The Break

by Ronnie O'Sullivan

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘You don’t know that!’

  Bram held up a meaty middle finger to his lips.

  ‘Yeah, Bram’s right,’ said Lola. ‘You really should keep your voice down, in case anyone hears.’

  ‘Like who?’ said Frankie. ‘We’re in the middle of a field.’

  ‘Hey, I don’t know. Maybe there’s foragers,’ Rivet said.

  ‘Foragers?’

  ‘OK, then. Badger baiters . . . owl spotters . . . poachers.’

  ‘Poachers? We’re in Royal bloody Berkshire, 1997. Not Mills and bloody Boon, 1897.’

  ‘Mills and what?’ asked Lola.

  ‘The point being, Frankie, just keep the goddamned volume down,’ Rivet said.

  An order. Not a request. Rivet’s whole pally demeanour had just been switched off like a light. Because, yeah, here it was. Frankie wasn’t boss of bloody anything, was he? Just here to do as he was told.

  ‘OK, OK, but I mean it,’ he said, ‘he still might talk. If he’s in real shit over this parole, he still might just decide to –’

  ‘He’s Bram’s brother.’

  ‘Brother?’

  ‘Baby brother.’

  ‘But he looks about a hundred and ten,’ Frankie said, picturing that wrinkled bastard down there in that converted warehouse again.

  ‘Yeah, well a fifteen-year horse addiction will do that to a guy,’ Rivet said behind his hand. ‘Not something Bram likes us to talk about, though, OK?’ He cleared his throat. ‘So how about we all now just get down to business?’ he said.

  With Frankie still fuming, Rivet and Lola cleared away the plates, while Bram spread out the photographs and the plans on the table.

  ‘So let’s start with you, Frankie,’ Rivet said, as him and Lola sat back down. ‘Why do you think you’re here?’

  ‘To help you rob that place.’

  ‘Yeah . . . but why you?’

  ‘I don’t bloody know.’ What was this? Twenty questions? ‘Because Dougie can make me. Because I can handle myself. Because he knows I might come in useful in certain circumstances.’ Violent circumstances, he meant. But he didn’t want to get into that now. ‘And, yeah,’ he added, thinking back to his chat with Dougie at the Royal Academy, ‘because I know a bit about art.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Rivet laughed, glancing at the others, who were smiling too. ‘Dougie Hamilton chose you, because you nearly once got an Art B-level –’

  ‘A-level.’

  ‘Whatever, and because you know so much about Chris Ofili and modern art, yeah?’ Another smile.

  ‘So that isn’t the reason?’

  ‘Hell, no,’ Rivet said. ‘You’re just one of, like, ten schmucks Dougie’s got dangling over various things that he could have used for this. It just so happened that when Big Brains here . . .’ He meant Bram. ‘ . . . got to thinking about how to crack this nut, it turned out you were the best person, geographically speaking, to help us out with this shit.’

  ‘Geographically?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  More signing from Bram. Another snigger from Rivet. Lola too this time.

  ‘Exactly right . . . the shit led us straight to you.’

  ‘What shit?’

  ‘The sewers. The ones that stop right outside your door.’

  Frankie just stared, because what the hell was Rivet talking about now?

  Bram jabbed a finger at one of the pieces of paper on the table.

  ‘That there’s a sewer map,’ Rivet said. ‘I mean, I think there’s a more technical term for it, actually. Like a schematic, or some such. But, yeah, a map. One that leads from right here, at the access point in the courtyard at the Royal Academy . . .’

  Bram traced his finger along a zigzagging route across the map.

  ‘ . . . to here,’ Rivet said, ‘just outside your club’s back door. Or less than a hop, skip and a jump away, anyways.’

  Frankie leant in to get a closer look. A black circle on the schematic, with ‘17 C’ written alongside it.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘A sewer maintenance point. With an entrance up on ground level. You’ve probably walked past it a thousand times before without even noticing it was there.’ And, oh yeah, now Frankie saw it. That little red-brick building at the end of the alley at the back of the club. The one Viollet had inspected when she’d come round. The one she must have already known was there.

