Give The Devil His Due (2 page)

***

It was near three in the morning when John Steadman left Picard’s gaming house. After having beaten De Villiers, Steadman was feeling more than a little pleased, and decided to treat himself to some female company. Why not? He felt he'd earned it. A win of this magnitude was something to be kept quiet. There were villains roaming the streets of London that would cut your throat as soon as look at you for a couple of guineas, let alone the amount Steadman had upon his person.

       Not far from the Thames, in a little side street, was Searing’s Tavern. It was in one of the tavern’s rooms that Steadman could enjoy the pleasures of the flesh for which he now yearned. As he walked down Arundel Street, he did not notice two cloaked figures step out from the shadows and quietly follow him. Without warning, a loud sneeze alerted Steadman to someone's presence. In an instant, he felt his arms grabbed from behind and pulled up towards the small of his back. Suddenly, the sting of a blade, hot against his throat. As the sustained pressure of the cutting edge began to draw blood, a voice whispered to him, ‘Do I have your attention sir?’

       Steadman was the worse for drink but sobering rapidly. Trying to conceal his fear with a dagger against his neck compared to that of bluffing during a hand of brag was a feat Steadman could not accomplish. Steadman sensed in a heartbeat that De Villiers was a man swollen with hate, bent on revenge. Fearing for his life, he nodded.

       ‘Good. Is there something you would like to tell me?’

       Moncourt was becoming irritated. Holding Steadman's arms while De Villiers made a meal of the moment was not what he had agreed to. ‘For pity's sake Edward, make haste about your business.’

       Just as De Villiers was about to speak, a noise could be heard further up the street.

       ‘Quickly Edward, someone is coming.’ Moncourt's tone conveyed the situation’s urgency. Steadman, seeing this as his opportunity to break free, decided to struggle and tried to wrench his arms from Moncourt's hold. His balance faltered, his weight shifted towards the knife. The blade, razor sharp, split Steadman's neck open. Even though very sudden, the sensation felt to De Villiers somewhat similar to slicing a grape skin. It was an instance when time stood still and a heightened sense of awareness prevailed. With so much bodyweight the momentum did not stop and the knife went deeper, severing Steadman's jugular a fraction of a second later. Steadman slumped to the floor, gurgling as dark liquid pulsed out of his neck.

       Moncourt could sense De Villiers’ shock. De Villiers had planned to obtain the note by intimidation and a reasonable amount of violence, but not murder! That was something else entirely.

       ‘Go Edward. Get to the carriage, I'll follow you.’ Moncourt urged De Villiers to run to where the coachman had been instructed to wait.

       De Villiers was no longer thinking logically. Thank goodness for James; his old friend would help him in his time of need. In a state of blind panic, he'd dropped the dagger, still flustered by the possibility of witnesses to the crime. He looked up, the silhouetted figures that had disturbed his castigation of Steadman had stopped, but were now beginning to walk once again towards the crime scene.

       ‘Go Edward, I implore you, and take the knife. I will get rid of Steadman.’

       The dagger, its beautiful curved blade and ivory handle with the De Villiers’ family crest engraved upon the steel, was something Edward could not afford to abandon. If he did not retrieve it, he might as well leave his personal calling card, and swing from the gallows at Tyburn as a result.

       De Villiers bent down, picked up the weapon, sheathed it and hurried away to where the coachman awaited. Moncourt calmly pulled Steadman's cloak over the gambler’s head in order to avoid the blood which was still pulsing out, now at longer intervals with each weakening heartbeat. Grabbing his wrists, Moncourt dragged Steadman backwards, boots rasping against the cobbles. In less than a minute, Moncourt had the body by the stone wall that separated dry land from the Thames. He was now at the top of the stairs that led down to the landing by the water’s edge. Moncourt pulled the corpse down the stairs and on to the landing. With high tide fast approaching, the dead man would soon be gone.

