Chapter 10
Trevor Winter, who’d be known to his friends, if he had any, as Tug, lived a ten-minute walk from the garden centre where he’d worked as a security guard/jack of all trades for the last three years, and the first thing he did when he got in was to sort the mail.
The post, masses of it, because the building held thirty flats on four flours, was pushed through the communal letter box once a day.
Early commuters stepped over it and often on it.
Up until three months ago, the old lady in flat seven had sorted it into piles, but she didn’t leave her home till nearly nine thirty and by that time much of it had been trampled; some, particularly birthday cards that might contain cash, was nicked.
But the old lady had done her best and her altruism had created an order of sorts.
And then she’d inconveniently had a stroke and died.
It had been the build-up of post, rather than the smell coming from her flat, that had prompted Tug to investigate.
Borrowing a spare key from the letting agent, he’d discovered her body, already liquidising in the summer heat, in the hallway. She’d been on her way to sort the post.
Since then, only Tug had made an effort to throw away the obvious junk and sort the rest but by the time he got home, it was usually a scattered mess; today, a scattered wet mess. Sighing, he got to work.
There was something for him.
Tug never got post. He made a point of removing himself from mailing lists. His old unit had moved to e-communications years ago and no one alive, so far as he was aware, knew when his birthday was. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d received actual post.
And this looked classy. A cream-coloured envelope, his name and address written in some sort of fancy script. And there was something inside. He tucked it into his bag.
Heads up, lads.
The words, in the voice of one of his old service mates, sprang into Tug’s head, putting him on instant alert.
He could feel blood flowing into his muscles, his heart flexing, getting ready to accelerate.
Moving nothing but his eyes, he took a slow, careful look around outside.
He took in the kids shooting into a basketball hoop on the court across the way, the handful of parked cars, the overflowing bins, the cat sitting like a statue on the wall opposite.
Tug felt sweat breaking out between his shoulder blades and made himself take a long, deep breath. All was well.
As he turned towards the stairs, he caught movement in the corner of his eye.
The car was back. A black Volvo, its windows darkened, was pulling out of the car park.
It had obviously been waiting in the spot by the bins or he’d have seen it as he approached the building.
He’d noticed it more than once over the past few weeks, registered that it was far too new and too fancy to belong to any of the residents who weren’t involved in criminal activity and had braced himself for some sort of drug-related gang war breaking out on his doorstep.
As he climbed the stairs, he wondered if a subliminal anxiety about the appearance of the Volvo – definitely real, he’d seen it several times – was feeding into an almost certainly imagined sensation of being watched. But whatever was causing these mild panic attacks, he had to get a grip.
In his flat, he stood the unopened envelope on the mantelpiece above the gas fire, before changing into shorts, T-shirt and training shoes and crossing from his bedroom to the room where he kept his gym equipment.
Tug hadn’t bothered with pictures or even mirrors in his flat; they gathered too much dust. But on the wall of the gym was a framed photograph that showed eight men in a high-speed boat.
Next to it hung another framed image: a black shield featuring an upturned sword with the motto By Strength and Guile.
Tug worked out for ten minutes longer than his schedule, all the while conscious of the waiting envelope.
When the time was up, he fixed himself a pint glass of squash with a sprinkling of salt and downed it in one.
He needed a pee, so he went for that first and then, as he was already in the bathroom, he had a shower.
Finally, when his usual schedule would have had him in the kitchen preparing dinner, he carried the envelope to the window. He’d needed reading glasses for a couple of years now and he polished them carefully before opening the envelope.
This is your token. Keep it safe. Tell no one. On the event of my death, it entitles you to an equal share of my wealth. Good luck.
Logan Quick
For several seconds, Tug stared at it in wonder. Then, for fuck’s sake! He was going to kill that twat, Nolly.