrew. ‘Contact me next week. Proofs should be ready by then. I’ll let you have a copy.’
‘I don’t mind paying.’
The man waved it aside. ‘Please. It’s on the house. The least I can do for boring you.’
Andrew blushed. ‘No, of course not....’
‘Just promise me one thing,’ the man cut in. ‘Next time you play your computer games, spare a thought for the death you could be dealing out. I know it’s only a game but everyone seems to be losing their sense of reality.’
Frowning, Andrew suddenly wondered if this bloke was on the level. Perhaps he was just some pub nutter who drank too much. The local nuisance.
As if he guessed what Andrew was thinking, he added, ‘Everything I’ve told you is true. When you read the book, you’ll see.’
‘No,’ Andrew said hastily. ‘I believe you. It’s just ... I was wondering what life would be like without my computer games.’
‘They’re not all war games, are they?’
Andrew laughed. ‘The best ones are.’
***
Mary had just returned from taking the children to school when the phone rang. It was Harvey Boyle. ‘I’ve just had a phone call from Craig - chap you met last night. He won’t be needing your help now, Mary. I’m sorry, but it’s all off.’
‘Oh, no! I needed that two-hundred. I still owe the balance for the school trip.’
There was a slight pause. Harvey cleared his throat before speaking. ‘I tell you what I’ll do....’
As soon as he used that phrase, she knew there had to be a catch. ‘You’re still very attractive, sweetheart. Nice figure and that.’
‘No, Harvey. No strip-tease.’ She shuddered at the memory. ‘I hate it.’
‘You’re a talented dancer, Mary. And this is a good venue. A private do for professional men.’
‘I don’t care if it’s at the Oscars ceremony. I won’t do it.’
‘I can make it two-fifty.’ She sighed, already feeling dirty at the thought of it. ‘Okay. Just this once. For the sake of the kids.’
Twenty - Two
Claire arrived home late to find Mike and Andrew sprawled out in front of the television. The house smelt of beer and vinegar. Crumpled fish and chip wrappers littered the coffee table. She felt like screaming.
‘Couldn’t you even be bothered to eat off plates?’ she said, trying to control her anger. But the television was too loud, setting her nerves on edge. ‘Can you switch that bloody thing off?’
‘Oh, Mum!’ Andrew protested. ‘We’re in the middle of watching it.’
Claire stared with hostility at the screen. A thug in a Hawaiian shirt fired a few rounds fro
m a machine pistol, then lobbed a grenade at a motor launch, which exploded vividly.
‘Please, Andrew! Go and watch the rest of it in your room.’
‘What about Dad?’
Mike’s voice sounded slurred. ‘I’ve seen as much as I want to see. Load of old ... any film starring Chuck Norris....’
Impatiently, Claire switched the television off. Andrew got up, went to the door, and reluctantly stopped to ask, ‘How was Newcastle?’
‘Newcastle’s fine. Thank you for asking.’
Andrew frowned, shrugged, then left the room, muttering, ‘I’ll go an watch the rest of the film then.’
Claire sat on the sofa next to Mike, poised on the edge, tension showing in her neck and shoulders.
‘What’s wrong?’ Mike asked.
‘I’m glad he’s out of the room. I couldn’t face telling him. Not right now.’
‘Telling him? Telling him what?’
‘About Chloe.’
‘Well, are you going to tell me or not? I was hoping you’d phone from Newcastle....’
‘I did, and you were out. I couldn’t leave a message on the answering machine. Hello, I’m just ringing to tell you that you that your daughter’s pregnant.’
Claire stared at Mike, watching his reaction. They heard the distant crackle of gunfire as Andrew switched the TV on in his room. Mike rubbed and pressed his forehead and sighed tremulously.
‘All day I’ve been thinking about her, wondering what the problem was, and I didn’t think that....’ He felt angry suddenly. ‘Why the hell couldn’t they take precautions?’
‘It gets worse, I’m afraid. It wasn’t her boyfriend Mark. She’d had an argument with him. She went to a party, got drunk, and slept with another bloke just to spite him.’
‘Oh, the stupid little ... I can’t believe this. If it was Andrew who’d come home and told me he’d got some girl in the family way, I could understand it. But not Chloe.’
‘Not your little girl, you mean. She’s nearly twenty-one, Mike.’
‘Yes, I know but - what the hell is she going to do? What about her degree?’
‘She says she doesn’t know what she wants to do. She’s going to come home this weekend to talk about it.’
‘Well, she’s got one of two choices. She can either have it or have an abortion. And what about the father? What was he studying? Anatomy?’
Claire shook her head. ‘He wasn’t a student. He worked in the Union Bar. He was Australian.’
‘Was?’
‘The night he slept with Chloe was his last night in this country. He went back to Australia the next day. And she can’t even remember his name.’
***
Craig waited for Tony Rice in a pub near Tonbridge Station. The place smelled musty and stale and he wondered why Rice frequented such a down-at-heel dump.
As if in answer to his thoughts, Rice suddenly materialised at his side and whispered, ‘Not exactly your old English pub - more of a karzy in Cairo - but at least I don’t ‘ave far to stagger home. If you can call it that.’
‘You live near here then?’
‘You catch on quick. I’ll have a pint of Guinness, seeing as you’re paying.’
As soon as they’d been served, Craig nervously started to explain about how he would inherit the chip shop. Rice interrupted him.
‘Harvey’s already told me you want out.’
‘Does that bother you?’
‘It might have done, if I didn’t have nothing else.’
‘I was a bit worried - you might be a bit upset, like.’
