Lifeless - 5 (14 page)

Duddridge always waited for the customer to leave before counting the cash. It was only polite. Besides, knowing that nobody ever tried to rip him off had made him fairly relaxed about payment. People were always told gently that if their accounts weren't settled to his satisfaction, he could find them.

Use some of his own stock.

The money was al in twenties. He counted it without even looking down. He glanced around the pub which was starting to fil up with the afternoon footbal crowd, the lads with mul et haircuts and loafers, gathering for the last Saturday before the Christmas break. They would crowd around the big screen TV, drink themselves sil y and watch the Sky coverage of the day's games, each of them putting away enough lager to pay twice over for a satel ite dish at home.

The money, as expected, was al there. Duddridg.e decided to have a celebratory drink. It had been a nice bit of business after al . A simple referral from someone he knew and a mug punter he could overcharge, one who had no idea he was paying over the odds.

He pushed his way to the bar and ordered a Jack Daniels and Coke.

He'd sold gear to al sorts over the years, but this one had been odd, no question about it. The bloke hadn't got a clue what it was he wanted for a start. It had al been written down for him, presumably by the bloke who'd referred him to Duddridge in the first place. He said he wanted it for protection of course, which was what they al said, trying to make out like they were just responding to the dangerous times they were living in, but just needing it quickly and not wanting to piss about with licences and stuff. Right, and people only did smack to see what it was like, because they were writing a book about it.

Thing was, with this bloke, Duddridge could almost have believed it. The fucking great idiot had looked scared to death. Most of his customers were a little nervous, but they weren't buying cornflakes, after al . The bloke who'd handed over the fistful of twenties, one of which Duddridge was now peeling off to pay for his drink, he looked like he was going to shit his pants at any moment.

Maybe he did just want it for protection, weirdo certainly didn't look like he could hurt anybody, or want to hurt anybody, at least.

It always made Duddridge a little wary sel ing to people like that. You never knew when it might come back at you. The items he sold were completely untraceable - he had a reputation built on that - but you could never predict exactly what the people who bought them might do. A simple job was fine, they were his bread and butter. He saw himself as someone who sold quality tools to professionals.

But there was no accounting for nutters.

Duddridge felt the mobile phone on his belt vibrate. Another customer. He downed his drink and began making his way through the crowd towards the doors. He pictured his last customer doing the same, just a few minutes earlier, moving awkwardly between the tables, clumsy cunt knocking over a drink, one hand flapping for the door handle, the other clutching on to his purchase for dear life.

He always made a bit more dosh out of the amateurs, but he didn't real y like doing business with them. You could never be certain what you were dealing with. It was always the unassuming punters, the

funny-looking ones, the ones whose neighbours were always shocked and amazed.., who you saw on the news, their eyes like puddles of piss, shooting up a playground or walking calmly into McDonald's with an Uzi.

The thought reminded him. Uzis. He needed to talk to his contact in the States, see if he could get his hands on a few.

1999

He shut the door behind him, took off his jacket and slumped down behind his desk. From somewhere down the corridor he could hear raised voices, a door slamming. The temperature must have been wel into the eighties; fans on al over the building, the place reeking of sweat and bad tempers. He stared out of the window, perfectly content. He had his own ways of coping with stress.

He reached into his jacket pocket, took out his wal et and removed a smal , tattered, passport-size photo. Two young boys, on an afternoon much like this one, pul ing faces in a photo-booth. Two boys he used to know, pissing about in Woolworths, more than fifteen years earlier.

Now, he bore only the faintest physical resemblance to the smal er of the boys in the photo. Just the eyes, real y. He was a world away.

He was nearly thirty, and considering the somewhat bumpy start, had achieved a hel of a lot. Anybody would have to admit that. Life was good, he was stil on the up, and in Caroline, he seemed to have found the perfect wife. She was someone suitable in every sense, the ideal person to have by his side. They'd met seven years before, during training, and clicked straight away. They found the same things funny, they each had their own interests, and in the five years they'd been married, he could barely remember a cross word.

