Civvies (20 page)

‘Awww shit! These bloody elephants are givin’ me a hernia!’ Sweat running down his neck, Harry staggered through the doorway into the passage, a tea chest clasped in his arms. He nearly tripped, grazed his elbow on the pink wall, and lost his grip. The corner thudded against one of the tea chests already stacked there, the side split open, straw and plastic bubbles spilling over the floor. ‘… five, six, seven,’ Dillon counted, checking them off on his clipboard. Jimmy and Cliff panted in, carrying one between them. ‘Eight,’ Dillon said. ‘This the lot, jimmy?’ ‘Yeah, this is it…’ Jimmy mopped his face, then noticed the gaping split. ‘Which cack-handed twat did that!’ ‘I just dropped it,’ Harry said lamely. ‘Weighs a ton…’ ‘You’re tellin’ me!’ Jimmy used the side of his foot to tidy up the straw. ‘Get it back together, come on, they’ll be here…’ ‘I’m off,’ said Dillon, handing over the clipboard. ‘Check the cash, Jimmy. Knowing Newman, he’s probably printin’ it hisself.’ And swapped Jimmy’s dark look with an even darker one of his own. ‘I don’t wanna see him, okay?’ He went out, banging the door. Jimmy squatted on his haunches. An elephant with no nose was sticking through the tangle of straw bulging from the split. He yanked it out. ‘Its trunk’s off!’ Cliff leaned over. ‘I got the same back at the flat. We just switch it over, they won’t know.’ Jimmy jerked his arm out, pointing. ‘Go an’ get it — move! They’ll be here…’

The panel buzzed, lights flashed. In her little plywood-and-glass cubby-hole Susie swivelled round in the typist’s chair, mug of tea to her mouth. She put one on hold, flicked a switch. ‘Marway MiniCabs. Oh, hi, where are you, Tom? I’ve got a fare holding.’ She flicked over. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting… Heathrow. Do you need a collection return service? Okay, thank you… right, about fifteen minutes.’ She flicked back. ‘Tom, 12 Ranleigh Crescent to Heathrow, basement bell, Mrs Dunley.’ Buzzing, flashing. ‘Marway MiniCabs… I’m sorry, I’ll just check where the driver is — will you hold?’ Flick of the switch. ‘Car 14, come in, Car 14 to base, please.’ Crackle. Hiss. Voice from Mars. ‘Car 14, I’m in Edgware Road. There’s an overturned lorry…’ Susie laughed. ‘Yeah, I’m sure. Can you get the fare in Ladbroke Grove or not?’ She paused, her hand on the switch, as Dillon walked in, lightly perspiring in a red vee-necked sweater with no shirt under his black leather jacket. He came up to the counter, stood there, feet planted, and she didn’t need to ask what mood he was in; his face was eloquent testimony to that. The glass-panelled door to the inner office opened. Marway peered out. Dillon ignored him. ‘Susie, get your coat.’ ‘Nothing wrong, is there?’ inquired Marway, raising an eyebrow. ‘Not yet!’ Eyes front and centre, voice deadpan. Susie didn’t move, watching him carefully, waiting for the eruption. Instead Marway said in his pleasant, modulated voice, ‘I’ve got some details of insurance companies for you.’ He indicated behind him, a graceful wave of the hand, gold cuff-link glinting. ‘You want to come upstairs?’ Dillon shot a glance at the Sikh. His eyes clouded, more in confusion than anger. Susie didn’t know what he would do next, and neither, she realised, did he.

Shirley was up a ladder, paste brush in one hand, scissors in the other, when Cliff arrived at the flat. He stepped round the furniture, draped in dust sheets, the trunkless elephant under his arm, giving his fiancee’s endeavours the once-over. ‘That bit over there’s crooked,’ he said, and started rummaging amongst the paint cans and decorating paraphernalia on the newspaper spread over the floor. ‘Where’s the strong glue?’ ‘Crooked?’ Shirley backed down the steps, her long legs and shapely rump camouflaged under a baggy check smock. ‘You’ll get this brush wrapped around your head… Ahh!’ Seeing the elephant, she gave a cry of anguish. ‘Did you break it?’ ‘It’s just the trunk,’ Cliff reassured her, prising the top off the small plastic tube. ‘I’ll fix it.’ ‘That’s not the same one —!’ Shirley bent down for a closer look. ‘That’s got green eyes, the other one had brown. I don’t like that one! Where’s the other one?’ Cliff applied epoxy double-strength quick-drying glue to both surfaces and pressed the trunk back into place, using his finger and thumb as a clamp. ‘I had to take it back.’ He waited a couple of moments and then tried to let go. ‘Oh!’ Stuck. ‘Shit!’ ‘Which colour do you like?’ Shirley opened a sample book of curtain material, marked with slips of paper. She held it up to the light. ‘This one … or that one? I like this one,’ tapping a lemon polyester with faint green stripes. ‘Yeah, great.’ Cliff said through his teeth, attempting to unpeel himself from the elephant. He yanked hard, bringing tears to his eyes. One intact elephant. Minus two fingerprints.

