The Magpie Trap: A Novel (23 page)

‘Yes Danny, I should think that we do. I’ll get Paula to dig them out for
you on Monday.’

‘Thank you sir,’ said Danny, almost bowing. ‘And I’m very sorry for
stopping you from having your usual game of golf this morning.’

Thomas looked at him for a moment as though weighing up whether his
employee was being serious or not. Then he said: ‘To be honest, I thought those
brewery men were complete idiots. After I heard Paula’s version of events, I
almost felt like you’d done the right thing by exposing them for the charlatans
they are. They’re just big bullies; suit or no suit.’

Danny smiled. Paula had come through for him; she’d probably made up some
awful story about the men just to save his bacon.

‘Just get me that big sale you keep promising, Danny. I’ve protected you as
long as I can. Just make us all remember what we saw in you in the first place;
that spark.’

The Funeral

Mark dashed a handful of
freezing cold water over his face and stared into the mirror as it dripped down
his neck and soaked into his restrictively tight shirt collar. He saw himself
through new eyes; eyes which had been opened to the pain and death of the
world. He saw a facsimile version of his father staring back at him. There was
the same look of discomfort at being confined to a suit and black tie; there was
the same rapidly developing paunch, identikit straggly, lank dark hair and that
blank, slightly cross–eyed gape.
 

St.
Andrew’s Church toilets smelled heavily of disinfectant; it was well-known that
tramps often crept in there to sleep, knowing full-well that the vicar would
not throw them out. Graffiti lined the walls, and most of the toilet doors had
their locks smashed off them.

Mark
once again dashed the ice-water over his face, trying to shock himself out of
that sick feeling which had lurked in his stomach ever since his father had
died. With a quick look at his watch, he realised that time was running out,
and he tried to dry his face under the hand-dryer. Unfortunately, the air
stream was so weak that he gave up, and simply wiped his face on his jacket
sleeve. He pulled the dog-eared slip of paper from his pocket and took a final
look before leaving the toilets; his speech. Mark had never spoken in public
before, and now his nerves were almost as great as his grief. At least his
nerves were keeping him going, though.

Mark walked past the blur
of slightly-known faces of distant relatives, neighbours, and old work-mates of
his father outside the church, simply nodding at them to acknowledge their
attendance. It was a good turn-out; his father had been well-liked, he noted.
He didn’t stop to speak to any of them, however; his anger was still too raw.

He
was angry that his mother had not allowed him to say goodbye, he was angry that
he had not been in Newcastle to care for his father, he was angry that EyeSpy
Security had telephoned him to remind him of the rules with regard to
Compassionate Leave. ‘Three days’ they had told him was the allocated amount of
time for the death of a parent or child. It was the ultimate on a sliding
scale, which allowed two days for the death of an aunt, and one day for the
death of a dog. Who had come up with this classification system of grief for
the death of a loved one? Who had worked out that within three days, an
employee should be able to get over the death of a parent? And what about the
death of a child? Mark could not imagine the rage he would feel if his
suffering was weighed up and the fruit of his loins equated to three days of
work’s precious time: to include the funeral, of course.
 

Mark
wanted to say goodbye to his father at the funeral, since he wasn’t allowed to
at the hospital. His mother had been confined to bed since the death, and
therefore, it was easy for him to pencil himself into the running order of the
service. His goodbye also resonated through the fine workmanship which had gone
into the coffin; it flowed through all of the phone calls in which Mark had to
break the news to disbelieving relatives, and it echoed through the vast
chamber of St. Andrew’s Church. This current of anguished farewell all stemmed
from the bubbling source, which was his aching heart.

Mark
had cried when he had written his little speech. He knew that his mother would
have preferred him to read a passage from the Bible, but there were things that
had to be said. As he walked up the aisle towards the lectern, his hands and
teeth were clenched to stop him from crying again.

At
the pulpit, Mark took a moment to compose himself; looking out to the sea of
faces which were looking at him mournfully. He did not look at one face, however.
His mother was bent double, her sobbing a permanent backdrop to the entire
service. Closing his eyes, Mark began, carefully:

‘I
was always a little bit scared of you. You were a big man, or is that memory
playing tricks with me? Perhaps it was your presence which was big. To a child,
you seemed to radiate an intolerance which meant that you would silence the
rest of the room. You had a blunt, unforgiving
demeanour
which for some reason was embodied in your angry
moustache and furrowed brow. Even your roar of a laugh echoed with challenge,
contempt, and arrogance.

