Seven Daze (18 page)

The corridor gave way to red-carpeted stairs leading down to a basement room. A bar set in the corner, the lighting dim around the rest of the tabled room except at a small raised performance area. The woman led Jim to a table, her hips revolving in some circular motion that transfixed his eyes.

“Take a seat.” Her voice was European, definitely East European. Jim had heard of these clubs while inside. This was exactly the sort of place he would have visited after killing Geoffrey. Sitting down on the cold hard chair, Jim noticed a woman dancing in a bikini on stage. The sign outside the door had said exotic dancers. He remembered that Soho had cleaned up its act over the years. Where once every bar was topless and sometimes bottomless, the majority were now just plain, but skimpy, exotic. She sat opposite, her long dyed-blonde hair covering parts of her brown eyelashes and pockmarked face. Her eyes were wide, some stimulant or deadener the cause.

A leotard-wearing waitress came to the table. “What’ll it be?”

“I like champagne, do you?” said the nameless woman.

He’d heard about these clubs alright. Hundred pound bottles of champagne, a bit of flirting then it was, “We can rent a room somewhere, you know.” Jim was both half drunk and lonely. Three years inside did strange things to a man. In the back of his mind he could hear Harry say, “Go on, my son, do the business.”

He shook his head. “Just a whisky, thanks.”

“Are you not going to buy me a drink?” Her eyes pierced his. She was damn good at her job. He felt himself slipping further into her eyes, further into what he knew was coming.

“I can’t afford champagne,” he managed to say. She looked hurt, mortified. She was gorgeous and spending time with him of her own free will, yet she wasn’t worth champagne.

“Rum and coke.” Her head turned away briefly before relocking to his eyes.

“What’s your name?” He expected her to say Magdalene or something with lots of x’s or z’s in.

“Cindy, what’s yours?”

“Jim.” He was out of questions. He looked again at the woman on stage, writhing around and being ignored as the three other customers were being entertained by their own version of Cindy.

The drinks appeared quickly.

“Twenty-five pounds please.”

He handed over thirty and didn’t expect change. She knocked the drink back in one swift chug. Licking her lips afterwards, Jim looked at his own whisky and sipped it. Cheap and watered down, it’d never been north of Watford let alone the Scottish Border.

“We can rent a room somewhere if you like?” Her hand had crept under the table and lay on his thigh. The gentlest of touches; it still made him shiver.

“I ...”

The phone in his pocket bleeped. Charlotte.

“No. I can’t do it. Sorry.”

Standing, he turned round. A bouncer by the stairs eyed him suspiciously. He tried to walk towards them, but his legs had grown lead weights. The air was too thick. Not enough oxygen. He breathed in and out a few times, his vision breaking. A heavy hand grabbed him by the side and dragged him up the stairs. His feet barely touched the ground and his shirt collar almost strangling him, he saw the last dregs of daylight appearing through the door. Falling flat on the pavement, his arm hurt, muscles flared with pain. Scrambling to his feet, he had to get out of there. There were two of them; the kicks were going to start flying. Just like the prison showers. He had to get out of there.

He stopped running when his breath ran out. Taking huge gulps of London’s finest air, he looked round. Still in the wonderful Soho, though a more upmarket part, the bars no longer boasted exotic dancers but burlesque shows and expensive meals to the passing customer. Soft porn without seediness. Throw in some food and it’s respectable.

Jim entered the first bar he found and ordered a pint. The barman explained they only served bottled beers, so he made do and sat down. He pulled out his phone and looked at the text that had saved him.
Going to bed now. Goodnight
x.

He shook his head. How close had that been? Would he actually have done it? He knew the answer and didn’t like it.

Goodnight x,
he replied.

Looking round, the bar was busy for a Sunday. Tables strewn haphazardly were full of well-clothed Londoners discussing some article in that day’s broadsheet. A few people were looking at him. He was on his own, a stranger in their little alcohol serving paradise. Of course, he also had a layer of pavement dust down his jeans. He felt hot too, he knew his face was red. He looked like someone who’d just run a mile. Their eyes burned into him, he thought they could see what he’d nearly done. Somehow they knew what he was in Soho for.

