Consequence (23 page)

“Isn’t it obvious?” she scorned from her little stool. “I’m the barmaid.”

“Oh. Right,” he dropped a sarcastic nod and surveyed the surroundings: the pub was empty and she was the only person who he’d seen since he’d arrived. “Where’s the person who serves the customers then?”

She looked at him menacingly and he held her glare. “I didn’t ask for this job you know,” she said, as if to excuse herself.

“They just gave it to you I suppose?”

“Of course they did. You can’t just walk in here and take a job; you need a bit of know-how.”

“Like manners and customer service?”

The woman ignored him, “I mean, I didn’t want this job.”

“Stupid of you to take it then wasn’t it?”

“I needed it. Money doesn’t grow on trees you know. I need this job to keep a roof over my head.”

“Very nice roof it is too.”

“Not
this
roof. The roof in my flat; one-fifty a week I pay for that, fucking diabolical it is.”

“That bad eh?”

“The money, not the flat.”

“So the flat’s okay?”

“No, the flat is a fucking sty. I live above an all-night kebab shop. Twenty-four hours a day I listen to drunken idiots babbling about garlic sauce and extra meat.”

“I prefer mine dry.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Can I have a drink now?”

“Sure, what do you want?” she said in a blunt and depressed tone.

“A pint of
Guinness
and a
JD
and
Coke
.”

She nodded and retrieved two clean glasses. “So what do you do then?” she asked as she held a pint glass below a beer tap.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, this is the second day in a row you’ve been in here. You spent all day here yesterday and now you’re back. You don’t look much like an alcoholic and you’ve spent all your time here during working hours so, what do you do?”

“I’m a writer,” Phillips said sharply. “I write for a magazine called
The Pub Crawler
. That guy over there,” he pointed to Richards, “is my editor. We check out a few pubs a week to evaluate them. You know, taste of homebrews, price of all the top drinks, saltiness of snacks, quality of recreational activities,
customer service.
”

She finished pouring the drinks and placed them onto the bar with an open mouth, “Really?” she said, a note of intrigue in her voice.

Phillips smiled, handed her the money and picked up the two glasses, “No, not really.”

76

“Are you sure you don’t need our assistance?”

Detective Inspector Brown sat beside Howard Price smoking a small
Hamlet
cigar. Howard didn’t allow smoking in his house; he despised the smell and the way the stench clung to the fabrics, but he hadn’t minded when the detective spark up the cigar. He’d asked Howard if it was okay, and he had nodded a vague agreement, the smell of his house and its belongings seemed unimportant.

“We can keep tabs on the area. Our men can be very discreet,” the detective insisted through a thick stream of smoke.

“I said no, okay?”

“That’s okay Mr Price, I’m just warning you. If something goes wrong, you’ll be on your own. If
we
were there we could resolve the situation.”

“Nothing will go wrong,” Price said confidently. “I’ll give them the money and they will give me my little girl back.”

“And if it
does
go wrong?”

Howard shot the detective an evil stare. A draft of thick smoke cut across his face and slowly dissipated into a blur; their glances remained menacing through the grey smoke. “What are you trying to suggest detective?”

“Sometimes, in cases like this,” the cigar smoking officer began using small hand gestures. “The kidnappers can get a little greedy; get a little bit out of control.”

“What do you mean?”

The smoking man paused. “Let’s say they are spying on you when you arrive in the park. If they
are,
then they know you’re alone, if they think you’re alone, one million might not be enough for them. They know how desperate you are to get your daughter back; they might take the money from you, keep your daughter and demand more.” His words, although softened, cut through Howard like a knife.

The idea scared him, the thought of his little Lisa being in the hands of criminal madmen was horrid enough for his troubled mind, but the idea that they would play such horrific games terrified him.

“OK,” he said at last. “Then that’s where you come in.”

The detective smiled, “Excellent,” he said. “We’ll hook you up with a small microphone. It’ll catch all incoming signals and send them back to us. We’ll be able to hear every word spoken between you and them.”

“What if they check me for bugs?” Howard asked.

“Not likely,” he was quick to reply. “They’ll want to get the money and make a quick exchange. They know we’re involved so they won’t want to waste any time or make any mistakes.” He beckoned a police officer -- standing in a group of tea swilling officers which included the bright faced Elizabeth -- over and the man reacted immediately. “This is PC Devon,” Brown proclaimed, then to Devon he said: “Get Mr Price hooked up and ready to go,” The PC nodded and within minutes he was sewing a small device inside Howard’s chest pocket.

“If you need help, if they scarper or if they start beating you or your daughter, just call, we’ll be able to hear everything from the microphone and we’ll have six police cars stationed within a one mile radius. When the deal is done and your daughter is safe, watch them, see where they go, and speak the directions into the microphone, okay?”

