Seven Daze (10 page)

He walked into a wine bar. Though not as busy as the last, it was still doing a fair trade. Most people were drinking champagne; the air felt richer with wealth. A different sort of wealth. Inherited not earned.

Feeling more out of place, Jim made for the bar and ordered a malt whisky. Looking round, most of the customers were sitting at tables. Sipping the whisky, he found no easy access to any of the groups. Downing the dregs of the smooth tasting but not worth the price whisky, he made for the toilet. In the cubicle, he examined the phone again plus the cash. One hundred quid from the woman. Fresh from the cashpoint, it had a crisp feel. He pocketed it and looked again at the wide phone. Picking out the Sim card, he wrapped it in paper and flushed it down the pan.

Returning through the bar, he left. He stood out like a sore thumb; the place had too much class. Or thought it did. He walked further down the road past a more rowdier pub until he came to another wine bar. Light-headed from the drink, he walked in. Busier than the last, it was still quiet compared to the city. He wasn’t sure if he’d drawn a blank or not. Sat at the bar, he ordered a bottle of lager.

It didn’t take him long to realise that the bar was as busy as the city, but half the people were outside. They seemed to rotate from outside back in. The whole place reminded him of a Japanese sushi bar he’d once walked by. The sushi replaced by humans. The smoking ban to blame. People were nabbing tables then taking it in turns to go outside for a smoke before returning for a half hour sit down.

One particular table caught his interest. The women had cleared off outside leaving two lads to guard the bags. The lads, more interested in staring at something on a phone than the bags, had missed one on the floor. Looking round again, he saw two CCTV cameras: one aimed at the bar, the other the back door. Downing the lager, he raised his eyebrows at the barman and got off the chair.

The coat stand played its part well. Jim couldn’t remember any pubs in Coventry having a coat stand. Anything placed on it would disappear before it’d stopped swinging. Grabbing the least expensive looking coat that was roughly his size, he headed for the door. Dropping the coat near the table, he swore. The two lads looked up, one of them smiling.

“Need some sleep,” said Jim.

The lad nodded then went back to his mate’s phone. Picking up the coat and the bag underneath, he swapped arms and left. Outside, he cursed himself for not staking the area out. He’d just got in a taxi and got out. He didn’t have a clue where the side streets were, or worse where the CCTV cameras were.

The bag was big, maybe too big for a coat to hide. Rolled up in a ball under his arm, he knew it looked suspicious. He’d only a few minutes to get out of the area. Walking quickly past cafes, wine bars, takeaways and restaurants, he guessed this was a refuelling street. Every bit of floor space transformed to keep you full to bursting with food and drink.

He headed for a side street across the road. Full of bins, it was the back way into the food shops. People were mingling in the street, but he hoped everyone was too busy in their own world to notice him. Besides, he reckoned the alley was regularly used as a toilet most Friday evenings.

The bag was mainly full of junk. Women stuff he’d always called it. Tissues, lipstick, hairbrush and the like. Using the coat as a glove, he opened the purse. Two cards and fifty in notes. He shook his head. This wasn’t worth it. Risking arrest for fifty quid wouldn’t get him anywhere. He didn’t really know what he’d been expecting. He supposed he was lucky to find anyone actually holding cash these days.

One other item in the handbag caught his attention. Another large phone that wasn’t a phone. This one was like Charlotte’s. The Apple symbol on it could only help its resale value. Ditching the Sim card, bag and coat, he re-entered the street, made a point of checking his flies then hailed another taxi.

He went further west, the roads now clogged with evening traffic. With this being the norm for London, he wasn’t surprised everyone used the tube. Though everything seemed close by in reality it wasn’t. He reckoned everyone would be better off living on the outskirts of Bristol or Nottingham, and drive to work there. But there’d be one thing missing: they wouldn’t be able to say they lived in London.

He stopped the taxi after fifteen minutes. Now not having a clue where he was, apart from being past St Paul’s, he walked down the street. Again the combination of takeaways, eateries and drinking establishments, but this time interspersed with shops, both touristy and normal ones. Finding a fairly plush-looking wine bar, he entered.

