Seven Daze (2 page)

Pete taught him respect for firearms. Jim favoured the pistol over rifles after realising how hard long range was. Plus, if you missed you lost the target while reloading. Close up was easier, but with ease comes danger. The danger of being caught. The danger of looking into their eyes.

Though the hotel was cheap and cheerful, he’d found the staff were just the former. Emerging from his room, he saw his neighbours walk downstairs. He classed them as both cheap and cheerful, and also too noisy in the bedroom department.

“Hello,” she said.

“Morning.” Jim took his time locking the door, hoping they’d continue. They didn’t.

“Off to breakfast?”

He’d avoided three mornings of breakfast with them by missing it. “No, straight to work today.”

They headed down in front of him. Jim wondered if the groaning stairs could carry all their weight and was surprised when they did. The pair attempted conversation at the foot of the stairs, but Jim couldn’t do it. His mind was miles away. Far, far away.

Pistol Pete got him a job. A small-time coke dealer named “Bobby the Nose” was owed a small fortune by a city worker. The customer, Geoffrey Morgan, owed far more than he could repay. His reputation in tatters, Bobby the Nose’s other customers were taking advantage. A shock to their systems was needed. Jim was offered the job of restoring his reputation. Of course the money Geoffrey owed would be wiped out; unrecoverable. But Bobby’s supplier, the source of the coke and who in turn was owed a fortune by Bobby, was a particularly nasty east London gangster. He was more than prepared to take the hit to save their reputations.

Jim had been told little about Geoffrey, bar his name, address and what he looked like. Pistol Pete had said it was easier that way. “It’s just a walking lump of flesh,” he’d said. “If you don’t know them, it doesn’t matter.” Jim spent many nights convincing himself Pete was right.

Outside, the temperature was rising. The city that half-slept at night was cranking up its speed. Cars, vans and buses going nowhere clogged the streets, while busy, important people walked with determination and purpose. Jim kept his head down and joined them.

Breathing fast, he tried to clear his head. A virgin assassin, that’s what he was. Ten minutes until his metaphorical cherry got plucked. What if it went wrong? What would he be? An attempted assassin. No, just a failed assassin.

He stopped. Moving from the curb he leaned against a shuttered chemists.

“Deep breaths,” he told himself. “That’s what Pete said. Deep breaths.”

He checked his watch. Two minutes behind schedule. Sure he had some leeway, but this left no room for further mistakes. With another deep breath he continued. The only important thing was Geoffrey. He’d been following him for four days, spotting patterns in his movements. It was Geoffrey he had to think of.

Geoffrey seemed regular as clockwork. At seven twenty he’d leave his luxury apartment and head for the seven thirty-seven train. He’d walk through the back streets and past the old cinema. Jim had picked the cinema as the quietest place on route. Only a few people took the short cut; those dark corners hid all sorts of low life. Also, as Geoffrey was known for his extravagance and money, Jim hoped it’d look like a mugging gone wrong. The back of the cinema was perfect. The police would think it was a drug related death.

Technically, it would be.

He turned into Market Street. The old cinema apparently disused for years was all but falling down. Its boarded up windows had at some point been breached, and its insides squatted before returning to an empty shell. Walking up the side alley, he stopped at a rubbish-strewn fire exit and knelt behind an upturned cardboard box.

He waited.

He’d been okay while walking. The rhythmic pulse of shoes on tarmac and the tracing in his head of Geoffrey’s route had kept him going. Now he could feel his heart pumping. Also his hands, they were shaking. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he breathed in and out. Staring at a damp patch of cardboard, he felt his heart rate reduce.

With only a minute before Geoffrey would walk by, Jim pulled the gun from his pocket. He took another hard look before flicking the safety off. Waiting was the game now.

Waiting.

As his quarry came into view, Jim’s heart rate pumped up again; its bpm resembling a techno record. His stomach gurgled, having wound itself back into the elaborate sailors knot. Taking a deep breath, he saw the face of the thirty-something man approach. This was happening too fast.

He went through the plan. Wait until he was two yards away, jump from cover, one shot to the chest. Bang. Falls down. Another to the head. Bang. Grab his wallet and phone; scarper. Finished. Finito.

