by Oscar Turner
Cyril had spent that week in limbo, just functioning day to day in a daze of uncertainty. Mrs. Frank from the old vicarage had given him some cabbage plants the day before. She knew what was going on with the Estate and was as furious as the rest of them. She told him to plant them.
‘What's the point?’ Cyril had said.
‘Plant them!’ she had said emphatically.
So he did. He had also continued watering everything on his land.
Roger had been more attentive than usual, following Cyril around everywhere he went, getting in the way and licking him at every opportunity.
Nastasia had suggested that it would be a good idea to take the money away from the land. She was right, the way things were going, if he got caught with that amount of cash, it really would be the end, now that he had a conviction for propagating marijuana.
Cyril was sitting amongst the tentacle like roots of the old willow tree by the river, when Roger took off and ran to the track barking. Then, sure enough, came the rumble of Nastasia's Mercedes. Cyril sighed with relief and got up to meet her.
‘Natty! I was starting to get worried about you. You OK?’
‘Hi Cyril! I'm fine, just been busy at the shop. How are you?’ said Nastasia as she got out the car and hugged him tight.
‘Want some tea?’
‘No thanks. I can't stay long, I want to ask you a favour.’
‘Sure.’ said Cyril climbing up the steps into the van with Nastasia and Roger in tow.
Cyril joined Nastasia on the bed. ‘Fire away.’
‘Well, you know it's my birthday next week?’
‘Really? Completely forgot.’ said Cyril playfully.
‘Well I want a party, here, and I want to invite everybody on the estate.’
‘Here? Why? You don't need to wind Edward up any more you know.’
‘Is that a no?’
‘No, I'm not saying no.’
‘Then it's a yes?’
‘Jesus you're a manipulating bitch.’
Nastasia smiled and hugged him.
‘Good, I've already done the list and printed out the invites, here's yours.’ Nastasia pulled out a bulging envelope from her bag and put it by the side of the bed.
‘What's that?’
‘It's 58 invites for you to take down to the pub, I've got the rest, please do it ASAP. Thank you darling.’ said Nastasia holding him tighter and kissing him on the forehead.
‘Hang on Natty! How many people have you invited?’
‘About 200, or so.’
‘200! Fuck me Natty. When do you want to have it?’
‘In two weeks, on the 10th.’
‘Natty. Edward's closing the road on the 13th!’
‘I know. It's like a double celebration, my birthday and the end of your land access.’ said Nastasia, hanging on to Cyril and stroking his head.
‘What are you up to Natty?’
‘Nothing.’
Cyril pulled his head away from hers and looked her squarely in the eyes.
‘I don't believe you.’
Nastasia smiled, leapt up from the bed and grabbed her bag.
‘Right, got to get back to the shop. Oh, by the way, The Lonesome Cowboys said they'll play for free!’
‘Now there's a surprise.’ said Cyril rolling his eyes.
‘Trust me.’ Nastasia blew a parting kiss before she skipped down the steps, got into her car and drove off.
Cyril looked at Roger, laying next to him, on his back, legs in the air. Roger let out a deep, satisfying sigh that Cyril found strangely reassuring.
Polly stood in the middle of the old empty shop. She had been there six times in the last week: umming and arring about whether or not she should take it.
It belonged to Lucy Frampton, a friend of Carva's; one of his new friends. It used to be a ladies fashion shop, back in the early sixties, when fashion was more ordered and less prone to constant change. There was summer fashion and there was winter fashion. That was it. You knew what to wear and you didn't have to think about it. If you really had to, you could do the spring and autumn fashions: but that was regarded as obsessive.
Polly had walked past the shop many times since they had moved to London. Through the years of grime on the windows, you could see the two naked mannequins, one leaning precariously against the window, its dead cartoon eyes staring down, the other with raised arms as if launching doves, both with their nylon wigs matted with cobwebs and dead flies.
She had casually mentioned one day to Carva, that she'd thought about maybe opening a shop; selling one-off interior decor or 'honest art' as Seymour called it. She'd met many new people via Seymour's work, not only artists, but skilled artisans making beautiful things. That had got Polly thinking.
Next thing you know, Carva told Polly about the shop, Lucy gave her the keys and told her she can have it for as long as she wanted, rent free. It was something about asset management; she had tried to explain. If she rented it out, it wasn't worth as much and was therefore worthless as an asset that you can borrow against, something like that. Her son, whom she wished would visit her more, was an investment banker.
So, Polly had decided at last to take it. Seymour was totally supportive, mainly, she suspected, with her out of the way, he could lounge around at home a lot more, stop pretending that he was working and not get funny looks from her every time he was 'popping out for a coffee.'
She had already measured up and had the same handymen that had worked on Carva’s gallery coming around the next day. It wouldn't cost much. Polly wanted to keep the old post war features, that had mysteriously become cool again after the horrible experiment of the 1970's and 80's, when aesthetic boundaries where pushed to their limits and thankfully failed to endure. The whole place was to be painted white, subtly lit with spots; and the stock, which would all be on consignment, would dress the place up. Not a gallery, nor a shop, but somehow both.
