Harry looked round Micky’s kitchen. It was gleaming, neat, all wooden-fronted units, very modern. He touched it. Definitely real wood. He opened the fridge. It was well stocked. He took out eggs and bacon, some butter, then looked round for the pans. One of the cupboards was stacked with rows and rows of vitamins. Harry picked up a jar, read the label, then put it back. He’d never had time for that sort of crap. He moved to the stove and fiddled with a knob. It was one of those newfangled things, the hot plates just colored circles. He couldn’t work out which ring he’d turned on, so he held his hand out over all of them.
Bloody thing!
Micky was working out in his bedroom, sweating, grunting out press-ups. He could hear Harry moving round the kitchen. The rest of Micky’s small flat was like the kitchen, neat and tasteful, devoid of any frills. All very masculine and clean-cut. He had done it on the cheap, by himself, and he was quite proud of the result. His dad had been a carpenter and he knew what he was doing.
Micky could smell bacon cooking. That was usually enough to get him salivating. But this morning his stomach was knotted, his nerves on edge. He didn’t think he’d be able to face breakfast. He concentrated on his push-ups: forty-two... forty-three. He’d hit fifty and call it quits.
Harry yelled from the kitchen that breakfast was up. Micky picked up a towel and wiped himself down. As he walked from the bedroom, he saw Harry’s two cases all packed. Micky went back into the bedroom and picked up his own case, placing it beside Harry’s, then grabbed a dirty ashtray and emptied it, replacing it with a new one. He hated the smell of stale cigarette smoke. Then he walked into the kitchen. Harry was sitting on a stool at the small table, his plate piled high with eggs, bacon and fried bread. He looked up with his mouth full and indicated with his fork a plate of eggs for Micky.
Micky went over to the cupboard and took down several jars of vitamins, then got himself some fruit juice. He shook a handful of pills into his palm and washed them down with the juice.
Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t want you rattling round this afternoon with that lot inside you.’
Micky replaced the jars, then took a cloth and wiped the grease spits from around the cooker. Then he saw the greasy frying pan and suddenly felt nauseous. He took a deep breath, got some honey from the cupboard and spooned it into his coffee, before sitting down opposite Harry.
Harry wiped his plate with his bread and pushed it away. He lit a cigarette.
Micky leaned back and wafted the smoke away with his hand.
‘Few last-minute details,’ Harry began. ‘You get the gear, move off on the bike with Brian, as arranged. Get a good distance away from the club, half-way to the lock-up, then give him some crap about having to pull up. You’ve got to dump him, fast, then turn tail and make it back here. I’ll be waiting. We’ve only got an hour to make that plane. There’s another one an hour after, but I’d like to get the first one.’
Micky didn’t think he was hearing right. He couldn’t make sense of what Harry was saying. He stared, open-mouthed.
Harry pushed Micky’s plate of eggs closer to him. ‘Something wrong with my cooking, Micky?’
‘I’m not with you. Dump him? What d’you mean?’
Harry got up and walked into the lounge, looking for an ashtray. Micky watched him through the open door.
‘Just get rid of him. You’ve got to get back here.’
Micky got up and went to the door. ‘What about the lads back at the lock-up? If we’re coming back here with the gear, who’s paying them off? They’re going back to the lock-up.’
Harry gave him a funny look. ‘You got fifty grand for any of them? Well? They’re coming steaming back to the lock-up, hands out for two hundred and fifty grand. You got it?’
Micky walked further into the room. Harry was now flicking through his passport, the forged one bought from Colin Soal. He seemed relaxed, businesslike. Micky felt the ground opening up under his feet.
‘But you can’t! You think they’ll all just take it? Pull a caper like this and then get shafted? They’ll come after us, every bleedin’ one of them. Jesus Christ, I wouldn’t blame them!’
Harry closed his briefcase and laughed. ‘They’ll have to find us first, won’t they?’
Micky just looked stunned.
‘Maybe we’ll send them somethin’ when we change the gems,’ Harry said with a chuckle.
Micky began shaking his head. A few last-minute details. Holy shit.
‘What about Jimmy, Jimmy Glazier back in Rio? I mean, he set the whole thing up, didn’t he?’
Harry whipped round. ‘I set it up, Micky. Me and no one else. You better remember that.’
Micky followed Harry into the kitchen, watching as he poured himself another coffee. His hands were steady as he picked up the honey pot and stirred in a spoonful.
‘I’ll try this for a change.’
Micky sat down. The initial shock had worn off and he was starting to think it through.
It was true, they didn’t have any cash left, if the sixty grand from the women was all there was. He’d assumed Harry had some more cash stashed away somewhere to bankroll the job. Micky could feel his heart pounding. And what about Rintle? Harry had agreed to give him cash up front, and there was no way they could pull off the job without him.
Then there was himself. Was he going to have to watch his own back now? How was it going to work between them once they’d got the gems?
Harry got up and patted him on the shoulder, as if he was reading his thoughts.
‘I did the cooking, Micky. You do the washing up.’
Ray walked into the kitchen and found Greg leering at the Page Three girl in the paper.
‘Right, put that away, son. You need to get cracking and pick up the Transit. You gotta be in position.’
Greg turned the page over. ‘No panic, Ray. There’s hours to go. I’m not even going to take the van ’til after two.’
Ray leaned over the table, his voice a harsh whisper. ‘You just get over to the garage and check the van’s OK. You gotta get into position in plenty of time, so you need to leave now.’
Greg picked up the paper and shoved it under his arm. ‘You gettin’ the wind up, are ya, Ray?’
Ray clipped him one, then shoved him toward the door, as a sleepy-looking Audrey appeared.
‘What you all doin’? You know the time? It’s Sunday, for crying out loud.’
Ray gave a half-hearted laugh, flicking Greg a warning look to get going. Greg walked to the back door.
Audrey looked at him. ‘Where you goin’?’
Ray patted Greg’s shoulder. ‘He’s got some cars to clean down the garage.’
‘See you later then, Ray,’ Greg said cheerily.
I bloody well hope so, Ray thought to himself.
Audrey waddled to the fridge and took out eggs and bacon. ‘You fancy a fry-up?’
Ray felt his stomach do a flip. ‘I’m fine, love.’
‘You all right, darlin’? You were up and down half the night, pacing round. You’d think you was having the kid, not me.’
The phone rang, and Ray almost jumped out of his skin. Audrey put her hand on his arm as he reached for it.
‘It’ll be the woman about the carrycot.’
Ray let out a breath, but his nerves were still jangling.
‘Make us some toast, would you, love?’ Audrey called, picking up the phone. Ray’s hand shook so much he could cut nothing better than a huge doorstep.
‘She wants fifty quid!’ Audrey yelled to him. ‘It’s a pram and carrycot combined. In mulberry!’ She came back into the kitchen. ‘She wants an answer now; got another woman after it. Sounds nice, Ray. Mulberry... What shall I tell her?’
Ray pulled out a wad of notes, then took out two twenties and a ten. Audrey blew him a kiss and went back to the phone. Moments later she came back in, beaming.