Dillon emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around him, still faintly steaming from the shower. He explored the cleft in his chin where he’d nicked it while shaving, and looked at his fingers for blood. From the tranny downstairs in the kitchen the Radio 5 weather-woman was cheerfully telling the nation to expect sunny spells and the chance of showers, and above her voice he heard Susie calling, ‘Frank! Frank, are you coming down?’ She ran halfway up the stairs and caught him on his way through to the bedroom. ‘Didn’t you hear me? Mr Marway’s here with Jimmy. Come and meet him.’ Suddenly her face lit up in girlish exuberance. The job with Marway’s MiniCabs seemed to have released fresh reserves of energy, renewed her zest for life. She’d been and had her shoulder-length russet hair layered and re-styled, and wore make-up every day, not just at weekends. But Dillon wasn’t charmed by this new, younger, liberated Susie; the world was uncertain enough without finding you’d swapped an old reliable model for an updated, streamlined version with a fresh paint job. ‘I did a perfect three-point turn!’ Susie beamed at him, and beckoned with red fingernails. ‘Come and say hello to Mr Marway…’ Dillon opened the towel. ‘Like this.’ Susie rolled her eyes and went back down. In the living-room Jimmy was sitting in an armchair, little Phil on his knee, listening raptly to Marway. Success always impressed Jimmy, and it was obvious that the Sikh businessman had achieved it, in the way he dressed, his refined voice, most of all his sense of composure, perfectly at ease with himself. And he seemed quite happy to pass on the secrets of his success. ‘If you can prove you’ll employ more than six men, then you’d be in line for a government small business loan,’ he was explaining, and added frankly, ‘That’s how I started.’ Free money. Jimmy was interested. ‘How much are these loans?’ he asked. ‘Depends on your collateral,’ Marway smiled. ‘But anything up to fifty thousand…’ Jimmy pursed his mouth in a silent whistle, more impressed than ever. Fifty Big Ones. Worth investigating. ‘You ready?’ Dillon said to Jimmy from the doorway, shrugging into his leather jacket. He jerked his head and turned to leave. Susie stood up. ‘Frank, this is Mr Marway —’ ‘How ya doin’?’ Dillon gave a distant nod without looking at the elegant businessman in the pale cream silk turban. And with a curt ‘Let’s go,’ he was on his way out. Jimmy ruffled Phil’s cropped thatch, jet-black as his Dad’s, and went after him. Technically the security wagon was ‘on trial’, and rusty old crate that it was, at least it was transport. Jimmy drove them up to Hackney, while Dillon stared sullenly out, grousing, ‘What does he know he’s just givin’ the wife drivin’ lessons!’ ‘Way you carry on, you’d think he was givin’ her a lot more than —’ Jimmy nearly swerved into a bus as Dillon cracked him one across the knuckles. ‘What in Christ’s name’s the matter with you…! I was jokin’ — an’ he seemed an all right guy.’ Jimmy glanced across at Dillon’s stony profile. ‘We should try this government loan gig. He said —’ ‘I’m not interested in what he said.’ Jimmy snapped at him. ‘Well you should be. He’s in the same business. We can use him — and Susie can palm us a few jobs.’ ‘She won’t be workin’ for him long,’ said Dillon, more a dire threat than a vague promise. He had to brace himself against the dashboard as they pulled up outside Stag Security. Jimmy blasted the horn, then slammed the door as he got out. His portable telephone beeped. He went over in a huddle next to the basement railings. Harry thudded up past him and opened the passenger door. ‘Where’s Cliff?’ Dillon asked. ‘He rung in, he can’t make it. Somethin’ to do with that mealy-mouthed chick of his…’ Dillon glared. ‘He’s gettin’ married to her!’ Harry was somebody else not exactly overflowing with the milk of human kindness this morning. ‘I don’t care if he’s workin’ out with Sylvester Stallone — he should be here!’ Squashing his big arse in next to Dillon on the bench seat. Jimmy came round the front of the wagon, folding his portable phone, and climbed in. ‘Little change of plan… we hold the stuff here until the morning. Newman’s not got the space cleared yet.’ Dillon punched the windscreen, which visibly shifted in its rubber mounting. ‘This stinks already!’ Jimmy twisted the key to start up, and as the wagon moved off in a haze of swirling blue smoke, he said tightly, breathing through his nostrils, ‘I’m just tryin’ to get things organised, Frank…’
Nine large tea chests, which at Dillon’s conservative estimate must have weighed two hundred pounds apiece. While Jimmy signed the release dockets under the watchful eye of two Customs officials, Dillon and Harry slid the last one into the back of the wagon, already sagging down to the axles. ‘That Cliff’s a connivin’ sod, I’m knackered!’ Harry grumbled, mopping his face. Dillon said so was he, and told him to belt up. Back at base they had it all to do over again, in reverse. It was after six when they’d finished, the crates overspilling the passageway into the office, and now they really were knackered. ‘Okay, that’s the last,’ Jimmy said, ticking it off. ‘Want me to lock up?’ he asked Dillon. Harry answered. ‘Naaa, I’m dossin’ down here.’ Slumped on a crate, fanning himself, he looked up and down. ‘If I can find room for me sleepin’ bag.’ Footsteps coming down from the street, and Barry Newman walked in, bringing the bracing tang of Gucci aftershave into the ripe sweaty atmosphere. His minder, the thickset guy with the widow’s peak that Dillon had seen in Newman’s office, lurked by the door. Newman wore a dark-blue double-breasted overcoat and held a thin black cheroot in his gloved fingers. ‘Any problems?’ he asked Jimmy in that soft, silky voice that had been soaked overnight in Dettol. ‘No.’ Jimmy was suddenly all bright attention, doing his three-bags-f act. ‘You know Frank, and this is Harry Travers.’ Newman ignored Harry. He slid his hand into his overcoat pocket and took out five grands’ worth of brown envelope. ‘I appreciate this, Frank.’ He indicated the crates with the envelope before tossing it over. ‘Be off your premises by the morning.’ Faint glimmer of a glacial smile then, and the narrow, deepset eyes roamed up to the ceiling. ‘My girls upstairs’ll give you a special rate…’ Dillon’s face changed. His eyes went from Newman, bored into Jimmy. ‘Outside. Now.’ As he strode out, Jimmy behind him, Harry wore a delighted grin. ‘It’s a knockin’ shop upstairs, isn’t it? I knew it, what did I tell you…?’ Dillon was standing stiffly on the pavement, one hand clenched round an iron railing. Jimmy bounded up, saying brightly, ‘Frank, listen —’ and Dillon cut him off, eyes blazing. ‘This is his place, isn’t it?’ he said, low, throaty. ‘He owns the building, yeah,’ Jimmy admitted, shrugging, a bit sheepish. ‘What’s in the crates? And don’t give me the Indian artifacts crap —’ ‘Frank, he’s opening market stalls…’ Before Dillon could respond to that load of bull, Newman came up the steps, trailing cheroot smoke. In his arms he carried a large glazed Indian elephant with an ornate woven headpiece of gold, black and azure blue, set with beads in the shape of pearls, diamonds and rubies of coloured glass. He plonked it on Dillon. ‘Give it to the wife, Frank.’ Newman removed the cheroot and blew out a plume of smoke, not quite in Dillon’s face. ‘Tell her it’s a gift from an old friend.’ He nodded to Jimmy. ‘Thanks, son.’
