Lost cause, p.1
Lost Cause, page 1
Lost Cause
Ed James
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
7. One week later
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Afterword
About Ed James
Other Books By Ed James
Mailing list
1
Mark Campbell sat in the bay window, looking across the Bruntsfield rooftops towards the church dominating the street opposite. The school playground was empty in the morning sunshine. A box of light crawled along the stripped-wood floor of the living room, warming his bare feet.
A familiar view, one he enjoyed every morning, and usually with coffee. His head was thumping and he couldn’t believe he’d run out of the stuff. He tugged on his socks, then his shoes.
A double Americano from the café on the corner, then into the deli next door to get some beans. The locally roasted ones. Expensive, but so worth it.
Mark got up and stretched, his back crunching as he peered down at the street. Coast seemed clear, so he grabbed his wallet, phone and keys then headed out of the flat. The stairwell had that familiar smell of cat pee. At least this block was filled with old ladies rather than students. Aye, thank God for old ladies and their cats.
He opened the door and stepped outside into the cool air, the summer breeze carrying the smell of roasting hops up from the brewery.
Coast still clear, so he stepped onto the short path to the street and let the door shut behind him.
‘Mr Campbell.’
Mark stopped dead. His heart felt like someone was pulverising it with an electric wire.
Vic Hebden was leaning back against the side wall, casually checking his phone, a cigarette hanging from his lip. Sharp suit with black pinstripes, black shirt open at the neck, shiny black shoes. A big teddy boy quiff at least eight inches clear of a face criss-crossed by at least three separate knife wounds.
Trouble with a capital T.
Hell, the whole word was in capitals. Bold, italics, underlines and a font so big each letter wouldn’t even fit on a page of A0.
Mark scanned the street. Nowhere near busy enough to blend in if he ran. His car was across the road, even had his key in his pocket. Get in, lock the doors, drive off and Vic Hebden would be a distant memory.
Car doors opened and two big lumps got out of the back of a black Passat. Wearing suits and built like bouncers. A wiry one got out of the driver’s side. The trio had the perfect combination of muscle and pace.
Mark was trapped.
Vic put his phone away. ‘Mr Campbell, what a glorious day it is.’
Mark clenched his fists, but more out of instinct than any sudden urge to become a fighting man. ‘How you doing?’
‘I’m well.’ Vic kicked away from the wall and squared up to Mark. ‘Need a word with you, if that’s okay?’
‘Don’t think I’ve got much of a choice, do I?’
‘That’s true, Mr Campbell. Very true.’
Despite his thumping head and his fluttering belly, Mark gave Vic a polite smile, all business. ‘What can I do you for?’
‘Just the small matter of you being late on the last three instalments of your loan.’
It was all catching up with him.
Mark swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. ‘You know I’ll get it to you.’
‘Do I? Because that’s what you told me after you’d missed the first payment. And the second.’ Vic clapped Mark’s arm, hard enough to hurt. ‘Now, I’m a big believer in that saying, “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me”.’
Mark was nodding along. Maybe charming Vic would get him out of this situation long enough to come up with a strategy. ‘I know it well.’
‘In that case, you can appreciate that I’ve been a fool once. Some might even say twice. But I can’t be a fool three times, Mr Campbell. I want my money.’
Mark felt like he was going to fall over. He wished it. Begged for it. Just lie there, didn’t even have to be looking up. Get whisked off to hospital with a heart attack or a stroke. Anything. Just not here, feeling like someone was digging nails into his neck. ‘That might be an issue.’
Vic took a drag of his cigarette, dropped the butt on the pavement and stamped on it. ‘Now that isn’t what I wanted to hear.’ He blew the smoke over Mark’s face. ‘Mr Campbell, my side of our arrangement was I gave you the capital to clear your divorce settlement. Your only duty, Mr Campbell, is to pay me on time. When I loaned you that money, you said you were good for it. But it turns out you were only good for eight payments. You’ve missed three now. There are another twenty-five due after that.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pristine box of cigarettes and a gold lighter. He put a second smoke between his lips and sparked up. ‘When we got into this arrangement, I explained to you how it had to work, didn’t I? Men like you, who’ve pissed off every reputable lending institution in this land, you’ve no choice but to come to me. You begged me, pleaded with me to lend you some cash. And I helped you.’
