The Night the Rich Men Burned (30 page)

A light’s come on through the frosted glass. Movement behind the door and it’s being pulled open. Arnie looking back at him. He looks so small and old in a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms. Unshaven and on alert. Scowling at first, and then looking concerned when he sees who’s at the door.

‘Bloody hell, lad. What happened to you?’

‘I need help. I need somewhere to sleep tonight. Can I?’

Arnie didn’t even ask why. Just brought him into the flat. Through to that little kitchen of his. Sat the boy down and told him to get some of his wet clothes off. Got him a towel, made a hot cup of tea. Instructed him to show him the injuries. Bruised shoulder, very bruised stomach. Arnie’s no doctor. Has no idea what sort of damage might have been done. But that’s one hell of a bruise on the stomach. Two or three bruises holding hands, more like.

‘I’m not going to ask for details,’ Arnie’s saying. ‘Not my place. But if you’re in some sort of trouble, you can tell me. I’m no grass. If I can help you, I will.’

Glass is shaking his head. Sitting at the kitchen table, an old jumper of Arnie’s on, sipping his tea with shaky hands. ‘There’s nothing you can do. Too late for me. Doesn’t even matter.’

‘Now come on,’ Arnie’s saying. Surprisingly aggressive. Talking with the authority of an old man who thinks he’s seen it all. ‘You got no business talking that way. You’re a young man. Whatever problems you have, there’s always an answer. You got time on your side. Don’t piss away the next fifty years just because you had a bad few months.’

‘It’s more than that,’ Glass is saying. Struggling not to cry again. Thinking about Ella a little. Why didn’t she come after him last night? Out into the alleyway to help him. She’s spent months helping him, why stop now? Fed up of him, maybe. Or maybe her client wouldn’t let her. But it’s not her he’s thinking about most. It’s Alan Bavidge.

‘Is it your girlfriend?’ Arnie’s asking. There’s no diplomatic way to ask if her being a prostitute is getting the boy down. He’ll leave the question as vague as that. But if it is her, then there’s a simple solution that needs to be drummed into the boy.

‘Not just her. Not really her at all. She’s been so good to me. There’s something else.’ Just about crying now. Crying because he doesn’t like to think about what he did. Crying because someone actually cares enough to ask. The first person who has since it happened. Ella kept asking until she realized how big it had to be. Then she avoided it. Didn’t want to know something that could ruin their relationship. Another humiliation.

‘Tell me, lad. It might do you the world of good.’ Knowing it almost certainly won’t. A problem shared is a problem spread.

Glass is crying properly now. Letting it out. His shoulders rocking, ignoring the pain it causes. ‘I killed someone. I killed him.’

‘Tonight?’ Real shock in Arnie’s voice.

‘Months ago. I killed him. They made me. I owed money. I had to do it to get rid of the debt. I did it. I stabbed him. I didn’t want to. I really didn’t. I only did it because I had to. They would have killed me. They would have hurt Ella.’ Breaking down now, head on the table.

Arnie’s reaching across. Not saying anything. Just putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. If it was months ago, the police aren’t likely to be battering down his door tonight. He can take his time with this. Let the boy cry. Let him suffer a little. Do him good to get it out, because he obviously hasn’t before. And he is suffering. You can see it. Shoulders bouncing up and down, struggling to catch his breath as he cries. Holding onto his stomach, which is hurting.

Five minutes of silence before Arnie breaks it. ‘Do you want to tell me about it? You don’t have to, but it might help.’

Thirty seconds before Glass responds. ‘I borrowed money. I had to pay it back but I couldn’t. They said if I did this thing for them, I’d be off the hook. They said if I didn’t, they’d be angry with me. I knew what that meant. They talked about Ella. They were threatening her too. One of their guys was . . . I don’t know. So I did it. Stabbed a man. A gangster or something. He died.’ Doesn’t want to go into any more detail about it. No detail about the night itself.

‘Okay,’ Arnie’s nodding. ‘Okay. Have the police been sniffing around you?’

‘No. Nobody has. Nobody seems to know it was me.’

Arnie nodding. ‘Was Oliver involved in this?’ A hard edge to his voice. The question he’s wanted to ask since the words came out of Glass’s mouth.

