CAUSE & EFFECT (22 page)

“Anyone home?”

Miranda, Diane and John were in the front room.

“I’ll put a brew on, shall I?” He wandered through to the kitchen and listened for tell-tale footsteps behind him, which weren’t long in coming.

“Alright, babe?” Miranda’s voice reached him before she did.

He didn’t answer until she was facing him, and he didn’t need to say a word.

“Karl didn’t put any pressure on me or Dad.”

“Is that s’posed to make me feel better?”

Miranda moved around him, setting out the cups and fetching milk from the fridge. They waited together in silence, glances passing for sentences, and then took a tray through.

Diane went first. “It’s a favour for a friend — a friend who has looked after you and Miranda. Is it the fake cards that are bothering you?”

“Hardly. It’s the whole bloody principle of you and John having to call in favours of your own for Karl. You don’t know what this is all about.”

“We don’t need to know.” John stirred into life.

“What’s the matter, don’t you trust us?” Miranda shot him a poisonous glance. “Or is it your precious job again?” She crossed her legs.

She got up to answer the door, leaving him hanging; she’d played this game before as well. The Indian takeaway helped to defuse the tension. John went to help sort out the food, which left Thomas with Diane.

“It’s not a problem, Thomas.”

Maybe not for you.

He didn’t stick around after the curry.

Days later, the balloon went up. Thomas caught an item on the early morning news about a drink-driver who had left a pub and ploughed into a family walking home. One of the two children — already on the critical list — had succumbed to her injuries overnight, a few days ahead of the sentencing. Thomas was certain — this was the one. He rechecked his bag before he went to work.

The call came through around nine a.m., just as Thomas and Karl were doing another observation on Paulette Villers. Karl turned up the volume on his mobile so Thomas could hear. Ken sounded wired.

“They put a note through my letterbox, first thing. I’m to be ready for the next few days. It’s not as organised as the last two jobs. Are you still there, Karl?”

“Where are you now? Are you safe?”

He could see the change in Karl. One moment they were joking about Paulette Villers doing her laundry at work for free and now Karl was icily calm.

“Stick to the plan, Ken. Where are you?”

“I’m on my way to the shops. Same routine, like you said.”

“Okay, Ken. From now on, keep everything you need close to hand. We’ll drop by as arranged, straight after work. Try to stay calm — and sober — until then. One more thing: don’t ring me unless it’s urgent. Goodbye.”

Karl touched his fingers to his lips.

“The truth is, Thomas, I’m out of my depth. I can spirit Ken away, right enough, but I can’t give him a new life. I reckon they’ll turn off the tap to his bank account after four days, tops. Honest to God, I intended to put something together for him financially — with more time. Do you think John and Diane would be able to lend me some money? You know I’ll pay them back.”

“You must think a lot of him.”

“He’d do the same for me, no question.”

And yet, Thomas thought, you’ve never mentioned him in two years.

“So what do you reckon?” Karl looked up. “About the money?”

“How much will you need?”

“I dunno. Two thousand, maybe? More would be better, obviously.”

“And then what?” He felt the heat rising up the back of his neck. “How you gonna pay them back, and what if you can’t?”

“I’ve just said, haven’t I?”

“I get the army camaraderie, but why are you so keen to fix his mistakes?”

Karl snorted and shook his head. “No, Tommo, you don’t get it at all. Camaraderie, my arse. You see it on-screen and it’s all heroics and medals. But out there, in the shit and the shadows, when you don’t know what’s coming round the corner, you put your life in the hands of your regiment. That means something, even once you’re out on Civvy Street. Christ, if it wasn’t for Ken I wouldn’t even be here having this conversation, okay? Now, will you help me get the fucking money together?”

“Yes.” He patted Karl’s shoulder with a smile. “When you put it like that, how could I refuse? Drop me off at Caliban’s.”

Miranda’s car wasn’t parked in its usual spot next to Sheryl’s. The front was locked so he went to the side and pressed the intercom.

“Hey stranger, what are you selling?” Sheryl sounded like she wanted to play but he wasn’t in the mood.

“Can you let me in?”

“Sure, come right up.” She was a fast learner; she cut the banter and met him at the top of the stairs. “Is everything okay? Miranda’s not around. Anything I can do?”

Yeah, if you’ve got a two grand float in the till.

“Lemme get you a coffee. You look like you could do with one.”

He followed her on the promise of caffeine.

“I was sorry to hear you’ve been dragged into Jack’s world.”

He raised a mug to her. “Seems only fair as I helped put him in prison.”

“Something else I’m sorry you had to get involved with, not that I don’t appreciate it. Miranda shouldn’t be long — wanna shoot some pool while we wait?”

She teetered forward a little, daring him to accept the challenge.

“Go on then.”

“Great. I can use one hand if you like?”

Somehow Sheryl always found a way to make anything sound salacious. Maybe Miranda had given her lessons. He racked up the balls and slammed the cue ball into the pack. No planning, no finesse; he wanted to lose himself in the game and stop thinking. Two stripes down and he entertained fantasies of victory; it didn’t last long. Sheryl knew her way around a pool table like Karl knew his way around an armoury. All it took was one mistake in the jaws of a corner pocket and then Sheryl went to work.

