‘We should’ve dealt with this twenty years ago,’ hissed Gregory. He jabbed a finger at Rossiter. ‘I told you this would come back to haunt us.’
‘Remember who you’re talking to,’ said Rossiter, his voice menacing as he circled the table towards his press secretary. ‘If it wasn’t for me, you’d be locked away at Her Majesty’s pleasure, not to mention that of the other inmates.’
Gregory flinched at the jibe, and turned his head away so Rossiter wouldn’t see the effect his words had on him. It didn’t work.
‘Yeah. You remember,’ said Rossiter. ‘You owe me. Don’t forget it.’
He stalked past Gregory and moved to the window. The grey sky held a promise of more rain, and he watched, fuming, as a large airliner made its final approach towards Heathrow.
He wondered what his life would be like now, if he’d escaped to the Spanish coastline like so many of his compatriots at the turn of the new century, their ambitions cut short by the politics of peace. Instead, he’d jumped at the opportunity to fill the gap left behind by a northern-based crime syndicate, and obliterated the competition at the same time as his accent.
It had been Gregory’s idea for them to attend elocution lessons, of course. A new beginning, new ambitions, a new background history that only the proceeds of crime could pay for.
He snorted. His new identity hadn’t even been broken by the UK intelligence services. And here he was, about to embark upon the most audacious plan he and Gregory had devised in their entire working life together.
Rossiter turned and forced his anger into a corner of his mind. Gregory leaned against his desk, his shoulders slumped in the bespoke grey suit that clung so well to his frame.
He’d known Rossiter since they were in their early twenties – both studied at university together, but it was after a particularly raucous drinking session at one of the pubs they frequented during the long winter months in the last year of their studies that Rossiter had shown him the true measure of his ambition.
His words slurred, he’d laid out his plan to complete his degree, worm his way into one of the medium-sized construction companies that was experiencing a boom with the instigation of the recent Peace Accord, and use his influence once there to develop his own business – all within the year.
‘But what will you do for capital?’ Gregory had frowned over the remnants of his pint. ‘No one’s going to bankroll a property developer only a year out from his degree.’
Rossiter had waggled a finger at him, a lop-sided grin on his face. He’d leaned forward, nearly toppling off his seat, before clutching the table for balance.
‘Drugs,’ he’d murmured. ‘Lots and lots of drugs.’
He’d giggled like a teenager then, and the pub landlord had weaved through the tables towards them, swiped up their empty glasses and suggested they leave before they got themselves barred.
Rossiter wondered if Gregory could remember the conversation that night. The man in front of him had changed during the subsequent years, to the point where Rossiter felt that none of their alumni brethren would even recognise him now. Maybe one or two, yes – the ones Gregory had purposefully stayed in touch with, should they ever prove useful – but the rest?
He fought down the urge to smile. The rest would probably vote for them, given the way the polls were skyrocketing.
Rossiter flicked his wrists, checked his cufflinks, and then buttoned up his suit jacket. Eventually he spoke.
‘I’m sorry, Malcolm,’ he said, and cleared his throat. ‘You’re right. We should’ve kept looking for it.’ He shrugged. ‘But we had to get out of Belfast while we still could.’
‘I know,’ the other man whispered. ‘So we deal with it now.’ His eyes met Rossiter’s. ‘Once and for all.’
Rossiter laughed. ‘Damned right. I’m not going through this again in another twenty years’ time.’
‘This isn’t the time to be flippant.’
‘How do I look?’ Rossiter changed the subject, adopting his usual way of deflecting criticism.
‘Perfect.’ Gregory leaned over the desk and swiped up the loop of material that had been discarded. ‘Don’t forget your sling.’
Rossiter winked, then tugged the material from his fingers, and placed his over his head. ‘Happier now?’
‘I’ll be happier when you’re standing on the threshold of Number Ten waving to the cameras,’ said Gregory. He glanced at his watch, a titanium-framed model a former lover had gifted to him. ‘We need to go.’
He ushered Rossiter to the door, ran a critical eye over the man’s suit, then nodded.
‘Right. Let’s go and sell this story.’