The Job (Novella #10) Read online

  "The Job"

  By: William Meikle

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Table of Contents

  1

  The job went tits-up before we even got in to the safe. I told that fucking idiot Carlson that there would be more than one alarm, but he assured me that he had it covered.

  “I’ve got a wee man on the inside,” he said, “it’s all sorted.”

  Stupid dumb fuck that I am, I believed him. It had been the promise of easy money that sealed my fate. I was down on my luck and desperate, but that’s no excuse for stupidity; or at least it shouldn’t be. But when your luck’s on the way down, it’s sometimes on the long way down.

  It had started well enough. The estate had a big gate on the drive that was alarmed, but the woodland that circled the property was easily navigated, and the gardens were extensively dotted with tall, wide, rhododendron and magnolia bushes, giving us plenty of cover on our way across unkempt lawns to the house itself.

  The front of the house was well lit, but it was obvious that the owners trusted to their alarms, for the back of the property was dark, with plenty of shadows to lurk in. Nobody took any note of us, Carlson’s ‘inside man’ had left the back door of the scullery open as agreed and we were inside with no bother at all.

  Things only got tricky when we got to the library. I thought secret safes behind bookcases were a cliché in this day and age, the stuff of old movies; I’d never expected to see one in real life. But Carlson obviously knew something I didn’t. He moved a book aside, pressed a switch on the wall behind it, and a full six-foot tall stack of shelves slid aside with little more than a whisper. The safe was fitted at eye level into the exposed wall behind. It was one of those new-fangled jobs, with a fingerprint system and a keypad, but again Carlson gave me a wink.

  “Nae worries, pal. I’ve got this sorted too. Five minutes and we’ll be away and free,” he said as he took what looked like a thick cellular phone from his pocket.

  It turned out we didn’t have five minutes. We’d entered in perfect silence, but now I heard a noise. It was only a faint rustling, like someone quickly turning pages in a book. I looked around the library; we were definitely alone, but there was also most definitely rustling, getting louder as Carlson stepped in close to the safe. He stopped when he heard the same rustling that was bothering me, and I saw the wee man’s eyes go wide. I knew fear when I saw it; it’s something I see often in the mirror.

  “Get on with it, man. This place gives me the willies,” I said. It was more than that, much more; ever one of my fibers was telling me to get the fuck out of there, and over the years I’ve learned to trust that instinct. But I’d been promised a big score, enough of a take to pay my debts and bide me over for the year to come. Rustling or not, I couldn’t afford to run.

  “Can you hear it?” he said, whispering, and close to panic. “What the fuck is that?”

  “It’s just the wind,” I replied; but I was far from sure. I pushed Carlson toward the safe. “Just do it whatever it is you need to do with that wee box of tricks. And get a fucking move on; the sooner we’re done, the sooner we get a drink.”

  He nodded, but the fear hadn’t left his eyes, and his hands shook wildly as he tried to tap the code he read from the phone into the safe’s keypad.

  The rustling got louder still, so loud that I couldn’t pass it off as wind in the eaves or the scurrying of a mouse. It was definitely paper, dry pages of a book being turned, and turning faster, as if a reader was looking for something in particular. I didn’t want to be around when they found what they were looking for.

  But Carlson was still making a pig’s ear of entering the code. He’d got it wrong twice now, and wasn’t even looking at the keypad, but was instead intent on peering around the library, looking for a source of the rustling sound. There was nothing to see. Most of the room lay in shifting, dark, shadow, but there was more than enough light seeping in through the windows to show us we were still alone.

  The rustling came again, as if from everywhere and nowhere.

  “What the fuck is it?” Carlson said, and this time panic had taken full grip of him; he didn’t even bother to whisper. His voice echoed loudly around us, and caused the rustling to start up again, even more frenzied than before. I put a hand over Carlson’s mouth.

  “Wheesht, man, do you want to get us caught?”

  “I want to get the fuck out of here, that’s what I want,” he said, and thrust the phone at me. “You do it. I can’t trust my fingers.”

  I looked down at the phone. It looked simple enough; a six number code to enter on the safe’s keypad. But as I stepped forward to type it in, the rustling got even louder, and I felt cold grip at my nose, ears and fingers. They felt like lumps of refrigerated sausage meat as I hit the keypad. I got the third number wrong, hitting three instead of two. At the same moment, the main lights went up in the room, and a high wailing siren of an alarm immediately masked all other sound.

  Carlson and I moved at the same time, not for the scullery door at the back of the house, there wasn’t time for that, but for the big French doors to the front that led out onto a wide patio and the lawn beyond that. We shoulder-charged the doors like a pair of rugby players, and were out onto the lawn just as the exterior lights of the house came on and blazed, casting our shadows long in front of us as we fled.

  I expected a shout from behind us, for the sound of pursuit, maybe even the crack of gunfire, but we were quickly off the grass and into the shrubbery, well beyond the reach of the lights. On looking back I saw a figure standing, framed in the French window by the light behind him, a man that moved, not towards us, but back into the library, closing the double doors behind him.

