The Evil And The Pure (50 page)

Big Sandy couldn’t sleep. Didn’t even try. Went to Sapphire’s, not wanting to pester her, but unable to be by himself this night. A marathon three hours of love-making, slow, repetetive, lots of talk afterwards, mostly about Sapphire and her girls, letting her complain about them, tutting in all the right places, acting like a real boyfriend, wondering if this was the shape of things to come, both uneasy and intrigued if it was.

No mention of the swap tomorrow.
He would never speak of something like that before the fact. Sapphire sensed the tension in him, assumed he had a hit lined up, didn’t ask about it, pleased that he was showing so much of an interest in her, not sure if she wanted to take things further, torn between wanting him and knowing the complications he would bring into a relationship. Lay sprawled across his chest after sex, both of them half-dozing and thinking moodily about the future.

Earlier,
in the Bush’s office, Big Sandy had listened bemused as the Bush described his meeting with McCaskey, the deal they’d struck. A long silence at the end, the Bush awaiting his henchman’s verdict, Big Sandy not speaking until he had it clear in his mind. “I could take men with me, let them sneak up, take Gawl and the rest of them, get the formula and keep the money.”

The Bush shook his head. “Too many things could go wrong. I
’m guessing they’ll meet you in a place with lots of witnesses. I don’t want to stage a gun fight in public. Besides, he came to bargain in good faith. He was open and honest. And he’s giving us Clint.”

“Still,” Big Sandy rumbled,
“two million…”

“A lot of money,” the Bush agreed. “That’s why I want this to go smooth. No traps, no surprises, no screw-ups. We do this right, we do it clean, we take
the formula and Clint, we let the others go, we get stinking rich and live happily ever after.”

“Except the Tynes.” Big Sandy’s face dark as he thought of Tulip suffering at the hands of Gawl McCaskey.

“Tell me if you don’t want to do this,” the Bush said quietly. “You’re free to choose. But if you do it, you do it the way I tell you. The Tynes made their bed, let them lie in it. If you’re not happy with that, I can send Eyes or Fast Eddie.”

“What if they try to stiff
us? What if there’s no formula or it’s a fake and they make off with the money, Clint as well as McCaskey?”

“That would be my concern, not yours. I
agreed the deal, so I’ll bear the blame.”

Big Sandy considered it
, thinking he could maybe convince Tulip to come with him once he had the formula, get her away from McCaskey and her pimp of a brother. He’d grown fond of her. In a way she had taken the place of the daughter he’d lost. It was silly, he barely knew her, but he couldn’t deny what he felt. He would do all that he could to help her. Within reason.

“You can get the money?” he asked.

“Yeah. I might come up short but McCaskey is hardly going to complain if I’m a couple of hundred grand shy. I doubt he’ll even count it all.”

“Can I pack a gun or do I go unarmed?”

“He didn’t mention weapons, so take all you like. Just don’t fire unless you have no other choice.”

“And the passports for the Tynes?”

“They were in their apartment. I’m having them delivered.”

Big Sandy nodded slowly. “I don’t like it but I’ll do it.” He rose. “I’ll pick up the money in the morning.”

He walked away from his meeting with the Bush nursing a bad feeling and it got worse as the night wore on, but he couldn’t put his finger on why he felt uneasy. Lying in the dark, Sapphire snoozing on his chest, one of his giant hands resting lightly on her back, trying to chase the feeling down to its source. The Bush impressed by McCaskey, prepared to do business with him. But Big Sandy didn’t trust the Scot. Too quick to give up Clint. Greedy. A man like that would always look for more, a way to sell you out. Big Sandy worried that McCaskey would pass them a fake formula, or keep a copy and sell it to their rivals. The Bush had absolved Big Sandy of blame, but would he remember that if the deal went tits up?

Six o’clock. Seven. Eight. Sapphire stirred, rolled off, stumbled to the toilet. Big Sandy scratched his chest
then went searching for his clothes. Sapphire found him tugging on his shoes when she returned. “Leaving?” she yawned.

“Work,” he said, kissing her, slipping her all the money he had in his wallet.

