Over the Edge

Over the Edge

STUART PAWSON

‘A million pounds is a lot of money when you were brought up on bread and scrape.’

‘Aw, come off it, Peter. It wasn’t that bad. Who told you that – your dad?’

The Range Rover peeled off the motorway on to the slip-road without signalling and braked for the red light at the bottom of the ramp. The two men in the front seats were in shadow until the light changed to green, and as the car moved forward again the illumination from the streetlights slid upwards to reveal their faces. The driver’s was expressionless. His effigy wouldn’t have looked out of place on Easter Island, gazing out to sea, but his passenger was the opposite. A generation older, this face was creased and mobile. It was the type of face that usually has a cigar poking out of it as the owner barks percentages into a telephone.

‘It’s still a lot of money to turn down,’ the driver said. He glanced into his rear-view mirror to
confirm that the Lexus and the Audi had followed him, and looked for the signs to the city centre.

‘I’m turning it down because it’s unrealistic, that’s why. OK, so we were poor, but we got by.’

‘It’s a fair price and you know it,’ the younger man argued. ‘A million for the club, split between you and Pixie and Dixie, and a little sweetener on top of your cut to bring it up to another million. That makes it
£
1.6 million we’re paying for the Painted Pony.’

‘Which is worth five times that amount. You’ve done the sums, Pete. I’ve seen that clown of yours there, counting the punters every night, seeing how much they drank, writing down the prices. For Chrissake, they laughed at me when I told them a million. Even if I split the money a straight three ways they’d still laugh at me.’

‘That’s because they’re accountants; think on the long term. They’re happy if a deal goes into the black after what, eight years? Five years? You and me don’t think like that, though, do we, Joe? Twelve months max, and we want our money back. That right?’

‘Yeah, well, that’s how it used to be. But things have changed. Sorry, Pete, but it’s still no deal. You’re doing OK. Your dad would be proud of you. He’d have loved the new restaurant. That beef Wellington was the best I’ve ever had, and that’s no kidding.’

‘Thanks. And the wine? What did you think of the wine?’ The streets were bathed in orange light and deserted. Traffic lights went blindly through their cycles and crossing beacons blinked irrelevantly on the empty pavements. Two taxis were parked nose-to-nose, one of them on the wrong side of the road, as the drivers shared a cigarette and stories, and a gust of wind sent litter swirling across the street. Standing sentinel over all this were tower after tower of blacked-out office blocks, with only an occasional illuminated window high in the sky to indicate the existence of a netherworld, peopled by invisible men and women who emptied waste paper bins, polished floors and cleaned toilets. The Range Rover carved across three empty lanes and made a right turn.

‘Ah! You know what I think of the wine. I’ve had nearly two bottles of it. What was it again?’

‘You had nearly three bottles of it, but who’s counting. Chateau Margaux. I was hoping it might make you more amenable to a deal.’

‘Ah! Nice try, Pete. Nice try. I’ll have a head like an anvil in the morning but I’ll still own a third share in the Painted Pony. 1980, did you say?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Can you get me a case?’

‘No problem.’

‘You’d no need to bring me home. That’s what I pay a driver for.’

‘Duggie, your faithful manservant? He’s following us. I wanted to talk. And I wanted to ask you about a site near your place, on the waterfront. Thought maybe we could have a look at it.’

‘It’s the place to be, Pete. Leeds is jumping, at the moment. Those apartments are going for a million a time, and they’re sold before they’re built, unseen. That’s the way to do business.’

‘A 24-hour city.’

‘That’s right. Blair’s Britain. Politicians wear their shirts out of their trousers and drink out of the bottleneck. I don’t know what your dad would have thought about it.’

‘He’d have thought the same as you and me: how do we get a share of the action?’

‘Yeah, I guess so,’ the older man agreed. ‘We had things cut up fairly well, me and your dad. And you’ve done well, too, Pete. But don’t get greedy. The yardies are moving in, but there’s room for them. We’re in a different market. Remember what your dad used to say about when there was a gold rush? Don’t buy a shovel and go chasing off into the hills. Open a shovel shop. It’s the same with drugs. Let the dumb black bastards go round selling them and shooting each other. Meanwhile, we give them what they need: BMWs; a nightlife; and women. The cops leave us alone and we rake off the cream. No problem. Turn left here, Pete; we’re nearly there.’

‘Here?’ He braked hard and made the turn. The road was now narrow and bounded on each side by walls of MDF sheets, hiding the development going off behind them. A huge sign claimed the site for one of the major construction companies and an artist’s impression portrayed an elegant lifestyle that owed more to the artist’s holiday in Greece than to the realities of northern weather.

‘That’s right. Listen, Pete. I was sorry to hear about your mother. Grace was a lovely lady. We all thought the world of her. The big C’s a real downer, no mistake. I hear you’ve opened a fund or something, in her memory.’

‘That’s right. The Grace Wallenberg trust.’

‘Well, we’ll be more than happy to make a contribution, Pete. A substantial contribution.’

‘But not the Painted Pony?’

