Authors: Richard Asplin
“Keep in touch,” Andrew said, waggling the fountain pen.
I tapped my earpiece.
“Good luck,” I said, my voice oddly squeaky. They piled in. I shut the door behind them, Andrew pumping down the window.
“It’ll be all right, old man. Two hours from now it’ll be all over. No more Christopher. No more lies. No more worries.”
“I know,” I said. “I know. Look, thanks for this mate,” I said. “I …”
Andrew winked.
“See you soon.”
“Earl’s Court Exhibition Centre,” Laura said, the cab wheeling away, round in a tight circle and sliding into the morning traffic. In its space, my rented blue Transit peeled up to the kerb. The bellboy climbed out, handing me back the keys.
I thanked him and clambered in, slamming the door shut with a dull clang.
The bell-boy stood, bobbing expectantly at the window.
“Sorry,” I said. “You want a tip?”
“Thank you sir,” he nodded. I started the engine.
“Never ignore a dripping basement pipe,” I told him and pulled out into the traffic.
“
Julio? May I introduce Angus Mayo. Kindly supplying our valuables for this morning’s play.
”
“
Linda here talked you through it? Good man, good man. Our matey with the baitey, yes? In your satchel there
?”
Adjusting the earpiece, I swallowed hard at the thought. A few streets away, in Earl’s Court’s underground carpark, among vans, Volvos and vintage Volkswagens – most if not all slapped with peeling bumper-stickers announcing that
My Other Car Is KITT
and
Comic-Book Fans Do It Fairly Infrequently
– my best friend was handing over a leather satchel to one of Christopher’s team. My leather satchel. With what remained of my world within.
“
Look good. Should work like charm.
”
I shifted in my seat, a sick, dull cramp gripping my kidneys. I breathed deep and checked the clock on the van dashboard.
09:32.
“
You know what you doing
?” Julio’s voice crackled. “
Got the bag taped on good? Practised your fall? Must burst bag first time and go down loud and hard, understand
?”
“
G-Got it,
” my best friend said. His voice was shaky.
“
And ready for meet-up
?”
“
Absolutely. T-Ten o’clock sharp, I come round that corner and spot the satchel among those bin-bags.
”
“
But not before you see the boss-man and mark come down ramp. Remember, you have to catch sight of it together. All three of you. Simultaneous, or the story not hold up.
”
“
Ramp. Got you. No problem.
”
A sharp car-horn jolted me from the voices in my ear. I looked up and saw the light was green, the road ahead clearing. Crunching the gears, I slid forward, following the morning traffic west along Cromwell Road.
“
And where is the mark now
?” Laura’s voice. Clear. Close. Standing
very near Andrew. Or at least very near his fountain pen. “
C
hristopher got him
?”
“
They’re finishing breakfast. He’s going to wheel Grayson round here, keep him chatting and they’ll be entering the Exhibition Centre through bay C, which brings ’em down the ramp.
”
I blinked hard, trying to focus on the traffic, poster tubes rolling and clanging about behind me as I took a left down Earl’s Court Road. I put my hand out to steady the bag next to me, feeling slightly sick at the thought of the cold, solid shape inside.
It was about seven minutes to ten by the time I wheeled round onto Redcliffe Gardens. The street was quiet, Tuesday night’s BMWs now clogging up the City, the 4×4s off blocking up the kerbs of King’s Road and Knightsbridge, their hazards blinking while nannies scoured grocery shelves for obscure olive oils.
In my ear, I could make out Andrew’s echoey mumbling as he lurked anxiously behind a concrete car-park pillar. Watching. Waiting.
“
Come on. Come on. Five minutes. Where are they? Where are they
?”
I pummelled the van north up the quiet, leafy street. All was still, the traffic just a distant sigh. Or that might have just been Andrew in my ear. I couldn’t be sure.
“
Nine fifty-six. Come on. Come on.
”
I slowed as the van slid towards the chosen spot, finally coming to a squeaky halt at the side of the road under the residents’ parking notice. I sat in the silence of the cab for a moment, heart hammering. Breathing deep, checking the empty wing-mirrors, I ground the gears into reverse and heaved the wheel right, sliding the van around so it was at ninety degrees to the road, blocking the traffic. I then slid it forward slowly, slowly –
“
Nine fifty-eight. Cutting it fine, cutting it fine …
”
– until the front bumper was almost touching the parking sign on the pavement. I shut off the engine, taking a deep breath in the silence, licking my lips before unlocking the door and jumping out to inspect my rudimentary road –
Shit. I clambered back in quickly.