There were six pillars, running three a side, right to the back of the shop. She planned to have different areas to dress as different rooms, not fully furnished, just suggestions of.
There was an office in the back with old mouse nibbled paperwork scattered around on the desk. A 1961 calendar, hung crooked on the embossed wallpaper, a Formica table in the corner and a box containing spare mannequin limbs. It was just as if someone had said one day. ‘Bugger it, I give up.’ and walked out.
Polly dusted off the old ripped burgundy leather chair behind the desk and sat down. She could see right the way through to the front door. Perfect. She sat back in the chair and drank in the musty silence of the shop.
These last few months had been quite a journey: a journey that at last seemed to slowing down, since her confession to Seymour. She had stopped thinking that she was being watched or rather given up worrying about it. She figured, with the aid of Seymour’s welcome armchair logic, that if anything happened to her, there was nothing she could do about it, which somehow gave her life a new meaning. As James Dean once said, just before he decapitated himself under a truck in his Porsche. ‘Dream as if you will live forever, but live as if you will die tomorrow.’ How right he was.
Polly smiled as Seymour popped into her head. He was so funny lately, so full of energy and enthusiasm and constantly reminding her that he was the breadwinner now and she had better watch her step. He had agreed to pay for the shop’s renovation using the sale of his work, which, Polly pointed out, she was going to do anyway.
Seymour was firing on all cylinders and had surprisingly produced the work for the next show in good time. His work was becoming far more abstract now, textured with tiny colourful swooping lines that faded at the ends: like comet tails. Sandra Withington loved his new work and had already pre bought four and commissioned him to do a mural wall, for a client in Mayfair. It was no secret that she sold Seymour’s paintings on to clients. She had discussed it with Seymour one night at one of Harry’s legendary dinner parties. Seymour had launched into an amusing, emotional performance, abo
ut how he felt used, as if he was being artistically raped by her and that Sandra was nothing more than a pimp. She agreed.
God it was so good having all these wacky people around. For the first time in her life she was in a place that she didn't plan to leave.
The fact that Seymour’s work was selling well, took a lot of pressure off. Money was still tight and there were many a day that she felt tempted to take a covert trip out to check on the bags and maybe grab the lot. But something always stopped her; that thought that it would very likely kill everything they had. They lived cheaply, but well and therefore appreciated everything they had together Their life was full of colourful characters, hilarious encounters and intriguing gossip. She didn’t want to change any of that. Seymour, however, had tried, so far unsuccesfully, to persuade her to at least grab some of the cash. He had introduced various hypothetical scenarios to change her mind, like: the possibility that somebody would find it and hand it to the police: complete with her prints and possibly traces of her DNA. Although she didn’t want to admit it, even to herself, she was starting to come around to his thinking.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Pop Goes the Weasel.
Johnny hated ferries, especially when they took him to France: he hated France. Not that he'd been there much, only twice before, once on school trip, when he was 14 and another time on a job. His dad, also called Johnny, was in the first wave of landing craft in the Normandy D day landings, mowed down by German machine guns, before he even got to the beach, along with hundreds of other youngsters. That's why he hated Germans too. As far as he could make out, he was probably conceived on the night before his dad left for Normandy.
His mum used to talk for hours about 'her Johnny' and the few photos she had of him matched her words. Cheeky chappy, always up to something, never let her down or anyone else come to that, good looking, a snappy dresser and a grin that seemed to be glued on. She never saw him angry, she said, always calm and collected, a disposition some felt uncomfortable with. That's why nobody crossed him. ‘Nobody would cross my Johnny,’ his mum would say.
Johnny and his mum had lived in a small old Victorian terrace in the East End of London. It was tough, not in terms of poverty, more in terms of a survival that involved a sharp mind, rather than toughness. He never remembered being hungry. There was always plenty of food; dropped in by unrelated uncles and aunts, who always spoke about his dad to the point where he thought he had something to prove to them. As if his dad was watching him and he'd better not let him down. Duty love.
France was just in sight and Johnny looked down at the murky cruel water. He'd been on deck for the whole trip, despite the freezing, slicing wind. You have to keep your head down when you’re working in his profession. You don't mix with anyone. No contact unless it’s absolutely necessary. You go invisible. In. Bang. Out. Sometimes easier said than done. If someone engages with you? The jobs off. Invisibility is a technique and Johnny was a master at it.
He could see the beaches looming up, as the ferry charged ahead pushed by the cold north wind and rising tide. Johnny shook his head as he thought of his dad. He'd seen footage of the Normandy landings on 'The World at War' on the telly. His mum had cried, so did he.
Once the ferry landed and he'd gone through customs with a fake passport, he was to meet a Jean Luc Pique, at a garage outside Paris, where he would pick up a car to drive down to Southern France. You can't fly or take a train. You can't risk anyone talking to you. He hated flying anyway. In fact, he hated public transport in general: you lose control.
The French really pissed Johnny off. The way they talk, full of ponsy confidence. The way they dress, as if they got their clothes for Christmas from someone who thinks they're an asshole and most of all; the way they speak English. Jean Luc Pique was a classic Frenchman and Johnny would have happily popped him for a tenner. Arrogant twat. And what a car, a poxy Peugot 309. Great!
