Louis crumpled the paper. The ink was smudged from the number of times he checked the address. He memorised the block letters from the moment he received the note, but found checking the scrap reassuring. By his calculations, it would take him fifteen minutes to walk to the depot. He had to time it perfectly: too early would make him seem eager; too late, and they would think he was disrespectful.
The sound of the telephone made him jump. The call was right on schedule.
"Do you have the address?"
He nodded, and then realised that he had to speak. "Yes."
"Wear quiet shoes."
The line went dead. Louis favoured loafers as a rule, but he tested the noise of his calfskins by stomping until Mrs Henderson thumped her ceiling. Right then. He could be stealthy. He just had to keep his wits about him.
He felt for his pocket watch and checked the face against the mantel clock. It was the waiting that got to him. The impatient streak he inherited from his father made him favour action over inaction.
It was a crisp night; he decided to walk to keep himself occupied. He tested the loafers on the stairs. Mrs Henderson put her head out of the door.
"What was that about? You woke up the baby, you oaf."
"Sorry Mrs Henderson."
"When are you coming back? I hope you don't plan on doing the Polka again later."
"No, Mrs Henderson."
He watched the ash from her cigarette flutter down to her bosom.
"Next time I'll call the police." She slammed the door and shouted to silence her wailing child.
Four minutes. He'd wasted four minutes leaving his flat and talking to Mrs Henderson. If he kept this up, he might be able to speed up time.
The noises of the night leapt at him as he sauntered down the street. The Zippo pressed against his thigh as he moved. He retrieved it and began flicking the the lighter into flame. After a while it spluttered sparks. He returned the warm rectangle to his trouser pocket. A hand reached out of the darkness and clamped on his bicep. Another smothered his mouth with a rag. Everything went black.
The icy shock of water snapped Louis awake. A single bulb swayed above his head, like a seductive dancer. He squinted at the shoes at the edge of the circle of light.
"He's awake. Get Garrick."
Louis tried to sit up but found he was trussed to the chair, and his swallowing was hampered by a gag. He could not wipe the water out of his eyes, so he resorted to shaking his head. He looked in the direction of creaking hinges and saw the outline of two men. Another chair materialised in front of him.
The shorter man handed his coat and trilby to the other and sat down. "Hello, Louis."
Had he been able to, Louis would have bellowed. It was not a man opposite him.
"I apologise for the change in plan. You were being followed. Kind Mrs Henderson works for Harley Westwood from the east side." She chuckled. "What a time to be alive, where neighbours rat on neighbours. Mind you, I can't be too harsh on her. That's how we get most of our information."
She pulled a cigarette holder from her pocket and leant into the lighter of her companion. As she exhaled, Louis thought the smoke was proof that this was all a dream. It had to be. The fearsome Jay Garrick he'd been working for couldn't be a woman.
"The Jay stands for Jessica, by the way. I would prefer if you kept that to yourself." She rolled the cigarette between her fingers. "Let's talk business. My sources tell me you're discreet. I like that in a man. That, and good hair." She brought her face close to his. "If I take this off, I'm going to trust you not to scream."
Louis nodded.
She tugged at the gag. He spluttered and wheezed. Jessica returned to her chair and nodded at her companion. He stepped forward with a knife and Louis flinched when he heard a rip behind him. He rubbed his wrists when he realised Jessica did not mean to kill him yet.
"My associates inform me that you have a talent. Tell me more about that."
Louis swallowed. Now he understood what the meeting was about. "I was trained during the war."
"I heard you're the best."
He shrugged.
"I don't approve of modesty. Are you the best or not?"
"I am." He tugged at his cuffs and noticed the cufflinks were missing. The Zippo was also no longer in his pocket. They must have searched him.
"Don't worry. You'll get those back."
"How did you find me?"
"I pride myself on being resourceful. If there's someone with your skills, I like to know about it." She crossed her legs. "Until now you've done small jobs for me. How would you feel about setting your sights on something bigger?"
"What did you have in mind?"
"Stanley Pilkington. I take it you've heard of him? The head of the that pathetic gang of bicycle thieves and racketeers who terrorise the neighbourhoods on the south bank. He's been a thorn in my side for long enough."
Louis swallowed.
"You will be rewarded on completion." Her companion placed an open Gladstone bag on the floor between them. "Handsomely, though I say so myself."
"If I agree to do this, and that's a big if, then I will have to disappear for a while afterwards."
"My summer house in France is open."
"I can't... I can't go back to France."
"Sorry. I forgot about Verdun." She shifted in her seat. "I'll think of something."
"I have family in Scotland."
"Good idea. No one will think to look for you there." She stubbed her cigarette on her heel. "Does that mean you're in?"
He sighed. "When do you want it done?"
The door to the Stanford Arms swung outwards, as if pushed open by the collective force of unwashed bodies, laughter and beer breath. Louis slipped inside and took the position of propping up the bar.
"Wha'll it be?"
"A pint. And don't give me a big head. The foam gets in my nose." He tried to ignore the fact that the barman was using his greasy apron to wipe his glass. He paid for his drink, taking care not to tip too much: Louis knew better than to draw attention to himself. There was an elbow in his ribs as the barmaid scrambled for a spot to put her tray. Her face was flushed, and her hair looked like shoelaces.
"Sorry, guv. It's busy ternight. Oy, Charlie! Where's me order?"
Louis turned his back on the bar. Pilkington was holding court in the corner below the mirrors. There was a feather boa around his neck and he was laughing into the ear of his companion. If she kept bouncing on his knee, then Louis might not get the chance to finish his mission.
A pianist stepped up the the platform amid cheers and slurred requests for the next song. Pilkington stood and gestured. His men raised their glasses and his companion picked herself up off the floor. She wasn't smiling. Louis watched Pilkington tug at his belt and smooth his moustache, which was code for a trip to the gents. He abandoned his pint on the bar and tracked Pilkington.
Two of the five urinals were occupied. Pilkington had the bladder of a camel. He had planted a palm on the wall and was crooning while he relieved himself. Louis took the urinal opposite the door. When the other men left, he locked the door behind them. Pilkington shook his leg and bounced on the balls of his feet as he buttoned up his trousers. Louis knew he'd have to make it quick.
His fists landed on Pilkington's kidneys, causing him to buck. Louis hit the base of his skull and watched him crumple forward into the urinal, catching his brow on the porcelain. The contrast of his blood on the mustard walls made Louis's bile rise. He turned Pilkington over and ripped open his shirt. Taking a deep breath, Louis began to work.
Voices approached the door and retreated. There was laughter. The sweat stung his eyes and dripped off his nose. He wiped the blade on Pilkington's jacket and washed his hands. There was pounding at the door. He scrambled out of the window just as the barman burst in.
"Jaysus, Mary 'n Joseph."
Jessica was waiting at the meeting point. Her companion had the Gladstone bag Louis had seen before.
"It's done?"
He nodded, and took the bag.
"Where did you learn to do that?"
"I told you. In the war."
"My man in the police says the only way they knew he'd been cut was when they tried to move the body and his intestines fell out. They thought the blood was from where he hit his head." Jessica placed her hand on his arm. "I shudder to think what the war did to you."
Louis nodded. He touched his fingers to his brow and walked to the platform where he would meet the train to Glasgow. When he looked back, Jessica was gone. He began to shake and black spots danced in front of his eyes. For a moment, he was back at Verdun, crawling between corpses, his hands sticky with blood and gastric juices. In the dark, all the men looked like his enemy. He jumped as the train hooted into the station. Scotland was calling. He had a sackful of money. Perhaps he could lay the ghosts to rest, this time.
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