Desmond Barry - London Noir

Ten minutes later I left. We hadn’t even fucked but it didn’t matter. This was better, I thought. Much better. As I left the place I became aware of the warmth again. Only now it was spreading, up through my chest and arms and down into my groin. This was proper, I could feel it happening now. The real thing. The way forward. The night’s earlier performance was a mere prelude. A toccata to the fugue I was composing. I went home but couldn’t sleep. Six spliffs and a bottle of wine later, I could...

I spent the next few days in my flat in Kentish Town planning Phase 2 and thinking about what to do with the cash. And afterwards too, the next job. Maybe some type of con. It had to be something elegant, stylish. After a few years I’d retire and write my memoir, get it published anonymously. Reveal myself to a select few, my own little magic circle.

The call finally came on Monday night, about 11. I left the flat and hailed a cab for Market Mews. Rita let me in and Vanya was there on the settee eating a Pot Noodle.

“Did you get it? Did it come out okay?” I said.

“Yes, of course.”

“Where is it?”

Vanya put the plastic pot down on the carpet and pulled the camcorder out from under the sofa.

“Brilliant.” I took it off her. “I’ll give you a call. Gotta go. See you.”

I left her to her MSG-flavored processed soya and caught a cab on Piccadilly.

“Kentish Town, please, mate.”

The cabbie nodded and I got in and hit the PLAY button. It was all there. Good girl. Perfect. Got the cunt.

Back at the flat I fired up my Mac and started working on the blackmail letter. The title — Blackmail Demands — in twelve-point size, centered on the page. I used italics in the first draft but decided it was a bit too soft so opted for plain text. Then the font. That proved more difficult. Gothic Bold seemed like a good choice but it looked too melodramatic. I liked the sound of Chicago, a bit gangsterish, but it came across too friendly on the page. Then Typewriter. Quite sinister-looking, but more of a ransom-note font, I thought. In the end I went for Times New Roman. Simple. Serious. Businesslike.

Then the text itself. I spent a good few hours on this and was pretty satisfied with the results:

I have in my possession a videotape of you, Mr. Nicholas Monroe, QC, engaging in an act of depravity with a prostitute. The tape is three minutes and twenty-six seconds in length and you are clearly identifiable in it. I am prepared to sell this tape to you for a price of no less than £50,000 in cash. Otherwise I will take it to the newspapers. The fee is non-negotiable and there is only one copy of the tape. You will have to trust me on that last point. Bring the cash, alone, to the Printers Devil public house in Fetter Lane, 6 p.m. on Wednesday the 12th of January, and in return you will receive the tape, which will be in the video camera so you can see what you are getting. Looking forward to doing business with you, Jon X

After a couple of spellchecks I printed it out on a clean piece of white A4. It looked good but the vertical position of the text wasn’t quite right so I moved it down slightly, then printed it out again. That was it. I folded it into thirds and sealed the letter in an envelope. Strictly Private and Confidential. Nicholas Monroe, QC , it said. I used my left hand to write it, just in case, then deleted the document from my Mac.

I looked over at the TV. Countdown was on — the early-morning repeat. It was about half an hour before the tubes started running so I watched the last fifteen minutes, waiting for the nine-letter conundrum bit at the end. I wanted to see if it would be BLACKMAIL . I had a feeling it would be. It wasn’t.

At that time of day, it only took thirty minutes to get from Kentish Town to Chancery Lane, where Monroe’s chambers were. I slipped the letter through the mailbox and went back to the flat to get some sleep.

It was 2 in the afternoon when the alarm woke me up. Wednesday. I shaved, took a shower, put my suit and overcoat on, and headed back Chancery Lane to the Printers Devil. I got there at 3:30 and the place was about half full, which was good. Bought a G&T and found a table with a clear view of the door. While I waited I went over what I was going to say to Monroe. He would walk in alone; I’d gesture for him to come and join me at the table and offer to buy him a drink. He was bound to be nervous and I wanted to keep it friendly. When I’d brought his drink back from the bar I’d say my piece: Well, Mr. Monroe, I think we both know why we’re here, don’t we, so let’s get down to business, shall we? He’d probably just nod, I figured, be happy for me to do the talking so he could get the fuck out of there as soon as possible. After the exchange we’d shake hands and I’d leave him there and go and see Vanya to give her her five grand.

Except it didn’t quite happen like that. For a start, Monroe was late. Very late. So late in fact that he didn’t actually fucking bother to turn up. I phoned his office and was told he was in meetings all afternoon but would I like to leave a message. Would I like to leave a fucking message? What the fuck was going on here? Monroe was in no position to fuck with me. I had the tape; I was in control of the situation. My instructions were clear. The letter. He couldn’t just ignore this. It wasn’t going to go away. I had him by the balls and he had to deal with it. He had to. The arrogance of this cocky fuck — I couldn’t believe it. Like I was some prick of a client he could keep on hold while he plays golf or gets finger-fucked or whatever else the cunt does in his spare time.

I needed to calm myself, so I had another drink and considered my options. There was only really one. Dominic. We’d been at Ampleforth together and had kept in touch since. Dom had taken up journalism and was working as a news sub-editor at the Sunday where his dad had worked. I’d sell the tape to them. It wouldn’t fetch quite the same price, but what else could I do? If this cunt thought he could ignore me, he could think again. He’d been warned. It was all in the letter.

I phoned Dom from the pub and set up the meeting, a drink after work at the Prospect of Whitby in Shadwell, near the Sunday ’s offices. I got there at around 6:30 and he introduced me to his workmate.

“Jon, this is Stuart,” Dom said. “He’s up for the Young Journalist of the Year award next month.”

Really? Looks like a cunt to me.

“Nice to meet you, Stuart,” I said. He looked in his late twenties. Had a shaved head and wore a black suit with a dark shirt, no tie. And his handshake was too firm.

“I’ve brought Stu along cos this is more his kinda thing,” Dom explained. “I’m more on the editing side of things, not really a reporter, but Stu here—”

Is a cunt. “Brilliant,” I interrupted, keen to get things moving. “Can I get you guys a drink?”

They both wanted lagers.

When I got back from the bar I launched straight into it. “So, what do you know about Nicholas Monroe, the QC?” I threw the question firmly at Young Cunt of the Year.

“Monroe, yeah, mate, what about him?” Shave-head said, picking up his pint for a gulp.

“Well, what if I were to tell you I have a video of him getting finger-fucked by a £60 whore in Shepherd Market?”

He put his pint down. “What — have you?”

“How much would the Sunday pay for it?” I asked.

“Have you got it with you?”

I played them the tape. A minute in and I could tell he was impressed — with the tape and with me. Once he’d seen Monroe’s face on the vid, he shot me a look that said: Okay, cunt — I can do business with you. When it was over I pressed STOP and put the camera back in my overcoat pocket. Stu spoke first.