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CHAPTER 24

Having got the boys sorted, sitting in front of the telly watching Neighbours, plates of fish fingers, beans and potato waffles on their knees, Susie went into the kitchen to the smell of burning bacon. On top of a long, hard day saying 'Marway's MiniCabs' ten thousand times, it was just what she needed. 'I told you to watch the pan!' Idle bugger hadn't even budged, elbows on the table with his back to the stove, a can of Tennents Export in his hand. Susie took it out on the eggs, cracking three into the hot fat, breaking one yolk.

'You're not workin' for that Paki any more.'

'Oh no? That an order is it?' Susie looked over her shoulder, teeth pressed together. 'You think you could get yourself a plate, knife and fork?'

Dillon's chair scraped as he got up. He made a performance of slamming open the drawer, clattering inside, grabbing a plate from the draining rack.

Susie counted to ten but only got to five, unable to help herself.

'The rent is due! The milk bill, the kids need new gym gear. Got the money, have you, Frank?' She slid two rashers and the two unbroken eggs onto his plate, then did her own. She stood holding the empty pan. 'There's no money coming in from you, Frank… who you think's been paying the bills while you were gallivantin' all around Scotland?'

Dillon stared down at his plate, decided he was too hungry to pick it up and hurl it at the wall. It hadn't been a good day up to now, and he could do without Susie rubbing salt into an open wound. Two calls they'd had so far. Two measly, stinking calls. All afternoon they'd sat around the office, dozing, scratching their arses, waiting for the phone to ring. Finally, Jimmy had suggested putting in a call to Newman. Work was work, another five grand in the mitt, just for doing the airport run… What about it, Frank?

Dillon folded a slice of bread, dunked it in the eggs. 'I was workin' in Scotland, started up the business with the cash,' he reminded her. He took a bite, chewed, glared at the Daddies Sauce bottle. 'Not that you've shown any interest. Not even been to see the place…'

'I'm not actually flushed for time, Frank,' Susie said, attacking the bacon. 'I shop, cook, clean the house, as well as washing, ironing. You think your shirts walk into the wardrobe?'

'I don't want you workin'.'

'We need the money from Marway -'

Dillon swiped his plate off the table, along with the cutlery, salt and pepper, sauce bottle. He wrenched a bunch of crumpled fivers from his pocket and flung them on the table, white to the lips.

'Take it, take it – an' get on that phone, tell your Mum, tell her not to come, I want you here lookin' after my kids!'


Jimmy pulled up in the metallic gold Granada just as Susie was leapfrogging across the central courtyard in an L-plated Nissan Micra, gripping the steering-wheel in both hands, a frown of concentration on her face. Marway sat beside her, composed and calm as ever.

Grinning, Jimmy did a sweeping bow, ushering Susie on her way. 'Left hand down a bit, love!' he laughed, and then caught a glimpse of Dillon in the flat above, lurking behind the bedroom curtains.

'Big Brother's watchin' you, Susie!' Jimmy waved. 'Hi, Frank!' and hooted again as Dillon ducked out of sight.

Dillon was livid. Susie had paid no attention to the 'I will be obeyed ' act and it pissed him off. She had started getting at him, not listening to him, and he felt inadequate. She'd even got her ruddy mother coming over even though he told her that he didn't want her in the flat, but the frustrating thing was, deep down, he knew Susie was right, they did need the money. He just hated feeling impotent.

The boys were in the bath, and Jimmy got roped into towelling them down while Dad sorted out clean pyjamas. He emerged from the bathroom carrying young Phil wrapped in a towel, bouncing him up and down.

'Second one all clean an' ship-shape, Sergeant! Where you want him?'

In the boys' room he found Dillon, wearing a plastic apron and a scowl, wet shirt sleeves rolled up, buttoning Kenny's pyjama top. The doorbell shrilled, and Dillon said, 'That'll be your Gran… get 'em in their bunks, Jimmy, then we gotta get a move on.'

He was halfway along the landing on his way to answer the door when Jimmy's mocking voice floated from the bedroom. 'Don't forget to take your pinny off, Freda!'

Dillon dragged it off and furiously flung it over the banister. After all he'd said – after giving it to her straight, and she hadn't taken a blind bit of notice. Well, we'll see, he thought, thumping down the stairs. We'll bloody well see about that.


'Awww shit! These bloody elephants are givin' me a hernia!'

Sweat running down his neck, Harry staggered through the doorway into the passage, a tea chest clasped in his arms. He nearly tripped, grazed his elbow on the pink wall, and lost his grip. The corner thudded against one of the tea chests already stacked there, the side split open, straw and plastic bubbles spilling over the floor.

'… five, six, seven,' Dillon counted, checking them off on his clipboard. Jimmy and Cliff panted in, carrying one between them. 'Eight,' Dillon said. 'This the lot, jimmy?'

'Yeah, this is it…' Jimmy mopped his face, then noticed the gaping split. 'Which cack-handed twat did that!'

