Breaking Point (12 page)

Each day it gets just a little worse. It’s a little harder to get to sleep, to wake up, to eat. Every day the walls feel that little bit closer. I get OT offered, Saturdays and Sundays, good money but it won’t get the sodding overdraft clear, and it won’t stop the card bouncing, and it won’t come in until afterwards. I take it anyway, just to get out of the house. It’s gotten so I can feel Pam looking at me, even when I’m reading the paper or whatever, and then when I look up she’s not, she’s staring at her food or watching the box. I feel like I’m starting to lose it.

Wednesdays, Fridays, Saturdays, I ride the fucking coaster, looking up the lottery numbers as soon as Pam goes up. I know the fucking odds, I do, but each time, I can’t help but feel like maybe God’s not a cunt and he’s going to bail me out, just this one time, and each time, the disappointment is just that bit worse.

I front to Jodie, I have to, poor fucking kid, not her fault, but even that’s getting harder and harder. One night, putting her to bed, I catch my reflection in her mirror, and my grin makes me look like a lunatic, like I’m fucking crying, not smiling. Bags under my eyes, skin hanging under my chin where I used to be fat (fucking good crash diet, being fucking miserable, I’ll give you that), skin grey looking, like my face is sinking off my skull.

Horrible.

Two weeks and three days after Tel turned me down, Pam’s out at her mates, Jodie’s in the shower so I flip the channel to watch the draw live. Blah blah 2.2 mill jackpot, fuck that, I need 5 numbers, that’ll do me just fine, it ain’t a lot, come on God. The first 3 numbers come off, and I’m three for three, and I feel my heart really start to pound, and it washes over me, I start getting dizzy, because this is it, right, this is fucking IT, and then the numbers, my numbers, stop coming, like the plug got pulled, and the feeling turns sour, and I just start fucking crying, sobbing like a fucking baby on my couch, little girl bathing upstairs, wife out with the girls, me just bottomed out.

I feel like shit when I start crying, and I don’t feel any better when I stop – just hollow. For the first time, I really think about killing myself – whether or not it’d fuck the life insurance, if work’d pay out, if it’d fix the mortgage. Really thinking about it, thinking about the angles, how I could get it done, all that. Not hysterical either – cold, calm, like why didn’t I think of that before? All this shit goes away, no more bollocks, no having to deal with Pam, her and Jodie set for life.

That’s the gig, right? Course it is. Course it is.

The idea doesn’t leave, not while putting Jodie to bed, not while watching the box, not when Pam comes back, loaded and fruity, not after our quick, desperate fumble on the couch, even at the peak of that, it sits there in my head like a big fucking toad, cold and alive and blinking.

Pam’s out for the count, the glowing numbers on the clock tick by midnight, one, two, and sleep ain’t coming, all I can think about is if I have an accident at work, is it worth more? Can I make it look like an accident? I’m thinking about the crusher, if I could somehow fall into it. Fucking double pay-out then, insurance and suing. Wouldn’t put Andy out of business either, he’s insured for that shit, and if he ain’t, fuck him. Yeah, it’d be quick, fix everything up.

Of course it’s Jodie my mind keeps coming back to, Jodie not having her old man around to look out for her, but I know that’s really just selfish – I don’t want to miss her. But face it, Del, you’re not exactly meeting the mark alive, are you? Better off, surely, long term?

Round and round and round we go, until two thirty-seven.

That’s when my work phone starts buzzing.

3

I don’t even need to look at the number. It’s not work. So it’s Tel.

Fucking hell, Tel.

I grab the phone and head downstairs, shut the living room door before answering.

“Del?”

That one word sends a bolt though me. It’s him all right, and the geezer is all the way up, all business. Fucking scary.

“Yeah.”

“It’s Tel. You still in a hole?”

Mind racing, but I’m so fucking tired, can’t think straight. Did my ticket come good after all?

“Del. You there?”

“Yes, yeah.”

“So stop fucking about and answer me. You still need work?”

Fuck yes.

“Yeah, Tel...”

“You got the keys to your work? You can get in, yeah?”

What the...?

“Yeah, sure, no problem.”

“Good. Bring ‘em. Meet me at The Head. Right now.”

“Del, I ain’t got a car, man, night bus don’t run past there...”

I hear him sigh. Whatever’s going on, he’s pissed.

“You still live in that shithole in Lewisham?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine, can you make it to the fucking high street at least?”

It’s a fifteen minute walk.

“Sure, sure.”

“Okay. Meet me at The Moon then. Ten minutes. Don’t fuck about, this is important.”

Click.

4

I get my work gear on as quietly as I can, then slip my coat on over the top, and leg it out the door. I haven’t run in a while, and I’m not really in any kind of shape, so I’m sweating pretty quick, even with the cold night air burning my throat. I’m puffing away like a fucking chimney, my breath leaving little white clouds behind me.

By the time I make it to The Moon, my legs feel like lead and my lungs are screaming blue fucking murder. There’s a car parked outside The Moon, and it’s not the Jag, it’s some shitty blue Astra, but it’s Tel, no question. He pulls up to me slowly, pops the passenger door.

“Get in.”

All business.

I get in, belt up, close my eyes, and try and will my pounding heart to take a fucking chill. It’s not easy going. I can taste copper in the back of my throat.

“You ain’t going to fucking puke, are you?”

I swallow hard, dryly, and shake my head, not trusting the words to come out right.

“Fucking hell, all right, all right. Catch your breath. Have a fag.”

I open my eyes in time to see him point at an open pack on the dash. I grab it, take out a fag and the lighter, fire one up.

The first drag tastes harsh, and I think I’m going to cough, but I hold it down and exhale slowly, and things start to come back into focus.

