Richard was bursting to get out of the house. His hangover was surprisingly mild; fighting the tedium of the night before’s New Year’s Eve party at the Oxo Tower, he’d got sloshed and satisfied himself with a few sneaky tokes of wacky backy in the toilets with one of the glamorous Eastern European waitresses. Anyway, it wasn’t the drink that gave him headaches these days.
Richard walked into the migraine-bright bathroom. The face in the bathroom mirror wasn’t exactly what you’d call handsome but neither was it particularly ugly. A lived-in face, perhaps. With more lines than the London Underground, though.
Well, he was a kick in the arse off fifty and teetering on the precipice of a mid life crisis. What did he expect?
He was lucky, though, in that, unlike most of his mates, he hadn’t developed a beer belly. The fake, black Hugo Boss suit fit him as well as it had fifteen years ago when he’d bought it in Bangkok, in fact. The fact that he still wore it pissed Caroline off no end, which was an added bonus, of course.
Richard straightened his tie in the bedroom mirror, picked up his stainless-steel briefcase and headed downstairs, barely noticing his long-neglected guitar that was propped up in the corner.
“Oh, and Richard. Could you pop into Muji and get some of that string stuff?” shouted Caroline as he reached the bottom stair.
“Eh?” said Richard.
“You know, it was in Australian Elle? To make the plant pots look more rustic.”
Richard grunted an affirmative but he was already on his way out of the door; the more he listened to Caroline, the more he felt as if he was drowning in a well of disappointment. He supposed he should have asked her a little more about who was going to be at the dinner party but the weight of numb indifference overwhelmed him. Probably the usual hodgepodge of fourth-tier media tossers and middle-management wankers, he guessed.
Richard got into his Mercedes, threw his briefcase on to the back seat and opened up the glove compartment. He took out a fist-sized hip flask. Drinking in the morning — especially when he had a drive south of the river to Vinopolis — probably wasn’t the best idea in the world but it would help him keep his life at arm’s length. He thought of the W.C. Fields line: “She drove me to drink, it’s the one thing I’m indebted to her for.”
Richard pushed the hip flask into his jacket pocket and opened a packet of L&M cigarettes. He took a big hit and gazed up at his six-bedroom West London home. There was only him and Caroline living there but it still felt claustrophobic, suffocating.
One of his old mates had referred to it as Xanadu — like the cavernous house in Citizen Kane; stuffed with “the loot of all the world” but containing nothing Kane’s wife “really cared about”.
Roxy Music’s “In Every Dream Home a Heartache” corkscrewed through Richard’s mind every night as he walked up the garden path after another uneventful day at work.
Richard buckled up and started the engine. He switched on the radio and Dexy’s Midnight Runners were singing “Burn It Down” as he pulled out of the driveway into Sycamore Road. Not a bad idea, he thought. Not bad at all.
He turned into Bath Road and headed south. It was a cold, granite-coloured morning. He stared out of the car window, barely focusing on the rows of detached houses being smudged by the January rain. For a while he drove aimlessly, listening to the music.
Ten years of this he thought. You’d get less for murder.
2
“Learned it from Andy McNab books, didn’t I, Ken?” said Big Jim, cleaning the blood from the dagger. He threw the stainless-steel briefcase on to the back seat of his red Jag.
“You stab ’em under the ribcage, see? So the blade isn’t deflected by bone and then you puncture the heart and twist,” he continued.
Kenny Rogan wheezed as he lifted Half-Pint Harry’s body from the ground. Shit, I’m out of condition, he thought. Once a semi-professional footballer now a full-time barfly. He’d even given up the Blue Anchor’s Sunday league and he got a hot flush when he bent down to fasten his shoe laces.
Big Jim nodded as he took the legs. Jim was as much use as a condom in a convent most of the time, thought Kenny, but when it came to the heavy lifting he was the man for the job; built like a brick shithouse and bearing more than a passing resemblance to one too. His face was so lived-in, even squatters wouldn’t stay there.
“Looks a mess, eh, Kenny?” said Big Jim.
“Was no oil painting when he were alive, mind you. Would make a good Jackson Pollock, though, eh?” said Kenny. “Picasso, even...”
“Jackson Bollocks, more like it.” said Jim, with a 5,000-watt grin.
“Very droll, James. Very sharp. You’ll be cutting yourself if you’re not too careful,” said Kenny.
They stuffed the body in the boot of the Jaguar and slammed it shut. The car was Jim’s pride and joy. He’d had it since it was new and he considered it a classic car from back in the good old days.
Jim was a man who didn’t like change. An ageing Teddy boy, his car even had an old eight-track cartridge that exclusively played the two Eddies — Eddie Cochran and Duane Eddy.
“Right annoying fucker, though, eh? Non stop motormouth. Geordie twat,” said Jim.
Jim took the hosepipe and sprayed it around the lock up.
“Wasn’t a Geordie,” said Kenny.
“Eh?” said Jim.
Kenny grinned.
“Half-Pint Harry. He wasn’t from Newcastle. He was from Sunderland, James. Was a mackam,” he said.
“What’s a fackin’ mackam when it’s at home?” said Jim.
“A mackam’s... like a decaffeinated Geordie,” said Kenny, chuckling to himself.
“The north’s all the same to me,” said Big Jim.
“I wholeheartedly agree,” said Kenny. “Mushy peas, black pudding, pease pudding, fishy-wishy-fuckin’-dishy. I usually start to hear the duelling banjos from Deliverance as soon as I get north of Finchley.”
Jim wasn’t listening, though. He was rubbing a pair of black tights between the fingers of one hand and scrutinizing a pair of black patent leather high heels like they were a magic-eye painting.
“Not too keen on Plan B, then?” said Kenny with a grin as he dropped his trousers.
“Do we have to?” said Jim.
“Not much choice now that Half-Pint Harry’s worm meat. This clobber is our best front door key,” said Kenny.
He clumsily stripped to his snowman boxer shorts and struggled to pull a gold sequined dress over his shaven head.
3
“You go the Lord Albert last night?” said Lynne, before using the Clarkeson’s Jewellers complimentary pen to snort a hill of cocaine. Eight o’clock on New Year’s Day wasn’t the best time for her to start work and she knew she’d need a little lift.
She passed the pen to George. It was mass-produced shit and the Brixton address had been misspelled but then Clarkeson’s were cheap bastards. They’d made money hand over fist over the last few years but still cut costs wherever they could.
Lynne had been manager there for four years now and had only had one pay rise. It was a trap but there she was in her mid forties, single and under-qualified. She didn’t exactly have a bucket-load of choices.
“Oh, I did,” said George, “but it was completely dead. As much fun as Morrissey’s stag night.” He took a big snort.
Lynne checked her make-up in the mirror and pushed up her breasts, her best asset, she thought.
“Somewhere to park your bike,” said George looking at her cleavage.
Lynne tossed her dyed red hair back dramatically.