by Lenny Brando
“Yeah, right,” Cole said. “You can get it, yeah? Need about 50.” He turned to go.
“Come back tomorrow.” Scully tapped him on the back. “Wait up. Gimme a number I can call you in case there’s a problem.”
“All right. Emergencies only, yeah?” Cole rattled off the number he’d memorised as they walked to the door. “It’s a burner. I won't have it for long.”
“Like your style, Coley. Good thinking. You got a supplier for them?”
Cole stopped at the door. “Have a word with Birdy. Know him?”
“Course I know Birdy. Might give him a call.”
“Whatever. Don't you concern yourself with me, and I won’t concern myself with you. Got it?”
“Sure, Coley. I got it.”
Cole put his hand on Scully’s chest. “One more thing. You ain't never seen me. Some twat comes round asking questions, you know nothing about nothing, right?”
“Fuck you too. I ain't no grass.”
Cole stared at him, trying to read Scully’s sincerity. “Hope not.”
Scully brushed Cole’s hand away from his chest with force. “Wait up Coley. I said I ain't no grass. I wanna hear you say it. Say I ain’t no grass.”
Cole said nothing, then he shrugged. “If you say so.”
Anger flashed across Scully’s face. “You want that gear or what? I need to hear you say it.”
Cole put his hands in the air and backed off. “Okay. Okay. You ain't no grass. Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. Christ, mate, you need to relax. Smoke more of that shit Mince has.”
Out on the street, Cole hurried to Bethnal Green tube station. Scully was unpredictable at the best of times. Christ knows what the bastard would be like if he dropped a load of Captagon. Maybe Cole shouldn't have mentioned Birdy to Scully. Birdy could go mental if a psyched out Scully came pounding on his door looking for recruits to a mosque destruction cause. Fuck it, he thought. I know too many nutters.
On the tube to East Acton, Cole tried to lose the sense of something wrong, but he couldn't shake it off. By the time he walked to Hammersmith Hospital and rang the ICU bell, the feeling had intensified. The one person he could ask for advice wasn’t capable of giving it.
He held Daz’s hand and whispered in his ear. But Daz didn’t even twitch. The machines surrounding the bed showed more life than Daz. Twenty minutes later, Cole stomped out of the hospital. Out on Du Cane Road, he kicked out at a discarded can. It rattled ahead and when he caught up with it, he crushed it underfoot.
He sucked hard on a cigarette and finished it by the time he passed the entrance to Wormwood Scrubs prison. The union jack fluttered on a tower, but the feeling of pride in the flag soon ran to fear. He spat on the ground and increased his pace. Nobody would bang him up in there. He muttered to himself, certain he was far too clever for the lot of them.
62
The morning after she received the mail from FMP, Alice paced around the counter in her kitchen and read the crumbled letter again. She focused on the standout sentence. Unfortunately, we’ve had to reconsider the production framework for our new current affairs program, and I regret to inform you that we must withdraw our offer. Her shoulders slumped despite being familiar with the contents of the letter. At least the author, Suzanne, had the decency to include her mobile.
Alice sat on a stool and picked up her phone. Ian had been right. She should have called last week, but she hadn’t been prepared to deal with it then. When she tapped Suzanne’s telephone number into her mobile, she took a deep breath. Her finger hovered over the call icon, and she stared at the screen. Then she shook her head and put the phone down. Her head hurt and her pulse rushed. She filled a glass with water from the fridge and drank it with three aspirin. Two empty bottles of wine stood by the sink and remonstrated with her.
Guilt overcame her, and she picked up the two empties. She had to push on the back door, and it opened with a grating sound that made her grimace. The recycling crate was already full of wine bottles, but Alice rested the two she carried on top of the pile. One rolled off onto the concrete with a clink. She waved her hand at it and left it.
Back in the kitchen, with the garden door locked, she rested against the counter, put her head in her hands and let minutes pass.
“For pokker,” she whispered. She picked up the phone again and called Kristin.
“Hey,” Kristin said. “What did they say?” She sounded out of breath.
