Thick and Fast

paper, as he was sure she would have noticed something in his voice had he attempted it over the phone. Now she thought he wasn’t due out for another month. More than enough time.

  He had been given a list of addresses and telephone numbers of various social services departments, as well as a number of websites to consult, but to all effects he was now homeless, destitute. He had enough money to last for about three months if he behaved normally, more if he was very careful. This was money he had earned diligently whilst inside, and which had been set aside for him for the day of his release. He had expected to receive it in an envelope, almost like a wedding present, but instead he had been handed a savings book in his name. Sign here. Thankfully it did not make any mention to the government institution from which he had recently emerged. The savings book he tucked into his inside jacket pocket. The rest of his information sheets he dumped into the first litter bin he came across, along with his copy of all the documents he had been forced to sign without knowing what they were about. He wouldn’t need them now.

  Ambrose had another address that was much more important. Or rather he had directions and instructions of how to make contact, committed to memory, which was safer. Spotty had been very specific on that point – nothing written down. It had to be pure memory, like spies, that way they could not hang any charges on you should anything go wrong. Spotty was a stickler for detail. Ambrose was also convinced that this was the only way to proceed. Whatever happened he could not incriminate Spotty, not after all his help and encouragement. So he memorized it all over and over again until he could recite it in his sleep. There could be no hiccups; that was vital.

  So working from memory he began the hunt for his old cell mate, who, he hoped, had not forgotten their plan, or that today was the seventeenth. The route began at St. Mary’s, his back to the main doors, so he trekked off in that direction. It was quite a way, especially under that sun, but he preferred to walk, to enjoy the sensation of space and the lack of any real timetable to work to. Anyway, although it was deadly serious, this was also fun, this was adventure. He picked out the landmarks as if they formed part of a pirates’ treasure map. Turn left at the church, take the second on the right, there is a letter box on the corner. Go past the factory gates and on to the embankment. He clung to the shadows as much as he could to avoid the punishing heat of late afternoon, but also because it seemed right; it was what a spy would do. Surreptitious, as spotty would say. He thought that wearing an out of season suit and carrying a shopping bag might even help. Who had ever seen a spy dressed like that? Eventually he realised he had reached his destination, the place marked with an x in his mind.

  It was a rundown bar called the Bandstand, though why it had been baptized with such a name was difficult to discern, it was just another door and another shop-like window sandwiched between equally disheveled establishments. The main entrance was propped open, and inside it was as dark as a cavern, especially after the bright light of the intense summer sun. Perhaps that was a trick, so that those lurking inside could gain an advantage over the newly-arrived who would blink and stare blindly into the hidden recesses of the joint trying to make out if there was anybody there or not. Ambrose checked his mental map once more, then took the plunge.

  It took some time for him to get used to the dimly lit interior of the bar, but little by little he started to make out shadowy figures impaled on stools along the bar at regular intervals as if placed there on purpose by an invisible hostess. A slovenly barman, not fat, but slack, droopy, as if he were melting slowly, watched him with expressionless eyes, a look he had cultivated over the years because it was the best way to survive. ‘You looking at me?’ ‘I don’t look at nothing no more.’ The customers turned to Ambrose, weighed him up in a matter of seconds, and recoiled back into their allotted spaces. In the back room, he had said, in one of the booths. Ambrose slipped by without raising suspicion, without aggravating anyone, as he had learnt to do in prison. It was body language. You are just doing your own thing, minding your own business, and you are not embarrassed by that, don’t need to apologise or ask permission. No threat to anyone, either. Just going on through to the back, nothing else.

  And there he was, just as he had promised, sat in the corner under a mirror which was an advertisement for a long forgotten beer, clad in a skin tight white v-neck T-shirt, a huge gold chain dangling down almost to his stomach. His shaven head, his goatee beard, a glass of beer set before him like a relic. Good old Spotty, a man to trust. Ambrose sat down opposite him, held out his hand, and smiled.

  ‘Hi Spotty, it’s me, Bro. I didn’t know if you’d remember. Today is the seventeenth. But I knew you wouldn’t forget.’

