by Rob Aspinall
"It soon will be," I say.
"See you soon," Herb says.
I jog out of Al's and across the street. I take a fast shower and pack my bag. I come out of the motel room, pay Kurt for the stay and walk across the road to meet Herb.
But so much for slipping out unseen. There's a farewell party waiting for me outside: Al, Collins, Florence and Father Shaw.
Herb pulls the truck around front.
"Can't I do anything in this town without people talking?" I say.
"Herb mentioned you were leaving," Al says. "So I rallied the troops."
"Gotta give you a proper send-off," Florence says, stepping forward and giving me a hug. "Thank you," she says.
"Ah, I really didn't do anything," I say.
"You're too modest," Florence says.
"No really. If anyone asks, I didn't."
Florence winks. She pulls an imaginary zip across her lips and steps back.
Al is up next. A firm handshake. A nod. A slap on the arm.
Then Bill Collins. He throws his arms around me and pulls me in for a man hug. He slaps me on the back. "Who's gonna shoot my coyote's now?" he says.
"I've got a confession to make," I say. "I didn't shoot 'em. Just scared 'em."
Collins laughs. "I know."
"You did?"
Collins shakes his head and steps away.
That leaves Father Shaw.
"Oh, Father," I say, "I almost forgot." I open a side pocket on my bag and take out the Bible. I hand it over to him.
He waves it away. "Keep it," he says.
I push it into his hands. "Sorry Father, I'm sure it's a bloody good book, I just couldn't get into it."
Father Shaw sighs and accepts the Bible. He drops his voice low. "Can I ask, what did you do with the money?"
"You know the loose floorboard behind the lectern?"
"Yes?"
"You might want to look underneath it," I say.
Father Shaw cottons on fast. "But it's—where it comes from—"
"Then use it for something good," I say, shaking his hand. "It ought to square things off."
"God's not a debt collector," Shaw says with a smile.
I bend down to pick up my bag. I hear the clack of high heels over pavement. See a pair of red shoes coming my way at speed. A pair of skin-tight blue jeans and a white vest revealing plenty. It's Darla, pulling her pet rat, Prince, on a diamante lead. As I rise with the bag, she comes to a sharp stop.
I expect a hug. A kiss. But no. A slap. Full force across the left cheek. A real stinger. "Leaving without saying goodbye?" she says.
I'm thinking of how to get out of this one, when she huffs and turns, nose in the air. "Come on, Prince," she says, tugging the little rat along. Prince turns and yaps at me as they storm off together, little legs whirring to keep up with Darla.
I watch her go. Kinda hard not to, if you know what I mean.
But I snap out of it and wave everyone goodbye. I open the cab door and throw my bag on the passenger seat. With a foot on the kick plate ready to climb up. I hear the whoop of a siren behind me.
Dooley's cruiser pulls up on the road. She gets out and runs the rule over me and the farewell party. "Figures," she says to herself.
"You come to arrest me, Sheriff?" I say.
"Come to wish you good riddance," she says. "That and I could do with a cold one . . . Been a heck of a long day."
"Sure has," I say, climbing up into the cab. I throw the bag down at my feet and rest an elbow out of the window.
The sheriff looks up at me, hands on hips. "Funny how that money turned up, ain't it?"
"What money would that be, Sheriff?" Collins says.
"The money that materialised in your account, Mr Collins," Dooley says.
"We all had a whip-round," Florence says. "Pooled our resources."
"Yeah, I bet you all did," Dooley says, cracking a smile for the first time in her life. "Well, don't let me keep you, Mr Ronsen."
"You mean I'm no longer a fugitive?"
"As far as I'm concerned, you were never here at all," Dooley says.
I nod and smile. She tips her hat. Herb steps on the gas and we roll out of town. Herb honks the horn as we go.
As we get out onto the highway, I open my bag and dig a hand under a pile of clothes. I pull out a wad of bank notes and peel a few out. I hand 'em over to Herb.
"What's this for?" he says.
"For your troubles," I say.
He takes the notes and smiles, folding and slipping 'em inside the breast pocket on his denim shirt.
I zip up the bag and push it under the seat. I sit up and take in the landscape. The highway runs far into the distant mountains. The sun melts orange over the vast desert plains. As the light fades, I stretch out and get comfortable for the ride.
"So where are we heading?" I ask.
"West Coast do you?" Herb says, turning on a country radio channel.
"West Coast'll do fine," I say.
53
Jeremy Welch tapped his black and gold roller pen on the crisp, unspoilt writing pad in front of him. The Chairman of the Board was doing the talking today. Usually, he listened until Welch or one of the board members had finished and offered a curt instruction in his gruff, cigar-smoker's voice.
The man was working his way through an agenda of issues—and the Rattlesnake fiasco was next. Welch felt his leg jig involuntarily under the table.