‘And I’m grateful, it’s just…’ Mark’s guts were squirming now. ‘I explained to you how the nature of my business means I might go a few months without paying, but I’ll be good for the balance due at the end of the quarter.’
Vic winced. ‘You’re a smart man, aren’t you? Not many people have the brains to make it as an author. Even saw one of your books in Waterstones when I was in there with my dear old mother.’
That was a slip.
Vic having family meant there was a leverage point, not that Mark was in any position to threaten his mother.
‘Would’ve been smart for you to set aside the money for a rainy day like this.’ Vic looked up into the pristine blue sky. ‘I mean, it’s glorious, but you know what I mean. And I like to see the best in people, Mr Campbell. I like to help them out. But when people miss payments, it upsets me. Eight successful payments made me think you’ll be good for the rest. One missed payment made me think it was a blip. Two made me think it might not be. Three? Now three makes me think it’s running down the slippery slope.’
Mark froze. He needed to stay quiet. To let Vic get his soliloquy out of the way. Show he was successful in intimidating him. Then he could get some coffee in him and, with the benefit of a clear head, think through what the hell he was going to do.
Vic stood there, sucking deep on his cigarette and exhaling the dank smoke all over Mark. ‘So. When can you get me the money?’
‘It’ll be a few weeks.’
‘I need it by Friday.’
‘But it’s Thursday!’
Vic pressed a smelly finger to Mark’s lips. ‘Friday.’
‘I’m serious, I—’ Mark was struggling to breathe. The black spots danced around the edge of his vision. ‘How much am I due you?’
The question seemed to flummox Vic. He frowned, then reached into his pocket for his phone.
The kids were let out of school for their morning break, their screaming and singing invading their conversation.
Vic checked the mobile’s screen, then put it away again. ‘One hundred and sixty-three grand.’
That was a really deep hole. No amount of ignoring it was going to get Mark out of this. He had a faint glimmer of hope, though, but it wasn’t going to be a quick fix. ‘Okay, can I pay it all off?’
Vic laughed. ‘Mr Campbell, you can’t even pay off an instalment. How are you going to—’
‘I’ll get you it. All of it.’
‘Right. Well, that’s very noble of you, Mr Campbell, but let’s just settle on you getting me my outstanding payments, plus the next one.’
‘Look, I’m due a lump sum. It’ll go a long way to clearing it all off.’
‘How long are we talking?’
‘Um, a couple of weeks.’
Vic took a long drag of his cigar ette, deep into his lungs, then let it slowly out of his nostrils. ‘I really hate this position you’ve put me in, Mr Campbell. You’ve exploited my good nature. How we’ve both got daughters the same age. How it’d affect Kay’s degree if I didn’t help you. You’ve let me down, Mr Campbell.’ He grabbed Mark’s arm like a vice. ‘My job is lending people money. I really don’t want to have to do this, but I have to. It’s the part I really don’t like. Here’s the deal. You get me that payment in two weeks, or I’ll have no choice but to get some friends of mine to break your legs in such a way they’ll never heal.’
Mark wanted to smash Vic’s face into a pulp and run away.
But a man like Vic Hebden, doing what he did, even if he got away, he’d target Mark’s nearest and dearest.
He felt like he was going to throw up. ‘Deal.’
‘And I really hate this, Mr Campbell. I hate it. But you’re going to think a lot of things over the next few hours, chiefly about running away. That wouldn’t be a good idea. I want you to think about how I was waiting for you.’
Mark frowned. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Well, I called round and you could’ve been out. Or maybe you didn’t hear the buzzer. But I was here, waiting. Think about how I knew you were here.’ Vic blew smoke out of his nostrils. ‘Because I know where you are at all times, Mr Campbell. You have no secrets from me.’
Mark took in the street. Any of the other cars could belong to Vic, to his goons. To whoever was staking him out. And Vic Hebden wouldn’t rely on manpower alone. No, he’d have electronic means too. Probably had cameras nearby. Probably had Mark’s phone hacked.
Magic.
‘I’ll be in touch, Mr Campbell.’ Vic let go and set off down the street. ‘Two weeks, otherwise…’
And Mark now knew what that would mean.
2
Mark perched on a stool and sat next to the window. Felt like he was going to be sick. He tried to drink his triple-shot Americano, but his hands were shaking, badly enough to spill dark-brown liquid through the plastic lid.
