Robbo is bored. He has washed up, wiped the kitchen surfaces, hoovered the floor, not bothered mopping and looked in the oven. The inside of the oven is black. Apparently, according to Sticks, it should be silver. Somewhere under the sink is a bottle of oven cleaner.
Above the sink, a small window faces the garden. However, the view is almost entirely blocked by a faded black water butt with old cobwebs and desiccated leaves clinging to it.
Robbo leans across the nearly gleaming draining board to try to see past the water butt. He can see a few squares of patio, with weeds growing between them, and a brick wall, again with weeds.
Where’s his bike?
‘Sticks said he put out the back. So where is it? Now Pauly Po, the nice man wouldn’t lie. Would he?’
Clambering onto the draining board doesn’t give him much more of a view – more concrete, more bricks, more weeds but most of the garden remains hidden.
He tries the handle in the back door, next to the draining board. It is locked as expected. Two mortice locks, one with a shiny new looking brass keyhole, the other more scuffed and tarnished. Robbo rummages through a set of drawers – cutlery, folded tea towels, a pair of scissors, a few loose batteries – all neatly arranged. But no keys. Nor tools.
‘Fuck the oven. Find bike.’
Robbo goes into the hall and opens the front door, pressing down the snib on the Yale lock.
The side gate that would lead to the garden is at least eight feet high, with the house wall on one side and an equally high brick wall – connecting it to the neighbours’ side gate – on the other. And it is locked.
He stares at the gate.
‘Left foot on the handle, grip the hinge, push up to reach the top. Or right foot on the sticking out bit of the letter box and push and swing round… nah too far away, grip the hinge first…’
Robbo tries to get a grip on the gate hinge but it is too small with not enough gap. He grazes a knuckle on the corner of a brick, “ow, fuck”, and gives up.
He doesn’t have his bike. But he does have forty quid in his pocket. Where’s the nearest booze shop? He reaches for his phone to check. It’s not there. Did he have it this morning? He goes inside and runs upstairs to the box room where he’s been sleeping.
His charger is on the window sill, plugged with light on. But disconnected. Where’s his phone?
The mattress takes up most of the floor space. A towel hangs up on a hook on the inside of the door. There is a desk, painted in peeling black paint, the wood slightly rotten and pushing through in places. Apart from an empty ring-binder there is nothing on it. He pushes past a threadbare green office chair, which swivels as he moves it, to open a drawer. It contains a set of headphones, a cordless mouse, a plug extension, a few paper clips, a torch and quite a lot of dust.
Robbo picks up the mattress, which is heavy and has been comfortable. It covers a bare patch in the carpet but apart from that there is nothing under it.
The bathroom is small and damp. Robbo pushes the small, high window open a little wider. A cupboard is full of soaps, shampoo, shaving cream, razors, toothpaste and mouthwash, a couple of clean face cloths, spare toothbrushes – as well as household cleaning products. There is nowhere else a phone might be hiding.
Dare he look in Sticks’ bedroom?
‘Be quick. Don’t get things out drawers. Keep it neat and tidy.’
And there it is. In a drawer, one of several in a pale wooden chest of drawers, full of notebooks and pens, folders and a few old receipts.
Robbo takes his phone out, carefully and cautiously as if stealing a diamond from an alarmed case. He presses the button and it comes to life.
Sort of.
‘No SIM Card’
He prises open the case, tips out the battery and, sure enough, instead of a little wafer of plastic with a gold crazy-paving pattern, there is nothing.
‘Fuck’s sake. Fucking bastard nicked it. Where the fuck is it?’
Robbo pulls a folder out of the drawer, shakes it, places it on the floor. He pulls out another and does the same. He pulls out each notebook, flicks through the pages. Some have writing but he ignores it. He shakes them and discards them.
He pulls out the last folder, opens it out, shakes it hard and chucks it on the floor. He opens more drawers – socks, boxer shorts, one with ties and a set of braces – goes through them, shaking the items and dropping them onto a growing pile on the floor.
‘Where the fuck is it? Thieving bastard!’
The front door slams shut.
‘Fuck!’
Robbo bundles Stick’s clothes back into drawers, kicks the notebooks and folders under the chest of drawers, goes into the bathroom to flush the toilet and runs down the stairs.
“Hello Paul, I’ve just popped back for a second and going out again,” Sticks seems distracted, “you okay? The front door was open.”
“Oh. Sorry. Wanted fresh air.”
Sticks glances at Robbo as he changes his jacket, “sure, no problem. Have you hurt yourself? Your hand?”
“Graze.”
“Okay, well run some water over it to clean out any nasties. I’m going out again. Not far, I won’t be long. See you soon.”
As he goes out, Sticks leaves the door ajar, as it had been, walks past his car to the end of the cul-de-sac and down an overgrown footpath in the direction of the bus stop on the A4074.
—
‘He’s taking the bus, Pauly, he’s taking the bus. He’ll be ages.
