'This better be good,' Fogarty's voice growled. Tm in bed.'
Henry glanced over his shoulder. There were still no sounds in the house. 'It's me, Mr Fogarty,' he whispered. Tm sorry to get you out of bed, but – '
'Who the hell is that? I can't hear you.'
'It's Henry,' Henry said, raising his voice only a fraction, but trying to enunciate very clearly.
'Well, which is it – CIA or FBI? Don't you know what time it is over here?'
'It's Henry,' Henry said again in something closer to his conversational voice.
'Henry? That you, Henry?' Fogarty asked. 'What's the problem?'
'My mum and dad won't let me work for you any more. That means I – '
'I can't hear you, Henry. You're whispering. Can't stand people who whisper. Most of them are sly.'
Hell with it, Henry thought. 'My mum and dad won't let me work for you any more, Mr Fogarty,' he said loudly enough to be sure Fogarty would hear him.
'Been expecting that,' Fogarty grunted.
Henry wondered why, but only said, 'You know the job tomorrow? The one Pyrgus and I have to do together?'
'Yes,' Fogarty said quickly.
'I thought if we went early – very early in the morning, yes? If we did that, I might get back here before anybody wakes up. So they wouldn't know. You and Pyrgus will have to work on the machine without me.'
'Yes, that's OK.'
'Thing is,' Henry said, 'I'd need to be back here by eight. Get to you and then on to the sc – to where we'll be working, I'd need to leave here half four or so; before five anyway. To be on the safe side.' He took a deep breath. 'Buses don't run that early.' He couldn't see how it was going to happen, but at least he was showing willing.
To his surprise, Mr Fogarty said, 'Get to the top of your road by quarter to five. You'll be picked up.'
'Picked up?' Henry echoed.
'In a car,' Fogarty said.
'You don't have a car,' Henry said.
'I'm not picking you up,' said Fogarty.
Sixteen
It was already light when Henry left the house, but a little misty and quite chill. He reached the top of the road with five minutes to spare, but even so there was an old blue Ford parked with two wheels on the verge. The windows had been tinted black so he couldn't see in, but one of them was wound down as he approached.
'You Henry Alison?'
'Atherton,' Henry said.
'Yes. Right.' The man behind the wheel was much the same age as Mr Fogarty, but far smaller and bird-like. He either dyed his hair or was wearing a wig because it was a stark Asiatic black that didn't match the network of fine wrinkles on his face. He was dressed in a crumpled grey suit. 'Alan sent me,' he said.
'Alan?'
'Alan Fogarty. Your name's Henry, right?'
'Yes, sir,' Henry confirmed.
'Bernie,' said the man by way of introduction. 'Hop in.'
The car smelled of dust and mice droppings. Bernie drove it well below the speed limit and checked his rear-view mirror constantly. Thing about Fords,' he said, 'is reliability. Reliability and parts. Never did trust your foreign cars. They're like foreign women -good looking but anything goes wrong you could wait a month or more for parts. Now, your good old British Ford, made in Dagenham, that's different. Your good old British Ford, you can get parts anywhere, Land's End to John o' Groat's. And you don't need to go to some fancy garage to get the job done. Trained chimp could fix a Ford, probably on the side of the road. Alan always used Fords in the old days. Swore by them, he did. Wouldn't have anything else. You wouldn't even have to ask old Alan. You always knew he'd say Ford. Habit stuck with me. Always drove a Ford even after we retired. Now, this one guzzles, have to admit that. Any petrol station, she just heaves in of her own accord. Practically an antique, but she goes. Any weather, day or night. Just keeps going. Can't ask better than that, can you? Now, your average continental car…'
At first Henry tried to keep up his end of the conversation, but quickly realised it wasn't necessary. He sat back and let his eyes close as Bernie's words flowed over him like smoke. He felt nervous, but not nearly as nervous as he'd thought he would. Maybe it was something to do with the early-morning light and empty roads. Nothing seemed quite real.
'There you go,' Bernie said as the car pulled in discreetly outside Mr Fogarty's house. He sat staring straight ahead, hands gripping the wheel, as Henry climbed out.
This time Mr Fogarty answered the door at once. He was dressed in a blue serge suit that had seen better days, but still somehow had the feel of Sunday best. Henry found himself wondering if he was planning to go to church. Pyrgus was standing behind him, a look of keen anticipation on his face.
'You need a pee or anything?' Fogarty asked.
'No,' Henry said.
'OK, boys, off you go. Keep your eyes peeled and your wits about you. Get straight back here afterwards. And good luck.'
'How are we getting to the school?' Henry asked.
Fogarty looked at him in surprise. 'Bernie's driving you. That's what he does.'
Henry glanced at Pyrgus, then back at Mr Fogarty. 'He, ah… I mean, he doesn't know what we're, you know… I mean, how are we going to explain the stuff… the stuff we bring back afterwards?'
'Of course he knows,' Fogarty said impatiently. 'What's the point of having a driver if he doesn't know the score?'
'But… but…' Henry protested. He looked at Pyrgus for support and got none. 'Won't he… like… you know, disapprove -?'
Fogarty actually cracked a smile. 'What you talking about, Henry? Bernie?' The smile disappeared. 'Bernie and me worked together.'
'Yes, but that was engineering!' Henry said. 'This is something different.'
Fogarty looked at him in bewilderment. 'I wasn't an engineer,' he said.
Henry just stared back at him. Mr Fogarty could make anything. It was about the first thing Henry'd learned about him. Mechanical stuff, electrical stuff -even as an old man he had magic hands. Henry had always assumed he'd been an engineer of some sort when he was younger. 'What were you?' he asked.
'Bank robber,' Fogarty told him without a second's hesitation.
'Bank… robber?' Henry echoed.
'Armed robber,' Fogarty said. 'Thought you knew.'
'No,' Henry said wonderingly. 'No…'
'Did time in fifty-eight, but apart from that it was a good life. Decent money and didn't do much harm to anybody.'
'Armed robbery?' Henry stuttered. 'Didn't do much harm -?'
'This was banks, Henry,' Fogarty told him. 'Put your savings in a bank and I nick them tomorrow, you still get your money back. Walk in day after and draw out every penny. So who's hurt?'
'The bank,' Henry said.
'Banks have more money than they know what to do with. Never missed the few quid I took from them. And I never hurt anybody,' Fogarty said soberly. He hesitated, then added, 'Except that guard, and he deserved it, cocky scrat. But he didn't die or anything. Couple of weeks in hospital and he was back on the job boasting to his mates.' He gave a little half-smile. 'Those were good days, Henry. Bernie was my driver. When he wasn't inside.'
'You mean Bernie drove your getaway car?' It was unbelievable.
'Great wheelman,' Fogarty said. 'You know what makes a great wheelman, Henry?'
'No,' Henry said. Although in the circumstances he thought he'd better find out.
'Anonymity,' Fogarty told him. 'Somebody doesn't draw attention to himself. Bernie gets himself an old, nondescript car – Ford usually, because of the reliability – never exceeds the speed limit, always signals when he's turning right, never gives the finger to another driver, quiet spoken, soul of tact. Coppers wouldn't pull him over in a fit. Mind you, he could put on a turn of speed when he had to. Used to have us bouncing like Streets of San Francisco sometimes. Used to jibe him about it afterwards, me and the boys.'