When
you died I felt relief. I no longer have to live up to the expectations you had
for me, I never have to suffer being ignored again. But, I am probably
mistaken. Maybe you never ignored me. Maybe you simply couldn’t express your
love for me, just like I can’t express my love for anybody else in my life.
Maybe you were scared that you would hurt me… Maybe that’s why you didn’t want
me in that room to see you slide away without a fight.

But
perhaps you never simply accepted death. Perhaps you raged against the dying of
your light. Perhaps you swore and beat your fists against the hospital bed at
the injustice of it all. Perhaps you wanted to see me have children, into whom
you would pour all of the love that you were too embarrassed to show me.

I
didn’t know you at all. If I wanted, I could trace you in registry offices,
speak to mam about you, or I could look at photographs, but I could still never
meet you as you once were, and as I am now, as equals. All I ever wanted was to
take you for a pint and to talk, man to man. To laugh with you. I want to know
what you were like before you were worn down by broken dreams. You were a
builder with big rough hands and a gruff voice. Perhaps I could build a you for
me. Build something that I can remember. But, my father who art in heaven;
you’ve always been a ghost to me.’

           
When Mark finished his speech, he descended from the
pulpit, but he didn’t walk back to his seat in the pews; he carried on walking,
past the astonished, angry faces of the congregation, and straight out of the
door at the back. As soon as he was out of the door, he was violently sick, but
as the poison left his body, he felt as though he had exorcised some evil
spirit.

Jumping off cliffs when asked

Snow-boarding; a sea of
white-water rafting trips; a one-time-only visit to an underground fight club;
numerous bungee-jumps; a spell of spelunking; a dangerous trip to Milan with
the Leeds United supporters club; three sky-dives; drugs. Lots of drugs. There
were designer drugs, lifestyle drugs, body-building drugs and mind-fuck drugs;
the drugs that allowed him to forget but not to forgive. Ambition was a drug
too, so he snorted that down with abandon. Then there were the sandwiches from
Prêt, coffees from the stylish Italian joint on the corner of

           
‘What is there to lose?’ mused Chris Parker, pulling
another toothpick from the container on the bar.

Maurice
popped his head up from under the heavy wooden counter where he had been
bottling-up and sighed. ‘You wouldn’t have your nice flat and your nice car and
your gym membership and your nice cheeses. That’s what you’d lose.’

‘I
need to get away though,
Mo.
The city’s dragging me down. I try not to listen to myself in meetings when I’m
at
that place
, but sometimes I can’t
help it. I’ve turned into Daddy dear. Just you wait; in a few years time, when
I’m not bothered about the gut anymore, I’ll trade in the gym membership for
membership of the bloody golf club.’

‘Like
another drink?’ asked Maurice, gesturing to Chris’s empty bottle of Nastro
Azzuro.

Chris
stared at the bottle as though he hadn’t realised until then that he’d actually
drained its contents. Maurice
recognised
his confusion, gave a patient smile and wiped his elegant hands on the front of
his black and white
chequered
apron.

In
the background, the small radio fizzed and popped along with the latest chart
hit from a local
Leeds
band called The Breech. The song’s chorus
repeatedly asked the question: ‘Would you jump off a cliff if he asked you?’

‘Might
as well,’ said Chris.

‘Nothing
to lose, eh?’ grinned Maurice.

The
Brasserie was empty, apart from Chris; in fact, it was not even officially
open. But people like Chris seemed to give off that air of not working to other
people’s proscribed ideas of timely constraint. Chris’s looks and job made him
the kind of person that was allowed into places where the general public was
generally excluded.

‘Tell
me more about this
proposition
from
your mate,’ said Maurice, deftly cracking off the top of the bottle with an
opener which was attached to his belt and depositing it in front of Chris on
the bar. Chris eyed him cautiously for a moment as though weighing up how much
to tell him or trying to work out how much of the Maurice’s concern was wrapped
up with his worries about the business he’d lose if Chris were to leave
Leeds
.

‘Oh,
he’s got some idea about working abroad,’ he said, dismissively. ‘Not really
thought it through, but I can see to that side of things.’

‘It’s
not something illegal, is it?’ asked Maurice.

Chris
paused briefly with the green Nastro bottle at his lips. He’d already convinced
himself. He’d already talked himself into jumping off the cliff after Danny.
What did it matter what he told old Maurice. Old Maurizio would be tight-lipped
if the law ever came a-calling. Old Maurizio would know what happened to
snitches, what with his constant viewing of the Mafia films by which he learned
his accent.

‘No,’
said Chris finally. ‘But even if it was, I’d be in.’

‘Why?’
asked Maurice. ‘You’d give up everything for a shot of adrenaline in the arm?’

