by Darren Dash
Snap decision, and if it was the dumbest move I’d ever made, so be it.
“I’d want a gun,” I told him. “Hi-Power. You get it back when I’m finished.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
“And no double-crosses.”
“Hey, I’m a man of –” he started to say, playing the innocent.
“I mean it.” I put the bottle down on the desk. “I won’t be played. If you try to cross me, I’ll come after you. And I’ll find you. And I’ll make you pay.”
“No.” He shook his head. “If I was planning something like that, you wouldn’t survive the cross. You don’t have the resources that I have. If I wanted to betray you, there’s nothing you could do to hurt me, and don’t kid yourself otherwise. But I don’t want to stick a knife in your back. Why should I, after what you did for me? This is about repaying a debt, not punishing a stooge. If you don’t believe me, walk away now.”
But of course, with a neat little speech like that, and twenty-five thousand notes to back it up, I wasn’t about to turn him down.
“Tell me more about the sort of stuff she’s into,” I said.
And I sat back, and listened, and thought about the money. And I dreamed.
FOUR — THE MOLL
Rabbit drove me back. Didn’t say much along the way. I was starting to warm to him. I liked a guy who could keep his own counsel.
Brue had offered cash, but I didn’t fancy sitting on that much, worried it would be stolen. At the same time I didn’t want to give a sizeable chunk of it to the taxman. The gangster understood my dilemma and had an easy solution for it. He logged in to an online bank account, some private bank I’d never heard of, then passed his phone to me and instructed me to reset the username and password, and also enter my own name, phone number and email address.
“That account’s yours now,” he said, grinning as he watched me slowly tap in numbers with my right index finger, “or will be if you ever finish typing.”
“I was a boxer, not a secretary,” I growled.
“Only you have access to it from now on,” he said once I’d logged out, logged in again to check I’d done it right, then logged out again. “I can never recover it, short of breaking your legs to make you tell me the details.”
“I wish it was that easy to deal with my local bank,” I muttered.
“Money tends to speed these things along,” Brue smirked. “I’ll transfer the funds and email you the bank link while you’re on your way home, so that you can download the app to your own devices. You can make payments from it like from any normal account, or pay in if you ever want to top it up. Also, you’ll find a link in the main menu, listing all the bank branches around the world where you can walk in and make a cash withdrawal — there aren’t that many of them, but you’re never too far from one in any of the major cities. All you’ll need is the account info and photo ID. They won’t ask for anything else, you can withdraw as much as you like, and nothing will be recorded. Revenue and Customs will never know about this.”
“You’re sure about that?” I asked uneasily.
“You can take it to the bank,” he said, and laughed the delighted laugh of a man who thinks he’s perfectly placed to put Oscar Wilde out of business.
It took me a long time to fall asleep when Rabbit dropped me off and I climbed the stairs to bed. Thinking about the deal I’d struck, how crazy this was, wanting to call Lewis Brue and cancel.
Remembering my chat with the gang, my admission to myself that I’d maybe picked up Brue in the hope of getting caught in the crossfire. Looking at the place on the wall where I’d hung the two photos all those years ago. Only up there a few weeks while I gingerly pieced myself back together and established my fragile plans for the future, but I could still imagine them hanging there if I squinted.
This could screw me. If I got in over my head, my journey could very feasibly end here, this weekend.
Was that what I secretly wanted? This had been a largely joyless world for me since the desert. Dave and the gang numbed me to some of the pain. So did Fervent and his boys in the gym. But mostly I was out there on the streets in the cab, or staring at the wall in here, lost in the past and suffering. Only one sure, easy way to put an end to all that.
Or was this an attempt to find release another way? If I could make the money work for me, maybe I’d find happiness as a promoter with Fervent. Perhaps this could be the new start I needed, escape at last.
