[b]Lignum Vitae Ltd.
Fulham, London
7:22 AM[/b]

Red’s eyes opened slowly to the sound of birds singing. The sun hung high in the air and for the first time in what felt like over a week, Turner had managed a good night’s sleep. He had no right to it. Every second that passed was another that brought the Old Bill a step closer to him – he had Charlie seeing red in the middle of the heist to thank for that. Iris was still dead. And Cecil was close to breaking. But with a good night’s sleep behind him, Turner’s problems felt a fraction more manageable.

He stole a look at the clock as he climbed out of bed and prepared himself for the day ahead. He’d promised Cecil he would take him for breakfast this morning. Best case scenario, he’d have the boy out of the corner before the day was out and the rest of the Crew could go underground until the heat was off them. However long that took.

Turner washed himself down in the bathroom sink, brushed his teeth quickly, and put on a set of clothing that was distinctly un-Turner-like. He was no dandy like Hanky Harry – nor did he worry about his hair being out of place as often as Charlie did – but Red usually made an effort to make sure he was well turned out. Today was an exception. He dressed down.

Once he was content he was prepared he sat by the phone and called ahead to Cecil, making sure to speak quietly so as not to wake Charlie. Each time the switchboard operator reported back that the call could not be put through. Turner thanked the operator and set the phone down with a disgruntled look.

“Probably drunk,” Red muttered, recalling the bottle of Scotch he’d seen Cecil clutching to his chest when he’d left.

On the drive over to Acton, Turner’s mind replayed the conversation he’d had with the Binneys last night. He felt the cold, gnawing hatred bubbling away in the pit of his stomach. Within seconds, he’d pushed it away again and reminded himself of the task at hand. He’d lost one crew to sloppiness before – he wasn’t about to lose another. There’d be time enough for hate once Cecil was out of the country and the rest of the gang were safe.

As Cecil’s flat came into sight a wave of despair hit Turner straight in the chest. His hands almost slipped from the steering wheel. A uniformed police officer was stood bolt upright outside of the entrance and the doorway was taped off by blue and white police tape. He composed himself, his hands now slippery wet with nerves, and made sure to park a few roads over from it.

The flags lining the streets flapped wildly in the wind as Turner trudged towards the flat. Each footstep felt heavier than the last. Finally Red stopped slightly down the road from it, spotting a boy, no younger than twelve, perched on his bicycle a few metres down from him.

Turner whistled softly to catch the boy’s attention. “What’s going on up there, boy?”

“My mum says I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

The voice was sickly sweet. That of a play-acting nine year old, not one befitting a boy that looked on the cusp of adulthood. Suddenly there was a mischievous glint in the boy’s eye, one that Red recognised in an instance.  The whole city was on the take. He almost damned his naïveté for thinking this would be any different.

“Is that so?” Red said, rooting around in his pocket for some change. “Well, what your mum doesn’t know can’t hurt her, can it?”

“Suppose not.” 

The boy bit into the coin to make sure it was real. Once he was convinced, he pocketed it and pedalled over to Turner with a knowing smile.

“My big brother says he heard shouting last night. The old Scottish geezer that lives two doors down from us was hollering and screaming about something. Then two coppers showed up and…”

The boy stopped speaking. Turner’s attention had been lost to some movement up on the landing to Cecil’s flat. The front door had opened and a police officer in plain clothes had stepped through it. Once he’d ducked under the tape, the copper reached into his coat for a cigarette and offered one to the uniform stationed outside.

“Oi,” the boy said, yanking on Turner’s sleeve. “Are you still with me?” 

“Go on,” Red responded with a nod.

“The boy that lived there, name of Charlie or Chris or something, rumour is he topped himself in the middle of the night.”

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but hearing the words come out of the boy’s mouth rocked him. Turner reached one of his clammy hands out to the wall beside him to steady himself for a moment. He thought of Cecil sat beside him last night, tears read from crying. [i]“I don’t know if I can, Alf,”[/i] he’d said. Red had thought that Cecil meant he couldn’t leave the country. Now he realised he meant go on at all.

“Cecil,” Turner mumbled to the boy as he drifted back to the conversation.

“What was that?”

“The boy’s name was Cecil.”

The boy shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, well the poor bastard’s dead now, isn’t he? I don’t think he’ll mind my getting his name wrong. Must have had worse problems on his hands if he did himself in.”

Turner nodded grimly to the boy by way of acceptance. Cecil had problems, alright – one’s that Red had brought to his doorstep. Had he not involved the boy in their plan both he and his girlfriend would still be alive, and Turner and the rest of his crew would be able to walk down a London street without looking over their shoulders. It was Turner’s fault. All of it. And if he didn’t pay for it in this life, he’d surely pay in the next. 

“You need anything else, mate?”

Turner shook his head. “That’ll be all.”

“Nice doing business with you,” the boy said, thrusting out a hand in Red’s direction. A few seconds passed and it became clear that Turner’s mind was elsewhere, so the boy shrugged his shoulders and began to pedal away. “Suit yourself,” he muttered as he disappeared off into the distance.

As Red lifted his gaze his eyes locked with the plain-clothes copper stood on Cecil’s landing. The officer nodded in Turner’s direction. Red nodded back instinctively, aware that to not do so might arouse suspicion, and then set off back towards his vehicle. His hands, first slippery, then clammy, were now sopping wet. By the time he reached his car he could barely draw breath. Thoughts clattered around his brain at one hundred miles per hour and the world seemed to be spinning around him. Through it all he heard one voice, over and over again.

[center][i]“I don’t know if I can, Alf.”
“I don’t know if I can, Alf.”
“I don’t know if I can, Alf.”[/i][/center]