‘I couldn’t get out of it, Frank — I mean, with the weddin’ comin’ up we got to get the place fixed up. This yours, is it?’ Cliff was studying with interest the monstrosity of an elephant on the kitchen dresser, where Dillon had dumped it the night before and not looked at it since. Dillon sat at the table, a frown on his face, an open accounts book and wads of notes, neatly separated into three piles, in front of him. Through a mouthful of toast, Flora and marmalade, he said, ‘Have it as a weddin’ present. We got half a ton at the office.’ He slipped rubber bands on the money, stood up wiping his hands on his jeans. ‘Okay, let’s pick up the Granada, put the deposit on the wagon… Cliff, you set?’ Cliff nodded, dead chuffed, the elephant tucked under his arm. By the time they’d collected the Granada and done battle with the rush-hour traffic it was gone half-ten; even so, Dillon was surprised to see the crates had been moved, Harry sweeping up straw and polystyrene bubbles in the empty passage. Jimmy was leaning in the office doorway, leafing through a sheaf of pamphlets, every pastel shade under the sun. ‘You got any collateral, Harry? Harry?’ Harry leaned on his broom. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You own anythin’ — flat, house — you can borrow against?’ Dillon stood with the log book and car keys, taking it in. Harry considered, scratching his moustache. ‘My Auntie left me a house in Manchester, but me sister lives in it…’ Dillon jangled the keys. ‘Got the Granada, put the deposit down on the wagon. Elephants out?’ he said, eyebrows raised. ‘Where you goin’?’ he asked Harry, who had propped up his broom and was putting his jacket on. ‘Get movin’, Jimmy said to Harry, jerking his thumb, and to Dillon, ‘Few cards I got made up, stick ‘em round the pubs, clubs.’ They went into the office, basking pinkly in the slanting sunlight. ‘Me and Harry shifted the crates first thing… Here, present.’ Jimmy took out his cordless phone and placed it on the desk. ‘My contribution, nothin’ to do with Newman. Where’s Clifford?’ He bellowed past Dillon’s shoulder, ‘Go on, Harry, don’t hang about!’ Like a bleeding puppet-master, Dillon thought. Did he never let go the strings, never ever let up, not even for a second? ‘What you want the deeds of Harry’s house for?’ Dillon asked, pinning up a large-scale street map of central London. ‘Collateral. An’ I got these forms from the bank, to apply for a government grant.’ Jimmy tossed the pamphlets on the desk. The phone rang, and it was as if they were both frozen for a moment, stunned with the shock of it actually ringing. Jimmy picked it up. ‘Stag Security and Chauffeur Drive…’ He listened, nodding, then glanced at Dillon, giving the thumbs-up. ‘I’ll just see if we have a car available.’ He covered the mouthpiece. ‘Taxi…’ Big ecstatic grin from Dillon, who grabbed a notepad and pen, shoved them across the desk. ‘We have a Ford Granada available, yes… and the address? Yes… destination?’ Jimmy scribbled. ‘Fine… be with you in ten minutes.’ He put the phone down and stuck out his hand for Dillon to shake. ‘We’re in business — that’s our first fare! See? It’s workin’ out — Oi, Cliff!’ Jimmy tore off the sheet, handed it to Cliff as he came in the door. ‘Can you pick up at 12 Thresherd Street, a Mrs Williams, going to Bond Street.’ Jimmy was fizzing like a Roman Candle. Tossing the car keys, reaching for the cordless phone, mouth working overtime. ‘Use the Granada, an’ take this, it’s a portable. You got money for petrol?’ Snatched aside to Dillon: ‘We’ll have to get a kitty box organised, all receipts, etcetera…’ And even while Dillon was patting his pockets: ‘Okay, Frank, I got it, here’s twenty.’ Cliff stuffed the noted away, and as Dillon went past him, ‘Where you off to, Frank? We need the phones manned…’ ‘Takin’ a leak,’ Dillon said, not looking back, ‘if that’s okay with you, Jimmy!’ The puppet-master stared after him, but for once kept his trap shut.
