Don't Eat The Cake, Red

There were seagulls hovering over even this part of town. I was down in my alley waiting, this quiet gutter of the hotly packed city centre, and up above between the gap of blue and white between two high blocks of cement there were several gulls squawking and flitting between windowsills and roofs. I noticed them then because if you wander closer to the river or the seafront you have to keep an eye on the sky if you want to walk away without a nasty white surprise on your head, and even the sound of cries and wings makes me tense up and cautiously raise my eyes. I positioned myself in an alcove of the right hand building. An old friend of mine was introducing me to someone shortly in a café across the street to set me up with a job, and making first acquaintances with a bucket of bird muck dripping from your forehead is never the way to go in my business.

Checking my watch, I had just a few minutes to go before our rendezvous. I like to arrive early to get a feel for the area, and I was comfortable now as I leaned half my body on the rough dry concrete and tapped one foot slowly on the wet ground just outside my alcove shelter. The cafe was a regular meeting spot for me, perfect in its open visibility from inside and out, and always busy enough to conceal sensitive conversation without straining in a whisper. It also offered me this alley from which I could observe my associates arrive and keep an eye on any other shady individuals drinking their coffee and reading their newspapers before I even set foot inside.

I saw arriving in the glow of the interior my friend alongside an unfamiliar face, that of the prospective interested party, taking off their coats and sitting in the front window. I like to watch a few minutes longer to ascertain their relationship; at the hint of strain and edginess, I’m feeling suspicious. It appeared, however, that the two men had not even finished ordering drinks when my peaceful voyeurism was interrupted by the wet smacking of running feet approaching from the right of my alley and, barely having time to react, I withdrew further into my alcove as a flash of a brown jacket and bright red hair slipped past my view – a man sprinting by, not even turning his head as he violently hurled something down the alley before disappearing. The object he had thrown, a package about the size of a shoebox, but square, and wrapped in brown paper, landed squarely in a puddle and splashed, wetting the bottoms of my trousers with muddy water. I waited a moment, not sure what to do. The sound of the man faded quickly, and no fresh footsteps followed.

I glanced across the street. My associates had not seen the sudden action, and seemed to be engaging in quiet conversation, my friend waving his fingers slightly and frowning as he spoke. Good. I stepped out of my shadow – a seagull laughed above – and kicked the box gently. It was heavy, unmarked, and the paper was sagging pitifully below from the puddle water, dragging across the ragged concrete. I risked a quick look each way up and down the street – nothing out of the ordinary, no coppers, no-one pursuing – and decided to pick up the package and return to my alcove. By this time the gulls had gathered in masses and were crying something immense. I was running late now, but my curiosity has never been content with ignorance so I ripped the paper and prised open the box. I was expecting money, or more likely drugs, particularly in this part of town. Potentially lucrative, and at the very least interesting. Instead, inside the box lay a large cake - chocolate by the looks of it - and decorated with words written in lavish cursive icing that I struggled to make out due to the squashed and contorted state of it. Happy birthday… I squinted: there was something else, written in red underneath. Real… Ream… Real men?

Such was my concentration that the sudden ring of a phone seemed to smack me straight in the head and send me staggering back to the wall. It was so loud, and not my ringtone, and after a few seconds of staring around dumbly I realised, startled, that the sound was coming from the cake. I stared some more, beginning to feel out of my depth, and after a moment I realised what I was staring at. The icing, it spelt ‘Redman’. I blinked. Redman was the word people used to text me to begin an exchange when I first started in the business. It was my word, my code, my signature… Only people I trusted knew that word. My reverie was once again shattered as the ringing suddenly ceased, leaving a barren silence that was quickly filled by the rushing of cars and urban chatter. I moved quickly, stuffing my hand violently into the cake, tearing apart the writing from the centre, and rummaging around until my fingers closed around the cold weight of a phone. I pulled it out as the ringing began once more – even louder now, really biting – and answered immediately. I said nothing.

Neither did the caller, for a few seconds. Then – in a voice that was smooth and entirely unfamiliar to me, betraying a hint of a smile – I heard the words, “Look up”.

I did. Across the street, my associates were looking dead at me. Even from this distance, I could see the whites of their eyes and the trembling bulge of tears – tears of terror, straining to fall – glistening in the harsh light of the café. Behind them were two other men that I didn’t recognise, each standing with one arm on a man’s shoulder and one behind his back, concealed. I could tell from the eyes of my associates exactly what these men were holding. Both of my associates had a thin slice of cake – chocolate, by the looks of it – on plates in front of them. “Now watch.”

With his free hand, the captor on the right reached into the trouser pocket of his quivering prisoner – my friend, the one who set up the meeting – and pulled a small vial of clear liquid. “Oh, charming,” said the voice on the phone. I noticed that I was now trembling too. “That’s a classic. Enough to put a horse on the ground. Yes, yes.” The man then reached into the inside pocket of my friend’s jacket. “And what here?” The smile present in the disembodied voice seemed to grow stronger. The man pulled out a small revolver and smoothly slipped it beneath a napkin on the table. “Ah. Just to be safe. In case you had the willpower of two horses… Redman.”

I swallowed. I hadn’t moved an inch. “What do you want?” My voice sounded weak.

“Just watch,” Responded the voice on the phone “And listen.” At this, both my associates picked up a fork each. “You’ll want to hear this.”

I was watching my friend. He was watching me as he clumsily cut off a piece of cake and raised it, shaking with volume that was visible to me across the street. “These men were going to kill you. I stopped that from happening.” He averted his eyes to stare at the brown glob on his fork, fat and dense, and placed it in his mouth with a grimace. “In business terms we might call that a professional courtesy.” His companion was doing the same, with the same frightened look. “In personal terms, we might call that a priceless favour.” Both men chewing now. “But we’re both businessmen. I’m sure we can work out a price.”

I understood what was happening now, but I was struggling to process it all. Up above, the seagulls had quietened and many were perched on the edge of the buildings, enjoying the breeze. My associates were continuing with their food, but each bite seemed to bring more pain to their cheeks and more tiredness to their bodies. “These men were small-time. You’ll be working for me now, Red. This is a huge opportunity for you. Climbing the ladder.” The man on the left dropped his fork to his plate and his head slumped forward, but his captor caught his shoulders and kept him upright. My friend continued chewing laboriously. “You’re ours now, Red. I know you’ll do what we say.” He stopped, and slumped forward much the same, but his eyes found mine again, until the man behind him slowly eased his face forward into the wooden table. Then, slipping the revolver and vial into a pocket, both men briskly walked out the café and out of sight. “Don’t eat the cake, Red. We’ll be in touch.”