Espionage: A Jigsaw in 500 Pieces [part four]

by Peter Wild

[ 1-10 ] [ 11-22 ] [ 23-30 ]


[ 31 ]
Ed Bamyasi, meanwhile, was inside the Easy Everything. He hated this place but it was convenient. There was a PC back at the flat but Syd, Ed's housemate, kept it in his room. Ed could use it and everything but it wasn't strictly speaking his. He had to ask permission, which was always a bit of an arse. Syd, he'd say in a sort of wheedly voice. Can I use your computer? For some reason, whenever he asked to use Syd's computer, he found the need to adopt a mockney accent. Computer became com-pyoo-tah. At least at the Easy Everything he didn't have to ask permission. It's just. The place was always full of idiots and perverts. And, for some reason, the place stank of piss. You go in, buy a ticket and make your way upstairs in order to find an empty terminal and - just as you start to have a bit of a skeg about, there it is - the rank odour of piss. Ed Bamyasi figured tramps probably dossed here at night until the place closed up. Tramps like that weird bloke who looked like Hal Ashby. Ed chuckled to himself as he clomped up the stairs. He was up on the mezzanine, already looking about for a free com-pyoo-tah when the Daniel Johnston tune was replaced by a Fall song, Ya Wanner. A crunchy bastard of a riff accompanied his clomping walk up the stairs and, as Mark E Smith's vocal kicked in, he saw the girl.


[ 32 ]
Across town, John Cassavettes is standing outside Affleck's Palace, beneath a brightly patterned mosaic of the aforementioned Mark E Smith. He looks out of place. He is wearing a suit. A sharp suit, if we're being honest with ourselves, which we are. John Cassavettes has money. You can tell. He has that quiet, composed inner strength that money affords certain people. You wouldn't fuck with John Cassavettes. But, for that that, he looks out of place. He isn't comfortable outside of Affleck's Palace. It's the kids, mainly. There are all these skater kids and goth kids and whatever the hell else kids, making their way in and out of Affleck's Palace in order to buy or dismissively examine the cool shit therein. John Cassavettes checks his watch. He doesn't like to stand in one place for too long. Plus he's a target. Well. He thinks he's a target. The shit he's involved with, he must be a target. This is what he thinks. So he tries to keep moving. If you're a target, standing still just affords a better view. He'd hate to admit it but, standing still like this, in one place. It makes him nervous. He shifts from one foot to another. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. His contact was late. In this game, you didn't oughta keep people waiting. He looked at his watch again. He'd wait maybe one more minute and that was that.



[ 33 ]
Did I say that the next time you saw Hal Ashby, he'd be dead? The pieces must have become jumbled in your hand. He's not dead. Not quite yet. He has a meeting. Having killed maybe ten minutes ambling round St Anne's Square (indiscriminately bored by the shoe shops and the electronics and the banks and the church and the McDonalds and the Waterstones and all the rest of it), he took a turn about the surrounding streets, ostensibly in order to fill a sturdy brown paper bag (which he removed from inside his coat) with any bit of junk that came to hand (anything to create the semblance of a bag, anything to generate weight and heft). The dismissive rain was easing off as he returned to St Anne's Square. A burglar wind prevailed. They were set to meet by the fountain. If you could call it a fountain. A gigantic rose bud the size of Karl Marx's head sat on a marble plinth which issued dribbles of water that collected in a polite pool below. Hal Ashby sat askance on the low marble wall, fingers in the water, daydreaming, knowing full well that they would find him when they wanted him. And find him they did. A cloud passed overhead. Only it wasn't a cloud. It was a shadow. Or rather, a pair of shadows. Meet Heplock and Stent. Considered by some to be no more than heavies. Considered by those in the know to be among the heavyweight category of heavies. Hal Ashby looks up.



[ 34 ]
The girl. She stopped him in his tracks. There he was, midway between the mezzanine and the first floor, when he glimpsed her, sitting on the sill by the window overlooking St Anne's Square. And he was stopped. He was floored. Damn, but she was fine. Even with her face turned away - because she was, after all, looking out the window. His mouth was suddenly dry. He tried to swallow but couldn't. Leastways until his brain formed the word SWALLOW and then it was as if he was granted permission on a temporary basis. His brain may as well have been on strike for all the use it was. The girl - for reasons that he failed to comprehend - was beyond description. She was the blank page in Tristram Shandy. But then she also had something of Kim Wilde about her, the young Kim Wilde, the Kim Wilde from the Kids in America video. And Ed Bamyasi knew something else. She was dangerous. He could see that. She had a thing, the way she was outlined in the window, struck him like cordite burning. Ed Bamyasi started to move and someone - maybe his brain, maybe some other organ - struck up the band. A voice inside was asking, hey? what are you doing? But he didn't know. He moved one foot and then another, bypassed all of the computers and all of the habitual tramps and habitual perverts and habitual students and habituals losers until he was stood maybe a stride away from her (and still, that voice inside, Ed? Ed Bamyasi? What? Are? You? Doing?). A part of Ed Bamyasi was on full alert.