Mrs Marway poured tea into bone china cups from a silver teapot with an S-shaped spout. She leaned across the low table, and with a smile handed Dillon his tea, a bracelet of gold inlaid with lapis-azuli on her slender brown wrist, matching the heavy necklace displayed against her cashmere sweater. Perched on the edge of the sofa, Dillon tried to get his finger through the S-shaped handle, and couldn’t, so he gingerly held the cup in both hands, scared to death of dropping it. Susie, seated next to him, watched with bated breath. She nodded and smiled at Mrs Marway, who nodded and smiled back. The room seemed very warm, almost claustrophobic. It was lavishly decorated, with embossed wallpaper and fringed wall hangings and framed prints, rich fabrics and furry rugs everywhere, cabinets with built-in spotlights showing off shelves of china, crystal and copperware. Expensive, quite impressive, but a bit overwhelming for Susie’s taste. ‘He’s been fair to me from day one,’ Marway was telling Dillon frankly. He leaned back at ease in his winged armchair, fingers clasped together, legs elegantly crossed, a crease in his trousers that could have sliced cheese. ‘And if you open an account, show a good cash flow…’ He spread his hands. No problem. Plain sailing. ‘We made over five grand, first week,’ Dillon revealed after a slight hesitation. ‘… No thanks,’ he said politely, refusing the small silver tray of cakes and biscuits proffered by their hostess. ‘That’s good, just one car.’ Marway was impressed. ‘Word of advice. Don’t ask for just the amount you need, you’ll have to give yourself manoeuvrability. If I were you, I’d specialise. With the army experience your men all have, terrorist training… make that your speciality.’ He pursed his lips, eyes gazing meditatively at a hanging brass lantern. ‘At a low, thirty. But try for forty.’ Dillon nearly dropped his cup. ‘Thousand?!’ Marway nodded. ‘But you can’t have my receptionist.’ Dillon’s head went forward at that, and Marway’s grave face broke into a smile. ‘Just joking. But I believe one of the reasons my business runs smoothly is because I use my family — my three brothers, a cousin, two uncles — all drive for me. It’s a family concern.’ Dillon finished his tea and gratefully put the cup safely back in its saucer. ‘My lads are my family,’ he said, standing. He put out his hand and Marway got up to shake it. ‘Thanks for this,’ Dillon added, meaning it, ‘and for…’ He indicated Susie. ‘She driving yet?’ ‘Test next month, isn’t it, Susie?’ Marway said with a smile. Dillon looked quickly at Susie, gawking a little. Susie smiled at the carpet, flushing.

Later, as they were undressing in the lamplight, Dillon said, ‘So you think you’ll pass?’ His feelings were at sixes and sevens, not sure whether he felt proud, or threatened, or what. ‘I don’t know.’ Susie crawled into bed and lay down on the pillow, eyes closed. ‘I can still have lessons then?’ ‘I’m sorry… he’s an okay bloke.’ Dillon sat on the edge of the bed in his jockey shorts, elbows on his knees. ‘Things have been getting on top of me — well, Jimmy. He means well.’ He sighed, shaking his head. ‘It’s just so easy for him, he’s been out longer. Well, to be honest,’ Dillon admitted in a rare moment of confession, ‘he’s arranged most of it…’ ‘What about the others — Cliff, and, and —’ Susie yawned. ‘Harry. Harry Travers. He’s okay, and Cliff. It’s just… Jimmy.’ Dillon picked at some loose skin on his thumb. ‘There was a night, in Northern Ireland, there were ten of us, me and my lads, and we were…’ A soft snore made him look round. Dillon reached over and drew the bedcover up around his wife’s shoulder. He gently touched her cheek. He said in a whisper, ‘I’m trying, Susie.’

By shoving the desk forward a couple of feet and pushing the chairs to the wall, Harry had found a space for his doss bag. With a chicken vindaloo, mushroom pilau and two brinjal bhajis keeping the lid on five pints of bitter and two large Jamesons, he was well away, snoring loudly. From above, the faint sound of Annie Lennox, the murmur of voices and laughter, but Harry slept on. Two shapes slid past the window, silhouetted in the streetlight. The clink of something metallic, the protesting groan of timber, and then a sharp crack as full leverage was applied. Harry stopped a mid-snore. His eyes came open. He held his breath, listening. The splintering of wood from the passage confirmed it; he hadn’t been dreaming. In one movement he slid out of the sleeping bag, kicked it under the desk, rocked himself up. Barefooted, wearing his old maroon tracksuit with the blue regimental crest and the word ‘Airborne’ on the left breast, he moved to his bergen and from a side pouch slid out a nine-inch iron bar with a bulbous end. A slit of light appeared under the door as someone flashed a torch. Harry crept round the desk, flattened himself against the wall. Torchlight fanned out under the door. A floorboard creaked. Harry raised the iron bar. The knob twisted and the door slowly opened. Harry waited just long enough to check out there was more than one, and as the torchbeam swept the office, let the first man have it, downward smash, on the back of the head, knocking him cold. He swung round to face the second man, a big sod, framed in the doorway, and beckoned to him with a smile. ‘Come on, you bastard… come on!’ The man lunged. Something glinted in his hand. Harry pivoted on the balls of his feet, chopped the wrist as the blade went for him, and heard a clatter of metal. The man stumbled forward under his own momentum. Harry clipped him with the iron bar, and the man collided with the desk, sending it crashing over. He was up fast, hurling the telephone, a chair, anything he could lay his hands on. Then it was Harry’s turn. He saw the right hook coming, parried it with his left arm, brought up the iron bar and clouted the man across the ear. The man staggered, nearly fell, regained his balance. Harry followed in with a heel to the knee-cap and finished it off with a head-butt. It was a job well done, neat, tidy, professional, and Harry, softly rifting vindaloo fumes, felt quite pleased with himself.

