The Break

by Ronnie O'Sullivan

  He ran back to it and snatched it up. Too risky to leave it. Any copper worth their salt would ask questions. What was it doing there? Christ, they might even be able to see from the CCTV tapes before the system had gone down where it had been before. Next thing they’d be asking was whether the dents on its rim might have been made by someone using it to bash the shit out of the reinforced glass. And how come someone would need to do that from in here if they were breaking in from outside.

  He stuck it back in its cradle and hurried back to the gallery door and quickly got out his map to orientate himself. He checked his watch. Shit, he was late already. The CCTV above his head still looked dead, thank God. No lights or movement. But he needed to get out of here fast.

  He reached the landing at the top of the main staircase in under a minute. Come on, come on. Another two minutes, and you’ll be there. Inside those lovely, cold, dark, shit-smelling tunnels. But then what? He pictured Dougie Hamilton’s face. Frankie still didn’t trust him as far as he could spit.

  He didn’t even see the guard, just ran straight into him at the junction of the two corridors leading out onto the landing at the top of the main stairs. Their two heads cracked together. Both of them stumbled and fell.

  18

  ‘Ugh,’ the guard called out.

  Shit. Frankie had landed underneath him. Not a small lad either. Had to have weighed fourteen stone. Frankie fought to get his arms free. But the guard struggled back, grabbing at Frankie’s wrists, trying to pin him down. Frankie twisted left, then right. That did the trick. Overbalanced the bastard, sent him rolling hard against the wall.

  But straight away the guy was coming back at him, grabbing at him, air hissing between his gritted teeth. Frankie twisted himself round again. He jerked his knee up. Yeah! Got him too. Right in the nuts. Drove him back against the wall. Pinned him with his foot. But not for long. The guard grabbed hold of Frankie’s leg with both hands. Frankie felt the panic rising. Christ, he was going to get caught. No, no way. Both his legs started kicking out automatically, desperate to get away. Then the guard’s grip suddenly slackened. Shit. Frankie saw he’d been kicking him right in the face.

  Blood was pouring from the poor bastard’s nose, but he wasn’t moving. Frankie felt sick. Shit, what had he done? He scrabbled round and leant over him. No. Please no. Hamilton had made him many things, but please, not this. Not a killer. But still nothing, the guard’s head just lolled over on its side facing the wall.

  Shit. What now? CPR? Frankie couldn’t just leave this bastard to die. A memory . . . back in the school yard, laughing with his mates doing some first-aid course with plastic dummies as their victims. Breathing. Yeah, that’s right. He had to check the guard’s breathing first.

  He leant in close, holding his own breath, listening. Please, please, please. Nothing. He couldn’t hear a thing. Frankie reached to open his jaw. But shit. It was only now that he got a good look at the guard’s face. And recognized it. No bloody doubt about it. But from where?

  The main entrance. Christ. Yes. Here. Just downstairs. This was the same bloke who’d pulled Dougie up for littering. Shit. That same long curved scar under his throat. Frankie pulled his balaclava up off his face onto the top of his head. Taking a deep breath, he gripped the guard’s nose with his left hand just like he’d been taught at school, and took a deep breath and leant in.

  ‘Whoah!’

  Frankie’s turn to cry out. He reared back before his lips had even touched the guard, like he’d been stung by a bloody wasp. Because the guard wasn’t dead. Nothing bloody like it. He was staring right up into Frankie’s eyes. At Frankie’s face.

  Frankie was scrabbling back now, up, stumbling back. Shit. Tits. Bollocks. Wank. The guard was still staring at him, his mouth opening. Arrrgh! What the hell was Frankie meant to do now? Tie him up. With what? The only sodding bit of rope he’d had was dangling down the side of the building. Anyway, it was too late. The guard was already nearly fully conscious. He was trying to get up. Two more seconds and he’d be grabbing for Frankie. They’d be locked in a tussle again.

  Run. The thought hit Frankie like a thunderbolt. Nothing else for it. Apart from battering the bastard again, only this time on purpose. And no way was Frankie doing that, right? Even if it meant getting caught. Right? Right. This guy had done nothing wrong at all. Dougie. He was the one who needed beating. He was the bastard who needed to pay.