The drive down was uneventful, which was the point. Nothing unusual must happen, no hotels, no stopping for a nap. He was to meet Frank Block, at a villa near Vence, in the mountains above Nice. He knew Frank Block from years back. He’d never worked with him, but he was to be trusted. Stella only used the best people. Johnny had ordered a .22 magnum pistol with silencer and 6 rounds: that would do it. Nice and clean, close range.
The target had already been eyeballed for a week, looking for a routine. They found one, swimming in the pool at 8 am alone, doing laps. Johnny liked pool hits. The dead thud, when a bullet hits naked skin, is somehow so much more rewarding than when it's muffled by clothing. And there's the ricochet problem. In a pool, the bullet just loses its momentum in the water and never comes out. There is nothing worse than a ricocheting bullet. That's why he always tries to hit bone. That slows the bullet down a bit. But, if he's unlucky, when he goes for the heart and the bullet passes clean though without hitting a rib? That's a problem. A couple of years before, he had to take out a blind man and ended up killing his guide dog with the ricochet. It haunted him for weeks. He was to rest up for the night at Franks place, where he would be briefed, shown photos of the target and plans of the target’s villa. The next morning, he would be taken to the target and dropped off. There would be a Blue VW Golf parked close by, with the keys under the mat. He was to wait until a street sweeper stopped sweeping, lit a cigarette and walked off. That was his cue. The side gate to the villa will be open and alarms switched off. He must then go immediately in, straight to the pool and pop the target. He was to drop the gun in the pool, as it was licensed to a Gendarme who's life they wanted to complicate. From then on, he was on his own. The VW was full of fuel and there was €1,000 in the glove box, along with false papers and a new passport. His name will then be John Clarke. Good luck.
And that is exactly how it happened. Sweet as a nut. He was back home in 36 hours to a cool ten grand, just like that. Johnny just loved working for Stella Solutions.
Johnny woke up the next morning after his return from France still buzzing. It was the first 'proper' job he'd done for Stella. Mainly, up until then, he'd been a glorified courier, or an eyeball on surveillance.
But this was his trade and he was good at it. The sound that .22 magnum round made when it pierced the targets head was perfect and the puff of blood that came out of his ass suggested it had passed through his entire body, maybe smashing his spine en route. You don't often you get a chance to do that. He had been swimming the butterfly stroke toward him, not easy. He had waited until he was just four metres away until he popped him. God it felt good.
Johnny slipped out of bed, went to the kitchen, and made a good strong coffee with the old Gaggia espresso machine he'd come by on a repossession job, a few months ago. It was a beauty, all chrome and Bakelite knobs: it took up the whole work top. As he went through the process of grinding beans and tapping out the coffee extruder, Johnny thought about Polly again. He had to get her sorted out quickly. She was eating his head away. The job in France had sparked up the fire in him, he was getting respect again. She was the reason he had lost the respect people had had for him and while she was alive and the money still missing, there was no closure.
He was to lay low for a week, that was normal after a job. Avoid going out, or communicating with anyone except family and unconnected, close friends. This was the perfect time to pop her, no more jobs coming in. Should be fairly easy. He would get her and hopefully the money too. Although, deep down; the money wasn't that important.
Later that day, after planning tactics and possibilities, Johnny went to his lockup garage to get tooled up. He had to be ready when the time was right. This would be a close-up shot again, the silenced .22 magnum would do it, and he had a beauty.
Off to Henry's garage to hire a car for a few days. Henry had a good system if you need a car. He had a fleet of cut and shut right-offs, all with good paperwork. The deal was, if anything went wrong, you buy it. If the cops were involved you pay double for administration charges, whatever that was. Henry gave him a
white Ford Escort, you could still smell the acrid stink of welding and sickly sweet cellulose paint, despite the full can of air freshener it had been doused with.
It was a two door model. Johnny had specifically asked for a two door model. Much bigger doors to bundle bodies in and out of: living or dead. Nothing worse than struggling to get someone through a four door ford escort. You could put your back out.
As an optional extra, he ordered a Dagenham dagger, a small metal box, the size of a fag packet, fitted to the seat belt's diagonal strap. Inside the box is a form of flick knife that, when activated by the cable switch on the front of the drivers seat, releases a 4 inch tungsten blade that flicked open, cutting edge first. They reckon it could cut a rib clean in two, so hearts would be a doddle. It also had a quick release clip, so that the Dagenham dagger could either be used again or conveniently dumped in a river. A very nice tool. He'd never had to use one. For some reason, he always told his clients about it and how it worked. That always seemed to be enough to get what he wanted. Maybe one day he'd try it out on someone.
Johnny checked everything again in his head. He was ready. But first he had to do a spot of housework.
Housework was a phrase used in his profession that meant tidying things up.
He waited for Jason to unlock The New Carva Gallery front door and watched him go into the office to turn off the alarm. He had thirty seconds. Easy.
Johnny slipped into the gallery, went straight into the office and popped Jason clean in the back of head. Piece of piss.