Free Picture of Innocence by Jill McGown

eyes. ‘I laugh.’ Knowing that his colleagues were parked in a van listening to his gangster impersonation didn’t help, and for a dreadful, heart-stopping moment, Curtis thought he was going to laugh. But he didn’t.
    And it didn’t matter that it was obviously an act; theirs was too, in the menacing way they stood close to him, their studied use of props, like the cigarette. It was all body language and striking attitudes, and he was better at it than they were. He had started out as an actor, before TV presenting had beckoned and had seemed a safer way to earn a living. It didn’t seem very safe now.
    ‘The deal was we took you to him.’
    ‘Then it’s off,’ said Curtis, and turned away, walking back down the alley to where the Jag was parked, forcing himself to walk slowly, deliberately, not to look behind him to see where they were.
    ‘Hang on.’
    The voice was right behind him; he stopped, his eyes closed, then turned, half expecting to see a baseball bat coming down on his head.
    ‘We’ll ask him. Where is this flat?’
    ‘Not far.’ He told them where it was, and walked to the Jag, getting in. They were still watching; he drove away, unable to see his colleagues’ van, just hoping that it was still in contact with him. A five-minute journey later, he let himself into the flat, lit a desperately needed cigarette, and waited, not looking out of the window, as he longed to do, not daring to expect anything, not knowing what to expect. He sat at the table, taking quick, nervous puffs, turning the lighter over and over between his fingers.
    Fifteen minutes after he had arrived back, the doorbell rang. Curtis stood up, went to the cupboard, opened it, pressed the record button on the equipment, closed it, and went to the door.
    Mr Big’s representative had arrived. He came in without speaking, and the package, encased in plain brown paper, was laid on the table. His hand hovered over it. ‘ Let’s see the cash,’ he said, and pulled just enough of a pistol out of his jacket pocket for Curtis to see what it was.
    Curtis, the man who policed the police, was already putting together a programme on the accessibility of guns on the street. Curtis, the man being thus warned, swallowed hard, and pulled a roll of notes from his pocket. It joined the package on the table. ‘OK?’ he said. ‘ Can we talk now?’
    The man sat down, and they discussed Roger Wheeler’s future requirements, the conversation relaxed now that the money was there and Mr Big’s representative knew he wasn’t having his time wasted. The talk was easy, but Curtis wasn’t. He was uneasy, and, though the lighting was purposely dim, horribly aware of his wig and fake beard, and of the pistol his visitor was packing. He hadn’t thought of that, and no one could get him out of this if it went wrong.
    The other man never lost his watchfulness, his wariness; any minute, Curtis kept thinking, any minute, he’s going to twig, and he’s got a gun, for God’s sake. He surreptitiously moistened dry lips as his supplier picked the money up and counted it. He wondered if he ought to have opened the package to make sure that it contained what he’d paid for. But there was no reason why he should be a seasoned drug dealer; he had been posing as someone with a bit of spare cash wanting to get in on a lucrative market. He had a feeling that he should have done, though, to be convincing. Too late now.
    The other man nodded, and stood up. ‘It’s a deal, Mr Wheeler,’ he said, pleasantly enough. ‘See you next month.’
    Curtis shook the hand that was held out to him, glad that his palm wasn’t sweaty. It ought to be. He closed the door as his visitor left, locked it, and put the chain on, leaning against it as his whole body suddenly went limp. He’d done it. He hadn’t been found out, he hadn’t been beaten up, he hadn’t been shot. He had done it.
    Then the limpness was replaced with a surge of triumph, and he threw his head back,