Seven Daze (3 page)

The ambulance on scene, the first paramedic rushed towards them, green bag in hand. Swiftly joined by the driver, Jim watched the scene unfold while still holding the bloody phone and keeping an arm and eye on the handbag. The paramedics took over the massage and applied an oxygen mask to Geoffrey.

The woman, who introduced herself to the paramedics as Charlotte, knelt back to give them room as they continued doing the impossible. As she wiped tears from her eyes, Jim moved towards her holding out her phone and handbag. The cool city kitty, confident in her job as lifesaver was fading fast. She took her phone, but shaking hands struggled to place it in the bag.

The chest compressions continued as the other paramedic got a stretcher from the ambulance. In the space of a hectic minute, Jim helped them put Geoffrey on the stretcher before they wheeled him into the ambulance, continuing the heart massage the whole time. In itself, he found it a spectacle to watch.

As the ambulance roared into heavy traffic, Jim found himself and Charlotte standing by the old cinema, a crowd of onlookers staring at them. Jim placed a hand on her shoulder. “Thanks.” He’d no idea what he was thanking her for. Turning her mascara-blotted cheeks towards him, she attempted a smile and nodded.

As the crowds dispersed, Jim noticed she was still shaking. He guessed it was shock. He knew he was shaking himself so asked if she was alright.

“Yeah, I’m.” She paused. “I’ll be fine.”

“Do you want to get a tea or coffee or something. You know, help calm down?”

She nodded and they walked through the thinning crowd towards a coffee shop.

Jim queued on wobbly legs as she went to the toilet to check and possibly redo her make-up. His head buzzed with adrenalin and failure as he looked round. The place was unlike any cafe he’d ever seen. Comfy couches, low tables and the fresh smell of roasted coffee beans played with his senses. It reminded him more of a New York coffee shop than a south of the river cafe. Three years inside felt like ten the way things had changed.

Approaching the front of the queue, Charlotte emerged from the toilet looking heavily made-up. She took a comfy single-seat chair and waved. He waved back, unable to stop himself smiling.

She’d asked for a double-shot frappuccino with caramel, but Jim’s mind and legs were all over the place so her order got lost in a series of internal Chinese whispers. Ordering something similar, he chose tea for himself.

“Camomile, green or rose petal?” the heavily suntanned server asked.

“Just tea. Just a cup of normal tea,” he replied.

As the drinks were made Jim noticed Charlotte on her phone. She was either ringing the police to tell them he’d a gun and had kidnapped her, or she was ringing work to explain why she was late. The way things had turned out, he was past caring. Despite Pete’s training, seeing what’d happened had shaken him.

After paying over six pounds for two drinks, his head joined his hands in shaking as he took them to the table. Charlotte, fully made-up, had regained her attractiveness, yet she’d never really lost it. Even with blotchy panda eyes and smears down both cheeks, she’d turn heads at twenty yards. Jim decided she was definitely early thirties rather than old and the product of a vat of magic youth cream. Also, she was good at talking. Very good. Within five minutes he found out she worked for some American investment bank on the Mergers and Acquisitions desk, whatever that was, she’d been divorced for three years and had a cat called Bilbo named after
The Lord of the Rings
character. He was more than glad she’d taken the lead. His mind didn’t feel like stretching itself or searching for small talk. When she asked what he did for a living he paused.

“I err, work for the government, civil service, you know.” His cover had been a clerk at the Office for National Statistics. Recently moved to London, he’d spent the last five years at its offices first in Northumberland then Wales. In a split second he’d decided to use his cover. He could hardly tell the truth.

She nodded, looked genuinely interested. “Whereabouts do you work?”

“Erm, Whitehall.” He didn’t know if people even worked in Whitehall or if they ever had. Her face remained its pale, yet smiley same so he presumed he hadn’t dropped a clanger. “Where’s your bank?” he asked, hoping she hadn’t already told him during her earlier tirade.

Luckily, she hadn’t.

Over the next five minutes she talked about the Docklands, the credit crunch - apparently it wasn’t her fault - and the university she’d been to as Jim sipped his sugary tea. Her world of finance and London living was intriguing and alien, so he didn’t have to feign interest. He did wish though, that she’d talk slower. Or occasionally pause.

