Jim smiled. He thought the glasses gave him a cultured look. Like a proper civil servant. Though why a proper civil servant would need to pawn electrical goods was a big question. He avoided four chain pawnbrokers before finding an independent one. They’d still do checks, he knew that, but he reckoned he’d more chance of succeeding in a small shop. He’d get less money too, but that went with the territory.
Two days left. That was all. Just two days. He had considered ringing the big man when he woke this morning, telling him how near, or far, he was away. Admitting defeat. But he knew his sort. What he’d do is add on five grand interest and give him another week. He’d be going round in circles for months if he wasn’t careful. With every minute the police would get nearer, until eventually he’d owe fifteen grand to the nasty bastard from the inside of a prison cell.
Seven grand in two days. It couldn’t be that hard, could it?
Walking into the shop, he immediately spied a camera above and another behind the chicken-wire fronted counter. A large hatch to the side of the wire allowed goods to be handed over and returned. The man behind the counter, small, bearded and miserable, nodded his head.
Walking forwards until he was face to face with chicken wire, Jim held up his bags. “Wii, iPad, laptop and Freeview box.”
The man screwed up his nose in a well-rehearsed bartering technique. “Not much cash around these days I’m afraid. How long do you want to borrow for?”
Jim pretended to think for a few seconds; he knew he wasn’t ever coming back. “A week, maybe two.”
“Let’s have a look then.”
He pulled a handle, spinning the hatch round so the empty side appeared in front of Jim. Placing the bags of goodies inside, Jim waited as the hatch spun back round.
Muttering and sighing, the man plugged the various items in except for the laptop. “You got a lead with this?”
“No.”
He tutted some more, but to his disgust it turned on. Jim realised as the screen turned pink with a yellow smiley face in the middle that he should have changed the background as well as deleting the files. Taking his time inspecting everything, he eventually turned back to Jim.
“Eight hundred the lot.”
Jim screwed up his face, but nodded anyway. It wasn’t a bad deal. He wished he’d come here instead of Terence with some of the other bits. He might have been one step nearer to ten grand. Handing over one of Geoffrey’s bank statements and his new driving licence for ID, he received eight hundred in twenties plus a small, carbon copy chit with a number and the details of his goods on.
“Do you want the bags back?” he asked.
“Nah, you’re alright,” said Jim.
“Sure? They’re bags for life.”
“No.” Jim walked to the door. “They’ll probably only last two days before breaking.”
The tubes were quieter mid-afternoon. Jim preferred them that way. Too many suited important people and nowhere to sit made for an unhappy man. Alighting at his stop, he walked towards his next destination. Despite the hospital being huge, it was near impossible to find. Asking in a shop, and being forced to buy a packet of fags in return, he got directions.
Walking inside the hospital, he approached the front desk wishing he’d brought some grapes or flowers. “Excuse me. Which ward is Geoffrey Morgan on?”
“What’s he in for?”
“Heart attack.”
“Try third floor reception.”
The flustered receptionist moved onto the next question asker as Jim waited for the lift. He’d never liked lifts and remembered why as the doors closed. He didn’t think it was claustrophobia, but just a minor fear of being hemmed in. Just like the cell walls. No room to stretch or move when you wanted to. Harry had said he was in the wrong game if he didn’t like being detained. “You wanna move into gardening or scaffolding or something, lad. Being banged up’s part of the deal here. Part of the deal.”
The lift doors opened just as he felt sweat drip from his back. Walking out, he breathed heavily. At least he was in the right place if he collapsed. The clear and bright hospital walls and floors reflected the sun into his eyes. Squinting, he made for the third floor reception. The air was thick with a clinical, clean smell, and his head felt woozy from the heavy breathing.
“Excuse me, do you know where Geoffrey Morgan is?” His voice faltered. After all, he was hardly on a mercy mission.
“Ward three. Just down the corridor.” She pointed.
Jim followed the signs and red markings on the floor to the Coronary Care Support Unit. He knew the man he was looking for. He’d studied his picture enough, yet he didn’t know Geoffrey at all. Chances were Geoffrey wouldn’t recognise him. Even if he did, Jim didn’t know what to expect. Surely he wouldn’t just say, “Thanks for saving my life. Here’s ten grand for your trouble.”
