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My grandfather was a policemen, making him the only one I’ve ever liked. I can’t go to them now, it’s too late. I couldn’t have gone to them before, not possible. I take solace in that. This was always the outcome.
Bad things have happened.
I met Ray for a drink last week. We hadn’t been able to drink together for nine years now, what with either of our extended periods away from friends and loved ones. Loved one. She’s dead now, which precipitated my meeting with Ray; they never saw eye to eye. She hated him, a shame as he quite liked her. He invited us to dinner once, and I remember the disappointment in his voice after he heard her pour bile from the kitchen. I should’ve covered the phones mouth piece, she could be loud, easily heard from the next room. He never bothered again, to invite her, though always asked after her.
I last saw Ray at the funeral. I was sixth months away from the wake up. He was on the outs for three years. I told him that he was doing well “If you were on the underpass after three years then you’re a miracle worker. But you’ve got a house, a wife. A child” He smiled. It was difficult to talk, with the audience, the handcuffs. I cried when I’d got back in my cell, less for her, more out of my jealousy. It was wrong of me to feel like that, I see that now.
Ray tells stories of the old days, that night was no exception. The thing about Ray is that once you get him started, he has to tell the story to the end, and you spend all night on tangents so that, at the end, your just about finishing the first story off. He holds a room in the palm of his hand when he’s holding court. He’s at the top of his game when he’s the story teller. He should write his biography, if it for none of the stories being about him. Some involve him, but most are about his favourite subject, the people we were pulled up with.
We talked about Jack. Jack went a bad way, which was Jack’s way, as it were. We don’t believe in destiny, but with Jack the writing was on the wall from the start. I’ve always said that, said that since day one. Jack was found on the tracks at Victoria station, he’d been torn and broken. It was all written off as an accident, or suicide really, though that wasn’t Jack’s way. Talk was he owed money, and he did. We all did, but there was no one to pay it too. I’d seen to that.
The story that Ray told was the one about Jack and taxi drivers, back when we were kids, when we’d set Jack onto a rough road of a night. Jack was big, bigger than me, and mean. He’d set his arm at 10 every night in a pub, set up anyone who walked past. It’s easy to spill a drink by accident, even easier when the person wants it spilt, and this was all the excuse Jack needed. People don’t react well to drinks being thrown in their faces, even if it was only the remains of a pint. Nine times out of ten Jack would get into a tear up. Once the man cried when Jack threw the drink in his face. Even Jack couldn’t hit a crying man. We all turned our back that night, and Jack left to make his own way home. I don’t know what the man did.
Jack was in with me, me and Thomas. And Anders, though we’d killed him. Jack’s dead, Thomas had it worse. Anders killed them. And now I’m left.
I’m not sleeping well.
Jack’s death was a surprise I suppose. I didn’t see it coming. I was the only one that got caught for what we did, all of us, Anders included. The police knew what we’d done, but couldn’t prove it for the others. I only got caught because I was moving some of the diamonds; a small amount, three stones. The rest were hidden amongst us, except for Anders. I didn’t kill him just to bury him with the take. I figured the others were safe. Anders didn’t have many friends, except for the three of us, but retribution can come from many dark places, especially inside. I spent the first year with an eye over my shoulder. No one came then, or since. I suppose they’re coming for me now.
I walked out of prison with the only key to the lock up. The others two must have had theirs, though they’re no use to either. Arsehole in the elbow for all the good it did them.
Ray likes telling stories, but tries not to mention Thomas, by not mentioning making him all we’re talking about. What happened with Thomas was bad, better not to talk over, as if not talking about it immunises us against it happening to us. We’ve all known way to many Crazy Alans, or Daves. Jack was a Crazy Jack, though not to me. Thomas should never have been that, and it’d take a pretty stone heart to joke about a man who slaughters his wife and three children. He tried to commit suicide; they found him with his throat slit, self inflicted. He didn’t do it properly, he survived. Probably would’ve been better for all of us if he hadn’t, definitely better for me.
Ignorance and all that.
It takes Ray nearly all night to bring himself to talk about Thomas, what with them being brothers and all it’s nearly as bad for Ray. His nephew and nieces, not to mention the feeling of being marked.
