probably told him he could only have two hundred quid pocket money this week.
I looked up and saw the light on the attic flick on. There was a dormer to front and back and I reckoned this was the teenager’s room. I also had it figured that it was the way in. My guess was that neither of the dormer windows were wired up.
I decided to sit tight, wait until everyone had gone beddy byes and then make my move.
The route to the attic was easy. Or would have been had it not been for the cast on my wrist.
There was a water butt catching the rain from the conservatory (so green these people) — this would let me climb onto the edge of the conservatory, up onto the window ledge above (probably the bathroom), over to the next window and from there, to the roof and in. I had no worries that the teenager would catch me. I’d be in and out of his bedroom before he could fart.
As they say — the best laid plans.
The lights went out around the house and I waited a full hour, cold and cramp my only companions.
The night was flickering as clouds sped by — covering the moon more often than not. The next time it dropped dark I made my move.
I balanced on the water butt and hauled myself onto the top of the conservatory. Keeping my feet on the lead flashing, and away from the glass panels, I grabbed the window ledge and pulled myself up. The moon re- appeared and I froze, moving my head slowly to see if I could be spotted from any of the other houses but, even this deep in winter, the evergreen foliage was thick enough to hide the house from all around.
I prepared to move to the next ledge when a light flicked on. Framed in the window I heard the shout as the woman of the house saw my shape through the frosted glass. I tried to jump to the next ledge but my feet were poorly positioned and I felt myself slip. There was nothing to grab onto and I spun out and away from the building before crashing through the conservatory roof below.
I landed on the tiled floor in a spray of glass and the wind was kicked from my guts. I heard the start of chaos coming down stairs and tried to get up but the lack of air and the pain from my back slowed me down. Lights appeared in the hallway and I rolled onto my front. Voices shouted and I heard a man’s voice tell his wife to dial the police.
I pushed up onto all fours and, as the main room behind me flooded with light, I looked for a way out.
I may have come through the roof with relative ease but the conservatory was double glazed and there was going to be no James Bond style launching myself at the glass and out into the garden beyond.
The man of the house crashed into the room and I turned to face him. He held a sawn off baseball bat in his left hand and that meant he was prepared to use force — you don’t chop a baseball bat into a weapon for fun. His eyes were still watery from sleep and I had maybe thirty seconds before he was fully back on planet Earth.
I forced my lungs to grab some much needed oxygen, put my head down and tried my best Usain Bolt impression and headed for the front door. The man saw me coming and raised the bat to swing. At the last moment, I ducked and felt the rush of air as the bat parted my hair. I grabbed the door handle of the hallway door and used it to swing myself into the hall.
Like a bowling ball to the pins I took out the woman of the house as I crashed into her, phone still in her hand. She tumbled to the ground and I went with her. The scream as she went down was way too loud in my ear and the roar of the husband indicated that I was in for a serious kicking if he got to me.
I rolled over the woman and tried to get up, kicking her in the face as I scrambled for the door. She screamed again as the hall door burst open and the man took in the scene. He raised the bat and I rolled to my left as he brought it down. It bounced off the carpet and he raised it again. I lashed out with my foot and caught him on the shin. He howled and swung at my head. I ducked, but this time the bat caught me on they shoulder and it dropped numb. As he made ready to reload I stood up and charged the front door. There was a key hanging from the lock. I grabbed it and turned it.
The man brought the bat down again and I leapt towards him, ducking under the swing. I balled up my fist and sunk it into a surprisingly firm stomach. He started to double up and I used his downward momentum to thrust my head up, catching him square on the chin. He went over like a dead thing and landed on his wife. At the top of the stairs the teenager appeared. For a second I caught his eye, turned away, pulled at the front door and fled into the night.
It was a right royal fuck up but at least I could regroup and find another target.
As it was, the shitstorm was just gathering.
I jogged into the night and heard a car crank up its engine before it raced ahead of me. The doors flew open and it was goon city. I turned to escape but I was in no fit state to outrun them. I swung a fist at the first attacker but he stepped clear with ease and returned the favour to my head. I went down. A couple of kicks later and I was hauled up by the arms, and flung into the back of the car. A black cloth was placed over my head and my wrists were bound with plastic ties.
I tried to talk but a punch in my gut told me to shut up.
I was pinned between two goons. The doors were slammed shut and we took off. We didn’t drive far before the car stopped and I was bundled out, onto the pavement. There was no attempt to remove the cloth or ties and I heard the doors close before the car moved off.
‘Listen, shit for brains.’
The voice was loud and in my left ear. The accent was east London and the word ‘brains’ was accompanied by a slap to the head.
‘Dupree wants you to know that you are breathing only because he feels generous. We’re keeping an eye on you. Dupree wants you to walk a nice straight and narrow path. No freelancing — those days are over. Understand.’
Another slap to the head.
I nodded.
‘Step out of line again and I’ve instructions to waste your sorry backside. So get a fucking job, save up for a mortgage and be happy that you might retire one day. Do I make myself crystal clear?’
Slap number three and four came in.
I nodded.
There was a chink of something falling on the pavement followed by the sound of fading footsteps. I waited for a few moments before trying to remove the cloth by rubbing my head on the ground. I felt something hard and cold against my cheek and I scrambled around until my hands were at the object. It felt like a Stanley knife and I carefully slid the blade out of the casing and worked it into the ties and cut them. I reached up and pulled off the cloth.
I was lying in a back street canyon of tenements. I didn’t recognise the place and stood up alternately rubbing my shoulder and my face.
I got back to Martin’s sometime after four and crashed.
The next morning I told him what had gone down and he called me an arsehole. I thought he was going to throw me out on the street but instead he told me that a friend of his was looking for some help in one of the big hotels in town.
‘Take the job and stay clear of trouble.’
‘But the photos, the account — what about Dupree?’
‘It seems to me that going after Dupree is the last thing you want to do after such a warning. Take the medicine and get your head down for a while. You can always come back to him later.’
I was in no mood to let it go but with no cash, and Dupree on my case, I had little choice. If the secret to bringing the Frenchman down lay in Mallorca then I would have to earn the money for the trip the honest way.
I agreed to the job in the hotel and Martin gave me a number to phone.
Gordon Brown
59 Minutes
Tuesday March 18 ^th 2008
I started the job at the hotel last night and hate it. I’m a dogsbody whose only function is to clean up everyone else’s crap. I worked out that I need to stick with this job for four months to get enough cash to go to Spain. I don’t think I can last four days.
