Mr. Suit (3 page)

W
hoever
had last been in the mooring’s sanitary disposal shack needed shooting. Flecks
of shit and blood left all around the rim gave off the stink of a
sewerage/chemical mix.

Liza
dropped the holding tank part of her own toilet, the Porta Potti, and reversed
back into the open air, gagging and covering her mouth, wondering how she was
going to cope.

She
stood for a while enjoying the sweet smell of a nearby honeysuckle and
considered her options.

A
flight to Brazil seemed very appealing. Problem was the insurance for Archie
would cost a bomb and there’d need to be special arrangements and everything.
Besides, Mr Suit would probably have the airports covered as soon as he found
out what was going on.

Another
idea fluttering inside her head was to leave Archie outside the hospital with a
note around his neck, like Paddington Bear or a Victorian foundling on wheels
and in nappies. ‘Please look after this man’ or ‘Free to good home’.

She
looked over to Archie, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he watched the world
go by from the front of the boat. It tugged on either a heart-string or a
tendon, which meant that leaving him alone out there was out of the question.
The poor bloke needed her. He would do until the end of his life.

Which
led to plan C.

Before
dragging Mr Suit’s brother to the shed, she’d had the idea of dropping him in
the canal. The same thing might work for Archie. With a couple of weights tied
to the chair, dumping him in the middle of the Maida Vale tunnel would mean he
wouldn’t be found for ages. At least until the dredgers went through next.

She
looked over at her husband again, his head above the boat’s pointed bow with
its nameplate and the roses and castles he’d painted on when things were
different. This time it felt like her heart enlarged inside her, as if it were
putting pressure on the rest of her organs and wanting to push her insides out
of her mouth.

Killing
Mr Suit’s brother was one thing, and not a good one, but there was no way she’d
manage to do away with her husband. Which was why they were in this mess in the
first place.

There
was only one thing for it.

She
took a lungful of air, held it in and went straight back in to the toilet. She
lifted the case that was the holding tank, balanced it on the side and
unscrewed the cap to let a stream of dark blue piss with its tiny bits of
mashed up toilet paper flow into the hole.

As
she flushed it all away, it occurred to her that she might well be sending the
rest of her life down there with it.

T
wo
nights they’d stayed at Little Venice, watching the tourists go by and catching
up with the boating gossip.

Life
on the canals was lazy. Gentle. The pace of the traffic was only just faster
than Liza could walk.

To
make the most of their location, Liza took Archie for walks, window shopping in
the boutiques and antique shops or stopping for drinks on the terraces of cafes
where the price of a coffee didn’t allow for much change from a note.

Wherever
they happened to be, Charlie Suit phoned on the hour. He hadn’t left a single
message and that, somehow, made the calls hugely intimidating.

Because
Little Venice was such a popular area, Liza felt increasingly exposed. She
decided it was time to head north. To Birmingham. For better or for worse.

She
set off with no regrets, eyes fixed on the future and the two-hundred or so
locks she was going to have to get through without any help from a soul.

Fate
seemed to turn against them from the off. They got stuck straight away behind
one of the party boats hired out for some corporate entertainment or other,
which plodded on in front of them like it was still being pulled by a horse.
Liza watched impatiently, the men in their casual smarts and the ladies in the
finest cocktail dresses with cardigans to cover the goose-bumps. The boat was
like the swimming swan, all grace above and all madness below. Liza tried to
keep herself calm about the snail’s pace by watching the chefs and waitresses
graft away like they were in a movie on fast play, but her jaws were tightening
and her language was getting bluer by the minute.

The
party boat eventually stopped to moor up at a pub, employing the sensible
strategy that boat-owners use to make sure the toilets aren’t overfilled by
heavy-drinking guests.

Liza
broke protocol when Wol overtook. She rammed the throttle to full and made sure
the wash she created was as large as she could make it.

The
pleasure-craft rocked and bobbed when the waves hit and Liza cheered when
glasses and bottles slid from the tables to the floor. She gave a two-fingered
salute to the cabin staff who shouted after her.

An
hour later, they reached the supermarket on the waterside. She set about
pulling in to the bank. Arriving at the shops like this was one of Liza’s
favourite parts of the canal experience. Only in London, she suspected, could
such a thing happen.

Mooring
up wasn’t an easy thing, however. Hadn’t been since Archie’s accident.

In
the good old days, Archie took control and Liza acted only as the glamorous
assistant.

Now
everything was up to her.

Before
setting off anywhere, she needed to lay the rope from the bow along the roof so
that she could take it when she jumped to land.

As
she came close to the bank, she pointed the bow at the wall. The front fender
made contact and she put the throttle in to full reverse and pulled the rudder
hard starboard to allow the bow to move into position.