  Frankie turned before he could change his mind. He nearly tripped over something on the floor. The guard’s radio. He snatched it up. He sprinted across the landing and scarpered down the stairs. He turned back halfway to see if the guard was chasing after. Nothing. No sign of him at all.

  Frankie kept on running, retracing his route. Maybe the guard was concussed? Meaning maybe he wouldn’t remember Frankie’s face? Or work out which way Frankie had gone? Here’s hoping. Or else Bram’s whole ruse about having come in and out through the roof would be blown. Only a matter of time then before the cops figured out how they’d really got out. And then what? They’d check the sewers . . . and then that maintenance hut for prints . . . and none of them had been wearing gloves in there. And what about the truck? What if there was CCTV out there on the street nearby when none of them had got their balaclavas on? Christ, what if they’d been captured on it going in from the van?

  First things first. He had to get back to Rivet and the others and tell them what the hell had just gone down. And before that guard alerted the others. If he hadn’t already. And shit, Frankie couldn’t understand it. He had the guy’s radio, but why wasn’t he shouting out? Because there was no one else there? Because he was the only guard out here on patrol?

  Frankie grimaced. Let’s just pray to God that’s true. And not just that . . . oh, Jesus . . . Frankie’s balaclava . . . he remembered it now . . . it was still halfway up his face . . . He jerked it down, wondering again how good a look at him that guard had just got. Enough to describe him? But maybe even worse than that. Enough to recognize him? From when he’d been here with Dougie? No. No way, right? Right? Think back. Did he even really look at you that time with Dougie? No. You didn’t speak to him either, did you? No. At least Frankie was pretty much sure. So, no, he was safe, right? But what if he did remember him and did pick him out from the CCTV footage they probably still had of that day? Then they’d not only see it was him, Frankie James, but that he was with Dougie Hamilton too.

  Frankie’s lips curled into a smile. Couldn’t help himself. Because, oh yeah, now he saw it . . . God really did have a sense of humour, eh? The same poor sucker Dougie had humiliated and put in his place was now going to get Dougie and Frankie caught and this whole gig rumbled. Oh yeah, if ever an irony had been sweet, it was this.

  The door to the office they’d first come in through was shut when Frankie reached it. And locked.

  ‘Rivet? Bram? It’s me,’ he hissed, rattling the handle.

  He glanced back over his shoulder, half hoping to see one of them coming, dreading it would be that security guard or one of his mates instead. The door handle he was holding suddenly shifted. It opened and Rivet looked out.

  ‘Thank fuck,’ Frankie said. ‘I thought you’d split.’

  ‘Bram already has,’ Rivet said, pulling him inside and shutting the door after them, ‘and Lola set out the same time you left. The state she’s in, it’s going to have taken her at least until now to get back.’ Rivet’s torch beam settled on Frankie’s face. ‘Shit,’ Rivet said. ‘What the hell happened? Did you fall?’

  ‘If only . . .’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I got hit.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘A guard.’

  ‘What? You’re serious?’

  ‘No. I just punched myself in the face for a laugh.’

  ‘But . . . where?’

  ‘Upstairs. I think he’s still there. Coming round . . .’

  ‘You mean you –’

  ‘Hit him back? More like kicked.’


  ‘Kicked?’

  ‘Look, it was complicated. We were both lying on the floor.’

  Rivet was just gawping at him, for once at a loss for words.

  ‘But sod that. Listen, he’s not going to be down for long. I couldn’t see anything to tie him up with or I would have. Meaning we’d better get the fuck out of here. And fast.’

  Rivet was still gawping, no doubt running the maths, trying to work out whether his whole precious mission had now been compromised or not. Frankie looked around the room. There was a pile of cloth-wrapped parcels by the door which led outside into the little courtyard. Whatever Bram hadn’t been able to carry then.

  ‘Wait,’ Rivet said. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Eh?’ Frankie stared at him. Oh, he was still talking about the guard. ‘Look like? Fucking sore. Well, by the time I’d finished with him, anyway.’

  ‘No, I mean it. Describe him.’

  Frankie did.

  Rivet looked surprised. Then smiled.

