The black man was wearing a Nike sweatshirt, shot through with sweat. He had Gap khakis which were deep stained from where he’d wet himself. Gant was dressed in a Barbour coat, tan cords. The browning automatic held loosely at his side was almost incidental. He said,
‘Ah Mitch, glad you could join us.’
The black man’s eyes were huge in his head, locked on mine, they were pleading. Gant said,
‘As I mentioned, I do appreciate your lone stand against the... protectors. So now, I give you one of them as a mark of my gratitude.’
I took a deep breath, said,
‘He’s not one of them.’
Gant near exploded, looked to Norton, to the black man, then slowly back to me. His eyes were black stones. He asked,
‘How can you tell, surely they all look the same?’
‘Mr Gant, when they beat you with total precision, you remember.’
He lashed out with his foot and smashed the black man’s knee.
Turned to Norton, said,
‘You moron, what did you do — grab the first nigger you saw?’
Norton said nothing.
Gant struggled for control, then shrugged, said,
‘Oh well.’
And shot the black man in the head.
The shot reverberated in the warehouse and I swear I heard pigeons in startled flight. Gant said,
‘So sorry, Mitch, to have wasted your time.’
A thousand thoughts were driving in my skull but I decided to play poker, said,
‘All is not lost, Mr Gant.’
He tried to rein in the sarcasm, said,
‘Oh really?’
‘How would this be? You leave the man in the chair, deliver him as is to the building in Brixton, put a sign on him, let it be.’
‘A sign?’
‘Sure... how about,
You borrowed...
You pay...
back.’
A slow smile began on Gant’s lips, building to an outright grin. He said,
‘Brilliant, I love it. Norton, deliver the goods.’
Norton looked extremely pissed off, said,
‘Mr Gant, it could be tricky.’
And got the look from Gant.
Gant came over, put his arm round my shoulder, said,
‘Mr Mitchell, I may have under-estimated you.’
I gave my modest look. Then he stood back, said,
‘Good Lord, I love the tracksuit.’
Thursday morning, I’m heading for work, my nose hurts like a dead horse. I bang refuse to analyse the events of last night.
Joe De Vecchio, ‘The Thirteenth Valley’ — ‘It don’t mean nothing, drive on.’
Pretend as is.
Naturally, there’s a queue and everybody’s paying with cheque or card. I don’t have a weekly pass cos I’m getting a car soon and soonest.
There’s an elderly man in front of me and he’s bewildered by the delay. Finally, we get our tickets and head for the tolls. As we go through, the old man’s wallet slips from his pocket.
A fat wallet.
Seen by me and the ticket collector.
There’s the moment, hanging for one glorious suspended second as your instincts ride your beliefs. I bend, pick it up, say,
‘Sir, I think you dropped this.’
The ticket collector and I lock eyes then he tips his index finger to his cap. The old man is amazed and delighted.
I brush off his gratitude with a shrug. I know myself pretty good. You lie in a bunk bed, twelve hours of lock-down, you see the depths. If the ticket collector hadn’t seen it, I’d have kept it, no danger.
I get on the train, settle into a corner seat, am about to hit my walkman. I’ve got Leonard Cohen’s ‘Dance Me To The End Of Love’ and ‘Old Blue Raincoat’. Ready to roll.
The old man sits beside me, says,
‘I do so awfully hate to intrude but I am so terribly grateful.’
His accent is even plummier than Margaret Thatcher’s when she imposed the poll tax. I nod. Encouraged, he says,
‘I must tell you a most remarkable story. Apropos what just happened, it has a certain resonance.’
Every chancer in London has a story. I just wish they didn’t have to tell them on the tube. But here he goes.
‘I was required to give a urinary sample!’
Here he paused, to check I understood what urine was, then,
‘As I had trouble producing at the hospital, they said I might bring it home.’
I tried to look like I was hanging on his every word.
‘But dear boy, what does one bring it in?’
I could give a fuck, said,
‘How complex.’
‘So I used a naggin’ bottle of Johnnie Walker.’
If he was expecting praise, I hadn’t got it. He continued,
‘En route I stopped at the PO to collect my pension.’
‘Hmmmhh.’
‘When I emerged, the bottle was gone, what a hoot, eh?’
We’d come to the Embankment and I had to change for the Circle Line. I said,
‘Keep it in your pants, eh?’
He gave a smile, if dubious in its downswing.
I spent Friday on the roof; it needed major repair, and I decided to tell Jordan. He said,
‘We trust it to see us through another winter.’
‘Shall I not bother, then?’
He gave me a languid smile, said,
‘Fix the most glaring damage, we don’t want Madam leaked upon.’
I figured I could take that anyway I liked. After a day of cosmetic work, I was feeling vertigo. Decided to grab a shower and a brewski. There was no new tracksuit waiting. Thing is, I was a tiny bit disappointed.
My first full week of, if not honest, at least regular work.
Jordan appeared, handed me an envelope, said,
‘We presumed you’d prefer cash.’
‘Good move, Jord.’
He didn’t go, and I was tempted to say — ‘dismissed’. What I said was,
‘What?’
‘Aren’t you going to count it?’
‘I trust you, pal.’
He flicked at a hair on his lapel, said,
‘Then you would be making a serious error.’
I counted it, went,
‘Shit... is this for a week or a month?’
He smiled. I wasn’t exhilarated but I was one contented ex-con, said,
‘Whatcha say, Jordy, I buy you a large one down your local.’
A beat, then, ‘I don’t fraternise with the help.’
I’d hoped for a glimpse of Lillian but it wasn’t to be. On the train, I considered my plan for the weekend. Nice and simple, find the two fucks who’d kicked Joe to death. Eight that evening, I’d finished a curry and was working my way down a six pack.
The phone rang.
‘Yeah?’
‘Mr Mitchell... it’s R Gant — not disturbing you am I?’
‘No, sir, just relaxing.’
‘Good man, Mitch... might I call you that?’
‘Sure.’
‘No ill feelings about last night?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Might I pose you a question?’
I wondered why he was talking like a gobshite but it was his dime. I said,
‘Shoot.’
A pause, then,
‘Jolly good, very timely. My question is this, what do you consider to be the most valuable asset?’
‘Jeez, I dunno. Probably money... sex... digital TV.’
‘It’s power, Mitch, and the most powerful tool is information.’
‘You’re on to something, Sir.’
Like boring the bejaysus outta me. He said,
‘I’d like to share some information with you.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Not over the phone. I’ve reserved a table for eight at Browns tomorrow evening.’