Aggressor Page 7

  ‘Hey, Nick, watch this!’

  I got up and went to the door just as he lifted his front wheels and did a 360. ‘I’ve got to close up, mate. Want to wait in the front room and finish your brew? What about a pint, later?’

  I followed him outside and watched as he locked the garage doors with one of a bunch of about half a dozen keys.

  We went into the living room and he carried on to the bottom of the stairs. As I sat down he transferred himself onto the lift. Then he selected another key from the bunch, pushed it into a control box on the wall, and gave it a turn. The chair glided slowly upwards.

  ‘You need a hand, Dave?’

  ‘Nah, it’s rigged up like a monkey’s climbing frame up here.’

  The moment I heard the bathroom door close, I was on my feet and heading for the kitchen. No sign of the fuse box. I tried the cupboard under the stairs. There were two rows of cutout switches encased in a neat rectangle of plastic, but not one of them was labelled. Fuck it; I turned the whole lot off at the master switch.

  I went to the control box, grabbed the bunch of keys, and headed for the garage.

  Charlie’s card was right at the front of the Bayonets box. It didn’t say who for, where, or what the job was, just that Dave had booked him a hotel room in Istanbul.

  I locked up and went back to the living room.

  ‘Nick! The fucking power’s gone. Nick, you there?’

  ‘Coming, what’s up?’

  I got the key back in the box just as Dave eased himself off another wheelchair at the top of the stairs and onto the lift. He hammered away at the down button like a lunatic.

  ‘See? I can’t even have a fucking dump in peace. Try a light for us, see if the power’s gone.’

  I hit the hall switch. ‘Where’s the fuse box?’

  Dave told me and I headed for it. A few moments later the microwave in the kitchen buzzed a power-cut warning and he started to make his way back down.

  ‘Dave – sorry, mate, but I can’t stay for that pint. If Charlie’s in touch, tell him to phone home – Hazel’s lost something and he’s the only one who knows where it is.’

  3

  Istanbul

  Thursday, 28 April

  One of the first things I always noticed about a new country was the smell. In the arrivals lounge at Ataturk International it had been of strong aftershave; in the back of this cab it was even stronger cigarettes. The driver was already sucking on his second since leaving the airport.

  The traffic was chaos, and to add to the misery the driver sang along, between drags, to the loud Arab pop music that blared from the radio. He kept turning his head for approval, like he’d mistaken me for Simon Cowell and I was about to sign him to a billion-lira contract. His blue-eye talisman swung wildly from the rear-view mirror as we hurtled from one side of the road to the other. I hoped it worked as well with articulated lorries as it did against evil spirits; the driver’s eyes were everywhere but on the road.

  Every leg of this journey had been a nightmare, Australia to Hereford, Hereford to Stansted, Stansted to Turkey. Stansted on its own deserved some sort of prize. It felt like I’d spent longer there than I had in the air from Brisbane.

  I’d made my way to it from Crazy Dave’s without checking flights. I’d assumed one of the bucket carriers would be my best bet, and I just hoped I’d walk straight on. But of course I’d missed the last one by an hour, so had to spend the night stretched out on a row of anti-sleep seats in the terminal. And because I got there late, I’d missed the last of the baguettes at the only café still open. I settled for four packets of salt and vinegar instead, and two large coffees that proceeded to keep me awake all night.

  Even though the weather was cold, grey and blustery, I kept the back windows of the taxi open, partly because I needed the ventilation, and partly because I thought it might help me in a crash. We finally got to the Barcelo Eresin Topkapi Hotel without being flattened. The journey had been only three cigarettes long.

  I hadn’t had time to go online and check the place out, but it looked pretty impressive. A drive swept past the front of a large, four-storey building that wouldn’t have been out of place among the grand hotels along the Croisette in Cannes.

  A huge banner over the entrance welcomed the architects of Germany to their very important conference. That was what I assumed it said, anyway. All I’d learned during my two years in Sennelager as an infantry soldier was how to ask for a beer and half a chicken and chips, and I’d normally ended up with two; if they asked me whether I’d like anything on it, I’d just order it all over again.

