Remote control, p.11
Remote Control, page 11
I stepped out of the doorway, turned up my collar and headed across the road. He was putting his wallet into his shell-suit top and doing up the zip. I’d already checked the garage surveillance cameras and they wouldn’t be a problem: they were focused on the forecourt to catch drive-aways, not on the gable end of the building to catch toilet-paper thieves.
As I left the doorway I was a man who needed a piss and couldn’t wait any longer for his bus to arrive. It was unlikely to register with anybody at the bus stop; first thing in the morning people are brooding about the day’s work ahead, or about their mortgages or kids or the wife’s headache the night before; they’re not going to worry too much about a guy going into a toilet. I walked towards the door with just enough spring in my step to look like the man with the world’s fullest bladder, and went in.
The room was about twelve feet by twelve, fairly clean and reeking of bleach blocks. Dead ahead were two urinals, with a basin and a wall-mounted paper-towel dispenser. My boy was in one of the two cubicles to the right.
I could hear the sound of zips being undone, the rustle of a general sorting out and a little cough. I closed the door behind me and jammed in the two door stops with my shoe. No-one would be getting in or out of here unless I wanted them to.
I stood at the urinal and made it look as if I was taking a leak. My hands were in front of me, but holding the steel cylinder. I’d keep my back to him until he came out to wash his hands.
I stood there for three or four minutes. I heard him pissing. It stopped, then nothing. This character was taking too long. I swung my head to the right, as if to look out of the small barred window, but carried on with the motions of pissing in case he could see me and, for some reason, was being hesitant about leaving the cubicle.
Then, casually looking right behind me, I saw something really bizarre. American public toilets have saloon-type doors with a bigger gap at the top and bottom than in the UK. Through the bottom gap I could see one foot, which looked as if it was his right foot, on the ground and facing the toilet, and his tracksuit bottoms weren’t bunched around his ankles. I thought, Weird position, but there you go. Then I noticed that the door was open an inch. He hadn’t locked it.
I wasn’t going to stop and puzzle it out. Clenching my right fist around the cylinder, and with my left hand out to protect myself, I started quickly but quietly towards the door. At the last minute I took a deep breath, dropped my shoulder and barged into it.
He banged up against the wall, screaming, ‘What the fuck! What the fuck!’ His hands went out to try to stop himself falling and the door held; his bulk was stopping the door from opening.
I had to barge it again. The hard and fast rule of mugging is to be exactly that: hard and fast. Putting all my weight behind the door I had him pinned up against the wall. He was a big boy; I had to be careful, I could get fucked over here. I grabbed a handful of his gelled hair with my left hand and pulled his head over to the left, exposing the right side of his neck.
You don’t just use your arm to hit somebody. I needed to get as much weight as I could behind the cylinder, like a boxer using his hips and the top half of his body to power the swing. Still pushing the door with my left hand, I brought the cylinder up in my right and swung my whole body round, as if throwing a downward right hook, and cracked him just below the ear. The idea was just to take him down, not kill him or give him brain damage for the rest of his days; if I’d wanted to do that I’d have cracked him over the head a few times. As it was, it wouldn’t be his best day out, but tough shit – wrong place, wrong time.
It had been a good hit. He groaned and went down. He was fucked and, without a doubt, he would have had starbursts in the eyes, that crackling and popping sensation you get when you go down semi-conscious. He’d just want to curl up and get under the duvet and hide. That was why I’d used the cylinder instead of a gun. You can’t predict people’s reactions to a pistol. He might have been an undercover cop with a gun himself, he might have been some kind of a heroic have-ago citizen. Not that it mattered now. The old ways are the best.
He’d banged his head on the cistern and smashed his nose, and blood was pouring down his chin. There was a high-pitched, childlike moan coming from him. He was in shit state but he’d live. I gave him another one for good measure; I wanted him down and well out. He stopped making a noise.
