King Of Ants

by Charlie Higson

Genres: Humor & Satire

Synopsis

It seemed straightforward enough. Sean had now consumed so much alcohol that everything seemed perfectly reasonable. He'd started planning the job already. The first problem was how to do it. Thirteen thousand pounds in an envelope seems a fair price for a man's life. Particularly if you don't know the man, he seems a nonentity, and you quite fancy his wife. And there's no chance of being caught. Sean is a drifter, working as a building labourer and waiting for something to happen. When Sean is offered easy money to tail someone and even more easy money to dispose of him, it's all more tempting than you might think. Except when you realize that you've been led up the garden path the whole way... KING OF THE ANTS is dark, disturbing and violently comic. In the tradition of both Joe Orton and Iain Banks, Charlie Higson pinpoints the casual vagaries of evil and its attendant powers. Unnerving, horribly accurate and wickedly enjoyable, it remains Higson's finest book.

Release date: September 17, 2015

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 304

Sample

‘Fuck off, Caesar!’ The dog threw itself up against the wire and the little kid jumped back. He was trapped on the concrete football pitch. The only way out was through the open gate further along. But the problem was the dog on the other side of the fence. The dog belonged to three bigger kids, who were sitting on an old sofa listening to a car radio. Each time, just before the little kid reached the gate, the big kids would let the dog go, and it would race along the outside of the fence snarling and yelping. So the little kid would stop and the dog would try to get through the wire to where he stood shaking and swearing.

The dog was too stupid to know about the opening further along, so where the boy stopped, it stopped. The little kid knew that if he got as far as the gate, then the dog would get through and probably kill him. It was a very simple game, and the big kids looked like they could play it all afternoon without getting bored.

Sean Crawley leant on the wall of the walkway outside his flat and looked down at the enclosed pitch. He’d been reading the paper when he’d heard the dog and had come out to see what was going on. The dog looked like a Bull Terrier, a Stafford, or possibly a Pit Bull. It was an ugly thing, squat and brutal and powerful-looking, with thick bowed legs and a massive head which ended in a short, pig-like snout. It wore an iron-studded harness strapped over its shoulders, under its chest and around its neck, making it look like a monster from the cover of a cheap science-fiction book.

‘Look. Fuck off, Caesar.’ The kid was trying to sound hard. The big kids laughed and the dog turned its head towards them and wagged its stump of a tail.

‘Call him off, Neville,’ said the little kid.

‘Come on, Caesar.’ Caesar trotted back to where his master, Neville, sat laughing and smoking with his mates. Neville was black, maybe about twenty – Sean wasn’t too good at judging ages – smartly dressed and wearing expensive sun-glasses. One of his friends was white, and the other looked like a Greek or a Turk.

‘You’re a chicken, Jason,’ said the black guy, roughly stroking the sides of Caesar’s head with both hands.

‘Fuck off, Neville, I want to go home.’

‘Go on, then. Nobody’s stopping you.’

‘Oh, yeah? He’ll fucking kill me.’ He was close to tears.

‘Nah, chicken.’

‘Let me go.’

‘Don’t be such a spaz.’

‘I’m going.’ He began to march purposefully along the pitch towards the gate, trying not to run. He was almost there when he glanced back and Neville let the dog go.

‘Get him, Caesar. Eat him, boy.’ Caesar shot along the fence with ferocious scurrying speed. Jason froze, then spun round and ran back from the opening. Caesar launched himself into the air and smashed against the wire.

‘Call him off,’ Jason screamed.

‘Come on, Caesar.’ The Greek kid slapped his thighs to attract the dog’s attention. ‘Let him go, Nev.’

Jason began to walk away again. ‘I’m fucking going,’ he said. The dog watched him, snuffled a bit and looked questioningly at Neville.

Neville pretended he wasn’t playing any more. He waited until Jason was just about to go through the gate and then whispered, ‘Go on, Caesar.’

‘No don’t, Nev,’ said the Greek. ‘Let him go.’

Jason thought about his chances, slipped through the opening, then ran like hell. Neville called Caesar back and clipped a hefty chain to the dog’s harness. The game was over.

Thank fuck for that. Although Sean had quite enjoyed the show, he hated the sound of dogs barking. The estate was crawling with them. Mangy cross-breeds for the most part, half wild. There were always a few of them about, sniffing round the bins and each other’s arses.

