Rod gazed happily at the new 20 notes stacked in neat piles on his bedroom table. He’d half expected that the money would not be paid. But here it was spread around his bedroom in untidy piles. Delivered through the letterbox by a tall thin man with brown hair, brown trousers and an absent minded air who had not hung around to talk.
1,000 beautiful opportunities for pleasure. He read the letter that had come with the money. It was short and to the point.
“As agreed, herewith please find 1,000 for work carried out. However the work has not carried out satisfactorily as you exceeded your instructions. All future work must be carried out exactly as required with no deviation. You will suffer severe consequences for any deviation in future work and will be contacted soon about yesterday’s errors.”
Then there was another address and a car registration number. The job was to break the windows of the car but to carry out no further action whatsoever against the car or its owner. This was in big print. The fee was 500. Rod thought the money was cool for just a few minutes’ work and the address given was not far away.
He breakfasted at the Greasy Spoon at the arcade, hoping that the girls from yesterday would be around. But the only female there was the waitress and she reminded Rod of his mother - careworn, tired and in her late ’30s.
He couldn’t decide whether to get the car job done earlier or later. As always with Rod, pleasure triumphed over duty and he headed for the squat.
The world looked great today and Rod paused a moment before squeezing through the narrow entrance into the boathouse to survey the scene. The sun was shining, houseboats chugged sedately down the river and there was the clip clop of tennis balls coming from the nearby tennis club. In the distance he could see an office block. Its glass surfaces shone in the midday sun creating an illusion of prettiness that mocked the industry inside.
“Mugs,” Rod thought.
The boathouse smelled musty and was eerily silent. Rod stood by the entrance for a moment to let his eyes to adjust to the dark. The thick walls of the boathouse muffled the riverside sounds outside. He tilted his head trying to identify the direction of a faint lapping sound. It came from the far end of the boathouse. Cautiously he made his way over. As he drew near, he could see small movements in one of the upturned boats.
Then in the dark there was a long moan, followed by a spit then silence. Rod coughed loudly and the heads of Jasmine and Beaver appeared above the side of the boat still wrapped in the sleeping bag.
Rod smiled his ‘Hello’ and then hit Beaver twice in his face. His nose made a crunching sound as it broke, spewing blood over the side of the boat. Then he grabbed Jasmine by the hair and slapped her across the face, first with the palm of his hand and then the back of his hand. Her hands reached up to protect her face but Rod pushed her head backwards so she overbalanced to the bottom of the boat. Beaver by now had climbed out. His skinny body naked from the waist down was trembling in shock but his fists were balled. Rod ended his resistance with one well-directed kick to Beaver’s exposed parts and he collapsed in agony on the wooden floor. Jasmine crawled over the side of the boat, to try to protect Beaver. The sight of so much exposed flesh, tempted Rod to give her a few well-directed kicks but he still had a use for Jasmine and didn’t want to end their relationship just yet.
“He’ll have to be taken to casualty at the hospital,” Jasmine sobbed. “You’d no right to do that.”
“He was warned yesterday,” said Rod, dismissively.
“I’m not your property,” Jasmine said, harshly.
“It makes me mad to see you with somebody else,” Rod said, mildly. “It means I care.”
Beaver was making choking sounds on the floor.
“Do you know where he keeps his stash,” said Rod, unconcerned.
Jasmine shook her head, wearily and started to get dressed.
“I don’t know,” she said. “The stuff’s not in his bag, I had a look earlier, I think it’s somewhere under the boards.”
Rod tossed her a 20 note.
“Stick the dummy in a taxi to the hospital,” he said, “I’ll look around for his stash and when you get back we’ll go out on the town. There’s lots more money where that came from. The job yesterday was great.”
Jasmines looked from Beaver to Rod and then back to Beaver again.
“That’s the last time you hit me, though,” she said decisively. “You lay a finger on the again and I’m out of your life permanently.”
“Whatever suits you,” said Rod, indifferently.
He turned his back, and started looking amongst the boats for Beaver’s drug store.
The stash was well hidden and difficult to find. He was just about to roll a joint to celebrate tracking it down when he heard a sound by the entrance. He thought it was Jasmine returning but then he saw there were five of them. As a precaution, he concealed himself behind a large wooden post. But the speed at which they approached told him instantly that they knew he was there and their intentions were not friendly. Rod made his dash for the door but never made it.