[ 35 ]
You are the future, Hal Ashby says. The red sky before sunrise over the fields of time. Heplock yuks. He nudges Stent and yuks. Yuk-yuk. Stent does not yuk. Stent speaks and the only part of his face that moves is his mouth. You are the cock's crow when night is done, Stent says. You are the dew and the bells of matins. Hal Ashby registers the mistake: the man said matt-ins not matt-ahns. Heplock and Stent plant themselves each side of our man Hal Ashby. Heplock moved to the right and Stent moved to the left. Hal Ashby placed the brown paper bag filled with stones on the floor between his feet. Then he removed his spectacles, took a small brown handkerchief from his trouser pocket - he had to straighten his back in order to get his thumb and index finger into the pocket, which led to Heplock placing a warning hand upon Hal Ashby's shoulder - and took to gently cleaning each lens. Neither Heplock or Stent spoke throughout the duration of the lens-cleaning process. There was no hurry. Spectacles clean, Hal Ashby returned them to his face and clasped his hands. You gentleman like to tell me what happened to the man I was supposed to meet today? Hal Ashby said. Heplock yukked some more. Stent said, Oh. He said Oh, and placed a hand upon Hal Ashby's back. I don't think we need concern ourselves with that, do you?



[ 36 ]
At which point, you pick up a piece of jigsaw you chanced across earlier on. You take up a piece, all you see - in front of you and in your mind - is a mouth. All you can see are two thin lips. You squint a little. At first you wonder if the lips are wearing black lipstick, but no. The mouth is a man's mouth. You see two thin black lips cutting a brutal swatch across an older man's face. These could be Edward G Robinson's lips. The cancroid mouth, you think. That phrase pops into your head. You don't really know what a crab's mouth looks like but for all that the word seems apposite. The guy has a cancroid mouth. And then you notice the black handset resting against the guy's cheek. We can't see a full face or anything. We are just looking at the mouth. And the phone. Do you think it's maybe a mobile phone? No. I don't know either, if I'm being honest. Which we are. Either way. It's a telephone. He isn't speaking yet. That could be because he's listening. That's possible. Or maybe he's waiting for someone to pick up. Sssssh. Just sssssssh a minute. Let's see what we can hear. Can you hear a voice? Can you hear a dial tone? Can we hear the ringing? No. Me neither. Can't hear a damn thing. Put that piece to one side. We'll come back to it.



[ 37 ]
Ed Bamyasi was maybe six paces away from her when he stopped. Here he was, in the middle of a busy Easy Everything, with people sat in rows either side of him tap tap tapping away at computer keyboards, checking their emails and all of that, and here he was, staring at a girl. Staring at a girl like some kind of addled village idiot. The girl was staring out the window. She didn't see him staring, which was good. Man, she was pretty. You could probably pass her and think she was just another pretty indie girl but. Ed could see she was more than pretty. Her skin was good and her clothes were good and she was slim and sort of sassy, the way she had her boots up against the wall opposite her. The hair on the side of her head facing Ed was looped behind her ear. He liked that. She had a small stud in the bottom of her ear. And, he now noticed, a smaller stud in her nose. What was she staring at? Ed wanted to peer over her shoulder, wanted to move closer, so close he could smell her. He wanted to know what she smelled like. He – he – he – he. He was running away with himself. So. He took a deep breath. Braced himself. Took the prerequisite six paces. And he cleared his throat. The girl turned her head, and full bestowed her beauty upon him.



[ 38 ]
She was undercover. The girl. They were trying her out. All she had to do was watch the old guy. Her contact said, look out for a guy looks like Hal Ashby. She'd said, Hal Who? So they gave her a photograph. Hal Ashby in Rome. Hal Ashby in Lisbon. Hal Ashby in handcuffs. Hal Ashby behind bars with a numbered card on a string around his neck. She memorised his face. She was good with faces, the girl. Had what some people call a photographic memory. But it wasn't just a photographic memory that recommended her. The girl was a good judge too. She knew what people wanted before they even opened their mouths. She had a mind like a chess player, was always a hundred and forty four moves ahead. Plus she was adaptable. She scored highest in her class. And that included the marks she lost for lacking humanity. Lacking humanity. A version of herself that existed only in her head rolled her eyes. So. She was watching Hal Ashby. He'd entered St Anne's Square about five minutes after she did, made his way to the fountain and sat. Punctual as all Hell, Heplock and Stent showed up precisely on time. The three of them were now sitting, shooting the shit. And then someone coughed, right by her shoulder. She turned, registered lanky streak of piss and said, What? as petulantly as she could manage at short notice. And then the phone rang.



