Patrick walked into the Rock House, forcing himself through the dense noise of thrashed guitars that hit him as the door opened. Large men in bandanas, leather waistcoats and body odour turned to watch him enter. Despite the barrage of heavy rock, amplified to just below jet engine levels, Patrick could feel the mutterings that his appearance had wrought.
Of moderate build, with no scars or tattoos, he was dressed in jeans and a casual jacket. He wore shoes, not biker boots: tidy hair, not lank and greasy. His usual anonymity was now a talking point.
He strode to the bar and pointed to the Budweiser tap. A glass was poured out for him, and he passed over a five pound note, walking away before the barmaid could fetch change. Sitting at an empty table, he pulled a paperback from the pocket of his coat: White Line Fever by Lemmy. The faces turned back to the pool table or jukebox, and tension in the air eased.
He drank deep, scanned the room from behind the armour of his paperback. No obvious sign of a contact here.
He continued to turn pages without reading, keeping alert for a signal from whoever he was supposed to meet. He cursed annoyance under his breath as a pool player deposited a glass of beer on his table, freeing a hand to chalk his cue-tip. As the glass was lifted, however, Patrick’s eyes gleamed: there, on the beermat was a computer disc, its colours blending in with the beer logo printed on the card.
Carelessly, he dropped the book over the beermat, downed his pint, then picked up book, disk and beer mat in one handful, sliding them together into an inside pocket. Satisfied, he smiled at the barmaid and stepped out into the cool, quiet city street.
At home, later that evening, he unpacked the contents of the disc on his computer. There was a map, showing the target’s location, pictures taken from a variety of angles and a small “readme” file. Its instructions stated that the job had to be completed in no more than two weeks. Patrick could see no problem in that.
There was also a generic e-mail address and Patrick sent it an acceptance note using an account originating from France. Within minutes, the down-payment had been wired to one of his bank accounts. The clock was ticking.
He arranged a meet in the penny arcade at the end of the pier with an acquaintance who’d helped him out in the past. Arriving early, he bought a stash of old pennies, and started to play one of the antique one-armed bandits, standing so that he could watch the entrance. A pound later, Jed walked in. He bought pennies, then stood at the machine opposite Patrick.
“I need casing work done,” muttered Patrick, between the rattle of the slot machines.
“Usual rates?” asked Jed.
“Double if you can get it back to me before the weekend. I need CCTV camera locations, any regular patrols and locals who have odd hours – milkmen, cabbies, the usual.”
“Anything else?” Jed said, rocking his machine with the force of his lever-pull.
“Might need a couple of access routes if there are any.”
“OK.” Jed paused to collect some winnings, then continued, “Where?”
“Milverton Avenue. There’s a photo in the usual place.”
Jed grunted assent, then moved to another machine. Again, it shook from the force with which he’d pulled the lever. Patrick didn’t have anything else to say, so left a pile of pennies on the claw-grab full of sweeties and headed home.
Although he desperately needed the information he was buying from Jed, Patrick wasn’t idle whilst he was waiting for it. He bought an old Ford Mondeo advertised in the classifieds of the evening paper, paying the vendor in cash. He took it for a test drive, feeling out the acceleration and making sure the handling was as expected.
A couple of days later, he sat in the coffee bar opposite the Town Hall. His council office contact – a sepia-toned civil servant called Byrne – saw him as he entered. He stopped, as if wanting to retreat, but Patrick nodded his head. Byrne joined him, paper cup in hand, a few minutes later, looking like a boxer beaten before the final round.
“I thought we were done,” he said by way of greeting.
“We’re never done. I know stuff,” replied Patrick.
“What now?” asked Byrne.
“Milverton Avenue,” Patrick said simply.
“No chance. Lots of enquiries but all applications turned down. There’s interest which ticks boxes in public service.” Byrne drank. “I could help, of course.”
“Not my business. I just need the drawings from your department.”