“I haven’t called yet. I think I’m wasting my time.”
“Oh. I see. Look, um, I can't talk right now. I’m already late for a marketing meeting. We could meet for lunch? Or maybe dinner?”
“Wait. Any suggestions for when I call?”
“Tell them it was all a misunderstanding. A coincidence, nothing more... Sorry... Yes. I’m coming... Sorry... Um... trolls jumped in and made, you know... assumptions... um...”
“Are you running?”
“Kinda. Sorry, Alice. I gotta go. They’re calling me into the meeting. I’ll catch you later.”
When Kristin disconnected, Alice picked up the letter again. She tapped the phone against her head several times as if it would knock the hangover out, but it didn't work. She gave up and called the number.
“This is Suzanne Durrant.”
“Eh, hi Suzanne. This is Alice Madsen.”
“Oh… Yes. Hello Alice.”
“I was wondering if we could talk about the show contract?”
“There isn't a lot to discuss, Alice.”
“I hoped once everything had blown over, you know, the false allegations and the social media storm, that maybe we could, or you could, like, reconsider?”
“It’s not in my hands Alice.”
“Could you talk to whoever made the decision?”
“I can't see it making any difference, to be honest.”
Alice sighed. “My ability and talents are the same. Nothing’s changed. You thought I was capable before.”
“Oh Lord.” Seconds passed. Suzanne made a noise like she was clicking a pen. Then she sighed over the connection. “I think they’ve made an offer to the alternative candidate already. That said, if you can give me a compelling reason to take it to the Gods, I’ll try.”
63
Cole woke in a determined mood, and by 10:00AM he’d left his flat for Scully’s.
“Where’s Mince?” Cole asked when he arrived. “Hope you didn't give him any of that shit you got for me.”
Scully shook his head. “He’s still in bed.”
“He live here now?”
“Got two bedrooms. He’s supposed to pay rent. But I ain't never seen none.”
“How much did you get?”
“What? The rent? I told you, fella. Sod all.”
“No. The fucking pills. The Captagon.”
“£3 each. Was only joking about giving them to you for free if you do that lot down the road. Got you 100.”
“What the hell Scully? 100? You wanna kill me? Only asked for 50. You’re supposed to take 5 at most. And £3?”
“You need to do better research, fella. They reckon that South Ken bloke done about 40.”
“100 pills? That’s, like... 300 quid.”
Scully shrugged. “Keep the leftovers for the next time. I reckon you should take 10. You’ll go fucking mental. Like you’ll want to kill every one of those bastards.”
“You saying I need 10, means they’re weak. Should be £1 each, not £3.”
“Now look fella. This was a high risk purchase. And I gotta eat.”
“C’mon Scully. I ain't got that much. £150 for the lot.”
Scully shook his head. “No.”
“£200, then.”
“£250.”
Cole reached into his pocket and counted out £220. “That’s all I can go.”
Scully pulled at his ear and squinted. “Dunno. Maybe I could keep some for myself. But then, the Muslim bloke did 40. Supposing you don't feel the need to kill after 10?”
“£220 th
e lot, you thieving bastard.”
“All right, then. £220 it is.” Scully handed over a bag containing the Captagon pills. “Here you go.”
Cole stuffed the bag into his jacket pocket and caught Scully’s eye following the movement. “What you looking at Scully?”
“There’s a hole in that pocket, fella. You should give it to your Mum to sew.”
“Ain't got no Mum. She’s dead.” Cole put the bag in his jeans and felt around for the hole in his jacket pocket. According to the label, it was an Armani. It was a good reproduction, and the hole was more several loose threads than an opening. His forefinger wouldn’t fit through it. Maybe he wore it too often, he should buy another. “I’ll staple it.”
“Classy that, Coley.”
“Yeah.” Cole looked around the room. “Takes class to know class, eh?”
Scully shrugged. “It is what it is. Anyway, you’re not doing the local mosque then?”
“Fuck that. Not my thing. Why you asking?”