Cliff’s jaw sagged as he took in the shambles. ‘Bloody hell, does Frank know yet?’ he asked, stepping over a broken chair. He looked round, shaking his head, and then saw the two figures hunched against the wall, shirts pulled up and knotted over their heads, arms between their knees, hands and feet tied together. Harry leaned against the overturned desk. One sleeve of his tracksuit was rolled up, his forearm bandaged and taped. He straightened up as Dillon walked in and stopped dead in the doorway, staring. Susie appeared behind him, peering round his shoulder. Scratching his head, Harry launched in, ‘They broke in last night. I didn’t even feel it,’ pointing to the bandage, ‘but one of ‘em slashed me arm, so when I done the business… Hello, love,’ he greeted Susie, ‘I went to the hospital. I just got back.’ ‘I’ll go,’ Susie said. She looked up into Dillon’s face. ‘I thought it all sounded too good to be true.’ ‘Susie!’ Dillon called as she stumped out. He half-turned to go after her and changed his mind. He looked at the wrecked office and then at the two men, trussed up like
IRA
suspects. ‘You didn’t call the police?’ ‘No.’ Harry moved across to them. ‘I might have been a bit nasty, I gave ‘em both a hell of a whack…’ It sounded more apologetic than boastful. ‘And then when I turned the lights on —’ reaching down and yanking up one of the shirts ‘ — I recognised him!’ So did Dillon. It was Newman’s minder, Colin, the one with the widow’s peak and the permanent five o’clock shadow, only now it was a nine o’clock shadow the morning after. His hair was matted with blood, and it had caked down one side of his face. There was a sock stuffed in his mouth, which was why his bulging-eyed fury was restricted to apoplectic gurgles and choking grunts. Dillon was puzzled. ‘What did they want? Did they get our cash? I mean — why wreck the place?’ ‘Ask him! Or whichever —’ Harry tore off the shirt, revealing the other man’s head, which had an open gash along the jawline and two bloodshot eyes separating a yellow bruise ‘ — you want!’ Jaunty steps down to the basement and Jimmy breezed in, whistling. As the whistle died away to silence, the phone rang. Jimmy kicked the broken chair aside. ‘What the hell’s been goin’ on?’ Dillon threw his hands up. He snapped irritably, ‘Answer the phone, Cliff!’ ‘I’m lookin’ for it, all right?’ Cliff said, down on his hands and knees, crawling through the wreckage. He found the wire and traced it hand over hand to the corner behind the filing cabinet. Dillon pulled the sock out of Colin’s mouth and narrowly avoided being spat in the face for his trouble. The man was berserk, frothing at the mouth, eyes rolling. ‘You bastards! I’ll have this place torched! You bastards — crazy bastards —’ ‘Hey Frank, Frank,’ Cliff yelled. ‘This is business, it’s Shirley…’ ‘Get rid of her.’ Dillon clamped his hands to Colin’s face. ‘You shut it!’ he snarled. Cliff was still yelling. ‘Jimmy, can you get your hands on a roller for a weddin’? It’s Mavis’s sister, friend of Shirley’s, she’s been let… Jimmy?’ ‘You make your soddin’ weddin’ plans another time,’ Dillon shouted. ‘Get off the phone!’ ‘It’s not my weddin — it’s a job!’ Jimmy whirled on him. ‘Say yes, get off the phone!’ ‘Order a hearse, you’re gonna need one,’ Colin muttered, dark murder in his eyes. Dillon used the back of his hand to smash Colin’s head against the wall. Cliff had finished the call and hovered near the door. ‘Burt it’s tomorrow, Frank… they want a Roller.’ With a glaze over his eyes Dillon grabbed Cliff by the collar, shoved him into the passage and slammed the door, screaming, ‘Get off the fuckin’ phone!’ He turned back. Harry was swinging his leg. His toe thudded into Colin’s ribs. Colin, already hunched over, hunched deeper, howling. Dillon said, ‘You got ten seconds. What you after?’ Colin’s strained, agonised face came up. ‘He just wants the bloody elephant back…’ Dillon went down on one knee, gripped Colin by the throat, fingers digging in. His voice was lethal. ‘You tell that prick Newman — he wants somethin’ from me, then all he had to do was ask!’ He stood up, eyes glittering, yanked his jacket straight, and went to the door, jerking his head for Harry to follow. ‘What you doin’?’ Jimmy asked, confused. Dillon said coldly, ‘They’re your friends, take ‘em to Newman!’ and went out.