B

Chapter Two

Paper cuts stone

This is the sad truth about Graeme Kerry, for all that he thinks he is
unique, an individual, he is just the same as everyone else. Only more
so. He buys a book a week, sometimes he doesn't finish them. He
sometimes hates untidyness and cleans up in a kind of frenzy, other
times he will quite cheerfully eat with a knife and fork that are at
best smeared, at worst caked. He likes music, though not as much as he
used to when it was younger. He does alright with women, although
because he never makes a move until he is absolutely certain it will be
successful, he has missed out on a lot of opportunities. He doesn't
like his job and he is frightened of dying, frightened of being alone,
frightened of what people say about him behind his back.

Graeme Kerry is a cold reading.

Cold reading is what fortune tellers, psychics do, when they walk
around and say "Someone in the audience was close to a Michael, who
died of cancer" - it is statistically likely to be true of anyone,
especially in a big group. Likewise, "You judge yourself more harshly
than you judge others. You tend to have a few very close friends but
keep other people of a distance."

Dimly, young Graeme is aware of this. Every time he sits and laughs at
the weak anecdote recounted by a contestant on a game show, amused by
the poor quality of a life that produces that of the only thing of
note, a small part of his mind thinks "And what would your anecdote be
? How would you make yourself seem different to anyone else ?"

The only thing he does which is unusual is his fear of touching
consumer items which have been pawed and then discarded by others. He
always takes the second from top newspaper in the pile, lifts the book
or magazine to take the one behind it.

And that is the sole reason that he ended up with his coat, rather than
the nearly identical one immediately hung in front of it, that's how he
came to this situation.

* * *

Back in his house, Graeme decides that he ought to take a look at his
wound and is surprised and embarassed to see that rather than a gash,
it is a faint feathered mark, which hurts more like a sting than a
wound. It reminds him of something but he can't think what.

He's too late to go to work anyway and his mind is full of nonsense put
there by Grant. The only thing to do seems to be to find this Twitch
lad. He's sure that there's a number on his mobile for him.

* * *

Twitch is a boy who lost his name at school. Even the teachers stopped
using it. He had two names, Twitch, or "Fucking Chips". The teachers
used the former. Not at first, it took time for it to seep into them.
But he really did prefer this to whatever name he was given at
birth.

Twitch suffers from Gilles de la Tourette syndrome. When he was very
young, this manifested itself in repeating things. All children do
this, repeating what someone has said in order to annoy them (in fact,
if you ever really feel the need to have a fight with a loved one,
simply repeat everything they say for about ten minutes. It will send
them really badly off). But for Twitch, it wasn't a game, it was
echolalia. A compulsion to do so. A compulsion which also spread into
the need to regularly touch the toe of his right shoe, to regularly go
up to any light switch and tap at it; a variety of facial twitches and
then eventually coprolalia, an inability to prevent himself saying
things that popped into his head. It was not something he wanted to do,
often these things were the last things he would ever want to say, but
as soon as he thought how awful it would be to say them, out they
came.

He was small too, about five foot three now, but much smaller at
school. Mop of curly brown hair that seemed to grow back a fortnight
after he had it shaved into a number two all over at the barbers.

For about four weeks, other children at school tried to bully him, but
he just grinned good-naturedly at them. Once he began telling the
teachers to "Fuck off, just fuck right off", everyone warmed to him.
Twitch was, and always has been a genuinely nice guy.

He had problems at school with all but the most forthcoming of girls,
because after a few minutes of talking to them, he would tell them
exactly what was on his mind. With a few of them, it seemed to
work.

Graeme and he hadn't been particularly close at school, mainly because
Twitch had been adopted by a particularly nasty piece of work called
"Needles", but Graeme still sometimes saw Twitch around and thought
very fondly of him. A nice guy and if he stayed over at your house,
he'd always clean your kitchen before he left - made the taps all
shiny, like in an advert.

* * *

"Alright ? " says Twitch, into his mobile telephone, "Haven't seen you
in ages, Gray. Howzitgaun ?"

"Ah, I'm just off to the bank. Barclays, in the town. I could meet you
in there. Bout fifteen minutes? Lovely job. "

* * *

That was simple, thinks Graeme, getting ready to leave the house. He
has stopped faking his limp now that he has seen the injury. Just like
when he was a kid, how he'd fall off his bike and need to look at his
knee to see if there was any blood before starting to cry.

For some reason, talking to Twitch always reminds him of a girl he met
in a club. Beautiful she was, totally stunning and obviously into him.
He'd know her at school, where she'd had a slight excess of downy
blonde hair on her forearms and everyone had christened her "Magilla
Gorilla" after some cheap cartoon. He'd been talking to her and
realised that he couldn't remember her real name. How school
obliterates people. If he hadn't been so relentlessly ordinary, not
cool, not uncool, he would have been just some nickname now. He ended
up not getting off with Magilla Gorilla and thinking about it almost
ever since.