I fell asleep still pondering it, and I wasn’t any more certain of my motives when I woke just a few hours later. But I didn’t reach for my phone to call Lewis Brue. I was going ahead with this, as crazy as it was, whatever my real reason might be. That much I was sure of. That much and no more.
I went down to tell Dixie about the temporary lodger. Dixie was my landlady. She’d owned and lived in the original building, before going into partnership with a firm of developers years ago to convert it into a block of flats. She could have taken the money and retired to the country, but she liked the neighbourhood and watching it change, so she’d stayed on in one of the new flats (a much larger and nicer flat than mine, it must be said) as landlady in residence.
Dixie Twist was a cool old lady, into the blues and silent movies. Spent her free time composing scores for ancient films that nobody cared about. I’d gone to a few showings in tiny cinemas and dusty old theatres. The blues had never done much for me but I’d always been interested in movies. The silents were a mixed bag, but I saw at least one – Sunrise – which was an out-and-out classic. I was hoping to see more over the coming years, but Dixie didn’t get out with them too often, partly because they took so long to score, partly because it was difficult finding somewhere to host the events.
“How long will she be staying?” Dixie asked when I told her about my guest.
“Just until Sunday.”
“OK, but no condoms in the toilet. They jam the works and then I have to call the plumber and that’s embarrassing for everybody.”
“Hey, I told you, she’s my cousin.”
“Yeah? How old is she?”
“Early twenties,” I said, repeating what Brue had told me.
“Hmm. Amazing how many pretty female cousins there are around that age.”
I scowled. “Would I be telling you about her if she wasn’t on the level?”
Dixie laughed. “It’s fine, Eyrie. I’m just pulling your leg. You didn’t need to tell me, but I’m pleased that you did.”
Dixie was right — I hadn’t needed to let her know about the girl. But she paid attention to who came and went. I was worried she might spot Toni when I wasn’t with her, think she was an intruder, maybe call the police. Unlikely, but I didn’t plan to take any chances.
I kept a clean, orderly apartment – a throwback to my Army days – so I didn’t have to do much to get it ready. I cleared out the laundry bin, gave the kitchen a rub with a sponge, ran Henry the Hoover around for a while.
I spent the rest of the day nervously killing time. Fixed the front door myself, putting the receipt for the new lock in my wallet to give to Lewis Brue on Sunday when I returned the girl. Watched a movie, The Devil Thumbs a Ride, a little-known gem from the 1940s. Rang Dave to let him know I wouldn’t be working for the next few nights. I could tell he thought I was going on a bender and I didn’t try to convince him otherwise. If this worked out, I’d let him and the others go on thinking of this as one of my lost weekends. I didn’t plan to share the true story with them, wary of Lewis Brue’s warning to keep it to myself.
Eventually, having wanted to do it all day, I accessed the email that Brue had sent, downloaded the app to my phone and logged in to the account, half-hoping there’d be nothing there, so I’d have a legitimate excuse to call Brue and cancel.
The money had hit as promised. Twenty-five thousand pounds, mine to do with whatever I pleased.
I felt sick as I stared at the numbers. Depressed, almost.
I logged out. Thought yet again
about ringing Brue to call this off.
Instead I logged back in and studied the numbers some more.
And this time I started to smile.
She rang three times, long, steady presses on the bell. Strolled straight in when I opened the door, pulling a small wheelie case. She looked shapeless, lost in the folds of a crumpled mac which was several sizes too large for her. A cap pulled down over her ears. Drab trainers. Lightly shaded glasses.
She walked past and scoped the flat before saying anything. Grunted sourly to indicate this wasn’t what she was accustomed to. Took off the cap. She had brown hair, shaved in tight and ugly, either by an amateur or a stylist who had been trying to make some sort of a statement. A thin face, narrow cheeks, hardly any spare flesh. She wasn’t wearing much make up. Alert green eyes.
