“You haven’t had anything yet.”
Mick pulled out the gun. It was as he’d described. He released the safely catch and pressed the snout against Master-son’s temple. Masterson began to tremble.
“I know what you’re thinking, Philip,” said Mick. “You’re thinking, this is London, this is England. This sort of thing can’t happen here. But it can, believe me. You’re thinking men don’t have their brains blown away in broad daylight just because they refuse to do what they’re told. But they do, Philip, they really do. Believe me.”
Masterson bowed his head, partly in agreement, partly in genuine submission. He was still trembling. Mick motioned for him to drive on. He was about to ask whether Masterson had had a good stag night but he stopped himself; that would have been giving far too much away.
Instead he said, “When I saw the two of you together on the floor like that, obviously a couple in love, I felt sort of envious, but at the same time I couldn’t help thinking how long will it last? How long before you start getting bored with each other? How long before you start pretending you’re too tired? How long before you start thinking about someone else while you’re in bed with your wife? How long before you’re both unfaithful? It made me feel a bit sad.”
Masterson watched the road intently, tried hard not to listen or respond to what Mick was saying.
“In fact I wondered if it mightn’t have started already. Does she always want it from behind? Is that so she doesn’t have to look at you? Doesn’t she ever let you kiss her? Doesn’t she ever take your cock in her mouth? And is it always that quick? That orgasm she had, I suppose it looked convincing. It looked very good really. I just wondered if it was real.”
For a second Masterson looked as though he was about to speak, about to fight back, but Mick waved the gun in his direction.
“Don’t say anything silly,” Mick said, then as though there was no conflict or enmity between them, “How about having a drive down Carnaby Street?”
“You can’t drive down Carnaby Street. It’s a pedestrian precinct.”
“Then how about Selhurst Park?”
“I don’t know that.”
“It’s the football ground where Crystal Palace play.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know. You’re the Londoner.”
“I’d need directions, or at least a map.”
“Forget it. How about Buckingham Palace?”
“Yes, we can drive past that.”
They drove to Buckingham Palace, but again Mick was disappointed. It was a grim building and you couldn’t get anywhere near it. And so it went on for the rest of the morning, an increasingly pained Masterson forced to drive an increasingly unimpressed Mick around a version of tourist London; or rather around Mick’s own idiosyncratic version of London, those places he simply happened to have heard of: the Monument, Stamford Bridge, the Old Curiosity Shop, the Post Office Tower, Portobello Road, Soho, the Hammersmith Flyover. And as they went he asked lots of questions.
“So what’s the population of London?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Come on, I bet you do.”
“Isn’t it about nine million these days?”
“Yeah? And what percentage of those were bom here, do you reckon?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Fifty per cent, would you think?”
“I really have no way of knowing.”
“But I’m asking you to make an educated guess, aren’t I, you prat.”
“Well yes, fifty per cent sounds about right to me.”
“You’re not just trying to keep me happy are you? Not just humouring me. How many black cabs are there in London? Go on, guess.”
“I don’t know, ten thousand?”
“How many buses? Go on. Guess.”
“Two thousand?”
“How many privately owned cars? How many motorbikes? How many milkfloats?”
“I’ve absolutely no idea, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“You’re rubbish, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m rubbish. I’m in pain. I’m scared to death. When is this going to end?”
Masterson looked as though he might be about to cry, as though he feared he had offended Mick again and that Mick was about to inflict new pain upon him.
At long last Mick said, “Fair point. But I’ve got to say that I’m still a bit disappointed. Basically London looks like a big slum with a few famous landmarks scattered through it. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes,” Masterson said numbly. “That’s exactly what I’d say.”
“Good. OK, I think I’ve just about seen enough of London for one day. It’s been a nice enough outing. But now, if you’ll take me to the bridge…”
Masterson looked blank. “Which bridge?” he asked.
“London Bridge. Where else? Then I’ll let you go on your way.”
Masterson wanted to believe him but he couldn’t allow himself that luxury. When they stopped at a traffic light, Mick said, “I want you to take off your tie, OK? And I want you to take off your jacket, and I want you to take off your shirt, and if you’re wearing a vest that’ll have to come off too.”
Wearily, resigned, scared, Masterson nodded and began to undress. “Anything you say.”
He wriggled in his seat as he stripped off his clothes and handed them to Mick who effortlessly tossed them out into the street. Masterson sat bare-chested behind the wheel of his car, too frightened to feel the cold.
“Is there a reason for this?” he asked.
“Yeah, you’re going swimming.”
Masterson grimaced and drove on until at last they came to London Bridge.
“What’s this?” Mick demanded.
“It’s London Bridge,” Masterson said.
Mick looked at it with disdain. “No,” he said. “London Bridge is the one that opens in the middle for ships to pass through, isn’t it?”
“No, that’s Tower Bridge.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. It’s over there.”
He indicated downriver, and sure enough there was Tower Bridge, no distance away.
“Well, bugger me. Sorry about that, Philip. You probably think I’m a complete prat.”
“No, no, it’s an easy enough mistake, anyone—”
“OK, stop here anyway.”
Masterson stopped the car when they were precisely halfway across. London Bridge was wide enough to accommodate six lines of traffic and their sudden stop caused little disruption. Nor was anyone much concerned when the two men got out of the car and shinned over the metal railing that separated the road from the pavement.
“Now, off with the shoes and socks, the trousers,” Mick said. “But keep your pants on. We don’t want to cause offence.”
Masterson was far beyond embarrassment. He stripped off his remaining clothes as bidden. The pavement was sufficiently empty that such passers-by as there were found him easy to ignore.
“Now,” said Mick, “up on the side and in you go.”
Along the edge of the bridge was a balustrade made of broad, smooth, speckled granite blocks linked to each other by a flat continuous metal railing. It was low and no obstacle at all. It wouldn’t have held back even the most timid jumper. Hesitantly, but making sure he showed no resistance, Masterson got up on the balustrade, positioning himself as though sitting on a fence. He looked down at the flat, brown, metallic surface of the freezing water below him and shuddered. The river banks looked a long way away, though the north side looked marginally less forbidding. There was a wooden jetty and metal ladders. On the south the buildings seemed to josde right up to the water’s edge, flat faced and inhospitable.
“Look,” Masterson said plaintively, “I don’t know who you are, or who you’re working for, or who you think I am, or what you think I did; but I didn’t, I really didn’t.”