Seven Daze (17 page)

With everything packed up, including somehow the plasma and a desktop computer crammed between two trestle tables, Jim thought they were ready. He rolled up the wallpaper they’d used as carpet to catch any falling hair or skin particles, and moved the swag to the front door. Fifteen minutes from start to finish. Jim could still barely believe no one had noticed. Adrenalin had pumped throughout, the minutes seeming like two. Surely someone must have noticed? Their plan if discovered was flawed. Pretend to be repainting the house while Raif was on holiday. Another little extra from the boss for being twat of the month. After they’d gone people would notice. Close inspection of the deadbolts would leave no doubt they’d been drilled. But from a distance, a busy neighbour walking past with bags of shopping, Jim doubted they’d notice.

They paused before leaving the flat. Jim’s heart floating far above him. Tim had gone pale as well. Though he’d put false plates on the van, he knew just how many CCTV cameras would have caught them on the way. One last check out of the window, and they left, piles of bags, sheets and trestle tables in hand. As they loaded then got in the van, Jim breathed again. He’d expected four squad cars to screech to a halt or a posse of neighbourhood watch with baseball bats and dogs. But no, nothing.

Driving away with a van full of Raif, Tim was the first to break the silence. “I’d give anything to see his face when he gets back.”

“Where did you think this up?” said Mick.

“It just came to me. It was the way he spoke about her, his other half. When he called her baggage in that pub. Something in me just ... I don’t know. The idea just came to me.”

“Fair play,” said Mick. “Never thought of myself as a woman’s rights campaigner before. Suppose I am now, aren’t I?”

“Course you are, mate,” said Jim. He shook his head at the smiling Tim before checking the rear-view mirror all the way back to the East End.

Unloading the van into Jim’s lock-up took twenty minutes. Jim promised to go thirds on the proceeds when he got rid, but they wouldn’t hear of it. Mick said he wasn’t bothered about money; it’d been such a laugh he’d have paid to do it. But Jim promised to sort them out. It was obvious by the following silence that in a perfect world they’d take a third, maybe more for supplying the van, but there was an undertone. It was obvious they knew he was in trouble. He supposed his recent dealings with Terence hadn’t gone unnoticed. He considered coming clean and telling them he needed ten grand by Thursday or he was going to be propping up the city’s latest skyscraper, but it didn’t feel right. They knew something was up, and that was all he reckoned they needed to know.

“I’ll sort you lads out, I will.”

“Come on. You can buy us a drink.” Tim slapped his arm. Though hard for a playful slap, Jim reckoned a serial GBHer’s slap would always be hard, playful or not.

Taking the iPods he’d bought yesterday, Jim and Mick hit the pub while Tim changed the number plates then took his van back. Buying a round, Jim got some interest for the iPods from the youngsters hanging round the bar. One of the young lads went to the cashpoint for forty quid while another promised to buy it another time.

Playing pool, and nearly winning, Jim bought the second round when Tim appeared. Terence the Ference was still nowhere to be seen. Mick said he always turned up late on a Sunday, but even that didn’t explain why he wasn’t there. He was paramount to the plan. What use was stolen goods without a fence?

He continued playing pool and joking with Mick and Tim for an hour. The grubby and smiling Terence finally appeared and sat in his chair supping half of mild. Finishing the game off Jim bought another round of drinks, including a pint for the grinning Terence.

“I’m starting to enjoy our little deals,” said Terence as Jim sat next to him.

“You’ll definitely like this one. I got a few bits and bobs in the lock-up that need new homes.”

Terence’s eyes lit up before he had a chance to think it through. Pausing, he said, “Quite a lot of supply at the moment. Prices aren’t what they used to be.”

“I’m sure you’ll do your best.”

He drained his half then grabbed the full pint, taking a large sip.

Jim shook his head. “That’s the only one you’re getting today. You should be buying me drinks.” He went back to the pool table and waited, watching the smiling Terence savour every sip of free beer. Bored of waiting, Jim played the next game. Midway through a shot, his phone bleeped.

Retrieving the message,
All done. How was dinner? x
he replied with,
Great. Roast
beef x.

It was only after pressing send that he remembered he was vegetarian. “Shit. Come on get with it.”

