She touched the ribbon now and looked back to the gathering. She’d googled ‘Jewish Funerals’ before she came, so knew a little of what she was seeing – and hearing. Psalms were being chanted, a rise and fall of mainly male voices, almost Gregorian. It was beautiful, and she found she was listening while staring up into the clearest of blue summer skies. She wasn’t religious in any way. But she wondered if Joe’s spirit, that lovely spirit she’d glimpsed as he unravelled before her, was soaring up to the skies, carried by those chanted words?
English was being spoken now, an older man who looked a little like a grey-haired Joe – his brother? – starting to talk about him. She walked away. This was the eulogy and they were going to praise a man she really didn’t know. She didn’t need to hear about that man. She had her own Joe.
Daphne was parked just outside the gates on Hoop Lane – illegally of course, but for once she hadn’t gotten a ticket. Result! All the stuff she’d had at Portobello was crammed in – not that much, truly, she’d not been there that long. She’d had to clear out that morning. That letch from Severin’s, Oliver, had come to collect the keys and see her out a couple of hours before. He’d been subdued though, un-letchy, in his funeral black with ribbon pinned, and his black skull cap. When he saw the broken table, he’d just shaken his head. He knew the story, part of it anyway, the part that had been allowed to be printed and broadcast. Everyone did. But the first person through the door on that one London day had been a well-dressed woman and she only stayed a little because she got what she came for – Mr Severin’s books. She’d gone when the police showed up. They’d talked to her for a few hours, and then again the next day, but realized quite quickly that she didn’t know much. She told them what she did, all she did, no point in lying. One female officer had sniffed her ashtray like a hound, and given her a knowing grin at the whiff of one of her specials in there. But she hadn’t made a fuss. Portobello, after all, and more important things to deal with.
Vapour trails streaked the blue sky. Lottie suddenly wondered if Sonya was on one of the planes that made them.
She lowered herself into Daphne, the old girl greeting her with her usual chorus of leather squeaks and moans. Her mum’s for a few days, then back to town. She started in the pit at the Cambridge on Tuesday, second keyboards. Her friend Saar was in the Alps, so she was house sitting for the first week in Dollis Hill. After that? Something would show up.
Something always did.
Sonya was finally able to settle back into her seat. She’d sorted her daughter out. Maria had her big headphones on, her big glasses, her big eyes fixed on the cartoon story unfolding on the screen before her. On her daughter’s other side, Georgiy was already asleep, his face pressed into a pillow that he’d wedged against the cabin’s wall. He was unshaven, grey and black stubble stark against his pasty skin. He’d slept most of the way on the connecting flight from Moscow too. Would sleep perhaps all the way on this last one to Baltimore. Which was fine. She was happier to watch him sleep here than to imagine him awake back in Russia.
They’d been lucky, all of them. Another week and they might not have been. But that day in London had changed everything. The money, of course, almost the exact sum she’d needed, found in those few, strange moments. More fortune following the money – her husband had only just slipped onto the slope of heroin, and her early return pulled him back. A sudden slight rise in the pound, on some rumour of Brexit, and a drop in the rouble because of sanctions, added a few hundred to her stash. A day’s sale on flights to America meant she could buy three tickets for the price of two. She couldn’t leave her husband in Moscow. Without her, there was every chance he would not be there when she got back. But now, perhaps none of them would go back? Maria’s operation at John Hopkins, then the post operative supervision, would take some time. Time to figure out how to stay on, perhaps?
For a long time now, her daughter had been researching America, making a scrapbook of all the places she wanted to visit. New York was Number One. She had pasted in a photo of the Statue of Liberty. Sonya remembered its message: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” She was certainly tired, not rich. Perhaps there was a way. America welcomed immigrants, didn’t it?
She looked beyond Georgiy, to the window, out into the evening sky. A beautiful night, cloudless, the sunset a mauve wonder. She glanced down, reached and tucked Marushka’s little silver crucifix back under her t-shirt. Her daughter caught her wrist, held it, squeezed it tight. It hurt a little, under the bandage. But this was a good kind of pain, and she didn’t mind.
23
August 5th 2018
Mr Phipps was in the gym.
It was one of his favourites, a plush one in Holland Park. He’d go there sometimes even if he wasn’t working; which he was, today. It was always busy, with a clientele that suited the neighbourhood. Elegantly kitted out, the mainly younger men and women ran, and rode, and elliptically ski-ed, and pumped. No headbangers here, like in the rec centre in Gants Hill, which was mainly blokes his own age. The tattoos there were blue, smeared, old school, anchors, girl’s names and the like. Here, roses and skulls peeked from singlets, grapevines and snakes writhed up arms. He’d noticed one lady, older than the kids, perhaps thirty five, well fit though. She had a phoenix, its head on one shoulder, its feet resting in flames on a shapely bicep.