[ 39 ]
She held up her finger to the guy – whatever it was he wanted could wait – and fished her mobile out of the bag by her foot. The cancroid mouth spoke in her ear. What is going on? The girl knew but took another look. Heplock was laughing. The big dumb -. H & S in position, she said, looking at the guy once more. He caught her look – it was a look that said hello? phone call? – and backed the fuck off, took an empty seat by an unused terminal and started fidgeting with his fucking iPOD headphones. Yes? The cancroid mouth wanted further detail. The subject arrived early, she continued. H & S arrived on time. All three are currently – she looked out of the window again – sitting on the low wall by the fountain, as agreed. The cancroid mouth made a sort of huffy sigh. And suh package? She'd made a point of noting the package when Hal Ashby sat. He has a brown paper bag tucked behind his shoes. The cancroid mouth said something the girl didn't catch. She thought maybe he'd covered the mouthpiece of his phone somehow in order to address someone else. Still, she had to ask: What? The amplification changed. Am I on loudspeaker? The cancroid voice ignored her. Describe suh brown paper package. Quickly.



[ 40 ]
John C Reilly is late. I say John C Reilly. He doesn't really look like John C Reilly. I'm talking about John C Reilly, character actor, relatively famous as a result of roles in movies as diverse as Magnolia, Chicago, The Hours, Dark Water, The Aviator and Boogie Nights. Our John C Reilly, the guy we're looking at as he hurries through the streets of Manchester, England – he doesn't really look like John C Reilly, as I said. He has what you might call a passing resemblance to John C Reilly. But we can't call him the man with a passing resemblance to the actor John C Reilly. And we can't call him by his name because he no longer has one. If you were to attempt to chart his career or map his professional progress, you'd find that – more often than not – he is for the most part referred to using numbers. Often long strings of numbers. Some people – jealous people given to loitering in the lower echelons of the intelligence community – sometimes call him the number guy. They call him the number guy through gritted teeth. I hate that number guy, they say. Reason being, John C Reilly is one of those number-crunching types. He deals with operational budgeting. Likes to reduce head counts. But he hates his job. He's hated his job for years, nigh on a decade. That's why he's here, the man we'll refer to as John C Reilly, late for a meeting with another John: John Cassavettes.



[ 41 ]
You find another stray piece of jigsaw puzzle. An overweight man has taken to his bed. Doctor's orders. He's sick. He's sick and he's wearing the kind of pyjamas favoured by Oliver Hardy back in the day, the kind of pyjamas that always seemed to get wet somehow. But the overweight man in his bed, his pyjamas are not wet. Incense is burning. The guy is just plain not well. And it's a shame. Because, of everyone, this is the guy who knows what the fuck is going on. People in the know they refer to Dag – Dag is the name of the overweight guy in the bed wearing the Oliver Hardy PJs – people in the know refer to Dag as The Good Helper. The Good Helper knows a lot. The Good Helper knows it all. He isn't big headed about it either. It's just what he does. He knows. He helps. But not today. Today he has a stinking head cold and a fever and he is in bed. He knows he should try and get some shut-eye but. The problem with knowing everything is you know how bad things can get in a relatively short period of time. You know you can't take your eye off the ball, not even for a second. And so there's a little struggle going on in Oliver Hardy's pyjamas. Part of him wants to climb out of bed, make some phone calls, check some emails. But it's beyond him. The Good Helper is in a bad way.



[ 42 ]
Ed Bamyasi doesn't quite know what to do for the best. I say that. He knows that the best thing to do – the right thing to do – is leave. After all. Even Ed Bamyasi knows that the initial meeting could have gone better. To say he fluffed it, gulping like a giddy goldfish while she held her finger up in the air at him, was perhaps the understatement of the decade. But. At the same time. All things considered. Her phone did ring the instant that he made himself known to her. And – now that he actually thought about it – she did look like she was waiting on a call. If she was in the middle of something… Ed Bamyasi wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. As long as doubt or hope existed – as long as Ed Bamyasi could convince himself that maybe just maybe this was the beginning of a beautiful love affair – he figured he'd loiter. So: he took the headphones out of his ears, wrapped the wire about the iPOD and stowed the little machine away in his pocket. Then: he crossed his legs, sat sideways on the seat and stared thoughtfully at his fingers. He did this because he wanted her to know that he was waiting to speak with her. She glanced up at him once as she talked – saying something about a brown paper bag that looked like the kind of thing you'd expect to see an American wino hiding his bottle in – but her eyes gave nothing away.