I put my left hand on his head and held it facing away from me. I didn’t want him to be able to ID me. With my right hand I felt under his belly and twisted his shell-suit top round towards me, unzipped it and pulled out his wallet. Then I started to feel down his pockets in case he had another big wad stashed away there. My fingers closed around a plastic bag that filled the ball of my hand. I pulled out what looked like enough white powder to send the guy’s entire neighbourhood into orbit, all in neat little plastic wallets, ready for sale. No good to me; I left it on the floor.
It was then that I realized what he’d been up to while I was at the urinal. Wrapped tight around his left arm was a rubber tube and there was blood dripping from a small puncture wound. He must have had his left leg up on the toilet seat to support his arm while he was shooting up. I saw the hypodermic on the floor.
As I stood up my trousers felt wet and I looked down. He’d had the last laugh. I’d made him lose control of his bodily functions and he’d pissed himself. And I’d been kneeling in it.
I picked up the key from the floor. That, too, was covered in piss. He was starting to come round a bit and there were a few moans and groans. I got hold of his head and banged it against the toilet to give him the message to stay where he was for a while.
I stepped back from the cubicle. There was no time to try to clean my coat. I went to the main door, retrieved the wedges, put them in my pocket, came out and locked the door behind me. I tossed the key into some shrubbery.
I was out of breath and had a bit of sweat coming down the side of my face, but I had to make myself look calm and casual. If another customer happened to come round the corner to use the toilet I’d say it was out of order.
As I crossed the road I glanced left and behind me. Nothing. I wouldn’t look back again. I’d soon know if something was going on because I’d hear all the screaming and shouting, or the sound of people running towards me. Then I’d have to react – but at the end of the day I was the one with the big fucking gun.
I passed the bus stop and carried on towards the first alleyway. After two more turns I took off my coat, wrapped it round the cylinder and folded the whole lot up. I took off the hat and folded that into the coat as well. I carried on walking, found a bin and got rid of my bundle. That was me sorted; a new man, or I would be as soon as I put on my glasses.
Once out on the road again I got out the wallet, as if I was checking whether I had my credit card. I opened it up and found that I was a family man; there was a very nice picture of me, my wife and two kids, the family of Lance White. I didn’t think Mrs White would be too pleased with the state of me when I got home.
There was about $240 in the billfold; White had either just been to an ATM or done some early-morning deals. There were also a couple of credit cards, but I wouldn’t keep them; it would be time-consuming to sell them, and if I tried to use them for cash back it could only be in the next hour or so – but why run the risk of the police doing a trace and ending up with my description from a sales assistant? The rest of the stuff was shit, bits of paper with phone numbers on. Probably his client list. As I passed another bin I jacked everything except the cash.
I now had just under $400 in my pocket, enough for the next few days if I couldn’t contact Pat or he didn’t come up with the goods.
The piss on my trousers was starting to dry up a bit as I walked, but it was stinking good-style. It was time for a change of clothes.
I reached the Burger King and all the other shops near the hotel. I was in and out of a discount shop in about a quarter of an hour, with a holdall containing new jeans, sweatshirt and underwear, all bought with cash. Kelly had also got a complete new set of clothes, down to knickers and vests.
I had a quick look at my watch on the way up to the room. I’d been gone about two and a quarter hours, a bit longer than I’d said I’d be.
Before I even got to the door I could see it was ajar. I looked down and saw a pillow keeping it open. I could hear the TV.
Pulling my pistol I went against the wall, the weapon pointing towards the gap. I felt disbelief, then shock. I felt emptiness in my stomach and then I felt sick.
13
I MOVED INTO the room. Nothing.
I checked on the other side of the bed, in case she might be hiding there. Maybe she was playing some game on me.
‘Kelly! Are you in there?’ My voice was serious and she’d have known it.
No reply. My heart was pumping so hard my chest hurt. If they had her, why hadn’t they jumped me by now?
I felt sweat slide down the side of my face. I started to panic, thinking about her in her house, seeing her father being beaten, screaming for her mummy. I understood that feeling of desperation when you want someone to take all the scary things away.
