Conman by Richard Asplin Page A

for a man in a trilby hat with his underpants over his suit.
    “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
    “I know,” I said softly, swallowing the guilt, keeping it low. “I know, but we had a deal. You’ve got enough on your plate with the little one. It’s about time for her feed, isn’t it?”
    “Just about. We should … what’s that? Is that new?”
    Jane was staring at my tacky wristwatch. I waggled it and laughed and made some comment about a customer giving it to me. Chunky. Fake. Ha-ha, anything in the freezer?
    Fortunately for me at this point, we were interrupted by a toot-toot from the street and a buzz on the intercom. Jane and I exchanged shrugs. Sniffing and wiping, Jane moved to the intercom in the hall. I went to the window.
    A dull green Bedford van was at the kerb among the remains of Laura’s broken glass. First thoughts were another robbery. Same characters targeting the same street. But the bonnet was up, back doors open and a fluorescent Halfords repair kit was visible on the pavement. A figure sat in the passenger seat. An awfully formal car-jacking if it was one.
    Jane wandered back in.
    “A guy just needs some water for his radiator or something. Do you want to take him down a jug? I’ll see what we’ve got for tea.”
     
    “Evenin’ mate,” Henry said from the doorstep, his Antipodean smile failing to reflect my rather British panic. Despite the chill, Henry was in a bright surf-wear T-shirt and denim jeans cut off at his calves. “Thanks for that,” and he took the jug and shuffled down the steps in his flip-flops to the van.
    “What … ? Wh-what the hell do you want? How did you get this address ?” I hissed, jumpy, pulling the door to and following him onto the cold street. Under a black October sky, early Hallowe’en fireworks whizzed and whistled, bursting and banging brightly. “What are you doing here? Jesus …” I shivered, throwing anxious looks up at the soft light in the window above me. The television was flickering.
    “Forgive the interruption old fruit,” Christopher said, pumping down the passenger window, letting a sweet plume of pipe smoke escape into the night. He sat, comfy in a dark tweed jacket and striped club tie. “Knocking up the ole homestead and such. But my grandfather’s clock, while too tall for the shelf and standing ninety years on the tufted Wilton, is whizzing around like a gumshoe’s desk fan.”
    “ Gumshoe ? What do you want ?” 
    “Tick tock tick tock,” his pipe bobbed. “What’s it to be?”
    My heart slammed hard, fingers cold against the edge of the van door.
    “Consider the lilies of the field, Neil,” Christopher said, sucking on his pipe. “They do not sow or reap.”
    “Yes, yes and they don’t rip each other off at three-card monte either. What’s your point?” I could feel panic spreading about my chest. My throat was closing, fat and tight.
    “My point Neil, as I suspect you are aware, is that this planet of ours, this island earth, is divided into the strong and the weak. The hunters and the hunted. The circle of life, as Elton John revoltingly put it. Every mouse knows it is food for cats, every antelope that it is food for lions. Nature has designed us to freely exploit one another for our own good. It’s her plan.”
    I jumped at the loud splash beside me. Henry poured the water into the kerbside drain.
    Christopher was still talking.
    “Now in the savannah, in the forest, these roles are irreversible. Antelopes cannot choose to be the hunters. Creatures are born into their roles and they do their best to survive. In our species, however,” and Christopher’s eyes flashed, “the playing field is more or less level. We can choose to be lions or we can choose to be antelopes. Everyone makes that decision for themselves. Now, you think that in a world thick with lions, those who choose to be antelopes are, what? Saints? Salts of the earth?”
    A car hissed past us, headlights bright. A dog barked