The room was pure ivy league. Old men who spent more time on a golf cart than they did anywhere near an office.
Welch was different. He'd started in the mail room and come up the hard way. Through sales, marketing and management, working ridiculous hours in the remotest corners. And handling the dirtiest jobs--hostile takeovers, mass redundancies and crisis PR.
He knew the company and the business better than anyone. The company was cutthroat. And he'd scrambled over hundreds of other bodies to get that corner office on the top floor of the building.
He'd also doubled profits over the last five years. He'd streamlined the workforce. Culled the executive team. Repurposed the corporation as the national frontrunner in shale gas production.
Yet still no board membership.
And he knew why. He wasn't one of them. The old boy, old money network, with their secret handshakes and stiff suits.
Sam Johnson was the worst of them. A walking, talking sack of wrinkled flesh, his white hair thinning and sun-spotted skin shrivelling by the day. He sat at the head of the conference table, in a brown suit, blue shirt and yellow tie. A hideous combination for a hideous man.
Yet Welch played Johnson's game. There was no other way. He'd come too far not to get a seat on the board now. For the Collins deal to put all the years of work in jeopardy . . . His mind wouldn't even countenance it.
Johnson stopped talking. He took a sip of water and turned his attention to the final point on the agenda. "Right, well I saved the best until last. The project we have out there in the town of Rattlesnake. Mr Welch, would you care to give us an update?"
Welch put down the pen and cleared his throat. He shifted up in his seat, locked his fingers and placed his hands on the table. "Well, we've had a slight issue with the acquisition of a piece of land. The ranch owner, Bill Collins, has refused to sell. And despite our best attempts, we've been unable to persuade him."
There was a deathly silence. Welch looked around the conference table. All eyes were fixed on him.
"But of course, the wider project is still in place," Welch continued. "We may have to re-work the numbers."
Again, silence.
"Is that all you have to say?" Johnson said. "Nothing to add about the police charges against the crews? The unsafe practice suits brought by the unions?"
"These things happen," Welch said. "I can assure you, our legal teams have it under control."
"Still," Johnson said. "The networks have got hold of the story. Just a by-line for now, but it doesn't look good. And that's why we've decided to shelv
e the project."
"What, the whole thing?" Welch asked. “You can’t do that.”
"Sorry, Jeremy, we put it to a vote. It was unanimous. We've got enough problems with the regulators as it is."
Welch threw out his arms and sat back in his chair. This was his big chance. His major power play. Ruined by a common criminal and a hick farmer.
Welch looked for sympathy and support from the rest of the board.
He found none.
Johnson smiled and twiddled his silver-plated pen. "It's shelved, not cancelled. You'll still get your place on the board. It was ratified a week ago." Johnson ticked the agenda in front of him. He put down the pen and focused his attention back on Welch. "Now, seeing as Rattlesnake is out of the question, what else have you got for us?"
Welch felt a wave of relief. He was now a member of the board. And he'd contingency-planned for such a scenario. He reached down by the side of his chair and picked up a black, leather-bound folder. He opened it out on the conference table. "Well gentlemen, we've got a very interesting new project up in North Dakota. It's a former mining town. Cheap, unprotected land. Strong indicators of shale deposits. And a border town in dire need of new investment . . ."
Welch returned the paperwork on the North Dakota project to its folder. He waited for the last of the board members to leave. As soon as the door closed, he stepped away from the table and punched the air. He squeezed his fists together and let out a cathartic sigh of relief. He then composed himself and straightened his suit and tie. He picked up his briefcase and laid it flat on the polished walnut table. He opened the case and slid the folder inside. He left the boardroom and walked along the thick-carpeted corridor to the far end of the building. He rounded the corner, passed by his PA's office and into his own.
It was a large corner office with floor-to-ceiling glass to the left. There was a meeting area to the right with a brown leather sofa and a map of the United States on the wall behind it, peppered with a rainbow of pins.
Welch closed the door behind him. He set his briefcase down by the coat stand inside the door.
He freed the top button on his shirt and loosened his crimson tie. As he did so, he noticed a man in a blue boiler suit behind his desk, cleaning the glass with a spray bottle and cloth.
"What are you doing in here?" Welch said, striding across his office carpet.
The man stopped and turned. "Cleaning the glass, sir."
"I can see that," Welch said. "Why are you doing it now? You're supposed to do that after office hours."
"Ah yes, there was a problem," the cleaner said. "Kenny got sick, so the Friday night clean didn't happen."
"Well the glass can wait," Welch said, taking a seat behind his desk. "I've got calls to make."
"I'm almost done, sir. I'll be two tocks of a grandfather clock."