There was a good fifteen feet between the back of the van and the far kerb. More than enough to let Julio past. Grinding the
gears, I slid the van backwards a few feet. Shutting it off, I climbed out once again. Better. There was no way he’d slide past behind me. And in front, he couldn’t possibly squeeze –
Oh for Chrissakes. There was now about nine feet of road in front.
“
Ten o’clock. It’s ten o’clock. And where … Bloody hell, that’s … that’s them. Shit. Here we go. If you can hear me, Neil old chap, this is it. This is it.
”
I mean what the
hell
– ? I jittered about the van, brain crunching, squeezing, panicking, trying to fill the empty space like it were some Krypton Factor puzzle. No way. I couldn’t do it. Not without a trailer or a welding torch. Had the council been busy in the last forty-eight hours with some kind of emergency road-widening work? It had
fitted
. I was sure of it. Before, with Laura, that evening. She’d stood right
here
. Unless – ?
Taking off up the street, feet pounding, my eyes peeled over the identical mansion blocks. Was it further up? Further down? I spun and twirled. Did the road narrow at some point?
“
Er, bloody … bloody hell, what’s this? Hey, hey look there’s something buried in here
…”
“
Damn right, boy. Lemme see that.
”
“
Well bless my goodness, so there is. Well-spotted Mr Grayson.
”
“
Hold your horses old stick, I saw this first …
”
Shit shit shit. I was panicking now, head thudding with voices. I checked my watch. Ten o’clock.
I scanned up and down the wide, empty street. What the hell was going on? Was I in Redcliffe Road by mistake? Redcliffe
Crescent
? Redcliffe
Drive
?
My heart thundered, a deadening bass-beat blocking out the voices in my ear.
“
Is … fastened … try … here … me … Holy . . !
”
I spun around crazily. This was definitely the place. I
remembered
the tree. The Pekinese poop underneath. The street lamp. The residents’ parking sign. And all the residents’ BM –
No. No, oh no.
Cursing spitty curses over and over, I slammed over to the van, hauling open the door, rummaging in the carrier bag, pushing the leaden chamois leather parcel aside and pulling out my mobile
phone. I scrolled down and thumbed Laura’s number quickly, my earpiece crackling.
“
Is this … ? Mah gawd, you know what we got here boy
?”
“
By jove, what a haul! What the bally bum-burps is it doing buried here do you think
?”
“
Stolen maybe? Someone stashing it
?”
“
Mah gawd …
”
“
Hello
?”
“Laura. Laura shit, it’s me.” I paced and flapped and flustered. “The parking. It’s all … Shit, I can’t block the street. I’m not wide enough. I’m not fucking
wide enough!
”
“
What are you talking about? Redcliffe Gardens? You’re definitely at Redcliffe Gardens
?”
“Yes I’m at Redcliffe fucking Gardens! There’s nobody parked here! They’re all out screwing the third world and chivvying little Lottie to cello lessons. Christ, you could park Edward’s three fucking Bentleys across the middle of the street and you’d still have room for him to stroll about between them with his belt off. We need to rethink this. We need to rethink this
now
. Can you persuade Julio to come another route? I can’t block him here.”
“
Too late. He’s headed your way now.
”
“Now?”
“
They’ve found the satchel. They’re arguing over it as we speak. Aren’t you listening? Julio’s headed across to the pub to set up. He’ll be passing you in … in about six minutes.
”
“Six – ?!”
“
C
ome up with something,
” and the line went dead.
Holy crap. I tossed the mobile onto the van seat and tried to keep calm, pacing quickly, mind thudding. There was nothing else for it. I grabbed the keys from the steering column and hurried around to the back of the van. Throwing open the doors, I began to grab armfuls of memorabilia. Poster tubes, postcards, books, photographs, stills, display material, dumping it all to the wet tarmac. C-3PO, Bogart, Allen, Dorothy, cardboard rolled, cardboard stuck, paper fluttered and flew, photos splashed in great stripes of colour all over the road. Boxes brimming with junk, stacked one on top of the –
Blaaaaaaaaaaaare
I jumped, heart in my throat, dropping a box of black and white stills, sending them spilling out at my feet. I turned. A small Citroën 2CV was trying to pass.
Shit. Kicking boxes, kicking tubes, I scrabbled about with gritty fingernails, apologising, gathering the fluttering debris, clearing a narrow path.
“Jesus, man. Who the fuckin’ ’ell died an’ made you a Lollipop Lady?” the driver yelled.
I stopped. I turned.