I forced myself to stop, calm down, think about what I was going to do. I came out onto the verandah again and broke into a run, calling, ‘Kelly! Kelly!’ in a loud semi-shout. I turned the corner and there she was.
Pleased as Punch, she was just leaving the Coke machine, wrestling with the ringpull on a can. The ‘look at me, aren’t I a big girl?’ smile soon changed when she saw me, weapon in hand, looking as serious as cancer.
For a moment I was going to read her her horoscope, but I bit my lip.
She was suddenly looking sad and sorry for herself. Getting herself a can of Coke was the first thing she’d done on her own since leaving the house and I’d ruined it by coming back so soon. Leading her back to the room, I kept looking round the open square to check we hadn’t been seen.
There were empty crisp bags and all sorts on her bed; it looked like a scene out of Animal House.
I sat her down while I went and ran a bath. When I came back she still had a long face. I sat beside her. ‘I’m not cross with you, Kelly, it’s just that I worry if I don’t know where you are. Will you promise not to do it again?’
‘Only if you promise not to leave me again.’
‘I promise. Now get undressed for a bath.’ I picked her up and basically threw her in the bath before she had time to think.
‘Do you wash your own hair or do you get somebody to do it?’ I asked; I didn’t have a clue.
She looked like she was going to cry.
I said, ‘Do you want me to wash it for you?’
‘Yes, please.’ I wondered what was going on in that little mind of hers.
I got out the shampoo and got stuck in; she moaned about the soap in her eyes and that the suds were tickling her ears, but I could tell she loved the attention. I couldn’t blame her; she hadn’t had much lately. Her world had been turned upside down and she didn’t even know it yet.
‘You stink!’ Kelly made a face as she caught the smell of Lance White’s bladder on my clothes.
‘These clothes are a bit old,’ I said. ‘Make sure you get all the shampoo out of your hair and wash yourself with the soap.’
She looked as if she was having fun. I was glad somebody was. Walking into the bedroom I called behind me, ‘Then I want you to put on some clean clothes. There’s knickers and a vest on the bed.’
‘What’re knickers?’
‘These.’ I picked them up and walked back to show her.
‘They’re not, they’re panties!’
Kelly was a water baby. That was great for me; the longer she was in the bath the less time I had to spend dealing with her. I was finding it quite knackering having to clean, dress, talk and answer questions. I left her splashing around for another half an hour, then dragged her out and told her to go and dry herself.
I got in the shower, had a shave and got changed, bundling all my old clothes and Kelly’s into a plastic laundry bag and stowing it inside the holdall. I’d get rid of it at the first opportunity.
We were both in the bedroom and she was dressed. Her shirt buttons were in the wrong holes; while I was undoing them and sorting them out, I realized she was looking disapprovingly at me.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Those jeans. They’re sad. You should get 501s like Daddy.’
On top of everything else, I had the fashion police after me. She went on, ‘You can’t get 501s in my size. That’s what Mommy says anyway. She doesn’t wear jeans; she’s like Aida, she likes dresses and skirts.’
In my mind’s eye I saw Marsha kneeling by her bed. I turned away for a moment so Kelly couldn’t see my face.
I got to grips with her hair. It was another new skill I hadn’t mastered and the brush kept snagging and pulling. Kelly kept crying out and grabbing at my hand. In the end I gave her the brush and let her get on with it.
While she was doing that I sat on the bed and said, ‘Kelly, do you know your dad’s special code for his phone? I don’t; I’ve tried it loads of times. I’ve pressed 1111, 2222, I’ve pressed them all and I still don’t know. Have you got any idea?’
She stopped brushing, stared at me for a few moments, then nodded.
‘Right! What are the numbers, then?’
She didn’t say anything. She seemed to be working something out in her mind. Maybe she was wondering if she’d be betraying her daddy by telling me.
