Seven Daze (13 page)

She nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.” Turning, she unlocked the front door and half stepped inside. Jim moved nearer, standing partly on the doorstep. He could see up the stairs and into her apartment. Moving his face forward towards hers, he saw her lips.

The kiss happened. He wasn’t sure if it lasted seconds or milliseconds, but he was briefly lost in a world where nothing mattered.

 “Bye for now then.” Another lump of hair had joined its sibling across her eyes and her cheeks reminded him of a tomato sauce bottle.

“Bye.”

Walking towards the tube station, a spring in his step, Jim hoped he’d catch Filthy Alan before he closed. He reckoned Filthy’s flat was above the shop so chances were good. As the tube ground east, Jim hated to think how much he’d spent in fares. Obviously not ten grand, but he reckoned most of the money he’d made had gone straight in the mayor’s pocket.

The East End was as inviting as ever. Saturday market stalls were closing down, side streets were full of litter, fishmongers waste and needles, and groups of young hoodies hung around hoping to intimidate pensioners. Finding Filthy Alan’s shop was easy despite last night’s drink.

Opening the door, a waft of stale air that’d probably seen the blitz greeted his nose. A fragrant mixture of stale urine, unwashed male and mothballs combined with the dust and dim lighting completed the picture. Scanning the shop, Jim noticed the diverse items: old umbrellas, wardrobes, books, cigarette cards. The thick layer of dust suggested nothing had been purchased or moved in years.

Wondering how a shop so obviously a front could have survived without getting busted, Jim called out, “Hello, anyone home?” A small and frail yet dirty man appeared from behind a curtain. Milk-bottle glasses hid a face you’d never trust to babysit a kid. His pot belly extending over undone and stained trousers was as big an advert of his single status as the lack of rings on his fingers.

“You Alan?” He knew he was. It was obvious. The bloke was filthy.

“Who wants to know?” He peered through the murky half-light trying to recognise Jim.

“I’m a mate of Terence’s. I’m looking to, er, rent a garage for a week.”

Filthy nodded his head. “Terence, eh.” He walked to his fifties style till and rung up no-sale. Collecting a few keys, he walked from behind the counter. “I’ll need to lock up; it’s round the back.” He nodded up and down again, looking at Jim as if he recognised him. “What’s your name, son?”

“Jim.” He didn’t offer his hand for a shake. It wasn’t clear what decade Alan had last washed his.

Locking the shop, the limping Alan led Jim round the back. The once tarmac-covered road now lay in blotches of grass, weed and nettles. The lock-up, though secure, smelt as bad as the shop. Various nondescript rags, an old mattress and some magazines lay in a corner, while a few empty whisky bottles lined the walls.

“Fifty a week. Two weeks in advance.”

“I’ve only got eighty on me. Will that do for now?”

“Go on then.” Alan nodded and bared a few blackened teeth. “I’ll trust you, pal.”

Handing over eighty, Jim received the key and left the garage, locking it behind him. He only had a few quid in coins left, but luckily he’d bought a zone three travel card so he could take a tube north before heading back to central London.

The tube was busy as it crawled north. Shoppers returned home with bags and smiles. Everyone in the carriage seemed to have headphones on. The iPod was a mystery to Jim. What was wrong with vinyl and cassettes? Apart from the bulk and ease of damage of course. The world just wanted to get smaller and more digitalised every week. He wondered where or how it would end. They were expensive too these music players, and so small. Expensive and small. He smiled as half a plan hatched in his brain.

Finding the road he wanted was hard; he needed a map but his money was at the hotel. He knew he’d look conspicuous asking for the road. Of course this was London, and they had invented the look the other way culture, but he still reckoned with his luck he’d get caught on CCTV or ask the wrong person.

Once he had the street, finding the flat was easy. A tall Victorian house, it’d been split into three or four flats plus a basement box room. Raif Mortimer, or Twat A as Jim still preferred to call him, owned flat two. Jim guessed this was the first floor and rang the buzzer next to the number two. Three minutes later he rang again. Then again. No answer.

Satisfied that Raif was living it up in Monaco with no house-sitters, Jim wandered back to the tube station. Central London and its plethora of tourists, out of towners and drunkards beckoned.