  Carlson and I stood still in the shadows for minutes, catching our breath, afraid to move in case we’d give away our position, yet ready to make a run for it if anybody did spot us, but once again everything had fallen quiet, or nearly so.

  There, in the darkness under a tall chestnut, I heard it again, faint now, and far off, but definite; it was paper, leaves of a book, rustling as they were turned.

  2

  We got back through the woods to the car without further incident. We approached the vehicle carefully, in case anyone was waiting there for our return. But the coast was clear, although I heard the rustle of paper again as I stepped out of the trees and onto the tarmac.

  Carlson drove as we made our way back to Glasgow. We didn’t speak; conversation wasn’t possible over the sound of the radio. It was some crap country station, too bland, too manufactured, the stench of rhinestone and hair products almost palpable, but I turned it up loud enough to cover any possible sound of rustling pages, just in case.

  It wasn’t until we were back in the city center and parked outside The Twa Dugs that Carlson turned to me and switched the radio off. The only sound was the ticking of the engine as it cooled.

  “After tonight, we need to keep our heads down for a wee bit,” he said. I saw the panic and fear, still dancing in his eyes. He was trying not to admit it to himself, but he’d been badly spooked, and he knew that I’d noticed it.

  “I needed this job, wee man,” I said. “You promised me a score, and I still need a job.”

  He nodded.

  “I know. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll see if I can find you another job. I’ll be in touch by the weekend at the latest. I promise.”

  I saw something else in his eyes then too; I knew I wouldn’t be hearing from him any time soon. I’d seen him frightened, even terrified and now he couldn’t even look me in the eye.

  He left me on the pavement outside the pub and drove off, accelerating through the lights as if speed would distance him from the
events in the library. As for me, speed wasn’t my style; but booze definitely was, and I felt the need for a bucketful of forgetfulness.

  * * *

  I turned and rapped, twice, on the window of The Twa Dugs. It was well after midnight, but opening hours were a moveable feast around these parts, and I was a valued customer, having spent almost everything I’ve earned in the last ten years inside the walls of the bar. Besides, it was home, or the nearest thing I had to one these days.

  George, the owner of the bar, opened the door to me. He led me straight through to the empty snug bar off the main room, as if he was in a rush to get me out of view.

  “Keep your head down, lad. Frank Kerr is through in the back. We’ve got a game on.”

  I almost left straight away to head for bed. Kerr was the reason I had been out on the job in the first place. I owed him five grand that I didn’t have to give, and he was as like to take it out of my belly as my bank.

  But I wanted, more than that, I needed, a drink. And that need was stronger than any worries I had about confronting the big man. George brought over a bottle of whisky and two glasses. He didn’t speak as he poured and I drank, he just looked me up and down, then laughed.

  “So, I take it that it didn’t go well?”

  I shook my head.

  “Wee Carlson took a fright and fucked everything up.”

  George laughed again.

  “It’s not the first time he’s done that; I warned you that he was flaky.”

  “Aye, you did that,” I said, taking another shot of the whisky. I was starting to feel better. Not ready yet to tell George about the rustling paper; I might never be ready for that. But I was thinking I might be ready to go through the back and see if I could reduce my debt with Kerr at the poker table.

  I nodded toward the corridor at the rear of the bar.

  “How much is on the table?”

  George laughed.

  “Too much for you, Dave. You’d need two grand to get a seat, and I’m guessing you’ve got a hundred to your name, if even that much? Am I right?”

  He was more right than he knew. I drank more of his Scotch before he started asking me to pay for it. I wasn’t sure I had more than thirty quid in my wallet, and I knew I was overdrawn by a couple of hundred at the bank. I tried to change the subject away from my finances.

  “What kind of mood is the big man in?”

  I was thinking I might be able to at least negotiate a longer payment period for the debt I owed Kerr. The chances of me rustling up five grand by the weekend were slim and getting slimmer by the minute. But George put paid to any idea of me having a quiet chat.

  “He’s losing tonight, and chasing his losses. You know what that’s like; his temper’s the last thing he’s worrying about right now. He’s about three grand down, and there’s a long night at the table still to come. If his luck doesn’t change, he could be ten grand in the hole by the morning. It’s probably best to leave him to it.”

  “I wish I’d done that last week,” I said, and George laughed as he poured us each another three fingers of whisky. At least he wasn’t asking me to pay for it.

  “Aye,” George replied, “and I told you then you were a fucking idiot. My opinion hasn’t changed much since.”

  We clunked our glasses and I threw the liquor down, as if its heat might purge me of my stupidity, forgetting, as always, that it hadn’t managed it yet, despite many years of trying. Even then, I was thinking about that last hand. I was down on the night by a couple of grand, but there had been eight grand on the table and I was holding a Full House, Aces and Sevens. Kerr was showing a pair of Jacks and had a chance at four of a kind. I lost my head and chased my losses, breaking my own first, and second rule at the same time. Of course I’d lost. Fucking idiots always lose, and have to put up with dickheads like Kerr laughing at them afterwards.

  Luckily George had accepted my marker. It was his pub, his game, his rules. That bought me a couple of days grace, but Kerr still needed paid. And I still had nothing to give him.

  George waved the whisky bottle at me to see if I wanted more, but I shook my head.