Ray starts and stops himself over the course of our last drink. I think he’s going to ask for a loan, which he knows he doesn’t have too. He’s due Thomas’ stake, it’s no good to Thomas now. He won’t take it though, thinks it’s for the best, what with him and his wife. Shirley. Nice lady, not that I’ve meet her. She always invites me for dinner of a Sunday, but I think it’s best I don’t go.
Thomas stake works out at a little over £45,000. Not peanuts, but now I look back not worth what I did. Alot of money to say no too. At the time I figured it was all conscience, but now I’m not so sure.
Ray asks if I’ve ever had anything in the mail. “Of course, bills and the like. The occasional Christmas card.”
“Nah, when you were inside, did you get anything... Anything package like. Odd?”
“Well, an odd bit of sniff, some snout. The usual.”
I don’t want to know, I wish I didn’t let conversation go on.
“It’s just that, this might sound mental, but when I see Thomas, he keeps going on about the post. He keeps saying the post did it.”
“Did what?”
“It.”
That just about killed the evening off dead. We finished off the drink pretty quick after that. I gave a quick handshake and embrace, and tried to leave sharpish, but fucking Ray had to finish his story.
“Jack said something similar, now I come to think of it. He said he kept getting weird packages, that they were giving him nightmares. Him and Tom, both. Thought it might be...”
“Not me son, not me. I’ll see you.”
Except I got a weird feeling for the next couple of days. Like something I couldn’t shake off, like it wasn’t ready to start, but it was coming. And then I heard the post drop on my doormat.
No bills, no flyers. A small jiffy envelope, A5, with my address and name on it in biro. No stamps. Hand delivered.
I didn’t think much of it. Stupid really, what with Ray mentioning it. I was too busy rushing for a meeting with an old face. The money’s moot, it’s more important for me to keep busy.
I opened the envelope, let the contents slide out onto the kitchen counter.
A matchbox. Happy Shopper Safety Matches, with a graphic of a struck match, the flame like an explosion, like rising sun. There were small burns on the left hand entrance, a tiny on near the striking strip.
I didn’t get it, still don’t get it. I slid the box out.
No matches. A cockroach, pinned by its legs to a small piece of plywood. It’s stomach, I guess, had been slit open, carefully, like it had been in an operation. Or an autopsy. Nothing inside it.
I was disgusted, dropped the thing on the counter, where it bounced once, and landed face up. I stared at it until the phone rang. Greg was out. I took my kit, went to his car and drove off.
The day went quickly. I don’t want to talk about it.
It was the next day when we figured it was safe to leave the flop. I left with £4000 in cash, pretty sure Greg had tried to screw me with the marked notes. To many were clean, too new. I meandered my way home, circled the house twice. It’s difficult to be followed on foot, especially when you stop and start. I looked in a few shop windows, made sure no one was watching or following, took an indirect route on the tube. Standard stuff. No one ever gets arrested for being too careful. Yet.
It was still there in the side. By now my initial disgust had passed, replaced by confusion and interest. Wasn’t sure what it was supposed to mean to me. If it had been a rat, maybe someone who’d watched one too many gangster films might be trying to make a point, though it’d be a mug who tried to point that finger at me. I’m staunch, my reputation is staunch.
Thomas used to call me a cowboy; he didn’t mean it like I was too reckless, took too many risks. More like in Shane. I just got stuff done, minimal fuss.
I picked the box up, ignoring the cockroach. Nothing much there, just a box. Except it wasn’t just a box, I could feel it wasn’t just a box. I got a knife from the block by the cabinets.
Before she’d died, she spent a fair whack getting the kitchen redone. Lovely bit of work. This kitchen has everything I’ll ever need. Looking round it now, it makes me feel serene. Like I’ll never need another kitchen.
Though I suppose even if it was a shithole I wouldn’t need another kitchen.
The knife was small, for cutting, but suited the purpose. I slit along the striking line, unfolded the box, laid it out in front of me. Something was written, small enough that I had to get my glasses from by my bed. Small, handwritten in a red ink.
The note seemed like it was whispering. It said “it’s in the trees, it’s coming”
It’s in the trees. It’s coming.
Like a warning.
Weird post.
I rang Ray, organised a meet. As soon as. |
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