Seven Daze (11 page)

“... I can’t stand adverts though. I sometimes just pause the telly for ten minutes and do something else so I don’t have to watch them.”

Quietness descended.

After a few seconds, Jim said, “So, is there anywhere you want to go tomorrow? You know, anything you want to do?”

“Oh, that’s the other thing. I’ve got a really early start Sunday; got to work would you believe. On a Sunday. So anyway, I’m going to have to get to sleep early ...”

Jim knew it’d been too good to be true. She’d seen through him. Her next line would be, “you’re really nice and all that, but ...”

“So I was thinking,” she said, “are you free tomorrow afternoon instead?”

He gasped. Had she really said that? “Yeah,” he replied, forgetting about his ten grand debt.

“Good. I was thinking, perhaps, I mean say if you’re not interested, but, there’s an art exhibition at the South Bank I’d like to check out. I mean, if you don’t want to then say. I don’t mind. I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but one of my clients was talking about it and it sounds good.”

“No, that sounds great,” he lied.

“Excellent. Look I’m just about to hit the underground. I’ll have to say goodbye.”

“Okay. Shall I ring tomorrow morning then?”

“Yeah. Okay, got to go. Bye,” she replied.

A change of clothes, gloves and a wipe down of the cards took Jim fifteen minutes. Within an hour he was outside the Queens Arms. He was concerned he’d bump into Charlotte at the tube station, but luckily he didn’t. The East End was different at night. Jim wasn’t scared, but he understood how some may be. Daylight still clung to the streets, but the grime and dereliction made it darker, sinister.

Jim wondered what the world was coming to with all these thieves, muggers and fraudsters around. Harry would have a similar view. “Streets ain’t safe no more,” he’d say. “Was a time when you didn’t have to worry about being mugged, but now it’s as regular as taking a dump.”

The Queens Arms was busier than the previous day. Jim was surprised just how busy considering its other life as a sleepy, daytime pub. Looking at some of the clientele, well-dressed young people, he guessed they’d stopped for a pint before moving on elsewhere.

Seeing Tim By Four and the plasterer playing pool, Jim nodded then headed for the bar. A clear tension surrounded the group in front of the bar. Already half drunk and with plenty of spare seats around, they’d set their stall on blocking other people rather than having a quiet drink. The group of young lads, maybe too young to drink, seemed to gain pleasure in hindering others. Jim almost felt he had to ask permission to get through. Greeted with looks that said, “Not from these parts are you?” Jim held his nerve and struggled through. Things had changed in this country. It wasn’t just London but everywhere. Respect had gone.

Feeling old, he got his warm pint and moved to the pool table. The lads at the bar were staying well clear of that area. Maybe Tim and them had had dealings before. Maybe there was some respect left, but you had to earn it. It wasn’t just given anymore.

“Alright lads,” said Jim.

“Jimbo,” said Tim. “Putting your name up then?” He pointed at a chipped blackboard with incorrectly spelt names dangling from the wall. Jim nodded and scrawled his name under the last. The split grain of chalk made it look like jjm.

Though Tim was playing with Mick, someone called “Danny Boy” was up next though the word “boy” had been written with a different hand to Danny.

“How’s tricks?” said Mick.

“Yeah, not bad. Mustn’t grumble. Yourself?”

“We gave up at lunchtime and came here. Brickies are taking too long; dossing round most of them.”

“Not bothered though, are we?” said Tim. “Still get paid, see.”

 “Can I have a word, Tim.” Jim knew it sounded too serious. He should have waited or worded it differently. “Do you know any, er, fences, mate?”

Tim scrunched his nose up and shook his head. “I’m trying to keep out of trouble.”

“I know, mate. I won’t, you know, involve you. I’m just in a sticky patch. I need pointing the right way.”

Tim sighed and pointed his pool cue towards a scabby-faced loner nursing half a mild in the corner. “Terence the Ference we call him. Don’t get me involved, pal. I’m on licence.”

“So am I,” said Jim, walking towards Terence. “So am I.”

Jim pulled a barstool from under Terence’s table and sat opposite. Closer up, his face was clearer; like a weasel sucking a sour sweet. “Can I get you a drink, pal?”

“Maybe.” He swirled the dregs of his mild round, staring at the bar.

“You’re Terence? We might be able to help each other.”

