Back to Business

Ian Richards pushed through the busy Sunday afternoon pub, careful not to spill the two pints of beer he was carrying. He plonked the glasses down and took the chair facing his wife. He explained that the barman had said their roast dinners could take up to an hour, as the kitchen was very busy.

‘Really?’ Sharon sighed. 

‘Chill, it’s never as long as they say it’s gonna be, is it?’

Ian took a sip of cold lager. Worse case, he thought, they could have a few more beers than expected, before they ate. What a hardship that would be. It was then he noticed the guy lurking by the door. He wore a long dark overcoat, and a serious expression. Hovering by the entrance, wearing a menacing scowl, he obviously wasn’t here to drink and laugh, to catch up with friends and family. He was clearly here on business. And he was staring right at Ian, a question in his eyes.

Ian held his gaze for a long moment, before shaking his head. The answer was no. He wasn’t interested in whatever the man was proposing. Ian shifted in his seat, and tried to concentrate on the conversation Sharon was making. The guy at the door slipped away outside. Ian didn’t mention the figure he had seen to his wife. There would be no point in alarming her, until he knew exactly what they were dealing with.

The roast dinner was lovely, and the beer was going down well. This was what Sunday afternoons were all about. A nice way to finish off the weekend, before Monday morning arrived. Ian couldn’t full enjoy it this afternoon, though. He found he was distracted by the figure he’d seen and what that might mean. 

As they were heading to bed that night, he popped into the spare room. The room was at the front of the house, and looked out onto the street. He tugged back the curtain and peered out the window. 

His suspicions were confirmed. He swore under his breath. Standing over the road, facing the house, were two men. They were watching the house, the collars of their overcoat turned up against the cold. Ian had an idea of why they were there, and who had sent them. He pulled the curtains shut tight, and tried to forget about them. He turned on his side, in bed, his wife beside him. There was one thing on his mind as he drifted off to sleep. Jimmy Lennon, the notorious crime boss, wanted to discuss business. Ian wanted nothing to do with it. 

At five o’clock on Monday afternoon, Ian shut his computer down and shrugged into his coat. As he was crossing the works carpark, approaching his car, a figure stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing a dark overcoat over his suit, and smoking a cigarette. Ian ignored the man and turned to unlock his car. 

‘The boss wants to see you, Ian.’

‘I’m not interested.’ Ian growled.

‘Jimmy wants the old arrangement.’

‘You tell Jimmy, I’m done with him.’

Ian climbed in the car, slamming the door behind him, before angrily speeding away from the office and the figure watching him leave.

On the drive home, Ian’s mind raced. Jimmy Lennon was a gangster, a villain, a cold-blooded killer. Ian knew exactly what the man was capable of. He had witnessed first-hand, many of Jimmy’s wicked deeds. Jimmy’s world was violent and seedy, but it was also exciting and captivating. It was seductive, and had a pull. He could see why people were drawn into the fascinating criminal underworld that Jimmy and his cronies moved in. 

Later that evening, as they watched a reality TV dating show on television, Ian decided to mention to Sharon that the gangsters had come to see him once again. Without taking his eyes from the screen, trying to come across as calmly as if he was suggesting curry instead of lasagne tomorrow evening, he details how he had seen Lennon’s hired thugs.

‘Jimmy Lennon has asked to see me. I saw one of his goons after work this afternoon.’ Ian admitted.

‘What do you think you will do?’ Sharon asked, turning to face him.

‘I really don’t know.’ He sighed.

‘You said you were done with all that business. You said those days were over.’

‘I know, I know. They want the old arrangement.’

Sharon leaned in close to him, placing a comforting hand on his thigh, as they tried to concentrate on the television show.

One evening, towards the end of the following week, his wife was out with friends. While Sharon was making her way around the city centre, Ian was going to have a few beers and watch the Champion’s League football on TV. He did enjoy spending time with Sharon, but there was something nice, something decadent, about a night in on his own. A few beers, his own viewing of television, maybe even a takeaway. As his dad had said about his mother, he enjoyed time on his own, spending quality time with the TV remote control. 

Ian had just cracked open his first can, and the match was just getting under way, when there was a knock on the door. Ian felt sick. He knew who this would be. It wouldn’t be somebody going door to door selling, wanting to know if he wanted to buy their wares. It would be the gangster, the villain, the man himself, Jimmy Lennon.

Ian opened the door. Sure enough, standing on his doorstep, in his expensive suit, was Lennon. He grinned at him like a shark.

‘Good evening, Ian. You are a tricky man to get hold of. I’ve been wanting to speak to you.’

‘Jimmy, you better come in.’ 

Ian showed Jimmy though to the living room. He poured himself a large measure of whiskey while Jimmy made himself at home in the armchair and looked around the room. He pointed to the football game on television.

‘This is how you spend your time now? Watching sports TV?’

Ian simply shrugged.

‘You have a skill that a man in my position can use, and you chose to waste your time watching the football?’

‘I do not want this anymore. I can’t go back there. I’m done with that life.’ Ian said, his voice a pleading whisper.

Jimmy Lennon shook his head in disgust. He straightened his silk tie, fixing Ian with a glare.

‘You think you can just walk away from this? It ain’t that easy, son. You can’t just switch this off. Your profession doesn’t have a retirement age and a pension plan.’

Ian rubbed his face. How long had it been? Two years? Three? And he’d tried really hard, to put all that behind him, to go straight, to live like everyone else. He had almost convinced himself he was just like everyone else. He went to work at the office every week and talked about the football game, how the referee was a joke, how the goal should have been allowed. He didn’t really care about the game. 

Deep down, he knew what he was. He had this secret, this itch he had to scratch. 

But was he ready for Jimmy Lennon to take him back there, back to those dark places? Finally, Ian stated the facts.

‘You are a fictional character, I invented you.’ Ian said. 

‘You invented me because you need me!’ Lennon yelled. ‘You need to start writing these stories again.’

Ian nodded. He knew what he was. He was a writer. He rummaged in a kitchen drawer, like a reformed smoker scrambling around for a discarded cigarette. He found what he was looking for, a notepad and pen.                            

Jimmy Lennon was back, and Ian was writing again.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom