John Harvey - Rough Treatment

“Let’s wait and see what happens.”

“He’ll show.”

Resnick wished he could be as sure. Gazing at the monitor, Norman Mann pursed his lips into a slow whistle.

“Charlie?”

“Yes?”

“See that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That I wouldn’t mind a taste of. How ’bout you?”

A young black woman, Afro-Caribbean, wearing a smart dark suit, white blouse, black heels, walked in front of Grabianski and the camera panned with her, steadying as she sat down at one of the benches. Watching, Norman Mann whistled again as she crossed her legs; smiling, he blew on the screen as if to cool it down.

“No, Charlie? Expect me to believe that?”

“No.”

“You surprise me, Charlie. Never struck me as prejudiced before.”

Resnick straightened and arched his back; they’d been cooped up inside for too long.

“Shit,” murmured Mann. “Why can’t he keep the camera still?”

“Good reason,” Resnick said, bending forward again. “Look.”

Taking his time, not a care in the world, Alan Stafford was strolling along the avenue of trees towards the glassed-in bandstand, hands in his blue car-coat pockets.

Grabianski had seen him coming too, had known him from the description he’d been given, been aware of the hardness of wood against his back as he pressed himself against the bench, the blue British Airways bag back on the ground between his feet. Stafford continued to take his time, sauntering, taking an interest in the trees, the coming flowers, the way the sun lit up the domed roof of the new Lace Hall beyond Weekday Cross. Of course, he was looking at none of those things; he was checking to see if this was a set-up, if he was being watched.

At first it seemed as if something might have spooked him, as though he might stroll right past Grabianski and only stop at the wall, maybe pause there to enjoy the view. The two soccer grounds, their floodlights poking up at either side of the Trent; the stoned windows of the empty British Waterways building, the pale green paint of its doors flaking and fading away; low roofs of the Gunn and Moore factory just across the boulevard. Here it was, close to here, Albert Finney stood with Rachel Roberts filming Saturday Night and Sunday Morning. Was that really more than twenty years ago?

Stafford paused at the last moment, paused and sat.

“You Grabianski?” he asked.

“Stafford?”

Stafford nodded, eyes now firmly on the bag.

“I was just beginning …”

“Is it there?” Stafford interrupted him.

“The …”

“Shut it!”

Grabianski felt himself go tense, willed his muscles to relax. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s all there, the cocaine.”

“Why don’t you wave it around? Broadcast it?” Something wild was flying at the back of Stafford’s eyes. Till the moment he’d sat down he had seemed really casual, but now, alongside Grabianski, close alongside the kilo of cocaine, it was as if something had him hyped up. As if he’d drunk down five strong coffees, continental roast, one after the other; that or something else.

“There’s no one close,” Grabianski said, glancing right and left. “Nobody can hear.”

“You sure it’s all there?” Stafford was leaning back against the end of the bench, one arm stretched out along it, fingers fast-tapping the wooded edge. His eyes, when they settled at all, settled on the carry-on bag.

“Sure,” said Grabianski and reached down to pull back the zip.

“If it’s been messed around, cut with something, anything …”

“Nothing. Look, it’s the way it was. Aside from putting it in the bag, it hasn’t been touched.”

“Aside from taking it from Harold Roy’s safe.”

“Yes,” Grabianski agreed. “Aside from that.”

“That bastard!” hissed Stafford. “That stupid bastard!”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Grabianski said. “Bad luck.”

“Screw bad luck!” said Stafford with feeling.

Grabianski couldn’t stop himself from glancing up, up towards the Castle, knowing that he shouldn’t.

“What’s that?” said Stafford sharply.

“What?”

“What the hell are you looking at?”

“Nothing. I was looking at nothing.”

“Suddenly you were looking round.”

“The Castle, I suppose. I don’t know. Why does it matter?”

“If you’re fucking me around, you know what that’d mean? For you? You got any idea?”

Grabianski nodded.

“You sure?”

“I think so.”

Stafford’s hand was fast, fingers digging deep into the leg, each side of Grabianski’s knee. “You need to do more than think.”

“All right, I know.”

“Know what?”

“What you’d do.”

“If you were jerking me around.”

“Right.”

“What’d I do?”

Grabianski didn’t answer. His leg was hurting, a nerve seemed to be trapped; he wanted to lean back and then slam a fist to the side of Stafford’s head and make an end of it.

“I’ll tell you what I’d fucking do,” said Stafford. “I’d fucking kill you.”

“Yes,” Grabianski said, “I know that.”

“Good.” Stafford pulled his hand away, leaving Grabianski wanting more than anything to rub his leg but not allowing himself to do it, not giving Stafford any more satisfaction than he could help. Resnick had been right, Stafford was vermin: he needed locking away for a long time, forever.

Grabianski picked up the bag and placed it on the seat between them.

“What d’you do that for?”

“We’re going to exchange it, aren’t we?”

Now Stafford was looking around, jumpy as a couple of men in muted gray suits walked around the circle, a woman talking baby-talk into a pram, two kids running across the grass and the teacher shouting at them to get back where they belonged.

“That’s all you’ve got in there? The package?”

“What else?”

Stafford gave a nervous little laugh. “How about a microphone? A tape recorder? You got one of those in there? A little insurance on the side?”

“Look for yourself,” Grabianski said, moving to open the flight bag again. “I promise you, there’s no recorder in there. No mikes.”

Stafford pushed his hand down on the top of the bag, keeping the zip closed. “You know what I’m doing here, don’t you? Paying you for what’s already mine.”

“We’ve been into that.”

“Yes. Right.” He reached inside his coat, going for an inside pocket and Grabianski held himself tense, watching. It was a white envelope, five by seven, some such size. Not very fat; fat enough.

“You don’t want to count it,” Stafford said.

“Yes.”

“Like fuck you do!”

“That’s right.”

Stafford slapped the envelope down into Grabianski’s outstretched hand and watched while the flap was torn aside, the notes flicked through still out of general sight.

“Okay,” Grabianski said, placing the envelope in the inside pocket of his own jacket. “Here.” He slid the British Airways bag further along the bench towards Stafford, who took both handles into his left hand.

Grabianski held out his right hand for Stafford to shake.

Ignoring it, Stafford stood up quickly now, one curt nod and he was standing, turning away.

“Shit!” whispered Norman Mann at the monitor.

“Wait,” said Resnick, continuing to watch and listen.

“Hey!” Grabianski called. And as Stafford’s head swung back towards him, “What’s the hurry?”

“What d’you think …?”

“I’ve got an idea.”

Alan Stafford hesitated, seconds from going, walking clear.

“A proposition.”

Stafford with the words on his lips, telling this jumped-up sneak-thief where he could stuff his proposition.