The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries (42 page)

“Why are you always such a wimp, darling? This is six hundred thousand pounds. This is a new life of high-living in a new land. We start again.”

“Just a goodbye joke,” I said. “Taking the money would be . . .” I trailed to a halt.

“Would be wonderful,” she completed her version of the sentence. “Your son could go to Harvard the way you said you would have liked to have done.” She took a deep breath
and became charming. “We will live a life of ease. Be sensible.”

“No, Irene. It was just an idea for a story. Then it became a joke to play on Percy.”

“No
corpus delicti
, darling. It’s foolproof. No manuscript as evidence. No witness to the negotiations. All concerned disappear to the other side of the globe with no
forwarding addresses.” There was a sudden note of concern: “Your policeman swallowed the robbery story?”

“Everything went OK,” I said. “But the answer is still no. No, Irene. Do you hear me?”

“Don’t ‘no Irene’ me, Carl. My brother and I have worked damned hard on this one. And spent good money on airline tickets. All you did is scribble a silly story and sit
on your ass in London. It’s going ahead no matter what you think about it. So have an aspirin and go to bed. Tell the office you have a virus and by the weekend you will have
vanished.”

“Very well, Irene. But I don’t like it.”

“You have your airline ticket. Don’t forget your passport. See you on the beach, darling.”

“Poor Percy,” I said.

And when, six months or so later, the letters started arriving, Percy’s letter was one of the first. No hard feelings, he said. No crowing. I read the letter several
times; I had the feeling that he was half inclined to offer me some money towards my legal costs. But he could afford to be generous. He’d got the greater part of the money back, and the
world rights on my “silly story” was eventually added to that. And there is to be a movie, too, they say. Nature follows art, I suppose.

There was no point in putting more money into my lawyer’s pocket. When Irene’s brother, Gordon McPhail, confessed, I had no alternative but to fill in the gaps. Most of the people
who heard about it got it wrong and the newspapers did too. Even Percy, who should have known everything about it, thought that the Bali bomb in October had destroyed our “lovely
restaurant”. Some latecomers to the bad news thought we were victims of the tsunami, which came two years later. In fact we never did buy the restaurant we were negotiating for in Bali. We
found a place we liked better, in Surabaja – Irene always said that I went for it only because of the Brecht song lyrics – and we were doing quite good business when the blow fell.
“We got it for a song,” she used to say before telling everyone that we had paid almost double the real value.

It was the terrorist bomb in Bali that did for us, of course. The Indonesian cops opened up the bank records to the Australian security service and they noticed the big money transfer. They
became really excited. Sydney told London and Washington, and before I knew what was happening I was locked up in a prison in Jakarta with dozens of cops giving me hell on a shift for shift basis.
Either they were convinced that I was the moneyman for the terrorists or they put on a wonderful act. They were rough and kept saying they’d hold me for ever and they didn’t care about
giving me a lawyer or bringing me to trial. They put Gordon through the wringer too. He was treated worse than me.

But ours had been a good plan. Even when they had Percy identify photos of Gordon and got their tame experts to agree about Gordon’s signatures it still made a flimsy case to bring before
a jury.

But my mind was changed by an avuncular old Aussie detective: “I’ll tell you this much, Mohammed, old son, the only way you can avoid serving fifty years in an Indonesian clink as a
terrorist is to convince me you are a thief.”

I shook my head.

He gave a mirthless grin and said: “The locals tell me there are 365 islands out there. That’s bullshit, of course, but there are plenty of them, fever ridden and overgrown, some of
them no bigger than a football field. Ideal in fact to use as high security prisons. I went to one of them once. The local coppers were showing us how they handled local law-breakers. It was a
stinking hole: dense jungle, everyone as skinny as a rake, even the guards. One of the jokers there said that either the prisoners ate the snakes and rats, or the snakes and rats ate them. It was a
good joke but it didn’t get much of a laugh from any of our boys. The cons never come back. The guards only do six months at a time. Any questions asked and the pen-pushers at headquarters
say the paperwork got eaten by termites.” He sat down and mopped his brow. “You wouldn’t think it was still winter, would you?”

Perhaps it was a contrivance. No doubt the same cop did the same fatherly routine with Gordon, and they were all determined not to let us discover who cracked first. I could see it might all be
a bluff at the time but I didn’t feel like betting my life on it.