  ‘And definitely a curved scar . . . right here, under his neck?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Rivet’s smile became a grin.

  ‘But aren’t you worried about him raising the alarm?’

  ‘No, at least I don’t think so. Look, I haven’t got time to explain now. Let’s just get us and this shit down the sewer and get out of here, just in case I’m wrong.’

  *

  It took them maybe twice as long to work their way back through the sewer tunnels as it had done to reach the RA. There were the parcels, for one thing. And Lola, for another. They caught up with her about two thirds of the way back. She was being supported by Bram. He’d had to abandon two of his cloth-wrapped exhibits, meaning Frankie and Rivet then had to go back for them once they’d got Lola safely up into the maintenance hut.

  Safely. Hah. As they sat there in the torchlit dark, Frankie felt anything but. The fact was all he’d been able to think about since he’d left the RA was his passport sitting there behind the bookcase in the flat where he always kept it hidden. Because the only place he’d feel safe right now was abroad. Oh yeah, he could feel a little impromptu holiday coming on and fast. And maybe a permanent one too. Certainly high time he got on his horse like one of them cowboys and pissed off over the horizon until the heat died down. At least from abroad he’d be able to check the news and see if the cops really had fallen for Dougie’s little wheeze. Or if instead they’d already arrested Bram, Rivet and Lola – and were coming for Frankie next.

  ‘So we getting out of here then?’ he said.

  They had all the stolen exhibits stacked up neatly by the door that would lead them back out onto the street and the van that would still hopefully be waiting outside. Lola was slumped in one of the small metal chairs, clutching at her leg. Her skin looked pale in the torchlight. Bram and Rivet were leant up against the wall either side of her, with Bram just gazing steadily at his watch. It was taking all Frankie’s willpower not to just shove past them and rip that door open and run.

  ‘All in good time,’ Rivet said, tapping his watch.

  ‘Another bloody schedule? More com-part-fucking-mental-ization?’

  ‘Exactly so. Three minutes,’ Rivet said.

  ‘Fine. So now would you mind telling me what the fuck all that was about back there? All that stuff about the guard and why he wasn’t going to set the alarm off?’

  The others exchanged looks and Bram signed something.

  ‘Because if he’s who we think it is,’ Rivet said, ‘he won’t say shit.’

  ‘And why’s that?’ But, even as he said it, Frankie guessed the answer. ‘Because he’s him, isn’t he? Your inside man. The one who put that Duracell Bunny there?’

  Rivet mimed shooting a target with a pistol. ‘Bullseye, Frankie. You got it in one.’

  ‘That fucking bastard,’ Frankie said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Never bloody mind.’ Dougie, that’s who. Frankie was already running the whole incident back through his mind. Him and Dougie in the RA entrance hall. That guard coming over and ticking Dougie off. Then Dougie taking off those bloody great Aviator shades of his and the guard backing down. And why? Yeah, Frankie got it now. Because the guard had just that second recognized Dougie, without his shades on, as the man he was working for on the sly, because of that gambling money his kid owed. And he’d have wanted the whole encounter over as soon as possible so it wouldn’t distract anyone’s attention on CCTV. Because if there’d been any sign of recognition or familiarity between the two of them . . . well, were the guard at any point to somehow get fingered in all of this, then that might have left him and Dougie linked.

  ‘Nah,’ Rivet went on, ‘he won’t say shit – other than maybe he fell. The last thing he’ll want is the cops paying him any attention at all.’

  ‘And all that other stuff? The stuff on the roof? I worked it out, by the way.’

  ‘Worked what out?’

  ‘Why you had me scattering it up there.’

  ‘We thought you might.’

  ‘It’s the diversion you were telling me about, the one that’ll stop the cops looking for how else we might have got out.’

  ‘And the one that the press will fascinate over too, making sure this story runs and runs.’

  ‘Hence the postcards,’ Frankie said. Something else he’d worked out. ‘To go with that Houdini headline Dougie’s friendly hack’s going to write.’

  ‘Exactly, they’ll provide the perfect kindling to get this little publicity bonfire of ours up and running.’

  ‘You’ll love what I did with the rope then.’

  ‘What?’