“Shot weren’t that bad,” said Tim.

“No, it’s not that.”

“Bird trouble?” asked Mick.

“Something like that.”

His phone bleeped again.
Sorry. Did you just eat potatoes and veg
then? x
He sighed. He couldn’t believe she was still buying this vegetarian malarkey. It had to end. Mind you, everything had to end.

Yeah. It was embarrassing. I’m still here,
his reply.

Okay x.

“More hassle than they’re worth,” said Tim. He paused in reflection. “Actually, it’s probably fifty-fifty ain’t it?”

Jim nodded. “I seem to dig deeper holes all the time.” Lining up his shot, he potted the black and for once the white ball didn’t follow it down.

When Terence had finished worrying the pint, Jim led him to the lock-up.

“You got any drink here?”

“Depends what price you give me.” Jim thought taking the bottles of malt may have been a good move after all. He walked beside the limping Terence the best he could. Whether he was actually in pain or just enjoying disability benefit Jim couldn’t work out. Either way, he moved painfully slow. Opening the lock-up, Jim watched Terence draw breath sharply.

“Sweet Jesus.” He started laughing. “There’s a pretty penny here.”

Terence made a note of everything with Raif’s gold-plated pen on the back of a bank statement envelope. Plasma, DVD recorder, cufflinks, stereo, everything was listed except the clothes, aftershave, laptop and any personal or bank documents.

“You got any glasses for that?” Terence nodded at the whisky.

Shaking his head, Jim picked the bottle with least in and held it towards him. “On the house.” Pulling it back before Terence took it, he added, “Best prices though.”

Terence nodded and finished his list off. “Fifteen hundred, maybe two gees,” he eventually said. “I’ll get one of my nephews to pop down tomorrow with his van.”

Jim nodded. “What about that fake ID? He held up Raif’s driving licence. How much has the price dropped since last night?”

Terence rolled his head from side to side. “He owes me a favour, but ...” he paused, eyeing another bottle of scotch, “two hundred. I’ll need that plus two passport photos.”

“Okay. I’ll be here at eleven tomorrow.”

Terence left with two bottles of malt in his greasy palms. “Pleasure doing business again, pal.”

Jim nodded before putting the last bottle of malt, some clothes and the bank paperwork into Raif’s sports holdall.

By the time the tube had chugged south of the river, six o’clock had been and gone. The day had once more disappeared in a drunken stupor. Emerging from the station, he sent a message,
Nearly home now.
By the time he reached the hotel, her reply was,
Hope you had
good time. I just burnt my tea x.

He didn’t bother replying. Instead, he hung up his new, clean shirts in the wardrobe. Splashing on Raif’s cologne, he went down for dinner. The receptionist chef had turned spaghetti bolognaise into the most inedible dish ever. Jim was sure it was from a powdered catering pack, but she’d even managed to ruin that. Eating in silence, he was glad to see a single man sat at his neighbours table. Today was Sunday so their weeks’ holiday in the big smoke had ended. They’d be home by know with tales of their city escapades. Jim tried hard not to think exactly what those escapades had involved. He was eating after all.

He finished off his tea with a pint in the excuse for a beer garden. Smoking, he wondered how many he’d drank today. Six or seven? Maybe eight. They didn’t seem to count anymore. After the initial buzz of the first few it was just topping levels up, like a car in for a service. When you stopped topping up, the hangover started.

With little to do and the hotel room seeming too familiar, he went for an evening walk. After all, nothing finished off a good day better than a walk along the river. The murky, slimy, polluted bloodline of the capital shimmered in the last dregs of daylight. The unfriendly, bustling city was on its Sunday wind down. People were getting ready for their busy lives to get busy again in the morning. Stood there, leaning against a graffiti-ridden lifebuoy, Jim had never felt so alone. As the Millennium Wheel glimmered, reflecting rays into lightless corners, Jim pulled out his phone.

Can I ring you?
he typed, and sent.

Yes,
her reply.

Despite having only three pounds credit, he rang. He couldn’t remember if he’d rung her before. He was sure he hadn’t. She’d always rung him.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hello. Sorry, you don’t mind me ringing, do you?”