And all through this, Percy was decent. He told the police he’d known me all his life, and that I couldn’t be a terrorist. But he wouldn’t lift a finger to help Irene’s
brother. It was understandable really; Gordon was the one who had duped him. He didn’t have the same animosity towards me. He told the cops I was a weak character who had been drawn into
crime by a shrewish domineering wife and criminal brother-in-law.

So I have no resentment concerning Gordon’s confession. It was just bad luck and he managed to get Irene totally exonerated. They treat me quite decently now that I’ve got the
transfer back to the UK, but I’ll never eat rice, boiled fish or any of those damned fiery sambals for as long as I live. The governor here is a Sherlock Holmes devotee, so he likes to talk
and display his knowledge to me, and I think I’ve persuaded him to try his hand at a pastiche of a Sherlock Homes story. I’ll help. We are going to invent “The Adventure of the
Tired Captain”, a case that Doyle mentions in passing at the beginning of “The Naval Treaty” but never used. We won’t be the first to have a go at it but no matter. There is
no pressure of time and Percy says if it’s good enough he’ll publish it. And why not? He published my previous Sherlock Holmes story, didn’t he?

Mind you, that’s not going to be the end of the story. Next week I have a lawyer coming in to see me and that kind of visit doesn’t have some big-eared warder sitting in to hear what
we say. The court found me guilty of a whole string of offences, and writing that damned
Titanic
story is only one of them. So what are Percy and his uncle going to do when I claim copyright
and my share of all the money they have put away? I’ll get legal aid, so I won’t have to find the money for the lawyers.

It’s only now that I can understand why writers were always complaining to me about the way publishers treat them. Why should we writers be exploited?

Martyn Waites

Love it. Fuckin love it. No other feelin in the world like it.

Better than sex. Better than anythin.

There we was, right an there they was. Just before the Dagenham local elections. Outside the community centre. Community centre, you’re avina laugh. Asylum seeker central, more like.
Somali centre.

June, a warm night, if you’re interested.

Anyway, we’d had our meetin, makin our plan for the comin election, mobilisin the locals off the estate, we come outside, an there they was. The Pakis. The Anti Nazis. Shoutin, chantin
– Nazi Scum, BNP Cunts. So we joined in gave it back with Wogs Out an that, Seig Heillin all over the place. Pakis in their casual leathers, Anti Nazis in their sloppy uni denims, us lookin
sharp in bombers an eighteen holers. Muscles like taut metal rope under skin tight T-shirts an jeans, heads hard an shiny. Tattoos: dark ink makin white skin whiter.

Just waitin.

Our eyes; burnin with hate.

Their eyes; burnin with hate. Directed at us like laser death beams.

Anticipation like a big hard python coiled in me guts, waitin to get released an spread terror. A big hard on waitin to come.

Buildin, gettin higher:

Nazi Scum BNP Cunts

Wogs Out Seig Heil

Buildin, gettin higher –

Then it came. No more verbals, no more posin. Adrenalin pumped right up, bell ringin, red light on. The charge.

The python’s out, the hard on spurts.

Both sides together, two wallsa sound clashin intaya. A big, sonic tidal wave ready to engulf you in violence, carry you under with fists an boots an sticks.

Engage. An in.

Fists an boots an sticks. I take. I give back double. I twist an thrash. Like swimmin in anger. I come up for air an dive back in again, lungs full. I scream the screams, chant the chants.

Wogs out seig heil

Then I’m not swimmin. Liquid solidifies round me. An I’m part of a huge machine. A muscle an bone an blood machine. A shoutin, chantin cog in a huge hurtin machine. Arms wind-millin.
Boots kickin. Fuelled on violence. Driven by rage.

Lost to it. No me. Just the machine. An I’ve never felt more alive.

Love it. Fuckin love it.

I see their eyes. See the fear an hate an blood in their eyes.

I feed on it.

Hate matches hate. Hate gives as good as hate gets.

Gives better. The machine’s too good for them.

The machine wins. Cogs an clangs an fists an hammers. The machine always wins.

Or would, if the pigs hadn’t arrived.

Up they come, sticks out. Right lads, you’ve had your fun. Time for us to have a bit. Waitin till both sides had tired, pickin easy targets.