She frowned at the bills. “That’s too much.”

“Keep it.
”

Sapphire stared at him, half-scared. “Are you in trouble?”

“No.” Big Sandy smiled then frowned. “I don’t think so.” He kissed her again, let himself out, caught a cab to the office. Niggling worry rode with him all the way. He couldn’t escape it.

Two of the Bush’s bankers in
the office, counting notes, snapping elastic bands around them. A large pile on the Bush’s desk. Big Sandy stared at it dully. He was sure that Julius Scott’s eyes would have lit up if he’d been present – he wished that he could drop by the stockbroker’s place, share the moment with him – but money had never excited Big Sandy, even hard, naked cash like this.

“You OK?” the Bush asked, gazing miserably
at the notes being counted off, glum now that the time had come to part with them.

“Yeah,” Big Sandy lied.

“Get any sleep last night?”

“No.”

“Me neither.” The Bush glanced at him and grimaced. “I wish I’d let you talk me out of this. I didn’t know how many strings I’d have to pull to free up this much cash. I won’t go under if I lose it, but I’ll be a long time making it back.”

“It’s not too late
to change your mind,” Big Sandy said. “Send in snipers. Kill Clint and McCaskey. Take the formula, keep the money. Fuck the witnesses, they’ll think someone’s making a film.”

The Bush laughed
as the bankers completed their count. “One million, eight hundred and eighty-four thousand,” one of them said.

“Close enough,” the Bush grunted. “
Stick it in the bags.” Two thick black canvas bags lay on the floor close to the table.

“Any way of tracing th
e money?” Big Sandy asked.

“We noted a selection of random numbers,” the Bush said.

“So you’re not convinced of McCaskey’s good intentions.”

The Bush
shrugged. “I think he’ll play it square – as he put it – but why take chances? If he deals straight, I’ll leave him alone to enjoy his reward. If not, it’s comforting to know I can find him.”

The bankers finished
bagging the money and went about their business, asking no questions. The Bush hefted the bags. Sighed. “I thought two million would weigh more.” Tossed a bag to Big Sandy, who caught it one-handed and set it down by his feet. The Bush tossed him the other bag.

“The passports?” Big Sandy asked.

The Bush rolled his eyes. “Almost forgot.” Took them out of a drawer, handed them to Big Sandy, watched him slide them into one of the bags. “Still concerned about the Tynes?”

“About Tulip, yes.”

The Bush cocked his head. “Soft on her?”

“I like her. She’s a good kid. Only in this mess because of her brother.”

“I don’t care about the Tynes,” the Bush said. “The formula and Clint will do nicely. Tell McCaskey he can release Kevin and Tulip. I won’t bother them.”

“Thanks.
” Big Sandy smiled, feeling a weight lift, but not entirely. Checking the time. Early, but he couldn’t stay here, needed to be on the move. “I’m going.”

“
Where?” The Bush briefly nervous, imagining Big Sandy disappearing with the money, making a mug of him.

“I’ll walk around, clear my head
, come back for the bags and directions nearer the time. Don’t want to sit here thinking about all the things that could go wrong.”

The Bush nodded, dismissing his momentary lapse of faith, angry at himself for doubting Big
Sandy. “You’re lucky. I have to sit here, twiddle my thumbs and wait, in case they ring earlier than planned to throw us off guard.” He laid a hand on Big Sandy’s broad right arm. “Take the money with you. I’ll call you on your mobile when I know where you have to go.”

“You’re sure?” Big Sandy asked.

“Yeah. If I can’t trust you, who the hell can I trust? Ring me as soon as the transaction has been made, then bring the formula here. I want to make a copy before I send it to the lab.”

Big Sandy stood outside the Bush’s office a minute,
feeling the weight of the bags, wondering what it would be like to have two million pounds. He laughed at himself — he wouldn’t be able to spend it! He’d just turn it over to Julius Scott and let him invest it as he saw fit, pass the profits on to Amelie.

Big Sandy shook his head,
unable to understand why people cared so much about things like this. Then he clutched the bags close and went for a walk, tuning out all other concerns, focusing solely on the deal.

