Acting Up

Chapter 2-2

“Er, yes, sir. Old Mr Wilson used to employ me and Frank, that’s my brother, a few years back. That is, before the old chap went, you know, er…”

“A bit do-lally?”

Alan looked embarrassed and said nothing.

Raymond smiled condescendingly. “Don’t worry, we’re all friends here.” he said. “And talking of friends — well not exactly friends, more like acquaintances — we have one in common, strange as it may sound.”

“Oh yes? Who’s that then?” Alan couldn’t quite believe that this posh young man could possibly know anyone in Alan’s somewhat limited social circle.

“Scouse Jimmy.”

Alan dropped the wrench he had just picked up and the blood drained from his face. Even though the weak spring sunshine had as yet done little to relieve his prison pallor he visibly paled.

He picked the wrench back up with a trembling hand and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Never heard of him”

“Jimmy’s had some back luck lately,” said Raymond, ignoring Alan’s comment. “Several of his outlets have burned down apparently.”

“Huh?” Alan looked perplexed.

Raymond laughed condescendingly, “Sorry. American slang don’t you know. I really must stop using it. It’s how our friends over the pond refer to narcotics dealers getting arrested. They get burned down.”

Alan’s mouth fell open.

Raymond laughed. “Calm down, Alan, there’s no need to be afraid. Jimmy’s no friend of mine.”

Alan stuck his chin out and said, “I’m not afraid.” Then, with somewhat more conviction than he felt, added: “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do. I know all about it. All about your little chats with the law. But don’t you worry, my friends and I don’t like Jimmy at all. As a matter of fact, they think you’re doing a splendid job helping the police. According to them, everyone should be so public spirited.”

“I still don’t know what you’re on about.”

Raymond smiled. “We all think you’re very brave informing on Jimmy like you do. Very brave indeed.” He said, ignoring Alan’s protestations of ignorance.

“What do you want Mr…?”

“Call me Mr Raymond. It somehow sounds more servile than Mr Mortimer, more appropriate for us in our situation, don’t you agree?”

“What situation? I’m not in any situation. Not with you. Not with anyone. I’m going straight.”

Raymond paused then, giving Alan a thin smile, said, “So, all I want you to do is to continue passing information to the heat. Oops, there I go again. Too much time spent in America. The coppers is what I meant to say. Do they pay you, by the way? What’s the going rate for a grass these days?”

Alan said nothing.

“Well, my friends will pay you handsomely.”

“What for?” said Alan suspiciously.

“It’s simple. All you have to do is keep passing on information. The thing is though, from now on it will only be information that I supply you; not the rubbish you pick up from your cronies down the pub.”

“NO! No way am I giving Old Bill any duff gen. They’d have me back inside quicker than that!” Alan snapped his fingers.

“Whoa! Whoa! Calm down. Who said anything about false information?”

“Huh?”

“It will all be pure gold. Twenty-four carat, rock solid. The real McCoy, no duff.”

“So, what’s the catch?”

“No catch, my friend, not a one. I give you genuine information and you pass it on to your contact in the force. Nothing hard about that, now is there?”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about — and even if I did I’m not interested.”

Raymond’s tone hardened. “Don’t play games with me, you little s**t,” he said, menacingly. “I could have you back inside you know. One word to your probation officer is all it would take.”

“But I haven’t done nothing.”

“Act your age, Alan. There’s a lot of chaps inside who’ve not actually done anything. I’m sure you met a few while you were in there.”

Alan fell silent. Yes, he had met them. They were called “bodies”. Framed and put up as scapegoats by the real villains. He knew, with sickening certainty, that Raymond’s threat was far from being an idle one.

“And, by the way, the folks inside will know what you’ve been up to,” said Raymond pressing home his advantage. “You’ve probably seen what they do to informers in there.”

Alan had indeed seen that as well. He could clearly visualise one poor sod. The latrine floor had been covered with his blood. The hapless victim of prison “justice” was kneeling with his head in the toilet bowl, heaving up a bucketful of red-stained puke.

“How’s your mum by the way?”

“You leave her out of this!” At the mention of his mother, Alan suddenly became aggressive, and, in spite of his otherwise servile demeanour, there was now an icy menace in his voice.

Raymond put his hands up.

“Easy, tiger, nobody’s threatening your mum. She’ll be fine, I promise. Nobody will go near her.”

“They better bloody not!”

“So, come on. Do we have a deal?” Raymond realised he had overstepped the mark by mentioning Alan’s mum — and he was now desperate to regain the initiative. Alan was a strong country lad. He was also fresh from prison. He was tough, and Raymond had no desire to tangle with him physically.

Alan pondered the situation. Where was Frank when he needed him? Frank would have known what to do. But Frank wasn’t there. Alan had to work it all out for himself these days.

As Raymond seemed to know, that from the old days, Alan did still have his “handler” in the force — and the police did give him some money for the bits of information he supplied. His cooperation had even helped with his getting an early release from prison.

However, with having been out of circulation for so long, he didn’t have much to tell them these days. Just the odd rumour, nothing substantial.

Alan decided that he didn’t like Raymond. But Mortimer had revealed so much that Alan realised he was now in danger himself. Would Alan simply be allowed to say “no” and walk away — perhaps to pass on a message to Scouse Jimmy. It didn’t seem likely.

He realised now that something dreadful would happen if he didn’t do as he was being asked.

On top of that, it was also true that an extra few quid would help out no end. Mum was doing her best the keep them both going, but the pittance she earned as a school dinner lady could only go so far.

“I want it clear that I’m never touching s**t again,” he said defiantly. “I’m off that stuff. I’m clean — and I mean to stay clean.”

