Seven Daze (15 page)

He cursed, knowing he shouldn’t have picked watching telly.
Just channel-hopping
really,
his reply.

Walking into a pub, he made for the bar and sized the clientele up. The night was getting on, but he had to do something to make money. A mixed group of twenty-something’s at a corner table nosily announced to the world their intoxication. They all looked okay to Jim. Nothing offensive or dislikeable about them. Sighing, he ordered a pint. They’d have to do. It was nothing personal, they’d probably understand that. He couldn’t afford to be choosy. It was a life or death situation.

When one of them approached the bar through the throng, Jim edged towards him. Nodding, Jim kept his eyes hovering around, but not directly at him. “You alright, pal?”

Up close he realised he was early twenties. He also looked nervous. People kept to their own groups in this sort of pub. People didn’t usually do what Jim was doing. Jim could sense the lad was wondering who he was and why was he breaking the unwritten laws of Saturday night drinking. He eventually replied, “Alright.”

“Know any good warehouse parties, mate?” asked Jim, supping on his pint. He had the group pegged down as clubbers. Some of them had reflective and fluorescent jackets or t-shirts on.

“What are you? Police?” He laughed and tried to attract the barman’s attention.

Jim smiled and took another sip of his drink. “Yeah, right. I’m the chief fucking inspector.” He waited for a smile before continuing. “Nah, me pals are at Sonic Sound, but I didn’t make it in.” He hoped Sonic Sound was still going on a Saturday night. “Cheesy Ted” from prison had told him about it and their stringent door policy. Only beautiful people needed to apply; anyone less than beautiful wasn’t allowed in.

He nodded his head. “Yeah, they sometimes let us in, sometimes don’t. I haven’t heard of them splitting groups before. Normally if a munter’s in a group the whole lot don’t get in.” His face dropped realising he’d just called Jim a munter. Jim didn’t mind. It’d make his job easier.

He eventually got served and swapped some small chat with Jim about clubs. They were off to Manhattens for the night which Jim said he hadn’t been too. Jim said he’d probably have a few more drinks then head off home, but the lad, Jason, invited him over to the group’s table.

On closer inspection, the group didn’t seem like the usual crowd of hippies and pillheads. He supposed this part of London was too expensive to be workshy. Then again, maybe they weren’t from London. Two of the men looked warily at Jim as he approached. The two young women with them who Jim thought would probably freeze to death later in what little they were wearing, smiled.

“Who are you then?” asked one of the girls.

“Jim. Are you sure you don’t mind me sitting here?”

“Nah,” said Jason. “Don’t worry, pal.” He looked at his mates before continuing. “Jim here’s been dumped. His mates got into Sonic Sound but he didn’t.”

Jim screwed his face up. Jason had virtually called him ugly. Again though, it could only help. The girls looked genuinely sympathetic. The blokes tried to hide smirks behind bottles of lager.

An hour quickly passed of Jim chatting about Coventry’s crap clubs and how his night in the city hadn’t gone to plan. The more talkative girl listened avidly and told him all about their little gang. They lived in south London though were anything but local. The two girls shared a flat above a chip shop, while the lads had a pad just up the road from them. Meeting at university in the city, they’d stayed on, still living the London dream.

Jim was surprised and almost happy to learn that the chattier of the girls worked in the city. An executive of the insurance arm of a bailed-out bank; Jim thought he could remember some scandal about that bank’s insurance mis-selling. Maybe not though; there had been so many scandals they all merged into one. Jason was something in IT but didn’t really talk much about it, and the other girl, after flunking her degree, was training to be a nurse.

The time approaching ten, they were making moves to leave. Though they’d invited him to the club with them Jim had made excuses saying there were parties in Coventry, plus he’d missed his lift back now and didn’t fancy trying to get back on Sunday morning.

“All that talk of chips has made me hungry,” he said as they were getting their stuff together. “I might get some before I head back to Paddington.”

“The Golden Catch in Stockwell, that’s where you want to go. Best chip shop in London, isn’t it?” she said.

“It’s a bit out of the way though,” the other girl said to herself more than Jim.