  I paid the driver and headed through a pair of towering glass automatic doors into the lobby. An ornate rope barrier guided me towards a metal detector, maybe a hangover from the bomb attacks in 2003. Whatever, the security guard, whose shirt collar was at least three sizes too big for his neck, just waved me past, then busied himself hassling a couple of locals coming in behind me.

  Three or four blonde girls were clustered on a portable exhibition stand to the right of reception. The display space behind their hospitality desk was lined with photos of glassy, high-tech buildings, and they could hardly move for the piles of goody bags on either side of them. The architects were clearly getting the warmest of welcomes.

  The lobby was constructed entirely of dark wood and pale marble. I kept walking, looking for signs that would point me to the bar, a café, even a toilet – it didn’t matter, so long as I looked as if I knew where I was going.

  I headed for a big leather armchair at the bottom of a flight of marble steps where people sat drinking tea. I ordered myself a double espresso, and tried to resist the urge to put my head back; it wouldn’t have taken me long to flake out.

  The coffee took for ever to come, but it didn’t matter. I waited and watched. A group disgorged from a plush Mercedes coach and were shepherded straight to the hospitality desk.

  I picked up one of the ‘This place is great’ type brochures. The hotel, it told me, ‘distances itself from and to the following point of interests: only 3 kilometres from the famous Covered Bazaar, Suleymaniye Mosque, Blue Mosque, and Topkapi Palace’. All the rooms had a ‘luxurious bathroom’ and, what was more, ‘own private hairdyer with a parallel line are all individually yours’. Wasn’t Charlie the lucky one?

  I’d never been to Istanbul before. All I knew about it was that spies used to be exchanged at the railway station, and the Orient Express stopped here before it crossed the Bosphorus. When it came to the Turks themselves, I just had my stepfather’s words ringing in my ears. ‘Don’t stand still or they’ll nick your shoelaces,’ he used to say about anyone east of Calais. I guessed it might have been like that once, but when I looked outside I didn’t see a steamy bazaar full of shifty conmen. I saw sleek women in Western dress and steel-and-glass trams gliding along a broad, boutique-lined boulevard. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have said I was in Milan. The newer cars had a little blue strip on the side of their number plates, optimistically preparing for EU membership.

  I looked around for any sign of my coffee. Maybe I’d try giving Charlie a call.

  When it finally arrived, I took a sip from the thimble-sized cup and eyed up the house phones between the reception desk and the lifts. I’d call Charlie to tell him I was downstairs. If there was no answer, I’d wait out on the street and just keep a trigger on the place until he returned – which I hoped wouldn’t be long, because I was going to fall asleep soon whether I wanted to or not.

  Should I call Silky and Hazel back at the farm? I hadn’t emailed or spoken to them since leaving Brisbane. Better to wait till I had some definite news, I told myself – though the truth was I wanted to avoid having to explain where I was to Hazel for as long as I could.

  I slipped a couple of bills under the saucer and wandered over to the phones. As I picked up the receiver, the lift pinged. A crowd of Germans and Turks came past, swinging their conference goody bags.

  The operator rattled off her h
ellos in Turkish, German and English.

  ‘Listen, the architects’ conference . . .’ I smiled broadly; when you do that, it transmits to the listener. ‘I’m the English-speaking organizer in reception, and a Mr Charles Tindall has gone up without his welcome pack . . . Could you possibly put me through to him?’ I flicked through my imaginary notepad. ‘He’s in . . . let’s see, room one-oh-six . . . or is that two-oh-six? I can’t read this writing.’

  ‘Mr Tindall is in three-one-seven. He is with the conference?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got a welcome pack for him. Oh my word, here he is right now . . . Thank you very much for your help. Mr Tindall, here’s your—’

  I put the phone down, and seconds later was pressing the button for the lift.

  4

  I followed the signs to rooms 301–21, down a wide, carpeted corridor. Room 317 was near the end, on the left; its windows would look out onto the boulevard. A Do Not Disturb sign hung from the door handle.

  I knocked and took a step back so he’d have a good view of me through the spyhole. ‘It’s Nick.’ I gave him a big grin.