Terence turned and stared at Jim. He felt his gaze hovering over his face, shoulders and stomach. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He spoke with too much pleasure and the dregs of an Irish accent.

“I’m a mate of Tim By Four.” Jim knew he was sounding desperate.

Terence looked behind him over at the pool table. Jim guessed Tim must have nodded because he turned back. “First things first,” he said, planting the nearly empty glass in front of Jim.

Jim nodded and stood up. A path cleared amongst the youths to allow him to the bar. Jim guessed they’d seen him talk to Tim and Mick. There was something between the lads and Tim. Buying four pints, he took two to Tim and Mick before returning to Terence with his mild.

He took a huge glug as if Jim might change his mind and want it back. “What you got?”

“Seven cards, driving licence and a couple of smart phones.”

“Same person?” Terence asked.

Jim shook his head. “Three different ones. The driving licence matches three of the cards.”

A smile crossed Terence’s thin lips which quickly faded as his brain appeared to hatch a plan. “Not worth a fortune, my friend, but I should be able to do something.” Terence took another huge mouthful of mild, leaving a third left in the bottom. “Wait a minute then knock on cubicle three.” Standing, he hobbled to the toilets. Flicking a glance back to the pool table, Jim nodded at Tim who smiled briefly then nodded back. After counting to one hundred, he stood up and went to the toilet.

Walking into the damp chill of the toilet block, Jim breathed through his mouth to negate the powerful aroma. Knocking on cubicle three, Jim wasn’t surprised when the door opened and Terence ushered him in.

The cramped and smelly office wasn’t needed for long. Jim handed over the cards to a muttering Terence and was handed fifty quid in grubby tenners.

“Is that all?”

“Not worth much more, pal. Driving licence is the best. Cloners like them, see. Got name, address and date of birth.” His faint drawl made birth sound like both.

Jim nodded. The tube fare and the drinks he’d bought hardly made it worthwhile. “Oh nearly forgot.” Jim pulled the Blackberry and iPhone from his pocket, the batteries and cases detached. “How much for these?”

“Yeah. Quite high demand for them. You’ve thrown the Sims away?”

Jim nodded.

Terence nodded back and pulled five more tenners from his pocket. Jim snaffled them from his hand still wondering what a Blackberry actually did.

“Do you get rid of bigger stuff too?”

“What you got in mind, son?”

“TV’s, DVD’s, stereos? Maybe bit of furniture?”

Terence did his wily head shake again. “To be sure, but you no going to get rich.”

Jim nodded again. “Know where I can get a small lock-up? Just a garage would do.”

Terence eyed the tenners still in Jim’s hand and stroked his chin. “Oh, I don’t really know.”

“There’s a drink in it.”

“Try “Filthy Alan”. He’s got a tat shop on the High Street.”

Jim walked back to the bar, now almost empty, and ordered another pint of mild. More than half the youngsters had disappeared. One of the remaining ones was playing pool with Mick. Dropping the mild off to the smiling Terence, Jim joined Tim and Mick. The lad, Danny Boy was a good player, giving Mick a run for his money, though he kept himself to himself throughout the game. However, his foul on the black after clearing the table was almost certainly deliberate, leaving Mick an easy win.

After some feigned disappointment, Danny Boy rejoined his mates before leaving. Now Jim’s turn on the table, he racked up the balls letting Mick break. Halfway through the game, Jim asked the pair whether they’d be up for helping with a little job on Sunday. Though Tim wasn’t overly keen at the idea, he soon came round.

After his third pint, Jim’s head felt light. Though he’d been drinking all day, it’d only just hit. Feeling a slight swagger in his walk, and a blurriness when lining up a shot, it reminded him of good times, and of Friday nights long ago.

It was only the phone buzzing in his pocket that brought him back to London and a ten grand debt. And Charlotte, of course. Downing his pint, he pointed to the phone, made excuses then left.

Hi. Are you sure the art gallery is okay? :)
the message read. Walking down the High Street, the gang of youths had taken up position outside a kebab shop. Now three times more intimidating, Jim pocketed his phone as he walked by. They looked at him differently than before. He’d no doubt some of them were tooled up, but they’d seen him with Tim and Mick and that appeared to give him some kind of status.

A few shops down, he pulled the phone back from his pocket and replied,
Course it
is.
I like a
bit of culture.
Knowing the only culture he approved of was fermented yeast, he smiled and carried on walking.