Howard nodded as the officer finished setting up the miniature gadget.

77

“What a fucking life,” Michael Richards drove the pool cue hard into the white ball, sending it slamming into a red, which in turn hit another red before both balls dropped into the pocket.

“What are you moaning about now?” Phillips said with his eyebrows raised as his mind applauded the sweetly struck shot.

Michael Richards paused, rested his cue against the table and picked up his glass. “This,” he said, as if in confirmation. He took a long drink. The heavy alcohol taste in the final dregs of the drink stung his taste buds and he creased his face accordingly.

“This?” Phillips questioned.

“Getting pissed, playing pool, playing on the computer, getting pissed again. That’s all we seem to do nowadays.”

“Don’t you like getting drunk?”

“Of course.”

“And you like pool, and computer games.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“Why do you always get philosophical on me when you’ve had a drink?”

“I’m not being philosophical.”

“Maybe philosophical isn’t the right word. Hmm,” Phillips stroked his chin. “
Annoying
, that’s the word I was looking for.”

“I’m just saying that’s all,” Richards murmured in defence.

“You’re always
just saying
it though. There’s nothing stopping us doing other stuff, we have the money, we’re young, if you’re so bored why don’t you think of something to break that boredom. Snap out of the mould.”

“I like the mould.”

“You just said you hated it.”

“No, I didn’t. I said
what a fucking life,
” Richards remembered.

“OK, so you implied it then.”

Richards paused and shook his head, “I’m not sure what I want to be honest,” he said, lining up his cue to take another shot.

“Money,” Phillips spoke for him. “That’s what we both want. With money we can take things to the next level. With enough money we can take it to the
highest
level, quit the game and live the high life.”

“We’d need one hell of a con to make that kind of money,” Richards said bleakly. “The betting shop could bring us that sort of cash I guess. If we ever get around to opening it,” he paused mid-shot and looked across at Phillips. “Quit the game?” he asked unsurely. “You would quit the game?”

“Sure, why not. If we have money coming out of our arses why risk exchanging that money for a fat fucker’s dick in the prison shower room?”

Richards smiled, “Good point,” he agreed. “I just--” he paused again.

“You just what?” Phillips pushed.

“I just never imagined you…well I never thought you would ever give up the game. Come to think of it, I never thought
I
would either.”

“We’ve been doing it a long time, but I’m sure we’ll manage without it.”

Richards shrugged, took his shot and as the black ball slammed into the pocket he grinned cockily.

Phillips said, “Another game?”

“Of course, it seems to be my lucky night.”

Phillips mumbled a curse under his breath and turned his back on his friend “I’ll get the drinks in,” he said, vanishing from the pool room.

Michael Richards dug in his pocket for some spare change to feed into the table. He found three ten pence pieces and began pushing them into the silver slider on the side of the pool table. After setting up the balls using the plastic triangle he glanced up at a large wall clock. The time was 3:42; they would make this their last game, take the bus home, stay there for a few hours and then hit the clubs in the evening. He was feeling lucky.

78

Howard’s mind jittered on a stimulant fusion of hyperactivity and nervousness. He wanted the deal over with; he had left the house early, unable to stare at the stuck clock any longer as time refused to budge.

He had made sure the police would not interrupt the proceedings, threatening to take legal action against them if he found they had been spying on the park or keeping tabs on him. How he would sue the police he didn’t know, but he was rich, powerful and worried, he hoped the threat would be enough to keep them at bay.

They were on standby in case the delivery didn’t go as planned. He hoped to God it did.

He drove to the park himself, checking his rear-view mirror cautiously all the way. As far as he could tell, he wasn’t being followed.

Leaving the car in a gravelled car park he trotted nervously for about two hundred yards. He passed a bus stop where a group of youths gathered; they eyed him suspiciously as he passed and his nerves cut sharper with each stare. One or two mumbled something, probably aimed at him, but he ignored them and as he turned the corner away from the bus stop a large bus pulled to a screeching halt -- making his skin crawl -- and the youngsters clambered on.

He reached a row of trees and slowed his pace. He stared at the foliage with a deep longing, he and Lisa had spent many hours playing amongst them. A smile crossed his face, a smile devoid of worry -- it didn’t last. He wondered if he’d ever see her again, if he’d ever see her soft eyes, her gleaming smile, and her sweet, beautiful face.

He had to keep positive; of course he would see her again. Things might be different after all this, she’s a young girl, this would be traumatic, but he would help her through. He would even quit work to make sure she was attended to always. Since she had disappeared he had regretted all the hours he had worked at the office, hours that could have been spent with her.

With those thoughts came anger, anger at the people who had taken her away and anger at himself.

