Seven Daze (25 page)

A newspaper shop supplied him with a
Financial Times
which had a GDP report inside. He wished he still had that laptop. He could have found out more on the internet, but he really was no computer whizz despite the courses inside.

Walking back to the hotel he’d no idea how to play it. Her words from the other night both in the taxi and at the Chinese were clear. She was after the information. What had she said? People would pay well for it.

Maybe he should just ring her now and say he could get the info if she was interested. No, he doubted she’d want that over the phone. It had to be face to face to know just how much information she really wanted. And, more importantly, how much he’d get for it.

One thing was determined, even set in stone. It wouldn’t be her money. It would be her contact’s money. If his prediction was wrong, which it would be, he’d offer to repay them. That would buy more time. He could carry on living at the hotel, or find a cheaper pad. Maybe a few card tricks. Yeah, he could do that. Maybe take a month or so to pay them back. He could do this.

But Charlotte. She’d be annoyed he’d got it wrong. How annoyed though? He reckoned this whole thing had gone far enough for him to talk his way out of it. Yeah, a bit of banter and she’d be fine.

He stopped and sighed at a pedestrian crossing. Cars whizzed by as his mind leapt from idea to idea. He knew this might just work. One day of course, he’d have to be honest with her. Tell her the truth. Or part of the truth. Hopefully, by then, he’d be sorted. A good enough story and a bit of cash to carry this on.

As the light turned green, he walked across the road. Halfway across the phone in his pocket buzzed.

Do you like Mexican food?
her text said.

Yeah, really like it,
he replied.

Entering the hotel, he hid the gun before making for the bar. Though open all day its customers were few and far between. Jim waited five minutes for the solitary barman to appear and unlock the bar before serving him a flat pint of lager. Sitting down with the pink paper he tried to read it, but the long words and complex explanations of things he knew nothing about weren’t going in.

Drinking more lager, he tried again. As far as he could see, GDP was the cost of what the country did. It was like the gross pay on a payslip except for the whole country. Sure, he could see it was important, but he couldn’t tell why people were so concerned if it went down 0.1% or up 0.5%. From what he could remember about maths at school, that was surely a rounding difference. Unless it fell by whole percents why was the whole country so bothered about it? And, how did these traders make huge sums betting on the outcome? He read further, his mind taking more in, but he didn’t feel confident to blag his way through. Another pint wasn’t helping either.

Now sat outside in the concrete mini beer garden, he read again through the expert opinions and forecasts. Apparently two quarters of negative growth meant the country was in recession. Jim wondered why they just didn’t say, “if it goes down for six months”, instead of “two quarters of negative growth”. He suspected big words were used to make a simple explanation appear more complicated. He knew most people would be bored shitless and put off by now. Maybe that was their aim.

It did explain the hoo-ha over the figures. Going into recession was bad news, Jim knew that. He remembered the last recession well. His own takings were well down; people’s spending money disappeared. With that, the honest thief’s earnings disappear too.

Most of the experts in the paper reckoned on very small growth. This seemed to be the consensus though one wild-haired doomsayer seemed to be arguing for a half a percent fall. Though Jim had little idea how the city worked he thought most people would bet with the majority. They’d be expecting an increase. Maybe he should say it’s a fall. That half a percent fall the long-haired geezer reckoned looked a good bet. People, or Charlotte’s contacts, would be more interested in a figure that was out of the ordinary. Four grand would be his by the end of tonight, he was sure of it.

He sent her a message,
These
GDP figures are going
to surprise everyone x.

Really? Why? x
was the almost instant response.

I’ll tell you tonight x
.

He showered hard washing London from his skin. After walking past traffic most of the morning, he felt covered in a plague of soot. The time only five o’clock, he had considered re-hitting the square mile for one last look around. Maybe that stray set of Porsche keys would be dangling today. He didn’t go. The only thing he was sure of was he’d get arrested if he tried.

