Blood Money

An experimentation with different uses of dialogue.

 

It was already nearing 18:00 when at last the black London minicab pulled up alongside Constitution Arch on Hyde Park Corner, and a man in dark dress stepped out of the shadows into the chilly November air. He stood on the curb, tightened the black scarf around his neck, promptly paid the driver, and then spent an unusually long amount of time attending to the indiscernible creases in his smart leather jacket, whilst also keeping a fixed eye on the cab, watching it speed towards Knightsbridge until it evaporated into the misty twilight. As soon as he was sure it was out of sight he briskly turned northeast, pacing steadily past Constitution Arch towards Piccadilly.

Night was rapidly drawing in; he could feel the heavy velvet blackness bearing down on him. Above him lingered the cloudy fumes of the day, spread out like a blanket of fog over London, smothering him. He tried to ignore the incessant nagging at the back of his mind; he felt troubled, distracted, and ultimately fearful as to what the evening might hold. As he crossed the street, he gazed to his right into the gloomy shadows of St James Park and felt a chill steal over him. The area seemed abnormally quiet for a Monday night at rush hour. Only a few lonesome souls still lingered on the streets; a man stood at the bus stop on the opposite side of the road, a tramp squatted beside the gates to the park, and a woman’s heels could be heard clattering along the pavement further up the road. In a way he was glad of the quiet – the last thing he needed were storms of cars or busybodies bustling around him as he tried to remain inconspicuous – yet he could not help feeling unsettled and particularly vulnerable as he walked alone through the shadows, guided only by the orange glow of the streetlamps. Then he heard footsteps approaching from ahead, and he tensed.

‘Evenin’, mate,’ said a man, who nodded politely in passing before continuing on his way.

Just a passer-by, he thought with relief. He shivered, forced his hands further into the lining of his jacket, and pressed on.

He knew where he was headed; he walked merely 200 metres before veering left away from the main road into a gloomy narrow side street, enclosed on both sides by high walls of what appeared to be the rear entrances of cafes, bars and restaurants. It was still and quiet, save for the regular clatter of his heels as he marched purposely along the street. Now, without the help of the streetlights, he was guided only by a slight infiltration of moonlight through the London murk – and the memory of that disturbing phone call:

Carver, meet us at the White Lion, Half Moon Street, 18:10, Monday night. Don’t be late - The inn lay somewhere along this street, Carver was sure of it. It just had to…

And there it was, only 50 yards ahead on the left. He sensed his heart quicken as he paced towards it.

What if they’re not here? he thought hopefully. What if they don’t turn up?

Don’t be a fool, said his conscience. You’ve got to be stronger than this. Be calm, be calm. You’ve done this all before. Pull yourself together!

He reached the entrance to the inn and, as he passed through the heavy wooden doors, glanced quickly up at the name which hung limply on a timber panel; ‘The White Lion’. An overbearing heat greeted him as soon as he stepped inside, compelling him to remove his scarf and jacket. He felt hot and sweaty, adding to his discomfort. Yet he felt slightly calmer, being hidden from the night within the security of the pub. The inn was thankfully empty save for an elderly man sat at a table at the far end of the bar, slurping a pint of ale and smoking a pipe. Carver approached the bar, perched himself on a stool, and no sooner had he done so a man emerged through a door from the back, wiping his hands on a tea towel.

‘Ah, awright mate!’ the barman said, grinning pleasantly and throwing the towel aside. ‘Ain’t bin waiting long ‘av yeh? Just bin cleaning the kitchen, ‘s a right state!’

His cockney accent was unmistakable. He had a friendly manner, yet Carver knew the last thing he needed or wanted was a long conversation (not to mention the knowledge that the kitchen was repulsive). He was well aware that it would make his presence ever more apparent; yet he could not help replying amiably.

‘No, no, not at all – just… just a JD and coke for me… thanks.’

The barman nodded in acknowledgment and got to work, humming a tuneless song as he went. Carver sat, leaning anxiously on the bar, peering around. He could see no one coming. He drummed his fingers for a moment before he realised he was fidgeting and stopped instantly. He cleared his throat as quietly as he dared, and glanced towards the door. Nothing.

