Iain Banks - Dead Air

We’d been strolling round the big circular path in front of the museum. Now I stepped round and stopped in front of him and said, ‘Is this about my trip to the East End in a certain taxi, to fucking Haggersley Street?’ I almost shouted the last bit.

My new pal Chris looked around and patted the air with one hand. ‘Now, I can see why you might be upset about that, Ken, but-’

‘You fuckers were trying to drug me and kidnap me because of a fucking traffic violation?’ Again, I had trouble keeping my voice modulated for maximum mellifluousness.

Glatz did the air-patting thing again. He sighed and put a hand to one side of his face, then nodded forward and we set off again, walking slowly round the big circle. ‘Ken, I’m not going to lie to you,’ he said in a tired voice. ‘That was an overreaction. But,’ he said, holding up one hand, before I could respond to this, ‘the need was felt to impress on you that we are serious people, and that we have the necessary resources, and the will, to follow through with any – what’s the best way to put this? – incentivisation framework we might wish to implement.’

‘You can back up threats because you’re crims.’

Chris actually laughed quite loudly at this. ‘Well, basically, yes, if we’re being frank with each other.’

‘I see. And the threatening phone call? And the tyres on my Land Rover? And the headlights?’

He nodded. ‘All a bit messy, a bit unrequired, frankly, Ken. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m approaching you as one reasonable man to another.’

I gave a small laugh. ‘You obviously don’t listen to my show.’

He smiled, sipped some more coffee. ‘Ken, we’d like to compensate you for the damage and distress you’ve suffered.’

‘I see. You mean bribe me.’

‘Frankly, yes.’

‘How much?’

‘Two grand. And we’ll settle the bill with the garage.’

‘And what if I say no?’

He looked round at me. ‘Frankly?’

‘Frankly.’

‘Then I go back to Mark and say that we’ve done our best; gone out on a limb for him, even, and it hasn’t worked. We’ve tried money and that hasn’t worked either, and unless he wants to raise the offer to something you’d accept-’

‘I’m not poor, or greedy enough, Chris. And I am easily proud enough not to.’ I smiled.

‘Fair enough,’ he said, dumping his coffee in a bin. I’d have followed his example except I’d remained just worried enough to be keeping the still-just-about-scaldingly-hot coffee to use as a weapon if things suddenly turned nasty again. ‘So,’ he said, ‘I’d tell Mark that maybe he should just take his punishment like a man and take more care driving in future, and get a chauffeur for however long his ban lasts. And unless he does something very stupid, which I shall try to persuade him not to do, that’ll be the end of the matter.’

‘Really?’ I looked into the man’s eyes. I formed the distinct impression that actually Mr Glatz wouldn’t be at all averse to his business associate having to swallow his pride and accept his punishment.

He shrugged. ‘You have to have a sense of proportion about these things, Ken,’ he said reasonably, ‘otherwise people end up getting hurt. Which is messy. And messy, generally, is not good for business.’

‘So,’ I said. ‘If I say I’m not going to retract my witness statement, that’ll be that.’

‘It should be.’

‘I know it should be, but will it?’

‘Ken,’ Glatz sighed heavily. ‘I am not here to threaten you. I am here to make you an offer, which I’ve done. You seem to be rejecting it. That’s the end of the matter as far as I’m concerned and as far as my colleagues are concerned, in so far as you’re concerned… if you see what I mean.’

‘I think so. Go on.’

‘I can’t speak for Mark, who may wish to approach you himself. ’

‘And what the fuck does that mean?’

‘Ken, Ken,’ he said, holding up both hands. ‘Don’t get upset. It means just what it says. It’s not a threat.’ He gave what was probably meant to be an encouraging smile. ‘Mark is not… he’s not the physical sort, know what I mean? That’s why we make a good team. He’s very good with money, and contacts, and charm, and… Well. But with us washing our hands of the case, the direct action side of things is pretty much off the agenda.’

‘Good,’ I said. I thought. I pointed a finger at Glatz. ‘Just in case he does get any ideas, you tell him there’s a man called John Merrial who owes me a favour, all right?’

Glatz looked very surprised for a vanishingly brief interval of time. Then he looked slightly surprised. ‘Mr Merrial?’ he asked. ‘Really?’

‘Really,’ I said. ‘And if he doesn’t know who John is, I think maybe you ought to enlighten him. Don’t you?’

Glatz was looking away from me, nodding. We were back almost under the big guns again, which felt like a shiveringly appropriate place to be when invoking the name of Mr M to another, palpably lesser, villain. ‘I see, Ken,’ he said, still nodding, glancing at me. ‘Well, that is interesting. I’d no idea. A favour, eh?’

‘That’s what he said, last time I saw him,’ I told Glatz.

He looked at me and nodded. ‘I can rely on your discretion here, can’t I, Ken? Off the record, as we agreed. Obviously all of this is strictly between you and me.’

‘Obviously. Providing your friend Mark doesn’t do anything stupid.’

‘I’ll have a word.’

‘That’d be nice.’

He smiled. ‘Right. Well, I think we’re finished here, Ken, would you agree?’

I grinned. ‘I think I would, Chris.’

‘Okay.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Let’s get you back to your radio station. Do you want to drive, or shall I?’

‘Allow me,’ I said. We started walking back to the car.

Mr Glatz nodded at my left wrist. ‘By the way; nice watch.’

‘Mm-hmm.’

Oh, the sheer bliss of it; when we arrived at Capital Live! I got to do the old Ronnie Reagan thing, cupping my hand to my ear, pretending I couldn’t make out what the press were saying. Of course, rather than doing this across the White House lawn on the way to my helicopter with the press fifty metres away behind a rope, guarded by marines, I was about ten centimetres away from the journos, separated from them only by the thickness of a window I could have lowered with a single click of a button. This made it all the more fun.

‘Ken! Ken! Is it true you kicked this guy?’

‘Ken! What’s the truth? Tell us what happened.’

‘Ken, is it true he hit you first?’

‘Ken! These pliers; did you throw them intending to hit him?’

It was great seeing so many journos here; I’d expected one or two, but this was real celeb stuff. Must be a quiet news day in the capital. I did the hand-ear thing, shook my head, smiled broadly and mouthed, I-can’t-hear-you as I nudged the car slowly forward and angled it towards the car park ramp. They were trying the door handles but I’d locked all the doors somewhere round Trafalgar Square. Two snappers were standing right in front of the car, aiming straight through the windscreen; I let the car trickle forward in Drive, brakes creaking, slowly forcing the photographers backwards.

In the passenger seat, Mr Glatz had looked puzzled when he’d seen the small crowd of reporters gathered round the office entrance. When they’d spotted me driving the car through the traffic towards the underground car park, and come running over to hammer on the windows, tape recorders aimed, flashes flashing – heck, there was even a TV crew there – he’d been horrified, but by then it was too late. He’d picked up his newspaper and hid behind it. This was, of course, entirely the wrong thing to do, because now the ladies and gents of the press were starting to think, Hold on, who’s Mr Shy in the passenger seat? A couple of the snapperistas took photos of Mr G’s hands and the Torygraph they were clutching.