River: A Bad Boy Romance (2 page)

“Well then”, River says, “I guess you'll just have to trust me.”

“This is bullshit”, Alex says. “You want to get burnt, go for it.”

“There's a lot of money in that bank”, River says, “I can't carry it all.”

“I'm not getting burnt because of a piss-ant rookie. The job is off, whether you're a cop or you ain't, I'm not stupid enough to go into something with someone I know nothing about. I've worked with Carlos, Buck and Peters here for years, and that's why we're all still available and not locked up in some mucky jail cell, or six foot under the fucking-.”

At that moment, a large white globule of pigeon shit explodes against the side of Alex's shiny bald head, dripping across his ear and ending up on the shoulder of his worn Adidas T-shirt. It's so big, it looks like it's come from an albatross.

“Son of a fucking-”, Alex says, as he realises what it is. Before he has time to finish his sentence, River is up, the limited edition, engraved glock pistol in his hand, and before anyone has a chance to fully understand what's going on, a bullet has already disengaged from the chamber, and a deafening sound now ricochets around the dilapidated ex-hat factory, as the bullet finds it's target and disappears quickly through the corrugated iron roof. A moment later, a dead pigeon, with a clean hole through its chest, falls to the ground in front of Alex's feet with a sickening thud. Alex bends down and stares through the hole in its chest, completely in disbelief, while River coolly puts the gun back into the belt of his jeans.

“Fucking hell”, Carlos says. “That was fast.”

Alex kicks the dead bird angrily into a pile of debris. He straightens back up, snarls at River and begins to clean the compacted shit off his T-shirt with an empty chocolate bar wrapper he finds in his jeans pocket.

M
addy sits at a large desk in an otherwise empty office. Behind her, a floor to ceiling window looks out onto the chaotic, over-populated city of Albuquerque, street level of which is six stories below. It is a city Maddy has grown up in and absolutely hates. In her hand, while she concentrates hard on the accounts document she has brought up on her screen, she works a stress ball squeezer that has been so worn away from use, the compacted foam from the inside is almost leaking out, and the once well rendered imprint of a piggy bank is now no more than an outline.

Maddy checks and rechecks the document, and then checks the company's online bank account statement. She snarls, bites down hard on the stress ball squeezer to dampen the sound, and then screams loudly, so loudly in fact that everyone outside the office, and half of the people on the floor below can still hear her. Maddy of course doesn't know this, she hasn't known this since she began screaming at work, several years ago. When she feels like she has screamed enough, and she's ready to tackle the problem head on, she snaps a pencil dramatically in half, opens the bottom drawer of her desk and adds the two broken halves to several more already inside.

She composes herself, picks up the phone, thinks for a moment, puts it back down, and then leaves her office. Several people watch her, knowing full well what's coming, and hoping that it won't be directed at them. They all think she's absolutely crazy, every single one of them. She's earned the nicknames 'Cruella De Vil' and 'The Woman in Black', and she hasn't done anything to avoid them.

She makes her way to the accounts department, a section of five people on the floor below her. Once there, she stands at the edge of their desk and addresses them as a group.

“The deposits weren't made on Friday”, she says calmly, like the first innocuous gust of wind that carries a storm behind it. “Who is responsible?”

They all look at each other. Nobody wants to take the blame. Maddy waits impatiently for the answer.

“Jessie was supposed to do it”, Carl says eventually. He'd betray his own mother for a chance at freedom.

“That's bullshit, Carl”, Jessie responds, defending herself.

“It doesn't matter anyway, we can do them today”, Ian says, trying to be diplomatic. Maddy eyeballs him. “I'll take them down there later. This morning. Now if you like.”

“They are supposed to be done every Friday afternoon before the store closes”, Maddy says, on the verge of losing her patience yet again. Seeing this, Javier reaches out for his pencil, and makes sure it's firmly in his grasp, in case Maddy feels like snapping it.

Of the one hundred and thirty six people that work for the stationery company that Maddy's grandfather began sixty five years ago, and which Maddy, because of her parents insistence, is now in control of, almost half know about her secret drawer with broken pencils. Almost half again actually think she might be a witch. Being the superstitious man he is, Javier doesn't want to risk it.

