Mitch gets a text from his wife, Kellie.
Dad’s out of hospital. He says he’s going to kill you.
This would be a figure of speech to some, but Mitch’s father-in-law is the head of one of Manchester’s largest gangs, and once bought Mitch a police-issue Taser as a Christmas present. So you had to be careful with him. But doesn’t everyone have to be careful with their in-laws? Mitch is sure it’ll be fine – his marriage to Kellie had been the love that conquered all, the Romeo and Juliet that had united Liverpool and Manchester. Mitch texts back.
Tell him I’ve bought him a Range Rover.
There is a hollow knock at the flimsy office door, and his second-in-command, Dom Holt, comes in.
‘All good,’ says Dom. ‘Pots unloaded, box in the safe.’
‘Thanks, Dom.’
‘You wanna see it? Ugly-looking thing.’
‘No thanks, mate,’ says Mitch. ‘This is as close as I ever want to get.’
‘I’ll send you a picture,’ says Dom. ‘Just so you’ve seen it.’
‘When’s it heading out?’ Mitch is aware that they are not yet home and dry. But his big worry had been customs. Surely it was safe now? What else could go wrong?
‘Nine in the morning,’ says Dom. ‘The shop opens at ten. I’ll send the boy over with it.’
‘Good lad,’ says Mitch. ‘Where’s it going? Brighton?’
Dom nods. ‘Antiques shop. Geezer called Kuldesh Sharma. Not our usual, but the only one we could find open. Shouldn’t be a problem.’
Man City score a third goal, and Mitch winces. He switches off his iPad – no need for any further misery.
‘I’ll leave you to it. Better head home,’ says Mitch. ‘Could your lad nick the Range Rover parked outside the Sparkling Wine place and drive it up to Hertfordshire for me?’
‘No problem, boss,’ says Dom. ‘He’s fifteen, but those things drive themselves. I can drop the box off myself.’
Mitch leaves the warehouse through a fire exit. No one but Dom and the young lad has seen him, and he and Dom had been at school together, been expelled together, in fact, so no worries there.
Dom had moved to the South Coast ten years ago after setting fire to the wrong warehouse, and he looks after all the logistics out of Newhaven. Very useful. Good schools down here too, so Dom is happy. His son just got into the Royal Ballet. All turned out nicely. Until the last few months. But they’re across it. So long as nothing goes wrong with this one. And, so far, so good.
Mitch rolls his shoulders, getting ready for the journey home. His father-in-law won’t be happy, but they’ll have a pint and watch a Fast & Furious and all will be well. He might get a black eye for his troubles – he’s got to give the guy a free punch after what he did – but the Range Rover should placate him.
One little box, a hundred grand in profit. Nice work for a Boxing Day.
What happens after tomorrow is not Mitch’s business. His business is to get the box from Afghanistan to a small antiques shop in Brighton. As soon as someone picks it up, Mitch’s job is done. A man, maybe a woman, who knows, will walk into the shop the next morning, buy the box and walk out. The contents will be verified, and the payment will hit Mitch’s account immediately.
And, more importantly, he’ll know that his organization is secure again. It’s been quite a few months. Seizures at the ports, arrests of drivers, arrests of errand boys. That’s why he’s kept this one so quiet, talking just to the people he can trust. Testing the waters.
From tomorrow, he hopes he will never have to think about the ugly terracotta box again. That he can just bank the money and move on to the next one.
Had Mitch looked over the road to his left as he was leaving the business park, he would have seen a motorcycle courier parked up in a lay-by. And the thought might then have occurred to him that this was an unusual place at an unusual time on an unusual day for the man to be parked there. But Mitch doesn’t see the man, so this thought does not occur, and he drives merrily on his way back home.
The motorcyclist stays where he is.
3: Joyce
Hello again!
I didn’t write my diary yesterday because it was Christmas Day, and it all caught up with me. It does, doesn’t it? Baileys and mince pies and television. The flat was a bit too hot, according to Joanna, and then, once I’d done something about it, a bit too cold. Joanna has underfloor heating throughout, as she isn’t shy of reminding you.
The decorations are up all around me, making me smile. Reds and golds and silvers glinting off the light bulbs, cards on the walls from friends old and new. On top of my tree (it’s not real, don’t tell anyone, it’s John Lewis and you wouldn’t honestly know the difference), an angel Joanna made at primary school. It’s a toilet roll, some aluminium foil, lace and a face drawn on a wooden spoon. It’s been on top of the tree for forty-odd years now. Half a lifetime!
For the first four or five years Joanna was so proud and excited to see her angel on top of the tree, then there were two or three years of increasing embarrassment, leading to, I’d say, thirty years of outright hostility towards the poor angel. In the last few years, though, I’ve noticed there has been a thawing, and this year I came back into the room with Jaffa Cakes on a plate to find Joanna touching the angel, tears in the corners of her eyes.
Which took me by surprise, but, then, I suppose it’s been there almost a whole lifetime for her.
Joanna came down with her beau, Scott, the football chairman. I had been expecting to go to theirs – Joanna’s house looks so lovely and Christmassy on Instagram. Flowers and bows, and a real tree. Candles too close to the curtains for my liking, but she’s her own woman.
Joanna left it until December 20th to announce they would be spending Christmas at mine, and told me not to worry about food, as they’d be bringing everything down, all precooked, from some restaurant in London. ‘No need for you to cook a thing, Mum,’ she had said, which was a shame, as I would have looked forward to cooking.
Why were they at mine? Well, they were flying out to St Lucia on Christmas evening and, at the last minute, their flight had been changed from Heathrow, near them, to Gatwick, near me.
So I was convenient. Which is the best you can ask for sometimes, isn’t it?
Let me tell you something else, while it’s on my mind. We had goose for Christmas dinner. Goose! I said I had a turkey and I could put it on, but Joanna told me that goose is actually more traditional than turkey, and I said, My foot is goose more traditional than turkey, and she said, Mum, Christmas wasn’t invented by Charles Dickens, you know, and I said, I knew that very well (I wasn’t really sure what she meant, but I sensed the argument was slipping away from me, and I needed a foothold), and she said, Well, then, goose it is, and I said, I’ll get the crackers, and she said, No crackers, Mum, it’s not the eighties. Other than that it was a nice Christmas, and we watched the King’s Speech even though I knew Joanna didn’t want to. In truth I didn’t really want to either, but we both knew I was due a victory. I thought Charles did a good job – I remember my first Christmas without my mum.
Joanna bought me a lovely present: it’s a flask they use in space, and it has Merry Christmas, Mum! Here’s to no murders next year engraved onto it. I wonder what they made of that in the shop? She brought flowers too, and the football chairman bought me a bracelet that I would describe as a nice thought.