That was clear.

What wasn’t clear was why Geoffrey had stopped walking. It was less clear why the colour had drained from his face and he was clutching a shaking hand at his chest. As he crashed to the ground, Jim broke cover. Pocketing the gun, he walked to the breathless figure on the floor.

“What’s going on?”

Kneeling, he saw Geoffrey struggling for breath. His lips turning blue, he seemed to be saying, “Help.”

Jim shook his head. What was he supposed to do? Pistol Pete hadn’t crossed this bridge with him. They’d discussed a million things that could go wrong, but never the person you’re supposed to kill having what looked like a heart attack. Should he just whip the gun out and finish him off?

He got as far as reaching for his pocket. Another shortcut user; a smart-suited woman screamed as she saw Geoffrey on the floor with Jim kneeling beside. Jim knew he had to think fast. What would Pete say?

His heart now resembling a Drum ‘n’ Bass record played at 78, Jim’s eyes met the woman’s. “Help,” he croaked. “I think it’s a heart attack.” Though her screams had stopped, panic had frozen her to the spot. Resembling a frozen turkey in a trouser suit, she opened and closed her mouth but no words came.

That was a setback. He hoped she’d take charge, manage the situation. He appeared to have picked the wrong bunny. This one had got caught in the headlights. Options whirred round his head, but two stood out: Kill her then Geoffrey. Messy. Second option to save the life of the man he’d been paid to kill.

“Quick,” he shouted, “get an ambulance or whatever.”

Jim laid Geoffrey’s head back in an attempt to make him comfortable. He then did what Pete told him not to do: looked into his eyes.

The hunk of meat, the walking money cheque Jim had persuaded himself Geoffrey was, had become human. A flesh covered and living - well dying - human being. How the fuck could he have thought of killing someone? He was Jim the lad. A crap thief. He wasn’t a murderer.

Before his eyes, the woman defrosted from her ice-cage. Fingers and thumbs, she pulled a phone from her pocket. A latest model touch screen. Jim caught himself eyeing it in between saying, “You’re going to be alright,” to Geoffrey.

“What’s the number for an ambulance?” Her cheeks were red and her shoulders seemed to move up and down involuntarily. He guessed it was shock.

“Ummm,” said Jim.

Though on the tip of his tongue, the number for the emergency services was hiding somewhere between his teeth. Thinking hard and deep, his mind flicked through his mental phone book. Scanning the A’s, he forced himself to concentrate. Eventually, the page found, the number stood out.

“Nine nine nine,” he said.

Shaking her head, she pressed the phone screen three times.

Looking at the man he should have killed, Jim noticed a milky film over his eyes. It reminded him of the dull white marbles he’d played with as a kid. His lips now more blue than red, he didn’t appear to be breathing. Devoid of anything helpful to do, he undid Geoffrey’s top shirt button. He’d seen them do it on
Casualty
so it could only help.

The woman talked into the phone. Jim couldn’t hear what, just a wave of soft voice replying to unknown questions. He looked at her again, taking her in this time. Late twenties or early thirties and power-suited. He thought she was good-looking. More than just good-looking. Fresh-looking, yet red-faced from discovering Geoffrey. Her hair stylishly clung to her head with a little patch wiggling down in front of her eyes. She was far-far away from his league, but he could dream. He wondered why he was dreaming when a man lay dying on the floor.

Jim found certain parts of being in prison hard. He figured that was probably half the point, but there was always help at hand. The lack of freedom could be combated through friendship and alcohol. Drugs could be bought, sometimes easier than on the outside. The one thing he couldn’t buy was the thing that after three years became an obsession. Female companionship. Sure sex was a large part of that, but there was companionship too. He’d often kid himself he missed companionship the most.

Of course other companionship was available in prison, but Jim wasn’t that kind of boy. Not that that mattered to some inmates. He’d seen the hardest, women-loving men turn while inside. They’d turn back again on release, but it was something Jim knew he’d never do. He often wondered if he was facing a twenty-five stretch his mind might see it differently. He hoped he’d never be in that position.

Straight after his release, he’d been whipped off to the Glens to learn his new craft. There’d been no time for carnal pleasures. Of course he’d thought about women, but the deal was clear. Job first, women second. He needed to focus. It would become the reward he’d want above all others. This afternoon, after his hit had been successful, the plan was to hit Soho in a big way.