Finishing the beer in a long sup, he left the bar. The grotty hotel and his bed were calling.

Monday morning broke with the annoying buzz of the alarm and a,
Morning. Hope you slept
well x,
text.

Fine thanks. What about you? I
need more phone credit x,
his reply.

After a quick shower, he discovered that Charlotte too had slept well but she was running late. Eating his breakfast, just plain burnt, he reread the two-week old local paper.

He ate quickly; today was going to be busy. It might even get scary mid-afternoon. He also had a date tonight and that was weighing heavy. Maybe tonight would be make or break night. He still wasn’t sure what the whole London protocol was on bases and dates. In Coventry, a ten-minute chat and a packet of pork scratchings sufficed, but London was different.

Charlotte was different.

Leaving the hotel, he headed for the tube. After buying a pair of low gain reading glasses, he paused at a photo booth, giving his best smile as the machine took then spewed out four photos. Heading for the East End, he thought of Terence. As much as he liked him, which wasn’t much, he trusted him less. He’d woke in the middle of the night convinced that Terence, nephew in tow, would be robbing the lock-up. He was determined to get there as soon as possible. Terence had the look of a no-good thief about him.

Arriving at the lock-up by half nine, his faith in human nature was restored: the lock was still locked and intact. Sifting idly through the bits and bobs that was Raif’s life, Jim wondered if he should have taken the jewellery and her bank details too. Adding her bits still wouldn’t have got him near ten grand, but it might have given another gee or two. Principles could prove to be leg-breakingly expensive in three days time.

Terence eventually arrived at eleven in a twenty-year-old transit van and a younger, hoody-wearing driver. “Morning,” said Terence, “this is Rob.”

“You alright?” asked Jim. The youth nodded and grunted something incoherent.

As the three of them went inside the lock-up, Jim closed the door. The last thing he needed now was some passing scally seeing what was in there.

“I been doing figures all night.” Terence pulled out the ripped envelope and another piece of paper. “One t’ousand five hundred.”

Jim reluctantly nodded his head. The plasma was nearly a grand to buy. Plus all the other bits. If he could somehow get it all to Coventry he reckoned he could get three grand within a week. Word would get around though, and with the coppers already looking for him he’d be back inside within ten minutes. “You got yourself a bargain. That includes the licence, doesn’t it?”

He grimaced before agreeing. “I think we’ve both done alright here, haven’t we?”

Jim half smiled and helped Terence and his nephew load the van. Less than half an hour later, they drove away in a cloud of black smoke. After Jim stashed the roll of used tenners and twenties in the lock-up, he changed into one of Raif’s suits with a shirt and tie and left for the city. Lunchtime was calling.

Busy again today x,
said her message.

Me too x,
he replied.

The city towered above as he strutted forwards. Half past twelve and the masters of the universe were breaking for lunch or a few drinks. The area again teemed with expensively suited men and woman, mobile phones strapped to their ears as they ordered wraps, baguettes and fruit by the bowl.

Settling into a bar, Jim looked round. The usual array of important and well-paid people laughed and joked as they sipped cocktails or bottles of beer. Jim walked through the bar looking for an opening. Reaching the back, he headed to buy a drink. Nothing had screamed at him, but then again he didn’t know what he was looking for.

All the hassle of robbing a wallet for a couple hundred quid wasn’t worth it. Still, without any proper ideas, he’d hoped coming here might give some opportunity. Car or house keys were the only worthwhile things to take now. He sighed. He needed to up the ante. A little bookies or post office. He had the mask, false moustache and glasses now. And, he had the gun. This would be his last lunchtime in the city. He knew it wouldn’t get him anywhere near ten grand.

Drinking his beer, he looked round. Clusters of people, mainly men, basked in their own glory. Finishing his bottle, he brushed past a group of them towards the exit. His hand swiftly returned to his pocket with a new wallet. It’d been easy in the end. These bankers were so busy chatting and drinking, Jim reckoned you could set of a firework and no one would notice. The risk wasn’t worth it though. Luck wasn’t infinite and was surely running out. Outside, he wondered if the ONS produced the statistics of wallet robberies. What was the percentage chance of snaffling ten grand before then? Smirking, he rounded the corner.