  ‘You’re planning on bringing all the artwork out through the sewers?’ Frankie could hardly believe it, but he could see from their faces it was true.

  Bram signed something fast at Lola, who cracked up laughing.

  ‘What?’ Frankie said.

  ‘He said, “In London, it’ll probably be quicker than going by taxi.”’

  Lola smiled. ‘And that’s why Dougie chose you for this . . .’

  Frankie stared down at the map again. ‘Because I live near “17 C” . . .’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And because you owe him,’ Rivet said. ‘Because you’ve got no choice.’

  Owe him? More like he’d been mugged.

  ‘Bringing all the pieces out this way and into your club means there’s zero chance of us getting seen.’

  A quick flurry of signs from Bram.

  ‘Abracadabra, indeed,’ Rivet said. ‘It’ll be like all those pieces just vanished in a puff of smoke . . . leaving the cops, and anyone else who tries working out what the hell happened, scratching their heads and at a complete and utter loss. The perfect Houdini move,’ he said, smiling at Bram, who grinned gummily back. ‘Exactly what Mr Hamilton wants.’

  Mr Hamilton? It didn’t quite ring right to Frankie’s ear. Sith Lord, or Führer, now that would have been more apt.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘But what?’ Rivet said.

  ‘Once they realize they’ve been robbed, what’ll stop them sending . . . I don’t know, dogs, whatever, down into the sewers after us? And what if they then track us as far as round the back of the club . . . my club?’ Christ, and what if they then found that CCTV footage of Frankie there at the RA less than two weeks before with Dougie friggin’ Hamilton? What then?

  But far from looking panicked, Rivet was smiling. ‘Don’t worry, we’re going to misdirect them.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Make it look like we took all those goodies out by another route,’ Lola said.

  ‘An almost impossible route,’ Rivet said. ‘To keep that element of magic that’s going to make this such a goddamn attractive proposition for the press.’

  Something to – what was it Dougie had said? – really put this exhibition on the map. Globally. And permanently.

  ‘Such as?’ Frankie said. Because, OK, so he might not have looked round the whole building exactly last time he’d been there, but there was no getting away from the fact it was slap bang in the centre of London, surrounded by other buildings and roads jammed with potential witnesses to any dodgy-looking shenanigans that went down.

  ‘Don’t worry, that’s Bram’s department,’ said Lola.

  Bram signed and Rivet translated: ‘And a good magician never reveals his –’

  ‘Secrets,’ said Frankie. ‘So, basically, what you’re telling me is you don’t trust me,’ he said.

  Bram signed something.

  Rivet nodded. ‘Nope, it’s just we do everything on a need-to-know basis is all. And that whole side of things, it’s just not something you’re going to be involved with on the night.’

  ‘All that stuff’s down to me,’ Lola said.

  ‘So which bit of the plan do I need to know?’ said Frankie. ‘And when is the night? Or don’t I get trusted with that information yet either?’

  The three of them exchanged glances. Bram nodded his great big crew-cut bucket of a head.

  ‘Monday night.’

  ‘Which Monday? This Monday coming?’ Frankie felt a rush of adrenaline.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. The fifteenth.’

  Bloody hell.
The day after the tournament finished. Oh well, that was just dandy, wasn’t it? Because, yeah, oh sure, he’d be nicely rested up, with plenty of energy for the heist. Not.

  Lola shuffled the papers around and pulled out a set of floor plans with an arrowed route marked on it. Her long shirt sleeve rode up as she stretched. Track marks on her arms. A junkie, then? She looked way too healthy. Ex, then. Way back. Meaning maybe her and Luuk had been – Frankie realized she’d seen him staring . . . . They all were. It hit him harder than ever, then. Pally as they might be, these guys were a team and he was just the new kid on the block. Someone they’d been landed with. Someone, he now saw, they’d cut loose the second anything went wrong.

  ‘Once we’re inside, and leave the how of all that to us too,’ Lola said, ‘you’re going to be going this way with Rivet and Bram . . .’

  Frankie followed the route she traced on the plans. It led from the sewer access they’d pinpointed inside the Royal Academy grounds and on into the depths of the main building complex, to what looked like, yeah, he reckoned it was, the same gallery Dougie had taken him into, where the exhibition pieces were being unpacked.