All his and Pete’s plans were crashing and burning. What was much worse was a man was dying, and all he could think about was a mystery woman on a phone.

Geoffrey’s facial colour was blending towards purple. Jim knew he had to get this woman out of his head. He’d just messed up a hit, he was carrying a gun in London and soon more people, ambulances and probably the police would arrive.

He breathed in and out three times, as Pete had said.

The woman shuffled forwards and bent down behind Geoffrey, her phone stuck to her ear. Her position afforded Jim a generous view of her generous cleavage. As hard as he tried not to look, he was always going to fail.

Three more breaths.

“His face looks purple and it doesn’t look like he’s breathing,” she said, her voice growing stronger. He looked back at Geoffrey. His face seemed to be changing colour by the second. Before long he’d look like a radish in a suit. Jim reached towards Geoffrey’s throat and undid another button. Again, it had to help.

As he reached for the button, the gun in his pocket bounced off his chest. Paranoia hit. Could she see the outline of the pistol this close up? He knew it couldn’t be seen in the mirror, but he was kneeling down; his coat would have changed shape. Maybe it was hugging his body differently. He could see down her top, so maybe she could see down his? He pulled his coat tighter and moved his elbow, trying to cover his chest.

“Can you check his airways?” she asked.

Jim double checked she was talking to him and not the phone. She was. He looked at her face and thought through what she’d said three times before it made sense. Shrugging, he moved his gloved hands towards Geoffrey’s mouth. He saw her frown. The gloves. Leather gloves and an overcoat in June?

Pushing Geoffrey’s purple-brown lips apart, Jim pushed a finger in his warm mouth. Though he had gloves on, having his finger in someone’s mouth still made him gag.

Looking up, he nodded. “Tongue’s okay.”

“Is he breathing?”

She was closer now, kneeling just behind Geoffrey’s head with her handbag beside her. Sitting upright and with a good posture, he realised she was younger than he’d thought. Or maybe she just spent a lot on anti-aging products. Either way, she was good-looking. He knew three years inside could cloud taste buds, but no, she really was good-looking.

Coyly protecting the gun with his free arm, he moved his head towards Geoffrey’s mouth and listened. The traffic noise and early morning bustle filled his ears, but he couldn’t hear breathing. Holding his own breath and blocking the surrounding noise out, he waited for what felt like minutes until his lungs burned. Nothing. No breathing, just nothing. The sound of nothing.

Moving up, his face inches from hers, he looked into her eyes. Green and blues fought in random; swirly patterns. Moving away, he saw tears at their corners. He shook his head; the words wouldn’t come out.

“I don’t think he’s breathing,” she stuttered. She nodded her head in reply to something the phone said. “The ambulance should be here soon.” That was definitely meant for Jim. “Here, hold this.” After putting the phone on speaker, she handed it to him.

Looking at it like a charged hand grenade, he held it at distance. Three years ago, hell three weeks ago, the offer of a free phone would have had him running. Her handbag was so near too. She was practically begging him to rob her. Moving so she was on Geoffrey’s right hand side, she leant towards his chest.

“Okay, what do I do,” she shouted at the phone

“Form your hands over his left breast and make four compressions,” the phone said.

Sat there lemon-like, he watched for five minutes as she gave chest compressions. Jim’s only movement was to grab her handbag nearer as another city worker walked by, apparently oblivious to them. He wasn’t sure if he was protecting her bag or making sure no one else had it.

During those long minutes, Jim watched in awe as she defrosted further. She’d coped better than himself. He knew he had his mouth open and couldn’t close it. The bunny in the headlights had become a cool, city kitty.

Sat there, minding a phone and handbag containing God knows how many gold credit cards along with its plethora of lipsticks and tissues, Jim knew the odds were on him doing a runner.

He didn’t.

The five-minute wait for the ambulance dragged. Jim held the phone throughout, his palms sweating as the morning sun heated his gloves. He heard the siren long before he saw the ambulance. Traffic was backing up and mounting kerbs to let it pass, but all the time she kept up her rhythmical massage.