Excerpt from the sequel of The road of a thousand tigers (wip)

One

July 1960

Somewhere along the Thames.

 

They sat hunched, quiet, two men dressed in smart herringbone overcoats, the lapels lined with sewn in razor blades. Their trilby hats slumped forlornly on the bar like drowned rodents.

‘I feel old,’ said the man with no hair.

‘We are old,’ said the man who had grey hair.

‘I feel really old.’

‘You won’t have to do this again.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You won’t have to.’

‘I won’t.’

‘So, you said.’

The two men waited.

‘The beer pumps don’t work,’ said the man with no hair.  ‘There’s no point in looking at them.’

‘This pub looks as old as I feel,’ said the man with the grey hair.

‘They built it before the First World War.’

‘I’m not that old.’

‘The pub is for sale.  The cellar hasn’t been cleaned for weeks.  I’ve got bottles of Guinness.’

‘I saw the sign outside.  It’s still raining.’

‘I can see the rain.’

‘It’s rained for a week.’

‘I like looking at the rain,’ said the man with no hair.  ‘Richardson, jobs in the rain worry me,’

‘You won’t have to do this again, Percey,’ said Richardson.

‘I could do with being twenty years younger,’ said Percey.

‘If you find out how, Percey, let me know.  The Guiness tastes all right.  It’s not cold.  I hate cold Guiness.’

‘I have something really warm.  We’re spoilt for choice.  I’ll pour us two Jamesons.’

Percey marched around the deserted bar and blew the dust off the bottle. Some of the dust lingered on his tightly trimmed moustache.

Richardson said nothing and waited.

‘Drink your whisky first,’ said Percey.

Richardson and Percey both glanced at the clock.

‘I feel a bit different after that,’ said Richardson.

Percey waited.

‘I feel better,’ said Richardson.

Percey thumbed the padded envelope; its top corner darkened and damp. Inside it was a photograph.

‘The Guinness tastes better after that,’ said Richardson.

Percey said nothing. He took the photograph out again. Although committed to memory, he wanted to be sure.

‘It’s good the Guinness is warm,’ said Richardson.

Percey nodded.

‘I wouldn’t mind another Jameson,’ said Richardson.

‘You can have another Jameson and another Guinness,’ said Percey.

‘I wouldn’t mind.  I wouldn’t mind at all.’

‘I don’t want to drink too much Guinness before a job.’

‘Me neither.’

‘I don’t want to rush the Guiness.’

‘Me neither.’

‘We have a job to do,’ said Percey

‘So we have,’ said Richardson.  ‘You have a pub to sell.’

‘So I have. I’ll buy another premises, from the job. I have my eye on Belfast.’

‘You won’t get many looking when it’s raining.’ 

‘No one has been looking.  I’ve had a phone call from the brewery.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Richardson.

‘They’re animals, Richardson.  They come on the phone, setting deadlines.’

‘I can imagine, Percey.’

‘They’re taking the stock away tomorrow.’

‘Fuck me.’

‘All of it, Richardson.’

‘Fuck me.’

‘If we drink another Guiness, I’ll be wanting to pee.’

‘We don’t want that.’

‘I don’t like them having what’s left of the stock, Richardson.’

Percey sighed.

Richardson thought.

‘You can’t wave a gun at someone when you’ve got your legs crossed,’ said Percey.

Richardson thought.

‘It’s good for the shoulder,’ said Percey.  ‘I have pain something awful in my shoulder.’

‘The Guinness is good for the pain?’ said Richardson.

‘Not so much the Guinness.’

‘The Guinness does make you want to pee, Percey.’

‘The Jameson whisky is good for the pain.’

‘I can see that, Percey.’

‘We can have another whisky, Richardson.’

‘I don’t see why not, Percey.’

‘It’s still raining, Richardson.’

 ‘You like looking at the rain.’

‘I don’t dislike it, Richardson.’

The old bakelite phone trilled from its wood mounting. Richardson and Percey held their breath. It repeated its jarring chimes four more times in slow succession.

‘It’s time, Percey.’

‘Already?’

‘Already, Percey. The target left Cambridge ten minutes ago.’

‘I’m not looking forward to this.’

‘You need the money, Percey.’

‘I’m glad of the favour, Richardson. We won’t be doing this again.’

‘We’re too old, Percey.’

‘Richardson, one more whiskey.  Here’s to us.’

 ‘Here’s to the target.’

‘To his good health’.