How long will they be? he thought. He glanced at his watch. 18:10. Bang on time. Hope they come soon. Else I’ll be on the floor by the time they arrive.

‘Terrible weather, innit?’ laughed the barman as he slid the drink across the bar. ‘I says to me misses today, I says gonna be ugly weather, but they don’t listen to nothing we says, do they? Still insists on wearing that skimpy skirt, she does…’ He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. Carver noticed how his bushy eyebrows jumped up and down as he spoke. ‘That’s three quid fifty, mate.’

‘Oh, err… right’. The barman’s apparent inability to pronounce ‘th’ made it hard for Carver to follow his words. He found himself only half listening, whilst the other half of his attention remained fixed on the door. He forced a smile, rummaged around in his jacket pocket and pulled out a selection of coins and handed them over the bar.

‘Cheers, mate… So wotcha up to tonight then? Yeh meeting yeh misses, eh?’

The man was leaning over the bar facing Carver, who in the meantime was absent-mindedly knocking back his first swig of drink. He was caught mid-swallow, nearly choked, managed to gulp it down and coughed his throat clear before glancing wearily up at the barman.

‘Err… no, just having a quick one, you know.’ He grinned. He suddenly felt uncomfortable again. He could feel his face burning.

The barman didn’t seem to have even heard though. ‘I tells yeh mate, I wouldn’t want my misses fannying round here on her own, yeh get me? There some right dodgy ones round here, all steaming drunk and well up for some aggro.’

He shook his head again. Carver noticed for the first time how, despite the man’s obvious youth and fairly good looks, his face looked lined and sallow, perhaps due to too much heavy smoking or drinking.

Or too much laughing and talking, Carver reflected on second thoughts. The man doesn’t seem to be able to shut up.

‘Can I getcha another drink, mate?’ he said. Carver looked down; he had barely touched his first. ‘Mind, don’t want yeh getting whirly now, do we?’ The barman laughed, and without waiting for his reply began to pour Carver another drink.

‘On the house, mate,’ he said, handing it over. ‘Go on, have a swig, s’like paint-stripper this stuff!’

Carver looked down at his second drink. He could smell the stench of the strong liquor without even raising it to his nose.

S**t, he thought. Bugger.

‘It’s okay,’ Carver tried. ‘I can’t really drink tonight. I’m… driving.’

‘Ah, you from outta town?’ said the barman. ‘I thought you was, what with your nice talk an’ that, not like me, eh? I comes from the Wapping area I do, not a bad spot – mind, this area’s pretty sweet, innit?’

He laughed, took the shot that Carver had been gazing at with dread, and drank it in one. He smacked his lips with what appeared to be utmost glee, then dedicated the next half a minute to pouring himself another two shots of some sort of thick dubious-looking liquor before knocking them back too.

‘I tells yeh,’ he continued with a number of hiccups, ‘s’nice to have a bit of company round here… not many people comes in here – hic!’

‘I bet,’ said Carver. He leant upon the bar, his patience wearing thin. Where were they? He took the last swig of his JD and coke.

‘An’ anyways, them lot that round up in here often talk gobshite anyways,’ he murmured, his speech beginning to slur.

Bit like you then, thought Carver.

18.25. They were late. They weren’t going to come.

Then it all happened at once. Gunfire. Shattering glass. Shouting. Carver ducked, yet had only a second in which to see the barman fall backwards, three blood-red bullet wounds shot through his chest, before his body struck the floor behind the bar with a dull thud. Carver crawled frantically around the bar before he stopped dead, overwhelmed with horror, as he gazed with astonishment at the lifeless corpse before him which had, only seconds before, been so vigorous. It was only when he came to his senses that he noticed the murder-note, left on the little table where moments before the elderly man had sat smoking his pipe. It read:

 

This is what you get when you double-cross us, Carver. Get us the money, or be prepared to meet the same bloody end.