THREE

Twenty minutes after Pat closes the door and fires Betty up, twenty minutes into his strange, last journey, Mickey Breeze is standing outside Wood Green tube station.

If Mickey’s life was a movie then the policeman watching him from through the window of his car would have sensed something wrong; something strange about Mickey’s rigid stance, the too-blank look on his face, the hard way his hand grips on the carry-all at his side. The policeman throws open the door, sprints across the busy pavement, maybe knocking an overweight commuter sprawling before tackling Mickey to the floor. The policeman shouts for his partner, who is already striding towards them. From somewhere unseen, pounding electronic bass music booms. Mickey’s arms are drawn tight against his back. The second policeman’s hands rifling through the bag, finding the stock, the bundled currency. A flash-cut to Mickey sitting in the back of the police car, handcuffed and sore. Close-up on the sweat trickling down his face, the anger and regret.

But Mickey’s life is not a movie. Thank fuck. So he doesn’t stand too rigid. He doesn’t grip too hard on the bag and there is life in his face. He’s an old pro, and whilst kids might be cheaper and oh-so-easy to recruit, he has a perfect record; he has never been caught. This has earned him considerable trust. The traffic-light turns green and the police car inches forward. The policeman doesn’t even catch his eye as the car drives off. He’s free to finish his cigarette.

Before leaving the pick-up, he had sampled just enough of the stock to check its strength. This tester has heightened his senses, sharpening what were already keen blades. He doesn’t allow the anticipation of success to dull his judgment, but Spencer does give himself a second to visualise it; at the drop-off he can get his money, get a proper hit and relax. Cash, needle and tranquility. Then he might get one of Don’s girls downstairs to wank him off- he’ll ask her to do it like his first girlfriend used to; excruciatingly slowly.

But for now, he watches everyone, while no-one watches him. He had the good fortune to be born with one of those faces that people just skip over. Brown eyes, plain features. No distinguishing marks. He moves slowly and the cruelty in him is well hidden.

Glancing at the electronic timetable, Mickey takes a coin from his pocket and dances it across his fingers. He makes a few passes, palming the coin from left to right, never once looking at the quick work his fingers are performing. He likes the delicate weight of it in his hands. He notices a small boy – red trousers, big blue sweater with a seagull motif, open, honest face - watching his tricks. Mickey begins flipping the coin high into the air, still not needing to watch what he’s doing. The boy’s eyes widen; he must think he’s watching magic. Higher and higher the coin tumbles. During the routine he glances at the timetable again and sees that he should make a move if he wants to get the next southbound Piccadilly. He makes a final flourish, feinting that the coin is spinning to its highest arc, but all the while it’s sitting securely in his palm. He winks at the boy, then spins around to join the queue for the escalators.

And by a stroke of luck, he’s picked the perfect moment to get in behind a pretty blonde. He watches her all the way down the escalator, getting a thrill from simply being both above and behind her. If Mickey could be both above and behind everyone, he would be. He gets as close to her as he dares, which is a familiar yet always pleasing game, and he discreetly inhales the sweet, nutty perfume of her hair.

At the bottom of the escalator, just as he is about to take the turn onto his platform, his mask slips for a moment. Some fucking tramp is sat there. Stinking rags and pleading eyes. The tramp reaches out a plastic cup for spare change, not even having the courtesy to ask politely, probably not even able to speak English. This dirty hand brushes past Mickey’s bag and he stops dead in his tracks. Without bothering to look back, he kicks out, hitting the cup of change out of the tramp’s grasp. Meagre copper coins splash to the floor and roll away. Although he knows he shouldn’t have let the mask slip, he walks on, confident that no-one will reprimand him, nor will they stop to help. He knows that people don’t care about each other. It’s what makes his life so easy.

As if waiting just for him, the tube train pulls up as soon as he arrives at the end of the platform. He scans the interior, satisfies himself that no-one inside is watching him. A few people get on after him, but they’re safe too. Mickey is the lone wolf on this carriage.

He is lucky enough to have caught the train with the pretty blond inside. He’ll enjoy stealing glances at her, each time looking away just as she starts to feel uncomfortable.

Putting his cargo between his feet where he can protect it, he looks at his reflection in the window opposite. There is the briefest lick of fear when he thinks of where he has to take his package, of what he will have to do to make the drop-off go smoothly, but he quickly gains control. This is just another job. He has never been caught. He is invisible. He loves the way the mask slips back on so easily; trepidation turning to confidence the way a coin can be flipped to show its opposite face.

The tube door whooshes shut and Mickey closes his eyes for a moment. He thinks he is safe.