The cleaner was a bland-looking man. Average in every way down to his haircut, accent and build. To Welch, he represented the faceless masses. The servile classes he'd worked so hard to escape—to get on top of. They were like gravity, forever trying to suck him back in. His board membership would be the extra boost he needed to ascend to a more rarefied atmosphere.
Welch sighed and opened his laptop. "Fine then. Just get on with it and get out. I should have you fucking fired."
"Sorry, sir. I'm just a contractor."
"Don't talk to me about contractors," Welch said to himself, opening a drawer in his desk. He took out a tumbler and a half-drunk bottle of whisky. He unscrewed the top and poured himself a double—a cause for celebration.
Welch savoured the rich flavour of the whisky. Even the squeak of the cleaner's cloth over glass couldn't spoil the moment. He relaxed into his high-backed leather chair and laughed inside. After all that drama. All the tension of the past few weeks. The whole damn nightmare. After all of it, his position on the board was a done deal. Soon he'd barely be in the office. His work would be done under the tables of fine restaurants and country clubs. He'd appoint his successor—a company man he could use. And then, of course, there was the financial aspect. A huge pay increase and substantial shares in the company. With everything Welch had put in place, the value of the company was set to soar.
Hell, he might even set his sights on Chairman. Johnson couldn't have that many years left and he doubted his fellow board members had the stomach for a fight.
He could also distance himself from the likes of De Luca and Marco. And no more of those damn meetings on the roof. Come to think of it, De Luca had been extremely quiet since their last meeting on Saturday. The man had a habit of disappearing when the shit hit the fan and things got messy in public. No doubt he'd hear from the idiot soon.
Welch finished his whisky and set the glass down. He poured himself another. A single. He still had to drive home.
Or maybe straight to Candice's place. Tell Debbie he was working late.
"Is there anyone you want to call?" the cleaner asked, making circles with the cloth over the glass.
"What?" Welch said, pausing with bottle in hand.
"Anyone you want to call?" the cleaner said.
"Like who?"
"I don't know," the cleaner said. "Wife, mistress, those estranged children of yours—"
Welch paused with the glass at his lips. "What the—How do you know about—"
The cleaner kept rubbing. "You should call now. Say what you need to. In around two minutes, you won't be able to breathe. So if you want to call someone . . ."
"I'm calling security, that's who I'm fucking calling." Welch picked up the handset on his desk phone and pushed nine. He held the receiver to his ear. The line was dead. "What the hell—“
"I meant call someone on your cell," the cleaner said. "I cut the line to your office phone."
Welch put down the receiver. "You did what?"
"I cut the line," the cleaner said. "So you can't call security. If you want this to be over faster, I'd have that second drink."
Welch loosened his tie some more. He felt a burning in his chest, and not from the whisky. His hand shook. He dropped the tumbler on the table.
It rolled across the desk and thudded on the carpet.
"Oops, too late," the cleaner said, resting the spray bottle and cloth on the edge of Welch's desk.
Welch felt his throat close up. Breathing was a battle. He could barely speak, pain shooting through his body and muscles freezing. "What is this? Who the fuck are you?" he said, trying to get up, using the desk for support.
But Welch's coordination was gone. Next came the floor. He slid off the desk onto the office carpet. He was aware of his body convulsing, but all he felt was numb, his head lost in a fog.
The cleaner stood over him and smiled. "I'm the moment you didn't see coming."
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Acknowledgments
For my family, friends and all the fantastic people who’ve left me a review, a comment, sent me a kind email or helped to spread the word about my books. I can’t thank you all enough.
Special thanks to everyone who helped me to improve and launch the book. In no particular order:
Richard Austin, Keith Day, Zen, Claire Cash, Courtney Whitfield, Christina Miles, Graham Galloway, Karen Hayward, Pierre Borlase, Susan Weir, Clive Lester, Jane Rushton, Dave Stokes,
Mike Reid, Lee Murphy, CrazyLady(and Pets), Jo Goddard, Simon Hall, Stephon Bishop, AJ Webb, Ian Card, Steve Cocksey, Carolyn (carobillann), Peter Thomas
John Dodd, Julie Lawton, Lynne Lewis, Brian Stevens, Sunita Thapa, Michelle McCairn, Brian Taylor, Heather Munns, Ian Morris, Tony Ryan, Nicola Branigan
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Nick Collymore, Judith (lswampduck), David Brown, Cheryl Ferguson, skathy Elizabeth Hobbins, Bernard Emmerson, Malcolm Barber, Denise Hind, Ronnie Coulson, Geraldine Hickey, Margaret Chapman, Randolph Grey, Hilary Monday, Caroline Kerr, Danny Bellew, Diane Loftus, Rob Gosling, Marilyn Rayner, Monte Hickman, David Potts
Deep breath … and continue …
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