  ‘You’re going to need to memorize this,’ Lola said, ‘as well as the exhibits we’re going to be asking you to extract.’

  She pushed one of the piles of photographs across to him, all of them portable works by the various artists Dougie and his pals must have invested in.

  Frankie looked from Lola to Rivet to Bram. ‘And the alarms?’ he said. ‘I mean, I take it there are alarms. And state-of-the-art ones too, right?’

  Another series of looks between the three of them. Another nod from Bram.

  ‘OK, so that’s where our fifth columnist comes into play.’

  ‘You’ve got a guy on the inside?’

  ‘Another poor schmuck Dougie’s got on his books,’ Rivet said. ‘This poor prick’s kid owes gambling money. Helping us is his way of paying it off.’

  ‘What? And he’s going to just what? Kill the alarm while we’re in there?’ Could it really be that simple? Frankie doubted it or people would just be blackmailing museum employees all the time. ‘What about everyone else who’s working there? Won’t they guess something is up?’

  Bram nodded.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Rivet. ‘Plus, then our guy would be the first person the cops would be looking at. Which is why we need to be smarter. He’s not going to switch it off. He’s going to get his boss to decide to switch it off.’

  ‘But how?’ More looks between them. This time no nod. ‘Something else I don’t need to know, right?’

  ‘Don’t sweat the details, Frankie,’ Rivet said. ‘Bram says it’s going to work . . . and that’s all you need to know.’

  Frankie stared at the big guy for a couple of seconds. Bram stared unblinking back. Clearly not exactly the worrying kind. Well, OK, fine. Have a little faith. And maybe even pray. A lot.

  ‘And this sewer,’ he asked, ‘it is big enough, right? To manage this. For us to carry these pieces back through?’

  ‘I’m not saying it’s going to be easy,’ Rivet said.

  Bram pinched his nose between his massive forefinger and thumb. A half a smile to go with it.

  ‘Or pleasant,’ Rivet said. ‘But, yeah, with the right equipment, and a bit of luck, we should be OK.’

  Luck. Great. And Frankie had had such a good run of it of late.

  ‘OK,’ Frankie said. ‘So run me through it again. From start to finish. If I’m going to do this shit, then I want to do it right.’

  Bram reached for the little pad hanging from the lanyard that he wore around his neck. He slid a thin pen from the loop on its side and flipped the pad open and started to write. He then turned the pad round so that it was facing Frankie.

  ‘The right choice,’ the message said.

  Yeah, right. Like Frankie had any choice at all.

  12

  Friday the 12th finally arrived, but it might as well have been Friday 13th for all the joy it brought with it. Another new day, another new summons. Only this time, at least, it wouldn’t be the cheery old Saint who’d be picking Frankie up. Small comfort, though. Because the call had come from Tam Jackson, chief arm breaker to Tommy Riley himself.

  Frankie took the call just after he’d got out of the shower at 8 a.m., and was already sweating like he’d just got back from a run by the time he got dressed. It was another blazing-hot day outside, but that wasn’t what had got him so worked up. It was the thought that Tommy might somehow have once again found out that he’d had contact with Hamilton’s mob. Plain and simple guilt then. Guilt and fear.

  Plus, another meeting like this was the last thing he needed today. He hadn’t got back from his little pow-wow in the country with Bram and his crew until well late, when he’d finally got a cab to pick him up, and he was bloody knackered. Not only that, he had a shedload of things to get sorted before the first paying punters arrived for the opening matches of the inaugural Soho Open tournament, which kicked off at 1 p.m. today.

  Xandra was in the kitchen with Maxine, tucking into a couple of bowls of Crunchy Nut, by the time Frankie got there. He ran her though the million and one things that needed doing as he slugged down a scalding hot coffee and scoffed a slice of Mother’s Pride with marge. He lied about where he was going. Said he’d got to go sign some contracts round at Kind Regards’ office over in Shepherd Market.

  She told him she’d be fine holding the fort until he got back. She was normally totally unflappable, but even she had a little look of apprehension about her today. Because this was it, wasn’t it? The day they’d been aiming at for over a year. The first day of the rest of his life.