‘No,’ Glass is saying with honest certainty. ‘It was nothing to do with him. Nothing at all. It was my fault. It was all my fault. It was so stupid and pathetic. So pathetic.’

Wasn’t immediately obvious in the end whether he was talking about the killing or about himself. Pathetic seemed to apply to both in his mind. Arnie sent him to bed. Told him to get some sleep in Oliver’s old room. Told him it would be a better world with some sleep behind him. Kid didn’t seem to realize the time. After four in the morning. Kid doesn’t seem to have a keen sense of anything any more.

Arnie won’t sleep again tonight. Might as well get dressed and sit in the kitchen wondering what the world’s coming to. Been doing that a lot lately. Now he’s got Glass asleep in Oliver’s room. Saying that he killed a man. He can’t help his grandson, no matter how hard he tries. But he can help someone. Someone who wants to be helped.

7

Marty’s been there since half six. Say what you want about him, but the man puts the hours in. He’s willing to get up at an ungodly hour to make the money flow. People see the women and the parties and they think of Marty. But Marty’s a man of fourteen-hour days, seven days a week. A man of effort. Been in the office now for nearly two hours. Sent out a couple of collectors who won’t be back for a while. Took a phone call from a counterfeiter who likes to use this office as a drop-off point for his products. Always helps to keep people like counterfeiters happy. Never know when you might need them. Especially when you run a business like Marty’s with a number of foreign employees. Girls who might not be as legally welcome in the country as Marty needs them to be. So you let the counterfeiter use the office, free of charge.

Marty will clear out of the way when the counterfeiter gets here. Before then he has another meeting. One he’s actually a little nervous about. He won’t show it. He’s Marty Jones, he doesn’t show nerves. He’s always the most relaxed man in the room. He thinks it makes him look cool. Makes him look like a man who can handle any situation. Most other people think it makes him look like the most nervous man in the room, trying to look cool. They don’t tell him that though. You don’t tell a profitable and dangerous man things he doesn’t want to hear.

This meeting brings nerves because it brings Potty Cruickshank. First time they’ve ever had a meeting. Not the first time they’ve met, but casual encounters don’t count. This is a proper meeting. Potty calling ahead to set terms. Making sure a meeting is a safe thing. Then agreeing to come to the office. That’s a feather in Marty’s cap. Potty’s coming to him, not the other way round.

Just a question of what he wants. Potty wants whatever’s good for Potty. Marty wants whatever’s good for Marty. Not impossible that those two things could overlap. Not impossible, but not pleasant either. There’s something about Potty that just doesn’t sit well with Marty. There’s nothing in common there. Nothing that fits between them. Different kinds of people. Different backgrounds. Potty had everything handed to him by his uncle. Marty started with nothing. Fought for everything he’s got. Fought hard. But that gives you the image of a scrapper, someone of low rank. New money. People like Potty tend to look down their nose at people like Marty.

Marty’s at the window, looking down into the busy street. Quarter past eight in the morning and there are streams of people on either side of the street. Shops on both sides of the street, offices above a lot of them. Always busy this time of day. Marty’s on his tiptoes, looking down at the parking spaces in front of the building. There’s one beside the door, thank goodness. A large car’s pulling up as he looks, stopping in that space. A big fat guy getting out of the back seat. Jesus, what a state. Big expensive car with his own driver. Potty sitting in the back seat like the fucking prime minister. Clambering out and waddling towards the door. He is actually getting fatter. Who would have thought that was possible?

The buzzer goes. Marty across and pressing the button to unlock the door, and waiting. And waiting. And still bloody waiting. It’s one flight of stairs. Fourteen of them, Marty knows. Fat bastard must have conked out halfway. Too much effort to reach the top in one go. Making base camp. Jesus, imagine if he fell down the stairs. Imagine if that fat dickhead fell down the stairs in Marty’s office and broke his neck. If he died there, nobody would ever believe it was an accident. They would think Marty had planned it. You don’t get accidents at meetings like this.

A pang of relief when Potty eventually pushes open the door. A little disappointment as well. The world and the industry would be rather better without this wheezing ball of shit. Marty is too well-mannered to say such a thing. Too well-mannered even to acknowledge that Potty is wheezing.

‘Good to see you. Come, sit down,’ Marty’s saying. Almost said take the weight off, but stopped himself. Manners, you see.

