There is a covered walkway which traverses the road. It must have looked so glamorous, so sleek and futuristic in the 1960s. It must have looked like the future. Well, guess what? The future’s right here, and it’s as grey and tired as the past. Whatever they were hoping to achieve with their walkway, whatever their grand vision was, they failed. Everything fails, everyone fails.
At that moment, the unmistakable bulk of Garth appears through the windows of the bridge. Here he comes. Someone else who gets it.
The butterflies begin in earnest.
Mankind finds futility very hard to stomach. People find all sorts of things to give their brief lives meaning. Religion, football, astrology, social media. Valiant efforts all, but everyone knows, deep, deep down, that life is both a random occurrence and a losing battle. None of us will be remembered. These days will all be covered, in time, by the sands. Even the five million pounds Garth is going to pay for the box will be dust. Enjoy it while you can.
These are not original thoughts, sure, but they are soothing ones. Because, once you really accept the hollowness of everything, it makes it an awful lot easier to kill someone.
To kill Kuldesh.
Ron rarely ventures North, but, whenever he does, he enjoys it. The nights out he had with the Yorkshire miners in 1984. The steel workers in County Durham. They could all drink the cockneys under the table. Three coppers once broke his ribs in a Nottingham police station. One rib each. Does Nottingham count as North? It does to Ron. They are currently heading to a motorway service station near Warwick, and even that counts as North. As a precaution he is wearing a thick jumper over his West Ham shirt. Pauline has recently been buying him clothes, because, as she says, ‘I have to be seen with you, darling, don’t I?’
‘You can’t rely on the food,’ says Joyce, unpacking a Tupperware box of chocolate hazelnut brownies. She, Elizabeth and Ibrahim are squished together in the back seat. Bogdan is driving. A steady 95mph so far.
Is Elizabeth asleep? She has her eyes closed, but Ron doubts it.
Donna and Chris are heading up separately. With SIO Regan. Apparently they are all friends now. You just never knew with coppers. Law unto themselves.
Elizabeth has told the police to be there by three p.m. But the deal will be done at two p.m., and Elizabeth will accept the consequences when the police find out she has lied.
Ron starts to think, ‘There never seem to be any consequences for Elizabeth,’ and then remembers himself. Grief scares him, Elizabeth’s grief particularly. To see her laid so low. To see that there was an iceberg finally able to sink her. You have to be so careful with love, that’s Ron’s take on the thing. One minute they’re buying you jumpers and smoking pot with you on the bowls lawn, the next minute you care, and your heart is not your own. He looks down at his jumper and smiles. He wouldn’t have chosen it himself in a million years, but what are you going to do?
‘Brownie, Ron?’ Joyce asks from the back seat.
‘Not for me,’ says Ron. He is saving himself for a full fry-up at the service station. He hopes there will be time.
‘Is it true that Pauline puts marijuana in her brownies?’ asks Joyce.
‘She does,’ says Ron. ‘Marijuana and coconut.’
‘I wonder if I should try marijuana,’ Joyce says.
‘It makes you very talkative,’ says Ibrahim.
‘Oh, perhaps I shouldn’t, then,’ says Joyce. ‘You barely get a word in as it is.’
Up ahead, Ron spies the long, covered walkway that spans the motorway. Grimy windows, and long-faded primary stripes. Bogdan leaves the fast lane for the first time in ninety miles, and arrows the car towards the service-station slip road.
‘We’re here!’ says Joyce.
Elizabeth opens her eyes. ‘What’s the time?’ she asks.
‘1.52,’ says Bogdan. ‘Like I told you it would be.’
Bogdan aims the car for a parking spot far enough from the exit to be discreet, and with a view of the covered walkway. Ron can smell the fry-up. He is aware that they are here for other reasons, but you’re allowed to have what Pauline calls a ‘side hustle’. Pauline’s ‘side hustle’ is selling used Iron Maiden drumsticks on eBay. She buys them in boxes of fifty from the music shop in Fairhaven.
Meanwhile, talking of boxes, the unmistakable figure of Garth appears through the grimy walkway windows.
‘Here we go,’ says Ron.
‘Good luck, everybody,’ says Bogdan.
Garth can feel the walkway shake as he strides across. It is rusting and unloved. He likes it. He has already pressed record on his phone. He knows the deal.
Since he threw Luca Buttaci from the roof of the car park, the police have been searching for him. Garth can see their point. They won’t catch him, not in this life, but they wouldn’t be doing their jobs if they didn’t at least try. He reaches the steps at the end of the walkway. He smells cheap, fried food and urine. The downside of never complaining is that the British really do put up with a lot. Imagine this in Canada. Or Italy.
