Fear

Jimmy's Sick To His Stomach With It...

Via his peripheral vision, Jimmy became aware of her beginning the familiar slow movement that led to her dance. That of course preceded- nothing. As, despite his success in stemming his tears, what caused them, remained in Jimmy’s blue eyes and, peering into them, Ringlets, to her abject horror, saw… pity.

“Maybe you’d better go.”

Given that his only objective was to escape before the volcanic explosion of her anger, it seemed odd that on reaching the exit, he couldn’t open it. Not like this, not without:

“Just call if... I don’t know.”

“No, you don’t.”
If a catalyst was required to propel him into opening the door he stood motionless at, the heavy glass ashtray whizzing by his ear and smashing against the wall, provided it.

Her screams rang in his ears as he ran down the hall, buttoning his jeans and zipping his Simpsons jacket. Her fury induced an all too recognisable panic. It was one Dear Mother had familiarised him with as an infant, and one which made the concept of hanging about for the lift inconceivable. Leaping the lushly carpeted stairs, almost a flight at a time, Jimmy wondered, as this terror had accompanied him throughout his lifetime, why he hadn’t developed a resistance to it? As the truth was, if there had been any change, it’d been for the worse. For in that moment, Jimmy was petrified.

At the foot of the fourth landing, the hotel’s sedate lobby came into view, forcing him into taking that last flight of stairs, quite literally, one step at a time. He’d composed himself enough to stroll through the reception almost entirely unnoticed. There’d have been no almost about it, were it not for the imposing commissionaire standing outside, glaring in, and making no effort to mask his disdain.

Jimmy’s phobia instantly shifted from neurotic women- to men in uniform. Though not as long-standing as the former, the latter was no newcomer in Balantyne’s circus of a psyche. In response to the doorman’s blatant disapproval, Jimmy nodded a Fuck You.

The language of nods was far more expansive than the spoken word. Even the dimmest amongst the Walking Dull was eloquent enough to summon half a dozen nods that expressed Fuck Off. Travelling at the speed of light as opposed to that of sound, the language of nods was not only a faster form of communication, but an infinitely purer one; its speed made the concealment of truth, nigh on impossible. Jimmy’s hyper-vigilance went some way in making his nonverbal vocabulary unusually extensive. The commissionaire, at six-two and around fifteen stone, didn’t need to be quite so fluent.

Nevertheless, he noted the teenager’s nod and responded with a shake of the head. One which conveyed, Wouldn’t be so fucking brave if I got you alone, you little cunt.

Given that this was true, Jimmy was left with two choices. He could proceed by opening the door in a civilised manner and feigning an ignorance of what had just passed between them. Or shove that door open and bowl through it, bearing a cocky sneer. The latter could be executed in the knowledge he’d come to no harm, as the chances of old Top Hat getting involved in a bout of fisticuffs over this, at the front door of the Basil, were zero. Nonetheless, given the gent looked as though he could punch through concrete, Jimmy opted for the former.

His choice didn’t go unappreciated by the commissionaire, who gave an almost indiscernible nod: All right. You’re not a complete wanker. The teenager nodded a ‘sorry about that’. The conversation was concluded with a shrug-nod combo from Top Hat, which effectively amounted to him calling out, Take care, son. The encounter’s denouement enabled Jimmy to turn for Sloane Street with a smile on his face and a spring in his step. One which came to an abrupt stop. As, not ten feet away, sitting in a white Mercedes, was the Persian. Fortunately, he was staring up at Ringlets’ flat.

Shocked into a fight or flight response, Jimmy Balantyne managed neither. Oh, his instinctive reaction had been flight, but something insisted, not only that he continue walking towards the car but that he did so at the same pace, with no variation whatsoever. Nice and smooth, being the aim of the game. Sounds easy, what with the driver’s attention focused on the mansion block, but the fear induced, on drawing level with the car’s open window, far outweighed what Jimmy had felt on approaching that Bond Street jewellers. Plus, in this instance, there was no reassuring scaffold tucked up his sleeve. At least the trepidation induced by the heist contained an element of excitement. There was none of that diluting this. It was dread unadulterated.

Sensing movement within the vehicle, Jimmy couldn’t be sure if it was discipline or pure terror that kept him from glancing towards it. Once beyond the danger zone, he crossed Basil Street, a manoeuvre that enabled him to glance back, without being obvious. It also meant turning right on Sloane Street, in the opposite direction of Knightsbridge station. A problem he solved by crossing further down and doubling back. As Jimmy turned, he witnessed the Persian casually emptying the car’s full ashtray onto the Basil Street pavement. Ringlets had earlier exclaimed that whenever this guy got drunk, he’d boast about his time in the Shah’s Guard, and the sadistic forms of torture they’d inflict on those suspected of insurgence. On seeing a half-eaten sandwich land on top of the ashtray’s contents, Jimmy had no doubt that those boasts were far from idle. At this point, a mental distraction became vital; torture scared the shit out of Jimmy as he suspected he’d crack and, you know, fast.

That distraction came by way of chastising himself over having missed, with only ten shopping days to go, an entire day’s trading. His momentary respite, however, proved to be a grave error, as the very thought of the festivities summoned the image of Dear Mother’s meeting the Screatons, for Christmas dinner, in fucking Chinatown. Despite the presence of numerous attractive women at a nearby bus stop, Jimmy bent over a drain and began spewing his fear down into it. For a full two minutes...