disease was Stephen Hawking. Did this mean Charlie was going to end up buzzing around in a wheelchair and sounding like a Dalek?
‘What’s the prognosis?’ I put the can down on the side and swivelled round to get my feet on the carpet. ‘I mean, is the bad stuff inevitable?’
‘It’s already happening.’ He took another swig of beer before holding the can out towards me. ‘Sometimes I have to really concentrate just to pull the ring on one of these things. Sometimes it’s a bit difficult turning door handles. It’s been going on for six months. I went to see a doctor on the quiet’ — he pointed his finger at me, the can still in his hand — ‘and it needs to stay that way. At least until all the money’s in the bank. I want something to cushion the blow for Hazel when I tell her.’
He siphoned up the last of his beer and this time I decided to join him.
‘Does it have to get worse? I mean, maybe a few trembles is as bad as it’ll get?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘Sure as night follows day.’ He sounded almost matter-of-fact. ‘The next step is memory loss, then my speech gets slurred. Then I won’t be able to walk or swallow… Five years on average, and that’s me gone.’
‘Stephen Hawking’s been going for donkey’s years.’
‘One in a million. It’s five years, some much quicker. I wouldn’t mind that. Once it gets to the stage where Hazel’s spoon-feeding me mashed banana, I’ll get her to kill me anyway.’ He started to laugh, maybe a bit too much. ‘Or maybe I’ll see just how much of a mate you are.’
5
We nursed our second can of Carlsberg in silence. I was still on the side of the bed; Charlie was by the TV, staring out of the netted window. I didn’t feel like drinking, but at least it was cold and purged my mouth of three days’ worth of airline shit on a tray. I wished it could have washed away Charlie’s bad news as well, but it didn’t. I felt sorry for him and his family, and that was a strange feeling for me to have. Normally it would just be a case of, tough shit and I’ll kill you when it’s spoon-feed time.
‘It makes sense now.’ I couldn’t stand the silence any more. ‘But what if your hands start disco dancing while you’re working?’
‘Chance I’ve got to take.’
‘Crazy Dave know?’
‘Crazy Dave’s a good man, but he’s not in the charity game.’ He shrugged and gave me a smile. ‘I just told him how much cash I needed and if there was a job that paid it, I’d be there. It’s my last payday. Hazel will need the money. And you were right about the horse…’ Charlie took the final swig from his can and put it down on the desk. He bent and stuck his head half inside the fridge as he rummaged among the drinks and chocolate bars. His voice was muffled. ‘I don’t want to spend my last few breaths stuck in the corner of a fucking field.’
Charlie hadn’t seen the state Hazel was in after he’d done the runner. ‘Why not go home and explain everything to her, then come back? What if you fuck up and don’t get home? That’ll be two Hazel’s lost, and all she’ll remember is you fucking off.’
He stood up with two cans, water this time, and handed me one. He placed his on the desk and had a go at opening it. This time his middle finger made a meal of getting under the ring pull.
‘Well, lad.’ The can finally fizzed. ‘She’s going to lose me whatever I do. This way at least she gets some compensation. I’m staying here.’ His eyes gleamed and there was certainty in his voice. He was suddenly the Charlie I knew of old. ‘Better to burn than fizzle out. I’ll do the job I’m contracted to do. Then I’ll go home and face the music. She’ll calm down after a while. She loves me really.’
He fixed his eyes on mine. ‘You want to come along as shotgun?’ He brought the can of water up to his mouth and tilted his head to drink. His eyes swivelled so they kept contact with mine. ‘No pay, mind — that’s all for Hazel. But I’ll pick up the costs and get you back to your German, Club Class.’
I couldn’t help but smile; it almost turned into a laugh because the situation was so ridiculous. I’d never worked for nothing in my entire life. I’d even charged my mum twenty pence to go to the corner shop for a pack of Embassy Gold. ‘But you haven’t even told me the job.’
Charlie detected the flicker of interest. He fished a USB memory stick out of his jeans and plugged it into his laptop. A dialogue box asked if he wanted to carry on with the movie clip from where he’d left off, or go back to the beginning. He tapped the keyboard and we got a jerky picture of a ten-foot brick wall with broken glass cemented into its top. A succession of Ladas trundled down the potholed road alongside it. I could see only the top two floors of the worn-out and pitted brick cube the other side of the wall, but every window was protected by a heavy grille that sat proud of the building so it could be opened outwards. The camera passed the graffiti-sprayed gates. Two wall-high metal plates closed the house off to the public. They looked as if they had been there as long as the house, rusting and battered, held together in the centre by a lever lock.
The picture curled as Charlie poked the screen. ‘Fucking amateur bag fit.’ The camera had been concealed in a bag of some kind, with just a small hole cut into it. If the lens had been pressed right up against it they might have got a full picture, but they’d done it so badly it was blurred round the edges.
‘What are we looking at?’
‘This, my lad, is the home of a government minister, in that most upright and enlightened of landscapes, the former Soviet republic of Georgia. He goes by the name of Zurab Bazgadze — though I like to think of him as plain old Baz.’
‘Great. And?’
‘I’m going to pop in there and do a little job.’
‘No job’s that little, for that sort of cash. You covering your back?’
He grinned. ‘That’s why I’m thinking you should come along and help me.’ He pulled at his jumper. ‘This wasn’t the only thing I bought duty free.’ He stood up, walked over to his carry-on, and extracted a small digital camcorder. Its red light glowed. ‘I thought it was him at the door again…’ He powered down the device. ‘I’m building up as much of a security blanket as I can lay my hands on. If I get stitched up, he’ll go down with me.’
‘Who the fuck are you on about?’
‘The world’s fattest American, with one of those fuck-off whitewall haircuts.’
Charlie came back to join me at the laptop. He pulled out the memory stick and waved it at me before it disappeared into his pocket. ‘He dropped this off, and the laptop — and before you ask, don’t.’
He was right. I didn’t need to know who this man was. If I did go with Charlie and Whitewall found out I was also on the ground, Charlie could say that I knew nothing about anything. He wouldn’t have shown me the tape now anyway. I had nothing to do with the job.
‘I don’t want to know. I’m more worried about you getting caught. Those shaky old hands of yours will see out their days with thumbscrews attached to them. They don’t fuck about in Georgia, mate.’
‘Piece of piss getting into that target, lad. Who d’you think did all those banks in Bosnia?’
‘I thought about you when I read the story.’
Towards the end of the Bosnian War, the Firm needed to get their hands on the financial records of certain government officials and high-ranking army officers who were taking bribes from the drug and prostitution barons. MOE guys from the Regiment hit a whole lot of banks. The idea was that when the new country was formed, we could make sure we kept the dodgy ones out of the picture, and got the good guys in. Not that it had worked, of course. It never does.
‘Yeah — should’ve skimmed off a few bob for myself while I was at it, shouldn’t I? Wouldn’t be here now…’
‘What is this little job you’re doing, then?’
The screen went blank and Charlie looked up at me. ‘Can’t tell you just yet. But come along as shotgun, and I’ll tell you in-country. I’ve got to hit the place this Saturday, leaving here at dark o’clock tonight.’
‘Why Saturday?’
‘Baz is away, but he’ll be back Sunday. So I can’t hang around chatting; it’s make-your-mind-up time, lad.’
He raised an eyebrow, waiting for a reply.
