“You’ll be on the telly next,” she said, nodding toward the box.
We watched the news coverage for another minute or so, then Rita nodded toward the bedroom door. “That’ll be it then, love,” she said.
She meant it was time for me to step into the kitchen—out of sight so the punter could leave without the embarrassment of seeing another male in the place. I don’t know how the fuck she knew it was time—I hadn’t heard a thing from the other room—but her orgasm-detector was spot on. I went into the kitchen and shut the door, leaving it open a tiny crack so I could see who was coming out without him seeing me. I always liked to get a look at the bloke Vanya had been with immediately before me. Just natural curiosity, I suppose.
Half a minute later Vanya appeared from the bedroom and left the flat for the communal toilet on the landing.
Then out he came.
I knew I knew him as soon as he came into view. Someone famous, but I couldn’t think who. A newsreader maybe? No, not that well-known. An MP? Not sure, but someone …
He picked up the overcoat he’d left on the settee, then pulled out a tenner and handed it to Rita.
Rita smiled and took the tip. “Safe journey now, it’s bitter out.”
“My overcoat will guard me against the cold, my dear,” he said. “And I shall savor your delicious non sequitur the length of my secure passage home.”
The name hit me.
I waited till I heard his footsteps disappear down the staircase before coming back into the room.
“Do you know who that was?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “Nicholas Monroe. The lawyer. He’s …”
Vanya teetered back in from the toilet.
“He’s famous. Well, for a lawyer anyway …”
“Fahmous? Fahmous who? Frederick?” Vanya asked, taking the £60 I had ready for her.
I followed her into the bedroom.
“No, yes—no—his name’s Nicholas Monroe. He’s always on the news. He got that gang off who killed that black kid in East Ham a couple of years ago. And that gangster from where you’re from …”
“From Croatia?”
“Somewhere like that, I don’t know. Albania maybe, it doesn’t matter,” I said, shutting the bedroom door. “The point is, he’s fucking well-known, got shitloads of money.”
“He’s not from Croatia, silly, he’s English,” she said. “Very fine English man. Now what shall we do? Talking or fucking?”
“I mean, what the fuck’s he doing here?” I said, ignoring the question.
Vanya plopped herself down on the bed and started inspecting her fingernails.
“If he wants a shag he could go to some discreet high-class place in Kensington or somewhere. What’s he doing coming here?”
Her eyes narrowed. “He like me,” she said. “He like the way I speak and how I—”
“What, has he been here before? He’s a regular?”
“Yes, of course.” She said it as if it was obvious, as if I was the stupid one. “He come to here every week nearly. I speak to him in Croatian and put my finger up his ass and he …”
Fuck me. “You put your finger up his arse?”
“Yes, of course, this is normal, what’s wrong with this?”
“Fucking hell, Vanya—it’s not what’s wrong with it, it’s what’s right with it. He’s rich. He can’t afford this to get out. He’ll pay us not to tell anyone.”
Vanya had a habit of being a bit “kooky,” like she wasn’t quite all there. Like everything was a game, everything was happening in some surreal Eastern European kiddie film. But now she became more serious, more real. I felt a rise of something in my belly.
“Pay us? How much pay us?” she said.
“Dunno. Ten grand. Maybe more.” Fifty, at least. “It’s nothing to him. He can earn that in a week probably …”
“In a week? Nemoj me jebat!”
“Exactly.” I spoke calmly now, took the tempo down a notch. “We just have to do it properly. Plan it right …”
I didn’t know a lot about Vanya, but I knew she wasn’t a whore by choice, that she hadn’t known this was what she’d be doing when she was brought to England. And I knew that, like Anna and Katarina in the flats upstairs, she wasn’t seeing much of the five grand or so a week she was earning for the management. She listened carefully as I went through the plan, nodding slowly as I showed her how to work the camcorder, where the record button was, and how to tell if it was on or not. Then I marked the exact spot on the wardrobe where she should put it next time Monroe visited. She would phone me as soon as he’d gone and I would come and collect the camcorder and tape and put Phase 2 into operation.