Potty’s waddling across to the chair in front of Marty’s desk. It’s not a big chair, not as big as would be ideal for the arse that’s about to occupy it. Marty didn’t have anything bigger, just office chairs. So Potty will have to make do. Seems relieved just to be sitting.

‘So what can I do for you?’ Marty’s asking, spreading his arms. Making himself seem as available as possible.

‘I think, Mr Jones, that it’s time you and I recognized a truth.’ Potty’s voice still has a wheeze in it. Doesn’t sound as impressive as he wants it to, which annoys him. ‘You and I are experienced men. We understand this industry. We both know that to gain strength in this business, you occasionally must consolidate. You understand?’

Ooh, that’s not a good start. Marty knows how people see him. They think he’s a bit of a clown. Running around with whores and dealers, making money on the side as a collector. They don’t take him seriously. Or seriously enough. They don’t seem to understand how brutal you sometimes have to be in Marty’s other chosen professions. So they think he’s a bit dumb. Bit of a soft touch perhaps. Sort of boy who might not understand what consolidate means. They talk down, and that pisses Marty off.

‘I understand,’ Marty’s saying. Keeping the always-playful tone in his voice. Don’t let a man like Potty see that you’re not happy with him. Play him along. Use his ignorance to mask your anger.

‘Good, good. You, I’m sure, can see that there are issues we need to resolve. We are competing in the same marketplace, with the same product. We are stepping on each other’s toes when we should be helping each other along. There’s an opportunity here. I’m sure you can see it. We work together. We work together to remove competition. When we have removed it, we have the place to ourselves. You have your areas, I have mine. Very simple, very effective. Our combined strength could quickly and easily remove the problems we both have.’

He speaks so well, does Potty. So comfortable and confident in what he’s saying. But he can’t be that comfortable, can he? Wouldn’t be here if he was. Marty can work that out. Potty doesn’t come looking for consolidation unless he has problems. And everyone now knows he has problems. He was in a police station yesterday. That’s a pretty big problem. There’s a whiff of desperation in the air, and Potty’s trying to cover it with his self-confidence.

Marty’s leaning back in his chair. ‘Of course I’d love to help you,’ he’s saying, looking to pick his words carefully. ‘There could be a problem, though. I mean, word on the street is that you’re a good friend of Alex MacArthur.’ Letting that hang. That should be enough.

That’s Marty’s get-out clause. You’re with MacArthur, I’m with Jamieson. Even if those two are playing at being on good terms, doesn’t change how we behave. They’re just playing. We keep our distance from each other, because common sense says that they will fall out. That’s the business. They have to fall out so that they can try to take market share from each other. And they have to take market share from each other. Have to be seen to be growing, otherwise they stagnate. Stagnate, and you become a target. The industry turns on rivalry. Everyone knows this.

Neither of them will mention the arrest because Potty doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s a sign of weakness, and neither man will acknowledge it. It’s another very good reason why Marty doesn’t want to be anywhere near Potty. But he can’t publicly use it. Needs the MacArthur excuse instead.

Potty’s nodding. ‘I can see why you might view that as an issue. I do understand. I think you and I need to rise above that sort of thing. I think you and I should be able to seek our own advantages without having to worry so much about the reactions of others. Essentially, this is nothing to do with them. I shouldn’t imagine anyone outside of the collecting business would be at all concerned with it.’ A little smile on his face, trying to make it seem so obvious. Trying to make Marty feel small.

Easy for Potty to say that other people can be ignored. He doesn’t need MacArthur for protection. MacArthur was just a useful friend to attack an enemy with. Marty depends on Jamieson. He needs the strength of the Jamieson organization to keep him safe. Potty wouldn’t be risking anything with an association. The risk would all be Marty’s.

‘I’m not going to sit here and say no,’ Marty’s saying with a smile. ‘But I am going to ask for a little time. There are things I would need to check out first. You know how it is. I mean, I need to take a few more precautions before I do anything, my business being smaller.’ Saying it with a self-deprecating shrug, and knowing that his businesses combined make nearly the same money as Potty’s. The collection business is smaller, sure, but collecting is all Potty does.

‘Of course, of course. I’m not going to bounce you into anything, Marty,’ Potty’s saying. Trying to sound generous, something he’s never been. ‘But I will need a quick decision. You know this business. You know how fast the swings and roundabouts move.’