Smith 3: Smith, #3

By Timothy London

One last explosion. One last outrage.

 

Smith is getting too old for this business. Which business? The murder, kidnap, torture, blow up business. The rocking the world on its axis, to shake some sense into it, business.

 

With just enough energy for a grand finale, he will need help. Most of the old crew are dead, but his apprentice, the schoolboy assassin Toby who is now accepted into the organization run by his former employers, he's still secretly loyal. And the poet who has a world of voices in his head is still in love with the ideas Smith presents. Both, like so many who meet him are also a little bit in love with the man himself.

 

Then there are the happy coincidences that always seem to happen around Smith. Just at the point when he is searching for the most suitable targets for his righteous anger a dying politician and a guilty, washed up journalist send him a list that includes a raping patriarch of a criminal family. A corrupt and hateful newspaper editor. A child-murdering businessman. Smith uses them as the introduction, to the big show.

 

And after the ear-splitting, sky-shattering climax: the come down. The sordid back stage shenanigans. More mess for the cleaners. Only once these are over and the last dregs of chaos have been rinsed from the night will he sleep.

 

Until then…? Well, as Smith likes to say, keep love in your heart and a gun in your pocket.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Timothy London
• Release date: Nov 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781919654768

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Further information

www.timothylondon.com

Here you will find links to an original musical soundtrack, images and contact information.

All rights reserved. 2022.

PUBLISHED BY SOULPUNK

ISBN 9781-91965-4768

Don’t get angry.

Write a book.

Then get angry.

CHAPTER ONE

1

Injun! Paleface! Reduced to the basics, Stephen Smith finds himself identifying with the injuns but everyone else sees him as a paleface. What can he do? Buy the suit.

The suit suits him. He can’t see it. He looks in the mirror and he sees the mushy grey of all the eyes of all the people he has killed and hurt. It’s been a bit of an abattoir, his grown up life so far, but at least they don’t tend to suffer at his hands. No, he’s had others to cause the suffering. Like whispering, nodding Allsorts, the brute in a cardigan who knew the nervous system like a doctor, like a neural surgeon, except he was a taxi driver, originally. Imagine, getting in a taxi and it’s Bassett, Allsorts, his trusty torturer, asking, where to guv? How about… take me to a nirvana of pain, make my eyes glaze and look far away, bring droplets of sweat to my forehead, make me clench every muscle, taut, elastic bands of pain… make me talk, scream, talk. Make me tell you everything, even things I didn’t know myself. Where did that come from? How did you dig that notion from so deep in my soul? With pain, guv. On the corner alright, guv? Thanks very much. D’you want a receipt?

Poor old Allsorts, bouncing down the cliff, lifeless bag of flesh and blood, sacrificed in the pointless game played by his employers, the beloved brothers. Sometimes he misses Bassett, for different reasons; sometimes because he would be useful. Sometimes because there was an understanding of sorts between them and there really is no one else to confess to, even if the confession amounted to a sigh or a raised eyebrow, or a give away tremble in the outer reaches of a limb. Bassett never trembled. He was sure. As sure as a window cleaner is of his windows. And Smith enabled the process, with his interpretations, of language, of gesture, of tic, of look, of scream and groan, posture and poise. All that information gleaned. A harvest of info. It made money, it created power, it made the world stretch and bend and become a new place. Sometimes the information was just, there. Left. Like a bag of dog shit on a fence. Someone would pick it up eventually, rotted inside the plastic, useless. But the signal, the flag of its existence on the wooden post would be enough and wheels would turn, countries would be ravaged, jets would be bought and slaves sold and the world’s markets would flutter with excitement for a moment.