“Good lord, no!” Raymond’s tone had softened. “Nobody’s going to ask you to take drugs, or indeed do anything that could get you into trouble with the law. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“AND I’m not going back inside — not for anyone.”

“Seriously, Alan. There’s no chance of that happening. All you have to do is pass on genuine information that I supply and do it when I give it to you.”

“And that’s it, nothing else?”

“Not a sausage. So, are we good to go?”

“How much will you pay me?”

Raymond laughed.

“As much as the job’s worth.” He said. “My colleagues and I look after our friends. You’ll never be broke again. So, do we have a deal?”

“I’m not sure. I suppose so. But only as long as it doesn’t involve me breaking the law.”

“Like I said, we look after our friends. You’ll be in no danger from the law. But make no mistake,” he added threateningly. “We will always take care of our enemies as well as our friends. I hope you understand that.”

“Just leave my mum out of it, that’s all.”

“Right, well I’ll let you know when I have something for you to pass on. So, how much do I owe you for the tap?”

“There’s nothing wrong with the tap.”

“But you must charge a call-out fee? Here’s fifty quid, that should cover it.”

Alan was shocked. Fifty pounds was a lot of money, ten times more than he would ever consider charging for a call-out. However, he made no comment as he took the notes and stuffed them into his back pocket.

“Right, I’ll see you out then,” said Raymond with a smirk.

Raymond closed the front door as his visitor departed then walked through the hall and into the large reception room. He wandered over to a decanter that was standing on a silver tray in the corner and poured himself a healthy shot of malt whisky. He heaved a big sigh; that meeting had actually been a lot easier than he had anticipated. He tossed the drink off in one swallow.

That went rather well, he said to himself, pouring another drink.

Anne Mortimer smiled as she reflected on a thoroughly enjoyable day. She had been giving riding lessons to a friend’s daughter and the horses had behaved impeccably. However, the day had passed so very quickly and, all too soon, it was time to go home.

Her smile faded to a frown as she thought of going back to her husband. For the umpteenth time she wondered what on Earth had possessed her to marry him. Now, barely six months after the wedding, she realised she didn’t even like Raymond, let alone love him.

As she neared home, her frown deepened when she spotted Alan Churcher’s van emerging from her driveway. Fortunately, as the van pulled out, it turned the other way, heading away from her. She was grateful for the fact that the driver had apparently not seen her.

She parked her battered old Land Rover on the gravel drive and stormed indoors. Raymond was sitting on a sofa drinking whisky.

“What was that man doing here?” Anne demanded, slamming the doors behind her.

“What, Churcher? He was fixing a tap. What’s wrong with that?” Raymond said calmly. He placed his glass on the table in front of him and stood up to face her.

“He’s a bloody murderer, that’s what’s wrong with it for Christ’s sake!” she shouted.

“Oh, come on! That’s all in the past. He’s done his time; he deserves a break. Besides which, he’s a damn good worker.”

“Have you forgotten what he did to that poor woman? I still have nightmares thinking about her.”

“Your dad liked him.”

“My Dad liked everybody. And since when did you start worrying about rehabilitating criminals?”

“I had a job that needed doing, and I just wanted to give young Churcher a break, that’s all. No big deal.”

“Well, I do not want that vile creature stepping foot inside my house ever again. Do you understand?”

The sound of the slap was like a pistol shot.

With no warning, Raymond Mortimer struck his wife with such force that she was knocked off her feet and landed in a heap on the floor by the edge of the sofa.

Shocked, she instinctively brought her hands up to protect her bruised and rapidly swelling face. She raised her knees and curled up into a foetal position on the floor as her husband now advanced on her. She shrank back when he raised his hand as though to strike her again.

“YOUR HOUSE! YOUR f*****g HOUSE!” he roared at her. “What about OUR house? If it wasn’t for me spending a fortune bailing you out of your precious father’s debts you’d be lucky to be living in a f*****g bus shelter by now!”

“Ray, please don’t hit me!” totally stunned, she pleaded with him as he drew back his fist.

He paused, thought for a moment, dropped his hand, and stepped back.

“Go upstairs and tidy yourself up,” he snarled. “You stink of horse shit.”

He walked over to the decanter and poured himself another drink.

Anne got slowly to her feet, her hand still nursing her face. In a state of total shock, she walked out into the hallway to climb the stairs to the upper storey of the large house.

She paused as she passed a tall, glass-fronted cabinet that was securely locked and bolted to the stone wall in the hall.

Raymond was a pig, but this was the first time he had actually laid a hand on her. Her face was sore, but far worse was the humiliation that was twisting like a knot in her stomach.

Never in her life had she begged for anything. Now, with the shock slowly lifting, she felt sick as she asked herself: had she really been pleading for mercy from her own husband? Did that bastard seriously think he could get away with bullying her in her own house?

Oh no, that wasn’t going to happen. Not now, not ever.

She took a long, hard look at the three shotguns standing in their racks. A padlocked security chain was threaded through each of their trigger guards. The key to the chain was in her bedroom.

Seriously tempted, she silently opened the top drawer of the sideboard under the gun racks.

She looked down at the open box of twelve-bore cartridges sitting inside.

She had lived with guns all her life, and she had taken the lives of many creatures over the years. She realised that it would be but a matter of moments to load one of these weapons — and then the space of a heartbeat to squeeze a trigger. She could end all the misery for once and for all.

Reluctantly, she closed up the drawer and put the temptation out of sight. There was no point doing anything that would result in swapping a virtual prison for a real one, she decided. There had to be a better way.

No, she said to herself, still eyeing the guns on the wall, maybe not like this…