       There was one final act to perform before Moncourt could drop the body on to the riverbank below and exit the scene. He looked up, making sure no one was watching. With deft movement, Moncourt slipped his hand into the inner pocket of Steadman's jacket and took what he wanted. Seconds later, James Moncourt was back up the stairs and had disappeared into the city's darkness.

Chapter 1

South Wales, Late 1990s
My father once told me: ‘There are two things that never change in life.

(1)   There's no such thing as a free lunch and

(2)   Underneath every ponytail there's an arsehole.’

       Well, it was Thursday afternoon and I'd already had my lunch: lasagne. It had cost me £2.99 from Tesco's Superstore. So he was right about that one.

       Standing in my garden, next to the fence, I was talking to my neighbour. I'd been living next door to Dave Forester for almost seven months. According to Dave, he was a ‘bond dealer’, moving
big money
about.

       Joan, one of my mother's friends, swore she had seen Dave working behind the counter of her local post office. So maybe Dave
was
dealing in bonds (even if they were only premium bonds).

       Over the last couple of weeks he’d started to wear his hair tied back. My father never told me whether it was the size of the ponytail or the duration that the owner had worn it that determined the degree of ‘arseholiness’. I’d decided that as Dave had not yet proved or disproved my dad's theory, he would be on probation.

       For the past few days we'd been enjoying an Indian summer. The temperature was sweltering. I’d mown the lawn – and a good job too, because if I’d had to carry on in the heat, my tongue might have caught on the spinning blade, it was hanging out that far. Time for some refreshment.

       ‘Do you fancy a cold one Dave?’

       ‘Yeah, tidy.’

       Nipping into the house I checked the fridge. As luck would have it, there were three, and they were
cold
. I grabbed a couple, took them outside and handed one to Dave.

       ‘Cheers man,’ he said with a grin.

       ‘Well make the most of it, ‘cause there’s no more left.’ It was a lie, but my need was greater than his. The lone remaining bottle would be exclusively mine, in front of the TV later that evening.

       We chatted for a while, mainly discussing the nuisance kids that kept damaging cars with footballs, the bed-sits at the top of the street housing druggies and lowlife that seemed to be contributing to the local crime wave. In essence, the general crap-small-talk that neighbours do best. Dave told me he was looking for a career-move into the ‘World of Advertising’, hence the new hairstyle. He told me that the bond market wasn't performing well at the moment. On hearing this, I could feel my early-warning bullshit detectors going to Defcon 1. Having worked for a while in advertising myself, I played along.

       ‘Oh yeah, what exactly do you see yourself doing then Dave?’

       ‘Well, with my experience in the bond markets, my move into advertising would have to be something
corporate
, if you know what I mean.’

       ‘Yes, I think I do Dave.’ I made a mental note: must remember to ask on Dave’s behalf at the local MacDonald’s – see if they needed any leaflet-droppers.

       ‘Small-time is for losers guy.’ Did I hear right? Did he just call me Guy? My name was Will – last time I checked. I made another mental note: must examine back of Dave's head for fissure appearance. I changed the subject.

       ‘I'm off to Bristol tomorrow Dave.’

       ‘Yeah? What’ya doin' over there?’

       ‘Oh, just meeting up with a buddy of mine. He's organised a boys’ night with two other mates that we’ve not seen in a long while. I s’pose if we were kids you’d call it a sleepover.’

       Dave gave me a ‘Having a gay orgy then, are we?’ look.

       ‘I know what you're thinking Dave, but it's nothing like that. It's just once we've had a few drinks we won't be in any fit state to drive ourselves home, and as he's got the space, it makes sense to crash there rather than fork-out on hotels.’

       ‘Oh, I see.’ I could see Dave preferred to believe it was the gay orgy-thing.

       The sun appeared from behind a cloud; it was starting to get even warmer. How I wished at this point there were more stubbies in the fridge. Never mind, I'd probably be getting a fair old soaking in Bristol. Dave piped up, ‘My shout,’ and disappeared into his house.

       Within less than a minute he had returned. In his hands – two more cold ones. I made a third mental note: examination of Dave's head not necessary. He had redeemed himself!