With the time just after seven, and another missed hotel dinner behind him, Jim strolled through Covent Garden between the swathes of well-dressed theatregoers, nightclubbers and general minglers. The wine bar he chose was reassuringly expensive. Pushing through the crowds towards the back, he quickly scanned for unattended purses, jackets, mobiles and bags.

Reaching the toilet at the rear without either incident or other people’s property, he waited a few minutes in a cubicle. Though he’d desperately not wanted to do this tonight, he only had enough money for a few drinks. If he wasted that money by buying a drink and scanning the bar, he could lose it all before he even got started. The hope that a better plan would have come to him by now was just hope. Still clueless, the only real thing left was to get a few more wallets to tide him over.

The only thing he’d spotted through the bar was a handbag on the floor next to a table. The table’s occupants, obviously from the sticks for a memorable night out, were too engrossed in their conversation to consider anything a threat. That was too risky. He’d been lucky last night; there were no coats around and the bag’s owner was sitting right next to it. As flamboyant as London was, walking out of a wine bar carrying a handbag was going to turn heads. It didn’t even look manbaggish as some handbags seemed to.

Manbags. Jim wondered what on earth Fingers Harry would make of them. “It ain’t right,” he’d say. “A man’s got pockets, ain’t he? What's he need a fuckin handbag for?” In some ways his life sentence was for his own benefit as well as society’s.

Smiling, Jim thought back to those nights. Those long prison nights. An easier life; no one bugging you for ten grand, and no one threatening to kill you. No expensive hotels.

No Charlotte.

Pulling his mobile from his pocket, he thought about sending a message. He hadn’t a clue what to type. Anything would do. Anything. Re-pocketing the phone, he shook his head. He’d send one later when he got back to the hotel.

Could he take the handbag? Walk with it towards the front door, clean it out of purse, phone and whatever else as he walked then dump it? Could he? Too risky, anyone could see. The bar was so packed he’d be trapped if someone raised the alarm. No, too risky. Sure he needed money, but silly risks would see him back inside quicker than Fingers Harry could destroy a manbag. No, he’d walk back out, find another bar and start again. He had all night after all; the only thing complaining was his empty stomach.

Walking out he passed a different table of intently talking theatregoers. The programmes on the table and
Les Miserables
baseball caps were dead giveaways. Noticing a jacket slumped on the back of a chair, Jim slowed and brought his left hand near the jacket’s hem. Breathing hard, he paused slightly and slipped his hand inside the pocket, using his body to cover the rest of his hand. His hand made contact with a wallet-sized lump of leathery plastic. Swiftly clenching and pulling it out, he palmed it into his other hand then his pocket. It took less than two seconds. Jim was impressed with himself. All that practise inside had come in handy. Feeling a rush of adrenalin, the fear of getting caught he supposed, he realised why some did it time and time again just for that rush.

Outside, and after a brisk walk, he found an alleyway. Rummaging through his new wallet he was annoyed again he hadn’t brought gloves. Charlotte was the fault. His brain a mess of art galleries and doorstep goodbyes, he’d lost the plot somewhere.

The wallet had two credit cards, a driving licence and fifty pounds in notes. The owner, Mr Les Hibbert, would no doubt be fairly miserable himself when he realised it was missing. Something else inside the wallet stopped him. A NHS employee card for a hospital in Oxford. The bloke obviously worked there. Jim guessed he needed the card for security or something. The job title stood out - porter. The bloke looked mid-fifties, yet he was a porter. Maybe he’d been forced into the job, made redundant, the only alternative the scrapheap. Or perhaps he’d always been a porter; not everyone in Oxford could be a professor.

He thought of the theatre tickets. London wasn’t cheap as he knew to his own cost. This was their big night; probably been saving all year, and the Bank of Jim had just ruined it.

Shaking his head, he placed the cards back in the wallet and turned round. Walking away, something inside made him stop. A little voice telling him that perhaps this once in a lifetime trip for the Hibbert clan might be just that. Perhaps one of them was ill. The last wish of someone with six months left to live was to see a show.

He found himself back inside the pub. Walking a few steps, he looked at the bar and then round the room twice. When he was sure enough people had seen him, he looked at the Hibberts, opened the wallet then looked again. Walking to the table, he caught Les’s eyes.