  Frankie quickly explained and Lola cracked up, even through gritted teeth.

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘Yeah, it wasn’t long enough to reach another building, or the ground . . . just enough to perplex. And along with the crampons . . . well, it’s inspired. I don’t think that sly old bastard Houdini could have done any better himself.’

  Bram grinned.

  ‘Shame we didn’t have a tightrope balance, really,’ Frankie said. ‘I mean, imagine what they’d make of that.’

  ‘And the photos?’

  Frankie handed the camera over.

  ‘Yeah, all safe and sound.’

  Rivet clicked through the images on the little screen and nodded, clearly pleased.

  ‘Who you gonna send them to?’ Frankie asked.

  ‘Oh, the usual suspects. The Evening Standard,’ Rivet said. ‘And The Times and the Guardian and the Beeb, ITV and Channel 4, and, I don’t fucking know, maybe even Bruce Forsyth, huh? Anything to get the word out . . .’

  ‘And, sure, they’re not going to buy it forever,’ Lola said, ‘they’ll measure the rope and find out that wouldn’t have worked . . .’

  ‘And draft in some climbing expert who’ll then tell them that the crampons couldn’t have worked either . . .’

  ‘But who cares? The more unanswered questions they get, the better. Especially when a couple more friendly journalist friends of Dougie start adding more grist to the rumour mill.’

  ‘Like maybe we zipwired, or used a fucking helicopter to get in and out of there . . . hey, that would have been funny,’ Lola grunted, ‘we should have taped out a helipad “H” up there.’

  ‘Or maybe they’ll just think we travelled by demonic portal,’ Frankie said, remembering the pentagram he’d outlined up there instead.

  ‘Or I don’t know what,’ said Rivet, ‘and who the fuck cares what dumb-ass schemes they come up with that we might have used . . . so long as they don’t get the shitty truth.’

  ‘The sewers we’ve just climbed out of . . .’

  ‘Quite so.’

  Lola groaned. She was still clutching at her leg.

  ‘You know, she needs to see a doctor,’ Frankie said.

  ‘And she will.’ Rivet checked his watch again.

  ‘I can call one once we’re back at mine,’ Frankie said.

  ‘Yours?’ Rivet
said.

  ‘Well, sure. I mean it’s less than fifty yards away,’ Frankie said. But, yeah, maybe he got Rivet’s apprehension too. Because there was still plenty that could go wrong between here and there. Even this late, they had to be careful. There was still the possibility that someone from one of the nearby streets might be putting out their rubbish in the alley bins. Or, more likely, some junkie, dealer or hooker turning tricks might cop a load of Frankie and the others waltzing past with their stolen modern masterpieces in hand. And, even covered up with these cloths as they might be, someone watching might put two and two together and decide to make a phone call to trade information to try and claim a reward.

  ‘Enticing as the thought of a bourbon and a game of pool is,’ Rivet said.

  ‘Snooker,’ Frankie said.

  ‘Right. Yeah, as enticing an offer as that is, it’ll have to wait. OK, time,’ Rivet said, pushing up off the wall, the camera still in his hand.

  Have to wait? What the hell was he talking about? Frankie watched, confused, as Rivet unlocked the door and edged it open. A slither of light brightened. Such a shock after the dark of the tunnels that for a second Frankie thought someone must be stood out there with a torch shining in. But no cop’s shout came. Just the low growl of a car driving by. The light faded with it and Rivet pushed the door wider and slipped out, whispering at them to stay put. Ten minutes later and he was back, with a new black gym bag in his hands.

  ‘We’re good,’ he hissed, ducking back in, and patting the bag. ‘And, even better, we’ve been paid. Mr Hamilton liked the photos very much.’

  Well, at least someone was getting something out of this. Frankie reached for the packages to start help carrying them out to the van, but Bram rested a restraining hand on his wrist.

  ‘What?’ Frankie said. He made to reach for the parcels again, but Bram just shook his head, not slackening his grip.

  ‘OK, Frankie,’ said Rivet, ‘it’s been a blast . . .’ He smiled at him, holding out his hand.

  ‘But what about the –’

  ‘Artworks?’ Rivet asked.

  ‘Yeah.’