Yes, he felt good about sharing his life with Caroline. Sharing most of his life.

She never questioned the late nights, or the time away from home, or the occasional lack of interest in the bedroom. Perhaps she'd already convinced herself he was having an affair. If so, that was no bad thing.

He was seeking excitement of course; it was what he'd always done, but he'd never have found what he needed in furtive liaisons, in the wil ing arms of some young tart or other. He needed a hit, a high, a

buzz. He needed something far deeper and longer-lasting than he could find in simple adultery.

He wanted no part of anything consensual.

He'd always managed to get what he wanted, eventual y, and this had been no different. It had become surprisingly easy actual y. He was always careful - travel ing widely, never repeating himself, taking no chances. Now, if he was being honest, he was becoming a little bored.

He wondered if perhaps it went in cycles. Exactly ten years before, hadn't he become bored with who he was? He'd made the decision then to start again, to change everything, to become someone else. Now, he was happy with who he was, who he'd become, but what he was doing, for pleasure, had started to excite him less and less. It was a drug to which he was rapidly becoming inured, and it was not

acceptable. It was something that needed to change.

Happy with who he was...

There was a knock on the door and a col eague put his head round, pale-faced and sweating, to remind him he was needed elsewhere.

He pul ed his jacket from the back of the chair and slipped it on.

He picked up his wal et from the desk and slid the smal photo back inside.

He stared at the credit cards that carried his name. Not his real name, of course, but the name he'd been known by for more than ten years. His real name belonged to someone he'd last seen in a first-floor flat in Soho, a long time ago. If he was walking along the street now, and heard his old name, heard those two words being shouted at him, he'd know he was being shouted at by someone who didn't know him. Someone he'd been at school with...

He looked at his watch. Late for a meeting. His mind racing backwards and forwards in time. Remembering, imagining...

Moments later, striding briskly away down the corridor, he reached for his wal et a second time. Smiling, he took out the photo again, and looked at the two young faces.

Fifteen years was a very long time.

EIGHT

Date: 16 December

Target: Fern

Age: 20-30

Pickup: Pub, club, winebar etc.

Site: TBA

Method : Firearm (pref not silenced)

Sunday. Thorne's first real day off in nearly a fortnight.

Lunch with the old man had seemed like a reasonable idea at the time. A distraction, something to wash over him, a time-kil er. Now, driving back down the M 1, he real y wished he hadn't bothered. Aside from anything, he was starving. Of his parents, it had been his dad who'd done most of the cooking. Once upon a time, he'd enjoyed it, but his enthusiasm for that, along with everything else, had waned at the same rate as his fascination for pointless trivia and old jokes had rocketed.

While Thorne had pushed a lump of overcooked chicken and a few pal id, underdone vegetables around his plate, his dad had waffled on at absurd length about everything and fuck al .

He'd quizzed him about what he thought the five top-sel ing soap powders in the country were,

and giggled through countless stories about men walking into pubs. In fact, he'd barely drawn breath for the entire time Thorne had been there, except for a few uncomfortable minutes when, in the middle of a story about nothing, his eyes had fil ed with tears, and he'd calmly got up from the table, walked through into the kitchen and closed the door.

Thorne could do nothing but sit there, hating himself for thinking that he'd have been happier at a murder scene.

The big Christmas discussion had never real y materialised until Thorne was about to leave, and even then, it was just the usual tiresome dance, a frustrating bit of back and forth on the doorstep. 'So, dad.., are you coming, or what?'

'What d'you need to know now for? It's not for numbers is it?' 'It's only a week away and...' 'Nine days.'

'I just want to know what's happening.'

'I don't know.., it might be good to do something different.' 'Wel it's up to you, but...' 'I might go to Eileen's...' 'Right. Have you asked her?'

'Name the last six Prime Ministers...'

'Dad...'

'Blair, Major, Thatcher.'

'Have you asked Eileen?'

