I don’t consider myself much of a writer these days. Ten books in print, or out of print dependent on vintage, at least half a dozen different pen names and a reluctance to devote yet another year to writing a new novel; I’ve finally hit the buffers. Now, I write a couple of blogs and occasionally fiddle about with a ‘work in progress book project. I have five of them, each with about 40,000 words written before being abandoned.
I used to be far more organised. Here’s a few scribbled notes I wrote in the middle of the night about fifteen years ago. Ideas still pop into what’s left of my brain. Very occasionally they end up being useful in a book project. This tiny snippet eventually earned its keep. One of the few that did.
July 2010
Things occur to me in the early hours. Turn over, go back to sleep and they’re gone. Perhaps forever. These days I write them down. Experience tells me they won’t survive past daybreak, but I still do it. The odd one makes it worth it. It’s 05.30 now. Just finished this. Will I use it? Maybe.
I thought about the junkie I’d sat next to last night. Remembered his expression as the needle snapped off in his arm.
Not a hint of pain. Just frustration. He’d been around the squat, begging the dozen or so occupants for a loan of their works. I blanked him, as did all the others. Those still able to respond. He’d shuffled off, eventually, the ulcers on his legs staining his jeans, one shoe missing a lace. Least of his worries.
Where I’d stayed hadn’t exactly been luxurious; even though the house was worth a fortune on the open market. Any furniture had been stripped out long since, piss-stained floorboards in place of carpet, windows boarded up. I’d slept, after a fashion, biding my time until my fellow residents became capable of speech.
Sleep wasn’t easy. Junkies are a noisy bunch, shouting in their sleep, restless and excitable, until the inevitable descent into a virtual coma. I was the only one there who wasn’t a user, but nobody would have guessed that. I looked the part, dressed the part, bore the same world-weary expression as all the rest. The pills I took for a week prior to a job gave my skin a dull, waxy appearance.
The couple in the corner had attempted to have sex, unsuccessfully by all appearances, squabbled, made up, come to blows in the hour or so I’d shared the same expanse of floor. The girl had been pretty, once, and had come on to me when I arrived, with the apparent approval of her partner. She’d gone back to him when it became clear I wasn’t offering to trade blow for a blow. No offence taken.
This wasn’t a typical shooting gallery. The wretch who’d broken his works was a casual. Nobody was ever turned away; that was the rule of the house, but everyone here, apart from me, was a known face. I’d kept myself to myself, asked no questions, but kept my ears open. The talk was all about a shipment. A big one. Enough talk to request a meet with my control.
The man at the top of the pyramid thought himself untouchable. As had every single one of his predecessors. Total domination was subject to different pressures in the modern age. The Roman Empire endured for hundreds of years, ruling with absolute power over most of the known world. The British Empire, at its peak, did much the same for a century. The Soviet Union lasted for less than a single lifetime. A drug-lord had absolute power, unbelievable wealth, yet very few endured for even a decade. The man who controlled the bulk of the narcotic trade in the city had been untouchable for many years; protected by many layers of expendable subordinates. My job was to chip away at these layers, weaken his position, in the hope that he’d make an error. It was the only method that had achieved any success.
Even if unlimited resources had been available, the top man’s position was virtually impregnable. In reality, the resources were very limited indeed. Engineering a weakness in the sub-layers had worked well in the past; destabilising the workforce on which the business was constructed. Bringing about a dissatisfaction with the status quo. Causing friction. I’d made a few ripples so far. Useful, but the results had been limited to the lower levels. It was time to step up. I got to my feet, nobody else was stirring and went downstairs to one of the back rooms.
The rusty metal shutters on the windows creaked, protesting loudly as they edged upwards with the reluctance of a drunkard’s eyelids on waking on the morning after the bender to end all benders. The light seeped in, revealing the shabby surroundings and earnest features of the man who was my only link to the plotters and planners, scheming away in their safe and comfortable offices. He looked as if he’d rather be far away from this place. We had worked on a lot of jobs, but he was the desk man. Derelict houses where the dregs of society gathered weren’t his scene at all, but he knew he’d have to be the one making contact today and that meant a trip to the dark side.
‘I need to push on,’ I said, ‘make some waves.’
He nodded. ‘Yeah. Time you rattled a few cages. You heard right. I’ve heard whispers as well about a big deal in the offing. You should be there when it happens.’
I grinned. Why else would we be here? ‘How long did it take to come up with that idea?’
He smiled. ‘About a femtosecond.’
I looked at him, waiting. He was a smart-arse; liked to show off. ‘That’s about one million billionth of a second.’
I nodded. ‘About? Not very precise.’
He shook his head, moving on. I suspected he had more to say on the subject, but my flippancy had broken his train of thought.
‘You up for it? Be out on a limb, just as you like it.’
I thought for a moment. Being out on a limb, as he put it, wasn’t exactly my first choice, but I professed to like it as it was the method that brought the best results.
He smiled, reassuringly. ‘Never lost a man yet, Al. Not intending to start now.’
I nodded. This last month I’d been Al. Usual procedure was to use that name and that name only.
All the time.
The person I used to be was never mentioned by name. Before Al, I’d been Ray, before that, Degsy. Of the three, I liked Al the least. As a name, as a person, but that was a minor detail.
‘No. Never lost a man. That’s comforting. A fair few damaged though.’
‘Not going to happen, Al. Not to you. You’re bloody good and I’m the best. We both know it.’
I said nothing. This would be the tenth time we’d worked together. He was right about one thing: he was the best control I’d ever had. Knew when to stick around, when to disappear without trace. Contact between us, on a job, was dangerous. I knew he was out there. That was enough. Knew he’d move Heaven and Earth to get me out if the shit hit the fan. Otherwise, I’d be on my own. That was another thing he’d been right about.
‘You need to smarten up. Ditch that shit you’re wearing. There’s a shower in the top room of the house three doors away, clean gear, the works. It’s yours for as long as you need it. I’d suggest a shave as well. You’re moving up, need to look the part.’
I nodded. I’d be glad to get out of the clothes I’d worn for the past week. The replacement clothes would be the right size, suitable for where I was heading next. He was good at the details. Never let me down yet.
‘I was thinking. Be a good time to let the new girl show what she can do.’
I stopped, halfway to the stairs. ‘Not this time,’ I said.
‘She needs time on the job. Looks the part too. You need a contact, Al. Who better than a girl who looks like butter wouldn’t melt? Good for your image.’
‘I’ll be watching her back when I should be concentrating on the job. Send her with someone else. I don’t want her.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’ The girl walked down the stairs, pushed past me.
One of the faces I’d clocked last night and then dismissed. Just another spaced out junkie. I was impressed, despite myself. I hadn’t known she was there. Listening. Close enough to have heard the conversation.
She stood in front of the window, her face in shadow. ‘I’ll not need looking after.’
I shrugged. ‘Nothing personal. I work best on my own, that’s all.’
‘I know. I’ve read your file.’
‘Already decided, Al.’ His voice had the rasp of command. I’d heard that before. It didn’t mean anything. It was for the girl’s benefit, not mine.
I looked at him, then at the girl. Shrugged. I’d deal with it, in my own way. Once the job was handed over it was all down to me from that point. If the girl wanted to be involved she’d do as I said or be shipped back out. That was the rule. Once the job started the person on the spot called the shots. Always had, always would.
Gulliver Smith 