The leg still stings a little and he can't place where he's felt a
similar pain before. He's never been stabbed before, he'd know that. As
he opens the door, he can see in the hallway something that shouldn't
be there. It's the knife. The knife that the policeman stabbed him
with. It looks white, but glossy.

Graeme picks it up very carefully, it looks very sharp. The blade is
thin, incredibly thin. It seems to be made of very glossy paper, shiny
expensive paper. The sort that in magazines has a weight all of its own
and a particular thumbfeel when you turn it. The sort you only find in
fashion magazines.

It's a paper cut, he realises. That's why it stings so much. The knife
is made of paper.

He holds the knife and wields it a little, trying some swishes through
the air. It makes that noise of the air being cut apart. He tries some
Crouching Tiger movements, misjudges and ends up scraping the knife
along the brickwork. That should break it, but instead the knife has
carved a long mark along the brick. Paper cuts stone, he thinks, but
that isn't right. It is skewed.

This isn't a police issue knife. He's sure of that and he is
right.

Time to meet Twitch.

* * *

Graeme always feels uncomfortable in banks, slightly guilty. He spends
almost everything he has on disposable items, books he reads in a day,
records he plays three or four times, magazines he only flicks through
idly. He is sure that this leaves a sort of aura on him that banks can
see, that by just standing in one, he will expose himself to a rigorous
financial audit with someone telling him exactly why he is wasting his
life and his money when he should be making provision for his
future.

How can you sit through five years of school centred on the risk of
nuclear apocalyspe and the terror of AIDS and then suddenly switch to
making financial provision for your retirement ? Everything Graeme has
ever learned has told him that he won't make sixty-five. Cholesterol,
smoking, lack of exercise, Middle East crisis, global warming, Bin
Laden. He'll never make sixty-five and he knows it. There won't be any
pensioners in forty years time.

He gets a grip and sees Twitch in the queue, goes to stand next to him,
ignoring the sniping looks from others.

"Alright Twitch? " he says.

Twitch gives him a beam, he always seems so happy. Graeme envies him
that. Twitch seems to view the world as a place of wonder. He wouldn't
have been surprised by everything that has happened to Graeme that
morning, he'd have just got on with things.

"Paying a cheque in, " Twitch explains, "Though, I don't actually bank
here. "

Odd, thinks Graeme.

"Needles thought I should come here, " says Twitch and Graeme starts to
get a bad feeling.

Twitch's mobile telephone goes off. Twitch speaks into it, listens and
says, "Yeah, that would be funny. "

He whispers to Graeme, "Needles has just told me how funny it would be
to just stick this bank up now. Wouldn't that be a laugh ?"

Graeme remembers just how suggestible Twitch is. Not true of all
sufferers of Gilles de la Tourette's syndrome, but true of this one. He
also spots that Twitch has, under his coat, a gun stuck into his
jeans.

* * *

He has to say that Twitch is making an impressively good job of the
bank robbery, other than the minute or so when he was distractedly
fiddling with the pens on chains. What got the job done really was that
he blended unpredictability with politeness. So although he had told
the woman to "put the fucking money in the bag", he had done it in a
really softly-spoken voice and with a kind smile.

Graeme doesn't really know why he has drawn the paper blade and is
holding it half-aggressively, half-defensively, but he has and it seems
to be backing up Twitch nicely.

He's amazed how easy it is. In America someone would have tried to
tackle them now, but in England, everyone is still frightened of the
gun.

It is obvious to Graeme that Twitch has been set up for this, that
Needles has been taking advantage of Twitch's suggestibility. Prime
him, put him into the situation and then just give him the word. He's
never liked Needles, but he's always been frightened of him.

Needles was one of those kids who you never fought with, not because he
would always win, but because everyone knew he wouldn't stop. Everyone
else, they'd get you down, smack you around a little and that would be
it. There'd be an awkward moment where the fight was over and nobody
really knew what to do, and then the winner would just awkwardly say,
"Right then. That's it. "

This is why, boxing matches end when the loser doesn't get up off the
canvas. If they didn't end there, every fight could potentially go on
forever, or degenerate into the winner sitting astride the loser,
giving him the 'typewriter' (where you smack hard on someone's chest
eight or nine times and then carriage return by swiping at the person's
left ear.)

Graeme is nearly thirty. They probably don't do this in schools
anymore, not since PCs and mouses.

But the point is, Needles just wouldn't stop. He was not a playground
bully, he was Mister Blond. He would hurt you and keep hurting you
until someone else removed him, or maybe until he killed you.

Girls in blue uniforms are collecting bundles of money.