'They're the easy ones. Cal aghan...'

It was starting to get dark so Thorne flicked on the headlights. He let the Mondeo drift slowly across into the inside lane. The drive home was relaxing him, calming him down, and he was in no great hurry.

He turned on the radio and tuned it in to Radio 5 Live. The second half of Ipswich versus Leicester City. Hardly a glamour fixture, but the commentary soon engaged him as he pushed on along the al but empty motorway towards north London. Moving: out of the semi countryside and into the unlovely and reassuring urban sprawl of Brent Cross, Swiss Cottage and Camden. Moving: from one old man's

life going slowly down the tubes, to thoughts of four young women who would never even have that golden opportunity. Moving, towards the possibility of more...

Moving, away from an afternoon and towards an evening.

They rol ed apart from each other and lay there, sweating, exhausted, each of them trying to think of a good thing to say. Something that might help. Eventual y, Hol and came up with something, but Sophie was already turning over, ready for sleep. The sex had been good, better than good, but then it usual y was after an argument. They'd spent the best part of the day fighting, then fucked away the rest of it, trying to pretend the fight had never happened.

The row came at them with the slow, graceful horror of a lorry skidding on black ice. With the arse-end of a dul Sunday just around the corner, the boredom had slowly given way to irritation and final y, anger. It was an anger that had been there al the time of course, like a bad smel in a locked room, and, once it escaped, it got everywhere, and into everything. It fol owed them around the flat, as each of them took turns in chasing the other from room to room, swearing and screaming and pounding on wal s. It was stil there, al over both of them, two hours later, as they cried and squeezed each other until final y, the kissing began.

Then mouths devoured each other which, only moments before, had ranted and shouted, wounding with words. Some were used far more than others. Work, job, support, wanker, selfish, bitch, children, choice, Thorne...

Sophie's breathing quickly settled into a pattern that told Hol and she was asleep, but he knew that he wasn't going to fol ow her quickly. There were far too many thoughts rattling around in his head.

He wondered how much damage each of these weekly sessions was doing to them, and if the money they'd spent, the time and trouble they'd taken moving into a new flat, would end up being wasted.

He wondered why, considering that "it was usual y the other way

round, he stil fancied Sophie, but didn't much like her any more. Why, if he stil fancied Sophie so much, had he spent most of the time they were making love thinking about Sarah McEvoy?

Jacqui had cooked lunch for seven without a word of thanks. Roast beef and the rest of it, for her husband, her mother and her sister's lot. As ever, by the time she'd finished, she wasn't actual y hungry herself. Staring at her face in the dressing-table mirror, changing her mind for the second time about which shade of lipstick to go with, she decided that she'd grab something when she was out. Maybe some of the other girls might fancy a meal afterwards. If she ever bloody wel got there...

It wasn't as if she'd expected any volunteers to help clear up, certainly not any of her own useless lot, but it would have been nice. Her sister, as ever, sat there on her fat behind not raising a finger, so by the time Jacqui had washed up and cleared away the mess her sister's horrible kids had made in the living room, she was real y late. It wasn't the first time.

For heaven's sake, it was only every other Sunday. One night, once a fortnight, when her and a few of the girls could let their hair down and talk about how shit everything was at home, and then get back to it before half past ten. She'd tried to suggest that maybe, every other Sunday, her sister could have everybody round to her place. The idea had not gone down wel , and that had pretty much been that...

Mim stood in her knickers, the iron in one hand, remote in the other, channel-surfing. She stopped briefly when she got to The Antiques Roadshow. She knew her mother would be watchingit, assuming that she wasn't sulking after the row the two of them had just had, or storming around the house taking it out on her poor father. She carried on surfing, setting final y for a documentary about sharks, and went back to ironing her jeans. It had been a row she'd known was

coming, ever since term had ended and she hadn't eagerly hopped aboard the first train home. Miriam, how could you choose to stay in that dingy bedsit rather than with your own parents in a comfortable house blah blah blah... ?