His feet touched concrete. He was on the rim of the basketball courts. He paused where he stood; surveying his surroundings to see if he could catch sight of his daughter’s kidnappers, but there was no one else around.

Taking in a deep breath, readying his body and mind, he walked slowly around the basketball courts.

“Have we got plenty of drink at home?” Johnny Phillips asked Michael Richards as both men left the pub.

“You’re the expert on that. You buy it and you drink most of it.”

“You drink your fair share.”

“I’m normally flat out on my back after six cans, to you that’s just a warm-up.”

“Good point,” Phillips agreed smugly. “I think there might be a few more in the fridge,” he continued. “I’m not too sure. We still have that bottle of red wine the old lady next door bought us for Christmas. Can’t stand the stuff but if it’s all we’ve got--”

“It isn’t,” Richards interjected.

“What?”

“You drank it on New Year’s.”

“Did I?”

“You and that skinny porn star from up north. The same tart you fucked in my bed.”

Phillips nodded, “You were out that night” he reasoned.

“
And
on the sofa.”

“We didn’t make a mess.”

“
And
on the kitchen table.”

“I cleaned it after.”

Richards shook his head and smiled wryly. They continued towards the bus stop as a large bus screamed past them.

“We also did it in the bathroom,” Phillips admitted after a while.

“Why on earth would you want to fuck her in the bathroom when you have a bed and a couch?”

“She was a kinky bitch. She wanted to fuck in every room. It’s not easy to please a porn star you know.”

“Actually no, I don’t,” Richards said bluntly. “Bath or the shower?”

“Toilet,” Phillips replied without hesitation.

“You fucked her on the toilet?” Richards asked with mild disgust and heavy curiosity.

“She was a very flexible and very
dirty
girl.”

“You’re fucking crazy you know that?” Richards laughed.

They crossed to the bus stop and waited in silence. Richards rested against a wall, taking some pressure of his feet whilst Phillips walked around in front of him and scanned the area.

“Hey,” Phillips said eventually. “Isn’t that that rich guy?”

“What?” Richards asked, bemused.

“Over there by the basketball courts,” Phillips thrust a finger beyond the bus stop and over to the fields.

Richards studied the slowly moving figure for a while. He was walking with his head held high in anticipation; in his left hand he held a large duffel bag. “Howard Price,” he confirmed.

“That’s him,” Price remembered. “From the magazine. What the fuck is he doing around here?”

“Taking a walk maybe?”

“People like him don’t take walks in places like this, he’ll get mugged.” A smile began to crease his face as he uttered those words and he looked at Richards.

“Hell no,” Richards said immediately. “I’m not mugging him.”

“We don’t have to. We can con him, pull a quick one.”

“He’ll find out, we have no transport.”

“A bus will be along any minute, we could take it to a different place, and then hitch another ride home. Or, failing that, we could just run, he’s old and plump, he isn’t going to catch us up. I’ll distract; you steal, we’ve done it many times, it’s easy enough,” Phillips said with an almost giddy excitement.

Silence fell blanketed them -- Richards was thinking. They both watched Price and, to their surprise, when he had walked full circle around the courts he sat down on the concrete and lay the bag by his side.

“Rich men don’t carry money,” Richards said.

“They carry Rolex watches,” Phillips said. “And a duffel bag...” he contemplated this for a moment “...which could be full of goodies.”

“Or laundry.”

“Which self-respecting millionaire does his laundry himself, and at a
Laundromat
?”

“Good point.”

“Well, He’s just sitting there. Want to give it a shot?”

Richards’s eyes flickered from Howard Price’s slumped figure to Johnny Phillips’s alert and somewhat excited expression. “OK,” he said rather belatedly. “Let’s go over and see what we can do.”

79

The cold concrete below Howard Price’s backside irritated him. He had spent the majority of his life sitting in office chairs and his body had adjusted accordingly -- giving him lower back pain. Now, without anything to lean against, he was in great discomfort.

He checked his watch for the fifth time in three minutes. He had been waiting by the side of the basketball courts for one hundred and twenty-three seconds -- he had been counting, he couldn’t help himself. The kidnappers had told him to leave after five minutes, but he wanted his daughter. That was the deal, one million for Lisa, she was worth it; she was worth every penny to him, but it shouldn’t have come down to this.

His heart skipped a beat when he saw two men leaving the bus stop and striding his way. One of the men, the larger one, looked like a criminal; he had a hard, rugged face and a strong build, the other looked weaker but still intimidating in an intellectual way. To Howard they certainly didn’t look like the normal riffraff that patrolled these streets, they looked different somehow, more professional.

They crossed gazes with Howard a few times and he was sure they were heading straight for him. He stood up and waited.