Ten minutes later I left. We hadn’t even fucked but it didn’t matter. This was better, I thought. Much better. As I left the place I became aware of the warmth again. Only now it was spreading, up through my chest and arms and down into my groin. This was proper, I could feel it happening now. The real thing. The way forward. The night’s earlier performance was a mere prelude. A toccata to the fugue I was composing. I went home but couldn’t sleep. Six spliffs and a bottle of wine later, I could …
I spent the next few days in my flat in Kentish Town planning Phase 2 and thinking about what to do with the cash. And afterwards too, the next job. Maybe some type of con. It had to be something elegant, stylish. After a few years I’d retire and write my memoir, get it published anonymously. Reveal myself to a select few, my own little magic circle.
The call finally came on Monday night, about 11. I left the flat and hailed a cab for Market Mews. Rita let me in and Vanya was there on the settee eating a Pot Noodle.
“Did you get it? Did it come out okay?” I said.
“Yes, of course.”
“Where is it?”
Vanya put the plastic pot down on the carpet and pulled the camcorder out from under the sofa.
“Brilliant.” I took it off her. “I’ll give you a call. Gotta go. See you.”
I left her to her MSG-flavored processed soya and caught a cab on Piccadilly.
“Kentish Town, please, mate.”
The cabbie nodded and I got in and hit the PLAY button. It was all there. Good girl. Perfect. Got the cunt.
Back at the flat I fired up my Mac and started working on the blackmail letter. The title—Blackmail Demands—in twelve-point size, centered on the page. I used italics in the first draft but decided it was a bit too soft so opted for plain text. Then the font. That proved more difficult. Gothic Bold seemed like a good choice but it looked too melodramatic. I liked the sound of Chicago, a bit gangsterish, but it came across too friendly on the page. Then Typewriter. Quite sinister-looking, but more of a ransom-note font, I thought. In the end I went for Times New Roman. Simple. Serious. Businesslike.
Then the text itself. I spent a good few hours on this and was pretty satisfied with the results:
I have in my possession a videotape of you, Mr. Nicholas Monroe, QC, engaging in an act of depravity with a prostitute. The tape is three minutes and twenty-six seconds in length and you are clearly identifiable in it. I am prepared to sell this tape to you for a price of no less than £50,000 in cash. Otherwise I will take it to the newspapers. The fee is non-negotiable and there is only one copy of the tape. You will have to trust me on that last point. Bring the cash, alone, to the Printers Devil public house in Fetter Lane, 6 p.m. on Wednesday the 12th of January, and in return you will receive the tape, which will be in the video camera so you can see what you are getting. Looking forward to doing business with you, Jon X
After a couple of spellchecks I printed it out on a clean piece of white A4. It looked good but the vertical position of the text wasn’t quite right so I moved it down slightly, then printed it out again. That was it. I folded it into thirds and sealed the letter in an envelope. Strictly Private and Confidential. Nicholas Monroe, QC, it said. I used my left hand to write it, just in case, then deleted the document from my Mac.
I looked over at the TV. Countdown was on—the early-morning rep
eat. It was about half an hour before the tubes started running so I watched the last fifteen minutes, waiting for the nine-letter conundrum bit at the end. I wanted to see if it would be BLACKMAIL. I had a feeling it would be. It wasn’t.
At that time of day, it only took thirty minutes to get from Kentish Town to Chancery Lane, where Monroe’s chambers were. I slipped the letter through the mailbox and went back to the flat to get some sleep.
It was 2 in the afternoon when the alarm woke me up. Wednesday. I shaved, took a shower, put my suit and overcoat on, and headed back Chancery Lane to the Printers Devil. I got there at 3:30 and the place was about half full, which was good. Bought a G&T and found a table with a clear view of the door. While I waited I went over what I was going to say to Monroe. He would walk in alone; I’d gesture for him to come and join me at the table and offer to buy him a drink. He was bound to be nervous and I wanted to keep it friendly. When I’d brought his drink back from the bar I’d say my piece: Well, Mr. Monroe, I think we both know why we’re here, don’t we, so let’s get down to business, shall we? He’d probably just nod, I figured, be happy for me to do the talking so he could get the fuck out of there as soon as possible. After the exchange we’d shake hands and I’d leave him there and go and see Vanya to give her her five grand.