He didn’t talk to ladies in gyms. There was an etiquette and he never wanted to be noticed. And he didn’t stare, for the same reason. But a swift glance now and again? It helped him in his workouts.
Not that he could do much. His shoulder was still fucked from before. So he did the aerobic stuff, the Stairmaster, and lots of sit ups and crunches. He probably should have taken another week off. But it was his first gig tonight for his new employers and he was superstitious, he had his rituals. His ‘fetishes’. They’d said it was West London, nothing more yet. He was expecting a text with the address. Around six, they’d said. Three quarters of an hour. A few last crunches, then a shower…
He hit ‘stop’, the treadmill slowed, he stepped off it. Fetched the cleaner, sprayed the machine, wiped it down, all a bit tricky one handed. The sloping bench was free, but as he crossed to it, he noticed a phoenix flying in from the west.
They arrived at the same time. “Oh, after you,” she said.
“No, no. Please.” He refrained from saying, ‘ladies first’. He’d been told by Paula when he’d dumped her in that Italian restaurant last night, that it made him sound like a prat.
She had brown eyes with little wrinkles springing up around them when she smiled, which she did now. She had short hair, a slim physique, toned. “It’s my last set. Uh, want to alternate?”
Do I, he thought, noting the voice. Low, not too posh, a hint of Midlands. But all he said was, “Absolutely.”
She did a set of twenty, impeccably. Uncurled her legs, slid off. She looked at his arm, still in the sling. “Looks awkward. And painful.”
“Both, yeah. Bike accident. Some idiot didn’t see me.”
She nodded, now taking in the bruise on his cheek. “Do you need a - ?”
“No. I’m good.”
He did his set, impeccably, despite the sling. They alternated in silence but she didn’t move away when he lowered himself for his last. When he stood up again, he thought he’d risk it. “Lovely bird,” he said, “Phoenix, right?”
She glanced down. “Oh yes. Though this is the Persian one, the Simurgh.” She blushed a little, he wasn’t sure why. “Not quite finished though.”
“Is the Persian one still about rebirth? Moving on?”
“It is. I am.” This she said firmly, whatever the blush was, gone. She looked at his bare arms. “None for you?”
“None that I dare show in public.”
He smiled at her. She smiled back. There was a moment – and then his phone dinged. He looked at the text, and grinned.
“Girlfriend?” she said, the challenge clear.
“No,” he said, clicking the phone off. “I’ve moved on too.”
He gave her his number. Always the best tactic, he felt. Her name was Melanie. She didn’t give him her number. But he had a feeling she would call.
Sebastien zipped up his suitcase and looked around. His phone was in his coat pocket, his charger in his carry-on along with the passport he was going to use; the other two were in the bag he’d check.
His Arran sweater was still on the bed but the case was already full and he’d have had to part unpack to squeeze it in. Too much hassle. It was cold in New Zealand this time of year but he wasn’t going to stay there long. Once he’d collected his money, he’d move on to Polynesia. From there? Who knew?
He looked at the bedside table. He’d thought of taking the photo of him, Genevieve and Toby in Antibes out of the frame and packing it. But now he decided he couldn’t be arsed. What was he going to do, sit on a beach in Bora Bora and pine for his London life? Not likely. That one was over. It was time to begin anew. Really, Toby was two and full in the tantrum stage, a royal pain in the backside. While Genevieve was clearly as bored of him as he was of her. I’m like that bird, what was it called? A… phoenix, that’s right. Rising from the flames. Funny, he thought, Mr Phipps had mocked him for using the image last week in the pub. He’d heard that their killer was going to be charged with twenty murders. Shocking what monsters walked the streets of London.
Flames, he thought, lifting the suitcase, taking it downstairs, dropping it in the front hall. Bernard has said they were licking at the door. Best to leave before the house goes up. He was going to stay, brazen it out, the tit. Perry was back in Ankara, Nate was already in Israel. Both had routes out planned.
His own grilling at the Circus had lasted a day and a half. But the clever thing the Shadows had done from the very beginning was to conduct operations in areas that had legitimate British or European interests involved. Refugees out of Libya? Infiltrate, organize a few shiploads, ultimately to halt the flow. A sting operation involving heroin to squeeze the last lifeblood out of ISIS funding. He could see that they weren’t believed. That fucker Wolfden – the Wolf! – had been especially sceptical. But it was hard to prove them anything other than over-enthused patriots. For now. And the money of course was scattered all over. Take a while to pull that info together, since the electronic trail was almost non-existent. Clever again. They’d need Sadiq. But no one knew where the little brown chap was, including his fellow Shadows. It was a little worrying. Even without the books, the man should still be transferring close to half a mil into each member’s account.