Instead, he read and reread the paper. GDP wasn’t that boring when you got into it. Actually, it was. But the interesting thing was a whole new world of numbers and new words had been invented to describe its smallest aspects. People devoted their whole life to the study of a three monthly press release. People were paid to give their opinion. If they were wrong it didn’t matter. By the next release everyone had forgotten the last.

Choosing one of Raif’s expensive polo shirts, Jim got ready. He felt light-headed and knew it wasn’t the drink. There was anticipation over tonight. He was trying hard not to think about what may happen. Dinner. Just one little word, but the expectation was on what followed it.

Of course money was weighing on his mind, but Charlotte was close to pipping it and taking over. Not for the first time, he couldn’t understand what she saw in him. She was perfect, intelligent and liquid. He was either a good liar or she a bad judge of character.

Finished work. On way home x,
she said.

Okay. I’m already at hotel
x,
he replied.

It didn’t help his butterflies. A couple of double whiskies in the bar might, but he knew turning up smelling of Scotland’s finest was the worst way to ensure tonight went well. The fluttering was moving down his chest towards his stomach. He wasn’t sure if he’d be sick before the night was out. Eating a hot chilli was going to be a test.

Laying back on the bed, he turned on the television. Some late afternoon quiz program was enough of a distraction. It reminded him of afternoon’s inside. “Cobby Harris” would be playing pool with “Barney Barnsey”. “Mad Luke” would be cheating at draughts with “Knifey Dave” and Jim himself would be sat on a plastic orange chair watching some afternoon TV drivel. Harry would be sat beside him telling a story about a robbery or a piece of gangland revenge usually involving hammers and kneecaps. Jim would have taken it all in. It’d been like a family party. He’d never been to any family parties because he barely knew his. But that’s what it had always felt like. Like he belonged.

Approaching the high security front door of the warehouse flat, Jim’s stomach once again leapt. It had settled down over the afternoon. While in the off licence buying a bottle of wine, it had almost been normal. The nearer he got, the harder it churned.

Pressing the buzzer, he waited.

A very long fifteen seconds passed before her voice came through the intercom. Crackly and devoid of any tone it was still recognisably Charlotte.

“Hi.”

“It’s me.” He waited. “It’s Jim,” he added.

“Come up.”

Heavy bolts dropped from their place and the door buzzed. Pushing it, he walked in. The fresh scent of pine and pot pourri was fighting for nose space with the smell of tomatoey-chilli. The combination smelt like an explosion in a Mexican air-freshener factory.

Legs like jelly, he walked up the stairs. Appearing round the top with a spatula in her hand, and wearing an expensive apron was Charlotte. Smiling, she said nothing but flicked her head briefly backwards.

Her face had colour. Jim wondered if she was as nervous as he, or whether she’d just tasted a too-hot chilli. Being normally so calm and unflustered he settled on the chilli. She wouldn’t possibly be feeling as nervous as himself. She couldn’t be.

“Sit down, it’s nearly done.”

Reaching the top of the stairs, Jim handed over the wine. A mid-price bottle of Australian white, the label said it was the perfect accompaniment to fish and meat. It said nothing about vegetarian chilli. She read the label, her face not quite turning into a frown, before she said, “I haven’t had this. Looks nice.” She offered her cheek for a quick kiss. Just a European thing, Jim told himself. It doesn’t mean anything.

He walked past her. Being so near, within touching distance, every muscle in his body had clenched. Taking the edge of the nearest huge sofa, he sat, but cricked his neck round so he didn’t break eye contact.

“Good day?” she asked.

“Busy.”

He’d planned to say that. It was part of the GDP conversation he’d memorised. Now he’d seen her, seen her face and eyes and that smile, he was having second thoughts about the plan.

“Me too,” she started. “Had another investor pull out today. Not what I need at this late stage. I mean, despite the meals and the bottles of champagne I bought him and his wife, it’s not just that, it’s the time wasted isn’t it?”

He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She’d walked back to her island kitchen and was stirring chilli while delivering the rant.

“Trying to get a replacement at this late stage won’t be easy. At least he wasn’t a big investor though. That’s the only saving grace.”

