Richard House - The Kills

He took the job seriously, and strolled through the booths as if to satisfy a particular interest. The booths close to the entrance were wonderlands of massed hardware, of all imaginable kinds of armament: machined, bright, mysterious. In the first booth, and the first business on his list, Proteck Inc., he found a display of jackets and helmets, whole body suits opened layer by layer, some with ceramic plates, others reinforced with micro chainmail padded with a webbed lining and a fine downy insulation. The more expensive jackets fitted with sweat-wicking undershirts and optional protection flaps for the neck and crotch (like necks and crotches weren’t essential), easy-release binds and fasteners, and a guarantee that a personalized suit could be fabricated and shipped to any unit, worldwide, within twenty-one days. These suits, wall-mounted dissections, all impressively clean. Grey and black and busy with pockets.

Rem’s phone trilled again and again, another message from Coleman. He deleted both messages then turned the phone to silent.

The more serious equipment came further up the central aisle — handguns and rifles, semi-automatic and fully automatic, hardware monitored by security guards. The guns, presented on Perspex mounts, pointed to a hoarding-sized poster of a desert populated by sneaky blacked-out turbaned figures with targets marked over their chests and heads. Rem knew next to nothing about guns, they simply didn’t figure in his imagination; but being the kind of man who prefers the engine and not the car, the machined parts held a certain fascination. New, clean, oiled. Untouched. He examined the barrels, the sights, the disassembled trigger mechanisms, the hollowed-out carbon stocks, as if he understood the language.

His phone vibrated against his thigh.

Coleman — 1 message, 2 voice.

At Parkway CI Technologies (third on Geezler’s list of subsidiaries) he found a display of landmines and devices — ETPs, IEDs. On the wall ran a client list of diplomats and businesses, recognizable global brands, sports teams, with a small under-scored by-line as suppliers of expertise to entertainment and production companies. As in the first booth, the combinations of hard technology and recognizable detritus (spent shells and casings, gas canisters, detergent boxes, computer monitors packed with dummy explosives) were opened out for display and marked ‘genuine’.

Mike SMS: I’m getting calls from Coleman.

As Rem bent down a rep approached, talking, and Rem slowly straightened up. He hadn’t bargained on talking.

Mike SMS: He’s saying you won’t answer his calls?

Rem held up his hand to stop any discussion, and continued looking. The man stepped back and asked which service Rem was with, and as Rem didn’t understand the question the man flatly added that there was nothing for him here.

Mike SMS: What do you want me to tell him?

Rem headed back to the aisle.

A sign, ‘Employment Services’, hung in the centre of the walkway, and the booths separated out to a border area marked ‘Food Court’.

In this area the reps dipped anxiously into the aisles, a stickiness to their movements, an anxiety that someone might slip by. As he passed a group of men, each with a coffee, he overheard advice: ‘Set an exit strategy.’ ‘They don’t own you.’

Rem checked his phone. Three further voice messages from Cathy. He’d wait till later to explain himself. He could imagine the confusion if he told her he was looking at guns.

When he checked the messages from Mike he had to sit down.

‘I’m getting questions from Coleman about where you are and why you aren’t answering his calls. He’s threatening all kinds of things.’ Mike spoke quickly. ‘He’s called two or three times an hour. If he comes round … I don’t know. I just don’t want any trouble.’

Rem looked up the aisle at the guns and displays of weaponry. Grenades. Rifles. Semi-automatics. A three-quarter model of a heat-seeking missile.

* * *

Rem returned to the Palmer House Hotel to find Paul Geezler waiting. They sat in the main reception, both in high-backed armchairs. For the second time that day he had the notion that he was on stage, that behind the vast lobby walls were banks of seating, an audience eager to witness a humiliation.

Geezler, smooth and smart in a different suit, his hair neatly parted, comb-tracked. A newspaper across his lap with an image Rem couldn’t quite see — was it a hunter on one knee, or something more benign, a man by a road, a farmer? Geezler sat with his elbows on the armrests, hands clasped, ready to listen. He asked Rem about his visit to the fair.

Rem decided to be honest.

‘I’m the wrong man. I don’t know anything about these things — to be honest — it isn’t that I’m not interested, I just don’t have the knowledge. This isn’t what I do. I’m not the man for what you want.’

Geezler gave small considered nods, and appeared to agree. ‘You’re right. I’m using you in the wrong way.’

‘Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate what you’re doing, but I’m not the person you need.’ Rem was beginning to rise, when Geezler held up his hand.

‘I’m serious about wanting to know how we work. I have a better idea of how to use you. We work with employment agencies. Why don’t you go to one of the recruitment drives and report back to me?’

‘Again, it’s a “thank you”, but I don’t have the expertise.’

‘You don’t need expertise. Submit an application, show up at the recruitment event, attend the presentations and processing, and we have a discussion afterward about how it all went. That’s all it is. You only have to look like someone who’s looking for work.’

This was something Rem could manage. The phone rang again in his pocket, he stood up, offered his hand to Geezler, and apologized.

‘Maybe some other time.’

Geezler reached into his pocket and drew out his wallet. Rem said he couldn’t accept the money. Not in good conscience.

‘Think it over. If you’re interested, call me.’ Geezler insisted on a final drink, looked alone simply because he’d asked, so Rem agreed. After he’d placed the order, he asked Rem if there was anything wrong.

‘You look different from yesterday. I’d say you look a little harassed.’

Rem said he probably needed to go.

Geezler rose with him. ‘Out of interest, was I right about there being some kind of trouble?’ Geezler’s interest appeared genuine. ‘I’m curious, that’s all this is.’ He settled back into his seat and looked to the bar, to the deeper lounge, as if placing people, calculating proximities. ‘Sit down. Talk to me. Let me know what the problem is, make it hypothetical if you need. I might be able to help.’

Rem thought for a moment, it would be good to lay out the situation, hear it from his own mouth. Rem zippered his thumb across his mouth. ‘We had some issues. ’

‘Issues?’

‘Trouble.’

Geezler shifted in his seat. ‘Related to hiring or performance?’

‘Hiring.’

Geezler gave a broad smile. Satisfied. As if he knew it.

‘One of the men stole from the houses we were painting.’

‘Recently?’

‘Recent enough.’

‘Houses?’

‘Two. That I know.’

Geezler nodded in encouragement.

‘You paid them?’

‘Two I knew about, a third I had to go with. I didn’t want the rumour spreading. I wanted to keep my business.’ Did he need to explain this?

‘How did you find out?’

‘We weren’t getting referrals. People stopped calling. So I knew something was wrong.’

‘Why did you pay?’

‘Everything depends on reputation. If it ever went to court we’d be finished. As it is we’re almost finished. I have loans I can’t service, and wages.’