***

That looks good! He recognises himself at last, the new self. The suit fits because he has lost quite a bit of weight, is slim once again. Lost the past few months of booze and trash food, is exercising once again. Once again, probably, he presumes, for the last time. After this he will resign himself to a bloated body, dead or alive, well over six foot of fat and muscle waste on his bones, possibly blown to bits, bounced down a cliff, buried very deep or secured to the bottom of a deep river with iron and cement. Or a nice little house somewhere, maybe a flat in Budapest or Paris, a clapboard house in Chico, California. All the same, really. Probably not Britain, though. Even with his ability to adapt his face away from his features into yet another stranger he is possibly too famous now. The famous terrorist, anarchist killer, villain, bank robber. His PR hasn’t been all that good for someone who wants to stay in the old country, wilt and die and be buried in the local churchyard. But, then, who gets that dubious privilege nowadays anyway? The local squire, the local MP, the vicar, the priest, the head of this or that. The rest of us are consigned to the fields, out by the sewer farm, out by the redbrick estates, next to the football ground. Municipal eternity. Quite right, too, for the son of nobodies brought up into a world where being a nobody was his greatest power. What can this nobody do, before he disappears? Some fuss and fun. More lies, sweet lies, truths buried there-in. Figure this one out.

It’s a good shape. A good colour – a dark grey, shot through with blue, collars high, sleeves riding up to bony wrists. If he wears a gun underneath this jacket it will gently bulge like his cock in the trousers. He can wear this to a club, a meeting, a dinner or a killing. He takes it off and resumes his camouflage, his fleece, his jeans, his trainers, before heading towards the check-out with the suit draped across one arm.

2

Their reputations laid a path of suppositions towards their meeting. Or something like that. ‘Coco’, Collette, basically the company comfort woman. Unlike Alice. Alice had other duties, had been through the training programme. It’s just that she, Alice, had the unique talent of being a woman, so, inevitably, in an organisation that is overwhelmingly male she would get asked to perform other duties. She did wonder once if there were male equivalents, but guessed the situations didn’t arise, although in these Viagra days, they could arise as much as was necessary. She supposed. Anyway, her career in the sack was fairly limited, especially when she was servicing that complex collection of needs that is Stephen Smith. Unlike Coco, who had wrapped her pretty lips around most of the cocks of the Cambridge managers, the ones who weren’t gay, and a fair few ‘guests’ as well. Have one on us, they would say to a Top Cop, or a minor politician, or the boss of a haulage firm, whoever was useful; but it would be on Coco, not ‘them’. All over Coco, all over her face.

Which is a worried, startled, wide eyed face right now, gazing around, peering outside and not really paying much attention to Alice as they sit opposite each other at a booth in a Denny’s. Alice normally enjoys the United States of America, but this time she hasn’t had time to acclimatise and she found herself waspishly snapping at the waitress who’d had trouble with Alice’s very English ‘may I have’ and her request for a cup of tea, without the teabag in the cup, with milk – the misunderstanding made worse with an ‘I love your accent!!’ from the waitress. Coco was oblivious to the kerfuffle. Alice understands why. Coco is expecting to be killed at any minute.

‘Coco, please, look at me. Over here. Now…’

Finally got her attention.

‘It’s not Coco. Call me Collette. Please.’

‘Collette. Good. Do you know who I am?’

‘You told me your name is Alice.’

‘Yes, but do you know who I am?’

‘You’re Cambridge. Written all over you. And I expect you’ve come to knock me off. Have you?’

Suddenly Collette’s shiny brown eyes are intensely looking into her own. This was the moment she had waited for, savoured. How often do they get to deliver good news? Not often. Smiling, then.

‘Not today, Collette. I’ve come to ask for your help. If you help then all is forgiven, everything you told Stephen, all the lies…’

‘They weren’t lies. You know that.’

‘All the information… And there will be payment. You won’t have to hide away in the middle of Dakota anymore. You can come home. Or stay. Have you met anyone here?’

By the look on her face Alice knows the answer is ‘yes’.

‘What would I have to do? Who do I have to fuck?’

