On the Loose Read Free Page A

that’s not it. Not Fox, another name, unless you changed it.’
    ‘I think you’re mistaken, Mr—’
    ‘Just call me Mac, everyone does. Nah, it’s definitely you.’ The boy gurgled and slapped at his shaved head as if trying to knock sense into himself. ‘I always seen you around, all my life. You was in Camley Street Park one time. I was with my mates havin’ a smoke an’ that. You was—Ah.’ Mac suddenly remembered, and even he knew it was better to quickly forget what he had seen.
    ‘What do you do, Mac?’ asked Mr Fox, walking with him, leading him from the station.
    ‘This an’ that. I make ends meet, shift a bit of stuff here and there. The usual, you know.’
    Mr Fox knew all too well. He moved the boy aside as a pair of armed police constables in acid-yellow jackets walked past. King’s Cross had radically changed since becoming the target of terrorist attacks. He checked their epaulettes for area codes and saw that they were locals.
    ‘How long have you been out of Pentonville?’
    ‘How d’you know I was inside?’ The boy looked amazed.
    Mr Fox had spotted the tattoos that edged out beyond Mac’s sleeves. The inmates at Pentonville prison were fond of inking themselves with fake Russian gang symbols, most of them poorly copied and misspelled. The one on Mac’s right forearm was actually a produce stamp for a Soviet state farm. If the boy knew he was advertising turnips instead of hanging tough, it might be the end of their association before it began.
    ‘Wait a minute, that’s where I seen you,’ said Mac. ‘You was my English teacher, you used to come and teach at Pentonville.’
    Mr Fox studied his prey, deciding whether to let the identification stand.
    ‘One day you just stopped coming. What did you give it up for?’
    ‘The doors,’ he admitted.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘The seventeen security doors I had to pass through every morning and evening. They added an hour and a half on my journey.’ He did not mention the lockdowns, those days when the alarm rang and no-one was allowed in or out. Six or seven hours at a time spent doing nothing, shut in a stale blank roomlike one of the inmates. He didn’t mention the smell that got into your clothes and made you dread each working day. Mr Fox was determined to stay out of prison because he had witnessed its horrors from close quarters.
    ‘How would you like to earn some easy money?’ he asked.
    Mac’s eyes shone, then dimmed. You could see exactly what he was thinking. ‘I don’t do queer stuff no more. I mean, no offence an’ that.’
    ‘Don’t worry, it’s just some simple errands. To meet someone, relay some messages. Maybe deliver something back to them.’
    ‘It ain’t drugs, is it, ’cause I’m on probation.’
    ‘Nothing like that. It’s completely legitimate, I assure you. Just a local job. I need someone trustworthy.’
    ‘I don’t let people down.’
    ‘I’ll need you to be around here tomorrow evening. Give me your address and mobile number. I have to be able to get in touch with you easily. Tell me, do you drive?’
    ‘I got a van.’
    ‘Unmarked, is it?’
    ‘Well, it’s white.’
    ‘We may need to use it at some point. If you do well with this, there could be more work for you.’
    ‘Yeah, then, I reckon I could do something like that. You know, for the right price.’
    The right price , thought Mr Fox. You were going to steal my wallet a few moments ago, you little tapeworm . But he saw the desperation in the boy’s eyes and knew he had found a born victim, and that was all he needed.
    As soon as Mr Fox had received the phone call, he had realised he was about to move into the big time. All he needed to do now was remember his own rules: Never leave a trace of yourself behind, and if things go wrong make sure someone else takes the blame. Always remember, we do not live in a meritocracy. Nobody gets ahead because they’re good. The spoils go to those who build the strongest networks.