I look over at Tel, and watch him driving. He’s a different beast tonight, different than I’ve seen in years. Maybe the mask ain’t all the way down, but I’m definitely seeing the stone of the man tonight. Scary shit.

“You brought your work keys, yeah?” Doesn’t take his eyes off the road to talk.

“Yeah,” I say, hand touching the key ring on my belt to make sure.

“Good.”

Silence. He drives with ease and care, checking for traffic even though it’s as close to dead as it gets – cabs and the odd bus, but fuck all else.

I smoke, breathing and heart rate coming under control, brain starting to wonder what the fuck I’ve gotten into.

“It’s a simple job, okay? Good money, quick work, you’ll be done tonight.”

“How good?”

He glances at me briefly. The contempt is unmistakable, but probably not conscious.

“Ten large.”

Fucking hell. That basically solves everything.

“Cash, obviously.”

Obviously, but that’s okay – I can pay in enough to clear the overdraft and not bounce the card, call it a scratch card win or some shit, then just keep the rest under the mattress, pay for everything cash and use all my wages on the fucking debt. Jesus, I could be a long fucking way to clear in a couple of months. Tears threaten to come into my eyes, but there’s a sinking feeling in my gut too. Ten gees worth of work in one night?

What the fuck am I into here?

“And the job?”

Trying to play it cool. Failing.

Another quick glance, like I’m wriggling on a stick for him to stare at.

“It’s a cinch. Nothing to worry about. Just need you to lose a car for me.”

Glance, checking understanding. I get it – that’s why he needed me to bring my work keys. Lose a car – as in, crush it, then bury it in the landfill stack. That is easy – not a cinch, but easy enough, all the same. Depending on where the car is, should be home before sun up.

What makes it ten gees worth of car to Tel, I decide I don’t want to know.

“No worries, I can do that.”

“I know you can. That’s why you’re here.”

More silence. More driving. Looks like we’re heading to some warehouses near the station. I can see he’s thinking, distracted, trying to figure out what I need to know.

“I’ve had a bit of bother, okay? Nothing I can’t handle. But I need to lose this car, and it needs to happen tonight, and beyond that you don’t need to know anything, okay?”

“Fine Tel, fine. You’re the boss.”

No shit.

We pull into a gated lock up – the rusty chain link gate opens automatically as we approach, and I clock the sensor on the dash – and alongside a huge white artic. Tel stops the engine and turns to me, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the lorry.

“You remember how to drive one of these, yeah? Still got your licence?”

For a half second, I’m thrown, then I get it – car’s in the lorry. Okay.

“Yeah, got it on me.”

I actually start to reach for my wallet, to show him the fucking thing, but he laughs and shakes his head and I stop. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out two sets of keys.

“These? For the lorry. These?” Beemer tag. Nice. “For the car. Drive the lorry to the yard. Lose the car. Lose the keys IN the car. Bring the lorry back here. Go home. And don’t do nuffin stupid like phoning for a cab, yeah? Walk it – it’s a nice night.”

Pause. I take the keys.

“Questions?”

Only one. I don’t want to ask, know I shouldn’t, but can’t stop it.

“The money?”

He rolls his eyes.

“It’ll be waiting for you when you get home, okay? It’s taken care of.”

Don’t like the sound of that, but okay.

“Listen...”

He unbuckles his seatbelt and turns to me in one fluid movement. The dirty yellow glow of the streetlight hits his face, making him look terminally ill, tired, haggard.

“I know you don’t think much of me.”

I start to protest, but he holds up a hand, telling me to stop. I do.

“Nah, it’s okay, I know it. Know how much it fucking hurt to ask me for help, too. It’s okay. We came up together but you always kept your distance. I respect that. Family man and all that? Yeah, I respect that.”

His eyes tell a different story. But whatever.

“Here’s the thing: I wasn’t gonna use you, okay? But this fucking thing’s come up, and I need a quick fix, and that’s you, okay? This job is your fucking lottery ticket, okay? You won. It’s you.” Pointing at my head, smiling.

“Do this job for me. Keep your fucking mouth shut. Enjoy the money. Okay?”

That’s all he says. No threats, no dire warnings, no fucking need. He knows where I live, where my wife hangs out, where my little girl goes to school, where I work, who my mates are, family, all of it.

When you’ve got all that, ‘or else’ is fucking redundant.

“It’s done, Tel. It’s done. And thanks.”

He waves that away too, but I think he’s pleased, all the same.

“It’s a job, not a favour. Now go on, get on with it.” I unbuckle, and open the passenger door, step out, close it again.

He drives off, gate opening for the car, closing as his break lights fade.

I take a deep breath, then climb up into the cab of the lorry.

5

The cab smells, almost stinks, of pine-fresh style cleaner. Disinfectant, I’m guessing.

I start the engine and it turns over quickly. Belt up, quick check, lights okay, plenty of fuel – it’s been six years but you don’t forget this shit. Happy with pre-flight, I clock the sensor on the dash, and head towards the gate. Sure enough, it opens as I approach. I ease the big bitch out into the street, driving strictly on auto, mind trying not to race. Whats and whys are trying to crowd in. What have I got into? Where did this lorry come from? The car? How is this worth ten large? What don’t I know? How will the money arrive? Will they wake Pam? What the fuck, exactly, am I playing at?

Streets are dead at this hour, and this is my manor, so I don’t need to think at all about the driving, and that’s a pain, because this shit doesn’t let up the whole way to the yard. Questions without answers, worries and fears with no facts, pointless, pointless.

So it feels like twenty years, rather than twenty minutes, but at last I make it to the yard. It takes up half an industrial estate, no overlooking neighbours. Good spot for something like this. I hop out the cab, unlock and open the gates, and drive round to the crusher, then pop back and lock up. The forklift is where I left it this afternoon.