“You know . . .” She leaned on the table and looked over her shoulder at him, her pose reminiscent of a French film Miranda once took him to. “I could always teach you.”

“I prefer to learn by experience.”

She laughed and promptly sliced the cue ball, ricocheting it into a middle pocket. He didn’t waste the opportunity; the odds were that this would be his luckiest break of the day. Maybe she’d slipped something in his coffee because he was leading by two games ahead when he heard Miranda’s voice downstairs.

“We’re up here!” Sheryl sang out. “Thomas is showing me how to play pool — York
shire
style.”

Miranda’s footsteps padded up the stairs. “You’ll be needing a flat cap then. She turned to him. “To what do we owe the considerable pleasure, Mr Bladen?”

“Beats me.” Sheryl conceded the game by grabbing the black and plunging it down a pocket. “I couldn’t loosen his tongue. Anyone fancy fresh coffee?”

Good girl; she knew when she wasn’t wanted.

“No, ta.”

“Back soon. Be nice to one another.”

Miranda scooped up the cue ball and rolled it across the baize.

“Shouldn’t you be out working, or have you and Karl had a lovers’ tiff?”

He stopped the ball and span in on the spot, watching it going nowhere.

“Karl needs some money for Ken.”

She took it well, as if finding two grand at short notice was nothing for her.

“All my money’s tied up in this place. You could always ask Jack’s wife for help.” She flashed a smile, as if to say, ‘Kidding.’ “Or we could ask Mum and Dad . . .”

“I was thinking more of Andrea Harrison — and our paintings.”

He stepped away from the pool table and waited for the storm. She took all of two seconds to make her mind up.

“Yeah, alright then. It’s not like we ever intended to collect on the deal.”

He felt his shoulders sag a little. “Miranda, I could kiss you. You are amazing.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“Hey!” Sheryl pitched up with two mugs. “Did someone mention kissing?”

“No time for coffee; me and Thomas are about to be artful.” She patted Thomas on the arse. “Come on, no time like the present — let’s go see Andrea.”

* * *

Thomas drove, to save Miranda the London congestion charge. After all the shit his job had put Miranda through, it was the least the Surveillance Support Unit could do.

“How much time do we have?”

“Us? All day. Karl can cover for me. Ken? Probably two days, three max.”

Traffic brought them to a standstill so they played one of their favourite games: reminiscence. Their walk down memory lane started in Leeds, where they first met all those years ago. Miranda went first.

“You ever wonder what would have happened if we’d stayed in Leeds?”

“I’d have a criminal record, probably.”

“How d’you figure that then?”

“The bloke I hit. I broke his nose. I heard about it from Mum and Dad after I wrote to them.”

She nodded. The bloke who’d had plans for her to be his topless model when she was barely seventeen. She laughed. “And you never thought to tell me, even after all these years?”

“Would it have made any difference?”

“Too right; I’d have bought you a better Christmas present as a thank you.”

“You’re definitely okay with this, Miranda? Still time to change your mind.”

She shook her head. “No thanks. And what about you, Thomas? Be honest now, aren’t you just the teensiest bit tempted by the cash? Those artworks ought to be worth four grand a piece.”

Only now, locking the car, did he give it any thought.

“Nah; truth is, it’s enough to know that Jack Langton
doesn’t
know. He’s a scumbag and I don’t want anything to do with him or his money. But if it helps Ken and Karl then I’m prepared to hold a candle to the devil this time.”

Andrea and RT stood together, schmoozing a punter while Virtue — from the opening night — took photographs. Thomas held Miranda back by the door and moved her to one side to get a better look at the camera: a Minolta Dynax 5 — not bad at all.

RT had another of his ‘arty’ hats on. Thomas wondered whether he enjoyed dressing up like a dick, or if it was an essential part of being ‘an artist.’ By the looks of things Andrea and RT were at the end of the sales presentation. It was all smiles and, “please take a catalogue,” before the mark checked his gold watch and departed. Virtue waited around and Thomas spotted Andrea palming some cash to her.

Andrea didn’t acknowledge them until both players had left the stage. “How lovely to see you.” Her face suggested she meant it. “Coffee?”

RT only had eyes for Miranda and Andrea didn’t seem fazed when Thomas explained why they were there. If anything, RT seemed chuffed that they appreciated the value of his work.

He stuck to the details without justification: quick sale, cash buyer and ASAP. He didn’t ask if she’d be taking her usual commission; that was a foregone conclusion.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Miranda pitched in.

“You’ll come for drinks, of course.” Andrea’s suggestion gave RT the sweats.

“We’d love to,” Miranda simpered, “but Thomas has some business to take care of for Jack. I’ll pop over tomorrow to collect the money.”

That seemed to take the sheen off Andrea’s pearly white smile.

* * *

He dropped her off after a celebratory lunch, pausing to check in with Karl. It no longer seemed to matter that she hadn’t got out of the car yet.