'I just dropped it,' Harry said lamely. 'Weighs a ton…'

'You're tellin' me!' Jimmy used the side of his foot to tidy up the straw. 'Get it back together, come on, they'll be here…'

'I'm off,' said Dillon, handing over the clipboard. 'Check the cash, Jimmy. Knowing Newman, he's probably printin' it hisself.' And swapped Jimmy's dark look with an even darker one of his own. 'I don't wanna see him, okay?' He went out, banging the door.

Jimmy squatted on his haunches. An elephant with no nose was sticking through the tangle of straw bulging from the split. He yanked it out.

'Its trunk's off!'

Cliff leaned over. 'I got the same back at the flat. We just switch it over, they won't know.'

Jimmy jerked his arm out, pointing. 'Go an' get it – move! They'll be here…'


The panel buzzed, lights flashed. In her little plywood-and-glass cubby-hole Susie swivelled round in the typist's chair, mug of tea to her mouth. She put one on hold, flicked a switch. 'Marway MiniCabs. Oh, hi, where are you, Tom? I've got a fare holding.' She flicked over. 'Sorry to keep you waiting… Heathrow. Do you need a collection return service? Okay, thank you… right, about fifteen minutes.' She flicked back. 'Tom, 12 Ranleigh Crescent to Heathrow, basement bell, Mrs Dunley.' Buzzing, flashing. 'Marway MiniCabs… I'm sorry, I'll just check where the driver is – will you hold?' Flick of the switch. 'Car 14, come in, Car 14 to base, please.' Crackle. Hiss. Voice from Mars. 'Car 14, I'm in Edgware Road. There's an overturned lorry…'

Susie laughed. 'Yeah, I'm sure. Can you get the fare in Ladbroke Grove or not?' She paused, her hand on the switch, as Dillon walked in, lightly perspiring in a red vee-necked sweater with no shirt under his black leather jacket. He came up to the counter, stood there, feet planted, and she didn't need to ask what mood he was in; his face was eloquent testimony to that.

The glass-panelled door to the inner office opened. Marway peered out. Dillon ignored him.

'Susie, get your coat.'

'Nothing wrong, is there?' inquired Marway, raising an eyebrow.

'Not yet!' Eyes front and centre, voice deadpan.

Susie didn't move, watching him carefully, waiting for the eruption. Instead Marway said in his pleasant, modulated voice, 'I've got some details of insurance companies for you.' He indicated behind him, a graceful wave of the hand, gold cuff-link glinting. 'You want to come upstairs?'

Dillon shot a glance at the Sikh. His eyes clouded, more in confusion than anger. Susie didn't know what he would do next, and neither, she realised, did he.


Shirley was up a ladder, paste brush in one hand, scissors in the other, when Cliff arrived at the flat. He stepped round the furniture, draped in dust sheets, the trunkless elephant under his arm, giving his fiancee's endeavours the once-over.

'That bit over there's crooked,' he said, and started rummaging amongst the paint cans and decorating paraphernalia on the newspaper spread over the floor. 'Where's the strong glue?'

'Crooked?' Shirley backed down the steps, her long legs and shapely rump camouflaged under a baggy check smock. 'You'll get this brush wrapped around your head… Ahh!' Seeing the elephant, she gave a cry of anguish. 'Did you break it?'

'It's just the trunk,' Cliff reassured her, prising the top off the small plastic tube. 'I'll fix it.'

'That's not the same one -!' Shirley bent down for a closer look. 'That's got green eyes, the other one had brown. I don't like that one! Where's the other one?'

Cliff applied epoxy double-strength quick-drying glue to both surfaces and pressed the trunk back into place, using his finger and thumb as a clamp. 'I had to take it back.' He waited a couple of moments and then tried to let go. 'Oh!' Stuck. 'Shit!'

'Which colour do you like?' Shirley opened a sample book of curtain material, marked with slips of paper. She held it up to the light. 'This one… or that one? I like this one,' tapping a lemon polyester with faint green stripes.

'Yeah, great.' Cliff said through his teeth, attempting to unpeel himself from the elephant. He yanked hard, bringing tears to his eyes. One intact elephant. Minus two fingerprints.


Mrs Marway poured tea into bone china cups from a silver teapot with an S-shaped spout. She leaned across the low table, and with a smile handed Dillon his tea, a bracelet of gold inlaid with lapis-azuli on her slender brown wrist, matching the heavy necklace displayed against her cashmere sweater. Perched on the edge of the sofa, Dillon tried to get his finger through the S-shaped handle, and couldn't, so he gingerly held the cup in both hands, scared to death of dropping it.

Susie, seated next to him, watched with bated breath. She nodded and smiled at Mrs Marway, who nodded and smiled back. The room seemed very warm, almost claustrophobic. It was lavishly decorated, with embossed wallpaper and fringed wall hangings and framed prints, rich fabrics and furry rugs everywhere, cabinets with built-in spotlights showing off shelves of china, crystal and copperware. Expensive, quite impressive, but a bit overwhelming for Susie's taste.