[ 43 ]
Hal Ashby sucked his bottom lip and nodded, softly. He made a sound in the back of his throat - not quite a cough and not quite a clearing - and asked, What then would you like us to concern ourselves with? Stent flicked the tip of his shoe toward Hal Ashby, jerked his chin ever so slightly, indicating the paper bag between Hal Ashby's feet. Hal Ashby nodded again, absent-mindedly, and ran his fingers through his beard. You want the package? he said, knowing he was stating the obvious, hoping to create a window of opportunity, hoping indeed to create a window large enough to climb out of, hoping the window would lead to a tiny city, a tiny city that would afford him a hiding place. Neither Heplock nor Stent reacted to the question. Hal Ashby looked at the world between his feet, listened to the shuffle and shiver of people passing by. It was a dead end. He was in a dead end. His only option was to run but running wasn't an option. Not really. These guys had thirty years on him. Plus. One of them, Heplock or Stent, had a hand on his back, was resting a warm palm flat against his back. Make a move, the hand informed him. Make a move and see what happens. Hal Ashby sighed softly. He thought about a girl he once knew, a girl he'd loved and lost.



[ 44 ]
The cancroid mouth was interrupted. Vayt, it said, ending the call. The girl rested her thumb on the phone, rested the phone in her lap, looked back out the window. Ed Bamyasi stood, moved closer, coughed again. She turned her head toward him, ever so slightly, but she didn't smile. The girl didn't give him anything. She didn't even speak. Ed Bamyasi said, Hey. Hey. The lips of her beautiful mouth grew thin. She wasn't a Hey kind of girl. He could see that now. You lived and you learned. Do you fancy getting a coffee or something? This was his line. He knew it was a bit feeble. But the girl responded in some unfathomable way. Her eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, her chin rose. I'm just in the middle of something, she said. But if you want to bring coffee up here…? The girl trailed off. Ed Bamyasi was grinning like a fool, and knew it. So tried to stop. But couldn't. How do you have it? The girl shrugged as her phone started to chirrup again. How it comes, she said. Ed Bamyasi thought: how it comes? He had no idea what that meant. But then you didn't look a gift horse in the mouth. He'd made an offer and she had, in her own way, accepted. Bowing and smiling like some kind of idiot, Ed Bamyasi backed away from the girl toward the stairs. She watched him with her cool and level stare as she placed the phone against her ear. That got rid of him, she thought.



[ 45 ]
The whole of the ground floor of the Easy Everything was given over to the kind of coffeehouse you see on virtually every high street these days. They had flavoured coffees and pretentious coffees and the driest biscuits known to mankind and world music and all the rest of it. Ed Bamyasi hated pretentious coffee and pretentious coffee houses and pretentious coffee house music and pretentious coffee house staff – who were, by and large, far worse than the kinds of people who found themselves drawn to working in ultra fashionable clothes shops – and he hated the pretentious coffee house air and the pretentious coffee house seating and the pretentious goatee-bearded coffee house people reading their pretentious coffee house books and magazines. Normally, at least. Normally these kinds of places made Ed Bamyasi froth. But not today. Not. Today. Today Ed Bamyasi was happy. More than happy. Happy wasn't a good enough word. Ed Bamyasi was over the fucking moon. The girl of his dreams had agreed to take a single step in his company. Who could say what would follow? Who knew what joys and terrors were in store? Ed's turn came. He ordered two filter coffees. And then he slipped his hand into his pocket for his wallet. And then he patted his other pockets. And then he swore. Shit. His wallet was gone.



[ 46 ]
Heplock said, Stent and Stent said yeah, Heplock, yeah. I know. I know. The hand upon Hal Ashby's back patted once, twice, three times. We just need to dot a few i's and cross a few t's first. Hal Ashby sat up and drew his face close and level with Stent, the brains of the operation. You can ask what you like, Hal Ashby said. You won't get anything from me. I was doing this when you were barely out of short pants, tough guy. There's nothing you can do and nothing you can say that will make me spill. Okay? So you can give up on your eyes and your tees. You can give up on anything but the task in hand. You know what the task in hand is, don't you? Stent's eyes glittered like the Min-Min. Oh I know, he said. I know. You don't have to worry about that. Heplock yukked some more. Yuk yuk yuk yuk. Hal Ashby closed his eyes. A whole lifetime to wind up here: a fountain in St Anne's Square in Manchester in England in the year 2006. Stent reached a chubby paw inside his coat pocket and slipped an arm about Hal Ashby's shoulders, drawing him close. As if they were buddies or something. They were so close, Hal could smell Stent's cheap aftershave, could smell hours in the gym, could smell pain and exhilaration. Meanwhile, Heplock.