Clint was sick during the night,
total terror, even worse than the night before they broke out Phials. Then, nobody knew of their plans, their destiny was in their own hands. Now, the Bush forewarned, his troops maybe armed to the teeth and waiting for the word, walking into a lion’s den. Gawl insisted they had nothing to fear, the Bush stood to benefit by playing on the level. Clint unconvinced. Almost bolted several times during the night.

But greed held him.
So close to the million that could make him. How small and useless would he feel if he fled and the deal went ahead cleanly, leaving Gawl to reap it all? A close-run thing, but in the end he stayed, threw up some more and lay on his bed fully clothed, trembling, torn between the glory of the dream and the desolation of the nightmare.

Gawl slept close
to Clint in the study, snoring. He’d tanked on vodka when he returned from the Bush’s, relating the minutes of the meeting
ad nauseam
, more eloquent the drunker he got, rewriting the script, giving himself new, powerful, abundant lines. The only thing he didn’t talk about was his deal with the Bush at the end. Even when he peaked early, moaning, head spinning, staggering for bed, he was alert enough not to hint at his betrayal of Clint.

Pre-dawn,
Clint heard someone shuffling down the stairs to the kitchen. He went to investigate. Found Fr Sebastian sitting in the light of the open fridge, drinking milk, looking forlorn. “Muh-mind if I juh-join you?” Clint said, sitting beside him, taking a can of Coke from the fridge.

“I’m terrified,” Fr Sebastian croaked, shaking
even worse than Clint.

“Why?” Clint frowned. “You’ve nothing to wuh-worry about
. You don’t have to fuh-fuh-face Big Sandy. They don’t even know about yuh-you.”

“Still,” Fr Sebastian sighed. “This last week’s been hell. It’s coming to an end, and I should be pleased, but I can’t shake the feeling that the worst is yet to come.” He
studied Clint in the cold light of the fridge. “You feel it too.”

Clint looked away. “There’s nuh-nothing to wuh-worry about,” he muttered unconvincingly. “Everything’s suh-set.”

“Do you want to pray with me?” Fr Sebastian asked out of the blue.

Clint blinked. “What for?”

“Success. Luck. God’s blessing. His forgiveness.”

Cl
int smiled dismissively. “I don’t believe in any of that.”

“Then I pity you,” Fr Sebastian s
aid. “In all my fear, weakness and confusion I at least have God to turn to. How do
you
cope when the world becomes too overbearing and terror strikes you cold?”

Clint had no answer for that. He
placed the can of Coke back in the fridge without opening it, glanced at Fr Sebastian and smiled. “Want to get high?”

Fr Sebastian shivered. “
I thought Gawl had the drugs.”

“I know where they are. I can get them. You game?”

“Yes,” Fr Sebastian said eagerly, eyes widening hungrily.

Clint slipped through to the study, found the drugs behind a stack of books, returned to the kitchen with a small sample of coke for the priest, plenty of gra
ss for both of them. Rolled joints while Fr Sebastian shot back the coke, passed one to the priest, one for himself. They smoked in silence, pungent smoke filling the kitchen, calm taking the place of panic, Clint not as mellow as Fr Sebastian but chilling nicely, fears receding.

“What will you do when this is over?” Clint asked as Fr Sebastian roll
ed the next set of joints.

“
Carry on as normal,” Fr Sebastian said.

“It won’t be easy. You won’t have me to supply you any more, or Gawl to set you up with girls.”

“I’ll survive,” Fr Sebastian murmured. “I always have.” He sat back, lit up, blew smoke rings and observed them thoughtfully as they dispersed in the air. “I might clean up my act. I’ve tried before but always slipped back into my bad habits. Maybe it will be different this time. I’ve never been so close to hell, or to pure human evil. This has been an education and I hope to learn from it. Put the drugs and sex behind me, give myself over to God, seek help, fight long and hard to cleanse my soul and make amends for my sins.”

“I wish you luck,” Clint said and he meant it.

“I’d rather you prayed for me,” Fr Sebastian responded.

“I can’t do that,” Clint said lowly.