‘You don’t have to do anything, not really. Thing is Collette, we still haven’t found him and if we don’t get to him first then one of the others, Oxford, any of the secrets, will kill him. You don’t want him killed – neither do we.’

‘Why not? Why don’t you want him dead? He’s gone rogue. He’s embarrassing you, isn’t he?’

‘It’s… complicated, Collette. It’s not how we do things. We’re Cambridge. We do things differently.

‘Help us. Help me. We don’t need to find him, he’ll find us. We just have to let him know. We can do that. But if he thinks it’s a trap, we’ll never see him. You and me, together, we can convince him it’s safe to come in. And it is safe, Collette, it really is.’

Pause. Change tones. The cut glass softened with smoke. (Damn it, she wishes she could smoke.)

‘Did he ever talk about me?’

Collette is amused. Alice grits her teeth. It’s got to be done.

‘Did he?’

‘Alice… Alice, right? Your name? Stephen didn’t talk about anything. If his mouth wasn’t full he was too busy making other noises. Besides, he didn’t visit that much. I heard they’d got him someone, just for him. Special skills, I heard. He was a kinky bastard so whoever it was would have had to be very… tolerant. So, were you? Very tolerant?’

This can’t be allowed to continue – she’s being disrespectful now. OK, calm for another five minutes, until the hook is firmly in the full bottom lip.

‘Stephen and I had something, unusual, unique. It wasn’t just work, for me. Not just comfort for him. We understood each other. I still understand him. That’s why I was asked to do this. He’s complicated and quite brilliant and I want to know he’s still alive. One of the good guys. And, yes, we had wild times. The wildest. But, unlike you – it was mutual. For me as well as him. It wasn’t love, perhaps, couldn’t be. But it was… ecstasy. Ecstatic pleasure. Deep, in the body and the brain. Always exciting, always surprising.’

Collette watches whilst Alice is transported and understands, this, at least, is the truth. There is a glaze over the older woman’s eyes, a cloudy shimmer which Collette thinks she recognises. In the many years of her use and abuse there was the odd occasion, especially when she was younger, that she thought it couldn’t get more intense, that her whole life was summed up by an hour’s fucking. Perhaps they can do business, then. If this woman hasn’t come to kill her. Anyway, what are her choices?

‘What do you want me to do?’

Back in the moment, the clatter of the diner kitchen, the unfamiliar yet very familiar mid-western accents murmuring around her, Alice sees Collette is hers.

‘I want to take your picture. And then I want to make a video of you and me,’ Collette raises her eyebrows. ‘No, not like that, a video of us talking to Stephen. Telling the truth. Then we post it online and then we wait. What we do after that, well, it all depends on what happens. I think he might see it and want to find us, to check, at least to find out if it’s the truth. Then we see.’

If it’s a ruse to get her somewhere quiet then it’s a bit complicated. Collette nods her head. OK. At least she stays alive for a while longer.

3

An old fashioned boy’s-own adventure. Kidnapped! On his way to Scotland, no less. On a sleeper train, too! Not the kind of kidnap he would have imagined, in fact, unlike anything he’s ever read about or seen. More painful, less exciting, more confusing.

Toby had clocked the two men who boarded at Darlington. Lithe, skinny but strong looking. Baseball caps pulled low. One of them swung a sports bag into the luggage rack. They both stood, although there were seats empty. There was a whiff of tobacco, even from a few yards away. They both swigged Fosters lager, knocking back a couple of cans each in a matter of minutes, chucking the bent empties on the floor where they clattered about by the toilet doors. The carriage had a handful of people, trying to get comfortable for the overnight journey to the north of Scotland, via Edinburgh. Toby noticed that if the other passengers needed to use the toilet they went in the opposite direction to the two men, who stayed in the doorway, keeping the automatic sliding door open and talking loudly in northern accents. Every now and then, Toby would pick up a ‘fucking cunt’ or a ‘cunting twat’ floating above the rattle of wheels and track.

