Corpsing (31 page)

In front of her full-length but a-little-too-narrow mirror, I got changed into my killing gear. I was intending to walk the short distance to the cycle shop, where I would collect my beautiful new bike. However, looking at myself now, I realized that I would seem terribly out of place: a bike courier, without a bike, in genteel Chelsea, in the early evening. The fact that I was wearing a brand-new Day-Glo outfit wouldn’t help a lot, either. For a moment I thought about risking it. I felt I was travelling so fast that suspicion would only catch up with me afterwards – after I had accomplished what I meant to accomplish. From now on, in one way, perhaps, the more witnesses the better. But I had to be cautious. Another bright glance convinced me: I put my jeans and T-shirt on over the stretch Lycra. The bike shoes, I put into the courier bag – along with the Gruber & Litvak, the live bullets, and all the rest of my equipment, including a copy of the
A–Z.
(I wasn’t going to allow getting lost or anything as obvious as that to frustrate me.)

I went back into the living room and for a moment just stood there – looking at what I’d achieved so far (with a little help from my gun): Anne-Marie and Laurence, clingfilmed together, like
some piece of crappy avant-garde theatre. The thought of this made me laugh out loud.

Laurence flinched away, as if the fact I was laughing made it more likely I was going to shoot him.

‘I know you can both hear me,’ I said. ‘I’m leaving now. I wish I had something big and significant to say, but I don’t.’

As I turned left at the top of the steps, a familiar car pulled out: the Mercedes. Inside it were the two men that Anne-Marie had described as ‘thugs’.

How the fuck had they managed to find me, when the journalists and the paparazzi hadn’t?

Then I remembered: this had been the car that followed us when we left to drive from Mortlake to Notting Hill. After I escaped on to the Tube, Anne-Marie had been trailed all the way home.

Since I’d now gone missing from both Lily’s flat and my own, it was obvious they would come looking for me here.

But who were they? They weren’t from the tabloids, otherwise they’d be taking photographs.

When they’d followed us before, I hadn’t really had much idea who they were. I’d thought perhaps they were the police. The last thing I wanted was to be arrested just outside the door.

I quickened my pace.

Just as I was coming out of Anne-Marie’s side-street on to a larger road, the Mondeo appeared out of nowhere.

I glanced inside, and saw the two familiar figures.

The Mondeo screeched out in front of the Mercedes, then all of a sudden slowed down to walking pace.

With parked cars on either side of the road, there was no way that the Mercedes could overtake.

I walked quickly, glancing now and again over my shoulder.
But nothing changed: the two-car convoy trailed me all the way to the cycle shop.

It was a relief to get in the door.

Looking out through the spokes of one of the bikes in the window, I could see that both cars had parked up.

Not only that, both the thugs had got out and were shouting at the albino and the black man through the Mondeo’s side windows.

The grungy assistant recognized me. My Trek Death-Raider was ready: tyres pumped, seat adjusted.

I asked if I could use the shop’s changing room.

‘Sure,’ the assistant said.

Once inside, I took off my T-shirt, shoes and jeans then wrapped them in a bundle.

Nervously, I checked once again that the Gruber & Litvak was in the courier bag.

I needn’t have worried. There it lay, looking devastating. As gorgeous as Lily. As sexy as revenge.

I put on the gloves, crash helmet and mirrored shades.

I checked my watch: seven o’clock.

I had an hour to get to Soho – easy.

Back in the main body of the shop, I took possession of the bike. The assistant held the door open as I wheeled it out on to the street.

Opposite me, the thugs had got back into their Mercedes and driven forwards so they were touching the Mondeo’s bumper.

I dumped my no-longer-wanted clothes in a bin outside the cycle shop, and pulled the pollution mask down over my mouth.

I saw the albino point me out to the black man.

The Mondeo’s engine started.

I mounted up and took off, back the way I’d come.

The Mondeo pulled a U-ey. The Mercedes copied it, ten yards behind.

I cycled along Pimlico Road and turned up Lower Sloane Street. The two cars followed.

Now that I was sure they weren’t going to try and stop me, I started to relax.

I hadn’t ridden a bike in years, and the simplicity of this rediscovered pleasure delighted me.

For a while, the enjoyment of this was enough. But, eventually, I began to think of what Josephine had told me that afternoon.

I cycled up Sloane Street, crossed Knightsbridge – the two cars right behind me all the way.

All the rest of the afternoon, I’d managed to block her words out of my mind. By making preparations for the auditions. By checking my equipment. By watching and listening to the news. But now, everything she’d said about Lily seemed to come back to me.