In the windscreen, sat low, a ruddy, goateed face scowled, hairy hands waving. The driver pumped down the side window. “What tha fuck is all –”
It was then his turn to stop. He blinked, hairily.
No. No, not now. Why now? Why
now
?
His rusty door cracked, swinging open and he clambered out, expanding, filling the street with his wide pyjamas and fat boots. Christ knows how he fitted in the car. Citroën must have taken on some of the engineers from the TARDIS.
“You?!” he bellowed.
“Maurice,” I squeaked, chasing a wind-snatched
Fantastic Four
. “Maurice, God, how … er how are you? Sorry, you want to get through?” and I grabbed up a couple of stray tubes and stood to one side, boxes stacked about me, waving him past.
“What in fuck’s name do ye think you’re doin’, man?” he barked, peering at the mess. “Settin’ up a little off-shoot street stall here, eh? Settin’ up a little Earl’s Court annexe?”
“Look, look Maurice, I’m sorry, I haven’t time to –”
“You know you’re due in court on Monday, right? Three o’clock? You are
aware
of …” and he stopped, staring at the barricade of boxes at my feet. “Is this all your shit?”
“It … it is,” I said.
“You told
me
it was all
lost in flooding
?”
“It is. I-I mean it
was
. This is literally
everything
I have left. Six boxes. I lost as much as you did. I’m down to my last postcard. The shop is empty.”
He seemed to think about this for an agonising moment, before stepping forward and hefting up the top box in his thick arms. He turned and staggered back to his car with it.
“Maurice?!” I yelped. “What are you – ? Christ, no, Maurice,
please
!” I checked my watch.
10.02.
Opening his boot, he dumped the box inside and clomped back towards me.
“Thirty-six thousand pounds,” Maurice growled. He hefted up another box. “Thirty-six thousand pounds you took from me.” Again he lumbered to his car and dumped a box in his boot. “I guess the court will decide how best for you to repay it. But this’ll do for starters.”
“Maurice. Maurice not now. Please. Not
now
…”
“I trusted you with that stuff.
Trusted
you. Couldn’t be arsed to send off a little cheque though, could ye eh? Couldn’t be arsed to call a plumber. Too much fuckin’ trouble. That was my
livelihood
. That was every fuckin’ thing I had. You know what it’s like to lose every fuckin’ thing you had?”
“
Yes
!
” I bellowed, feet almost leaving the floor. “Yes I do! Please, Maurice, you’ve got to –”
10.03.
“Christ, please Maurice, listen to me.” I danced about in a jive of panic. “I know how you feel, okay?
I
trusted someone too and now I’m about to lose everything
I
have, okay?
Everything
. I trusted someone but they screwed me and now I’m about to lose more than just money. My daughter, my wife, my home, my business,
everything
.”
“So now you know how it feels.”
“I
do
!” I yelled. “I do. Yes. Yes I know
exactly
how it feels. And I know … shit, I know it’s easier to get angry. Give up. Sell real estate for fat Irishmen when you should be saving the whale. I understand that.”
“
Saving the whale
?”
“I’m sorry, I’m babbling. And that’s because a green Bedford van is going to turn that corner in the next three minutes and I have to disable this Transit so I can get in the Bedford and do something unspeakable in the glovebox and I really am babbling now –”
“You really
are
babbling now.”
“I am, Maurice. But that’s because it’s important. I
will
come
to the court on Monday. I
will
stand up at three o’clock and swear on a Bible and pay you back what I owe you. I
will
. But
only
if I do this thing
first
. If I don’t do this, then you won’t see me at three because I’ll have lost everything and nothing else will matter. I
have
to do this one thing. And this one thing means blocking this street which means you giving me those boxes back, right now, getting in your car and driving away very quickly and not asking any questions.”
Breathless, panting, I checked my watch. Four minutes past.
“Please.” I gripped his arms hard. “Learn to trust again. Start now. Get a job on a trawler in the Arctic. Write your dad a letter. Trust me on
this
.”
“Trawlers? Write my what a – ? And trust
you
?”
“I don’t lie, Maurice. I fuck up. Oh I fuck up big. But I don’t lie. I
used
to. Lied to my
wife
. To my
daughter
. My
father-in-law.
But a few weeks ago I lied to a smelly man in a woollen hat about what a photograph was worth and I am
never lying again.
”
Maurice looked me in the eyes. Looked at the floor. At the grey November sky, finally turning and trudging back to his car, hefting up both boxes and returning them to my feet.
“If you’re conning me … ?”