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The week after he intercepts Fletcher, that squirrelly little cunt, outside the London Miramax office, Raymond reluctantly ventures down to Brixton.
Under normal circumstances, Raymond tends to give this part of Brixton a wide berth, but he has unfinished business that needs attending to. Of course, that doesn’t mean he has to like being accosted by the overwhelming smell of greasy fish and chips when he pushes the car door open, doesn’t mean he has to be pleased about stepping into a piece of chewed-up gum the moment he sets a foot on the kerb.
But then, he can always take a shower after an errand in Brixton. The deep-seated discomfort of unfinished business doesn’t wash off that easily.
In this particular case, the unfinished business involves the shabby little boxing gym he is now staring at, with its peeling old posters and dusty windows, squeezed in between a butcher shop and a pawnbroker’s – or more specifically, the owner of said gym, who just so happens to have saved his life.
And this, right there, is the problem.
The problem being not so much that Raymond is still alive on account of the Coach’s interference, because all things considered, he quite likes being alive; but rather that he now owes the man a favour, and as a general principle, Raymond Smith tries not to owe favours to people who are still alive.
He much prefers being the one doing the favours. Not out of the kindness of his heart, mind you. It’s just that when he does someone a favour, they owe him, which means he owns them, which means having influence, it means being in control, and most of all it is really fucking convenient. Say, for example, a group of young men does what young men are wont to do – something awfully, terribly stupid. The man in charge of the boys’ education comes to grovel, and Ray benevolently agrees not to commit any brutal acts of retaliation. Now the man owes Ray a favour or three, and will pay him back by, say, coercing an adversary into shagging a pig and recording it for posterity’s sake.
It is all about balance, really, and that is how Ray likes it.
Coach saving his life upsets that balance. It makes things between them uneven, uneven means messy, and if there is one thing Raymond doesn’t like, it’s messiness. So, he figures that the best way to tackle this problem is to fix the imbalance of favours before it comes back to bite him in the arse.
In a manner of speaking.
“Not that I don’t appreciate the visit,” Coach says when he sees Raymond walk into the gym, although the apprehension in his voice indicates that he may not be quite as appreciative as he claims to be. He shoos away two of his boys who are staring, blatantly curious, then leads Raymond into his cramped, dimly lit office and closes the door behind them.
“But if you don’t mind me saying so, this place doesn’t seem like your usual locale. So, if you are here because you need something …”
“You saved my life,” Ray interrupts, cutting straight to the chase, and Coach blinks, his mouth still open.
“I did,” he confirms, but he makes it sound like a question, as if he fails to see the relevance.
“I am here to pay you back,” Raymond elaborates, a little stiffly, because this is the part where he needs to let down his trousers just a little, and not in a particularly enjoyable way.
Coach frowns. “Beg your pardon?”
Raymond heaves a sigh. “I don’t like owing people favours,” he says, very slowly, just in case Coach has suffered recent head trauma that might affect his comprehension skills. It seems to be within the realm of possibility. He does train boxers, after all.
“Who does?” Coach shrugs. He doesn’t look particularly concussed. “But you don’t owe me. I happened to be there, and I didn’t particularly want you dead, is all.”
“You shot two men on my behalf,” Ray says, faintly irritated. “That is no small thing. You and I were done – you could have walked away.” He pauses. “I would not have thought badly of you.”
“Because you would have been dead,” Coach nods.
“Yes,” Ray says. His eye twitches. “Because I would have been dead.”
Coach gives him a long, inquisitive look. Ray adjusts his glasses and absolutely does not fidget under his stare.
“Fine,” Coach finally nods. “Why don’t you buy me a pint then.”
Ray blinks. “A pint.”
“A pint,” Coach repeats. “A beer. A cool, alcoholic, barley-based beverage. Me, I’m partial to a good Guinness, but I’m not picky, really.”
Ray feels a migraine coming on. He resists the urge to press a thumb against the bridge of his nose.
“That’s not – that’s not how this works.”
Coach weighs his head. “I saved your life, you buy me a beer, we are even.”
“But – “
“With all due respect, Mr. Smith,” Coach says firmly. “You work for Mickey Pearson, and I have recently had a chance to catch a small glimpse of what your job entails. I am not going to ask you for a favour you might consider too preposterous and risk ending up in your freezer, sliced and filleted. My lads need me. Getting chopped into pieces might interfere somewhat with my responsibilities.”