“I can’t do that – they’d spot it. Milverton Avenue is on the radar right now.”
Patrick growled in displeasure.
“We need to stop doing this,” said Byrne, eyes pleading.
“You’re on the take. I know it. Do you want the mayor to know it too?” said Patrick as he stood, looming over the scared official. He strode out, leaving Byrne slumped against the table.
Still angry, Patrick drove the Mondeo at high speed for an hour, ending up at a far-away shopping centre. He went to an electrical superstore and bought six electric fires, a mains cable reel and some junction boxes. He paid cash, handing over a bundle of notes to a bored cashier. With the back seats folded down, the car took the load with ease. Calmer, he drove to a workshop he kept on the quiet, tucked away on the edge of an industrial estate.
He was busy with soldering iron and pliers when his phone bleeped. There was a message posted to Facebook (“Service at St. Andrew’s, 7th July”), but it told Patrick that Jed wanted to meet him the next evening.
The venue was a golf range. Patrick bought two buckets of balls and took an end tee-box. The second bucket – and a spare club – he placed in the adjacent box. He hit the balls a long way, with more technique than power. Jed turned up a few minutes later and took up position at the second tee box.
“All quiet there,” he said between swings. “Good separation either side and no late nights or early mornings.”
“Cameras?” asked Patrick, hitting a ball out to the left.
“There’s no shops nearby, no traffic cameras or bus stops. Looks like a couple of homes have CCTV, but they’re fakes – spotted ‘em straight off.”
Patrick watched Jed smack a ball out to the far end of the range, muscles heaving as he made contact. As he addressed his own ball, he asked, “Access?”
Jed smiled. “As well as the main drive, there’s a field out back, gets used by kids for football and quad bikes. Two routes, either side, no cameras either. Take your pick.”
Patrick waited until Jed had sent another ball into the distance, then said, “It’s a big job, any chance you can help out? There’s more of the same in it.”
There was a grunt, then “When?”
“I was hoping for Sunday night. When’s good for you?”
“I’ve something around midnight but it shouldn’t take too long. About two?”
“See you then.”
Jed passed his half-bucket of balls to Patrick. “Looks like you’ve still got some tension to work off. Here – have these!” He donned his leather jacket and strolled off, whistling tunelessly. Annoyed golfers stared at him. He met their gaze, and they decided that waiting for him to leave seemed the best option.
Sunday night was cold and clear. Patrick had already loaded the Mondeo with his equipment and left it in a 24-hour car park. Just after midnight, he retrieved it and headed for Milverton Avenue.
The houses on the street were dark, as were most of the street-lamps. He drove past the target, checking that it was unlit, before carrying on to the track which led to the back field. He crept the car along it, finally pulling up behind the abandoned building. He sat for a moment, blowing steamy breath out of the window before slinking out of the door, sidling along the side of the car and opening the boot. Patrick pulled out the mains cables. As he stood, he saw a flash from across the field. He smiled.
Together, Jed and Patrick hauled the cables and boxes over to the back door of the building. The door hung from its hinges, wrenched off by youths looking for a drinking den.
“You take the right side, I’ll go down the left. Upstairs as well, if the floors will take it,” instructed Patrick.
Jed grunted assent, grabbed boxes and stomped off. Patrick headed in the opposite direction and connected two modified heaters in downstairs rooms. Testing each step, he gingerly went upstairs. He found a bedroom and began arranging the element. He started at a voice behind him.
“I thought you’d be here.”
Patrick turned. “Ah, Byrne.”
The council worker stood silhouetted in the doorway. Patrick shone a torch up at him. His chin was covered in dark stubble and his hair was unkempt. His eyes were black holes either side of his nose. “I guessed what you’d be up to. It’s just your style.”
“You’re here to stop me?” asked Patrick.
“You can’t burn this place down – it’s on a protected schedule.”
“Can’t be demolished unless it’s unsafe. It gets accidentally set on fire – it has to be redeveloped.”