I pulled the phone from my pocket, turned it on and said, ‘Look! What does it say? Enter PIN number! Do you know what numbers your daddy puts in?’
She nodded and I said, ‘Come on, you show me, then.’ She pressed the buttons and I watched her fingers.
‘1990?’ I said.
‘The year I was born,’ she beamed, going back to brushing.
We were in business. I fetched the Yellow Pages from one of the drawers and went back.
‘What are you looking for?’ she asked, brushing smoothly and expertly.
‘A restaurant called Good Fellas,’ I said. I found the address. ‘We’re going to go there and look for Pat.’
I thought about phoning the place and asking about him, but they’d probably just fuck me off. In any case, that could trigger off a series of events I’d know nothing about until we were both suddenly lifted. It would be better to go there.
I put on my glasses and she giggled. I got her coat and held it for her to put on. As she turned round I noticed she still had the label dangling off her jeans; I ripped that off, then checked that nothing else looked out of place – just like any other unfashionable dad taking his daughter out for the day.
I put on my jacket, checked for the mags and phone, and said, ‘Do you remember Pat?’
‘No. Who is she?’
‘It’s a him; he’s a man called Patrick. Maybe you’ve seen him with Daddy?’
‘Is Pat going to take me home?’
‘You will be going soon, Kelly. But only when Daddy is better and if you’re a good girl and do what I say.’
Her face fell. ‘Will I be home for Saturday? That’s Melissa’s party and she’s having a sleepover and I must be there.’
I carried on. There was nothing else I could do. I didn’t have the skills to coax her out of her mood.
‘Pat came round to your house. Surely you remember Pat?’
‘And I’ve got to buy her a present. I’ve made her some friendship bracelets, but I want something else.’
‘Well, we’re going to try to find Pat today because he’s going to help us get you home. Maybe we’ll have time to do your shopping, OK?’
‘Where is Pat?’
‘I think he might be in the restaurant. But you’ve got to be really quiet when we get there, OK, and not talk to anyone. If anybody talks to you, I want you just to nod your head or shake it, OK? We’ve got to be really careful, otherwise they won’t tell me where Pat is and then we might get into trouble.’
I knew she’d be all right on the dumb act. She’d done what I’d said by the bins. I felt bad talking about her going home, but I couldn’t think of a better way of controlling her behaviour; and anyway, with any luck I wouldn’t be there when she was finally told the truth.
There were a couple of other jobs to do before we left the room. I took the bottom left hand corner of the blanket on my bed and folded it in a neat, diagonal pleat. Then I took a matchstick from the book I’d picked up in reception and wedged it between the wall and the long low chest of drawers that the TV rested on. I put a pen mark the size of a pinhead on the wall and covered it with the match head. Finally I placed the paper clip in one of the drawers under the TV, and turned the volume up a shade.
I had a quick look round the room to make sure we hadn’t left anything compromising lying around; I even put the Yellow Pages back in the drawer. The pistol was still in the cistern, but there were no problems with that; there was no reason for a cleaner to come in, let alone the police with a search warrant.
I picked up a couple of apples and chocolate bars and put them in the pocket of my brand-new three-quarter-length blue coat. Then I closed the door, checked the sign and off we went.
We took a taxi to Georgetown. It would have conserved funds if we’d taken a bus or the Metro, but this way meant less exposure to commuters or pedestrians. The driver was a Nigerian. The map of the city on the front passenger seat didn’t instil much confidence, and he could only just about speak English. He used what few words he had to ask me where Georgetown was. It was like a London taxi driver not knowing Chelsea. I patiently pointed on the map. By my guess it was about thirty minutes away.
It was spitting with rain, not enough to keep the wipers on, but enough to make him give them a flick every minute or so. Kelly munched on an apple and looked out of the window. I kept an eye out for other motels. We’d have to move again soon.
We sat in silence for a few minutes, until it occurred to me that the driver would expect to hear us talking. ‘When I was your age I hadn’t been in a taxi,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I went in one until I was about fifteen.’