They’d put Sebastien on gardening leave and taken his British and Diplomatic passports but he rarely travelled on those anyway. And just last night the watchers outside had been withdrawn. Find Sadiq of course and all might change, of course. If the dark skinned little bastard could be persuaded to roll? No, it was definitely time to leave.
He’d ordered the limo for six. Fifteen minutes. The BA lounge at Heathrow had quite an acceptable wine list. His flight wasn’t till ten but better to hang out there, than here - he might even get sentimental, change his mind about the photograph.
He poured himself a Scotch, sat on the sofa, looked around. The room was Genevieve’s taste, not his. Or truly, it was Jasper Conran’s. He doubted she’d be able to keep up the mortgage payments. Well, her dad was loaded, one of the main reasons he’d married her. The old man would bail her out.
At five fifty five, his phone gave a special ding in his coat in the hall. Sadiq, at last. Be good to know that other half mil was secure.
He went and fished out the phone. Sadiq’s number – but no message. At least not in words. Because on his screen, two black cue balls, with eyes and grinning mouths, were jumping up and down.
He was puzzling over them when the doorbell chimed. He glanced at the security screen. It was fuzzy, white lines shooting across it. On the fritz again. He’d have to get it fixed… no, Genevieve would. He stepped up to the spyhole. The limo driver was a blur, standing too close to the door to see.
He unlocked, opened.
A man in white overalls and a red cap was standing there. He had a sling over his left arm.
“Mr Phipps!” Sebastien exclaimed.
“How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t use my name,” Phipps replied, and raised the gun.
Afterword
I would like to thank everyone who is reading this postscript now, for taking a bit of a risk and taking this ride.
I know it is very different from your usual C.C. Humphreys’ book. It’s quite different from many books. I got the nicest rejection letters from most of the crime editors in London who raved about the characters, the noir-ish plot, the mood and setting, but had no idea where to place it. Who is the protagonist, they asked? Is it crime? Is it romance? Is it… shudder!... a version of that distinct breed, the North London Novel.
I had no answer for them. I still don’t. I just decided I was more interested in all these characters as well as that certain randomness that seems to govern so much of life. Would someone turn their life upside down for the glimpse of the small of a back, lit by a sunbeam? I believe they can. (I did once – though happily without the more dire consequences depicted here).
If there is an ‘inciting incident’ (as screenwriters have it), it would be something that happened to a friend of mine in a quiet, leafy, affluent suburb quite similar to the one I wrote about here. She did witness a hit, poor woman. And the victim was her neighbour, someone who’d seemed so innocuous, yet who somewhere along the way must have made a few wrong choices…
Having spent so much of my writing time in foreign lands, or even fantasy ones, I really wanted to spend time in my own city. Of course, I’d drawn it in historical times - Tudor, Shakespearean, Plaguey, 18th Century. But I’d never delved into the world I grew up in, among people I knew. This novel is made up as much of my impressions of place as it is about plot. The pubs I’ve drunk in, the roads I have driven, the houses I have visited or lived in. It is made up of so many moments, little and big, innocent and dramatic, of my time there. I’ve also tried to draw intimate portraits based on people I’ve known, some better than others. I went to school with my fair share of Sebastiens. And Joe Severins. And once I fell in love with a Lottie, when a sunbeam struck her back just so. I have never met a hitman, as far as I know. But acting for years in British crime dramas you’d be amazed at who you pass in the canteen. Some stunt men I worked with over the years were only doing TV because more – eh hem - lucrative work was temporarily unavailable. The stories I heard…
So at least now this is off my chest, a tale written at least partly from my life and in quite a different style. Only you can be the judge of whether I succeeded in this telling, or whether I should stick to ancient times, or fantastical worlds.
A word of thanks to my friend who told me the story of the horror she witnessed - and whose name I must keep secret. Thanks too to all my North London friends who helped me over the years, from schooldays to present days. And I give special kudos to my old friend and brilliant designer, Robert Edmonds of Evoke Vancouver (http://www.evoke.ca/) who was a joy to work with, and who came up with the fabulous look for the book.
Of course, final thanks have to go to the city that continues to inspire me. I have been away far too long, given the world’s current circumstances. But I promise I will return as soon as I can…
…One London Day.
C.C. Humphreys
Salt Spring Island, British Columbia, Canada.
March 16th 2021
For more stories and adventures, please get in touch with me at my website:
http://www.authorchrishumphreys.com/
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