“That is not …” Ray shakes his head, exasperated. “Why are you being so bloody difficult about this?”
“See, from where I’m standing, you are the one who’s being difficult,” Coach says. “Just buy me a beer, good man. We can go right now, there’s a pub on the corner.”
“We are not going to the pub on the corner,” Ray snaps, before his mind even has a chance to catch up with his mouth.
Coach tilts his head, puzzled. “Why not?”
Ray grits his teeth. “Because I doubt it is very clean.”
“It’s just a pub,” Coach shrugs, a little confused. “They aren’t involved in anything dodgy.” He pauses, backtracks. “No offense.”
“No, I –” Ray starts, stops, sighs. “Never mind. I know a place. Friday night. I will come pick you up. Wear a shirt.”
Coach lifts his eyebrows. “I am wearing a shirt.”
“You are wearing a polo shirt under a tracksuit jacket,” Ray says.
“Yes?” Coach agrees, doubtfully, as if Ray is the one who isn’t making any sense.
Ray closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Balance, he reminds himself.
This is all about achieving balance.
As it turns out, Coach does own a shirt with actual buttons that appears to not be made from polyester and suits him reasonably well.
Raymond’s appreciation for his sartorial adequacy is hampered somewhat, however, by the blood staining the front of said shirt and the bulk of a young giant who is slumped against Coach’s side. The lad has a couple of inches and many more pounds of muscle on him, but Coach is shouldering what appears to be most of his weight as they stagger out of the gym and onto the pavement together.
Ray blinks and checks his watch. It is 7 o’clock on the minute. At least the man is punctual.
“Look,” Coach says, when he sees him leaning against the parked car in front of the gym.
“I know we had a – thing tonight. But Ernie here got himself into a spot of trouble.”
Ray looks at Ernie. Ernie groans and keeps bleeding onto Coach’s shirt.
“Do I want to know?” he asks, immediately on alert. His 9mm is a comforting weight against the small of his back.
“Nothing that would interfere with your business,” Coach says and unsuccessfully tries to lift a placating hand without dropping Ernie in the process. “Girl trouble. Ernie here had his eye set on the wrong lass, is all.”
Ray shakes his head, a little mournfully. “Kids these days.”
Ernie gives him a disgruntled look. “You two do know that I can hear you?”
“You just focus on staying conscious, lad,” Coach says and pats his cheek in a fatherly manner, then gives Raymond an apologetic look tinged with what may very possibly be a hint of regret.
Ray drags a hand over his face. He thinks of the pristine leather seats in his BMW, thinks of how much he hates the smell of drying blood, and the face Rosalind is going to make when he asks her to let one of her girls detail the car.
“How about I give you a lift to the hospital?” he says, resigned.
Coach squints at him intently, then he nods, his face relaxing just the tiniest bit.
“Much obliged,” he says, and Raymond opens the car door for him so he can wrestle the blood-soaked young boxer into the backseat of Raymond’s very clean and very expensive car.
“Ouch,” Ernie whines when his shoulder jostles against the seat, leaving a streak of red smeared across the backrest. Raymond tsks and closes the door on him a little more firmly than strictly necessary.
When he straightens and turns around, he finds Coach looking down at himself with a displeased little frown.
“Pity about the shirt,” he says.
“Yes,” Ray nods gravely and squeezes his fist around the car keys. “Pity.”
“I still owe you a beer,” Raymond says, two days later. He is sitting in his car outside the flat of one of Michael’s distributors who may or may not have gone rogue, enjoying a cup of tea and the sharp smell of cleaning products, the latter courtesy of the women at Rosalind’s shop who took care of the blood stains on his seats. Theine and bleach, one of his favourite combinations.
“Protect your ribs, you clot!” Coach shouts into his ear, and Ray jumps a little, just barely catching his paper cup before he spills hot tea all over his lap.
“Excuse me?”
“Not you,” Coach says on the other end of the line, now at a more agreeable volume. “Them. You would think that I taught them better than this. Sorry, you were saying?”
“Beer,” Ray says, slowly. “Pub. You. Me.”
“Oh,” Coach makes, sounding just the tiniest bit surprised. “Nothing to worry about. You more than made up for whatever you owed me.” He pauses, sighs. “In fact, if anything I now owe you. Again.”
Ray takes a sip from his tea and contemplates this hypothesis.
“No,” he says eventually. “I still owe you. It is Ernie who owes me.”