Byrne took a step into the room. Patrick flicked the switch on the wall plug and stood. The element started to glow.
“Turn it off,” ordered Byrne.
Patrick smiled. “There’s more set, already burning the paper packed under them. Can’t you smell smoke?”
“You can’t do this,” screamed Byrne.
“Who’s paying you this time?”
“I grew up here!” Byrne shouted at Patrick. “Me, lots of friends, we grew up in this Home. You’re destroying our past!”
“There’ll be new homes built, futures for families – not ghosts of waifs and strays.” Patrick moved towards Byrne as the first glow of flame licked out from the element.
“I had a charity lined up,” said Byrne. “We were going to buy it, crowdfund it, make it a hostel for homeless youngsters. Give them hope – not an estate full of trophy wives with babies in BMW buggies.”
“Not my problem.”
Byrne blocked Patrick’s exit, a chair leg raised in his hand. The makeshift club swung, and caught Patrick a glancing blow on the temple. He fell backwards, missing the smoking heater by inches. Byrne came close, pressing his advantage, swinging the chair leg again.
It never landed: his arm jolted still. From behind him, Jed had grabbed hold of his wrist. “I wondered where you’d got to,” explained Jed. “The other wing has taken nicely.”
As he scrambled to his feet, Patrick looked at Byrne. “You can stay or not – I don’t care. There’ll always be another bent man in the planning office. Your type are common as burgers and cheaper to get hold of.”
Smoke was rising through the cracks in the floorboards. Patrick nodded and Jed released the arm. “Time to leave,” said Patrick.
“I can testify against you!” whimpered Byrne.
“Where’s your evidence?” asked Patrick. “The word of an official on the take? Where will that get you?”
He ran to the landing and slid down the bannister into a cloud of smoke. Jed took the stairs two at a time, almost falling as he reached the bottom. The crackle of flame was all around them. Through the smoke they couldn’t see the door, then it was outlined for a moment in the moonlight. They dashed towards it, lungs heaving and burst into the darkness, panting cool air. Reaching their cars, they drove in separate directions, not glancing back at the glow of fire in the windows.
Of moderate build, with no scars or tattoos, he was dressed in jeans and a casual jacket. He wore shoes, not biker boots: tidy hair, not lank and greasy. His usual anonymity was now a talking point.
He strode to the bar and pointed to the Budweiser tap. A glass was poured out for him, and he passed over a five pound note, walking away before the barmaid could fetch change. Sitting at an empty table, he pulled a paperback from the pocket of his coat: White Line Fever by Lemmy. The faces turned back to the pool table or jukebox, and tension in the air eased.
He drank deep, scanned the room from behind the armour of his paperback. No obvious sign of a contact here.
He continued to turn pages without reading, keeping alert for a signal from whoever he was supposed to meet. He cursed annoyance under his breath as a pool player deposited a glass of beer on his table, freeing a hand to chalk his cue-tip. As the glass was lifted, however, Patrick’s eyes gleamed: there, on the beermat was a computer disc, its colours blending in with the beer logo printed on the card.
Carelessly, he dropped the book over the beermat, downed his pint, then picked up book, disk and beer mat in one handful, sliding them together into an inside pocket. Satisfied, he smiled at the barmaid and stepped out into the cool, quiet city street.
At home, later that evening, he unpacked the contents of the disc on his computer. There was a map, showing the target’s location, pictures taken from a variety of angles and a small “readme” file. Its instructions stated that the job had to be completed in no more than two weeks. Patrick could see no problem in that.
There was also a generic e-mail address and Patrick sent it an acceptance note using an account originating from France. Within minutes, the down-payment had been wired to one of his bank accounts. The clock was ticking.
He arranged a meet in the penny arcade at the end of the pier with an acquaintance who’d helped him out in the past. Arriving early, he bought a stash of old pennies, and started to play one of the antique one-armed bandits, standing so that he could watch the entrance. A pound later, Jed walked in. He bought pennies, then stood at the machine opposite Patrick.