Friday, South Wales
I awoke to the sound of traffic and checked my alarm clock – 7.30 a.m. Not too bad. I'd get a few hours in at work before I headed on over to Phil's.

       Phil Simms was my buddy. Our paths had criss-crossed over the years and, unlike most school friends, we had never really lost touch. There was a period of about five years when we didn’t speak to each other, but there was nothing malicious in it. We'd become geographically severed. With work, travel and my having got married, it was just one of those things.

       Anyway, we'd got back in contact and made up for lost time, filling in the gaps on what we'd been doing during the interim. Mainly failing in relationships and not being as successful as we’d hoped in our careers.

       Phil had written an innovative software program and then got ripped off by an unscrupulous employer. The royalties he should’ve received would have set him up for life. Despite this he’d still done considerably better than me financially. He owned his own place. Unlike me, he hadn't got married. Instead of spending his money on a woman, he'd indulged himself in every way he thought he deserved. All the boys’ toys he could afford. He was a total must-have gadget-freak. You name it and he had it: fast cars, up-to-the-minute sound systems, computers, cameras, mobile phones etc. Sure, there had been women along the way, but for Phil, they always came second.

       It was at Phil's house the first time I ever saw a VCR rigged up to a HiFi and, back in those days, that was rocket science. He'd always been very technical and a stickler for detail. No surprise he'd ended up a software designer. The one thing about him though was that he’d always try and help you if you were in trouble. He'd helped me out quite a few times, and I would never forget that.

       In contrast to Phil’s, my career path had been quite an odd one. I never really seemed to hold positions down for very long. My current occupation was one of cab driver/philosopher. I know it’s been said that
philosophy is the very best profession a man can take up, when he is fit for nothing else
, well that may be true, but It's hard not to have a different outlook on life once you’ve driven a cab, and it’s even harder not to share your thoughts. The number of people you come into contact with and how they vary is something you can only understand if you've done it. And a cab driver without an opinion is like a
yin
without a
yang

       After all, where else do you get a job that can guarantee you a captive audience and a one to one opportunity to talk about any subject you or they choose? If you like the sound of your own voice, it's the job for you. If you don't like the sound of your own voice then shut up and it's the job for you. If you don't like what the punters have got to say, drive a cab with a dividing partition and even then it's
still
the job for you. It sounds like the world was my lobster, the reality? It wasn't. OK, the money was just about enough to get by. But for me, if I’m honest, the main attraction was being my own boss and providing I didn’t do anything that would cost me my licence, I couldn't be fired.

       Before becoming a
cabosopher
(try saying that after five pints!) I was a keyboard player, but I hadn't been active with that for a few years now. I'd taken the decision to settle down and end my living out of a suitcase, in the hope of finding some well-paid gig close to home. The cab driving was something I took up as a stopgap measure. Something I could fit in around my music, but it hadn't worked out that way. It had monopolised my time, leaving me tired and irritable on Sundays, usually because I'd worked six and two. Translated that's six days plus two nights. I'd work the whole week, then Friday and Saturday I'd work double shifts, napping for an hour or so in between the day- and night-shifts. Couple that with what I had to endure on those two night-shifts – obnoxious beer-heads, projectile vomiters, the prematurely incontinent. Usually, the pre-maturity took place before they had got out of the vehicle. If luck was really against me, I could end up with a punter that did all three during one journey. That's not to mention the violent, insane and over-ripe hummers.

       Come Sunday I needed to recharge, though this was the day I should have been doing family things. So my home life suffered as a result. I had a failed marriage, plenty of debt, a dog with cancer and a bad case of haemorrhoids. I knew that there were people out there worse off than me, but there were people out there a whole lot better off as well.

       Aside from the cab driving, I'd dabbled in insurance, written advertising jingles, worked in shops, offices and also been on the dole. I had ‘experience’. If you could name it, then I'd probably done it; neurosurgery and male-stripping being exceptions. Even with all of this I was still searching for something in life, although I didn't know what it was. With a bit of luck, I'd realise when it came along, if ‘it’ came along.