“I’ll probably just get a burger at the station.” Jim smiled as he finished his pint.

Standing up, the girls put tiny coats over their tiny clothes while Jim pretended to send a text to his mates. After giving them hugs, high fives and wishing them a good time in Manhattens, he got ready to leave.

“You sure you don’t want to come with us?” she said.

It was obvious to Jim that one of the lads had history with her. Maybe they’d recently broken up or had some long-term unreciprocated longing. Either way, daggers had been flying at him for the past hour. His phone had also just buzzed inside his pocket so he pulled it out and shrugged.

“Nah, thanks though. You know, you’re really great, beautiful people.” He’d been trying not to over-milk the loved-up atmosphere, but reckoned that might have gone too far. “If I get the next train, I can be back in Coventry for midnight.” He pointed at his phone. “Loads of other mates’ll be there.”

She nodded, seemingly pleased he wouldn’t be on his own for the night. As he left Jason handed him a slip of paper with a mobile number on it. “Give us a call next time you’re in London. We can meet up in a club or something.”

Jim thanked them all and left after much hugging and talk of being beautiful. He tried to smile but couldn’t. Sure, they were loved-up pretend hippies with too much money, but they were genuinely nice. They probably didn’t deserve what he was about to do.

Finished now. Off to bed x,
had been Charlotte’s message.

Sleep well x,
he replied while finding his bearings on Stockwell High Street.

In some ways Jim thought it more deprived than the East End. Graffiti on shutters of long closed shops, dimly lit alleys and pavements with group of youngsters hanging round. Litter placed everywhere but in bins completed the picture. He’d no idea where to start looking for the best fish and chip shop in London, but decided the High Street would be a good start.

A few kebab shops, Chinese takeaways and the odd Indian littered the road. Hard-looking pubs offered little friendship and even less opportunity for crime. Not that he’d feel comfortable robbing in them. They weren’t much better off than himself. Okay, they might not have a life sentence hanging round their thick, tattooed necks, but no, he couldn’t rob them.

The ravers however, were different. They had money to waste on pills and fifty quid entrance fees so they could afford to lose a few belongings. Nothing that would really hurt, just a few bits. They’d be insured anyway, so it didn’t matter. He wondered why they chose to live here and not some upper market area. Guessing that student life had left them poor for decades to come, he figured they’d gone for cheap rent.

The street was long with endless traffic flying by. He eventually found the chip shop off a side street. In the middle of a row of shops and takeaways he wondered just how you actually got in. He stalked past twice looking for small doorways or some communal entrance hall, but found nothing. Realising there must be a back way, he thought he’d lose his bearings once the chip shop was out of view. Sighing, he walked up the street, counting both the number of shops and roughly the number of flats above them. An alleyway ten shops down gave him the chance to get slightly nearer.

The alley ended soon; the rear of the building was back to back with another main street. A small road, it was barely large enough for a modern car. He imagined it to be the sort of lane police chases on
The Sweeney
was filmed in. Cardboard boxes flying everywhere when handbrake turns were pulled. A high brick wall with broken glass set in the top wasn’t welcoming. Walking down the lane, counting as he went, he passed fifteen small wooden doors, some open some locked while others rotted in neglect. Reaching what he thought was their door, the obvious flue from the back of the chip shop snaked into the sky next to a stairwell to the second floor.

The door was solid and locked. Backing down the road, he pushed open one of the rotting ones and entered a small back yard. The second floor stairwells weren’t linked to each other which Jim guessed was to keep people like himself out. Climbing over three partition walls would see him cut to shreds on broken glass.

The dark yard, which smelt heavily of urine, had a broken pallet in a corner. Staring at it for half a minute, he was unable to put it to any use. Wishing he’d brought a screwdriver, he was about to admit defeat when he saw a broken spade lying in the corner. Rusty and devoid of a handle, it was almost perfect. Hiding it by his side, he sneaked out and back to the locked door. After a final check no one was around he forced the door open. The crack as the wood split echoed round the enclosed yards. He was convinced someone would have heard it. He’d probably not only end up battered but also deep-fried when they caught him.