The large figure at the front hit Rod on his knees with a heavy stick and Rod collapsed with a howl of pain. Down but not out, his immediately kicked out at the advancing figures. Another blow caught him on his left ankle. He tried to roll towards the exit and a boot crashed into his side taking all his breath. Almost at the same time, a blow to his elbow numbed his right arm. He rolled with the pain but his left side came under fire with more savage blows. Dazed, he no longer saw who was hitting him - or cared. His only thought was whether they were there to kill him. Curled in a foetal ball and racked with pain, he dimly tasted blood in his mouth as a tooth broke. He was barely conscious now with the pain of the multiple blows but he suddenly knew with complete clarity that they were no going to kill him. The sticks hurt like crazy but were not heavy enough to break his bones. The objective was inflicting pain not permanent damage. Indeed, most of them had now stopped hitting him. There was just one of them that still persisted. Of much slighter build than the others, this attacker took time to place the blows again and again where they would hurt most. Then casting the stick aside, bent down and hissed in his ear:
“Where’s your pathetic Irish accent now?” The voice was high and cultured and Rod knew that the lady from the posh house had got her revenge.
As quickly as they came, they left, taking the sticks with them.
When Jasmine returned, she found Rod sitting on one of the boats, hugging his bruised body and with a foul temper.
“Seems like I missed something,” she said.
“Just business,” Rod spat. “It changes nothing.”
The 200 cash he had in his pocket was still there and so was Beaver’s stash. It could be a lot worse and things were going to get a lot better. He disliked intensely doing what this new employer wanted and even more the consequences of their displeasure but the money was good. He’d live with it. Next time, he told himself, he’d be the one dishing out the punishment. He wondered how much Miss Bushy Hairs helpers had been paid and how they had known where to find him.
He looked down at Jasmine’s fresh young face and pulled her to him.
“I’ve got to go out,” he said. “Go see some letting agencies and find us a pad - somewhere nice, now I can afford it.”
Jasmine’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
“Yeh, but don’t make eyes at other men.”
Jasmine snuggled up to Rod. “Who else would I need when I’ve got you?”
“Here’s a 100,” said Rod, “get some clothes too.”
Jasmine kissed him on his bruised lips and pressed as much of her round body against him as she could.
“Hang on,” said Rod, pushing her away, “there’ll be time for that later. I’ve still got a job to do.”
He looked at his watch in the half-light and saw it was two o’clock.
“I’ll see you here at five o’clock. Get us a pad for tonight.”
The address that Rod had been given was a 20 mile drive away and it was not until nearly three o’clock that he cruised slowly past the terraced houses where he had been told to find the car. His heart skipped a beat when he saw it standing pristinely as described outside the house he’d been given. An old model T Ford. Just like the much coveted scale model his Grandpa had once given him for a birthday present. It would be a car greatly loved by its owner. But, Rod told himself, professionals had no scruples and there was a job to be done. An alley cut through the terrace to the next road and this was where Rod parked. He calculated that it would take less than 30 seconds to go around the car with his hammer and 20 seconds to escape back to the car.
In fact it only took 25 seconds and then he was back down the alley and, in minutes, well away. “Clean job,” he thought to himself. “Let them try to find fault in that, if they can.”
The drive back took longer because of rush-hour traffic that was building up and he only just made it to the boat house for five oclock. Jasmine was sitting in the afternoon sun clutching some detailed particulars and with a triumphant smile on her face. The torn jeans were gone and so was the scruffy shirt. In their place was a neat Kaftan dress with brilliant colours that fell to her ankles from her ample breasts. Rod squeezed her tightly in appreciation. His pleasure at seeing her mingling powerfully with the adrenalin he still felt from the car job.
“I don’t want to look at the paperwork,” he said, “just take me there.”
“It’s not far,” said Jasmine. “In fact you can see it. Look.”
She turned Rod around and by his broad shoulders, pointing him down river where there was an island and on the island were some chalet bungalows.
“You see the one with yellow walls,” she said. “It’s ours from tonight, if you want it.”
“Cool,” said Rod, “but how do we get to it?”
Jasmine took Rod by the hand and led him to the waters edge. The rowing boat was short with stubby oars.
“The agent is already at the bungalow with the contract,” said Jasmine. “If you like it, we can sign and it’s ours!”
As the small boat cut through the choppy water to the island, Rod was reminded of the beating he had taken earlier and he was relieved when they stepped out of the boat and onto the small jetty to the side of the bungalow. The agent immediately popped his head round the corner. A supercilious young man with dark greasy hair; his suit and smile both looked as if they had just come out of the dry cleaners. The bungalow was damp with a musty smell but Rod didn’t care. He signed and handed over 150 to secure the deal and promising more money the day after. Jasmine rowed the agent across the river. He had a very self-satisfied smile on his face.
As Jasmine skipped from room to room trying to decide which would be the master bedroom, Rod leaned on the veranda and knew that this was his castle. It was a place easy to defend and a place from which he could take on the world. With the computer man providing a regular stream of easy well paying work and Jasmine providing his home comforts, life would be great. He wouldnt have been so confident if hed been able to read Jasmines mind.