There is a moment of silence, then the background noise fades away. “Speaking of which,” Coach starts and clears his throat.
“I certainly don’t want to sound like I am complaining, but it hasn’t escaped my notice that Mickey Pearson has not yet sent anyone to take out my boys for shooting up his vehicle.”
Ray straightens in his seat. “Now why would he do such a thing?” he asks stiffly. “Don’t be daft. They saved his life.”
Coach scoffs. “By sheer coincidence, as you well know.”
Ray stares out through the windscreen. “I haven't got the slightest idea what you are talking about,” he says firmly, then places the paper cup in the cup holder and undoes his seatbelt.
“Excuse me,” he says. “I need to go threaten a two-faced little rat.”
“Best of luck,” Coach says dryly, and Raymond grins.
“I will see you on Friday,” he says, and feels for the MP5K that is hidden underneath his coat.
“Send me the address,” Coach says. “I will meet you there this time. Just in case.”
“Right,” Ray says, and climbs out of the car.
“Of course. Just in case.”
Raymond can appreciate Coach’s sense of prudence, but it turns out to not be necessary: they both make it to the agreed-on meeting point without incident. The trip to the pub is not the problem.
The pub itself is a different matter.
“So,” Coach says slowly. He steps up next to Raymond, takes off his flat cap, and scratches the back of his neck.
Without turning his head, Ray throws him a look from the corner of his eye. A shirt again, even different from the previous one, sleeves open and rolled up to the elbows for reasons Ray cannot even begin to understand.
It is only a few minutes past seven, which means Coach is on time, again, even if it must have taken him a while to push his way through the crowd up to the barriers the police have set up along the street.
“So,” Ray responds heavily. Another headache is announcing its presence. Ray blames it on the smoke.
“This is the place?” Coach asks, a little doubtfully, and places the hat back onto his head.
“Was the place,” Ray corrects, just as the last remaining wall of the building starts to collapse as if on cue.
Bugger. He really liked that restaurant. Nice little gastropub, tasteful but not too flashy, excellent cured trout, and just the right amount of foam on his porter.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” Coach says, his voice wavering between apprehensive and intrigued. “But what the bloody hell happened?”
Ray lifts his shoulders. “A kitchen fire,” he says. “Officially.”
“I see,” Coach nods thoughtfully. “Do spontaneous kitchen fires occur frequently in your vicinity?” He sounds genuinely curious.
“It’s been known to happen once or twice,” Ray admits. He shakes his head, a little sadly. “And it's so bloody messy. Not very tasteful, is it. Why doesn’t anyone drown their enemies in the Thames anymore.”
A woman in front of them turns around to stare at him, appalled, then hastily looks away when Ray grimaces sharply.
“I should call Michael,” he says, a little reluctantly.
Coach raises his brows. “The place was his?”
“Not officially.” Ray stares at the pile of smouldering ashes where his favourite pub used to stand. “But there will be fallout. I’m afraid we’ll have to reschedule. Again.”
“That’s quite alright,” Coach says lightly, and reaches out to pat Ray’s arm. “It’s not as if they will be serving tonight, from the looks of it.”
“I suppose not,” Ray agrees. He rubs his palm across his forehead and wistfully thinks of the cured trout.
“You, uh –” Coach says, gesturing vaguely at his own face. “You have some –”
Ray presses two fingers against his cheekbone. His fingertips come away smudged black with ash and soot.
“Bollocks,” he says, resigned. “I need a shower, don’t I.”
Coach tilts his head. “That depends.”
Ray opens his mouth, but before he can ask for clarification, the phone in his pocket dings twice. Looks like Michael has already heard the news.
“Well, I’m off,” he says, and raises the phone to his ear as he is waiting for Michael to pick up his call. “I’ll give you a ring.”
Coach taps his fingers against the brim of his cap. “I’m counting on it,” he grins, then he turns around and disappears in the crowd.
He doesn’t, though, is the thing. Ring Coach again, that is.
And it is not just the fallout from the arson attack, which is messy, and thus frustrating, just as Ray predicted it would be. He sits through tense meetings with Michael over tea and tumblers of scotch, smiles reassuringly and noncommittally at Rosalind on his way out the door, makes a handful of unannounced home visits to tie up loose ends, and scrubs the skin under his fingernails until there is barely any skin left.
He finally caves and calls his tailor to place an order when his coat still smells of smoke after he takes it to the dry cleaner’s twice.