His carriage was next to the first sleeper and, eventually, the few remaining passengers had to negotiate passage between the men, who didn’t move and stared hard at each nervous person squeezing by, muttering ‘excuse me’ or ‘sorry’. One of the men sparked up a cigarette, no, a joint. Pretty confident, thought Toby. It was time for him to stretch his legs. He chose to move towards the sleeper, even though he hadn’t booked a cabin and was roughing it on the seats. There was a catering coach a few carriages down, although he wasn’t sure if it was open. He knew he was really just challenging his nerve. If those men knew…

They watched him as he walked towards them, hanging on to the ends of the seats as the train picked up speed. He looked right back into their faces. Something about their eyes caused him to slow down. They weren’t just staring, challenging. They were waiting. For him. He knew it, as sure as he knew he was on his way to become a cop in Scotland. As sure as his name was Toby. He stopped. But now they were moving towards him. He looked back. The carriage was empty. His bag was several seats away, not that there was anything in it to help him, certainly not a gun.

So, this was it. Quicker than he dreamt of, even in his most pessimistic frame of mind. Punishment, for the deaths, the bullets, for being Smith’s friend, his protégé. For being a precocious public schoolboy with dreams of revolution and adventure. Chucked from the train. Stabbed. Shot, perhaps. Who knew? He braced himself, prepared to put up a good fight. One of the capped men was standing near him now, the other right behind. Toby clenched his fist. The man smiled and raised his hand, offering Toby the joint.

‘Go ahead, man. Help you sleep. Here, have one of these. We’re heading to the sack.’

The other man had passed a freshly opened can of Fosters over his shoulder. Toby took it, and the joint.

‘Cheers. Thanks a lot.’

The two men were already walking away from him, one of them called over his shoulder:

‘Alright, man. No problem. Night night.’

Watching them disappear into the other carriage, the door sliding shut behind them, Toby decided to smoke in the gap between carriages. He walked through and lent by the window, blowing the smoke through the six inch gap at the top, leaning on the wall. He smoked and swigged and smoked and swigged and his last thoughts were, ‘wow, strong stuff’ as he collapsed comfortably into the corner, sure he could see, through a mist, the two generous baseball cap men, returning with a friendly smile.

So far, so mundane. The pain was introduced into the experience by the plastic cuffs that bound his wrists too tight, by his cramped position, on the floor beneath one of the bunks in a sleeping compartment and by the kicks he received from above when he tried to struggle his way out. After which the upside down face of one of the two men, now speaking with a very different accent, Home Counties, not far from his own, told him to:

‘Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Toby.’ Still he couldn’t complain. No, really, he couldn’t. The ball of cotton held in place over his mouth with sticky tape made sure of that. The rest of the journey he tried his best to keep the circulation flowing, to salivate around the tape, hoping to work it loose, to listen to the sounds of the room. Five hours later, as sunlight cracked round the blackout blind, he was in agony and soaking with urine as the beer had finally won the battle with his bladder. The same face as before was leaning over the side, sniffing and grimacing.

‘Toby, you dirty bastard. You stink.’

Something he must agree with.

Hauled out of his coffin the more talkative of the two men cuts the plastic cuffs with a short, wide bladed knife, a wicked looking thing which he keeps in Toby’s view as he helps him to his feet.

‘If you shout or scream or anything I’ll cut out your tongue. Got it?’

Toby gets it and nods his head. His gag is ripped from his mouth. It hurts and he lets go a cry. The knife is suddenly by the side of his mouth and its owner looks displeased. Toby manages something like a smile, an ingratiating thing for which he immediately feels ashamed. The knife moves down to his waist and hooks into the belt. With a sharp movement it cuts through and Toby feels his trousers loosen.

‘Get ‘em off. Don’t worry. We’re not going to rape you. Not yet. Change. We can’t have you stinking the place up. Don’t worry about your pockets – they’re empty.’