She extracted a gun from inside the mac and passed it to me without a word. The Hi-Power that I’d asked for. Next she handed me a flower-patterned bag filled with spare clips, that she’d also been carrying within the coat. As I was stowing the gun and ammo, she produced a tube of lipstick and painted her lips. Checked them on the blank TV screen, then took off her coat. Her dress wasn’t going to win any fashion awards, but nobody looking at her would be that bothered about the dress. She was a touch short, nothing a pair of heels couldn’t correct. Lithe like an athlete, lightly tanned. Drape her in designer gear, wrap a scarf around the head, give a beautician half an hour with her, and you’d have a beautiful young woman on your hands.
“You the guy?” she asked. She had a northern accent but I couldn’t place it.
“I’m a guy,” I answered.
“Don’t get smart,” she snapped. “Are you the guy Lewis has provided for me?”
“I hope so.” I nodded at the bag with the gun. “You’re in trouble if I’m not.”
She rolled her eyes. “And this is the pit where I have to waste the next three days of my life?”
“If you don’t like it, take a hike,” I said sweetly.
That surprised her. She subjected me to a quick once-over, not having expected such an acidic response from the hired help. “You know who I am?” she asked.
“I haven’t a clue.”
“Lewis didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“But you work for him, so you must have some idea.”
“No and no.”
She frowned. “You don’t work for him?”
“I’m just an acquaintance.”
“And you’ve really no idea who I am?”
“I’m not being paid to have ideas.”
She laughed and sat on the couch. Dropped her case and kicked it clear of her feet. Raised a hand to control her hair. Stopped when she remembered it had been shorn short. That told me it had been cut very recently. Maybe to help her keep a low profile. But I didn’t think too much about that, or who she might be hiding from. Like I’d said, I wasn’t being paid to think.
“So what’s the deal?” she asked, lifting her legs and stretching out in that catlike way that certain graceful women have, getting the feel of the couch, even though it was far from befitting of her beauty.
“The deal is, Lewis paid me to watch over you,” I said, trying not to stare. There had been some women since Zahra, but not many, and none on Toni’s level. “He owes me a favour and this is his way of paying me back.”
She glanced up sharply. “Paying you back? What the hell does that mean? You think he’s giving me to you, that I’m your sex toy?”
“No,” I blinked, stung by the hostility.
“That’s what it sounded like to me,” she snapped.
“I’m sorry if it came out that way,” I said sincerely. “All I meant was that he’s paying me very handsomely to look after you, and I’m grateful to him for his generosity, but I’m under no obligation to do this.”
“So I’ve got to be nice to you?” she bristled.
“Just respectful. Hell, not even that. Just don’t make any cutting remarks about my home. It’s not much, but it’s mine.”
“And if I say screw that and tell you it’s a dump, you’ll throw me out?”
“Yes,” I said evenly. “I’d rather not give back the money, but it will be an easy thing to return if I decide the job’s more hassle than it’s worth.”
“Kind of a sensitive fellow, aren’t you?” she pouted.
“Just letting you know where we stand. So we don’t get off on the wrong foot.”
She nodded. “OK. I can see you’re thin-skinned, so I’ll say no more about your lovely palace of a home. What’s the schedule?”
“We stay here and get to know one another.”
“Sounds exciting,” she yawned. “You want to start?”
“Happy to. I’m Eyrie Brown.”
“Eerie? As in…?” She made a ghostly keening sound.
“No. As in what eagles nest in.”
“You’re making that up,” she said.
“My mother had a brother who liked birds,” I muttered, and for the first time in years I blushed while defending my ludicrous name.
“Must have fucking loved them,” she laughed.
I shrugged, feeling like I was thirteen years old again and taking a slagging in the school yard. “We get what we’re given. What about you?”
“Toni Curtis,” she said.
“Now you’re the one making up names,” I smiled.
“Something wrong with my name?” She stared at me coldly.
“No. It’s fabulous. But…”
“The actor,” she sneered. “Yeah, you’re not the first to point it out.”