She
took the ropes from bow and stern, jumped to the bank and pulled as hard as she
could. Owning a steel boat might have made it strong, but it was a bugger to
manoeuvre.

Eventually
she had things under control.

Wol
was tied up in minutes and Liza checked her hands - not a broken nail in sight.

A
small crowd gathered to check things out as she pushed Archie up the ramp, off
the boat and went inside to buy food and gin for the rest of the journey.

The
phone rang when they were in the wines-and-beers aisle. If it had been 2
o’clock she’d have ignored it, but it was twenty-past and that didn’t fit the
Suits Martin pattern.

On
the screen, the name ‘Greg’ flashed while the speaker pumped out a tinny Spice
Girls’ tune. It needed answering.

“Jesus
Mum, where the hell are you?” It was typical Greg. Not a hello or a how are you
or anything.

“That’s
for me to know.” Greg might be a slow learner, but he’d remember to use his
manners one day if she had anything to do with it.

“Christ
almighty. What kind of shit are you pulling?” He was speaking quickly. Troubled.
Anxious.

“Deep
breaths, son. You’re spit’s wetting my face.”

“It’s
Mr Suit. He’s just been on the blower. Suits Martin, for God’s sake.”

Liza
wasn’t sure she liked the way things were going. And the concern in Greg’s
voice seemed justified all of a sudden. “What was he wanting?”

“Wanting?
Are you serious? He’s wanting you Mum. Revenge, he said. An eye for an eye.
Holy crap. Suits Martin, you stupid cow.”

If
he’d been there in person, Liza would have given him a slap for that. Either
that or a knee in the bollocks.

“I
didn’t mean...”

“Well
you’ve got us well and truly up to our eyeballs this time. He’s got Miriam. All
of her for the minute. If you’ve not turned up at his place by noon tomorrow
he’ll have all of her minus her left thumb. And he’ll have less of her every
time twelve hours has passed and you haven’t shown.”

It
was her turn to speak, but there were no words for her to use. She dropped her
head onto a shelf next to the Newcastle Brown Ale bottles and felt the cool of
the metal. And then her arm moved out of some kind of reflex. Like it was
throwing a punch. It swept through the bottles and knocked them over like
skittles, those that fell to the floor smashing and filling the air with
musical notes and the smell of yeasty beer.

Archie’s
eyes were blinking like the clappers.

“Mum?
You all right Mum?”

A
brilliantly stupid question.

The
words came this time. “I’ll be at the Assembly House at 4.” And by then she’d
have a plan to sort this whole mess out. She was convinced of it.

T
he
Assembly House. Kentish Town noir.

Greg
was nursing a pint of Guinness over by the Jukebox, his leg bouncing up and
down the way it did when he was nervous or on speed. He was in his blue Adidas
tracksuit with the trainers to match. Looked like he was in between football
games.

Liza
didn’t waste any time in joining him. Put her bag on the floor. Reached over
and kissed him on the cheek. Couldn’t resist messing up the tiny spikes of his
gelled hair.

“Mum!
For heaven’s sake.” His tone was laden with the intonations of a five-year-old.

“You’re
a handsome fella, sure you are.” The pub brought out the Irish in her, her
Dublin blood moving faster than the Kilburn stuff. “Mine’s a pint.”

Greg
held up his glass until the barman noticed. Held up 2 fingers like he was offering
the sign of peace.

Patrick
O’Leary wandered by, banging Liza’s back as he went. “Sorry love,” he muttered
through the matted, grey fuzz of his beard. “Sorry. Just need some music.”

“No
bother, Patrick. Help yourself.”

Liza
felt a maternal glow inside her chest. Wanted to take Patrick home and give him
a wash. Maybe get rid of that old coat of his and get him a new pair of jeans.
The poor fellow stank of piss as he rocked back and forward trying to focus on
the choices. And to think he’d been the man back in the day. One of the roadies
for The Pogues. An original and not just one of the sheep.

He
dropped some coins into the slot. They chinked with the kerching of money
meeting money when they landed.

“Josef
bloody Locke,” Greg said when the music filled the air.

“It’s
one of your dad’s favourites.”

“Hear
My bloody Song. Speaking of Dad, where is the old sod.”

The
barman placed two pints right in the middle of a couple of beer-mats on the
table and walked away without speaking. “Thanks,” Liza told him, then admired
the three loops of the shamrock that decorated the creamy foam at the top of
the glasses. Life, she thought, was a lot like a pint of Guinness – full of
darkness and with a little froth to keep you interested. “He’s on the boat.
Tell me, has there been any word from Mr Suit?”

“He’s
said all he needs to say. Noon tomorrow remember?” He looked at his watch, a
heavy diver’s watch that could still tell the time if he happened to be 50
metres under water, not that he could swim – even taking a paddle made him
nervous. “That’s twenty hours in case you haven’t counted. Less than a day.”