Finishing her coffee, she wiped her lips with a serviette. “I need to get going. I rang work, told them what happened, but there’s only so much sympathy isn’t there?”

Jim nodded. She paused and smiled before standing up. Usually useless at reading signs, he wasn’t sure if that was one. Should he ask for her number? Considering his reason for being in London and what had happened he knew he shouldn’t. But he was helpless; something other than his common sense was in charge.

“Can I have your number?”

Her smile grew. “Yeah of course.” Reaching into her handbag she pulled out her phone. “Ready?”

Jim pulled the cheap mobile from his pocket, but even with the steadiest of nerves his fingers would have struggled to operate it. “Sorry, I’m useless with these.”

“Here.” She took it from his hand, and typed furiously. “I’ll add myself as a contact.”

Jim shivered at the thought of her going through the phone. He’d never used it, had never even typed a number in, but he was certain she’d find something. Something that would give him away. Feeling his face redden, he waited for the inevitable.

“I’ll ring mine; make sure I’ve put it in right.” She pressed some keys then her phone sprang into life, playing the start of Abba’s “Dancing Queen”. Handing back the phone, she fiddled with hers again before returning it to her handbag.

“Well, thanks then.”

“Thank you,” she replied as she left.

It was half nine in the morning, and he was a failed assassin with a loaded gun in his pocket. There was only one option: get drunk. The leftovers of his three-grand advance were running low. Just under four hundred left, stashed at the hotel. Supposedly, it was for tonight’s Soho blow-out. Well, fuck it, he’d nothing to celebrate now, but the money could buy drinks. God only knows what was happening after that. The seven grand in used twenties he should be picking up wasn’t going to happen. As of midday tomorrow, he’d be homeless, penniless and hotel-less.

The gun dug in his side with each footstep, reminding him it was there, almost begging him to use it. You don’t have to shoot anyone, it was saying, just point it at a bank clerk or a few city workers. Get their wallets and move on. Easy, it was saying. It’s so easy.

“Nothing’s easy.”

Despite the hotel receptionists’ surprise at seeing him back, she smiled and told him the cleaner would probably be in his room. Luckily, the cleaner had been and gone. Removing the gun from his pocket, he froze when he realised the safety was off. Slumping to the bed, he retraced every footstep and movement. The gun could have gone off at any point killing himself, Charlotte or anyone else. Jim shook his head. Unloading and rewrapping it in the zip-lock bag, he replaced it in the toilet cistern. Returning to the bed, he removed the gloves and let his hands breathe for the first time in days.

Smiling, he thought what a waste all the effort had been. Geoffrey had had the last laugh. He’d probably ruined his life too.

He’d been trying to ignore something on the way back, but it kept popping back into his head. Had Geoffrey survived? He hoped so, but also realised if he was alive the contract might still be active. Would he be expected to kill someone he’d just saved? That would be cruel.

His thirst for alcohol and Soho had waned. Taking a bath seemed a better and cheaper option. Four hundred quid had to last the rest of his life. A life he knew couldn’t involve contract killing. It just wasn’t him. He couldn’t do it.

After a long soak, he lazily dressed and went for a walk. Completely avoiding the cinema, he instead headed for the river then the city. Walking for hours, it surprised him just how big London was. Most of his travelling had been underground, so he’d formed a mental image of every landmark and station being fifty yards from the next. The bustling reality was so different.

For the last four days he’d followed Geoffrey via tube to his workplace. Both the city and its financial heart were alien to what he’d grown up in. Raised on the outskirts of Coventry Jim knew city life, but the city blitzed by the Luftwaffe was worlds apart from the capital. Jim knew all of Coventry’s estates, both upper and lower class. In London he was lost. The financial heart, the place he’d followed Geoffrey to each day, felt like the only place he knew. He couldn’t convince himself he belonged anywhere, but the skyscrapers, wall to wall bistros and bustle of expensively suited workers drew him like a magnet.