The machine falls apart; I become meself again. I think an feel for meself. I think it’s time to run.

I run.

We all do; laughin an limpin, knowin we’d won.

Knowin our hate was stronger than theirs. Knowin they were thinkin the same thing.

Run. Back where we came from, back to our lives. Our selves.

Rememberin that moment when we became somethin more.

Cherishin it.

I smiled.

LOVED IT.

D’you wanna name? Call me Jez. I’ve been called worse.

You want me life story? You sound like a copper. Or a fuckin social worker. Fuckin borin, but here it is. I live on the Chatsworth Estate in Dagenham. The borders of East London/Essex.
You’ll have heard of it. It’s a dump. Or rather a dumpin ground. For problem families at first, but now for Somalis an Kosovans that have just got off the lorry. It never used to be
like that. It used to be a good place where you could be proud to live. But then so did Dagenham. So did this country.

There’s my dad sittin on the settee watchin Tricia in his vest, rollin a fag. I suppose you could say he was typical of this estate (an of Dagenham an the country). He used to have a job,
a good one. At the Ford plant. Knew the place, knew the system, knew how to work it. But his job went when they changed the plant. His job an thousands of others. Now it’s a centre of
excellence for diesel engines. An he can’t get a job there. He says the Pakis took it from him. They got HNDs an degrees. He had an apprenticeship for a job that don’t exist no more. No
one wants that now. No one wants him now. He’s tried. Hard. Honest. So he sits in his vest, rollin fags, watchin Tricia.

There’s Tom, me brother, too. He’s probably still in bed. He’s got the monkey on his back. All sorts, really, but mostly heroin. He used to be a good lad, did well at school an
that, but when our fat slag bitch of a mother walked out all that had to stop. We had to get jobs. Or try. I got a job doin tarmacin an roofin. He got a heroin habit. Sad. Fuckin sad. Makes you
really angry.

Tarmacin an roofin. Off the books, cash in hand. With Barry the Roofer. Baz. Only when I’m needed, though, or seasonal, when the weather’s good, but it’s somethin. Just
don’t tell the dole. I’d lose me Jobseeker’s Allowance.

It’s not seasonal at the moment. But it’s June. So it will be soon.

So that’s me. It’s not who I am. But it’s not WHAT I AM.

I’m a Knight of St George. An proud of it. A True Believer. A soldier for truth.

This used to be a land fit for heroes, when Englishmen were kings an their houses castles. A land where me dad had a job, me brother was doin well at school an me fat slag bitch of a mother
hadn’t run off to Gillingham in Kent with a Paki postman. Well, he’s Greek, actually, but you know what I mean. They’re all Pakis, really.

An that’s the problem. Derek (I’ll come to him in a minute) said the Chatsworth Estate is like this country in miniature. It used to be a good place where families could live in
harmony and everyone knew everyone else. But now it’s a run down shithole full of undesirables an people who’ve given up tryin to get out. No pride anymore. No self respect. Our
heritage sold to Pakis who’ve just pissed on us. Love your country like it used to be, says Derek, but hate it like it is now.

And I do. Both. With all my heart.

Because it’s comin back, he says. One day, sooner rather than later, we’ll reclaim it. Make this land a proud place to be again. A land fit for heroes once more. And you, my lovely
boys, will be the ones to do it. The footsoldiers of the revolution. Remember it word for word. Makes me all over again when I think of it.

An I think of it a lot. Whenever some Paki’s got in me face, whenever some stuck up cunt’s had a go at the way I’ve done his drive or roof, whenever I look in me dad’s
eyes an see that all his hope belongs to yesterday, I think of those words. I think of my place in the great scheme, at the forefront of the revolution. An I smile. I don’t get angry. Because
I know what they don’t.

That’s me. That’s WHAT I AM.

But I can’t tell you about me without tellin you about Derek Midgely. Great, great man. The man who showed me the way an the truth. The man who’s been more of a father to me than me
real dad. He’s been described as the demigog of Dagenham. I don’t know what a demigog is, but if it means someone who KNOWS THE TRUTH an TELLS IT LIKE IT IS, then that’s him.

But I’m gettin ahead. First I have to tell you about Ian.

Ian. He recruited me. Showed me that way.