  The door opened.

  ‘I’ve come to pay back that three quid I owe you.’

  Charlie was wearing jeans and a pullover he could only have bought from a shop catering for colour-blind customers. He wasn’t smiling as much as the bloke who sold it to him must have; as he ushered me past, I wasn’t too sure if his expression was one of surprise or anger.

  I walked into a big, well-furnished room, dominated by a mahogany bed and a window that filled an entire wall. I could just about hear a tram rumbling below us. He still hadn’t unpacked his carry-on, which lay open with his washing and shaving kit and a few pairs of socks on display, but there was a black laptop sitting on the desk next to the TV, lid up and screen working.

  Charlie was close behind. ‘Er, don’t tell me, you were just passing.’

  ‘Had to get my finger out and find you, didn’t I? You spoken to Hazel yet?’

  ‘You’re joking! She’ll rip my head off and drag it down the phone. I emailed, said I’m fine and I’ll call later.’

  I went and sat down on the bed. If he decided to chuck me out, he’d find it more difficult if I’d made myself at home. ‘Do us a favour, will you? Get a plane home with me, and I can go back to my German without your wife killing me.’

  He opened the minibar under the TV and brought out two cans of Carlsberg. He handed me one and we both pulled back the rings.

  ‘Sorry about that.’ He leaned against the desk by the TV and took a mouthful. ‘She can be a nightmare when she’s got the blood up. I’ll call her tonight to explain, now I know how long I’ll be away.’ He smiled briefly before taking another swig. ‘How’d you find me?’

  I told him about the power cut at Crazy Dave’s. He laughed so loud they probably heard him on the tram.

  I was feeling too out of it to laugh, or even to touch the beer; I just rested the can on my chest as I stretched out on the bed. ‘I don’t want to know the job, mate. That’s your business. But if you’re serious about working, you could do much better than here. What about Baghdad, or even Kabul? The money’s better. Four-fifty to five hundred a day for a team leader, even for a geriatric.’

  ‘Oi, less of the team leader. Anyway, who said anything about Istanbul?’ He took a long swig of Carlsberg and studied my face. ‘Three days’ work and all my problems are sorted.’

  It was my turn to smile. ‘Sorted? What the fuck you on about? You’re already sorted. You’re living the dream.’

  ‘Hazel’s dream . . .’ He sighed. ‘Look, I’m happy to go along with it. Since Steven died, the only thing that’s kept her sane is having the whole family around her. But a farm don’t run on horseshit. The pension only just about pays the mortgage, for fuck’s sake. Cash flow, it doesn’t exist. This job will pay off the debts in one swoop, and then some.’

  The high sweat-to-bread ratio sounded worrying. It normally signalled a job no-one else wanted to touch with a ten-foot pole.

  ‘How much?’

  He smiled again, and this time it was the really annoying smile of someone who knows a secret you don’t. ‘It’s a one-off. Special senior citizen rates. Two hundred thousand US.’

  ‘Fuck me. You dropping Putin or something?’

  ‘Nah, I turned that one down.’

  I raised my can to my mouth, then realized the taste of beer was the last thing I wanted. ‘Whatever. You’re too old for this shit. Go home; make Hazel happy. Let me get back to my German.’

  Charlie kept looking at me and smiling, like the thing he was keeping to himself was the secret of the universe. ‘It’s not just about the money, lad.’

  ‘I knew it. All that waffle about that horse of yours . . . then that stuff on the TV . . . you just want to get out there and do it again, don’t you?’

  ‘I wish.’ He turned his back on me to gaze out of the window, and when he turned back, the smile had evaporated. He just stood there and stared at me for a long time, like a cop on the doorstep with bad news, searching for the right words to tell me. He looked down at his trembling hand, then back at me.

  I finally twigged. ‘You’re sick, aren’t you?’

  He looked away. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone this, especially Hazel. You up for it?’

  I nodded. As if I was going to say no.

  He stared at me again for what seemed like for ever, and in the end he just shrugged. ‘I’m dying.’

  I was so tired I wondered if I’d heard right. ‘What? What the fuck’s wrong with you?’