If someone asked (not that anyone is asking), it would be easy to blame his silence on the bloody wankers who were stupid enough to burn down a pub in a fully gentrified part of town – one that was under Mickey Pearson’s protection, no less.
But perhaps more importantly, Raymond can take a hint, and what Fortuna has been waving at him is less a subtle hint and more like a massive flashing neon sign. One disrupted trip to the pub, that is a coincidence. Two incidents in a row, and that is a pattern starting to emerge. At least so far no one has got beheaded or run over by a bus, and Ray thinks it is probably best not to further test his fickle, unreliable luck. Coach winding up dead in an unfortunate accident as a result of Ray paying him back for his valiant rescue would somewhat defeat the purpose of the endeavour, it seems to him.
Still, just because fate apparently is determined to prevent him from paying off his debt to the man doesn’t mean that the debt will pay itself. His business with Coach remains unfinished, and it is an itch under his skin, clinging to him more persistently than the grime of a South London council estate or the thick angry smoke of a house fire. Even the sensory echo of Fletcher’s sleezy hand on his knee had not lingered quite like this.
“What’s with you?” Michael asks him eventually, over paperwork and coffee in the Pearsons’ elegant living room.
“What?” Raymond jerks his head up, swallowing around a trace of panic in the back of his throat because that is not a question his boss should ever feel compelled to ask.
“Did I forget something I should have been doing?”
Michael raises his brows at him. “No, not at all,” he says slowly, not unkindly. “You never do. You just seem a little … unbalanced lately, is all.”
They have been working together for a long time, and it’s only to be expected that by now Michael would know some of Raymond’s tells. But reading Michael’s moods and thoughts is a significant part of Ray’s job description, and he isn’t sure he likes seeing their roles suddenly be reversed.
“It’s nothing, Boss,” he says quickly. “Only the clean-up from the pub situation is a fucking mess. The sooner we can wrap it up, the better, if you ask me.”
“Good,” Michael smiles benevolently, and folds his hands underneath his chin.
“In that case I have an errand for you.”
The errand Michael sends him on is Raymond’s least favourite type, the kind that involves a silencer and surgical gloves, and by the time Ray pulls into his driveway at the end of the day, he is quite ready to be done with the week.
He thinks perhaps he might go wild and put his socked feet up on the ottoman while reading the Times on his iPad over a glass of wine, and he rolls that pleasant thought around in his head until he walks past the iron gate and realises that there is someone in his back garden who doesn’t belong.
He sighs, reaches for his gun, slides around the corner, says “Hands up,” and then drops his weapon when he recognises Coach, who looks a little out of place next to Ray’s fancy barbecue, holding a plastic grocery bag in one hand, the other raised obediently over his head.
“I didn’t take you for suicidal,” Ray says, reproachfully, and flips the safety back on. “I could have shot you. Why didn’t you call ahead?”
Coach shrugs, apparently not intimidated by the fact that Raymond was pointing a gun at him not even five seconds ago.
“It’s Friday evening,” he says. “I thought it might be safer to meet here this time, what with your propensity for existing in the general vicinity of violent accidents.”
Raymond opens his mouth, then closes it again when he realises that he has no idea how to respond to that. He sets the gun down on the table, carefully, and Coach finally drops his raised hand.
“Of course I would have rung,” he continues, “if I had known that you also have a propensity for pointing a gun at unannounced visitors.”
“I don’t get a lot of unannounced visitors,” Ray says. “When I do, they are usually here to kill me.” He clears his throat.
“And I don’t like surprises very much.”
Coach cocks his head in acknowledgement. “Someday you’ll have to explain to me how someone with your fondness for routine manages to run a business like Mickey Pearson’s so flawlessly.”
“Someday,” Ray agrees, and leaves it at that. Coach doesn’t seem too perturbed by Ray’s failure to elaborate.
“Well, are you going to let me come inside?” he asks and lifts the plastic bag he is carrying a little higher.
“I brought beer.”
Raymond exhales slowly. “You understand that the whole point of this transaction was for me to buy you a pint, don’t you.”
“Well, I don’t like to show up empty-handed,” Coach says, lips quirked in an almost-smile. “But you could always offer me food instead.”
Ray runs a hand down his beard. He can’t quite shake the feeling that this entire business is spinning slightly out of control.
He also just so happens to have all the ingredients for a chicken vegetable korma in his fridge.