“I need casing work done,” muttered Patrick, between the rattle of the slot machines.
“Usual rates?” asked Jed.
“Double if you can get it back to me before the weekend. I need CCTV camera locations, any regular patrols and locals who have odd hours – milkmen, cabbies, the usual.”
“Anything else?” Jed said, rocking his machine with the force of his lever-pull.
“Might need a couple of access routes if there are any.”
“OK.” Jed paused to collect some winnings, then continued, “Where?”
“Milverton Avenue. There’s a photo in the usual place.”
Jed grunted assent, then moved to another machine. Again, it shook from the force with which he’d pulled the lever. Patrick didn’t have anything else to say, so left a pile of pennies on the claw-grab full of sweeties and headed home.
Although he desperately needed the information he was buying from Jed, Patrick wasn’t idle whilst he was waiting for it. He bought an old Ford Mondeo advertised in the classifieds of the evening paper, paying the vendor in cash. He took it for a test drive, feeling out the acceleration and making sure the handling was as expected.
A couple of days later, he sat in the coffee bar opposite the Town Hall. His council office contact – a sepia-toned civil servant called Byrne – saw him as he entered. He stopped, as if wanting to retreat, but Patrick nodded his head. Byrne joined him, paper cup in hand, a few minutes later, looking like a boxer beaten before the final round.
“I thought we were done,” he said by way of greeting.
“We’re never done. I know stuff,” replied Patrick.
“What now?” asked Byrne.
“Milverton Avenue,” Patrick said simply.
“No chance. Lots of enquiries but all applications turned down. There’s interest which ticks boxes in public service.” Byrne drank. “I could help, of course.”
“Not my business. I just need the drawings from your department.”
“I can’t do that – they’d spot it. Milverton Avenue is on the radar right now.”
Patrick growled in displeasure.
“We need to stop doing this,” said Byrne, eyes pleading.
“You’re on the take. I know it. Do you want the mayor to know it too?” said Patrick as he stood, looming over the scared official. He strode out, leaving Byrne slumped against the table.
Still angry, Patrick drove the Mondeo at high speed for an hour, ending up at a far-away shopping centre. He went to an electrical superstore and bought six electric fires, a mains cable reel and some junction boxes. He paid cash, handing over a bundle of notes to a bored cashier. With the back seats folded down, the car took the load with ease. Calmer, he drove to a workshop he kept on the quiet, tucked away on the edge of an industrial estate.
He was busy with soldering iron and pliers when his phone bleeped. There was a message posted to Facebook (“Service at St. Andrew’s, 7th July”), but it told Patrick that Jed wanted to meet him the next evening.
The venue was a golf range. Patrick bought two buckets of balls and took an end tee-box. The second bucket – and a spare club – he placed in the adjacent box. He hit the balls a long way, with more technique than power. Jed turned up a few minutes later and took up position at the second tee box.
“All quiet there,” he said between swings. “Good separation either side and no late nights or early mornings.”
“Cameras?” asked Patrick, hitting a ball out to the left.
“There’s no shops nearby, no traffic cameras or bus stops. Looks like a couple of homes have CCTV, but they’re fakes – spotted ‘em straight off.”
Patrick watched Jed smack a ball out to the far end of the range, muscles heaving as he made contact. As he addressed his own ball, he asked, “Access?”
Jed smiled. “As well as the main drive, there’s a field out back, gets used by kids for football and quad bikes. Two routes, either side, no cameras either. Take your pick.”
Patrick waited until Jed had sent another ball into the distance, then said, “It’s a big job, any chance you can help out? There’s more of the same in it.”
There was a grunt, then “When?”
“I was hoping for Sunday night. When’s good for you?”
“I’ve something around midnight but it shouldn’t take too long. About two?”
“See you then.”