Sneaking past two bicycles and up the stairs, he came to the flat’s entrance. A very solid wooden door with deadbolts at the bottom wasn’t a good sign. Bending down, he opened the letterbox. Though he knew some of its occupants were out, he wanted to check they were all out. No noise came from within. He whistled a few times hoping a high pitch would attract any dogs. No barking. No noise at all.

He saw a piece of string dangling inside just to the left of the letterbox. Jim shook his head. Surely people didn’t still do that did they? This wasn’t the fucking sixties anymore after all. There were some right nasty buggers around these days.

Pulling on the string, it was just that. String, no key, just string. Maybe they weren’t as stupid as he thought. However, it did mean there’d been a key at some point, perhaps they’d been broken into before. What it meant was they were forgetful. They’d locked themselves out a few times and used it as a backup, but later realised it was the obvious place a thieving scrote would look.

Turning round, he looked at the three flowerpots on the small balcony. Probably tomato plants but maybe cannabis. Lifting one, he scraped away some earth. The key was hidden just below the surface of the largest pot.

Using his sleeve, he inserted the key in the lock. It turned easily. Shaking his head, he hoped to God the two girls used a security chain or bolt when they were alone at night. He practically fell inside the house; they hadn’t bothered with the deadbolts either. Jim thought of ringing Jason, getting him to tell the girls off. Maybe he’d do it tomorrow.

Inside the flat, he took off his jumper and covered his hands. DNA couldn’t be helped but he’d make sure he left as little trace as possible. The flat was small, tiny even. A corridor led straight into a kitchen cum living room. An old electric cooker stood right to the side of the solitary sofa. Against the wall stood an old telly with a pile of clean-looking washing in a basket. Two doors led from the room crammed into the space between the sink and television. Behind the sofa, and crammed against the other wall, was a table and two chairs filled with papers, magazines and more clothes.

The laptop on the sofa immediately caught his eye. While inside he’d had computer training courses. He wasn’t bad at it. Finding the right keys was the hardest part. Though access had been restricted, a few diehard techno-freaks found ways round everything. Jim classed himself as a more manual person than a computerised one. The most important thing Jim had learnt about laptops was a good one sold for at least a hundred. For some reason, if it was an Apple, it went for double.

This one wasn’t an Apple. Some cheap Taiwanese or Vietnamese brand; it was fairly clean and looked new. Definitely worth a ton. The telly was too large to take; a thirty-inch flat screen would cause some questions on the tube. The Wii and Digibox connected to it were worth money as was the Nintendo DS on the sofa arm. Walking to a kitchen cupboard he found a few Waitrose bags for life, and stacked the Wii, controllers and games in one and the Digibox, DS and laptop in another. A couple of dark coloured, flimsy jumpers from the clean pile of clean washing added to the top made them look like bags of clothes. Though late at night to be walking round with clothes, London had taught him anything went in the early hours.

The two doors hid a bedroom and a small corridor leading to a bathroom and another bedroom. He didn’t want to search the bedrooms. The girls were okay, if a little trusting. Some villains would upturn drawers and go through underwear in the hope of a fiver. Jim hoped he had higher standards. He looked briefly round the rooms for anything small and electrical. An iPad was in the bedroom obviously belonging to the insurance exec. The other bedroom had nurses’ uniforms hanging from every spare inch.

A small jewellery box also caught his eye. He shouldn’t really do it. Inside it, just a couple of earrings and a gold chain. He’d be lucky to get twenty quid. Closing the door, he left the jewellery.

Back in the cramped living room, an iPod in a dock caught his eye. He had two of the things already, but guessed a third wouldn’t hurt. Bags packed, he paused, wondering about the nurse. She’d been drinking Bacardi in the pub while the others had bottles of beer or cocktails. He guessed she was the hardest up and wondered if she’d be insured. Going back through the bags, he wondered if the laptop was hers or not. Without turning it on he couldn’t be sure. What about the DS? The iPad was the city worker’s; there’s no way a trainee nurse could afford one. Leaving the DS, he left the flat, locked the door and replaced the key. After walking a couple of hundred yards he hailed a taxi to the hotel.