(unpublished)

So we’re in the motor. I’m at the wheel and the boss is seated back telling me about his current situation. The radio’s playing one of them bubble gum Pop songs and I can hear the wind from the tunnels rushing against the vehicle’s window. On the seat next to me is a white envelop with the words Gatwick, 9:10, scribbled across the front in spidery black Biro.

            Linvall? he says. I could murder the slag! Jesus! I’m disgusted. Really disgusted.

            So you reckon its true boss? I say.

            Well what do you think? he’s says

            Actually, I say. In all honesty, I don’t reckon it is.

            So I’m worrying about nothing? he says.

            Yeah, probably, I say nodding my head.

            Listen, he says. You heard what I just heard…you’d bloody worry.

We shoot through the tunnel and slip past the motor in front. I looked over my shoulder and clocked Mr K. He’s slumped on the back seat looking miserable. Through the rear-view mirror I see him remove his glasses and dab his forehead with a coloured napkin. A moment later we drive pass a giant Billposter with a picture of a giant naked baby standing next to a blue Renault.

           Listen, you get through to the hospital alright? says Mr K.

            I did as it goes, I say.

            So what did they tell you?             

            Not a lot to be honest.            

            Well if you wanna try again. Just let me know.

            Nice one.

            Here you are. Before I forget, he says, reaching into his inside jacket pocket.

He edges forward clutching something in his hand.

            What’s this for? I say.

            Get something nice for the kid, he says.

            That’s very kind of you, I say, laying a small but thick manila envelope on top of the dashboard…Mr K you’re a diamond.           

I proceed to watch the traffic up ahead, while endeavouring to keep the Bentley at an even sixty. Mr K sits quietly in the back. It’s a smooth ride and the car hugs the road nicely. We cruised along in silence and the motor itself hardly makes a sound. I go back to thinking about Sheryl and the baby. I’ve never been so nervous my life. In the distance I hear the wail of a police siren.

           She only had me watching one of them chat shows the other night, says Mr K all of a sudden.

            Not bloody what’s her name…Trisha? I say looking in the rear-view mirror.

Mr K continues talking and I go back to concentrating on the road ahead.

They had this one feller on, he says. A doctor. Been married nineteen times. Now who in their right mind would get married nineteen times?

I ease my foot off the accelerator in order to give the campervan in front more room.

            Funnily enough, I say, turning my head slightly. We watched one like that the other week.

            Oh yeah? he says, not sounding particularly interested.

           Yeah, Jerry Springer, I say. You ever see it?

            A couple of times, he says. To be honest, it’s not really my cup of tea. Anyway, go on, what happened?

Well they had this gorgeous looking bird on, I say. Only it turns out that she’s a really pre-op transsexual, don’t it? When the blokes she’s with finds out, he goes absolutely potty. Leaps across the stage and knocks her to the floor. Took three big security blokes to get him off of her. Now what amazes me is …Here Mr K, you alright back there?

            I’m fine, he says, looking down at his knees.     

 

I wait a few moments, deciding whether or not its Ok to continued.

           So Mr K, I say. That chat show you were talking about. Any good was it?

            Well it was different, he says. If that’s what you mean.

            Yeah, so what was it about then?

            Would you believe it? he says. Loveless couples.

            Really…? I say.

            Yeah, he says. Remember that bloke I mentioned earlier? The one with all those ex wives?

            Yeah the doctor, I say. What about him?

            Well according to him, he says. It’s all down to luck.

            What is? I say.

            A happy marriage, he says.

            Really, I say. So what’s your Mandy think?

            You tell me, he says. We ain’t exactly been talking much lately.

 

Mr K goes all silent. I tap the steering wheel and try and think of something insightful to say.

            Maybe he’s right, I say, shrugging my shoulders.

            Who is?

            Geezer on the chat show. Maybe he’s got a point.

            You think so? That what marriage is all about then…luck?

            Luck, love, money, I say. Who the hell really knows?

