Picture You Dead

43

Thursday, 24 October

It was sunny at 9.30 a.m, as Archie Goff walked, less jauntily than he might ordinarily, out through the ancient dark red prison gates between the portcullis-like twin flint towers, and into freedom. Well, a kind of freedom anyway. He’d been informed that the conditions of his bail were that he signed on at Brighton police station three times a week between the hours of 10 a.m. and 1 p.m., and he was not to seek any form of international travel document. Yeah, like he was about to jump on a jet and large it in Jamaica, he thought.

Well clear of the prison’s grim Victorian walls, he stopped and stood still, in his baggy jeans, Seagulls sweatshirt, lightweight bomber jacket and trainers. He rummaged in the carrier bag containing the meagre possessions he’d had with him when he’d been fished out of the swimming pool of the Frys’ country mansion one long month ago. He strapped on his Seiko watch, the St Christopher’s necklace Isabella had given him, which he slipped over his neck, and the copper bracelet for his arthritis. Next he retrieved his wallet containing his driving licence, Co-op credit card and £35 in cash, all of which had survived his immersion thanks to them being in a zipped plastic pouch.

Looking around warily at the line of parked cars and the handful of people who looked like they were waiting for other prisoners being released today, and with his well-honed skill, he single-handedly rolled himself a cigarette and lit it, inhaling gratefully. It tasted sweet and good. He’d been able to get a few inside but not many. At least he could now enjoy a smoke without fear of being caught and having privileges taken, having started the habit again while on remand.

There didn’t appear to be anyone waiting for him. Isabella had told him last night that much though she would have loved to have met him, she had a meeting in Cambridge today, but was preparing a special welcome-home meal of his favourite food. Something to look forward to, but he looked forward even more to holding her in his arms. He shrugged. Fine, it was a sunny morning, he’d enjoy the walk through Lewes, catch a train the short distance to Brighton, and then bus home.

But just as he set off down the long, sloping driveway, past the line of parked cars, an elderly, large maroon Jaguar saloon, badly in need of a respray, drove in and flashed its twin headlights at him, then pulled up a short distance ahead.

As he walked up to the car, frowning, wondering if this was the guardian angel who’d stumped up the bail security, he immediately recognized the man behind the wheel. The mop of grey, curly hair, the bulbous, drinker’s nose, the ruddy, veined face, wearing an open-neck checked shirt and a paisley cravat. Leaning across the passenger seat, Ricky Sharp pushed open the door.

Archie lowered himself in and down onto the worn leather seat, placing his carrier bag between his knees, pulled the door shut and fumbled with his seat belt, finally clicking it home. The interior of the car smelled musty, as if it had been parked in a dank garage or barn for years. Part of the dashboard wood veneer was peeling away, and the panel of the passenger door had come unstuck, as had some of the roof lining.

‘This is a surprise to see you, Ricky,’ he said. ‘I was expecting a limo.’

‘Yeah? Well this is a long-wheelbase – prefer to sit in the back?’

‘Nah, I’m fine.’

Ricky Sharp looked even older and more flaccid and booze-sodden close up than he remembered. ‘Good to see you too, matey boy. They upgrade you to a nice room in there? A suite, with a sea view and Jacuzzi? Stamp your loyalty card? They oughta look after their regular guests properly, right – know what I’m saying?’

‘Yeah, well they could start by putting a seat on the toilets. Make it a nicer dining experience. How you doing?’

‘All right, I’ve gone legit – used cars now.’

Archie eyed the tatty interior of the Jaguar. ‘Good luck with that one.’

Sharp began turning the car round, spinning the thin steering wheel with meaty, liver-spotted hands, his fingers bedecked with large rings. ‘Like her? Could do you a good price – you know, mates’ rates?’

‘Fuck off. This shitbox?’

‘It’s a classic.’

‘Right. So what’s going on, Ricky? Was it you put up the money for my release?’

Sharp shook his head. ‘No disrespect, Archie, but if I had that type of money I’d never bet it on you. I’m just the messenger, right?’

‘Messenger for who?’

They were heading downhill, towards the large roundabout that would take them onto the A27. Archie could feel the vibrations of wheel-wobble, and hear the creak of a worn bearing and an ominous rumble from the transmission as they made the turn.

‘Not enough sawdust in the diff, Ricky?’

‘Funny.’ They passed the Amex Stadium on their left and the campus of Sussex University on their right. Every few moments the gear shift popped out of drive into neutral and Sharp shoved it back brutally. ‘I’ll let him do the introductions and explaining, Archie – as I said, I’m just the messenger.’

‘Let who?’ Archie could smell burning oil. ‘This shitbox actually going to get us anywhere?’

‘Hey, pal, ever heard of gratitude?’ Ricky Sharp said, looking hurt. ‘Know what the old ads for big Jaguars used to say? Grace, Space and Pace.’

‘And your point is?’

‘You’re in a piece of motoring history – you philistine! Enjoy the ride and maybe say thanks.’

‘I’ll say thanks when I know what’s going on and decide if I like it.’

‘You’ll like it. That I have no doubt about.’

Archie gave him a sideways look. ‘And I’ll tell you what I have no doubt about. Want to hear it?’

‘Go for it.’

‘That whoever put up my bail has given you a big bung. And you’re going to walk away with a wallet full of cash and I’m going to be left negotiating with the Devil.’

‘Maybe, Archie, but just remember, dunno who said it, but sometimes, the Devil is a gentleman.’