Having got the boys sorted, sitting in front of the telly watching Neighbours, plates of fish fingers, beans and potato waffles on their knees, Susie went into the kitchen to the smell of burning bacon. On top of a long, hard day saying ‘Marway’s MiniCabs’ ten thousand times, it was just what she needed. ‘I told you to watch the pan!’ Idle bugger hadn’t even budged, elbows on the table with his back to the stove, a can of Tennents Export in his hand. Susie took it out on the eggs, cracking three into the hot fat, breaking one yolk. ‘You’re not workin’ for that Paki any more.’ ‘Oh no? That an order is it?’ Susie looked over her shoulder, teeth pressed together. ‘You think you could get yourself a plate, knife and fork?’ Dillon’s chair scraped as he got up. He made a performance of slamming open the drawer, clattering inside, grabbing a plate from the draining rack. Susie counted to ten but only got to five, unable to help herself. ‘The rent is due! The milk bill, the kids need new gym gear. Got the money, have you, Frank?’ She slid two rashers and the two unbroken eggs onto his plate, then did her own. She stood holding the empty pan. ‘There’s no money coming in from you, Frank… who you think’s been paying the bills while you were gallivantin’ all around Scotland?’ Dillon stared down at his plate, decided he was too hungry to pick it up and hurl it at the wall. It hadn’t been a good day up to now, and he could do without Susie rubbing salt into an open wound. Two calls they’d had so far. Two measly, stinking calls. All afternoon they’d sat around the office, dozing, scratching their arses, waiting for the phone to ring. Finally, Jimmy had suggested putting in a call to Newman. Work was work, another five grand in the mitt, just for doing the airport run… What about it, Frank? Dillon folded a slice of bread, dunked it in the eggs. ‘I was workin’ in Scotland, started up the business with the cash,’ he reminded her. He took a bite, chewed, glared at the Daddies Sauce bottle. ‘Not that you’ve shown any interest. Not even been to see the place…’ ‘I’m not actually flushed for time, Frank,’ Susie said, attacking the bacon. ‘I shop, cook, clean the house, as well as washing, ironing. You think your shirts walk into the wardrobe?’ ‘I don’t want you workin’.’ ‘We need the money from Marway —’ Dillon swiped his plate off the table, along with the cutlery, salt and pepper, sauce bottle. He wrenched a bunch of crumpled fivers from his pocket and flung them on the table, white to the lips. ‘Take it, take it — an’ get on that phone, tell your Mum, tell her not to come, I want you here lookin’ after my kids!’
Jimmy pulled up in the metallic gold Granada just as Susie was leapfrogging across the central courtyard in an L-plated Nissan Micra, gripping the steering-wheel in both hands, a frown of concentration on her face. Marway sat beside her, composed and calm as ever. Grinning, Jimmy did a sweeping bow, ushering Susie on her way. ‘Left hand down a bit, love!’ he laughed, and then caught a glimpse of Dillon in the flat above, lurking behind the bedroom curtains. ‘Big Brother’s watchin’ you, Susie!’ Jimmy waved. ‘Hi, Frank!’ and hooted again as Dillon ducked out of sight. Dillon was livid. Susie had paid no attention to the ‘I will be obeyed ‘ act and it pissed him off. She had started getting at him, not listening to him, and he felt inadequate. She’d even got her ruddy mother coming over even though he told her that he didn’t want her in the flat, but the frustrating thing was, deep down, he knew Susie was right, they did need the money. He just hated feeling impotent. The boys were in the bath, and Jimmy got roped into towelling them down while Dad sorted out clean pyjamas. He emerged from the bathroom carrying young Phil wrapped in a towel, bouncing him up and down. ‘Second one all clean an’ ship-shape, Sergeant! Where you want him?’ In the boys’ room he found Dillon, wearing a plastic apron and a scowl, wet shirt sleeves rolled up, buttoning Kenny’s pyjama top. The doorbell shrilled, and Dillon said, ‘That’ll be your Gran… get ‘em in their bunks, Jimmy, then we gotta get a move on.’ He was halfway along the landing on his way to answer the door when Jimmy’s mocking voice floated from the bedroom. ‘Don’t forget to take your pinny off, Freda!’ Dillon dragged it off and furiously flung it over the banister. After all he’d said — after giving it to her straight, and she hadn’t taken a blind bit of notice. Well, we’ll see, he thought, thumping down the stairs. We’ll bloody well see about that.