‘But still gotta tidy. Made a mess, gotta fold ‘em all and put ‘em away like they were.’
Robbo is not used to folding clothes. And he can’t quite remember whether the socks and boxer shorts were in the same drawer or different drawers. They all fit in one drawer, so that’s what he goes with.
But are things the way they were? He’s not sure. But they are as tidy as he can get them.
There’s a vehicle sound outside. Robbo closes the door of Stick’s bedroom behind him and strolls downstairs, whistling.
He opens the front door a crack and looks through. There’s a small blue van backed up almost to the side gate, which he can just see is open. Sticks is going back and forth between the garden and the van, loading it up with boxes. He appears to be wearing work gloves. Eventually Sticks closes the gate and the back of the van, walks round into the driving seat, still wearing the gloves, and pulls forward so that the van is parallel to the pavement outside the house.
“Paul,” he shouts getting down from the seat, “I’d like you to run an errand for me.”
Robbo opens the door fully, “extra pay?”
“Full pay. It’s an important job,” Sticks speaks assertively in a monotone, like a sergeant giving orders, “I’ll pay what you’re owed after it’s complete.”
“Pay in full.”
“I said I will.”
“In full. Right away.”
“When you get back, you will be paid in full.”
“Okay. What errand?”
“You can drive, yeah?” Sticks pulls a glove off and peers at Robbo, “I know you can drive. How long’s it been?”
“Not long,” Robbo looks at the van, “had a diesel like that.”
“Yeah, this is petrol. You can’t hire diesels anymore but it drives the same. Maybe a bit slower to get going on the country roads but no great difference. You’ll be fine.”
“What errand?” Robbo repeats.
“Take the van to a meeting place. Up at Shotover, do you know it?”
“Shotover Hill? Up the bumpy road?”
“Yeah that’s the one,” Sticks’ voice relaxes, “have you been there?”
“As a kid.”
“Okay, so you know it. Up that road to the car park. Pull in by the bushes. You’re meeting a friend.”
“Who?”
“You’ll know when you see her.”
“How?”
“You’ll know,” Sticks says firmly and decisively, not adding ‘stop asking questions’ but his tone makes it clear, “and it might be a bit grubby up there, there’s overalls on your bed – change into them. And there’s a fresh pair of gloves, take them as well. Helps with handling, stops you getting grazes.”
“Don’t like overalls…”
“Don’t care! Full pay, so wear the overalls.”
—
The young woman is sat on the bonnet of an old brown saloon car. She is wearing a loose pink blouse, wide open at the neck and ruffling in the breeze, a short skirt and leather boots. Robbo stares at her.
“We meet again,” she laughs, “you’re looking better than the last time I saw you. That boiler suit looks good on you. A perfect fit.”
Robbo continues to stare. Something in him tells him to stop. It’s rude. But what else can he do?
‘She’s not wearing a bra. Is she? Try and have another look… Pauly Po! Behave yourself and speak to her.’
“Undo your zip to the waist and take your arms out the sleeves,” the young woman’s voice is calm, soothing like a nurse about to stick a needle in him.
“What?”
“So they’re hanging down at the back.”
“What?”
“Try to look a bit flustered, excited even. Not gormless. For once, can you not be gormless. Please?”
“What?”
“We’re dogging.”
“Yeah?”
“No, God no!” the calmness in the young woman’s voice breaks into a mixture of horror and amusement, “it’s a cover story in case we’re disturbed. We’ve just finished off and we’re doing ourselves back up. If someone does come, we jump in our vehicles and drive away. Hopefully there won’t be anyone but you got that, yeah? Now start loading from the van to my car.”
“Yeah,” confirms Robbo, disappointed, and opens the back of the van, “what are the boxes?”
“Er,” the young woman hesitates, “kit.”
“What kit?” presses Robbo.
The young woman sighs in frustration, “just kit for stuff. Start passing it to me, c’mon, I’ll load them, you unload them. You know we don’t talk about it, don’t you? Is your phone on?”
“Got nicked. You or James Booth. Or those bad men. That was that one. Then Sticks took the sim out this one.”
“Yeah, he’s very security conscious isn’t he. And I didn’t take your phone. Maybe poor old Jimmy did but not on purpose. He was always losing his own and borrowing but he wasn’t a thief.”
“Did James Booth drink blood?”
“What are you on about now?” she turns and glares at Robbo, “it’s nothing to do with you but poor old Jimmy ingested and inhaled lots of things in his time.”
“That night, he sicked up loads of blood.”
“The St John’s Night party? Yeah, probably.”
“Blood?”
“Yeah, sure. What of it? Can you keep the boxes coming, we need to be quick.”
“Human blood?”
“No!” the young woman laughs and shakes her head in disbelief, “what is the matter with you? He wasn’t a vampire. It would have been deer’s blood.”