Fr Sebastian smiled beatifically. “Then
I
shall pray for
you
, once I’ve finished praying for myself.” He giggled ruefully. “Be warned, it might be some time before I get around to you.”

They laughed, smil
ed, rolled more joints, reflected as they smoked.

Gawl stumbled into the kitchen at twenty past eight, made for the sink, stuck his head under the tap, poured on the cold, shivering and groaning. Clint and Fr Sebastian laughed. He came up half a minute later, sputtering, dripping. Grabbed a tea-towel and dried his face. Glared at the two men. “Why didn’t ye stop me getting drunk?”

“How?” Clint retorted.

Gawl shut his eyes and took a deep breath. Faced the sink again. Vomited, a combination of the vodka and nerves, though Clint and Fr Sebastian thought it was just the vodka. Ran the tap again. Stuck his head back under. Felt better when he came up for air this time. Raided the bread bin. Munched one slice, two, three, four, five. Clint and Fr Sebastian watched and smoked.

Gawl’s head cleared. He sniffed the marijuana. Whirled on Clint. “What the fuck are ye doing?”

Clint gawped. “Huh?”

Gawl slapped the joint from his fingers. “This
is no fucking time t’ get high.”

“No,” Clint smiled, “this is the
perfect
time to get high, just like last night was the perfect time for you to get drunk. You want me calm and sensible, don’t you? In control, on top form?” He picked up the joint, re-lit it, stuck it back between his lips. “This is the only way I’ll be like that. I’d be crapping my pants otherwise.”

Gawl laughed at Clint’s stoned honesty. “I guess a little
grass can’t do any harm at that,” he conceded, inwardly adding,
Might as well go out on a high.

Gawl ate more bread, brewed coffee, chewed biscuits. Kevin and Tulip came down, Kevin shaking, Tulip downcast but calm. Clint saw the tremble in Kevin’s hands. Off
ered him a joint. Kevin refused, he wanted to keep a clear head.

Fr Sebastian cooked breakfast,
toast, pancakes, sausages, bacon, baked beans, scrambled eggs. They all ate, except Tulip, who said she had a stomach bug. Gawl made Clint and Fr Sebastian lay off the grass. He didn’t want Clint
too
high. They didn’t complain, happy with their lot. Clint talked about what he’d do with his money, New York, flash car, penthouse apartment, the finest suits he could find, an enormous diamond ring for when he proposed to Shula. Fr Sebastian spoke of transferring out of the parish, going abroad to work for the missions. Gawl laid out his life in the sun, a spot of gambling, a lot of women. Kevin didn’t say much, muttered something about mainland Europe, maybe the Netherlands, living quietly. Tulip said nothing at all, only rubbed her stomach, worried about the ordeal to come, praying to God for guidance.

After breakfast Clint
, Gawl and Kevin washed, shaved and dressed like three men preparing for interviews. Gawl sobering up, Clint buzzing along nicely, Kevin shaking constantly. Fr Sebastian and Tulip waited in the kitchen. Tulip wanted to ask the priest to hear her confession but she couldn’t, remembering the times he’d lain with her, coming to her door a few nights before, weak and twisted. Fr Sebastian saw in her eyes how low he’d fallen. It depressed him, negated his high. Doubts returned. No longer sure he could find the strength to reform, turn his back on his vices, get out and get clean. Thinking about dealers he could take his trade to, brothels he could visit, girls he could corrupt.

Gawl returned to the kitchen first. Then Kevin. Clint last,
looking dapper, hair gelled back, fingernails scrubbed clean, cheeks rosy where he’d slapped colour into them. Clint checked the time. Coming up to eleven. “When do we leave?” he asked breezily.

“
Soon,” Gawl said. “We’ll take our time, do a bit of sightseeing, ring them on the way.”

The three men and Tulip fetched their coats while Fr Sebastian remained in the kitchen. Gawl picked one of Fr Sebastian’s long jackets plus a hat and scarf. The
y returned to the kitchen fully wrapped. “Will ye be all right by yerself, Father?” Gawl asked.

“Fine.”

