Richard Wiseman - To Kill Or Be Killed

David picked up his bag and holstered the Sig.

“I’ll call you. Maybe you should come down sometime.”

“Aye take good care son.”

David left the house, pausing before he closed the door behind him. A prayer to get home safely passed through his mind and he began the short walk around the corner to Monty’s house.

Stanton stood at the window of Clarky’s house a mug of tea in his hand staring through the net curtains at the white satellite dish on the house opposite.

“My god Trev you’re right in it pal and no mistake. Jesus the dog too.”

“Well you remember that time…” Stanton began.

“Yes but that was war my friend.” Clarky said.

“I need a way out, one that doesn’t show me up on CCTV.” Stanton said suddenly

“You do right enough. Listen I’ve an idea, I’ll just get a map.” Clarky left the room.

Clarky had been glad to see his friend, but he wanted him out of the house. He’d seen the news and asked about the lorry at the race course. Part of him was praying that Stanton had enough regard for him not to kill him.

At the window Stanton started suddenly as David walked up the street and onto the path of the house he was looking at. He instantly recognised the big Scotsman from the railway station at Perth. He stepped back into the shadow of the curtains.

“What is it?” Clarky was back in the room.

Stanton turned to face him eyes blazing.

“Did you grass me up?” Stanton hissed.

“Good God no Trev why do you think that?”

Stanton grabbed him by the arm and thrust him to the window.

“You see the big man going in? Well he was at Perth station last night. Why would security be here?”

“I don’t know, but he’s not come here, to my door has he and there’s no armed police out there.”

Stanton let go his arm and let out a laugh. It was true enough. They were looking for him and he knew it must be the DIC people.

“DIC the white satellite dish! So that’s how they do it. I’m sorry my friend I’m a little nervous.”

He watched from the window as Clarky laid out the map on the coffee table. McKie came out with Monty and they got into the car.

“I’ll be seeing you again some day no doubt.” Stanton said to the vehicle as it passed fixing McKie’s form and face in his memory.

“Come away. I’ve a good plan to get you out. It’ll even give you a choice as to whether to continue with this job or disappear.”

They went to the map.

“The other side of Glasgow is the Clyde Marina with boats of all kinds. I’ll drive you up. There’ll be at least one boat leaving at some point this afternoon and if there isn’t I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“Good idea, keep going.”

“You can travel down the coast and pick any point to stop and go inland or as I said just keep going.”

“Good. Let’s get ready then. How long will it take to get there?”

“An hour or so.” Clarky said

“You’re a good comrade.” Stanton patted his shoulder.

“We’ve been through too much for me to let you down.” Clarky said warmly.

Stanton looked him in the eyes. “… but you’ll be glad when I’m gone.” He said bringing the truth he saw in Clarky’s eyes into the open.

“Yes. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth of it. Look… when you’ve done this job… if there’s trouble make your way back here… if you have to.” Clarky trailed off speaking.

Stanton slapped him on the shoulder again. He was grateful, but he knew that Clarky was just making himself useful enough not to be killed. It was a bad business when a man’s friend feared him as much as his enemies.

Lear Jet to London

2-10 p.m.

April 18th

Monty had seen David to the plane. It was a mild spring day with a light cold breeze and yet David felt chilled walking to the steps of the white Lear jet. There were no other passengers and he sat alone with his thoughts as the jet pushed him back into his seat and rose into the sky.

He looked from the window to the map like view below. England lay below him like a child’s table full of tiny toys. It was no game though and he knew it. He thought of the flight to Scotland, he thought of Beaumont and with a sudden start he thought of his wife. He went to the back of the plane and picked up the phone.

In the Dover semi the phone rang for a good few rings. Mary was slow on her feet and waddled down the stairs to the hall. David was about to hang up when she answered.

“Hello love it’s David.”

“Oh thank god! I’ve just had a call from your father. Are you coming home?”

“Aye I’ve to go to London and collect my things. I’m on a plane.”

“My god when I saw the news today I was worried half to death. Are you okay?”

“Careworn love I miss you.”

“I miss you too. Come on home Davey.”

“I’m on my way. Early evening is when I’ll get there.”

“Okay love. You can tell me all about it.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“Are you on a plane?”

“Aye.”

“Call me when you land and then call when you get on the train.”

“Okay love.”

“Bye.”

David put the phone down. He thought about the fact that on the way out he’d had tears in his eyes when he thought of being killed and taken from his family and had then thought he would make sure he didn’t get hurt. How close had it been though? He didn’t feel like crying now. He was changed. He felt a sudden flow of strength. He’d made mistakes sure enough, but he’d shot Wheeler dead and much as it had pained him to think of having killed a man it felt suddenly good to be the one talking to his wife, sitting on the plane, going home. He felt bad about Beaumont, but at least he’d shot the man who’d wounded his partner. It could have been a lot worse. He found strength and solace in his survival and the scar across his psyche hardened, healing like the hands of manual workers, creating a first layer of tougher skin across the novice softness and making it easier for him to work at his own labour. David had his first taste of hardening from experience as far as mortal combat was concerned.

London Vauxhall

2-30 p.m.

April 18th

The Priory Arms in Vauxhall on Landsdowne Way seemed innocuous enough to Charley Cobb. He’d made himself presentable, ditched the pseudo police look and walked miles around the M25 and finally when he got far enough into London he’d taken a taxi to Vauxhall. It had been no mean feat. Most of the day was gone and he needed to make contact. Only the buyer could offer safety of that he was sure. It would go badly if he wasn’t the first there, but he might be able to get a ticket out as a consolation prize, either that or do for the competition. He was getting desperate.

The contact, Peter Brook, was sitting at a window table. Brook was a solidly built, stocky man in his early thirties. He had light brown hair, side parted in a neat college boy style. He was wearing a brown pin stripe suit, Next, Machine washable. The cut was good on Next off the peg suits, he could get trousers to fit, jackets a bit bigger on the chest and body, with shorter sleeves for his muscular stocky arms. He wore black framed spectacles for reading. He took them off and displayed light hazel eyes which took on a hard pebble like quality when he saw Cobb approach the pub through the window looking over the small front of house ‘beer garden’. He watched him walk past, then return and enter.

Cobb had no idea how they would make contact. He was tired and dusty. He didn’t have to push his way to the bar, the pub wasn’t busy yet.

Brook had been there every day for the last two. He’d sat at the window table, spending money on drinks, to keep the landlord happy, buying lunch there and for his cover reading a racing post and pretending to make bets on a cell phone. He’d got know every face and knew the faces of the five men he was expecting, but knowing that even disguised he’d know anyone who wasn’t a regular.