“I
know how many hours there are, son, don’t think I don’t.” Patrick O’Leary
swayed to the music, spilling their Guinness on to their beer mats. Liza’s
maternal feelings towards him had disappeared, replaced by irritation at the
wafts of urine that kept clouding around her face. “Now off you toddle,
Patrick, and get yourself a drink on me.”

O’Leary
tugged a greasy forelock and stumbled to the bar.

“And
the plan?” Greg asked. That was the thing with Greg. Always needed bailing out.
Now if the secateurs had been on his thumb, if it was Jenny in the pub and Greg
they were chatting about, the maps would have already been on the table.

“You
still have that bag your father gave you to look after when you left home?” She
took a sip of her drink to lubricate her throat.

“The
suitcase with the lock on it?”

“That’s
the one.” And took another drink.

“Nah.
Left it behind in the cellar of the old flat. Wasn’t like we’d be taking it on
holiday or anything.”

Liza
snorted into the glass. Sent the shamrock and the froth across the table and
all over Greg’s tracksuit top.

Greg
rose up, cheeks flushing, ready to tell her what he thought of that.

He
fell right back into his chair when Liza’s palm flew into his cheek. “You what?
You left the bag? Your father told you to keep it safe in case of emergencies.”

“I
figured that him not being able to speak or walk or wipe his own arse was
emergency enough. What the hell would he be needing it for?

“His
guns, Greg. His bloody guns.”

G
reg
drove his VW Golf up the hill to Highgate. Needed the radio turned up loud to
stop his mum from rabbiting on and causing him to lose concentration. If they
crashed, he’d be done for being over the alcohol limit and off the amphetamine
scale.

At
Jackson’s lane he took a right turn and headed to his old parking space behind
the flats.

When
he’d moved in with his mates, they thought they’d made the big time. A ground
floor place with a patio out the back and not a parent in sight to tell them
how to live their lives. Six months of take-away food, beer and women made the
Archway Road seem like paradise.

Shame
that Sid and Rod were sent down for setting off fires in the cemetery in a
protest against capitalism. Almost singed Karl Marx’s beard, they did. It was
the CCTV that put them in the frame for the job and the petrol cans and the
stink of their clothes that saw to the rest.

Greg
couldn’t afford the flat without them and had to move out. Ended up in a
flea-pit of a bedsit that was more in keeping with his student life at the
lowly institution of the University Of North London.

Pulling
up at the old flat, it was like nothing had changed since he’d gone. Just like
when he’d lived there, he had to parallel-park into the space between the old
camper van and the convertible Audi, and just like the old days, there were
only six inches to spare between his bumpers and theirs’.

“Jesus,”
Liza shouted when he turned the radio off. “Could you not have picked out a
decent station for your ma, now? Something with a little bit of fun to it?”

Greg
ignored the question. He got himself out of the car and went over to open the
passenger door.

“You
got the keys?” his mum asked as she got out.

Greg
nodded before setting off for the back gate. He hadn’t known why he’d kept a
set at the time. Now it was as if it was meant to be. “Sure, it was meant to
be,” his mum said as they walked into the backyard and strolled casually to the
door.

The
key still fitted, thank goodness, and one simple turn of the lock and it was
done.

They
entered the kitchen at the back of the flat. It was so clean that Greg hardly
recognised it. The surfaces were uncluttered and there wasn’t a chip-wrapper or
an oily tin in sight. Pervading the place was the faint odour of joss sticks.

All
was quite. Nothing to worry about. The occupants were probably out at work.

“Bloody
hippies,” Greg said when he saw the assorted ornamental Buddha’s sitting
cross-legged about the sitting room. “They haven’t even got a bloody telly.”

“Now,
now son. I’ll put the kettle on while you do the business. Make a nice cuppa to
calm your nerves.”

Greg
turned his back on her and mouthed a couple of swear-words. He went straight
through to the hallway and stopped between the two doors. Couldn’t resist
looking in at his old room, so he opened the one on his right and poked his
head in.

It
was pink now. Pink walls and pink everything to match. There were posters from
Strictly Come Dancing, boxes of dolls and neatly arranged shelves full of
books. He felt a strong urge to take a dump on the bed just to spoil the
atmosphere, but he’d only just taken a crap in the pub. Besides, he had other
things to be getting on with.

He
closed the door behind him and went over to the other one.

The
handle needed to be turned anti-clockwise, same as always, and when he opened
this one he was greeted by the smell of dust and damp.