“Don't matter.”
“What are you on about?”
“Nothing.”
“Scully,” Cole said. “You never seen me. Right?”
“Fuck you, Coley. What do you think I am?”
Cole thought of several valid replies but opted to keep them to himself. “Yeah. I guess neither of us knows nothing.”
At the front door, Scully offered his hand. “For your mate and England.”
“My twin brother. And his name is Daz.” Cole shook his hand and wondered what Scully was planning. But rather than ask, he hurried down the stairs.
Several hours later, he emptied the pills out onto his kitchen table in Bethnal Green. He cursed Scully when he counted 94 of them. “Thieving bastard.” Rather than download the latest video clips from Alice’s bedroom immediately, he would wait until he tested the effect of the Captagon. It would give him something to look forward to, if the quick peek at the footage was anything to go by. He had been tempted to view them in full while on the Tube, but he didn't want anyone to think of him as a perv.
He popped 4 pills and switched on the TV. The South Ken terror attack was old news and no longer featured, so he played the recordings he’d made of his interview with Laura Bowfield. He watched himself several times, and he still couldn’t find any fault with his performance.
When he thought the drugs had begun to take hold, he booted up the computer and downloaded the video clips via the camera app. He watched Alice stumble a little as she entered her bedroom the previous night. She peeled off all her clothes except her underwear, leaving everything in a heap on the floor. She fell into the bed and stayed there until around 4:00am, when she went to the bathroom. The night footage wasn't great, too dark and grainy, but the morning clips showed promise.
He leered at the screen while he watched her dress. There was something special about the clips of Alice naked in her bedroom. It gave Cole a sense of power. Now he felt in control, unlike the time he wimped out. In fact, he felt very good. And very fucking horny all of a sudden. His jeans bulged, and he realised the Captagon effect had kicked on further.
He undid his belt, dropped his jeans and shorts, and he searched a porn site web for a suitable video. In full-screen mode, he watched a girl tied to a bed. She squirmed under the control of her master, and she moaned in pleasure.
Cole whacked at himself with drug driven vigour while the clip played. When the guy put his hands around her neck and squeezed, Cole beat harder still. As her face reddened, the camera pulled back and the guy thrust into her. She bucked as he bulled her. Then her face turned into Alice’s. All Cole could see was Alice struggling against the restraints. Alice tied to her bed in her house on Portobello Close. Cole shuttling in and out of her. Alice loving every second.
When the virtual Alice’s eyes bulged, the guy took his hands from her throat and she groaned in rapture. “Harder Coley,” screamed Alice. “Fuck me harder.” Cole couldn't contain himself any longer.
He gasped at the intensity. The pills were fucking great. He would scoff handfuls before he paid her a visit. There would be no wimping out next time. No running away. Alice was going to get it. And Alice was going to love it.
64
On Thursday evening, Ian sat in a low lit corner of a Birmingham hotel bar nursing a beer and the Telegraph. Every so often, he glanced around the bar for any familiar faces from the conference. He expected none, as the hotel was further from the NEC than most of the others, but it was worth the taxi journey to avoid work related conversations through the evening.
His phoned beeped with a message notification. Running late. Soz. Jo xxx. He winced at the kisses, deleted the message and returned to the paper. There was no further coverage on the South Kensington attack, the last report said Samir Hassan had been charged and remanded in custody. It appeared everyone had moved on from the attack, and life had now returned to normal.
By the time he was halfway through the sports section, he felt Jo’s presence beside him. He put the paper down and gave her a loose hug.
“Hey Jo. You look good.”
Jo sat on the chair beside him. “Yeah. You look good too.” She stroked his shoulder with the back of her hand. “Missed you.”
Ian recoiled a little from her touch and glanced around the bar again.
She took her hand away and furrowed her brow. “Huh?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. It’s been... You know, awkward.”
“I thought everything was back to normal again.” She moved her head to stare him in the eye.
“Come on, Jo.” He spread his palms. “I mean, what did...”
“What did I expect, huh?”