His head was twisted almost one hundred and eighty degrees. Dressed in a knee-length skirt and blouse, she almost looked like she hadn’t changed since work. Her still damp hair gave the truth away. She’d had a shower and redressed before cooking. Jim wondered if she’d change again after cooking. She walked towards the fridge. As she bent over, he turned and looked at the huge television screen.

“Put the telly on if you want,” she said. “I normally just have the stereo on when I’m cooking. I mean you can’t watch it and cook. It’s just asking to burn something, my ...”

“No, I’m fine with the radio,” he interrupted.

He briefly looked at the selection of magazines, papers and books on the coffee table. The business section from last weekend’s broadsheet caught his eye. Having a quick look at an article on GDP, just in case there was something he’d missed, his eyes were drawn to the Blaupunkt stereo. He didn’t recognise the music. A female solo singer. Quite relaxing and soothing. He thought it was Sade or someone else from the nineties. Mood music.

“Tea, coffee? Or do you want something stronger?”

“Tea please. Don’t want to get,” he paused and reworded, “Midweek isn’t it? Don’t want to drink too much.” He turned round and smiled. She smiled back.

“Do you drink coffee at all?” She asked, almost accusingly.

“Never really got on with it.” It occurred to him he was giving his class away. Everyone in London drunk some variety of coffee except the working class.

“Bet you’re the only one at work who drinks tea.”

“Yeah.”

He should have thought that through more. Pistol Pete should have picked up on it too. She probably thought he was some heathen from the sticks. Too late to drink coffee now; she had his number.

“They think I’m some heathen from the sticks,” he said.

She laughed, finished making the drinks then brought them over. Sitting on the other sofa, legs together, shoulders back, she sipped her far too hot to drink coffee.

“So, you need another investor then?”

Her eyes briefly lit as she took another sip. “Yeah. You don’t know anyone do you?”

He couldn’t tell if it was a joke or not. It was bordering on an actual question. Struggling for an answer, he shook his head.

Sat forward, cramped against the sofa and with his arms folded over his knees, he hoped she had no formal psychology training. Mind you, given her own clamped-in posture, Jim was sure her body language was as defensive as his own. Any psychologist watching would have enough material for a few books.

“Doing some homework are you?” She nodded towards the business section.

“You know.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Hard to switch off, isn’t it?” He could feel his cheeks going red.

“So, what’s the GDP news then?”

He was surprised she’d asked so quickly. He’d planned to bring it up while they ate. He reckoned a mouthful of chilli was the best way of hiding his lack of knowledge should he get stuck.

“It’s mad at work. Everyone’s going out of their minds. Obviously, making sure it is actually correct is the main problem.”

Her eyes were following his every word. He found it off-putting. The butterflies had returned and were threatening to make his stomach rumble. He took a sip of tea. Though hot, it was just the right strength. He wondered how she’d learnt to make such a decent cuppa.

“So you going to tell me or not?” As if on command, her dimples appeared. How could he say no?

“I shouldn’t really.” He smiled and wished he was closer and two six feet sofas didn’t separate them.

“I won’t tell anyone; honest Injun.” She held up her left hand, thumb and little finger together leaving the remaining three fingers upright. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen anyone do that.

“Yeah. But ...” He paused, trying desperately to think of something to stall. This wasn’t going to plan. “Before that, you can tell me more about your deal.”

“Tease.” She stood up. “I’ll just check the rice. She walked towards the kitchen, her apron flapping at her legs with each stride. “What do you want to know?”

He thought for a second. “I was just thinking the other day. I mean I don’t know much about stocks and that, but the information you know must be worth money to the right people.” He’d finally got his long-winded and prepared way of approaching things back on track.

She stirred the rice with a long-handled stainless steel spoon that Jim reckoned cost over a hundred pounds. “Inside information is the biggest problem if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Jim nodded. It wasn’t what he was getting at, but it would do.

“When the deal happens, such a large volume of buying will push the share price up. The FSA regularly investigate these movements. You know, see if anyone related had bought before the deal. They’re really quite thorough.” She replaced the lid and stirred the chilli. “I hope I haven’t made it too hot.”