Crossing Tower Bridge, he hugged the river passing London’s highlights before reaching Canary Wharf. His legs ached; he didn’t dare think how many miles he’d walked as he found a bench outside the Gherkin and sat down.

Studying life as it passed, it didn’t take him long to remember why he hated the city and its workers. It wasn’t just because they’d ruined the country. The whole area stank of money, both inherited and newly created. It wasn’t a good smell. Not a healthy, wealthy smell, but a vile odour of greed and backstabbing to make more money. He knew people all over the country were destitute, some nearly starving. They spent their days in damp, overcrowded houses living off microwave chips and special brew with no hope of change. But these bastards. They wasted other people’s money on flash clothes, lifestyles, drugs and champagne. And when they messed up, who was it that bailed them out? Normal working taxpayers like himself.

He paused. Remembering he’d never paid any tax, he reconsidered his rant. The injustice was there though. The greed and expectations of others to sort your bad times and let you keep the good times angered him. They’d gone back to paying bonuses already even before the problems were sorted.

Remembering his own youth, and how his mum had struggled to bring him and his sister up angered him further. They had nothing but each other but unlike the
cliché
, they weren’t happy. Fucking miserable most of the time. Would things have been different if they’d had money? He wasn’t sure.

Looking up and tracing the towers stretching to the sky, he pondered it all. He’d been here the past few days, scouting round, becoming invisible and trying to spot a corner that wasn’t covered by cameras. Trying to find a murder spot. Today he’d seen it differently. Time and a need to push away this morning’s failure had shown him the true city. The brown stinky stuff it ran on.

He thought back to what he’d nearly done. What he’d nearly become. How could he have put himself in that position. Killing someone. How had he accepted killing another human being? And for money too. Surely he’d become worse than his quarry. He’d become the underworld equivalent of a merchant banker. And he didn’t need Fingers Harry to tell him what that was slang for.

Disgusted, he left his bench and headed for the tube. His destination east, in search of a proper pub and proper people.

Four tube stops was enough to rid him of the city and enter the relative warmth of the under-city. The Queens Arms was the nearest pub to the tube and possibly the only pub left in east London where you could still smoke, drink a warm pint and have a fight with a builder. Half deserted at lunch time, he approached the bar.

“Yeah?” said the barman.

“Pint of best.”

Pulling a chipped glass from under the bar, the barman pulled the pint, avoiding eye contact. In jeans and t-shirt, Jim felt he fitted this part of London more than the city, but he wasn’t known. He could be anyone from anywhere and this was a local’s pub. Occupants of local’s pubs never welcomed newcomers; they always looked for an ulterior motive. Jim just wanted a drink and the company of others. Earning their trust was the first step.

Paying half the price he would have four tube stops earlier, he took the pint and sat on a bench near the pool table. Two builders, probably a plasterer and chippy, playing pool nodded at him. Jim nodded back and took in the rest of the bar.

The pub was old. He reckoned the term rising damp had been invented with this pub in mind. It had been built a hundred years ago and redecorated only a few times since. Two pensioners with red noses and half-pint pots sat round a rickety table reading their papers, occasionally stopping to moan about foreigners. An old television above them beamed out racing from Chepstow through a dust-covered grille. The barman sat on a high stool pretending to wash glasses while he fiddled with his mobile phone. At the end of the bar a family of flies hovered over stale cheese sandwiches sweating in a Tupperware box.

Taking a glug from his pint, he rested it on a ripped beer mat. Breathing deeply, he pulled out the fags he’d bought earlier. Despite no smoking signs everywhere the whole pub was at it, including the barman. Even the flies seemed to be enjoying the second-hand smoke.

He’d been to east London before, though not this pub. After getting friendly with a few people inside, they visited London on release five or six years ago. The intent of the trip was mugging tourists. After all, they didn’t think it fair that London’s thieves got to bag all the American’s and Jap’s wallets. No one ever visited Coventry on sightseeing tours. The lads from the provinces should be given a chance. They’d booked into a cheap guest house further up the road, drunk themselves stupid in a West End pub then bottled it when it came to the actual robbing. Though he returned with less than he came with, he still remembered it as a good night.