Jane isn't so cautious, and despite the responsibility not entirely falling with her, she decides to speak up.

“It was my fault”, Jane begins. She looks down at the desk and then up at Maddy, using the one technique she remembers from her six month, part-time acting course, to make her eyes well up and appear convincing.

The rest of the accounts team, along with the whole of the rest of the floor now, watch this confession in a state of disbelief. Javier quickly puts his favourite pencil, along with all of the rest of his stationery, into the top drawer of his desk, and locks it. Jane, the newest member of the team, having been there for only three weeks, was, in conjunction with Jessie, meant to deposit the weeks takings at the bank on Friday afternoon. Instead, the two girls got chatting about which men from the office or the shop floor they would either kiss, marry or push of a cliff, and the time got away from them. After that, it was simply too late to deposit the cash, something they were planning to rectify later that morning. Despite Ian's earlier warning to her about avoiding taking responsibility at all costs, Jane has decided not to heed it. With their hearts sinking, and their heads in their hands, as though watching a convicted but innocent woman walk voluntarily to the electric chair, they watch Jane commit career suicide.

“It was my turn to do it, and I forgot. I'm sorry, Maddy, it won't happen again”, Jane says.

“Fuck”, someone on the other side of the room shouts, before moving their hands to their mouth too late to stop it.

“My name is not Maddy”, Maddy says through clenched teeth, with a calmness that troubles everyone in the room who has experienced her wrath. She reaches into her pocket for her stress ball, but quickly realises she's left it on her office desk. She makes do with balling her hands into fists in her pockets as she seethes at the girl in front of her who could have been a contemporary of hers, or even a friend, in a completely different world.

“I'll do it now, don't worry, Miss Parker. Jane's only been here for a couple of weeks. Really, it's my responsibility”, Ian says, hoping to placate her. “No damage.”

“Where is it?” Maddy says, losing her patience with the incompetence of her staff members.

They all look at each other. Jane looks at Ian. Ian looks at Jessie. Javier looks at the floor. No-one looks at Maddy.

“Where is it!?” Maddy says again, this time loud enough for almost the whole building to hear.

Jane opens her drawer and without looking at her, hands Maddy a big cash bag, full to the brim with money. There must be almost a hundred thousand dollars stuffed inside. You could hear a pin drop in the office, until Maddy says, “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Across town, a battered Ford Transit van carves through the traffic. Inside, Carlos grips the steering wheel tightly, focussing himself on the task ahead. River has the front seat alongside him, with his feet up on the dash, and trademark cigarette hanging from his lips. Alex has been relegated to the rear of the vehicle, and crouches there on the wheel arch opposite Peters, whose bulk makes it difficult for him to ride comfortably with the chairs taken out.

“Slow the fuck down, Carlos”, Alex says, as he struggles to hold on, the road surface and the age of the vehicle knocking him about like a pebble in a tin can.

M
addy decides to take the money to the bank herself, knowing it's the only way to make sure the job is done properly. She tells Jane that she'll see to her later on that afternoon, and as she storms out of the office, huge money bag stuffed into her own handbag, she's sure that someone, perhaps even Jane herself, says something behind her back. Maddy grits her teeth and continues, keen not to lose any more time. It isn't the first time she's heard her staff members say things about her, but everyone she's caught so far, has paid the ultimate price. She even sacked Alice Cartwright, who had been there for almost forty years, for telling her to her face she had a heart like a lump of coal, when she refused to give her annual leave on the few days of the year her son was back from his tour of duty in Afghanistan. Alice was reinstated briefly by Maddy's father, which made Maddy's blood boil, and then offered a generous redundancy package, which she happily took. If anyone else wanted to risk it, so be it. Maddy would find them eventually.