‘Ah ah! No, Pete, not the Pony. And you’ve bought Heckley football club, too. That could be a not-very-smart move. I hear they’re a bunch of cripples.’

There was a silence for a few seconds until the younger man said: ‘That’s unkind to cripples.’

‘Sorry, Pete. No offence. So what’s it all about?’

‘Respectability, Joe, and access.’

‘Access?’

‘That’s what I said. Access to local government, politicians, big business. And tradition. The club is over a hundred years old, and I’m saving it for the
community. Peter Wallenberg, pillar of society, saviour of Heckley Town FC, that’s me, and they’re falling over each other to shake my hand. Haven’t you noticed how every Member of Parliament you hear about claims to spend all his Saturday afternoons on the terraces, cheering the local side on? It’s the common touch, except that I give them a warm seat and a bottle of claret.’

‘You’re smart, Pete, I’ll say that for you. Your dad would be proud, real proud.’

‘But you wont sell me the Pony?’

‘Ah! No way. Left here. Be careful, its blacker than a Rasta’s arse and there’s no wall. It just drops straight into the river. What is it you wanted to show me?’

‘Where is the river?’

‘‘Bout twenty yards away. Stop here.’ There was a hint of alarm in his voice. ‘Don’t go any closer, it gives me the willies, this time o’ night. That’s near enough.’

‘And you live on the top floor of that block?’

‘Sure do. A New York loft, the estate agent called it. That means there’s no ceiling between you and the roof. Saves on construction costs but it’s a bugger to heat. Wanna look-see? A coffee, maybe?’

‘No, I don’t think so. And the Pony’s in the basement. That’s handy.’

‘Damn right it is. Helps me keep an eye on things. We close Monday nights, otherwise it would be
buzzing around here, this time o’ night.’

‘It’s quiet now. And spooky.’ He pressed a button to adjust the door mirror and saw the other two cars edge round the corner, their lights out. They stopped in the shadows fifty yards back and waited.

‘Sure is. One time this wharf was where all the wool was unloaded. See the bridge up there? That’s Leeds Bridge. We used to stand on it when we were kids, your dad and me, and count all the barges, tied up side by side, wondering where they came from. The first ever moving pictures were taken on that bridge, by a man called Louis Le Prince, back in the nineteenth century. Now it’s all yuppie apartments and three-quid-a-cup coffee houses. Well, thanks for bringing me home, Pete, and it’s been a pleasure talking to you. We should do it more often, for old times sake. Wanna change your mind about that coffee?’

‘I want the Pony, Joe.’

‘OK, it’s yours. The price is eight million. I’ll take a cheque.’

‘1.6, no offers. We could come to some arrangement where you still had an interest. It’d be a nice pension for you.’

‘Sorry, Pete. I told you, the partners aren’t interested.’

‘Fuck the partners, this is between you and me. OK, Joe, how’s this for a sweetener? There’s this girl coming over. Nineteen, blonde, figure enough to
drive you blind. Thinks she’s landed a job as a nanny to a brain surgeon’s kids, at the HGI. All hush-hush and off the record, of course, to get round all the red tape nonsense. I was saving her for myself, but you’re welcome to have first lick of the jam in the bagel, so to speak. How does that sound?’

‘Ah! It sounds as if you’re trying to appeal to my weakness, but you’re too late, Pete. These days I need all the help I can get, not resistance.’

‘That’s not what I hear.’

‘Well, you hear wrong. I’m not interested in your deal and neither are the partners.’

‘They will be if I make them an offer over your head.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘One last time. Do we have a deal?’

‘No way.’

The younger man pressed a button on the dashboard and the Range Rover’s hazard lights flashed once. ‘OK,’ he snarled. ‘Get out of the car.’

‘Hey, what’s that?’

‘What does it look like?’

‘A fuckin gun, that’s what it looks like.’

Behind them the Lexus and the Audi began to creep forward until they were close up behind the Range Rover. The doors swung open and two men climbed out. The one from the Lexus was big, with a shaven head, wearing jogging bottoms and a
T-shirt
.
His companion was more slightly built, but still muscular, wearing a hand-made suit and silk tie.

‘So your eyesight’s better than your hearing. I said get out of the car, Joe.’

‘
Uncle
Joe. That’s who I used to be.
Uncle
Joe.’

The two newcomers walked alongside the Range Rover and the well-dressed one pulled the passenger’s door open.

‘Get out!’ the one called Peter Wallenberg ordered from the driving seat, pointing the gun.

‘You heard what he said,’ the smart suit added.

‘Hey! Where’d he come from?’ the old man demanded.

‘Need some assistance, Mr Wallenberg?’

‘I don’t think so, Dale. Mr Crozier is just getting out.’

‘What’s going off, Pete? Dale? What’s this all about? And where’s Duggie?’

‘He’s here, behind me.’

‘Duggie. Why’d you let this happen?’ He glanced at the faces surrounding him. He wasn’t scared. He’d been in dangerous situations before, been beaten up a couple of times, but that was a long time ago. Things were different now. OK, so he’d lost this one, been out-manoeuvred, whatever it was about, but he’d bounce back.