“We should be back by half twelve or one,” Clint said.

“And if you’re not?”

Clint and Gawl glanced at each other, Clint nervous, Gawl knowing. “Then you can start saying your pruh-pruh-pruh-prayers for us,” Clint half-laughed.

They filed
through the kitchen, out the back door, then struck for Vauxhall, planning to wander around a while before making their way to Westminster Bridge. Gawl in front, Clint at the rear, the Tynes sandwiched in the middle, Tulip the only one not consumed by the iciness of fear and doubt, the only one completely resigned to whatever hand they were dealt.

Cold, grey, blustery. Kevin didn’t notice. Oblivious to all but his terror and hope, playing out the dual scenarios over and over while they walked. In the first it was a trap, killed or captured, lives forfeited, pain, death. In the second they pulled it off, walked away wealthy, Kevin took Tulip to Europe, three hundred and fifty thousand pounds to fund their future, a home, a baby, Tulip growing ever more dependant on him. The lure of the second scenario balanced against the dread of the first, the scales level.

He kept close to Tulip,
held her hand, squeezed occasionally, automatically, comfortingly. Tulip unaware of her brother’s touch, praying, thinking about her baby, hoping the drugs hadn’t harmed it, promising herself again that she would junk the junk ASAP, wondering what God had planned for her and her child. The outcome of the deal of no interest to her, little to choose between failure and success. If they died, God would take her and her unborn baby. If they came away with the money, she faced dilemma after dilemma, how to deal with Kevin, how to raise her child, how to survive alone if she abandoned her brother. She wanted to live but she didn’t fear death. It would be simpler to die.

The streets ado
rned with Christmas decorations, lights, tinsel, Santa, baubles, Christmas trees. People out shopping for presents or cards. Yuletide songs spewing from millions of radios. Tulip the only one of the four who noted the festive trappings, the men all focused on the deal.

Past the Elephant & Castle
and on to Vauxhall, discussing the plan, going over it one last time. A quick call to the Bush at eleven-thirty, then east to Westminster along the river, nobody talking now, stomachs tight, eyes watering in the wind. Gawl felt like puking from the vodka. Clint and Kevin felt like puking with fear. Tulip felt like puking because of her pregnancy.

They m
arched methodically until they were almost at Westminster Bridge Road. Gawl stopped them outside St Thomas’ hospital. Kevin, Tulip and Clint sat on a bench, shivering in the cold. Gawl stayed on his feet. “I’m gonna check it out. I’ll be ten minutes max. Any more than that, go back t’ the church and wait.” He set off. Paused. Looked back at Clint. “Make that fifteen minutes.”

Kevin wrapped an arm around Tulip, hugged her close. “It’ll be OK,” he whispered. “We’ll go somewhere hot after this. I’ll look after you. And the baby.”

Tulip glanced at Clint. He was sitting on the edge of the bench, nervously waiting for Gawl, not listening. “We could escape now,” she whispered back. “He wouldn’t notice. Get away. Go to the police.”

Kevin shook his head. “This is our future.”

“Or our end.” He smiled shakily as if that was a crazy idea. Hugged her again. “What if Gawl betrays us?” Tulip asked. “What if he abandons us at the church or kills us instead of giving us our passports and the money?”

“I thought of that already,” Kevin said, lowering his voice even further. “We aren’t going back to the church. On the way, we
’ll stop at the Elephant & Castle and demand our cut. If they don’t give it to us, we’ll raise hell, draw attention. They’ll have no choice but to pay up. They daren’t kill us in public.”

“You didn’t tell me this before.”

Kevin smiled. “I didn’t want to worry you. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I have it all worked out. From the Elephant we’ll backtrack to Waterloo, catch the Eurostar to Paris, lay low, take it from there.”

“And if Dave Bushinsky’s men follow us?”

Kevin grinned sadistically. “They’ll be busy elsewhere. We’ll make a call before we board the train, tell Big Sandy where McCaskey and Clint are, sic him on the bastards, use them like they used us.”

“No,” Tulip said steadily. “That would mean betraying Fr Sebastian too.”