‘Better
than sleeping your way through your life,’ said Chris, before taking another
gulp from the bottle.

‘Your
father would say that all this talk is just a cry for help. All this jumping
off buildings that you do when you go on your adventure holidays… You just want
someone to step in and stop you,’ said Maurice, bravely.

‘I’m
not on your psychiatrist’s couch,’ said Chris. ‘And do me a favour; turn that
radio up. I love this tune.’

Maurice
smiled nervously and twisted the dial on the little radio. Outside, a couple of
women walked up to the glass double-doors and pressed their faces on the glass
as though trying to understand why there appeared to be a man inside the
restaurant drinking, despite the fact that the sign said the place was closed.
One of the women tried the door but found it locked. Maurice sighed and shook
his head before lumbering over to explain to them that they weren’t special
enough to warrant the kind of attention that he was pouring onto his best
customer.

           
 
Chris smiled at
the thought, and absently reached for another toothpick. As he did so, he felt
his mobile phone vibrate in his pocket. He fished it out and regarded the
screen with distaste; a withheld number. He hated withheld numbers and their
anonymous but still very real threat of being a goddamn sales call. He pressed
answer, believing that it would be one of the very last times he’d ever have to
do so.

           
‘Chris Parker speaking,’ he said into the handset.

‘Ah,
Mr. Parker. You may not know me, but please allow me to introduce myself before
you press the ‘off’ button on your phone.’

‘Who’s
this?’ asked Chris, fingering the label on the Nastro Azzuro.

‘You
might know me as the consultant that has been dealing with your friend Daniel
Morris.’

Chris
removed the phone from his ear and glanced at the screen once more, trying to
work out whether it was some kind of crank call.

‘How
did you get this number? Who are you? What’s your name?’

‘My
name is not important. How I got this number is not important. What is very
important is that you listen to me. I will tell you exactly what to do and when
to do it.’

‘Now
hold on a minute,’ interjected Chris.

‘Would
you please listen to what I have to say?’ asked the man. ‘At the moment, you
may have heard details of a – how you say? – hare-brained scheme from your
friend Daniel Morris. You might have your doubts about this scheme, but I would
like to set your mind at rest. Just as I commissioned Daniel and Mark Birch to
infiltrate the site electronically, I have also commissioned the three of you
to infiltrate it physically. You must believe me therefore when I say that I
have your best interests at heart. This project must go well or else you will
be caught. How far do you trust your friend?’

‘He’s
been my friend for years.’

‘You
would trust him with your life? Your freedom?’

‘Well…
I think…’

‘Why
would you go along with a drunken plan as proposed by a man that cannot even be
trusted to look after his own best interests?’

‘Now
hold on a minute here,’ said Chris. ‘What are you suggesting?’

Maurice,
who was returning to the bar from the door, looked at him with concern. Chris
stepped away from the bar and mouthed that it was a private conversation.

‘Danny’s
a fool, but he’s trustworthy,’ continued Chris more quietly. ‘But wait a
minute. Are you telling me that you’re behind the whole of this plan? Danny
never told me anything about that…’

‘Daniel
Morris is a key part of this plan. He’s the man that first told me about this
Intertel Shift. But he’s careless, unreliable. That’s why I need you, Chris. I
need you to be the leader. I need you to make sure that everything goes to
plan.’

‘But
how do I know I can even trust you? I’ve never met you… Never spoken to you
before in my life, and now you’re telling me all of this.’

‘Would
you trust me if I could tell you more about who gave Dawn Foster, the
journalist, all of that information about your brother?’

‘What
do you know about my brother?’

‘I
know who’s responsible for the leak…’

‘Who?’

‘Ah,
all in good time. All in good time. Let me propose a deal with you. If you
oversee this whole operation, then I will let you know. After the heist, I
would like all of you to come to
Mauritius
.’

‘Where?
Why?’ asked a breathless Chris. He was running his hands across the exposed
brickwork as though trying to locate
Mauritius
within its coarse grain.

‘
Mauritius
; look it up on that powerful computer of yours.
It’s not as though it will distract you from work… Chris, I’d like you to come
and meet me. I will tell you everything then. For now, I would like you to
listen very carefully and I will provide you with the cover story which you’ll
require in order to explain why you suddenly leave the country after one of the
biggest robberies in modern times.’

‘But
why does it have to be so soon? I know this Intertel Shift thing is supposed to
be this week, but we need more time to plan…’

‘There
is no more time,’ said the voice. ‘You must do this now or never. And don’t let
it be never.’