Sean went back inside and started to think about what he should wear. Duke’s phone call had been deliberately mysterious, and he had no clear idea what the meeting was all about.

Duke the big man. Always wanting to make an impression. Always wanting the upper hand. Duke the boss. He bet Duke had a dog, a big dog like an Alsatian or a Rottweiler.

He remembered when he’d first met Duke. A couple of months back, in Fulham. He’d been doing some decorating at the time, nothing fancy, cosmetic stuff mostly.

So there he was, in a quiet terrace, painting the inside of a tiny converted labourer’s cottage, when he went to answer the door, and there stood Duke. He was a couple of inches over six foot, well built, but carrying a lot of excess fat. Thick arms and a beer-gut. A typical builder’s build.

‘All right, mate?’ he said. ‘Is Mrs Schafft around?’

‘No. She’s at work. Are you the electrician?’

‘That’s me.’ Duke grinned. He was wearing a paint-spattered Led Zeppelin T-shirt and jeans, and carrying a tool-bag. He came in and looked around the hallway.

Sean closed the door. ‘She told me to expect you.’

‘Yeah.’ Duke dumped the tool-bag and studied Crawley.

‘Painting the place up, are you?’ He had long hair tied back in a pony-tail and a scrubby beard and moustache, which he scratched absent-mindedly as he talked. His eyes were covered by a large pair of half-tinted pink glasses.

‘She selling, is she?’ he said as he inspected the sitting-room.

‘Yeah.’

‘Bloody typical, isn’t it? Lives here for God knows how many years, does fuck-all to the place, then gets it all nice just to sell it. She’s a Yank, isn’t she?’

‘Boston.’

‘Boston? I’ve got an aunt in Boston. What’s she asking for this place, then?’

Sean told him and Duke chuckled. ‘Silly money, you could get a place like this south of the river for a quarter of that. There’s no sense in it, house prices, no sense. So, she got any tea here, or don’t she drink the stuff?’

‘Yeah, sorry.’ Sean made some tea while Duke had a vague look round at the job.

‘I suppose if we’re going to be working here for a bit,’ said Duke as he came into the kitchen to pick up his tea, ‘we may as well know who we are. I’m Duke. Leastways, that’s what everyone calls me. Don’t see why you should be an exception.’

‘Sean.’ They shook hands.

‘You a Paddy?’

‘No. I think me mum fancied Sean Connery.’

‘James fucking Bond.’

‘Well, Sean Crawley.’

‘Creepy-Crawly, eh?’

‘I’ve never heard that one before.’

‘Yeah, point taken, expect you got that a lot at school.’

‘Just a bit.’

‘Kids can be right bastards sometimes, can’t they? It’s like we had this Paki at my place, everyone called him Shitty.’

‘Yeah?’ Sean said quietly.

‘His real name was Shritra, or something, but we just called him Shitty. I expect he’d have been glad to have been called Creepy.’

‘Yeah. I expect he would.’

Duke didn’t work very hard. He’d potter around in the mornings, ripping up floorboards, swearing at what he found underneath, and taking extended tea-breaks. Then he’d sit in the pub all lunch-time, and in the afternoons he’d often disappear altogether. As far as Sean could tell, he had at least another two jobs on the go in different locations around London.

Sean plugged away at his painting. He didn’t like drinking at lunch-time because it made him tired and he couldn’t work afterwards, and as he was on a quote and not a daily wage, he wanted to get it done as quickly as possible.

Sometimes, while he was painting, Duke would come in and stand around and offer him advice. Duke had, of course, done a fair amount of decorating, like everything else.

‘You’ll get away with one coat there, mate,’ he’d say. ‘Tell her you’ve done two, she’ll never know the difference. You know what they say: what you don’t know don’t hurt. That’s the trick with this game, keep the punter in the dark. There’s no great mystery to building and that, but you’ve got to act like there is, otherwise they’ll cotton on and do it for theirselves. It’s like this wiring, I give her a price for materials, she don’t know what I’m buying, it’s all under the floorboards. I mean, she don’t know one end of a piece of wire from another. You’ve got to, like, understand the game, right? Everyone’s doing it, she probably does it herself, in whatever she does. It’s how the world works, everyone screws everyone else, see? So I reckon you can get away with one coat there.’

Sean just smiled and got on with it, but in the last week the sun was shining and he was winding down, so he decided that if Duke asked him, he’d go for a drink.