“You will need to take your shoes off,” he says. Coach smiles properly this time.
Coach does take his shoes off at the door, as instructed, and leaves them in the entrance hall along with his cap.
Ray puts the beer in the fridge and pulls a brand-new bottle of scotch from the cabinet, because after the day he’s had, he needs something stronger and better than a mid-range dark ale.
Coach accepts the whisky Ray offers him, sits down at the kitchen table in the chair Raymond steers him toward, and sips his drink while he watches Ray pull different kinds of veg out of various bags.
“This is not half bad,” Coach says approvingly, holding his glass up against the light.
“I would hope so,” Ray huffs, faintly amused despite himself. “That bottle goes for £1800.”
Coach drops the glass back onto the table as if it might bite him.
“You can’t be serious,” he says, looking appalled. “Why would you even open that? We could just have had a beer.”
Ray turns his attention towards the vegetables.
“I thought the occasion warranted it,” he informs the carrots that are lined up side by side on his marble cutting board.
Coach snorts. “Not even her majesty’s liver is worthy of that kind of drink.”
Ray takes a sip from his own glass before he picks up his carbon steel knife. “The money is spent, the bottle is open, we might as well drink it.”
Coach hums in reluctant acquiescence and continues to savour his drink, albeit a little more slowly than before. Ray focuses on his task, because accidentally amputating his finger during dinner preparations is the last thing he needs today, but he is acutely aware that Coach is watching him work over the rim of his glass.
“So,” Coach says eventually and sets his empty tumbler down on the wood. A little startled, Ray glances up.
“Thank you, the drink was lovely.” He pushes himself up from his chair, and Raymond furrows his brows as he looks back and forth between Coach and the ingredients on his counter.
“You are leaving?” he asks, taken aback.
“No,” Coach shakes his head. He takes two steps towards the kitchen. “I simply wanted to state for the record that you did indeed buy me a drink. The very fanciest of drinks, for that matter. Which means we are now even.”
Ray blinks. “We are not even,” he says, but it comes out slightly more doubtful than intended. It’s become a bit hard to keep track of the score.
“We are,” Coach says firmly. He is rather close now, and Ray realises that he is still clutching a kitchen knife.
“Because I’m not going to do this if you still think you owe me for one thing or another.”
“Do what?” Ray asks, now thoroughly confused, though he does have the foresight to set the knife down on the counter just before Coach crowds him against the kitchen island and reaches up to pull Ray’s mouth down against his own.
Oh, he thinks, as he feels some pieces falling into place.
The angle is a little awkward, the frames of their glasses bumping against each other, but Coach’s hand on Ray’s jaw applies gentle pressure, and after a brief moment of adjustment, the kiss is starting to be good.
Ray remembers to pull back just in time before he can get lost in the taste of very expensive whisky shared between tongues and the feeling of a hard body against his.
Coach blinks up at him, a little dazed, and Ray appeals to his own self-discipline.
“You know who I work for,” he says, because it needs to be said. “And the kind of work I do.”
The dazed look in Coach’s eyes gives way to something that looks suspiciously like amusement.
“I think I have a sense of the broad picture, yes.”
“And if I remember correctly,” Ray continues, “you were less than enthusiastic about getting tangled up with Mickey’s affairs.”
“I’m not planning to apply for the job of his chief assistant,” Coach says dryly.
“Good,” Ray says, and wonders why it feels like the conversation is getting away from him. “Because that is my job.”
“I know,” Coach smirks, and oh yes, that’s definitely amusement in his eyes. “I know what you do. Do you know what I do?”
That seems like it might be a trick question. “You run a boxing gym,” Ray says hesitantly.
“Yes indeed,” Coach nods. “But what I do is, I take care of people.”
Raymond wonders if he should feel offended. “You think I need taking care of?”
“No.” Coach shakes his head. He sounds serious enough, although that hint of suppressed laughter is still playing in the corners of his eyes.
“I know you can take care of yourself.” He shrugs. “But with that terrible luck of yours, I figure it might not hurt for you to keep someone around who can have your back.”
“Oh,” Raymond says. “Well. As long as you don’t smoke in the house.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Coach says, and pulls him down into another kiss, this one a bit more aggressive, open-mouthed, wet, messy.
Ray fists his hands in the front of Coach’s shirt and kisses back. He feels lightheaded and more than a little unbalanced.
Turns out that for once, he doesn’t really mind.