  Spotty had forgotten, completely, but that didn’t matter much because he was where he said he would be. After six o’clock he was always there, and would only leave when he ran out of money or credit or the capacity to stand on his own two feet without help.

  Spotty half stood up.

  ‘Bro! Today is your big day, and I forget?’

  He shook his hand violently.

  ‘The seventeenth, eh? Now, what was supposed to happen on the seventeenth? My Mum’s birthday? Hey Stan, get a beer for my old friend Ambrose.’

  ‘No, no, thanks, no.’

  Spotty leant over the table.

  ‘You got no money, Bro?’

  ‘Oh yes, I got a bit for now, but I don’t want a beer.’

  ‘OK. Make that a beer and a…..?’

  ‘Something without alcohol.’

  ‘And a coke. Coke ok?’

  ‘Er, yeah, fine, a coke’s fine’.

  Spotty sat down and spread his legs wide open; he had made a full recovery by now.

  ‘Nice bag.’

  Ambrose laughed.

  ‘I didn’t have anywhere to put my stuff, so Peters gave me this.’

  ‘Peters! That’ll be where he keeps his knitting.’

  The reference was lost on Ambrose, but he laughed anyway. You had to laugh at all the jokes, even if they were about gays or wife beating or killing cops, it was part of the code, made you one of them.

  Spotty frowned, and looked down at his beer.

  ‘So you doubted me, eh Bro? For a moment there? Didn’t know if I’d keep my word, eh?’

  He let that sink in. Bro said nothing, as he had learnt to do over the years.

  ‘The seventeenth, Bro, the seventeenth. I got that burnt into my mind like an engraving, like a laser.’

  He tapped the side of his head.

  ‘So I just came in here and waited, just like I said I would.’

  Another pause.

  ‘And here I am!’

  Ambrose took in the sight. Spotty was obviously still working out, you could see his muscles bulging from under his carefully chosen T-shirt, but he had lost something. The hardness, the straining, the parading, all that terseness seemed to have been hidden under a sheen of relaxation, of relative comfort, of too many beers. Spotty had been a free man for over six months now, and it showed. But his eyes remained as alert and keen as ever.

  They had a few cigarettes, some more drinks, and talked about the only thing they had in common – the prison and its inhabitants. They recalled anecdotes and incidents, relived for a time their shared experience like ex soldiers do. But they both realized that it was only small talk, a common courtesy, a traditional ritual. That was not why Ambrose was there.

  Spotty’s face changed, grew serious.

  ‘So you’re going through with it.’

  It was not a question. He had seen the serene determination on Ambrose face, his joy at having found Spotty waiting for him. The fact that he was alone on the day of his release, that no-one had come to meet him, had not been lost on Spotty. The man sitting before him looked a little ridiculous in a suit not meant for summer, too small for him now he had taken up weight lifting, albeit it without much success. Sitting there hugging a coke, waiting for instructions. He felt sorry for Ambrose, as he often did. But it was Bro’s d
ecision, not his.

  ‘Ok. Drink up and we’ll go to my place. Sure you weren’t followed?’

  He asked that as a kind of joke. Who on earth would want to follow someone like Ambrose? But Bro answered sincerely. He had taken precautions, he was sure he had not been tailed. Spotty shook his head imperceptibly.

  ‘Come on, then, we’d better get things straight. Sooner the better.’

  Spotty asked for the bill and waited while Ambrose settled it before leading him back out into the street. The sun had moved on a little, but the heat remained, bouncing back off the walls like a blow torch.

  After so much mystery and caution, the memorized route, the stealthy approach, their secret rendezvous, after taking so much trouble not to be caught, walking down the street together in the plain light of day seemed a little foolhardy to Ambrose. Weren’t they supposed to be extremely careful? What if they were seen together? Or followed? Why was Spotty so apparently nonchalant about it all? It made no sense. But Spotty was the genius; he knew what he was doing. There would no doubt be a very good explanation, something that would make it all fall into place. But Ambrose wouldn’t ask, that would be putting his friend into question. No, he would trust him and do as he was told. To a point at least.

  Before a metal garden gate which gave on to a wild, semi-abandoned patch of garden, Spotty told Ambrose to wait. He disappeared round the back of the tattered