Mr. In-Between by Neil Cross

Author:Neil Cross
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media Mystery & Thriller
Published: 2014-12-01T15:39:13+00:00

7

Idiot’s Limbo

Stepping from the taxi Jon continued to stifle giggles of such a nature that the driver squinted at him through rheumy blue eyes as he handed over a twenty-pound note. He examined it minutely, holding it millimetres from his face as if to demonstrate his myopia. Jon could hear his laboured breathing, all the pies and chips and curry sauce hanging heavy on his slow-beating­ heart.

‘Keep the change,’ Jon suggested.

He smelled of police stations, a vague, institutional odour of polyester armpits, filing cabinets and tepid coffee. He itched. The taxi pulled away, the driver throwing him one last glance as he performed an illegal U-turn.

As he approached his front door, spinning a single key on a ring around his index finger, he heard the sharp beeping of a familiar horn. He turned, pocketing the key. Across the road he saw Phil, impassive at the wheel of the racing green Aston. He wore a pair of gold-rimmed aviator shades and a subdued chauffeur’s outfit: dark suit, leather gloves. He slid across the front seat, and pointedly opened the passenger-side door.

Jon dodged traffic. He patted the boot of the car as he walked around it, then slid into the passenger side. He left the door open.

‘You look the part,’ he said.

Phil brushed a lapel and smiled delicately.

Jon lit a cigarette. ‘Watch what you do with the ash,’ said Phil.

Jon inhaled. ‘I see,’ he breathed. ‘It’s like that, then, is it?’

‘And then some,’ Phil confirmed. He hesitated, then accepted a cigarette. The flame of the match as he bent to light it reflected on the lenses of his sunglasses. Jon flicked the spent match into the gutter. Phil sat back and looked ahead. ‘You should’ve been around him the last few days. It’s like being a gofer for Jack the fucking Ripper. Do this. Do that.’ He blew smoke through the open window. ‘I need a holiday,’ he said.

‘I can well imagine,’ said Jon.

‘I’m not sure you can.’

He thought Phil might be right. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I suppose that’s my fault.’

Phil accepted the apology with equanimity. Then he said, ‘He wants to see you.’

Jon felt sick. He put a hand on the dash to steady himself, although the car was stationary. He ran his tongue over his teeth. They were furred with plaque. ‘Give me five minutes,’ he said. ‘I need a wash.’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’ Phil’s eyebrows rose above the thin gold rims of the sunglasses. ‘I think you’d better just come as you are.’

Jon shrugged and pulled the door closed. He buckled the seat belt across his chest and waist, passed the cigarette to his left hand and rested his elbow in the open window frame. It made him feel oddly like a teenager.

Phil avoided the necessity of further conversation by cranking up the stereo to a level which made it impossible. He had a weakness for American industrial music, relentless and electronically apocalyptic, which Jon shared only when under the influence of a chemically aided rush and at all other times considered somewhat juvenile.

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