His first thought was he’d drawn another blank. Groups of people either sat or stood round tables, open ground between them. Two men sat at the bar on stools slowly drinking themselves into a weekend daze, while another stood ordering a round of drinks.

Sitting next to the habitual drinkers, he thought of playing the long game. He could stay there for the night. Eventually, as more and more drink was gulped and people became less stable, they’d leave themselves open. The problem was, the longer he stayed, the more chance someone would recognise him.

Ordering a pint and scotch, he settled in and looked round. The two men nodded as he glanced round, taking everything in. Not really in the mood for conversation, he instead watched the barmaid wipe down the bar area. She was thorough, almost obsessive, about wiping drips. Catching her eye and smiling, she didn’t smile back. Work, especially on a Friday night, was just work for her.

Looking at the array of optics behind the bar, a mirror reflected the rest of the bar. He looked at the room full of heavy-walleted Londoners. Ten grand was nothing to this lot. Three or four hundred each would be nothing. Maybe he should ask them. Make up some tat that he was dying or needed it for an operation. They’d just shun him. A few hundred quid to save a life wouldn’t impress them. Sure they probably all had standing orders to a Third World Charity, but that was different wasn’t it? No, they wouldn’t be interested.

Sat in a booth, almost out of sight, but reflected between a bottle of Glencadam and Mexican tequila, Jim noticed two people. A balding man in a suit and a good-looking thirty-something woman with a stray lump of hair. His stomach twisted as he recognised the owner of the hair lump.

Charlotte.

Leaning on the bar, he covered his face with his hand and carried on watching. Unsurprisingly she was doing most of the talking, yet that happy beaming woman he’d dined with hours ago was now a stern and efficient businesswoman. The man had a glint in his eye. Even in mirrored-reverse Jim couldn’t fail but notice it. His stomach turned again. Had he read this wrong? It was her job to be pleasant and meet people she didn’t necessarily like. She said as much earlier. Was he winding himself up, and making something out of nothing? Breathing out heavily, he leaned further against the bar.

It suddenly hit him. He was a wide boy, a no-good thief. Why did he think she’d be interested? They’d saved someone’s life together, that’s what had happened. Two random people in London pushed together. Friendship was all it was, and that wouldn’t last when she found out where he’d spent the last three years.

Or maybe, just maybe there was more. His stomach cramped. Pulling a mobile from his pocket, he realised it was one of the stolen ones so quickly replaced it. Pulling his own out, he turned it back on. Clumsily deleting the last message he’d nearly sent, he wrote a new one.

Just wanted to say thanks for earlier. Really enjoyed it.
Taking a deep breath, he pressed send. The barmaid moved further up the bar wiping the clean surface as she went. Now blocking his view, Jim sighed and moved forwards on his stool. He could just see her face. She stopped talking. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her phone.

He felt terrible, sat so close, watching her. Waiting to see her reaction, yet he had to do it. It would end this once and for all. Sleeping at night was going to be hard enough without this as well. She pressed her phone screen a few times, her eyes scanning it. He watched, waiting for some acknowledgement.

The reaction came.

His stomach churned harder. Shivering he tried to finish his scotch but couldn’t. He felt sick. He needed fresh air. He left the drinks and walked outside. His legs wobbled everywhere; drink had caught up with him. It wasn’t just that, it was her reaction. He stopped and leaned against a sandwich shop door, gulping down breaths.

Slightly calmer, he remembered the look. The look when she realised who the message was from. Her face had changed. The sternly efficient gaze melted, a smile taking its place. Her face seemed to lift as her mind absorbed into the phone.

Jim didn’t fully understand why his stomach was turning. Sure, he felt something for her. Three years of her majesty’s pleasure had left him yearning for other pleasures, but this was different. He’d never experienced or even believed in the L word. He’d had friends that were obviously fond of each other. He’d had girlfriends himself too, but it was always just a laugh. Never serious. He ran out of the bar because watching her didn’t feel right. He was seeing things he shouldn’t. None of this was right. Being in the city, the heart of London. This was her domain and he was pissing all over her doorstep.