“Is it your real name, or are you just a big Tony Curtis fan?” I asked.
“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” she sniffed. She tossed her head, meaning to shake her hair haughtily, again forgetting that she didn’t have any flowing locks. Scowling, she said, “And if you think I’m staying in all the time, you’re deluded. I’m tired tonight, so I don’t mind a quiet one, but Fridays and Saturdays are for partying. Tomorrow, I want out, and I know Lewis told you that wasn’t a problem, so don’t act like it is.”
“OK,” I sighed. “What do you like doing?”
“Screwing,” she replied promptly, to get a reaction. I disappointed her. I’d given lifts to hundreds of girls her age and younger, always testing and teasing, so I was experienced enough to handle such a jab without blinking.
“Then I guess it’s gonna be a pretty boring weekend, as that’s not on the agenda,” I said. “Anything else? Opera, ballet, a nice church service?”
“Fucking comedian,” she mumbled. “Have you got anything to drink?”
“Like what?”
“Champagne?”
“Only if they’ve started piping it through the taps.”
“Wine?”
“Sorry.”
“Christ. What about beer? If Brue’s put me in with a teetotaller, I’ll choke the bastard to death.”
“I’ve got beer,” I comforted her.
“Hallelujah. Spirits?”
“Rum.”
“Eyrie Brown, I love you.”
“I’ll get a bottle,” I said, bemused.
She stood. “Just point the way. I like to mix my drinks myself. Men are no good at mixing drinks. They’re –”
“Let me guess,” I interrupted, reading her mind by the way her lips were lifting at the edges. “They’re only good for one thing, right?”
She winked and said, “Sometimes not even that.”
Then she headed for the fridge, leaving me to shake my head and prepare for what looked set to be a lively three days.
She drank too much, too fast. A double rum with a beer chaser, gone in a few greedy gulps. Repeat. Licking her lips and commending me on the quality of my rum as she poured again. I found it amusing and waited for the kicker. If she thought I was going to clean up her vomit…
Turned out she was the sort who didn’t get sick. She was the sort who got angry. Sat there telling me how shitty the wo
rld was, how lousy people were, she didn’t give a fuck, she was going to make something of herself, she was better than the rest of those bastards, she was going places.
“You know what I really enjoy?” she asked, eyes twinkling mischievously. The dress was now hitched up around her knees, which were swaying gently. Nothing too overt, but certainly deliberate. I ignored the bare flesh as best I could.
“I doubt I’ll need three guesses,” I said drily.
“Not that,” she giggled. “Though that’s fun too.” She ran a calculating eye over me, looking for a reaction. Shrugged when she didn’t get one. “Fights,” she said.
“Boxing?” I was interested for the first time.
She laughed. “Fuck, no. I mean real fights. Dogs, cockerels, badgers. You ever see badgers fight?”
“No,” I said with disdain.
“Me neither, but I’ve heard it’s awesome. I was supposed to go to a badger fight last week but it got busted by some journalist.”
“What a pity.”
She cocked her head, noting my disapproval. “You don’t like it?”
“No.”
“You don’t look like an animal rights activist.”
“I’m not. I just don’t like exploitation. Animals in that situation don’t have any say in the matter. It’s like whoring out a child.”
“You reckon?” she hummed, pouring another drink. “But an animal’s not a person. They’re born to fight. That’s what they’d be doing in the wild. Besides, they’ll only end up in a burger or hot dog.”
“They don’t put badgers in burgers,” I told her.
“How little you know,” she giggled. Then she looked at me seriously. “I admire your analogy. Whoring out a child. That’s exactly what it’s like. Sick fucks.”
I stared at her, confused. “I don’t understand. You said…”
“I was messing with you,” she said without any remorse. Clicked her tongue. “No, more than that, I was testing you. Some guys will play along with anything if they think it’s gonna get them in a girl’s knickers.”
“I’m not trying to –” I started to retort angrily.