It’s then that Toby notices his pocket’s contents are on the little table below the window: a wad of cash, his Swiss Army pen knife, house keys, lighter and train tickets. A pair of trousers are thrown at him – he recognises them as his own. And there’s his rucksack, lying on one of the bunks next to the other man. A pair of clean underpants follows the trousers, chucked into his face.

‘You can wash when we get there.’ The tension has lifted from the man’s voice. He almost sounds friendly.

‘Get there? Where are you taking me? What do you want?’

The man chuckles quietly.

‘He hasn’t guessed yet, Larry. I thought he was meant to be smart…’ Then, speaking to Toby’s back, as he balances on one leg, trying to pull the pants up:

‘This is day one, Toby me lad. Your training started last night and continues until you are deemed fit.’

A minute later and Toby has regained some of his pride along with the clean trousers. He takes his time and has a good look at the two men. So, this is what Steve was talking about. He hadn’t imagined it would happen like this and so soon. Both the men look coolly back at him. The talkative one, slight of build, narrow faced, close cut hair but a couple of day’s stubble on his jaw. The other, taller but also thin enough to be a professional cycle racer, a tangle of dark curls falling from the cap around his ears, hairy sideburns. Neither of them looked like disciplined killing machines, secret operatives, guns for hire. In their high street jeans and trainers they looked like plumbers, or drug dealers or just blokes. Toby is disappointed.

There must have been something about his demeanour which reflected his feelings because, the next moment, Toby is on the floor, pinned there by the man who isn’t Larry, snarling into his face.

‘Look at me again like that, posh boy and I’ll carve your lovely features. I don’t care how old you are. You fucking me dis me again and you’ll be sorry.’

For a moment it looks as if he’s not going to wait to be ‘dissed’ again, but then his companion speaks to him, softly, with a slight Scottish burr.

‘Lexy. Lexy, calm down. It’s early days. Don’t damage him. The boss wants to meet him. And I don’t have any sticking plasters. Lexy.’

Larry pats his shoulder and Lexy allows Toby to stand. They look at each other… and burst out laughing. At Toby.

‘Your face! Seriously, your face!’ Lexy’s accent has shifted again, ten degrees closer to Harrow and Eton. Toby stands confused then surprising himself, launches a fist at Lexy’s head. It connects and Lexy falls backwards onto Larry. Checking his stance, Toby follows with a kick to a knee. It hurts his bare foot but it’s worth it for the cry of pain emitted by Lexy. Still holding his ground, Toby casts round for a weapon, anything, Stephen Smith’s words urging his movements:

‘Look for a weapon, anything’s better than you breaking your hands. Wack, stab, slice – anything…’

He has his sliced belt in his hand, the buckle end conveniently short enough to swing in the confined space. The blows do damage to Lexy’s face and catch the flailing Larry, too. Meanwhile, Toby’s other hand is feeling behind him, opening the door and then, he’s out, slamming the door behind him. Just in time to catch a passing passenger with an elbow. The elderly man grunts and gives Toby a hard stare. Breathing hard Toby mutters a sorry and then moves off down the corridor. He is surprised that the men haven’t emerged to make chase, but then he remembers, he’s on a fast moving train. Where’s he going to go? At the end of the corridor he stops and then, turning round, saunters back again. He’s leaning against the window when he hears the door open behind him.

‘Here he is. Here’s good old Tobes. Toby, what a feller.’

Lexy joins him, stands next to him. Toby can sense Larry behind him, too. He glances at Lexy’s face. There are red marks, bruises, welts and scratches along one side, from the belt buckle, presumably. OK.

‘Toby, I don’t blame you. And well done, seriously. Wasn’t expecting that, neither of us were, were we Larry? No. Not at all. Now that’s out of the way, I see, you’re still here. Standing here, waiting. For us, presumably. And that’s wonderful, because we love you even more now, don’t we Larry? And, also, presumably, it means that you love us, a little bit, yourself. Which is great. Because in an hour or so we get in to the station and you meet the boss and then – onwards and upwards.’