“Deer’s blood?” laughs Robbo. He keeps laughing as he realises that he has had a knot in his stomach for several days, which has now loosened.
The young woman peers at him, as if he might be an alien or some other creature she hasn’t met before, “you just get weirder, don’t you. Anyway, yes deer blood from Magdalen. It’s a St John’s Night tradition, a recent tradition, but all that week really: go shoot a deer, hang it up and drain it into a big bucket. Bit sick if you ask me, but there you go, boys will be boys.”
“Oh. So were bad men from Magdalen College?”
“No, well not as far as i know.”
“Were they from the Authority?”
“Ha! No, not yet anyway… Christ sake will you pass me that box instead of just standing there with it,” the young woman’s voice snaps momentarily to anger before calming down again, “those guys were Mr Miles’ guys, just squad members. They might dress a bit smart but they’re not.”
“The Marston Mafia?” Robbo laughs again, “did they kill James Booth?”
“‘Community investors’ is the preferred term. And no they did not,” the young woman lowers her voice as if sharing a secret, “I think Jimmy killed himself. Look, um, whatever your name is. Jimmy was a fool, a drinker, a junkie, a risk taker without reward. And he was unhappy. I think he killed himself, maybe by accident, maybe not.”
Robbo puts the box he just picked up back down again and straightens his back, “Sticks says they’re after ol’ muggins ‘ere for ‘im. Gonna get fitted up, propa!”
“Why the fuck are you talking like that? Sticks isn’t from London or wherever that was supposed to be. Look… what is your name?”
“Paul.”
“Look Paul, Sticks says a lot of things. He has his reasons.”
“What reasons?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“What reasons?”
“Good reasons. He’s an intelligent man. You’re not. He always has good reasons. You don’t ask. Now give me that box and we’re done here,” states the young woman decisively, “I’ll drive away. Don’t follow. Wait five minutes. Then you drive to Abingdon, not straight to Beri, get yourself a beer or two, there’s twenty in the glove compartment, and then back to Beri.”
Robbo closes the boot of the van and watches the young woman drive away. He checks the glove compartment. Sure enough, there’s a twenty pound note.
Without a working phone, he realises he has no idea how long five minutes is. He looks around. The car park is empty. That seems strange, it’s not late. Is it? With his back to the bushes, he looks across the empty tarmac and over Shotover Plain, flanked on one side by a dense wood that slopes down the hill, and on the other by a line of trees along a field’s edge.
Leaves rustle on dancing branches. The wind is picking up. A small flock of pigeons wheel around over the plain and plunge back into the wood.
‘What kit? What was it? Solid, rattled a bit. Lamps for a weed farm? But not that heavy. Not that many. Maybe like science kit for printing acid tabs? Gotta be for something.’
—
Robbo hammers on the door of 7 Clumps View.
“That was quick,” Sticks opens the door but stands in Robbo’s way.
“Quick job.”
“Did you come back via Abingdon as instructed?”
“Yeah.”
“And stop for a drink?”
“Yeah.”
“No you didn’t. You’re a liar, Paul. And a thief. Opening my drawers and going through them crosses a line,” Sticks glares into Robbo’s blank eyes and rages, “what were you after? You won’t have found it but don’t pretend you weren’t after something. Don’t even think about pretending and lying anymore. You’re human-vegetable act doesn’t fool me. You need to leave.”
“Full pay now.”
“Did you transfer all the boxes to Mademoiselle’s car?”
“Yeah.”
“Open up.”
“What?”
“Open up the van.”
Robbo stands his ground and hands the van keys to Sticks, “no. Job complete. Full pay now. And my sim card. And my bike. You’re the thief.”
Sticks tries to hand him a black bin bag containing his clothes but Robbo lets it drop to the ground between them. Sticks hands him a C4 envelope with a wad of twenty pound notes.
Robbo counts the money twice.
“Extra for drug running. Danger money.”
“What are you talking about? There’s no drugs involved.”
“In the boxes for the woman.”
“Is that what Mademoiselle told you?” Sticks laughs, “you really shouldn’t believe her, you know.”
“Compo for phone and bike.”
“Look, you’ve got new work clothes, worth a lot more than your worthless phone sim and stolen bike. You can nick another one easy enough, can’t you?”
“No, not a thief!”
“Look, take your things,” Sticks indicates towards the bin bag at their feet, “and leave. I will not be having a guest, you came in here as an invited guest because I thought it would be mutually beneficial. And I’m a tolerant man. But I do expect you to respect my privacy. I will not have you going into my room, rifling through my things like a thief…”
“Didn’t take anything.”
“Sure, there was nothing worth taking. As you found out. Now go!”
“Fuck you,” Robbo kicks the bin bag, which rolls onto Stick’s shoes.
“There’s no need for that.”“Yeah there is. You’re just a big fucking liar, like that woman and James Booth and dodgy guys, just lying bastards acting special like, like… fake lying bastards. Just fuck you!”