A grubby second-hand shop called “Alan’s Emporium” was undoubtedly Filthy Alan’s tat shop. Filthy Alan had long since locked up and disappeared for the night. He’d have to come back tomorrow during the day which, given his date with Charlotte and the clothing changes it required, would make tomorrow tight.

The tube station was busy. As it wound through the soil towards central London its clientele changed from working classes, who’d just finished or were starting shifts, to a wealthier class going out for the evening. In the space of three miles, Jim observed the change.

As he emerged above ground, his phone bleeped.
Sure? I don’t mind if you
want to do
something else x.

He couldn’t say no. How could he refuse an x? It wasn’t possible. Jim’s chubby and slightly the worse for wear fingers typed,
Course.
Looking forward to it x.

The x had been returned over the net. Though it felt too early for x’s, Jim felt it the right ball to serve. He wasn’t bothered with scoring points. He just wanted her to know he didn’t mind where they went. All he wanted was her company.

Her reply,
xxx.
Jim knew he’d read many things into that over the next twelve hours.

He’d missed the hotel’s all-inclusive evening meal. Though he’d eaten well earlier, his belly slopping with alcohol needed more. He settled on a burger and chips from an imitation McDonalds round the corner from the hotel. Glad of some processed meat, Jim chuckled while sat in the corner. He wasn’t sure exactly how to end the vegetarian flood now the gates had been opened. Then again, where exactly was it going? There’s only so long a man can pretend to work for the ONS before getting caught out. Then there was the money. Even if he found ten big ones, how long could he live in London. What could he do, carry on robbing? Nah, he’d get caught. At some point the truth would out.

Finishing his salty burger, he tried to move the sudden sense of hopelessness. His brain, fried by the afternoon’s alcohol, was telling him he needed more. More alcohol. Only then could this make sense. Stopping at a corner shop, he bought a half bottle of whisky that’d never been near Scotland and retired to the hotel room.

Next door were still conspicuous by their absence. He did wonder if they were dead; some sex game gone wrong. Slowly rotting next door, the smell would eventually give away their demise. Jim had no doubt he’d get the blame for that too.

He lay on his bed and turned on the television. He wondered, just for a second, if a quick look round next door would be in order. They may have left something behind, practically begging for a new home. He discounted this. Any sign of a break-in and the police would be called. They’d want to speak to him as their neighbour. No, he’d leave them alone.

Downing whisky from the bottle, he watched the television. The program was a gritty new crime show, and he was sure it was the one Charlotte would be watching. A weather-worn, world-weary detective was investigating a series of murders in Lincolnshire. Jim’s vision was slowing blurring and the actor’s voices lost midway to his brain. A few more gulps of whisky and the room took on a circular motion. He tried to reach for his phone, to send one last message to Charlotte, but heavy eyes beat him to it.

Sleep ended a long day.

Morning broke with a fierce headache and a text message. Blurred eyes and a delayed brain read the message,
Morning x. I’ll
be ready about one.
Noticing it was already ten and he’d missed breakfast, Jim walked to the bathroom, phone in hand, and turned on the shower.

See
you at one. Where shall i meet u?
he clumsily replied.

Leaving the phone next to the sink, he stumbled into the shower. The phone buzzed as he battled to wash the whisky and sleep from his skin. The piddly, quarter-sized complementary soap was soon gone, but Jim stayed under the shower for another five minutes until he was sure the worst of yesterday had been removed.

Drying with the half-sized towel, he retrieved her reply,
Tube station? Or outside coffee shop?

Wet and slippery hands typed,
Coffee shop sounds good.
He pondered whether to stick an x after, but decided against. Receiving the message,
Okay xxx,
he shook his head and reached for his razor.

As his hour and a half of preparations, coffee drinking and television watching continued, he received two more messages which he replied to. Neither contained earth shattering news but were just a running commentary on whether she’d be slightly late or not. Looking at himself in the mirror, with painkillers finally killing the hangover, Jim thought he looked fairly presentable. Clean clothes were running out, he’d only a few anyway and nearly a week in a hotel had taken its toll. He’d have to visit a laundry soon; somehow squeeze that into his other plans of making ten grand. Problem was, he still didn’t have a plan. Street robbery and wallet stealing seemed easy enough, but it wasn’t getting him anywhere. Taking a hundred from his stash, he remembered he needed to pay for a few more nights in the hotel tomorrow. That would only leave three hundred.