The central bank is a short walk from Maddy's office across several busy streets of traffic, the lights of which never seem to work in her favour. It's an impressive building, and one of the oldest in the city, and if she gave herself time to appreciate it, she'd notice how ornate and beautifully carved the façade is, how marvellously the light flows through the domed, stained glass roof once inside, and how unique the twisted three tiered spiral staircase is, that she has to climb to get to the deposit desks. It is in fact one of only two other similar staircases in the whole of the country, hand made over a century ago, by a craftsman from the same city, who happened to be a drinking buddy of Maddy's grandfather, but Maddy doesn't know that, because she's never thought to ask. Maddy would notice these things if she gave herself time to be bothered by them, but instead, as she enters the bank, climbs the staircase, and lets the coloured light fall on her from above, she mutters to herself angrily, thinking about what punishment she can meter out to that dip-shit newbie Jane, who should have been here on Friday instead of her today.

She's left the girl crying for real, having torn into her like a tiger might do a slice of prime steak, after several weeks without eating, and even for Maddy's standards it was a harsh telling off. It's the incompetence that Maddy just can't cope with though. For her, there's no excuse for not doing something that should have been done. Simply forgetting just doesn't cut it. She's the kind of person that doesn't believe in accidents, thinking that accidents only happen to those people who don't pay close enough attention to what's going on. That, and those people who don't seem to have any common sense. Maddy hates people who don't appear to have common sense, and that's why she likes cats, because for her, cats quite clearly don't suffer fools gladly.

As she gets to the top of the stairs, she remembers again why the deposits have to be done on a Friday afternoon, not least to get them into the company's bank accounts before the weekend. It's because the bank is always absolutely chaotic on a Monday, and Maddy hates chaos with a fiery passion.

She approaches the front desk to announce her arrival, and intention for being here, but there's nobody manning it. She rings the bell, waits for a moment, and then catches sight of a staff member crossing the floor. She expects him to come to the desk, but he walks straight past her without a glance.

“Excuse me”, Maddy says feistily, but the man ignores her, disappearing quickly into a back room before she can call him again. Once again, her hand forms a fist in her pocket, this time around the squeezable pig shaped stress ball she's thankful she's remembered to bring with her.

“You have to queue up”, a stout woman to her right tells her, nodding over at the desks where large queues have already formed.

“I'm sorry, what?” Maddy says when she realises the woman is talking to her.

“That's right. You have to queue up like everyone else. The system's gone all haywire this morning, something to do with a bug on the computers. That's why it's so crazy in here”, she says emphasising the word crazy by shaking her hands in the air.

“I have a business account”, Maddy says plainly.

“Oh, right, a business account, gee why didn't you say earlier”, the woman says, and whistles sarcastically through pursed lips that look like a cat's bum. “You still have to queue up lady. But don't go and take my word for it. Ask the staff, if you can get hold of one of them.”

Maddy does just that. It takes a while to barge to the front of the queue and push the waiting customers out of the way, but that's exactly what Maddy does, because it's exactly what she thinks she's allowed to do. Once there, she makes it clear that she's an important customer, has been for several years, shouldn't really be here anyway, as though it's their fault that she is, and furthermore, that she has a large amount of money to deposit that she will happily deposit in another bank if necessary.

“Get back in the queue”, come the shouts from behind her.

“What makes you so special?” says somebody else.

When Maddy refuses to budge, the bank teller loses his patience. He makes a call to a colleague, who comes out a minute later from a door behind him, and escorts Maddy off to a desk, secluded as best as he can find from his other clients, in order to deal with her promptly, efficiently and quietly.

The stout woman watches and shakes her head. “Some people”, she says to herself.

Madeleine Parker is well known as a massive pain in the ass to every staff member in the bank, but her custom has always been very important, and for that reason, whenever she comes in, which is frankly more often than any of them would like, she has to be dealt with cautiously, as though handling a venomous spider. Whoever deals with her has to bite their tongue, and bite it hard, and today that responsibility falls to Fergal Murphy, one of two senior managers, and a man moulded so well by the banking system, that biting his tongue has become muscle memory in the presence of some of his most affluent clients and investors. Some people would call that kissing ass, but Fergal calls it his job, and doing his job is something Fergal loves.