Desmond Barry - London Noir

“It’s good but we’d need the girl,” he said bluntly.

“The girl? Why? It’s all there...” I looked at Dom for some backup. It didn’t come.

“It’s all there, yeah, yeah,” Stu said, “but it’s more complicated than that. He’s a very powerful guy, old Monroe. He knows half the fucking cabinet. Probably worked with them when they were still practicing.”

“Stu’s tried to do pieces on Monroe before, Jon,” Dom chipped in.

“Yeah, but they always get spiked,” the cunt continued. “He knows everyone. His old flatmate from law school is tipped to be the next DG of the Beeb.” He took another gulp and held my gaze. My move.

“But he couldn’t sue you when you’ve got him there on tape, clear as day,” I said.

“Look, the guy likes to take chances, likes to think he’s a bit dangerous. But he’s smart, he’s fucking smart, covers his tracks. As I say, friends in high places. He’s supposed to be on the Queen’s birthday list for a knighthood.”

“So what? He’s untouchable?” I said. I could feel it slipping away.

“Mate, I’m not saying it’s impossible. But I know Neil and he’s going to be very wary of this.”

“Neil’s our editor, Jon,” Dom said.

“And he wouldn’t even consider it without the girl,” Stu continued. “We’d need her, on the spread, telling her story — and prepared to testify, if necessary.”

“I see. But how much — What’s the story worth if I get her?”

“That’s not really my call. Dunno, probably five figures though,” he said.

Five figures, that’s at least ten grand. It was still good, I thought. I downed my G&T, then made my excuses and left, as the tabloids say. Cabbed it to Shepherd Market, up the wooden hill, and pressed Press .

Rita answered the door. But this time there was no cheery hello. She would only keep the door ajar, wouldn’t let me in. She just said: “Vanya’s gone. She won’t be back.

You’re not to be let in.” And then the door.

What the fuck?

“What do you mean gone ?” I said through the door. “Rita? Gone where? Rita?”

“Go on, hop it now or I’ll have to call him,” she said.

She meant Davor, the guy who owned the place.

I walked slowly back down the stairs, trying to make sense of what just happened. I’d never seen Rita look stern before. It was odd. And to threaten me with Davor or one of his thugs...

I went home and spliffed myself to sleep. Woke up in my clothes around noon the next day and started getting ready. The camcorder was still in the pocket of my overcoat. I put it on and left the flat to find a pay phone. Dialed the number.

“Put me through to Nicholas Monroe,” I said.

“Mr. Monroe is in a meeting with a client at the moment, he can’t—”

“It’s urgent. He’s expecting me to call.”

“Sir, Mr. Monroe hasn’t mentioned a—”

“Just tell him it’s John X. It’s extremely urgent.”

The line went quiet, that electric nothingness you get when you’re in phone-line limbo. Then a man’s voice.

“Ahhh, Mr. X...”

He sounded relaxed, jovial even.

“This is your last chance, Monroe,” I said. “I’ve been to the Sunday and they are very interested in the tape. They’re prepared to run the story...”

“The Sunday? I see.”

What the fuck is it with this twat? I was talking, you rude cunt.

“So the situation we find ourselves in, Mr. X,” he said, each word measured, calm, “is that you have a firm financial offer from the Sunday newspaper and you’re wondering whether I’m prepared to beat that offer. Am I correct?”

“Yes.”

“Good. And may I ask how much their offer is?”

Five figures , Shavey had said. “Ten grand.”

I regretted the words as soon as I said them. He would have expected me to come up with a figure twice what I was being offered. And why did I tell him which paper it was? I was fucking this up, I knew it. He was too calm and I couldn’t deal with it. It wasn’t what I was expecting.

“Mmm,” Monroe said. “I can probably lay my hands on five thousand by this afternoon — will that do you?”

I suppose it’ll fucking have to. Five grand. It was an insult. But I didn’t really have a choice.

“Six o’clock in the Printers Devil on Fetter Lane — and don’t be late.” I put the receiver down.

I killed the rest of the afternoon in my local, trying to drink away what had happened, and left at 5 to meet Monroe. The platform at Kentish Town was fairly full when I got there — trouble on the Northern Line, as usual — but it was completely rammed by the time the train finally arrived. I fought my way onto the tube, southbound for Tottenham Court Road where I’d change for the Central Line and Chancery Lane. I managed to defend my own little corner by the doors as far as Camden Town, where about a billion people squeezed on and I was thrust into the middle, both hands holding onto the bar above to keep balance. I rarely got the tube, but even I knew that this was worse than normal. Pensioners, office workers, hood rats, tourists — almost every type of low-life London scum was pressed right up against me.

I felt the first risings of a panic attack coming on but pushed it away with a happy thought. I closed my eyes and relived my New Year’s Eve performance, then Monroe, the tape and the letter, the money, the next job, the memoir... then what?... Monroe not turning up, the shavey-head cunt trying to make me look stupid, getting turned away by Rita... Davor... and then Monroe laughing at me on the phone, the arrogant fuck. How dare the cunt? Me with video proof of this fucker — this QC, no less, who knows the Cabinet, is in line for a knighthood — getting finger-fucked up the arse in his stockinged feet by a whore he’s probably managed to have chased out of the country, and all I can get for it is a stinking £5,000, if the cunt shows up at all? He just didn’t seem to give a fuck. It was a minor detail in another week’s work. Hadn’t he grasped the situation? I was in charge here — I was the blackmailer — I had the power.

I opened my eyes. Tottenham Court Road — needed to get off and change. I slowly pushed my way through the pensioners and hood rats, still gripping the bars for balance, and made it to the open doors, squeezing myself out of the carriage just in time before they shut behind me and the train moved off, leaving two dozen or so pissed off commuters to wait for the next one. A moment of schadenfreude consolation for me. I started moving toward the Way Out sign, patted my coat pocket for the camera. Nothing there. I checked the other outside pocket, then the lining one, panic surging through my body, then my trouser pockets, and back to the pocket where I knew I’d put it. Empty. Gone. I started running after the train as it moved along the platform, swearing, screaming at it as it disappeared down the tunnel. I covered my face with my hands.

“You all right, mate?” a voice said.

I let my hands drop to my sides and opened my eyes. It was a station guard.

“No. I’ve been pickpocketed.”

That was six months ago now. I’ve never been back to the flat in Shepherd Market. But I did go to the Printers Devil — that same day, in fact. I don’t know why exactly. Just to see Monroe there, I suppose. See without being seen. Thought I might be able to come up with another plan there and then. I waited till 7. He didn’t turn up.

I got a text message from Dominic the next day, Friday, saying sorry but they couldn’t go ahead with the story, girl or no girl. He didn’t say why.

I’ve been doing more gigs since then. My agency has got me a cruise thing lined up, starts in July, next month.