Except it didn’t quite happen like that. For a start, Monroe was late. Very late. So late in fact that he didn’t actually fucking bother to turn up. I phoned his office and was told he was in meetings all afternoon but would I like to leave a message. Would I like to leave a fucking message? What the fuck was going on here? Monroe was in no position to fuck with me. I had the tape; I was in control of the situation. My instructions were clear. The letter. He couldn’t just ignore this. It wasn’t going to go away. I had him by the balls and he had to deal with it. He had to. The arrogance of this cocky fuck—I couldn’t believe it. Like I was some prick of a client he could keep on hold while he plays golf or gets finger-fucked or whatever else the cunt does in his spare time.
I needed to calm myself, so I had another drink and considered my options. There was only really one. Dominic. We’d been at Ampleforth together and had kept in touch since. Dom had taken up journalism and was working as a news sub-editor at the Sunday where his dad had worked. I’d sell the tape to them. It wouldn’t fetch quite the same price, but what else could I do? If this cunt thought he could ignore me, he could think again. He’d been warned. It was all in the letter.
I phoned Dom from the pub and set up the meeting, a drink after work at the Prospect of Whitby in Shadwell, near the Sunday’s offices. I got there at around 6:30 and he introduced me to his workmate.
“Jon, this is Stuart,” Dom said. “He’s up for the Young Journalist of the Year award next month.”
Really? Looks like a cunt to me.
“Nice to meet you, Stuart,” I said. He looked in his late twenties. Had a shaved head and wore a black suit with a dark shirt, no tie. And his handshake was too firm.
“I’ve brought Stu along cos this is more his kinda thing,” Dom explained. “I’m more on the editing side of things, not really a reporter, but Stu here—”
Is a cunt. “Brilliant,” I interrupted, keen to get things moving. “Can I get you guys a drink?”
They both wanted lagers.
When I got back from the bar I launched straight into it. “So, what do you know about Nicholas Monroe, the QC?” I threw the question firmly at Young Cunt of the Year.
“Monroe, yeah, mate, what about him?” Shave-head said, picking up his pint for a gulp.
“Well, what if I were to tell you I have a video of him getting finger-fucked by a £60 whore in Shepherd Market?”
He put his pint down. “What—have you?”
“How much would the Sunday pay for it?” I asked.
“Have you got it with you?”
I played them the tape. A minute in and I could tell he was impressed—with the tape and with me. Once he’d seen Monroe’s face on the vid, he shot me a look that said: Okay, cunt—I can do business with you. When it was over I pressed STOP and put the camera back in my overcoat pocket. Stu spoke first.
“It’s good but we’d need the girl,” he said bluntly.
“The girl? Why? It’s all there …” I looked at Dom for some backup. It didn’t come.
“It’s all there, yeah, yeah,” Stu said, “but it’s more complicated than that. He’s a very powerful guy, old Monroe. He knows half the fucking cabinet. Probably worked with them when they were still practicing.”
“Stu’s tried to do pieces on Monroe before, Jon,” Dom chipped in.
“Yeah, but they always get spiked,” the cunt continued. “He knows everyone. His old flatmate from law school is tipped to be the next DG of the Beeb.” He took another gulp and held my gaze. My move.
“But he couldn’t sue you when you’ve got him there on tape, clear as day,” I said.
“Look, the guy likes to take chances, likes to think he’s a bit dangerous. But he’s smart, he’s fucking smart, covers his tracks. As I say, friends in high places. He’s supposed to be on the Queen’s birthday list for a knighthood.”
“So what? He’s untouchable?” I said. I could feel it slipping away.
“Mate, I’m not saying it’s impossible. But I know Neil and he’s going to be very wary of this.”
“Neil’s our editor, Jon,” Dom said.
“And he wouldn’t even consider it without the girl,” Stu continued. “We’d need her, on the spread, telling her story—and prepared to testify, if necessary.”
“I see. But how much—What’s the story worth if I get her?”