  She had one bit of good news, though. The Evening Standard was already out and there Frankie was, two pages in from the back, smiling like a good ’un too. Not nearly as bad as he’d reckoned. The headline read, ‘London Open Right On Cue’. Not bad either. Not bad at all. Who knew, maybe this augured well for the rest of the tournie? Here was bloody hoping anyway, because surely some luck had to come his way soon?

  He put a smile on Xandra and Maxine’s faces in return. Told them he was booking them into a hotel for the night at that new refurbed place up on Charlotte Street, complete with dinner and a bottle of champagne in their room. His treat. To say thanks, like, for all Xandra’s help. However it all went from here on in, he told her, he couldn’t have got it all this far without her.

  But hard not to feel the guilt too, as she hugged him. Because even though he’d been planning on giving her some treat like this anyhow, he’d made it this Monday, because that way there’d be nobody here when he got back with those artworks from the heist.

  *

  ‘Well, well, well. If it isn’t my erstwhile travelling companion, Mr Frankie James. What a pleasant surprise.’

  Frankie turned to face the polished red Jag that had just pulled up outside the club, where he’d been waiting for five minutes already. Mackenzie Grew flashed him an ivory smile through the open driver’s window. Some things never changed. He still had his trad mod haircut, like that singer from Blur had made all popular again, but that Grew had been sporting since his first Jam concert back in ’79. Only his face looked a little older from when Frankie had gone out with him to fetch Tommy Riley’s goddaughter back from Ibiza last year. He’d clearly been having himself way too much sunshine and good times since.

  ‘Yeah, you must be proper gobsmacked,’ Frankie said, ‘just happening to bump into me right outside my club . . . exactly when Tam told me to be here.’

  ‘Well, if you got yourself a nice little mobile telephone like everyone else is getting . . .’ Grew waggled a palm-sized black phone at Frankie. ‘. . . then I wouldn’t need to stalk you like a member of our much maligned paparazzi, would I, love?’

  ‘I take it you’re not here to try and get a free frame.’ Grew was a pretty good player. Or had been. Frankie remembered how him and a bunch of Riley’s other lads had used to hang out in the Ambassador af
ter hours with Frankie’s dad back in the day. Only then there’d been some trouble. Some kind of fight. The Old Man had never said what.

  ‘No, but I am looking forward to your tournament,’ Grew said. ‘A nice little initiative. Good on you. Make a name for yourself. That’s the way to get on.’

  Frankie remembered what the Old Man had said when he’d last visited. Something similar. Weird, though, to think that Grew too thought he might have it in him to make a real go of things.

  ‘I’ll put you down on the door list,’ he said. ‘Any trouble, just ask for Spartak. He’s gonna be bossing security tonight.’

  ‘Good lad. Even I wouldn’t want to have to force my way past him. He makes that saying size of a house more like a statement of fact, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Right, now in you pop.’ The central locking clicked. ‘I know you’ve got a lot on today, so I’ll try and get you there and back as fast as I can.’

  Frankie’s stomach twisted as he got in. More guilt, right? Over him having consorted with the enemy. Wasn’t that what they’d called it in the war? Punishable by what? Firing squad. And, no, he might not work for Tommy officially, but he still liked some of Tommy’s people who he’d worked with. And being Grew’s enemy . . . well, that wasn’t just dangerous, it made him feel bad too.

  Grew held out his hand in greeting, the sleeves of his white Paul Smith suit and black shirt sliding back to reveal a glittering hunk of Breitling watch wrapped round his sinewy wrist. Another Breitling like Snaresby’s. Another little coincidence that left Frankie wondering which side the Detective Inspector was batting for.

  ‘Clunk, click, every trip,’ Mackenzie said, sparking up a Marlboro Red with his little silver German Lugar pistol-shaped lighter. He gave Frankie a friendly squeeze on the bicep as Frankie fastened his seat belt and they pulled smoothly away from the kerb. ‘Impressive, bro,’ he whistled. ‘You been hitting that gym again, or what?’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s free now, ain’t it?’

  ‘True, true.’