No. Things didn’t happen like that. Not in the real world. Jim still didn’t fully know why he was here about to meet the man he should have killed. Maybe that was the reason.
Lying on his back and wired up to various machines, Geoffrey turned from his television to look at Jim as he turned the corner. Jim pitied the man in front of him. Bare-chested, pale and helpless, he looked like the proverbial death warmed up that he was. Jim saw his eyes widen as he stared. He seemed to recognise him. Jim was surprised. After all he was dying, all but dead, the last time he saw him.
“Hello.” A weak and frail voice. Like a ninety-year-olds. Jim half smiled and looked away from his eyes and towards the wall behind. Filled with electronic gadgets, wires and gizmos, Jim found himself wondering what he could get second-hand for the copper in the wires.
He looked back at Geoffrey. “How are you?” He knew it was a stupid question, but couldn’t think what to say. This had been a bad idea. Surely he’d know what Jim had been planning. It must be written all over his face.
“Been better.” He coughed. The bleeps and pulses of light flying across the monitors increased slightly in speed.
“Sorry, I haven’t brought you any grapes or anything.”
He kind of laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m sick of them.”
Silence filled the gap as Jim wondered what to say next. He reckoned Geoffrey was wondering too.
“Thanks,” Geoffrey said.
That seemed to say it all. Just a small apology. Jim waved it away. He didn’t deserve thanks. Charlotte had done most of the work, and besides, if she hadn’t have been there, God knows what he might have done.
“It’s okay. Anyone would have, you know.” Jim stopped and looked again at the monitors. The pulses, peaks and troughs were quite hypnotic. He reckoned he could stare at it for hours checking for each little change or irregularity. If you were hooked up to it, after a while, just watching it would make it change. Would it be possible to change the rhythm yourself to one you preferred to look at by breathing faster or slower?
“Sit down.” Geoffrey pointed at an orange plastic chair.
Jim sat down. Geoffrey smelt of hospital and sweat. He’d obviously not had a bath in days. Maybe a bed bath, but they never really got you clean. Jim thought of himself if ever he had to get a bed bath from a nurse. He knew it’d be a fight to not stand to attention. Thinking of Anne Widdecombe or cricket batting averages could only hold off so long.
“What’s your name?”
“Jim. The woman was Charlotte; she did all the work.”
“I can’t remember much to be honest. It seemed to happen in double speed. It was like I was trapped inside a bubble or something. Couldn’t speak or move; just this pain.”
He paused. His monitors and beeping had increased. Jim was terrified he was going to have another heart attack. Being next to him on both occasions would look suspicious.
“What have the doctors said?” Again he was struggling to find things to say. Why was he here?
“Warning sign. I need to wind it down a gear, take it easy in future.” He sighed. “Have to find another easier job, plus somewhere else to live.”
Jim thought that in itself was probably more stressful than carrying on working. There was something he’d come here to do, but Geoffrey had just made that ten times harder. Of course it shouldn’t matter. He was fighting for his life here too. He knew Geoffrey was in so much debt he’d be bankrupt with or without the contents of his flat. But here, face to face. It didn’t make it easy.
“Do you, er,” Jim paused, “need anything? You know, clothes, stuff, anything from home.” He realised how desperate and badly worded that sounded.
“No thanks. My ex wife’s sorting some stuff out.” Geoffrey paused briefly and seemed to take in what Jim had said. “You’re amazing you know. Seriously, no one helps anyone in London. Yet you and that girl; what was her name again?”
“Charlotte.”
He nodded. “You not only stop in the street to help someone, but you actually then visit and offer to get them anything they need. You’re not from London are you?”
Jim guessed it wasn’t just his accent that gave him away. “Coventry.”
“Never been there. Maybe I might now. Maybe I might.”
Geoffrey managed ten more minutes of talking before nodding off to sleep. Still sat in the little plastic chair, Jim placed his hand on the bedside cabinet. The bottom part of the cupboard opened outwards. What would Geoffrey have inside? A washbag, house keys, maybe a couple of quid for the telephone? Or maybe not. The telephones and televisions seemed to work off some sort of payment card now. Again, the whole world had gone cashless leaving the honest criminal wanting.