  He looked out of the window again. ‘MND, mate. Motor neurone disease. Well, one of the forms of it. A few Yanks who were in the Gulf have got it as well. They’re trying to find a connection, but it’s pretty academic. By the time they do, it will be too fucking late.’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’

  He shook his head. ‘I wish.’

  It was my turn to stare. I didn’t know what to say. The only person I could think of with motor neurone disease was Stephen Hawking. Did this mean Charlie was going to end up buzzing around in a wheelchair and sounding like a Dalek?

  ‘What’s the prognosis?’ I put the can down on the side and swivelled round to get my feet on the carpet. ‘I mean, is the bad stuff inevitable?’

  ‘It’s already happening.’ He took another swig of beer before holding the can out towards me. ‘Sometimes I have to really concentrate just to pull the ring on one of these things. Sometimes it’s a bit difficult turning door handles. It’s been going on for six months. I went to see a doctor on the quiet’ – he pointed his finger at me, the can still in his hand – ‘and it needs to stay that way. At least until all the money’s in the bank. I want something to cushion the blow for Hazel when I tell her.’

  He siphoned up the last of his beer and this time I decided to join him.

  ‘Does it have to get worse? I mean, maybe a few trembles is as bad as it’ll get?’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘Sure as night follows day.’ He sounded almost matter-of-fact. ‘The next step is memory loss, then my speech gets slurred. Then I won’t be able to walk or swallow . . . Five years on average, and that’s me gone.’

  ‘Stephen Hawking’s been going for donkey’s years.’

  ‘One in a million. It’s five years, some much quicker. I wouldn’t mind that. Once it gets to the stage where Hazel’s spoon-feeding me mashed banana, I’ll get her to kill me anyway.’ He started to laugh, maybe a bit too much. ‘Or maybe I’ll see just how much of a mate you are.’

  5

  We nursed our second can of Carlsberg in silence. I was still on the side of the bed; Charlie was by the TV, staring out of the netted window. I didn’t feel like drinking, but at least it was cold and purged my mouth of three days’ worth of airline shit on a tray. I wished it could have washed away Charlie’s bad news as well, but it didn’t. I felt sorry for him and his family, and that was a strange feeling for me to have. Normally it would just be a case of, t
ough shit and I’ll kill you when it’s spoon-feed time.

  ‘It makes sense now.’ I couldn’t stand the silence any more. ‘But what if your hands start disco dancing while you’re working?’

  ‘Chance I’ve got to take.’

  ‘Crazy Dave know?’

  ‘Crazy Dave’s a good man, but he’s not in the charity game.’ He shrugged and gave me a smile. ‘I just told him how much cash I needed and if there was a job that paid it, I’d be there. It’s my last payday. Hazel will need the money. And you were right about the horse . . .’ Charlie took the final swig from his can and put it down on the desk. He bent and stuck his head half inside the fridge as he rummaged among the drinks and chocolate bars. His voice was muffled. ‘I don’t want to spend my last few breaths stuck in the corner of a fucking field.’

  Charlie hadn’t seen the state Hazel was in after he’d done the runner. ‘Why not go home and explain everything to her, then come back? What if you fuck up and don’t get home? That’ll be two Hazel’s lost, and all she’ll remember is you fucking off.’

  He stood up with two cans, water this time, and handed me one. He placed his on the desk and had a go at opening it. This time his middle finger made a meal of getting under the ring pull.

  ‘Well, lad.’ The can finally fizzed. ‘She’s going to lose me whatever I do. This way at least she gets some compensation. I’m staying here.’ His eyes gleamed and there was certainty in his voice. He was suddenly the Charlie I knew of old. ‘Better to burn than fizzle out. I’ll do the job I’m contracted to do. Then I’ll go home and face the music. She’ll calm down after a while. She loves me really.’

  He fixed his eyes on mine. ‘You want to come along as shotgun?’ He brought the can of water up to his mouth and tilted his head to drink. His eyes swivelled so they kept contact with mine. ‘No pay, mind – that’s all for Hazel. But I’ll pick up the costs and get you back to your German, Club Class.’