He was in deep, deep shit here.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
He needed months, not days. And he had no idea how he’d get the money.
The black dots of panic were floating around his vision.
He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
And Calm Mark was back, hands perfectly still. He picked up his coffee, tore off the lid and sipped the dark nectar.
Bliss.
For a few brief seconds, he wasn’t facing serious physical damage.
The café was full of normal people. Two businessmen in suits talking like they were in a meeting. Three mums eating tray bakes in amongst feeding their babies. A skinny dude hammering away at a laptop, bobbing along to whatever his white headphones were playing, probably Lana Del Rey, judging from his T-shirt. The hipster behind the counter shook cocoa powder onto a pair of cappuccinos, then took them over to the businessmen.
Out of the window, though, the busy street, blocked by two passing buses.
Vic Hebden would have people there, watching Mark.
He couldn’t run. They’d follow him. Trap him. Break his legs, there and then. Maybe his fingers too. He’d never be able to write again. Dictation didn’t work that well with his accent, caught between at least three regions of Scotland.
Mark laughed. Even amongst it all, he was laughing.
The alternative was letting everyone see a grown man collapse into floods of tears.
He was screwed. Absolutely screwed. He’d tried to tell Vic he had a plan, but he had nothing. Nothing but morbid fear for his health and his life.
He needed to keep calm, focus on what he could do, not what he couldn’t.
Well, the best thing would’ve been to not get into it in the first place.
Now that the impossible was out of the way, he could think a bit more clearly. Walk up to the cliff and peer over, as his therapist would say.
He could just get hammered. Sit in the pub and get shitfaced. Or buy a bottle of whisky, take it home and sink it.
All that would get him was a day closer to his deadline and a thumping hangover.
No. He needed to find the money. And he needed it now.
His flat was worth more than the outstanding capital. He could re-mortgage it. But nobody would lend to him. That was why he was in this situation in the first place. And he could barely afford the mortgage as it was.
Still, he had to try.
He took a sip of coffee and got out his phone. Took longer than it should to find his old mortgage IFA’s email address, but he did. So he sent her a message.
And actually started to feel better.
A re-mortgage would give him enough to pay off the whole loan.
Okay, so what else could he do?
Well, the big elephant in the room was his book. That bastard of a novel he hadn’t been able to write more than twenty-five thousand words of, that he hadn’t touched in over five years. While the going had been good, he’d lived in the land of milk and honey. Then the going stopped being so good and the milk had soured and the honey turned into Marmite.
Still, he found the old contract in an email from Fiona Vickers. Long time since he’d heard from her. He didn’t even know if she was still technically his literary agent and he hadn’t bothered to stay in touch, just accepted the payments. Didn’t ask why the flood had slowed to a trickle.
The contract was pretty simple for a publishing deal.
A third on signature. Already received, already spent.
A third on publication, but the date was four years ago. And no new one on the horizon.
But the middle third was on delivery and acceptance.
If he finished the book, got it to his editor, got him to accept it, then he’d be due…
Well, maths wasn’t Mark’s strong point but even he could see that it was enough to cover his debt to Vic. All of it.
When he’d taken the money from Vic, he couldn’t even contemplate working for the money to get out of the hole he’d dug himself. Taking a loan was much easier. And the money coming in from his old books was still good. Now, though…
In truth, his head had been up his arse and the only thing he could write was a squiggle on a signature line.
Finish the book, then pester Hamish until he paid the cash.
That was it.
He needed it in two weeks. That was enough, right?
Mark sucked down some coffee and hit dial.
3
The restaurant door opened and Fiona Vickers peered in. Her long face with the chin tapering to a point. Hair scraped back, dressed like she was late for a session with her personal trainer. ‘Mark.’ She stomped over to his table. ‘You okay?’
‘I’m…’ The weight hit Mark again, pulling him down like a falling grand piano. He pinched his nose. ‘Not really.’
‘Talk to me.’ A smile flickered over Fiona’s lips.
Mark couldn’t bring himself to look at her. Outside, a heron was sitting on a rock, scanning the river, the Water of Leith. He’d never seen one in the city before, but maybe it was venturing into a new hunting ground. Now he looked at her. ‘Thanks for coming. I…’
Rule number one of getting a literary agent – don’t get an old university friend to do it, no matter how good they say they are.
