“All right. Emergencies only, yeah?” Cole rattled off the number he’d memorised as they walked to the door. “It’s a burner. I won't have it for long.”
“Like your style, Coley. Good thinking. You got a supplier for them?”
Cole stopped at the door. “Have a word with Birdy. Know him?”
“Course I know Birdy. Might give him a call.”
“Whatever. Don't you concern yourself with me, and I won’t concern myself with you. Got it?”
“Sure, Coley. I got it.”
Cole put his hand on Scully’s chest. “One more thing. You ain't never seen me. Some twat comes round asking questions, you know nothing about nothing, right?”
“Fuck you too. I ain't no grass.”
Cole stared at him, trying to read Scully’s sincerity. “Hope not.”
Scully brushed Cole’s hand away from his chest with force. “Wait up Coley. I said I ain't no grass. I wanna hear you say it. Say I ain’t no grass.”
Cole said nothing, then he shrugged. “If you say so.”
Anger flashed across Scully’s face. “You want that gear or what? I need to hear you say it.”
Cole put his hands in the air and backed off. “Okay. Okay. You ain't no grass. Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. Christ, mate, you need to relax. Smoke more of that shit Mince has.”
Out on the street, Cole hurried to Bethnal Green tube station. Scully was unpredictable at the best of times. Christ knows what the bastard would be like if he dropped a load of Captagon. Maybe Cole shouldn't have mentioned Birdy to Scully. Birdy could go mental if a psyched out Scully came pounding on his door looking for recruits to a mosque destruction cause. Fuck it, he thought. I know too many nutters.
On the tube to East Acton, Cole tried to lose the sense of something wrong, but he couldn't shake it off. By the time he walked to Hammersmith Hospital and rang the ICU bell, the feeling had intensified. The one person he could ask for advice wasn’t capable of giving it.
He held Daz’s hand and whispered in his ear. But Daz didn’t even twitch. The machines surrounding the bed showed more life than Daz. Twenty minutes later, Cole stomped out of the hospital. Out on Du Cane Road, he kicked out at a discarded can. It rattled ahead and when he caught up with it, he crushed it underfoot.
He sucked hard on a cigarette and finished it by the time he passed the entrance to Wormwood Scrubs prison. The union jack fluttered on a tower, but the feeling of pride in the flag soon ran to fear. He spat on the ground and increased his pace. Nobody would bang him up in there. He muttered to himself, certain he was far too clever for the lot of them.
62
The morning after she received the mail from FMP, Alice paced around the counter in her kitchen and read the crumbled letter again. She focused on the standout sentence. Unfortunately, we’ve had to reconsider the production framework for our new current affairs program, and I regret to inform you that we must withdraw our offer. Her shoulders slumped despite being familiar with the contents of the letter. At least the author, Suzanne, had the decency to include her mobile.
Alice sat on a stool and picked up her phone. Ian had been right. She should have called last week, but she hadn’t been prepared to deal with it then. When she tapped Suzanne’s telephone number into her mobile, she took a deep breath. Her finger hovered over the call icon, and she stared at the screen. Then she shook her head and put the phone down. Her head hurt and her pulse rushed. She filled a glass with water from the fridge and drank it with three aspirin. Two empty bottles of wine stood by the sink and remonstrated with her.
Guilt overcame her, and she picked up the two empties. She had to push on the back door, and it opened with a grating sound that made her grimace. The recycling crate was already full of wine bottles, but Alice rested the two she carried on top of the pile. One rolled off onto the concrete with a clink. She waved her hand at it and left it.
Back in the kitchen, with the garden door locked, she rested against the counter, put her head in her hands and let minutes pass.
“For pokker,” she whispered. She picked up the phone again and called Kristin.
“Hey,” Kristin said. “What did they say?” She sounded out of breath.
“I haven’t called yet. I think I’m wasting my time.”
“Oh. I see. Look, um, I can't talk right now. I’m already late for a marketing meeting. We could meet for lunch? Or maybe dinner?”
“Wait. Any suggestions for when I call?”
“Tell them it was all a misunderstanding. A coincidence, nothing more... Sorry... Yes. I’m coming... Sorry... Um... trolls jumped in and made, you know... assumptions... um...”
“Are you running?”
“Kinda. Sorry, Alice. I gotta go. They’re calling me into the meeting. I’ll catch you later.”
When Kristin disconnected, Alice picked up the letter again. She tapped the phone against her head several times as if it would knock the hangover out, but it didn't work. She gave up and called the number.
“This is Suzanne Durrant.”
“Eh, hi Suzanne. This is Alice Madsen.”
“Oh… Yes. Hello Alice.”
“I was wondering if we could talk about the show contract?”
“There isn't a lot to discuss, Alice.”
“I hoped once everything had blown over, you know, the false allegations and the social media storm, that maybe we could, or you could, like, reconsider?”
“It’s not in my hands Alice.”
“Could you talk to whoever made the decision?”
“I can't see it making any difference, to be honest.”