What was going to happen would solve all her problems at once.

I couldn’t let myself think about this.

My vision started to get blurry.

Just then I came out opposite Hyde Park.

To distract myself, I cut dangerously across the traffic on Knightsbridge.

Once over to the other side of the road, I cycled into the park. It was pedestrianized. The cars couldn’t follow me here.

One of the thugs got out and ran after me for twenty yards or so but soon gave up and went back to the Mercedes.

I rode along Rotten Row, parallel to the road, dodging between walkers and rollerbladers. The gravel of the path roared beneath my tyres.

I was getting used to wearing the shades. The pollution mask made my deeper, sped-up breathing come loudly to my ears. (I thought of myself, back in UCH, intubated, respirated. I thought of Anne-Marie and Laurence back in her flat, breathing through their masks – always short of air.) The helmet was becoming a little sweaty inside. The gloves against the black-foam-rubber
handlebars gave me some kind of super-grip. All my equipment felt right.

The two cars picked me up again at Hyde Park Corner.

I waved back at them.

Only a bit of fun, lads.

The Mercedes had overtaken the Mondeo.

Up Piccadilly.

It had only taken me fifteen minutes to get this far.

Shaftesbury Avenue was busy with theatre-goers getting out of taxis for seven-thirty curtains.

I was preparing to make a simple left on to Frith Street when I saw them: two identical vans parked, one after the other, at the end of the road.

I cycled past without looking too closely or obviously at them.

(Maybe it was just a coincidence.)

I doubled back, attempting to approach Frith Street down Old Compton Street.

Crowds outside
Les Miserables.

I was watching now for anything unusual – and the unmarked vans were definitely that.

I felt disguised, in my bike-courier’s outfit – face and everything covered – though its newness suddenly struck me as a dead giveaway: I should have done some dust-bathing – rolled around in the garden, kicked the bike about a bit.

On to Greek Street, riding parallel to Frith.

This was where the back entrance of Le Corbusier let out.

I decided to risk one sortie past the door.

It was enough: the maître d’ was standing on the steps talking to a man I knew I should recognize. He was wearing a black uniform, covered over with lots of oblong pouches. It took a moment, but – James, my taxi-driver!

James, a policeman? I couldn’t believe it. That must mean… I wanted to work out exactly what it meant, but I didn’t have time.

The police knew what I was up to, alright. Perhaps they’d already discovered my hostages and pieced it together; perhaps ratty Alun and Dorothy had called them.

The two cars were managing to keep up.

James caught sight of the Mondeo and jerked straight round, staring – he’d recognized it.

He watched the Mercedes go by with some interest.

I turned away, cycling anonymously, I hoped, but not before he’d spotted me looking back.

‘Hey,’ he shouted. ‘Hey!’

I sped off.

I had no time – no time. South down Greek Street. Down towards the Thames. Left on Shaftesbury Avenue. Thinking. Thinking. Right on to Charing Cross Road. What to do? I kept going, on towards Trafalgar Square.

I heard the Mondeo run a light behind me.

Just by chance, I saw the alley down which Tony Smart had led me. The Koha Bar.

I hopped on to the pavement and cycled past the pub tables.

I stopped my bike outside, then remembered that I hadn’t bothered to buy a bike lock. At the time there didn’t seem to be any point.

Oh fuck.

I just left the thing on the street. I needed a moment or two to think. Plan again.

The Koha Bar was almost empty. Just a barman and a few thirtysomethings nodding along to some very low-tempo music. A DJ in NHS specs stood behind the turntables. One or two people took a glance at me, then turned coolly away.

I checked the time again: seven thirty-two.

Just then, the black man walked down the stairs and into the bar.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘My mate’s looking after your bike.’

‘Why are you following me?’ I whispered, through the pollution mask.

‘Let’s just say that the situation has very recently changed. Somebody has decided that he sympathizes with your aims.’

‘What aims?’

He took a step closer to me. I pulled the mask off my face, let it hang round my neck.

‘We know what you have in that bag. We know what you intend to do with it.’

‘What’s in the bag?’ I asked.

He named the Bermondsey pub in which I’d bought it.

‘Let’s just say, we have friends there.’

I beckoned him over to a vacant table.

He looked cautiously around the room before sitting down.

‘Supposing you
do
know,’ I said. ‘I’m fucked anyway. There’s police all over the place.’

‘Don’t worry. We can help you with them.’

‘Who are the guys in the other car?’

‘Unsympathetic parties.’

‘Meaning?’