There
was a tight turn to be negotiated as he went down the steps, but he’d no
problem managing it. When he’d lived there, he’d pop down every time Sid or Rod
had a girl in their room, then he’d press his ear to a glass that he pushed up
to the floorboards. Never really heard much other than the plumbing and the
traffic unless they had a screamer in. He hadn’t felt bad about eavesdropping -
Sid did exactly the same when it was him doing the shagging.

The
cellar hadn’t changed much. Still had the platform on the right, like someone
had built it for an underground gig or something. The pair of wooden clogs
they’d inherited was still there in the middle, hogging the limelight as they’d
always done. Pillars of red brick filled the other side of the room, thick with
cobwebs and dust and crops of white mould in the corners.

Slotted
in between the pillars at the far end was the suitcase Greg had left. He wasted
no time in going over and pulling it from between the old rugs and sheets that
were supposed to hide it and let the bag drop to the floor.

The
relief he’d felt on spotting the case was soon replaced by a tightening of the
shoulders and an inability to breathe. Sure, it was the same case – same
colour, same size and same scratches – only this case didn’t have the padlock
on the handles locking it shut that Archie had put on for safety’s sake.

Greg
clicked open the clasps and lifted the lid.

Nothing.

There
was nothing.

His
mum was going to kill him.

“These
what you’re looking for?” The voice was a boy’s, all cocky and unbroken.

Greg
turned round to see a kid in his dressing gown and slippers, a mop of blond
hair in some kind of fringe that angled across his face so that he could only
have seen from one eye. His arms were stretched out and pointed in Greg’s
direction and in each hand he was holding a gun.

“I
don’t know what you mean,” Greg told him as he put his hands in the air in a gesture
he hoped looked like surrender.

“These
guns, prick-eater.”

“What
would I be wanting with a couple of toys like that?”

The
boy laughed, all confident about what he was doing. Flicked his head so that
his fringe revealed his other eye for a moment. He was a cocky sod, this one.

“Want
me to play with them for you, prick-brain? Show you what the toys can do?”

The
lad lifted his arms higher. Looked like someone in a cowboy film, dressing gown
and slippers aside. Things suddenly seemed serious. Greg thought about
appealing to the kid’s Buddhist nature – ‘all is sorrow’ and all that crap –
and felt a movement in his bowels that meant taking a crap on the pink bed was
no longer out of the question. He held up his hands a little higher.

“You
don’t need to do that. I know what they can do.”

“And
you’ll also know that they’ve just changed the laws on how far someone can go
to defend themselves from an intruder in their home, prick-breath. How you can
shoot a robber and get away with it.”

Christ.
It was time to go with the religious shit. “And what would your Buddha think
about that then, eh?”

At
that moment, Greg saw his mum stepping into the cellar in a pair of socks that
were covered in roses. She made her way down and then looked over. When she
appeared in full, Greg realised that she was carrying two mugs of tea.

Greg’s
eyes must have moved because the boy stiffened. “Think I’m going to fall for
that ‘he’s behind yer’ crap? It’s the oldest trick in the book. You must think
I was born yesterday.”

As
soon as the words were out of his mouth, Liza flung the hot tea over the boy’s
head. The boy’s hair had hardly been soaked when she threw the cups at him. One
of them whizzed past him and smashed in the far corner, the other was a direct
hit to the back of his skull.

The
boy flinched. Lifted his arms in the air. Accidentally squeezed the trigger of
one of the guns. Sent a bullet screeching in Greg’s direction. Took a tiny hole
out of Greg’s lobe and sent him hopping around the room in agony.

Liza
didn’t waste any time. She was on the boy and slapping him about the head and
body like she was swatting at an angry wasp. “For the love of God, Greg, will
you not do something to help me here?”

Greg
let go of his ear and stopped dancing on the spot. He went over, grabbed the
guns and pointed them at the boy.

“Freeze
prick-tease, or you’ll be joining the Buddha before nature intended.”

Everything
was under control again.

At
that point, a teenage girl entered the cellar and screamed.

She
had long, straight black hair that had a bluish tinge to it. Her eye-makeup was
heavy and her ears were pierced more times than a teabag. All she wore was a
Spiderman pyjama top, one that came down just enough to cover her pride.

“You
naughty boy,” Greg said, patting the lad on the head, and putting the guns onto
the floor.

Greg
reached into his pocket and took out the Stanley knife he carried in case of
emergencies. He slid out the blade with one hand and took the mop of the boy’s
fringe in the other. He chopped at the hair with rough abandon then held the
scalp in the air like it was the FA Cup.

The
girl in the doorway screamed louder.

“Time
to go, Ma,” Greg said and he put the guns in the bag where they belonged.

He
took Liza by the arm and pulled her up the steps.

As
he closed the door, he watched the young girl go over to put her arms round the
boy and the boy huddle into a ball.

He
turned the key to lock the cellar door, allowed his mum to pass and then left
without bothering to say goodbye.