Heading towards a tube station, his stomach in tatters, his phone bleeped.

:) I enjoyed it too. Just in meeting. I’ll ring soon x.
As much as he stared at the phone, the x wasn’t giving anything away. He knew that x’s had become popular. Some women used it for everyone and everything, while others kept it more personal. What sort was she? It was her first, so he doubted she was a habitual x-er. Why now for the first one? Why? In some ways, he wished she hadn’t sent it.

The tube chugged electrically towards Victoria. Jim wanted to go east, towards the Queens Arms, but had settled for the first train out to avoid bumping into Charlotte. He was also wearing a suit, which wouldn’t go down well in the Queens Arms.

As messed as his head was, he knew the bank cards and mobiles in his pocket needed offloading. Devoid of any contacts, the Queens Arms was the only place he knew. He was sure he could offload them there. Not that they’d be worth much. All this chip and Pin shit was ruining the average card thief. God knows what Fingers Harry would have to say on the subject. Before, it’d take days for stop notices to get round, and if you made small enough purchases you could run up huge debts. Nowadays, you were talking hours, even minutes if you made a large purchase or bought in the wrong place. Luckily, the cloners still wanted cards. Copies of the cards would be winging their way round the world to countries without chip and Pin readers. He’d probably get a hundred for the seven cards, maybe more as this was London. Everything seemed to cost more in London.

Waiting for his stop he looked at the message again. Her meeting must have dragged on. He hoped she’d ring before he arrived at the Queens Arms; trying to talk to her there would be awkward. He was tempted to ring her, but she said she’d ring. He thought of the bald-headed city letch opposite her and curled his fists. A different time or place and he’d have smacked him, and no doubt been arrested or more usually been smacked back ten times harder.

Changing at Victoria, Jim waddled through the crowded terminal for his connection. The next tube was rammed, sweaty and embarrassingly quiet. Though a good opportunity for petty theft, Jim knew that tube trains were notoriously difficult. There was literally nowhere to run. Following the herd off the tube, he walked back to the hotel. Approaching the door, his phone rang.

Charlotte.

“Hi, it’s only me,” she said. “I’ve been stuck in a really bad meeting for hours; you wouldn’t believe it. The bloke’s a moron. Still, that’s life isn’t it? You have to take the good with the bad ...”

Jim nodded at the receptionist as he walked towards the stairs. She shrugged her shoulders back. Whatever he was doing, she didn’t care.

“I mean some people just don’t know a good deal when they see it. He almost needed it spelling out. Apart from that the afternoon just sort of flew by. I went back to my office for a bit ...”

Opening his room, Jim started to switch off. He liked her talking, it felt like having the radio on, but it was too one-sided to really listen to. Emptying his pockets he lay down and, phone clamped to his head, properly examined his haul. Carrying the wallet had been a risk. He should have dumped it straight away.

“... but I don’t really know about that. I mean, you think you know someone and then they come out with that. That’s juniors for you, I suppose.”

Her slight pause caught him out while he was fiddling with his gloves. He was trying to pull them on without touching the outsides. A losing battle. She continued. “There’s a new mystery series on the telly tonight. Do you like mystery series? Or thrillers I suppose they’re called. I love them ...”

Finally getting one glove on, he held the other to get easier access. Pulling the cards from the wallet, he remembered that although he touched them using his jacket, his dabs or DNA may still be on them. They needed cleaning.

Besides the money, credit and other cards, there was also an emergency condom which was just in date. Jim copied Martin’s address onto the back of a Tower of London brochure. He hoped having Raif’s address would be enough, but it never hurt to hedge your bets.

“... and crime series too. They’re so cleverly done, aren’t they? Just keep you in suspense the whole time. Some of them are a bit unbelievable. I mean you know there are criminals out there, but if you watch these programmes you’d think everyone was at it ...”

There was no answer Jim could give to that. He just thanked his not very lucky stars she was still talking. Niggling doubts over where this could go resurfaced. He went back to counting his new money. He’d barely made four hundred after the drinks and taxis. He should have made well over a grand. This wasn’t a good start.