Surrounded by the shining silence of the stairs, he had felt safe. Now, though, there are sounds. Mrs Mulwray has turned on a television. From the street, he hears quiet voices speaking a strange language. He stands on the final step, wondering what to do. He has been in this position for some time when he notices that he is visible to Mrs Mulwray. There is a convex mirror high on the wall, tilted so that from her booth she is able to see up the stairs, where he is standing. With sudden purpose, he propels himself towards the exit. The outside air seems to stroke his skin. Passing the phone, he stops. There is something else … Something … He must establish the fact that he is leaving. He must, or she will make him pay. Turning, and trying to project his voice, he says, ‘Um … Guhnight …’
Part of Mrs Mulwray’s face emerges into view. ‘Goodnight,’ she says.
Quarter to eight in the morning, and Regency Square looks less swanky. A street sweeper (not Malcolm, though his ‘patch’ is only a few metres further east) slowly plies the margin, and in the unforgiving light the terraces and hotels look their age. They look tired. They look fed up. Curtains cover their windows like flannels on mature eyes — eyes that have seen through everything, that have no youthful illusions left. The lawn is flecked with litter. Everything looks moist and streaked with dirt. A seagull squats on the head of the bronze soldier, his bronze arm outstretched, symbol of the fallen in an unfashionable war.
Entering Russell Square with a holdall in his hand, Paul Rainey looks up at the rotten brown cornices and window frames of the Queensbury guest house. The spicy odour of superskunk is noticeable on the pavement outside. On the stairs, it intensifies. Outside Andy’s door it is vivid. Andy is sitting in bed in his boxer shorts smoking a spliff. Seeing his torso, Paul is surprised how fat he is. Loaves of pale flab sit on the waistband of his shorts. Downy tits, round shoulders. He looks up, pale-eyed. ‘What are you doing?’ Paul says, stepping into the smoke-filled room.
‘Quick doob.’ Andy’s voice is hoarse.
‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘Oh, come on …’ he says, in a whisper.
‘We’ve got work to do.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
Paul shoves aside the greasy lace curtain and opens the window. The grotty sash gives with a scraping grunt. ‘You can smell that thing all up the stairs,’ he says. ‘Put it out.’ Surprisingly, without a word, Andy does so, stubbing it out on the inner surface of the mug, which he is using as an ashtray. He yawns, showing fat teeth. ‘There’s the suit,’ Paul says, indicating the holdall. Andy nods. ‘What size are your feet?’
‘Nine.’
‘Fine. I’ve brought some shoes as well.’ The big black brogues — highly polished ebony artefacts — would be as implausible as the chalk stripe. ‘I’ll wait for you downstairs,’ Paul says. ‘You’ve got five minutes.’
‘Do you want me to wear the suit?’
‘No. Why would I? You can try it on later.’
In the corridor downstairs the smell of superskunk mingles with the smells of toast and tea. Quiet munching and murmuring sounds emanate from the dining room. Paul steps out into the dank morning air and stands on the discoloured chequer of the front steps.
‘Where’s the instructions?’ he says, when Andy joins him.
‘Oh.’
‘Go and get them.’
Andy trudges up the stairs. ‘Where we going?’ he asks, when he next emerges.
‘Somewhere. I don’t know.’
They wander off in search of a café, ending up in the Starbucks on Market Street. There Paul studies the newspaper while Andy studies Watt’s instructions. When he has looked through them a few times, Paul puts down the paper and tests him. ‘What’s your email address?’ ‘What sort of strawberries you offering?’ ‘How many grams in a punnet?’ ‘What’s the most usual price this week?’ ‘What price are you asking for?’ ‘Why might an inspection be a problem?’ When Andy scores poorly on these questions, he spends a further half an hour studying, while Paul purchases a lemon muffin and a second latte (wondering, in the queue, whether to expense them), and then settles down to the international news and sport. Andy also fails the second test. He is still quite stoned and only able to remember one or two facts at a time.
When Paul asks him, ‘How many grams in a punnet?’ he stares at him with pink eyes for a few moments and then says, ‘Four hundred?’
‘No.’
‘Um.’ Andy frowns. ‘How many?’
Paul puts down the stapled sheets of A4. He has passed a long night of tedious meditations; meditations that went nowhere, like one of the kiddy-rides on the seafront. Nevertheless, he now wonders for the umpteenth time whether to tell Andy to fuck off back to London and forget the whole thing. Start looking for someone else. To proceed with him seems suicidal. Watt, though, would never wear a postponement. With a sigh, Paul picks up the pages. ‘Two hundred and twenty-seven,’ he says.
Andy nods. ‘Oh yeah.’
Once more in the room on the top floor of the guest house — it has to be vacated by noon — they turn to the equipment. Paul spent Saturday night experimenting with it. There are two units. The first is the camera. Made of rough, unmarked plastic, it has a serious, functional, professional look. On one side there is a small hole, and on the other a socket where the wire plugs in. Were it not for the battery, it would weigh nothing. The other unit is the digital video recorder, which looks more like an ordinary item of consumer electronics, with a metal finish and some chrome buttons. Watt has prepared the bag for use himself — he has made a small hole in the side, and seems to have sewn in a pouch of the camera’s exact size so that the ‘lens’ — it is more of a pinprick — is aligned with this hole. Ensuring that it is pointing towards Martin, Andy will simply have to open the bag and press record on the DVR. Taking out the punnets of fruit — they stopped into Tesco’s for them, and have transferred them to the unmarked punnets which Paul pilfered from work — will provide an ideal pretext for doing this. On Saturday night, while Heather and the kids slept, Paul recorded some images and played them back on the TV; the picture quality was surprisingly sharp, even in low light. He shows Andy how it works, and they take some practice shots, working out how the bag has to be positioned in order to find an object in the camera’s angle of view.