"Put them in the bags, " says Twitch.

"Sir, you haven't brought any bags. And we don't have any. "

And so it is that Graeme menaces customers of the bank with his paper
knife, demonstrating for good measure the way it can cut through the
ropes which govern the queue, until they empty out the contents of
their handbags onto the floor - a Niagra of pointless objects, tissues
and mints and long-dead lipsticks.

Graeme collects four handbags, only one of which is nice. The others
are patent leather and foul. The bank girls put the bundles into the
handbags and he loops them over his arms, still brandishing the
knife.

He moves close to Twitch, who is caught between showing the gun for
crowd control and touching his shoes.

"Are you supposed to leave with Needles ? " he whispers.

"Needles, " says Twitch, "That's right. "

"Maybe you should get your own car, " says Graeme. He bends down and
picks up a set of carkeys, "Whose car is this ?"

* * *

Needles waits in the car, the engine is on and he is making sure not to
make eye contact with anyone that passes by. This is the first time
he's done this job local with Twitch. They've travelled a little,
pulled five little jobs. This one, hopefully will give him some stake
money, let him move into the drugs business properly.

He looks at his watch, unprofessional. Time should all be in his head,
he needs to develop a sense of time passing so that he doesn't need to
look at his watch. That one glance, that can be the opportunity someone
needs to take him down. Count the seconds quietly in your head, he
thinks. Lesson learned.

He sees Twitch getting into another car, together with a lad from
school, Graeme Kerry, with four handbags looped round his arms. He
doesn't react quickly enough to this, the car is gone before he
realises that he's been double-crossed and starts the engine.

He drives angry, but not well and they lose him. He slows down, picks
up the mobile.

"Twitch, " he says, "Do you remember that film Pulp Fiction we went to
see? That bit where Marvin's head gets blown off in the car. Wasn't
that funny? Wouldn't it be cool to see that happen in real life?
"

"You haven't changed then, " answers Graeme.

Bollocks, thinks Needles.

* * *

The mobile goes again and for all his bravado, Graeme's hands tremble
as he picks it up. He was smart enough to persuade Twitch that it would
be better for Twitch to drive and for him to look after the
phone.

"What now, Needles ?"

"Grant, " says the voice on the phone, "We met this morning. I see
you've followed my advice. "

"Bloody hell, " says Graeme , as they continue to drive, taking turns
more or less at random, just to get out of the city, "What do you
want?"

"I've been speaking to lawyers, about your coat. It's as I thought.
They've charged your coat with four murders, but it'll take time to
come to trial. They have to play by some rules, so if we can raise
fifty grand, we can get your coat out on bail, buy ourselves some time.
"

"Fifty grand, " says Graeme, "That coat only cost me two hundred quid.
I'm sure there's another left in the shop. "

"There's far more at stake than you realise, " says Grant, "And
besides, if I'm not mistaken, you've just robbed a bank. Things are
moving forward Graeme. "

Graeme begins looking through the handbags, trying to work out how much
money is in there. Not fifty grand, is the best he can do. Not sure how
much there is. He and Twitch didn't go for the safes, just the money
behind the counter. The vaults would have allowed time for the police
to get there. Still need to think about the police, they know the car
registration. There'll be helicopters soon.

"What am I supposed to do ? " he asks.

"Well, " says Grant, "You need to decide where you're going, and I'll
meet you there. "

The line goes dead. Graeme looks over at Twitch, who is grinning and
every few seconds raising and lowering the little driver's eye-shield
pad.

"This is pure brilliant, " says Twitch, "Much more fun than when I've
done this with Needles. A getaway. Now, what's this about a coat worth
fifty grand? "

Graeme tries his best to explain everything that has happened to him
that morning. Twitch, as Graeme had expected, is not phased by
it.

"Magic, " he says, "I always knew there was magic out there, Gray.
"

He begins to chuckle, "Those policemen were funny Gray. "

Graeme doesn't think so, "Not so funny when they're sticking a knife in
you. "

"Ah, come on, " says Twitch, "You mean you don't get it ? You haven't
worked it out yet?"

"There's nothing to work out, " says Graeme, tetchily.

"You've just no sense of humour," says Twitch, still chuckling, "I'm
not going to spell it out for you. "

Graeme finds a road map, starts looking through it at places they might
go, London, Plymouth, Matlock. There should be somewhere that would
just leap out at him, somewhere obvious. But there's a whole country to
look at.

There. In Gloucestershire. A farm, isolated. Just an ordinary farm,
except that one of the buildings on the map seems to be long and thin
and almost exactly a mile long. He tests it with his thumb against the
scale markings. Just over a mile long.

Troysounce Farm.

Troysounce Farm. This nags at him. There's something about the
name.

"Christ, " he says, "There's a mile of gold!"