[ 47 ]
John Cassavettes was all for quitting Affleck's Palace when he saw John C Reilly, the man with the passing resemblance to John C Reilly, the character actor, puffing and panting in the distance. The fat fuck could really do with losing a little weight. Look at him. The fat fuck. Fucking number crunching fuck. John Cassavettes made sure to catch John C Reilly's eye and then he set off at a fair clip. For keeping him waiting, the fat fuck could jog a little harder. Catch up with him. JC headed up toward Tibb Street. Sorry, gasped John C Reilly when the two men drew close with one another. Sorry. John Cassavettes raised a hand, didn't look John C Reilly in the face, waved the hand instead. Said: So talk. John C Reilly was nervous. The red-faced fuck. I've never done anything like this before, he said. John Cassavettes exhaled dismissively through his nose. I don't care, he said. All I want to know is: is it done? John C Reilly was really out of breath. The man was out of shape. Seriously. He was half jogging and half running in order to keep up. I've forgotten my watch, he said. I left it back at the office. What time is it? John Cassavettes stopped and turned to face John C Reilly. You say you've never done this before? He was contemptuous. All but spat the time out. John C Reilly smiled. It's done, he said. It's done.



[ 48 ]
Meanwhile, Heplock removed an oddly shaped tool from his pocket. Half glimpsed, it could have been a screwdriver of some kind. The handle was definitely screwdriver-esque. But the tool itself. That was more of a spike. Heplock withdrew a tool that was more or less a spike on a screwdriver handle. He looked once or twice round and about, made sure no-one was watching and then he drove the point home, into the side of Hal Ashby's chest. Stent held Hal Ashby close in order to muffle the sudden sighs. Heplock paused – for a second, no longer – fascinated in a crude way by the fact that Stent's hand almost covered the back of Hal Ashby's head, and then he drove the point home six times more in rapid succession. Then he wiped the spike on the hem of Hal Ashby's jacket and stood. Heplock stood, obscuring Hal Ashby while Stent withdrew the brown paper bag from beneath Hal Ashby's feet. Jaysus, Stent said, registering the weight of the bag. He had to readjust, holding the bag like a punch-drunk opponent while he sorted himself. He didn't want the fucking thing to split. Hal Ashby wasn't dead yet. Not quite yet. He had valuable, precious seconds left in which to watch Heplock and Stent recede. And so he took a breath, a painful breath, a breath that whistled through a hot mouthful of blood.



[ 49 ]
Talk, the cancroid mouth whispered in her ear. Tell me. The girl cleared her throat, watching Heplock and Stent go through the motions in the Square below her. It's done, she said in her sweetest voice. She really did have one Hell of a sweet voice. The cancroid mouth broke into a smile. Heplock and Stent were standing, disappearing. The old guy – Hal Ashby? Whoever the fuck that was – chose that moment to fall back into the water, was getting busy floating face up in the fountain. The cancroid mouth was definitely smiling. The girl didn't know how she knew this but she knew this. The cancroid mouth was smiling a crabby smile. Good, the voice mumbled in her ear. Now. Get out of there. You've done well. She smiled. Praise was praise. You had to take it where you found it. She stood, dropped her phone carelessly into her bag and looked up – to find an empty-handed Ed Bamyasi glumly blocking her path. Thinking on her feet, she said: Where's my coffee? Ed Bamyasi shook his head. Someone stole my wallet. I think someone stole my wallet. Or I left it on the bus. I don't know. But we could still… The girl folded her pretty arms over her chest. We could still what? She counted to ten in her head, enjoying herself. Spend my money? I don't think so. The girl made to move by Ed Bamyasi. You had your chance, she said. And you blew it.


© Peter Wild 2006

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Peter Wild is the co-founder of Bookmunch. He is the editor of a forthcoming series of books for Serpent's Tail, the first two of which - Perverted by Language: Fiction inspired by The Fall and The Empty Page: Fiction inspired by Sonic Youth - will be published in 2007. His writing and fiction have appeared in various outlets including Scarecrow, NOO Journal, Word Riot, Laura Hird, Nude Magazine, Thieves Jargon, Dreams That Money Can Buy and Eyeballkid.