Authors: H. J. Hampson
A knock on the window of the passenger side. The beer belly and the cheap shirt... Dante. He opens the door and gets in the passenger seat without waiting for me to ask him to.
He stinks of fried food, of chip shops.
"Should keep it locked. First rule of undercover work is never assume meets are safe," he says, tutting.
I sigh.
"Well..." he starts to say, then makes some joke about the fucking
Chic!
interview.
Obviously he thinks the papers are pretty fucking funny as well. But I can't bring myself to tell him the truth about the whole Monique thing.
"Yeah, she's the friend of a girl I was seeing for a while. It was nothing and over in couple of weeks, but the chick had problems and didn't take it well when I finished it."
"Oh aye…"
"She ended up topping herself. I mean she had a load of other problems too, but this Denise bitch blames me. That's why she's here."
"I see, I see," he says.
He shifts in his seat and starts digging around in his pockets. He finally pulls out a packet of Polos and I watch as his fat fingers peel back the tin foil.
He offers me one, but I refuse.
"Listen, I don't care why she's there, what I care about is who put her there. We need to get to the people running this thing, okay? Has she said anything about that?"
The jerk that she thought was hitting on her. I tell Dante what she said.
"And you didn't ask where she met this guy?"
Erm, she was kind of screaming in my face at that point so...
"No," I say. Dante tuts again and shakes his head.
"Well, humour her, be nice, try and get her talking about that again."
Humour her… I'm like a rat in a cage, just waiting for their next little experiment.
"Is it just me? Am I the only lead you've got?" I can't help but lose it a bit. Dante looks directly at me and is going to say something but his phone beeps. He swears and, again with some effort, pulls it out of his pocket.
He bites his lip as he reads the message. "Look, sorry, I've got to go. But no, Beaumont, you're not the only lead."
He nods at me and then is getting out of the car, slamming the door shut and walking away. I watch him through the wing mirror as he gets into a black car that's parked up behind me and drives off, going to wherever he is needed. It must be nice to be needed.
Back at the house I can't motivate myself to do anything. I'm dreading her coming back. The rest of the day stretches out in front of me, empty. There's the gym downstairs where I could beat out my nervous energy on the punch bag, but then the physio had advised against doing too much exercise at home. Or there's my computer games but I'm bored with them all. And the electric guitar Stella bought me for my birthday just seems way too complicated for my brain to handle right now. I sit down on the sofa feeling proper pissed off and glance at my phone in case anyone has called or texted me and I've not heard it. I'll admit that basically I want
them
to call me, to give me some clue about the next stage of the game. But no, nothing. I chuck my phone down in disgust.
Stella … what's she doing now? I wonder as I let my head fall back and close my eyes. She must have met up with her mum by now. I wonder how they are getting on. In a few days' time she'll call me – all being well – that'll be some relief at least. It'll be nice to hear her voice again. Fuck, and when she left I could hardly be bothered to say goodbye. What's wrong with me? Or am I not really missing her at all, but really missing Krystal? Fucking hell, at any rate I should have gone with Stella to Australia.
But I was too selfish, thinking it would be good to be free and single for a while. And I'd thought I could out-play them. Now I feel so lonely, and I've walked right into their trap. What a complete headfuck.
I get up and pour myself a whisky, sipping it and enjoying the way the sweet, antiseptic liquid numbs my mouth. I flick on the TV and surf the channels but there's jack-shit on, just news, or cookery programs or cartoons. I scroll through to the porn channels where girls in tight clothing and too much make-up writhe suggestively above phone numbers. I contemplate getting a porno on pay-per-view. It'd be all right that, guaranteed, to be sat here watching some bongo with my cock out when
she
walks in. Give the dyke a glimpse of the offending cock that murdered her lover. It seems like the most constructive thing I can do so I check out the titles. Nothing on the list appeals – two I've seen before and they're pretty lame and the others just sound like crap too, vanilla soft stuff. It's too early for the decent, harder stuff, I guess. There's no point going into it with a bored frame of mind anyway. And at the thought of sex, I think of Monique, her hanging body.
Shit, it's like it's become some kind of sexual mental block, what if it's permanent? What if I can never get a hard-on again? What if that bitch has made me impotent? That's a terrifying thought and I start to freak out, but at least it gives me some kind of direction. I realise what I need to do is get out of here. I'll grab some food and then call round a few people – see if anyone's up for going out, maybe scoring a bit of coke and hunting down some pussy. That'll exorcise a few of these demons, guaranteed.
I go into the kitchen and spend a good few minutes staring into the fridge. It's fucking annoying because a whole shelf is taken up with creams and make-up – fucking lipstick in the fridge! Just what Krystal used to do. I remember an interview I did years ago with
Loaded
or
FHM
where they asked me what most annoyed me about women.
"Leaving their make-up in the fridge," I said, and it had been a running joke between me and Krystal for months afterwards. That pathetic bitch, Denise, must really have done her research. Despite the jars of night-cream and mascara sticks I manage to find a tub of pasta sauce, some low-fat chicken and some fresh pasta.
I cook it all up and sit down with the steaming bowl of pasta. It's not that great though. I miss Stella's cooking, how she used to cook up stir-fries and make huge salads, schedule allowing, but now she's gone so I'm stuck with pasta and sauce.
I should have gone with her. We could be chilling out now on Bondai Beach, just two regular beach bums. But then I think, what I'd really like to be doing is chilling with Krystal, like we did on our first holiday together to Portugal.
The food tastes rank, and my hunger has suddenly gone, so I only manage to eat half of it. I guess I'll grab some sushi or something whilst I'm out. I'm loading up the dishwater when I hear a noise coming from downstairs – the door creaking open, and then female voices talking loudly. Voices, in the plural. I shudder, she's obviously brought some fellow witches back and they sound pissed.