‘Nah. Doing that club was too risky for my liking. But I was desperate.’
‘So what you up to now? Or shouldn’t I ask?’
A slow smile grew on Rice. ‘I’ve got myself a nice little number punishing people.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I start tonight.’
‘When you say punishing people....’
‘I mean a bit of bone-breaking. I’ve got a keyboard musician’s fingers to snap tonight - poor bastard. Still, at twenty a finger, mustn’t grumble.’
Craig shivered. Rice leant close to him and added, ‘Harvey took exception to this musician screwing around with his daughter. I got nothing against the bloke, so I’ll probably put him out first. He won’t feel a thing. Job done. Cheers!’
Craig raised his glass. ‘Yeah. Cheers!’
***
Awake for most of the night, Claire eventually fell into a deep, trance-like sleep, but was immediately woken by a noise which made her start. She listened carefully. Mike was snoring, as he usually did after too much beer. Then she heard the noise again. A cry of pain, coming from Andrew’s room.
She climbed out of bed, put her dressing gown on and crept quietly to her son’s room. He was half sitting up in bed, sobbing.
‘Andrew,’ she whispered. ‘What’s wrong?’
She sat on the bed and put an arm round him. He let his head fall onto her shoulder.
‘It ... it was a nightmare,’ he sobbed. ‘It was so real. It was terrible.’
She stroked his hair. ‘Hush. Shh. It’s alright. Mum’s here now. Everything’s alright.’
‘I was on the computer. Firing missiles at children. Small children. Crying and screaming. Blood everywhere. It was so real. I could see their faces.’
‘It’s alright, darling. It was just a nasty dream.’
She held him close, enjoying the cuddle.
Make the most of it, she thought. Make the most of it.
Twenty - Three
As Dave drove out of the pub car park, two drunks tapped on the nearside window and made obscene suggestions to Mary, who shrank into the passenger seat, staring straight ahead.
‘Get lost, you ignorant pillocks,’ Dave muttered, and swung the car dangerously close to one of them.
‘Thanks,’ whispered Mary as they pulled out onto the main road.
‘What for?’
‘Your moral support. Just because I did a striptease....’
‘I don’t know why you’re thanking me. I didn’t do owt. Unless you want me to go back and run over that wally’s foot.’
‘Why stop at just his foot?’
Dave chuckled. ‘You really hated them, didn’t you?’
‘Did it show that much?’
‘Well, they were a bunch of prats. Professional types skiving off for the afternoon; letting their hair down. Under pressure at work, they think they’ve earned the right to behave badly.’
Mary fumbled in her handbag for a tissue.
‘Bloke running that pub must’ve made a packet. Thirty-five notes a head. Mind you, the food didn’t look bad.’
He glanced at Mary and noticed she was crying. ‘You alright?’
‘Yes,’ she sniffed. ‘I’m just relieved it’s all over.’
‘You’ve not ... not done any stripping before, have you?’
‘Once. And I swore I’d never do it again.’ She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and stuffed the tissue back in her bag.
‘Well, I know one thing: I don’t think we’ll be asked back. The feeling was mutual. I think they hated us, an’ all.’
‘Your act ... your act was very good. I thought it was funny.’
‘You were the only one who did.’
‘No ... really.’ I mean it.’
‘Apart from the four letter words.’
Well, I suppose they weren’t really....’
‘Necessary? No, that’s ‘cause I’m a family comedian. Like Jimmy Cricket. So when Harvey asked me to do this stag afternoon, I just did the same material with swear words. Idiot!’
Dave swerved to avoid a motor cyclist.
‘So where d’you know the slimy Harvey Boyle from?’
‘I used to go out with Harvey.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dave, backtracking. ‘I didn’t mean....’
Mary laughed. ‘No, you’re right. He’s a slimeball. I was young and naïve when I went out with him. I was a dancer and he got me my first job in a professional pantomime.’
‘What made you quit dancing?’
‘I got married, had a couple of kids, then my marriage broke up, and I haven’t danced professionally for eleven years.’
‘Couldn’t you take it up again?’
‘Nobody loves a fairy over forty.’
Dave snatched a look at her. ‘You’re not forty, are you?’
‘I’m thirty-six. It was a joke.’
‘Oh, but, joking apart, from what I saw this afternoon, your figure’s very ... um ... and your movement....’ He could feel himself blushing. ‘What I mean is....’
She smiled, secretly pleased. ‘Thanks for the compliment. But this isn’t the way back to Tunbridge Wells, is it?’
‘I thought we’d cut across - go back a different way. Across Ashdown Forest. Be very pleasant at this time of day.’
She chewed her lip thoughtfully. She had only met him this morning. He seemed sincere, but....
As if he could sense what she was thinking, Dave said, ‘I just thought it would erase memories of leering slobs. Don’t worry: I won’t run out of petrol.’
‘Oh, I didn’t think....’ she began, feeling guilty for not trusting him. She didn’t know what else to say, so she opened her window. The smell of fresh cut grass drifted into the car, for an instant blotting out the still overpowering stench of stale cigarette smoke on their clothes, as the smoking ban at the venue had been ignored.
After driving in silence for a while, Dave cleared his throat delicately before asking, ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to come back to my place for a bite to eat, would you?’
Then he added hastily, ‘No strings attached.’
She turned to him and smiled. ‘Thanks for the offer. Maybe another time. If it’s all the same to you, Dave, I’d like to get back and have a nice long soak in the bath. I feel dirty. Then a cuddle from my two boys should help.’