He looked at me sideways, as if to say
Do I have to explain everything?

‘They’d like to see you fail. It would be advantageous to them.’

‘Why?’

He was about to reply when a gunshot sounded outside.

In an instant, the black man was out of his seat and half-way up the stairs.

I ran after him, fast as I could.

When I emerged into the alley-way, I saw the albino lying on the pavement.

Women at the pub tables further along were standing up, screaming, hands over their mouths.

The albino was curled up in a foetal position. Blood was pulsing out of where his umbilical cord would have been.

The black man was cradling the albino’s head.

I looked all around. My bike was gone.

‘They stole it,’ the albino gasped. ‘Tried to stop them.’

‘Shit,’ said the black man.

‘It’s not too bad,’ replied the albino to a question no-one had asked. When he spoke, I could hear the sound of something wet slapping back and forth.

‘Don’t fucking die,’ said the black man. ‘Please don’t fucking die.’

Then he looked up at me. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘You’re on your own.’

In St Martin’s Court, a group of people had gathered – attracted by the gunshot and the screaming. They were looking towards the bleeding figure on the ground. They’d seen me, connected me with the incident.

The police would be here soon. I had to get away.

I ran across St Martin’s Court and up St Martin’s Lane. I crossed over and continued up Monmouth Street, then headed for Charing Cross Road via West Street.

On the corner of the street was the theatre where
The Mousetrap
was always showing.

I could hear a police siren starting up. Or maybe an ambulance.

On Charing Cross Road, I found an empty telephone box. I had one last chance, I guessed.

From my courier bag, I pulled out my wallet. From it, I extracted Michael’s card. His address was Old Compton Street. He was due on shift at Le Corbusier. Either way, he should be in the area.

I dialled his mobile number.

Two rings.

He answered.

‘Hi,’ I said, trying not to sound out of breath. ‘It’s Conrad.’

‘Oh, hi,’ he said.

‘How are you?’

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘In fact, more than fine. I’ve just been given the evening off.’

‘Why?’

‘No idea. All these strange men started arriving. Then they just told me to go home.’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I’m just in Soho. How about we go for a drink?’

‘Well,’ Michael said, ‘I guess I’m free.’

‘Why don’t I meet you at Le Corbusier, at the back door?’

‘Mmm, my favourite place,’ he said.

‘We can go somewhere and talk.’

‘Lovely.’

‘Five minutes?’

‘At least give me time to get changed. I’ve only just got in.’

‘Ten.’

‘See you.’

I put the phone down, guilty about using him this way.

Checking up and down the street for police, I stepped out of the phonebox.

Just then, I caught sight of the two thugs – they were trying (without much success) to shove my brand-new bike into the back of their Mercedes.

‘Come on,’ one of them said. Twist the handlebars round.’

They were right outside the window of Murder One, the specialist crime-and-mystery bookshop. I doubted that they’d have appreciated the irony.

I could easily walk from here to Le Corbusier in ten minutes. Should I just leave it alone? Let them keep the bike? Avoid any further trouble?

Something inside me said no. I’d been burgled twice, and was all for kneecapping the bastards. For once I was faced with the very people who had stolen something from me. I was armed, and I was fucking angry.

I ran towards them, reaching into my courier bag.

One of them spotted me and alerted the other.

I pulled out my Gruber & Litvak, cocked it.

‘Give me my bike back,’ I said.

They looked at each other. One of them had a gun, I knew – the gun with which they’d shot the albino. But that gun was currently in its owner’s pocket, where it was absolutely useless; mine was sweeping over them, deadly.

‘Okay,’ one of them said. ‘Okay.’

The other pulled my bike out of the back of the car, then let it fall on to the road.

I didn’t want to risk reaching down for it, taking my eyes off them, giving them a chance to attack.

Passers-by had stopped to stare, but not as many as I’d expected. There was an ambulance loudly arriving further down the street for the shot albino – most eyes were on that.

‘Pick the bike up,’ I said.

They did, together.

‘Give me your guns,’ I said.

They reached into their pockets, again together.

‘One
at a time,’ I said. ‘You first.’

The thug flinched away as the gun chose him to aim at.

‘Okay,’ he said.

Gently, he took his gun out and dangled it.

The gun, I noticed, was an old service revolver: crude, black. Nowhere near as nice a gun as mine.

‘Drop it,’ I ordered.

The revolver hit the pavement.

I went through the same routine with the other thug.

His gun – also a revolver – was equally old, equally ugly.

‘Now get in your car and drive away,’ I said.