Jed passed his half-bucket of balls to Patrick. “Looks like you’ve still got some tension to work off. Here – have these!” He donned his leather jacket and strolled off, whistling tunelessly. Annoyed golfers stared at him. He met their gaze, and they decided that waiting for him to leave seemed the best option.
Sunday night was cold and clear. Patrick had already loaded the Mondeo with his equipment and left it in a 24-hour car park. Just after midnight, he retrieved it and headed for Milverton Avenue.
The houses on the street were dark, as were most of the street-lamps. He drove past the target, checking that it was unlit, before carrying on to the track which led to the back field. He crept the car along it, finally pulling up behind the abandoned building. He sat for a moment, blowing steamy breath out of the window before slinking out of the door, sidling along the side of the car and opening the boot. Patrick pulled out the mains cables. As he stood, he saw a flash from across the field. He smiled.
Together, Jed and Patrick hauled the cables and boxes over to the back door of the building. The door hung from its hinges, wrenched off by youths looking for a drinking den.
“You take the right side, I’ll go down the left. Upstairs as well, if the floors will take it,” instructed Patrick.
Jed grunted assent, grabbed boxes and stomped off. Patrick headed in the opposite direction and connected two modified heaters in downstairs rooms. Testing each step, he gingerly went upstairs. He found a bedroom and began arranging the element. He started at a voice behind him.
“I thought you’d be here.”
Patrick turned. “Ah, Byrne.”
The council worker stood silhouetted in the doorway. Patrick shone a torch up at him. His chin was covered in dark stubble and his hair was unkempt. His eyes were black holes either side of his nose. “I guessed what you’d be up to. It’s just your style.”
“You’re here to stop me?” asked Patrick.
“You can’t burn this place down – it’s on a protected schedule.”
“Can’t be demolished unless it’s unsafe. It gets accidentally set on fire – it has to be redeveloped.”
Byrne took a step into the room. Patrick flicked the switch on the wall plug and stood. The element started to glow.
“Turn it off,” ordered Byrne.
Patrick smiled. “There’s more set, already burning the paper packed under them. Can’t you smell smoke?”
“You can’t do this,” screamed Byrne.
“Who’s paying you this time?”
“I grew up here!” Byrne shouted at Patrick. “Me, lots of friends, we grew up in this Home. You’re destroying our past!”
“There’ll be new homes built, futures for families – not ghosts of waifs and strays.” Patrick moved towards Byrne as the first glow of flame licked out from the element.
“I had a charity lined up,” said Byrne. “We were going to buy it, crowdfund it, make it a hostel for homeless youngsters. Give them hope – not an estate full of trophy wives with babies in BMW buggies.”
“Not my problem.”
Byrne blocked Patrick’s exit, a chair leg raised in his hand. The makeshift club swung, and caught Patrick a glancing blow on the temple. He fell backwards, missing the smoking heater by inches. Byrne came close, pressing his advantage, swinging the chair leg again.
It never landed: his arm jolted still. From behind him, Jed had grabbed hold of his wrist. “I wondered where you’d got to,” explained Jed. “The other wing has taken nicely.”
As he scrambled to his feet, Patrick looked at Byrne. “You can stay or not – I don’t care. There’ll always be another bent man in the planning office. Your type are common as burgers and cheaper to get hold of.”
Smoke was rising through the cracks in the floorboards. Patrick nodded and Jed released the arm. “Time to leave,” said Patrick.
“I can testify against you!” whimpered Byrne.
“Where’s your evidence?” asked Patrick. “The word of an official on the take? Where will that get you?”
He ran to the landing and slid down the bannister into a cloud of smoke. Jed took the stairs two at a time, almost falling as he reached the bottom. The crackle of flame was all around them. Through the smoke they couldn’t see the door, then it was outlined for a moment in the moonlight. They dashed towards it, lungs heaving and burst into the darkness, panting cool air. Reaching their cars, they drove in separate directions, not glancing back at the glow of fire in the windows.