“Let’s not argue, all right?” He reached under the table and ran his hand along her thigh. “All right?”
She picked up his beer and sipped from it. “I wish you’d leave her.”
“What?” Ian stifled the instinct to glare at her. “Where did that come from? I mean, I thought, you know…”
She shrugged. “Dunno. I want more.”
“It’s not that simple.” He took the beer from her hand.
“Well it’s not like you’re married. Is it?” She looked away and pulled on an earring.
“Let’s see what happens, huh? She might decide to go back to Copenhagen for good.”
Jo looked him in the eye. “You think there’s a chance of that?”
“It’s home. Things might get too much for her here.”
“Maybe you should encourage her?”
Ian raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
Ian shrugged. “You want a drink?”
“Yeah, but something decent.”
“What’s wrong with Monkey? That not decent?”
“Room service champagne.” She leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “Come on then. The least you can do is spoil me rotten and fuck me silly.”
65
Cole checked he’d left his regular phone on his lounge table. He made sure the burner had access to the camera in Alice’s bedroom, then he assembled his gear. He placed the long serrated knife he’d bought earlier into a holdall, and put four Velcro restraints, tape, gloves and a balaclava on top of the knife.
An hour later, he entered the Duke of Sandringham pub, where he drank lager and waited for Alice to go to bed. He’d watched her over the last few nights, and he reckoned the boyfriend was still away. Alice normally went to bed around 11pm, sometimes later. That meant she would be asleep and alone in her house around midnight. Opening her front door wouldn't present a problem. The issue would be the alarm beeping and the dis-armed message. That could wake her. If she came downstairs, he’d have to subdue her.
He sipped at his glass and let time pass. From regular glances at the camera feed on the burner phone, he could see she hadn't entered the bedroom.
When barman rang the bell at 11:20PM, Alice hadn’t gone to bed yet. Cole fidgeted with his fingers and glanced about. He was almost fi
nished his lager, and he didn't want another. An urgent need to piss could ruin the moment later, so he nursed the dregs of his drink while he wished Alice would go to bed.
Around 11:45, the barman shouted at the stragglers to leave. Cole ignored him, entered the toilet and closed the door behind him in a cubicle. He put his holdall on the cistern lid. Wasting no time, he dug out a small plastic bag containing some of his Captagon pills from his jeans. He counted out eight pills and popped one into his mouth. But the pills were large, and it would be too difficult to dry swallow the lot. He needed water. Just as he went to open the cubicle, he heard someone enter the toilet. The person stumbled against the cubicle door and mumbled something. Cole heard him unzip his fly and piss against the stainless steel urinal. Before the guy finished pissing, he farted and giggled to himself.
Cole peered out from the crack between the door and frame. The guy zipped up and turned towards the cubicle. “Oi,” he said. “You all right in there mate?”
Cole said nothing. The guy banged on the door. “Oi? Anyone in there?”
“Christ’s sake,” Cole muttered to himself. He grabbed his bag and opened the cubicle door as the guy went to bang on it again. The guy slipped into Cole, who spun and pushed the guy into the cubicle. The guy stumbled forward and slammed his head against the cistern with a loud clank. Then he slumped to the wet floor in a heap.
Blood mingled with the piss on the ground, and Cole hurried to the sink. He ran the tap, stuffed two pills into his mouth and washed them down with hands cupped with water. It took five attempts to swallow all eight pills. The door opened, and the barman peered in. “Everything all right in here?”
Cole looked behind him. The guy’s feet stuck out from the cubicle. The barman followed his gaze.
“What happened to him?” asked the barman.
“I didn’t do nothing. He’s pissed. Must have slipped. He’s your problem, mate. Not mine.”
While the barman went towards the cubicle, Cole picked up his bag and hurried from the toilet. He heard the barman shouting behind him, but Cole didn’t stop. He ran out through the pub past the drunken glances of the last two customers and onto the street. After a quick glance in either direction, Cole sped around the nearest corner and cut between two apartment blocks. When he figured he was safe, he slowed down.