“Jaysus, I was beginning to think you had gone into witness protection.”

“Nah, just lunch. I think the money for Ken is sorted now.”

“How the hell did you . . ?”

“I didn’t — it was down to Miranda.”

“Hey, Karl!” She waved at the phone.

Thomas coughed and grabbed at her hand. “I’ll explain when I see you. I’m at Caliban’s. Where will I find you?”

Karl’s rendezvous point was a coffee house. Thomas settled for a latte; he was almost caffeined out. He filled Karl in about the great art sell-off.

“I’m speechless. I don’t know what to say.”

“Firstly, clearly that’s not the case. And secondly, there’s nothing to say.”

“And Miranda did that for me? Remind me to send her some flowers.”

“In your dreams. Now, what’s the plan for collecting Ken tonight?”

The more Thomas listened, the less he wanted to hear. They’d pick Ken up from his workplace at the end of his shift, approximately one thirty a.m., and then deliver him to John and Diane’s place. That stuck in Thomas’s throat like a stale crust.

“Come on, Tommo, who else could I trust with this? Your place would be known to Sir Peter — from the time your door got smashed in.”

He went silent. Sir Peter was somewhere at the heart of this yet Karl hardly mentioned him. Something to be sorted out when he got back from York.

* * *

London after hours was a city transformed. The gin houses of Hogarth’s time might have gone — crack houses now, more likely — but foxes weren’t the only predators lurking in the shadows. He had to think twice before leaving his Makarov pistol at home.

He was at the front door with his bag in hand before the last stroke of midnight, allowing himself ninety minutes to rendezvous with Miranda at Caliban’s before catching up with Karl for the big push. The only noise was a distant car’s sound system pissing off the neighbourhood. What would it be like, he wondered, to close the door on your life and simply disappear? He felt his lip curl into a half-smile; a new life with a few grand, courtesy of RT’s daubs.

The mobile sat in the car’s hands-free cradle; it didn’t have anything to say. He followed the road down to the park, edging the line of trees. Walthamstow High Street was almost deserted, apart from a couple of drunks in search of their lives. He made a beeline for Leyton and crossed the scar of the M11 link road. He remembered photographing the protestors as the bulldozers moved in on the shells of empty houses, and then trying to flog the pictures. In the end, a single picture made it into a left-wing magazine, although they forced him down on the price — power to the people.

Leyton became Stratford without a fanfare and then more late night traffic, in dribs and drabs, drivers shitting themselves at the sight of a police car parked up at the roadside. He instinctively tapped his coat pocket for his SSU ID. Force of habit. This time of night anything was possible.

First port of call was Caliban’s, where the lights shone out against the darkness. He rang from the car and Miranda said she’d be right down. Her travel bag looked heavy, but a few grand could do that, as he’d learned once doing a courier job for Sir Peter Carroll. It took a moment to realise someone was following behind her: John Wright.

Miranda got in the front.

She patted the bag on her lap. “Eight grand.”

He stared at her with an unspoken question about the ten grand total she’d originally texted him, and she stared right back. He gave up and turned round to John.

“Evening, Thomas.”

There was nothing to say on the drive over; everyone knew the score. Karl would meet them in his own car and then join them in theirs to wait for Ken to come out. Karl flashed his lights as they approached and got out to move a pair of road cones. He climbed into the back seat and shook John’s hand. The car clock read one-ten. Thomas watched Karl in his mirror, checking the clock against his watch — a big bastard of a watch. Maybe it was army issue.

“Even if he’s late, we’ll wait it out. Remember, as far as anyone there is concerned, it’s just another ordinary working day.”

Thomas smiled a little in the semi-darkness. Nothing was ordinary around Karl; he was the epicentre of the extraordinary. At one thirty-six and five seconds, not that Thomas was counting, Ken emerged carrying a holdall. He looked around, evidently clocked a car he was expecting, and signalled.

Karl got out and went over. Through the window it was clear that there was some kind of disagreement. Eventually Karl handed over a small box, which Ken thrust into his holdall.

Thomas warmed the engine up. As soon as Karl and Ken squeezed into the back seat Miranda passed over the envelope.

“Eight grand. Spend it wisely.”

Ken looked to Karl, who nodded his approval, before taking it.

“I’m in your debt, you two.”

Karl took command. “Okay, here’s how this works. Ken, John and I will go in my car. You two are off to Birmingham tomorrow. Ring in sick first thing, Tommo. Say a family situation has come up.”

Thomas watched as the back seat passengers filed out and transferred into Karl’s car.

“What’s the matter?” Miranda poked his arm. “Won’t they let you into their gang? Back to yours, then.”

He was fading by the time they reached Walthamstow. It had been a long day and his head was filled with questions. As Miranda opened the front door he clocked the envelope on the floor — two return tickets to York. Karl had kept his word.

Last thing before bed he checked that the cash cards were still in their hiding place among the DVDs, and that the list of contacts and mobile numbers had lain undisturbed beneath the cutlery tray. He was out like a light, lulled to sleep by a perfume that hadn’t changed in ten years.