  “Any more and I’ll want it all. It’s been a long night. I’m away to my bed.”

  I left George heading back through to the game and made my way up the narrow stairs to the room that had encompassed my life these past few years. It was ten by eight, with a bed, a TV set and a closet containing everything I owned that wasn’t already on me or in my pockets. The old guitar inside rang, just once, as I entered, then fell quiet, as if sensing my mood.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and smoked three cigarettes before my head quit buzzing and I stopped feeling sorry for myself long enough to lie down and think about sleep. Even then relief wouldn’t come; I kept going over the failed job in my mind, wondering what we might have done differently, wondering what we might have found in the safe, wondering how I was going to pay Kerr. It took what felt like hours for my brain to slow.

  I was just, finally, starting to drift away when I heard it. At first I thought it was the sound of conversation from the game downstairs, a distant murmuring. Then I realized it wasn’t murmuring at all. It was paper, rustling, as pages were turned.

  Two seconds later I was sitting bolt upright with my back to the headboard, my heart going like a marching band’s bass drum and my head ringing as adrenaline soaked through me. At first the thudding of blood in my ears was enough to blot out any other sound, but as I fought for calm, so the rustling sought to wheedle its way back in. I turned my head from side to side, trying to pinpoint a source, but, as it had been back in the library, the sound seemed to come from everywhere, yet nowhere.

  As I got out of bed and stood up, the old guitar in the closet rang again in sympathy, and as if in reply the rustling got louder, maddeningly so. I lit a cigarette and switched on the TV to watch some late night reality crap that I paid little attention to; it was noise, and noise was what I needed right then. But it wasn’t enough. I could still hear the rustle of paper, of pages being turned.

  I went out to the corridor, but the rustling followed me, and it was still there as I stood over the toilet bowl, was still there as I washed my hands. And I still couldn’t pinpoint it. It didn’t take me long to reach a conclusion that scared me even more than the sound itself. The rustling wasn’t coming from anywhere; or rather, it was coming from one particular where.

  It was coming from me, from inside my head.

  * * *

  Two minutes later I was back down in the bar again, cigarette in one hand, a large shot of Scotch from one of the optics in the other, and a bottle of beer at the ready to chase it down. The rustling was still there, but the booze at least kept it from being too noticeable, and if it went on for much longer I was going to be too drunk to notice in any case.

  That was the plan anyway, but when you’re a fucking idiot, life finds a way of making sure plans are for other people.

  This story really starts here, with me at the bar minding my own business, the sound of paper rustling in my ears, and Frank Kerr walking out of the back room, face like thunder and in a mood that would never be mistaken for a ray of sunshine. He saw me at the same time that I saw him.

  We’d known each other for more than twenty years, but he’d never looked at me with anything other than disdain. In his eyes the fact that he owned a car dealership and I played guitar in a bar meant that he was better than me, and had always been better than me. I had long suspected that somewhere, deep down, he knew that wasn’t true, and it ate at him, festered and bubbled in a dark place. I also thought that’s why he always looked like he’d just bitten into a sour plum. The fact that he’d obviously had a lot of drink and was red, puffy and sweating didn’t improve his appearance much either. I decided not to mention that his gut strained in a flat-tire bulge at his belt, and his bald spot seemed to be getting bigger by the day.

  I suppose I could have just walked away, but the booze was doing my speaking for me by then. A
nd have I told you yet that I’m a fucking idiot?

  He walked over to me.

  “Dave Wilson; just the man I was looking for. You owe me money, son. You owe me a lot of money.”

  “And you’ll get it on Saturday, as promised.”

  “Fuck Saturday. I hear you did a job tonight. I’ll just take what you got and we’ll call it quits.”

  I laughed in his face, which was probably not the wisest thing to do but I refer you to my earlier statements about idiocy in my defense.

  “I got fuck-all,” I said and held out my empty hands, palm up, as if offering them to him. “So that’s what you’ll be getting too. And we’re quits now, right?”

  I saw, too late, that he was angrier than I was and remembered, also too late, George telling me that the big man was having a losing night. I was still thinking about that when he threw a punch. Given the booze I should have been too slow to get out of the way, and by rights would be decked out on the floor ready to take a kicking. But that’s not how it went down.

  It happened without any thought on my part. Even as Kerr’s clenched first was on its way toward my chin I had reached for the beer bottle, smashed it against the bar, and stuck what was left in my hand, jagged edge and all, into the big man’s throat. I gave it a twist as it pierced the skin and put my weight behind it.

  He went down to his knees, gurgling, too-red blood arcing in a fountain over the bar. I knelt down and punched the shards of the bottle into his face, two, three times. He stopped gurgling and went quiet but I kept punching broken glass into his face anyway, and was still at it when George came through to the bar a minute or so later.

  It took four of them to drag me off. Thankfully I didn’t hurt anybody else and once they got me upright the compulsion left me as quickly as it had come.

  I sat at the bar, tossing back more of George’s whisky, horrified at what had just happened. It was as if a switch had been triggered, then just as quickly shut off again. I felt no anger, but plenty of remorse; too late, of course, for it to be of any use to the big man.