I roll my eyes at the slow moving traffic. Despite what I told myself earlier about keeping my cool, I can’t seem to stop myself from feeling really nervous. The traffic on the road is so bad, that as far as I can tell, there ain’t chance in hell of getting back to the hospital on time. And the more likely it seems that I’m about the piss the birth of my kid, the more annoyed I get with Mr K for making me drive him to the airport, on my only day off, in the first place.

           Turn that shit off, he says.

            Thought you liked West Life, I say.

            No, I fuckin’ don’t, he says.

I shrug my shoulders, shift forward and switch off the car’s radio.

            By the way, he says after a pause. D’you still keep in touch with any of the lads?

            Not really, I say. I’m tryna keep my nose clean. Know what I mean? What about you?

            You must be bloody joking, he says. Listen. I need to ask you to do a really important favour.

            Sure, I say. Fire away.

            Well the thing is, he says. I need you to lean on some feller for me.

Who’s that then? I say, smiling. Not that geezer from the Inland Revenue.

Mr K’s a diamond dealer…Despite what he thinks, he ain’t a gangster.

            And if that don’t work, he says, shifting about in his seat.

            What’s that? I say, cause I’m momentarily distracted by this blond floozy in a supped up red Boxster.

            If that don’t work, he goes. I want you to kill him.

Mr K takes his off his expensive glasses and gives the lenses a nervous wipe.

            Hold up! I say.

            I want the dirty bastard killed, he says, shutting his eyes tightly and commencing to shake.

Looking over my shoulder, I’m suddenly aware that Mr K is sweating quite profusely. Then all at once I get that old familiar tightness in the pit of my gut.

            Jesus ! What sort of bloke d’you think I am? I say.

            What about when you was doing bird? he says.

            What about it?

            You didn’t seem to be mind too much back then.

            That was prison, I say. Maybe you’ve forgotten, but it weren’t exactly a country club.

            You broke both that skinny feller’s arms.

Like I said, that was prison, I say. Nah, forget it. I ain’t going back inside. And I certainly don’t want to have anything to do with a murder.

            I’ll pay you ten grand, he says.

            What?

            OK fifteen.

            Nah, forget it, I say.

            Alright then, how much d’you want? he says. Just give me a figure.

Jesus Christ, I say. I don’t believe what you’re asking. Sheryl and me are about to have our first kid and here you are asking me knocking some feller off.

Mr K shoves his hand in trouser pocket and pulls out his wallet. He opens it up and stares at the picture inside. I’ve seen him do this a million times before. It’s the same one he used to carry about when we were in the Scrubs together. There’s a picture of his wife in there. She’s lying on a Yacht in Saint Tropez, with a cold drink in her hand and a John Grisham novel laid-out on the deck beside her. Mr K puts his wallet away and looks up.

           You ever hear of a book called The Dice Man? he says.

           Tell the truth Mr K. I ain’t much of a reader, I say.

Mr K rubs his eyes and looks at me glumly.

            Believe me, I say. I’d really like to help. But what you’re asking me to do is… Well it sounds nuts.

            Tell you what. We’ll flip for it, he says, holding up a ten pence piece.

           You want me to flip a coin? I say. Comes up heads I pay our friend a visit. Comes up tails I don’t?

            You wanna help me or not? he says.

I don’t answer.

            Well then? he says.

            Christ! I say, looking over my shoulder… Ok Mr K…call it.

Up to this point in my life I ain’t never killed a soul. Before I met Mr K, I was strictly small time. But suddenly Mr K wants me to consider stepping up to the hit man category. I mean, what with the new baby coming, there’s more reason than ever to steer well clear of stuff like that. Not to mention that since I got out, I ain’t done anything even remotely dodgy.

Then again, being realistic, it ain’t like I’ve got that much of a choice. It ain’t as if I can stand by and do nothing, considering what Mr K done for me. As you’ll find out later, I owe Mr K big-time. They had me locked down for a fifteen-year stretch. And if it hadn’t been for Mr K, I can honestly don’t think I would have made it. Anyway, sentimentality aside, Mr K, bless him his heart, gave me back my life, so I guess despite what my brain and good sense are telling me, it’s only honourable and right, that I repay the debt.