'Well, me and a few friends, 'Tom lied. 'It's such a nice rush.'
Brain nodded in agreement. 'You're not wrong. You mentioned something about self-protection, too.'
Tom sat forward in his seat. 'I've got these bastards trying to get into my house. The price of driving a Porsche, it seems.'
'And you want to get hold of?'
'A gun.' 'What?'
'Just a pistol. Something I could wave at them so they never come near my house again.'
Brain lit a cigarette. 'I'm not a frigging arms dealer. I've got a degree in chemistry and I deal in chemicals.'
'I know,' said Tom. 'But you must know … people.'
Brain loosed a plume of smoke at the ceiling. 'I'll give your number to this guy I know. If he calls you, he calls you. I'm not getting any more involved than that.'
'Cheers, Brain, I appreciate it.'
Chapter 14
July 2002
As he slowed to a stop in front of the traffic lights, Tom looked anxiously up at the number glowing from the screen on the side of Portland Tower. Nine days to go before the Games started. As if he needed reminding. He sipped latte with an extra shot through the lid of the cup before replacing it in the holder on the Porsche Boxter's dashboard.
Ahead of him the coloured banners billowed out slightly as a gentle summer breeze sighed down the wide street. He thought of the chaos waiting for him in the office and took another long sip, feeling the caffeine surging through the veins in his temples as his heart beat a little faster.
Carrying on towards Piccadilly station, trees now shrouded in a thick layer of leaves, he examined the scaffolding outside the Rossetti hotel, praying the printers had finished the Nastro Azzurro job by now. Erection date was in two days' time.
The traffic thinned out after the junction for the cab rank at the back of Piccadilly station and soon he swept up to Ardwick Green, taking the sharp left-hand turn and pulling up outside his office. He sat for a moment to steel himself then, feeling for the little bag of powder in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, he jumped out of the car and walked into reception.
'Morning,' said Sarah brightly.
Tom took the pieces of notepaper she held out and went straight into Ian's old office. First was from Jim Morrell in the IT department down in London. Something about needing access to the system in order to trace some missing files. More of Ian's fucking handiwork no doubt, thought Tom. Next was from Austen Rogers, asking for the exact dates for their promotion of X-treme chewing gum in Piccadilly station. Tom placed the piece of paper on his desk and slid his appointments book over it. Out of sight, out of mind. Next was from a rep from Motorola. He was arriving at lunchtime and wanted to visit the printer where their building wrap was being produced. Tom couldn't remember offhand which printer was handling it. Since Lorzo's went bust, they had jobs scattered all over the place.
Feeling slightly sick at the prospect of the coming day, Tom slipped the sachet from his pocket, opened the airtight seal and dabbed a forefinger inside. Licking the dust from his fingertip, he felt his mood lift with just the anticipation of the drug hitting his bloodstream.
He turned on the computer and typed in 'WINNER'. The drug had just started to kick in and he tried to convince himself that the word applied just as much to him. Opening the file for Motorola, he saw, with relief, that the giant poster was being produced at a printer on the Trafford Park industrial estate. He rang to warn them he would be turning up with the client later that afternoon.
By twelve thirty he was waiting on the platform at Piccadilly station. When the train finally pulled in forty-five minutes late, he found himself shaking hands with a belligerent-looking middle-aged man called Graham Lock who obviously resented any commercial event that didn't take place in London.
'This is a bloody mess,' he said, looking around the station at the boarded-up shop fronts with their 'Opening Soon' signs.
'All ready in time for the Games, 'Tom assured him as workmen furiously thumped tiles into place with rubber-headed mallets.
Sitting in Tom's Porsche, the man scanned each billboard they passed. 'Lust, envy, jealousy. The dangers ofVolvo,' he read out in a dramatic voice, before continuing with the body copy. 'Beauty, charm and strength of character are enough to drive anyone mad. Prices start at £24,860 on the road, so watch your back and discover more at blah, blah, blah, blah. Bit menacing, don't you think?'
Without waiting for an answer, his attention turned to the council-paid building wraps covering the derelict building at the end of Ancoats Street. 'New East Manchester. The New Town in the City,' he read out, scepticism filling his voice.
Tom felt a pang of irritation. 'Millions have been invested in this part of the city.'
They emerged from the other side of the tunnel, Tom careful to follow the designated route to Sportcity because the carefully arranged screens and building wraps hid the boarded-up houses and empty mill buildings, their windows smashed years ago.
After a few minutes they turned a corner and the futuristic structure of the main stadium loomed into view, angular struts poking up into the clear blue sky.
On the street around them posters and banners hung from every available surface: a yellow and black Boddington's cow standing outside the houses of parliament with a hitchhiking sign saying, 'Manchester', a young female gymnast in a Microsoft leotard midway through a flip, a ninety-six-sheet poster for the BBC reading, 'Commonwealth Games. Bring on the Superhumans. 72 nations, 17 sports.' Below the headline was an image of a sprinter leading a pack of greyhounds, sharp canines bared behind the dogs' wire muzzles.
Tom got onto the A57 and followed it to the Mancunian Way, whipping past various red brick University of Manchester buildings on their right before taking the A56 as it curled alongside the Manchester Ship Canal.
Soon they were on the A5801, Manchester United Football Club's stadium rearing up on their left, heading into Salford's bleak landscape of industrial buildings, depots and docks.
Coming to a halt in front of what looked like a small aircraft hangar, Tom announced,
'Here we are, Vision Printers. Proud owners of one of just a handful of Vutek 5300s in Britain today.'
Tom led the way into a cramped reception area and waved to a thin man with a loosely knotted tie. 'Hi Simon, this is Graham Lock. We were hoping to catch a glimpse of their building wrap as it's rolling off the Vutek.'
Simon and Graham shook hands. 'Follow me.'
They proceeded through to the shop floor, stepping off the beige nylon carpet onto a smooth concrete floor coated in a thick layer of pale blue industrial paint. The air was sharp with the smell of paints and solvent. Covering most of the grey breezeblock walls were a variety of supersize posters. Several printers were dotted around, but they headed straight for the massive one in the corner.
When Simon spoke, his voice echoed slightly. 'Here she is: the Vutek Ultravu 5300.' Long and thin, the machine stood about eight feet high and thirty feet wide. A huge roll of material was loaded into its top. Below it a printer head the size of a TV ran backwards and forwards along a highly polished rail, a wide ribbon of computer cable trailing along behind it.
'Essentially, it's just an enormous version of a desktop printer. Except it costs tens of thousands of pounds more,' Simon explained, opening a door at its base. Inside was a row of three-litre plastic drums, a pipe leading out of the top of each. 'Four colour — CMYK — printing process. The ink is pumped up from here into a secondary tank in the printer head. The computer takes care of the mixing and the ink is applied by means of a Piezo chamber.' Graham peered at the printer head as it toiled to and fro. 'Meaning?'