EPISODE NINETY-THREE
Craig cast his eyes
around the wine bar, his lips moving silently as he counted. ‘Unlucky thirteen,’ he muttered.
What are you on about?’ Maggie asked, struggling to uncork a bottle of house
red.
‘Thirteen measly punters,’ Craig complained.
‘You’d think at least the free nosh would’ve attracted more than this.’
‘Customers,’ Maggie corrected him, ‘not punters. And we’ve talked about this. What did you expect for a Tuesday night?’
‘We should’ve opened at the weekend.’
Maggie yanked the last bit of cork out and sighed impatiently. ‘If we’d opened at the weekend, we wouldn’t
have given ourselves a chance. It
would’ve been baptism by fire. At least
this a nice and easy way to open.’
Craig looked unconvinced.
‘We’ve got to give it time for word of mouth to get around,’ said Maggie. ‘You wait!
By Saturday you won’t be able to move in
here. Then you’ll be complaining
you’re overworked.’
Craig tilted his head back, letting his eyes wander thoughtfully across the
ceiling. ‘All this bric a brac. Must be worth a few bob. I s’pose if the worst comes to the worst...’
Maggie cut in. ‘Don’t be such a
pessimist. In a few years’ time we’ll be
selling the whole caboodle, good will of business – everything – for a small
fortune.’
‘That’s if you haven’t drunk away the profits.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, I’ve noticed, you ain’t half knocking back the brandy lately.’
‘Stop nagging. This is our opening
night. It’s a special occasion.’
Craig had stopped listening, distracted by two new customers entering. ‘Good evening,’ he said brightly as they
approached the bar.
Maggie, who had turned away to pour some wine, hadn’t seen them enter. When she turned back and saw Mike standing at
the bar with Claire, she almost fainted from shock.
*
Rice glared at the cell door as it slammed shut. Bastard screw! Bastard had been goading him. Giving him details of the robbery. Just a stone’s throw from his Tonbridge gaff. How often he’d passed that building near
Kwik-Fit, never given it a second look. And
inside it was all that money. Over fifty
million quid in unused banknotes. He
almost got a hard-on thinking about it. Fifty-three fucking million! A staggering sum. The sort of heist he’d only ever dreamed about.
Money to fucking burn. Years ago, he
remembered reading about the Great Train Robbery, one of the few books he’d
read in detail. There were still some blokes
– three in all – who’d never been caught.
Got clean away. But when he
thought about that farm, where they set fire to pound notes to light their fags
– Jesus! That was one he’d have like to
have been in on. And the way that screw
just now had rubbed his nose in it, telling him there were geezers who’d get
clean away with the Tonbridge robbery, and how he was up on a murder charge for
doing a shitty little working men’s club.
That’s when his whole useless fucking life passed before him. That bastard
screw was right. All he’d ever done was
dream about those sorts of jobs. He’d lived in Tonbridge most of his life, and
had never come near to getting a sniff of the sort of geezers who’d include him
on that sort of heist. Class crime like that.
The sort of jobs he could only ever think of in his fantasy. The writing on the wall spelled out what a
useless small-time fucker he was. Small
crimes and small people. And now he was
facing a murder charge. And for what? Nicking some booze from a club.
He stared at the pencil and paper.
They’d allowed him that much.
Couldn’t do any harm. Or could
it? He could damn himself totally. Make
a pact with the devil. Go out in a blaze
of hatred. Revenge for all the pettiness
he’d had to suffer. Revenge! The most evil act of all. The final nail in the coffin.
*
Recovering quickly, Maggie threw Mike an exaggerated look of recognition. ‘Hi, Mike.
How’ve you been?’ Then she looked
at Claire and smiled. ‘It’s a small
world.’
‘You can say that again,’ Claire answered cryptically.
‘Your husband used to cut my Gary’s hair.’
Claire nodded seriously. ‘Yes, he’s already
told me.’
Maggie looked confused and began wiping the bar with a tea towel.
‘When Claire told me it was called Maggie’s Wine bar,’ Mike said hastily, ‘I guessed it might be you. I remember you and Gary talking about it.’
Maggie laughed nervously. ‘You’ve got a
good memory.’
‘He remembers what he wants to remember,’ said Claire. ‘D’you mind if we sit down, Mike?’
Claire turned away abruptly and made for a table in a far corner of the
bar. Maggie called after her: ‘Everything’s on the house. Order what you like from the menu on the
blackboard.’
She stared into Mike’s eyes, wondering if she still found him appealing. He seemed to have put on weight, and wasn’t
looking too good, but she wondered if there was a spark, something left of what
attracted her to him in the first place.
Now that Claire was no longer standing next to him, he grinned
confidently, almost cockily, sending her an obvious signal that he wanted
her. And the look in his eyes spoke
volumes.
She gave him a sexy, meaningful smile.
‘Would you like red or white wine?’
‘Well, Claire only drinks white wine.’
‘White wine it is then.’
As Maggie watched him retreating to the corner of the bar to join his wife,
Craig muttered under his breath, ‘His missus was a barrel of laughs. Miserable cow.’
Maggie felt the effects of the last brandy had long since worn off, leaving her
feeling jaded. As there was a bottle in
the kitchen, she said to her brother,
‘I’m going to have a word with Martin.
Will you get Mike and his wife their wine and take their order?’
From the corner of his eye, Mike saw Maggie disappearing through the door
behind the bar. As Claire was watching
him carefully, he tilted his head back, looking up at the ceiling.
‘They must have gone round every antique and junk shop in Kent for this lot.’
Claire just stared at him, which he found unnerving, and added with
false brightness, ‘Still, it’s quite
effective.’
Claire sniffed disdainfully. ‘It’s a bit
over the top, if you ask me. But, then
again, that Maggie looked over the top.
And all this junk attached to the ceiling, it’s been done before. That pub in High Brooms, where I went that
time with Sally...talk about unoriginal.’
Suddenly, without warning, tears filled her eyes. She hurriedly rummaged in her handbag, brought
out a tissue and dabbed her cheeks.
‘What’s wrong?’ Mike asked.
‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. I wish we hadn’t come here. I thought it would help. But somehow it’s even more depressing than
being at home. And that Maggie. That didn’t help.’
Mike frowned. ‘How d’you mean?’
She stared into his eyes, a look filled with venom. ‘You tell me, Mike. You tell me.’
His mouth suddenly felt dry. ‘I’m not
sure...what the hell are you talking about?’
She looked down at her handbag, and snapped it shut, closing the conversation,
but showing a mysterious threat in her attitude. ‘It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter.’
*
When they opened Rice’s cell door in the morning, they found he’d cut both
wrists and had bled to death. They never
did discover how he’d managed to get hold of the small razor blade. He’d left a suicide note, abandoned on the
floor as far away from the bed as possible.
Presumably, so that it wouldn’t get covered in blood.
The note was Rice’s final, evil act. The
pact with the devil. It said
I never killed old Alex. It was Geordie Pete who killed him. But I was
there, so I was responsible. But I swear
it’s the truth. It was Pete Coleman who
killed him.
IN EPISODE NINETY FOUR
Fear takes a hold of Mary as her ex husband makes his presence felt.