'He's been fair to me from day one,' Marway was telling Dillon frankly. He leaned back at ease in his winged armchair, fingers clasped together, legs elegantly crossed, a crease in his trousers that could have sliced cheese. 'And if you open an account, show a good cash flow…' He spread his hands. No problem. Plain sailing.

'We made over five grand, first week,' Dillon revealed after a slight hesitation. '… No thanks,' he said politely, refusing the small silver tray of cakes and biscuits proffered by their hostess.

'That's good, just one car.' Marway was impressed. 'Word of advice. Don't ask for just the amount you need, you'll have to give yourself manoeuvrability. If I were you, I'd specialise. With the army experience your men all have, terrorist training… make that your speciality.' He pursed his lips, eyes gazing meditatively at a hanging brass lantern. 'At a low, thirty. But try for forty.'

Dillon nearly dropped his cup. 'Thousand?!'

Marway nodded. 'But you can't have my receptionist.'

Dillon's head went forward at that, and Marway's grave face broke into a smile. 'Just joking. But I believe one of the reasons my business runs smoothly is because I use my family – my three brothers, a cousin, two uncles – all drive for me. It's a family concern.'

Dillon finished his tea and gratefully put the cup safely back in its saucer. 'My lads are my family,' he said, standing. He put out his hand and Marway got up to shake it. 'Thanks for this,' Dillon added, meaning it, 'and for…' He indicated Susie. 'She driving yet?'

'Test next month, isn't it, Susie?' Marway said with a smile.

Dillon looked quickly at Susie, gawking a little. Susie smiled at the carpet, flushing.


Later, as they were undressing in the lamplight, Dillon said, 'So you think you'll pass?' His feelings were at sixes and sevens, not sure whether he felt proud, or threatened, or what.

'I don't know.' Susie crawled into bed and lay down on the pillow, eyes closed. 'I can still have lessons then?'

'I'm sorry… he's an okay bloke.' Dillon sat on the edge of the bed in his jockey shorts, elbows on his knees. 'Things have been getting on top of me – well, Jimmy. He means well.' He sighed, shaking his head. 'It's just so easy for him, he's been out longer. Well, to be honest,' Dillon admitted in a rare moment of confession, 'he's arranged most of it…'

'What about the others – Cliff, and, and -' Susie yawned.

'Harry. Harry Travers. He's okay, and Cliff. It's just… Jimmy.' Dillon picked at some loose skin on his thumb. 'There was a night, in Northern Ireland, there were ten of us, me and my lads, and we were…'

A soft snore made him look round. Dillon reached over and drew the bedcover up around his wife's shoulder. He gently touched her cheek. He said in a whisper, 'I'm trying, Susie.'


By shoving the desk forward a couple of feet and pushing the chairs to the wall, Harry had found a space for his doss bag. With a chicken vindaloo, mushroom pilau and two brinjal bhajis keeping the lid on five pints of bitter and two large Jamesons, he was well away, snoring loudly. From above, the faint sound of Annie Lennox, the murmur of voices and laughter, but Harry slept on.

Two shapes slid past the window, silhouetted in the streetlight. The clink of something metallic, the protesting groan of timber, and then a sharp crack as full leverage was applied.

Harry stopped a mid-snore. His eyes came open. He held his breath, listening. The splintering of wood from the passage confirmed it; he hadn't been dreaming. In one movement he slid out of the sleeping bag, kicked it under the desk, rocked himself up. Barefooted, wearing his old maroon tracksuit with the blue regimental crest and the word 'Airborne' on the left breast, he moved to his bergen and from a side pouch slid out a nine-inch iron bar with a bulbous end.

A slit of light appeared under the door as someone flashed a torch.

Harry crept round the desk, flattened himself against the wall. Torchlight fanned out under the door. A floorboard creaked. Harry raised the iron bar. The knob twisted and the door slowly opened.

Harry waited just long enough to check out there was more than one, and as the torchbeam swept the office, let the first man have it, downward smash, on the back of the head, knocking him cold. He swung round to face the second man, a big sod, framed in the doorway, and beckoned to him with a smile.

'Come on, you bastard… come on!'

The man lunged. Something glinted in his hand. Harry pivoted on the balls of his feet, chopped the wrist as the blade went for him, and heard a clatter of metal. The man stumbled forward under his own momentum. Harry clipped him with the iron bar, and the man collided with the desk, sending it crashing over. He was up fast, hurling the telephone, a chair, anything he could lay his hands on. Then it was Harry's turn. He saw the right hook coming, parried it with his left arm, brought up the iron bar and clouted the man across the ear. The man staggered, nearly fell, regained his balance. Harry followed in with a heel to the knee-cap and finished it off with a head-butt. It was a job well done, neat, tidy, professional, and Harry, softly rifting vindaloo fumes, felt quite pleased with himself.


CHAPTER 23 | Civvies | CHAPTER 25