“That’s not really my call. Dunno, probably five figures though,” he said.
Five figures, that’s at least ten grand. It was still good, I thought. I downed my G&T, then made my excuses and left, as the tabloids say. Cabbed it to Shepherd Market, up the wooden hill, and pressed Press.
Rita answered the door. But this time there was no cheery hello. She would only keep the door ajar, wouldn’t let me in. She just said: “Vanya’s gone. She won’t be back.
You’re not to be let in.” And then the door.
What the fuck?
“What do you mean gone?” I said through the door. “Rita? Gone where? Rita?”
“Go on, hop it now or I’ll have to call him,” she said.
She meant Davor, the guy who owned the place.
I walked slowly back down the stairs, trying to make sense of what just happened. I’d never seen Rita look stern before. It was odd. And to threaten me with Davor or one of his thugs …
I went home and spliffed myself to sleep. Woke up in my clothes around noon the next day and started getting ready. The camcorder was still in the pocket of my overcoat. I put it on and left the flat to find a pay phone. Dialed the number.
“Put me through to Nicholas Monroe,” I said.
“Mr. Monroe is in a meeting with a client at the moment, he can’t—”
“It’s urgent. He’s expecting me to call.”
“Sir, Mr. Monroe hasn’t mentioned a—”
“Just tell him it’s John X. It’s extremely urgent.”
The line went quiet, that electric nothingness you get when you’re in phone-line limbo. Then a man’s voice.
“Ahhh, Mr. X …”
He sounded relaxed, jovial even.
“This is your last chance, Monroe,” I said. “I’ve been to the Sunday and they are very interested in the tape. They’re prepared to run the story …”
“The Sunday? I see.”
What the fuck is it with this twat? I was talking, you rude cunt.
“So the situation we find ourselves in, Mr. X,” he said, each word measured, calm, “is that you have a firm financial offer from the Sunday newspaper and you’re wondering whether I’m prepared to beat that offer. Am I correct?”
“Yes.”
“Good. And may I ask how much their offer is?”
Five figures, Shavey h
ad said. “Ten grand.”
I regretted the words as soon as I said them. He would have expected me to come up with a figure twice what I was being offered. And why did I tell him which paper it was? I was fucking this up, I knew it. He was too calm and I couldn’t deal with it. It wasn’t what I was expecting.
“Mmm,” Monroe said. “I can probably lay my hands on five thousand by this afternoon—will that do you?”
I suppose it’ll fucking have to. Five grand. It was an insult. But I didn’t really have a choice.
“Six o’clock in the Printers Devil on Fetter Lane—and don’t be late.” I put the receiver down.
I killed the rest of the afternoon in my local, trying to drink away what had happened, and left at 5 to meet Monroe. The platform at Kentish Town was fairly full when I got there—trouble on the Northern Line, as usual—but it was completely rammed by the time the train finally arrived. I fought my way onto the tube, southbound for Tottenham Court Road where I’d change for the Central Line and Chancery Lane. I managed to defend my own little corner by the doors as far as Camden Town, where about a billion people squeezed on and I was thrust into the middle, both hands holding onto the bar above to keep balance. I rarely got the tube, but even I knew that this was worse than normal. Pensioners, office workers, hood rats, tourists—almost every type of low-life London scum was pressed right up against me.
I felt the first risings of a panic attack coming on but pushed it away with a happy thought. I closed my eyes and relived my New Year’s Eve performance, then Monroe, the tape and the letter, the money, the next job, the memoir … then what? … Monroe not turning up, the shavey-head cunt trying to make me look stupid, getting turned away by Rita … Davor … and then Monroe laughing at me on the phone, the arrogant fuck. How dare the cunt? Me with video proof of this fucker—this QC, no less, who knows the Cabinet, is in line for a knighthood—getting finger-fucked up the arse in his stockinged feet by a whore he’s probably managed to have chased out of the country, and all I can get for it is a stinking £5,000, if the cunt shows up at all? He just didn’t seem to give a fuck. It was a minor detail in another week’s work. Hadn’t he grasped the situation? I was in charge here—I was the blackmailer—I had the power.
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