Looking around, Jim opened the cupboard. Squeaking and creaking, it made too much noise for his liking. Geoffrey was still sleeping, along with the other patients, but Jim didn’t like this one bit. He looked inside. A brown dressing gown lay next to a few pairs of pants. Behind them, the new washbag, hastily bought from a chemist by his ex. A leather wallet beside was tempting. Very tempting.
Leaving the hospital, Jim felt a spring in his step. His confidence in something had been restored. It took him a while to realise what it had been restored in. Himself. The leather wallet was still inside Geoffrey’s bedside table. Its contents, forty quid and a driving licence, were also still there. Jim had walked away from it. Temptation had been fought back.
He liked to think that if the wallet had two hundred pounds instead of forty and a few credit cards he still would have left it. Yep, it would still be there. If there had been house keys he wouldn’t have taken them either. Of course he wouldn’t.
Sending a message,
Just been to visit Geoffrey. He’s a bit
weak
but okay x,
he headed for the tube.
Getting off the tube in the East End, her reply came,
You should have said. I would have come with you. What did he say?
Opening his lock-up, and retrieving the three packs of cards he’d left there, he replied,
He said to
thank you. You saved his life.
You did too,
she replied.
After closing the lock-up he went round the corner to the Queens Arms. With Mick and Tim playing pool it felt like time had stood still. He wondered if the pair actually did any work, but Mick’s new sheen of dusty white plaster said he’d at least put in an hour today.
Saying hello then buying a round of drinks, Jim headed to the pool table.
“How’s tricks?” said Mick.
“So so. Yourselves?”
“Not bad, ta,” said Tim, missing an easy pot. “Shit.” He shook his head.
“You’re losing your knack, pal,” said Mick.
Smiling, Jim got out the packs of cards and opened them.
“Bit early for poker, mate,” said Mick, potting a ball.
“It’s not for poker. Just trying to earn a bit of bread.” He separated the picture cards from two of the packs and put them into piles.
Tim walked over and sat next to him. Leaning forward, he spoke quietly, “I can spot a man in trouble. You gonna tell me? Or do I have to guess?”
Jim sighed. Should he tell him or not? He couldn’t tell him the full story. How could he tell anyone he was a failed assassin? Maybe an abridged version would do. “Sort of. I owe ten gees to someone you shouldn’t borrow money from.”
Tim sucked in a mouthful of air and reached for his pint. “How long you got?”
“Two days.” Jim avoided Tim’s eyes and carried on his futile little task of marking the corners of the queens, kings and jacks.
“Shit.” Tim slurped down half a pint as Mick continued to clear up the table. Just a red and the black left.
“I’m about halfway,” he lied. He was hoping to get halfway by tomorrow. Really hoping.
“I could probably rustle a grand up.”
Jim felt his cheeks redden. He truly was stuck for words. He barely knew Tim by Four from Adam, yet he was offering him a grand to help keep his kneecaps intact. Finally he said, “I can’t take that, mate. I don’t know if I’d ever be able to repay you.”
“As and when, mate, as and when.” He returned to the table to try and put Mick off his last pot.
Sighing, Jim practised shuffling the cards then started to rehearse his tricks. It’d been a while since he’d done them, and his head felt blown by Tim’s offer. Maybe this would work after all. He still needed a few more big ones, but the nearer he got to ten grand the more working limbs he’d have to make more money with.
The tricks were fairly easy, mostly relying on distraction to perform the switches. It needed a cocky, loudmouth attitude. Though card tricks weren’t his thing, he knew he just had to think of that Range Rover and ten grand and he’d do anything.
Mick came over with another pint. “I can get you five hundred, pal. You should have told us the other day. I could have helped.”
Jim shook his head. “I can’t take your money, mate.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “You can. And you will.”
“What do you mean helped?”
“Eh? Oh, every now and then word goes about.” He paused and looked round before continuing, “Cars. There’s a gang see, exports them to Russia and Eastern Europe. They pass the word round on the make and model they’re after. If you come up with the goods there’s a monkey in it.”