“Course not. Why would I mind? I was only watching telly. Hang on I’ll just put it on pause. That’s the best thing about ...”

Listening for a few minutes brought a part of him back to life. Her confident, yet scatty talking gave him the feeling of being needed, if only as a listener. Unsure just what was happening, just what these feelings were, he sat on a bench and waited for a Charlotte pause.

“... most people have cable or satellite, but it’s just like Freeview with three hundred other channels you never want to watch.” She breathed heavily.

“Have you got a busy day tomorrow?” He knew the question was inviting a long reply, but there was no other way to engineer this to when would they next meet. That was what he wanted to talk to her for. He realised as soon as he’d heard her voice.

“Fairly. Seems weird after working today that I’m free parts of tomorrow, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. Do you fancy going out somewhere tomorrow night? Have that meal I owe you?”

“Yeah.”

She seemed lost for words. Jim immediately took advantage. “Good. Look I’ve got to, you know, get ready. I’ll ring you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” she replied.

Turning his phone off, he walked back from the river towards the luxury ex-warehouse apartments. Towards Geoffrey’s in particular.

The swipe card entry system and nameless keypad numbers next to the entrance was a problem. The door itself was just two panes of glass which seemed odd considering the high cost security measures next to them. Breaking in without the swipe card was possible, the door could be forced, but he didn’t know anything about the alarm. The numbers one to four stood proud of the buzzers. Jim knew Geoffrey’s flat was on the second floor so presumed number two.

“One way to find out.”

The buzzer emitted a low distance noise. Jim waited, prepared with his stock phrase in case someone answered. “Hello, I’m a Jehovah’s Witness. Have you ever thought there was more to this world than just ...”

No one answered. Giving the door a small but firm push with his gloved hand, there was no give. It was firmly and electronically locked. Walking back towards the river, he pondered the next move. He loved a challenge. Despite the last two days, he was no expert at breaking and entering. It was just another thing forced onto him by the ten grand debt. Housebreaking had never been too appealing. He supposed it was a too customer orientated crime. He preferred the back room job of dealing with its proceeds. A new build, card swipe exterior with God only knows what locks on the apartment door that would be a huge problem to a professional. It was way beyond him. There’d probably be cameras too. This kind of area, redeveloped and highly priced, but just streets away from older and more problem boroughs always had drug problems and teams of young scallies ready to break in.

“Young scallies, eh.”

The river was still as brown and untempting as he’d left it. He remembered seeing some archive news footage somewhere; a whole beach worth of sand had been imported so young kids could go paddling and swim amongst the turds and industrial effluent. Wouldn’t happen nowadays, no one would want it. The council would probably get sued for even mentioning the idea.

Walking along the bank towards London Bridge, a few evening strollers passed by. Couples arm in arm, both young and old. The odd small crowd of menacing looking teenagers threw stones into the water and swore while trying to smoke stolen cigarettes. A bobby on a bicycle rode along, his eyes searching for trouble.

Jim lit another cigarette and stopped by the railing. The sky reddened towards the west as the sun set over London. The reddy hue in the sky bounced off the skyscrapers and bridges leaving a bloodlike haze on the streets. Crossing the bridge, he walked back along the northern shoreline, the redness in the sky darker with each footstep. Passing a variety of tramps on benches,
Big Issue
sellers and East Europeans flogging dodgy cigarettes, he carried on, unsure exactly where he was going.

Leaving the river and walking north, the streets grew darker. A million ideas flooded round his brain, each fighting for position near the front. Deep down, he’d no idea what was going on. It was like his body was being dragged towards somewhere friendlier, somewhere that wanted him.

He continued walking for an hour, maybe two. The streets all seemed the same. Some crammed full of houses, others shops with flats above. Most of the shops were still open. London didn’t stop for Sunday or night-time. Round the next corner he found himself on the outskirts of Soho, his dreamlike walk woken by shining, flashing neon signs advertising the more baser of entertainments. The entrance to a bar, barely more than a doorway, caught his eye. A heavyset bouncer in a tuxedo nodded at him. Beside the bouncer, a young woman in a leopard-skin top and tiny shorts waved a beckoning finger. Being a man of lax morals he couldn’t refuse.