Toby is satisfied. Just as he had been told. Smith’s words, again:

‘Put up a fight. Show some spirit. They like that. It will also mean you won’t have to go through the whole break ‘em down, build ‘em up routine. If you’re already close to what they want then they won’t bother, and, believe me, it’s not pleasant, Toby. Just remember to be as much yourself as you possibly can be. There’s nothing for them to find out, then. Be honest about everything, apart from this. This one thing. You keep that, buried deep. And remember to know it again, when the time comes.’

Lexy is suggesting a drink.

‘Don’t worry, not that Fosters piss. A proper drink. I need one. Bacon and eggs and a double Scotch. Shall we, Larry?’

‘It’s whisky, not ‘scotch’. No such thing as ‘scotch’, you philistine English twat.’

With the bonhomie of new best pals, buddies on a wonderful adventure, they mooch down the corridor towards the smell of cooked food, Lexy’s hand firmly on Toby’s shoulder, Larry’s right hand, tucked into the side pocket of his jacket. It looks like he’s holding something and his eyes never leave the back of Toby’s head.

Smith’s voice, once again:

‘But remember, Toby. They’re unreliable. Quite possibly a bit loopy. Cambridge employees are emotional. Keep eyes in the back of your head. Keep your senses alert. Keep your wits about you. They kill. It’s one of the things they do. They’ll kill you, if they want to, if you let them.’

A nerve connected to the hairs at his nape is twitching an urgent message to the boy-wonder, ace marksman, seven times teenage killer, Toby Flaxman. Run! It says. Escape!

4

How do you undermine a doctor? If he’s your doctor, your own personal messenger of doom, you don’t. You can’t. What could he say? Make me well or I’ll get you struck off? I’ll have you set up as a kiddy fiddler. I’ll personally tear you apart myself with the slowly dissipating power of my limbs.

Sitting opposite the tiny, venerable man, across a desk every bit as wide as his own, Councillor John Kaspar is, for once, lost for words. What do you say? Thank you? The man has just pronounced sentence. And now he’s proposing a drink. At ten AM. It wouldn’t be the first time the councillor has enjoyed a morning tipple but it’s the first time the normally abstemious Doctor Kuhlmey has prescribed one.

He had chosen this doctor because he was, first of all, in Harley Street and, secondly, because of the German ‘K’s of his name. Kurt. Kuhlmey. Very German – make the best doctors. If he was Jewish, all the better. So he was very disappointed when he turned up for his first check up as Leader of Redbridge Council to find a small Indian man, with a mass of cotton wool white and light grey hair, which surrounded pixy features with beard and no moustache. He looked like a forest sprite, a gnome. His dainty fingers balanced together and a laugh which tumbled from his wet lips like a mountain stream.

The councillor’s first words to him were:

‘How the fuck did you end up with a name like Kurt Kuhlmey?’

The doctor’s response sealed the relationship. He giggled and replied:

‘How the fuck did you end up with an ulcer at the age of eighteen?’

Over the intervening years, Kaspar had been used to attending his quarterly check ups and receiving the normal admonishments about his weight, his drinking, his attitude to life. Each time the doctor had insisted that if he didn’t mend his ways he’d be heading for an early grave, before prescribing pills for blood thinning, vitamins, sleeping and depression, all of which would be in the bin beneath Kaspar’s desk in his vast office at Redbridge Town Hall by the end of the day. The last check up was different, serious. He was sent for various tests at a private clinic in Hertfordshire. And here are the results: a year at most and lots of pain, which could be ‘managed’ with increasing amounts of high grade opium. Like a bloody junkie toff. Kaspar is disgusted with himself, with his puny body, for letting him down. He’s got things to do.

For a moment his eyes moisten as he feels sorry