We collide on the landing. I'm rushing out of the lounge, heading for the stairs to the bedroom, and they're heading for the lounge. There's three of them; her and two brunettes, one of whom is kind of hot but completely unfanciable in the circumstances. They're obviously drunk, you can smell it on them. Are they dykes too? There was a time not so long ago when the thought of a lesbian threesome in my own house would have turned me on so much it hurt, but now I'm repulsed.
"Aw, Beaumont," she cackles sarcastically, "not going out are you?"
They stand in front of me, blocking my path so I'm forced to confront them. The brunettes look a little star struck, but are trying to act all cool, so I make an effort to make eye contact with them. They might like pussy but they do men too, I can see it in their eyes: they'd both jump into bed with me, blatantly.
"Yeah, I was actually. But what's it to you, Denise?" I emphasise her name but the friends don't flinch.
"We're just gonna have a bit of party. Such a shame you can't join us," she says.
I look right at her, trying to stare her out.
"Yeah, shame, but got my own party to attend. Have fun."
Then I flash what I hope is a sarcastic smile and push past them.
"Oh we will do, we will do," she screams after me.
I slam the bedroom door behind me. They've put on some horrid, loud trance music but thankfully it's just reduced to a quiet thudding up here. If this is the worst she can do – get her mates round for a raucous party – then screw her. Maybe what I'll do is get a few mates out, score some drugs and some girls and bring them all back here for a bit of a gang-bang. Maybe Denise's hot friends will want to join in at that point. Finally I can feel my cock getting hard at the thought, but then into my head comes Monique's tragic, doe-like eyes. Fuck, I'll kill that bitch if I can't ever get a hard-on again.
I try Jon first, but he doesn't pick up, so I leave a message. Then I try Mattaus.
"Ah, sorry mate, I can't. Got this gig at the Biscuit Factory, it's the ten year anniversary of the joint, you should come down mate."
"Yeah maybe," I tell him, but that's not really the kind of thing I'm looking for – all sweaty, E'd up clubbers and no decent VIP section. Whilst I'm on the phone to Mattaus though, Jon has texted:
"Sorry mate – in wiv the missus tonight, no can do."
Great, so fucking Jon has suddenly become middle-aged with his quiet nights in with Kelly.
There's a few other guys from the team who I sometimes hang out with, but after trying Jose and getting no luck I can't be bothered to call the rest. This is great. My little plan for a little coke-fuelled orgy ain't going well.
I scroll through the list of numbers again to see if there was anyone I've missed. But no, fuck all. None of those fake, boring bastards are worth it anyway. I go back through and stop at CJ's number. I could just head into town, score a few drugs and see who else is out.
CJ picks up and the first thing he does is remind me that I still owe him that ten grand. It's only after I promise to deposit it with him tomorrow that he says he's got some good stuff and so we arrange to meet in a bar in Soho in a few hours.
I change my shirt, do my hair and spray myself with scent. I look good. Beaumont Alexander still has it, the Sleek Panther out for the kill again, and if I have to hunt alone, so be it.
The car, a big black Land Rover, arrives five minutes early. It's a new driver, one I don't recognise. They don't usually send new guys.
"Evening sir," he says as he opens the door for me.
"You new on here?"
He smiles at me as I climb into the back of the car, "I've been working on the politicians' fleet, sir."
And then he shuts the door.
It's too early to meet CJ yet so I get the driver to stop at the first off-license we come to and I send him in to get me a bottle of Remy Martin. He doesn't even flinch. I guess those politicians he usually drives round have him doing all sorts of errands anyway.
I take a few swigs of the brandy, neat from the bottle, letting it warm my chest, and then take a chilled glass from the car's built-in fridge, add a few ice cubes and have one on the rocks. Sweet.
We reach London quickly but I'm enjoying just sitting here, getting slowly drunk on the brandy.
"Hey driver," I say, leaning forward into the man's shoulder, "let's take a little tour, yeah, it's still early."
"Sure, sir."
I sink back into the chair. We're driving through suburbs, boring, blank houses lining either side of the road. The homes of the not too rich and not too poor, the worst of the lot, completely mundane. But then it changes to a more run-down part of town – the tower blocks looming above us, hooded teenagers hanging out on the pavements. We pass ethnic restaurants with bright neon lighting and late-night grocery stores throwing tired yellow light from their doorways, and dodgy-looking pubs with the dodgy-looking punters huddling outside smoking.
I can see a Tube station coming up ahead – Bethnal Green. The sight of this brings on my urge for some good drugs. When I used to do it a lot more I sometimes came up to Bethnal Green to meet another dealer here, if CJ hadn't got a good supply. Tony Goldfingers, that was the guy. A pretty scary black guy with a lot of gold rings who lived in a penthouse in some neat flats close to the Tube.
We drive right through the city, past the huge glass offices of the financial district, past the deserted arches of Smithfield market and then down to the river, where I look out across the Thames at the huge mass of concrete, glass and lights on the other side. A laser scans the sky amongst the buildings and nearest to me disco lights flash on a stationary party cruise-liner and if I concentrate I can even see blurred figures moving about on board, dancing. It makes me feel lonely… I need people and I need a line of coke.
"Let's just head to the Social now," I tell the driver.
The bar is up a narrow side street and we have to wait for another car to pass before we can get to the entrance. The driver turns round and faces me.
"Will you be wanting me to stay with you, sir?" he asks.
"Nah, it's okay. I'll get a cab home."
"Are you sure? Cabs aren't easy to get in this part of town."
"I'll be fine."
"But you don't want to wander the street looking for one."
What's it got to do with this bastard, I wonder, starting to get a bit pissed off.