“Excuse me, I think this is yours.”

The man look confused then shook his head. “No my wallet’s in my ...” He reached for his jacket, felt the pockets. The groping increased as the wallet-sized lump couldn’t be found. His eyes grew wider, panic setting in as he knew it was missing. Looking at the wallet in Jim’s hand, he nodded, mouth open. Jim opened it again, checked the picture against the gaping, fish-like Les Hibbert then handed it to him.

“Thanks,” he said.

Jim just shrugged his shoulders. “It was outside, on the floor.”

Les looked through it, counting the cards then the money. “It’s all here.”

Jim turned to walk away.

“Wait,” a woman, possibly Mrs Hibbert said. “Do you want a drink? Buy him a drink Les. Go on, get up. Go on. Buy the man a drink.”

Jim turned back round. “No, it’s fine. I’ve got to go.”

“Here.” Les himself was standing now, a twenty pound note in his hand. “Have a few drinks, eh. Call it a reward.”

“No. Seriously, I’ve got to go.” He felt his face redden. Most of the bar were watching. As he headed for the door, he heard Mrs Hibbert say what nice people Londoners were. He thought she couldn’t have been more wrong.

Outside, he walked. He could probably put the last few minute’s actions down to stress or even Charlotte, but no, strange thoughts had run amok in his head. He needed ten grand. His life depended on it. What fucking right did he have to pick and choose who to rob? Everyone was fair game. The thieving Jim deep inside him knew that. This week was going to be hard enough without vetting everyone he stole from.

A traditional London Irish themed pub caught his eye. He needed a break and a drink, a chance to get his head back in order. The bar, a mix of Irish, wannabe Irish and people just itching for a fight, was fair company. Sat on a barstool, Jim tried to speak with the man slumped next to him who seemed in a different plane of intoxication to everyone else. The barman, a casual looking shaven-headed Australian, nodded at the man then shook his head. Jim took the free advice and left him alone.

The pint half-quaffed in ten minutes, he pulled out his phone. He’d got used to regular messages. She was obviously busy preparing for tomorrow, but he’d still hoped for a text. Nothing more had been arranged either just shall we do it again. Typing
Thanks again for
earlier. How’s work going?
he debated with himself for a few seconds before sending.

The barman smiled and nodded at his phone. “Don’t know what we did before them, mate.”

“Yeah.” Jim struggled to think of a follow-up. The Aussie looked friendly enough. On a year off or whatever, supposedly touring the world but actually spending his Saturday nights serving in an imitation Irish pub in London. Jim knew as bad as his life was, there was always someone worse off.

“You just here for the day then, mate?”

“Nah. Working here for a few weeks. Thought I’d check out the bright lights and all that.” The barman smiled before serving another customer. Jim quaffed another glug of Guinness. The near comatose man by his side coughed. Spittle covered his chin and he gurgled with every short breath.

Taking another sip, the need to smoke was returning. He knew he wasn’t alone. Most of the pub’s drinkers seemed to be in the garden. A few coats were dotted round, some of them being looked after by solitary non-smokers. Another desperate half idea formed in his mind. If only he could distract the coat-watchers away. Not in this pub, obviously, but in the busier wine bars. Problem was, it seemed the affluent didn’t smoke as much. They were too busy detoxing or going to the gym to have time to smoke. In some ways, he knew it the reserve of the poor and downtrodden. Worse thing was, it didn’t even do anything. Highly addictive but with little effect. What was the point of it?

“What about you,” Jim asked the barman. “How long you here for?”

“Visa runs out next month. I had plans for visiting Scotland and Cornwall, but they fell apart.”

Jim nodded. As pleasant as this was, it wasn’t getting him ten grand. The theatregoers would be heading for their performances soon. This was prime robbing time and he was wasting it talking to an Aussie.

“See you, mate.” He downed his pint and walked outside.

Street performers were making the most of the evening light to entertain and make money. Whether card tricks, mime or just comedy, they were making a mint from the passing crowds. Jim wondered whether they were doing anything different from himself. Sure, their money was donated instead of forced, but it came down to the same thing.