Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

'Anything taken?'

'No, but I thought I'd better report it for insurance purposes at least.'

'Which is how I got to hear about it,' said Jon, leading Tom towards the officer who was now kneeling at the garage door's lock. 'Anything that looks like it could be the work of the gang stealing high-performance cars is referred to us.'

'But I don't understand. Why my garage?'

'Well.' Jon lowered his voice. 'I didn't mention it to Charlotte, but a car was taken off a driveway on the next street, so it appears they were in this area last night. They've obviously cased out your house before. Perhaps they saw your Porsche wasn't on the drive and thought it might be in the garage, with the keys.'

'Jesus Christ, Jon, you're saying that they're actively targeting my house?'

Jon weighed up how to play things. 'You live in an area they regularly drive around, that's all. But they're getting nastier with their tactics. One has gone into a couple of houses recently and threatened the owners. Single women so far. The last time he went up the stairs and into the victim's bedroom because she'd taken her handbag and car keys upstairs with her. Just be careful with your keys at night. You keep them on a hook now, don't you?'

Tom nodded. 'Ever since the Audi went.'

'Good. Keep them there. If they're on a hook, you prevent the fishing trick. But if they burst in anyway, at least your keys are there for them to grab.'

'What? You're saying if they kick in my front door I should just let them take the Porsche?'

'It would be the best way to resolve the situation without anyone getting injured.' 'Bollocks! The best way to resolve it would be to keep a baseball bat in my bedroom and brain the fuckers with it.'

Jon shook his head. 'Tom, it's just a car. What if you run down the stairs, trip in the dark, go arse over tit, drop your bat and end up with some very angry car thieves standing over you?'

Tom considered this and snorted in reluctant agreement. 'It's tempting to get a bloody gun.'

Jon looked at him. 'Don't even think about it. We're not the States. Not yet, anyway. Don't do anything stupid, OK?'

Tom was silent for a bit and then said, 'Remember that time in the Bull's Head? You said these people live in a different world from you and me. You said I didn't want them coming anywhere near my world. Well Jon, it looks like they're in it, doesn't it? It looks like they're wandering around just as they please. And it seems you can't do a thing about it, and I'm not allowed to.'

His words stung, and not just because they were pointing out how ineffective the police were. In Jon's mind they were also a statement of how he was failing to protect a friend. 'We'll catch these guys soon; they're getting far too cocky. You can make my job easier by not getting involved. OK?'

'OK.'

Suspecting that his capitulation wasn't genuine, Jon looked down at the officer. 'Anything?'

The other man got back to his feet. 'A couple of partials.'

Jon looked at Tom. 'We'll keep those prints on file. When we catch this lot we'll be able to link them to here and dozens of other places.'

As the uniformed officer loaded his kit into the back of the van, Jon said, 'Hey, talking of the Commonwealth Games, I put my name down for tickets to the rugby sevens and got allocated a couple for the quarter-finals. Fancy it?'

Tom thought for a few seconds. 'What day's it on?'

'Saturday the third of August.'

'Yeah, I'm up for it, cheers.'

'Nice one,' said Jon, walking round to the passenger seat of the van. 'I'll give you a bell nearer the time.'

As the van pulled out on to the road, Jon looked over his shoulder and saw Tom standing on his front lawn, one hand held in the air.

*

Once the vehicle had disappeared round the corner, Tom dropped his hand and looked at the garage door. The thought of people prowling round his property at night, lifting his letterbox and testing his doors, created a strange mix of fear and anger. And now he'd learned they were bursting in to people's bedrooms. He took his mobile from his pocket and dialled a number. 'Brain, it's Tom here.'

They went through the usual formalities before Brain said he had plenty of shopping in.

'Great,' said Tom, thinking how fast the bag of powder seemed to be disappearing. 'I'm also after something a little more unusual. It's to do with self-protection, if you know what I mean.'

Brain said he'd better call round to discuss it.

Tom arrived at his house a short while later. Stepping into the dimly lit front room, he saw three student types slouched on beanbags and felt totally incongruous in his suit. He took the armchair in the corner and declined the joint offered to him by the dread-locked white guy to his right.

'Last blasts anyway,' the other man replied, taking the final puffs for himself. He flicked the roach into the upturned metal bin lid that served as a gigantic ashtray in the middle of the room. 'Cheers Brain. See you around.'

All three of them rose to their feet and shuffled from the room. As the smoke haze began to thin, Brain tied his mop of straggly black hair back in a ponytail and turned his attention to the electronic scales and small mound of cannabis resin before him. 'So Tom, what are you after?' His voice sounded even closer to total disintegration.

Deciding it was appropriate to purchase some drugs first, Tom replied, 'Any more of that special powder you blended yourself?'

Brain looked surprised. 'You've nearly got through the last lot already?'

'Well, me and a few friends, 'Tom lied. 'It's such a nice rush.'

Brain nodded in agreement. 'You're not wrong. You mentioned something about self-protection, too.'

Tom sat forward in his seat. 'I've got these bastards trying to get into my house. The price of driving a Porsche, it seems.'

'And you want to get hold of?'

'A gun.' 'What?'

'Just a pistol. Something I could wave at them so they never come near my house again.'

Brain lit a cigarette. 'I'm not a frigging arms dealer. I've got a degree in chemistry and I deal in chemicals.'

'I know,' said Tom. 'But you must know … people.'

Brain loosed a plume of smoke at the ceiling. 'I'll give your number to this guy I know. If he calls you, he calls you. I'm not getting any more involved than that.'

'Cheers, Brain, I appreciate it.'

July 2002

As he slowed to a stop in front of the traffic lights, Tom looked anxiously up at the number glowing from the screen on the side of Portland Tower. Nine days to go before the Games started. As if he needed reminding. He sipped latte with an extra shot through the lid of the cup before replacing it in the holder on the Porsche Boxter's dashboard.

Ahead of him the coloured banners billowed out slightly as a gentle summer breeze sighed down the wide street. He thought of the chaos waiting for him in the office and took another long sip, feeling the caffeine surging through the veins in his temples as his heart beat a little faster.

Carrying on towards Piccadilly station, trees now shrouded in a thick layer of leaves, he examined the scaffolding outside the Rossetti hotel, praying the printers had finished the Nastro Azzurro job by now. Erection date was in two days' time.

The traffic thinned out after the junction for the cab rank at the back of Piccadilly station and soon he swept up to Ardwick Green, taking the sharp left-hand turn and pulling up outside his office. He sat for a moment to steel himself then, feeling for the little bag of powder in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, he jumped out of the car and walked into reception.

'Morning,' said Sarah brightly.

Tom took the pieces of notepaper she held out and went straight into Ian's old office. First was from Jim Morrell in the IT department down in London. Something about needing access to the system in order to trace some missing files. More of Ian's fucking handiwork no doubt, thought Tom. Next was from Austen Rogers, asking for the exact dates for their promotion of X-treme chewing gum in Piccadilly station. Tom placed the piece of paper on his desk and slid his appointments book over it. Out of sight, out of mind. Next was from a rep from Motorola. He was arriving at lunchtime and wanted to visit the printer where their building wrap was being produced. Tom couldn't remember offhand which printer was handling it. Since Lorzo's went bust, they had jobs scattered all over the place.