Two police officers were in front of him. They immediately picked up on his nervous double take and misstep. The police were always around, it being the ideal terrorist location, but he’d avoided being this close. To run or about turn now would admit guilt. He had to carry on walking. Walk past them. Maybe even smile at them. He was wearing the clothes after all; he belonged there.

Their eyes burned into his as he approached. He felt his legs turn to jelly, but he forced himself to catch one of their eyes and smile. He felt his cheeks blush and confident smile slipping to a guilty one. He swallowed hard, ready for any conversation.

One of them nodded. Both their eyes were on him. Surely he wasn’t the only innocent member of the public ever to look surprised or even guilty when they saw a policeman. Everyone must do it, he told himself, everyone.

“Nice day again,” Jim croaked. His voice straddling octaves like he was thirteen again.

The short-sleeved policeman nodded. “Hope it stays like it.”

Passing them, he carried on, legs wobbling like a ten-minute-old horse. He expected them to say, “Stop. We’d like a word.” He expected a firm hand to appear on his shoulder followed by the words, “Come with me, laddie.” He expected everything in the space of two seconds.

It didn’t happen.

His chest ached. A fast beating heart the cause. He needed to sit down and breathe for a few minutes, get his head and body back into shape. But, he couldn’t. He had to get away from here. Finding another packed bar, he went straight to the toilet. Taking the cash from the wallet, only fifty quid this time, he ignored the cards and driving licence. The whole wallet minus cash went straight in the toilet cistern.

It took ten minutes to calm himself down. He’d had a lucky call. That was close to game over. He’d have been fingerprinted and sent back down for breaking his release terms. Pretty soon, while inside, some of the East End gangster’s underlings would have paid a visit.

He sighed. He wasn’t even supposed to be taking wallets today. Why had he done it? There had to be an easier way to make money. There just had to be. Maybe he should throw in the towel now, ring up the gangster’s knuckle scraper, and admit he had two nearly three grand and could he have another week.

No. He couldn’t do that. The quest he’d been given was some kind of perverse head fuck. He knew as well as Jim did that ten grand wasn’t possible. The only outcome was Jim getting the kicking of his life. Even if he did pay him off could he trust him to end it there? Or would he say you now owe another two grand for interest?

Jim shook his head. “Where can I get seven grand in four days?”

His phone buzzed. Charlotte.

Finally having lunch now, busy morning
z,
the text said.

It took him a while to figure out the z should have been an x. At first he thought it was some new smiley. Settling on,
I
ate mine hours ago x,
as a reply, he left the toilet and made for the tube.

The East End was busy as lunchtime turned to afternoon. In the lock-up, Jim changed back into his other clothes, popped the mask and glasses into a bag then took a tube back. By the time he got to the hotel it was nearly three. The day was disappearing in a haze of tube trains and failure. At least he’d made some money this morning. But it wasn’t enough. Strictly speaking, that was yesterday’s money. Back on the streets, he walked round south London, moving slowly, but looking everywhere. The main roads were gridlocked while the side roads a weird combination of one-way streets and dead ends.

The further from the river, the more the city changed. Decay and despair increased by the yard. By the time he got to the outskirts of Brixton, it resembled an alternative reality of the clean and money-filled financial district.

He’d passed a few bookies on the way. Most were well-known chains with low-paid staff and cameras everywhere. Standing outside an independent one, he popped his glasses on and entered. It was only after he opened the door that he realised he needed a hat. He wasn’t used to disguising himself. Learning on the job was never a good idea, but what else could he do?

Decayed walls lined the small room with decayed and weary minds filling the punters heads. Three television screens filled the far wall showing a race, results and odds. At the back, and behind thick glass and metal were two men; one huge bloke in his forties and a younger man. The older man stared hard, his eyes burning. Jim wouldn’t like to meet him alone in a dark alley, or even a bright alley.