window, pulling the thick curtains shut, swinging a hand to swipe at the dust that fell off them. He switched the light on, a bare bulb. They both wanted to do this quickly and without error. Also made it easy to take a good look at each other, the jolly Usman and the miserable Martin. The strain was written in bold over Martin’s face. So this guy wasn’t going to be a barrel of laughs then. Fine, okay, a prancing personality wasn’t the most important thing. The most important thing was that he was good at the job.
‘You want to take one packet and I’ll take the other?’ Usman asked him. He was quieter now, going for a calmer approach. If the other person was on a downer then you showed them respect. Usman knew he could grate if he got his tone wrong and that would scupper his hopes of working together again.
Martin nodded and Usman passed him a package.
‘We will need knives.’
‘Will we?’
It didn’t seem to matter to Usman if they ripped the packaging; it was the contents they wanted. Anyway, no arguments, so he trudged to the kitchen and found one sharp knife and a whole drawer full of blunt ones. This flat wasn’t well stocked, too rarely used for anyone to spend money on it. Usman had the keys for twenty-four hours, and it might be weeks before anyone else used it. He rifled through another drawer and came away with a pair of scissors that would do as a substitute. He went back into the living room and found Martin sitting exactly where he’d left him, his bottle on the table, unopened.
He gave Martin the scissors. He was already miserable; let him have the awkward tool. Usman took the knife and began cutting at the edges of the thick brown Sellotape.
‘Jesus, did they not want to get back into these things themselves?’
Martin didn’t say anything, nipping tiny cuts carefully with the edge of the scissors. It took them each a few minutes to get through the various layers of paper wrapping. Usman was the first to get his open, the contents smiling back at him. Blocks of cash, bundled together individually and then tightly packed together with thin elastic bands. He started to laugh.
‘Look at that. Fuck’s sake, man, will you look at it? How much you reckon is there?’
Martin looked, genuinely trying to work out a number in his head. He closed his eyes.
‘I don’t know. We will have to count it anyway. Is all the money the same?’
‘Same notes. Uh, hold on.’ He turned them all over, checking back and front of each. ‘Nah, they’re not. These blocks are all twenties, these are all tens. Shit. Imagine if they were all fifties, huh?’
Martin said nothing, cutting away at the last of his, not wasting a thought on what might have been. He found the same prize waiting inside his parcel. Bundles packed tight, some twenties, some tens. Nothing else.
Usman took a swig from his bottle. ‘Now we count?’
‘Now we count.’
It took over an hour. Wouldn’t have taken that long for people who were used to handling this sort of money, and it would only have taken minutes if they had a counter to use. They couldn’t have gotten a hold of one without someone getting suspicious, wondering why either of them suddenly needed to count cash. So every note passed through a human hand, carefully logged. It meant loose bundles being counted, not always accurately and having to be counted a second time. It meant a bundle falling on the floor and spilling everywhere, picked back up and counted again. It meant Usman going back to the kitchen for a second and third beer, the one thing he had made sure was stocked, and then to the toilet. Then Usman asking if Martin minded if he smoked, and going to the toilet to smoke because of the glare he got in response.
‘I have sixteen thousand pounds, exactly,’ Martin said when he had finished. He had tied his bundle back together into a neat block.
‘Uh-huh.’
Usman finished counting and looked across. ‘I got sixteen grand, exactly. So I guess
‘You want to take one packet and I’ll take the other?’ Usman asked him. He was quieter now, going for a calmer approach. If the other person was on a downer then you showed them respect. Usman knew he could grate if he got his tone wrong and that would scupper his hopes of working together again.
Martin nodded and Usman passed him a package.
‘We will need knives.’
‘Will we?’
It didn’t seem to matter to Usman if they ripped the packaging; it was the contents they wanted. Anyway, no arguments, so he trudged to the kitchen and found one sharp knife and a whole drawer full of blunt ones. This flat wasn’t well stocked, too rarely used for anyone to spend money on it. Usman had the keys for twenty-four hours, and it might be weeks before anyone else used it. He rifled through another drawer and came away with a pair of scissors that would do as a substitute. He went back into the living room and found Martin sitting exactly where he’d left him, his bottle on the table, unopened.
He gave Martin the scissors. He was already miserable; let him have the awkward tool. Usman took the knife and began cutting at the edges of the thick brown Sellotape.
‘Jesus, did they not want to get back into these things themselves?’
Martin didn’t say anything, nipping tiny cuts carefully with the edge of the scissors. It took them each a few minutes to get through the various layers of paper wrapping. Usman was the first to get his open, the contents smiling back at him. Blocks of cash, bundled together individually and then tightly packed together with thin elastic bands. He started to laugh.
‘Look at that. Fuck’s sake, man, will you look at it? How much you reckon is there?’
Martin looked, genuinely trying to work out a number in his head. He closed his eyes.
‘I don’t know. We will have to count it anyway. Is all the money the same?’
‘Same notes. Uh, hold on.’ He turned them all over, checking back and front of each. ‘Nah, they’re not. These blocks are all twenties, these are all tens. Shit. Imagine if they were all fifties, huh?’
Martin said nothing, cutting away at the last of his, not wasting a thought on what might have been. He found the same prize waiting inside his parcel. Bundles packed tight, some twenties, some tens. Nothing else.
Usman took a swig from his bottle. ‘Now we count?’
‘Now we count.’
It took over an hour. Wouldn’t have taken that long for people who were used to handling this sort of money, and it would only have taken minutes if they had a counter to use. They couldn’t have gotten a hold of one without someone getting suspicious, wondering why either of them suddenly needed to count cash. So every note passed through a human hand, carefully logged. It meant loose bundles being counted, not always accurately and having to be counted a second time. It meant a bundle falling on the floor and spilling everywhere, picked back up and counted again. It meant Usman going back to the kitchen for a second and third beer, the one thing he had made sure was stocked, and then to the toilet. Then Usman asking if Martin minded if he smoked, and going to the toilet to smoke because of the glare he got in response.
‘I have sixteen thousand pounds, exactly,’ Martin said when he had finished. He had tied his bundle back together into a neat block.
‘Uh-huh.’
Usman finished counting and looked across. ‘I got sixteen grand, exactly. So I guess
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