Monday and Tuesday, the big man didn’t come in at all, and Wednesday he went off with an older man at eleven and didn’t come back till nearly three. But on Thursday he put in a normal morning, and at half twelve he came clomping down the stairs carrying a long piece of flex and singing an obscene version of ‘Like a Virgin’.

‘I don’t know what wally wired this place up,’ he said when he saw Sean. ‘It’s chaos. I reckon it must’ve been some fucking DIY wanker. I’m surprised the whole place hasn’t blown up years ago. No wonder Mrs Schafft said she was having trouble with her lights. I tell you, this is the sort of place you turn on the light and the sink fills up. How long’s she lived with it like this, eh, for fuck’s sake? I tell you I do not understand some people. It’s like, by the time I finish here I’m going to have to have rewired just about the whole bleeding place. You might even have to come back and touch up your painting. It’s stupid, she should have got me in before you, she’s got it all arse about tit. I mean, you’ve just about done, haven’t you?’

‘Yeah, I’ve just got to come in tomorrow and tidy up a bit, and then I’ll clear out.’

‘Lucky old you. I’m going to be here for days. What do you say to a drink, then? Or are you still little Miss Goody-two-shoes?’

Sean laughed. ‘All right, then. You ready now?’

‘See, you’re learning. I’m ready any time.’

It was a beautiful sunny spring day. The air was warm and still, and everything looked bright and fresh. As Sean left the house, he stretched and smiled. He felt good. One more day, and then nothing. Bliss.

‘Yeah,’ said Duke as they strolled down to the pub at the end of the road. ‘You done a good job there.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I mean, I don’t mean to be rude, but what do you do for a living? Don’t get me wrong, like, as I say, you’ve done a good job an’ all, but you’re not a bleeding painter, are you?’

Sean laughed. ‘You noticed.’

‘No, it’s just when I first saw you, I said to myself, the first day I come in, I said, “He’s not your usual tosher.” And I’ve seen you work, slogging away at it. Like I say, you’ve done it well, but you don’t do it for a living, do you?’

‘No, not really. I don’t suppose I do any one thing in particular.’

‘You haven’t got a regular job?’

‘Not unless you count signing on.’

‘Oh, a dole queue scrounger, eh? A dangerous criminal.’ Duke laughed. ‘I don’t blame you, mate. How’re you supposed to live on the amount they give you?’

‘Yeah, so I do a bit of everything, really. Painting, gardening, bike messenger, typing things into VDUs, bit of leafleting, anything that pays cash, really. So I suppose if you were to ask me what I do, I’d say anything.’

‘Right. That’s what you need nowadays. The days of your skilled craftsman who could do one thing really well and was bollocks at everything else are long gone. There’s so many tools and corner-cutting shit these days, anyone can do anything. So long as you’ve got half a brain and you’re reasonably fit. It’s like me and the building game – you name it, I can do it.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Oh, yeah.’

They’d come to the pub, the Fox, a countrified little place with oak beams and a bare wooden floor. Duke held the door for Sean and they went in.

‘What you having, then?’ Duke asked, rubbing his big dry hands together.

‘Pint of lager, please.’

‘Two pints of lager, please, love.’ Duke leant on the bar and got back into his stride. ‘Yeah, I can do electrics, of course, painting and decorating like you, plastering, carpentry, plumbing, glazing, roofing. I could build you a place from scratch if you wanted, do it all myself, even the labouring if needs be. It makes sense, you see, cut down on your workforce, keep things co-ordinated. That way, instead of having to wait for some wally to turn up before you can get started on what you need to do, you can do it yourself. It’s like, she could have got me in to do the wiring, and what you’re doing as well. I’m not saying I’d have done such a careful job, but she’d never have known the fucking difference. Mind you, you’ve got to charge accordingly. If I’m doing three different jobs, I’m going to be paid for three different jobs, you see what I mean? It takes time to pick up those skills. So it doesn’t work out any cheaper for the punter. What’d be the point in that?’

The middle-aged landlady put down two pale pints of lager in straight glasses and Duke gave her some money.

‘Ta, love.’ He gave Sean his drink. ‘That’s the thing, you see, to be versatile and charge accordingly. I’ve done it all, not just building, I’ve done security, you know, night-clubs, that sort of thing, cars, there’s money in that if you know what you’re doing. Driving work, mini-cabbing, I could go on all afternoon. But that’s the trick, you see, these days, do anything, don’t tie yourself down.’

Sean smiled. It was funny to be advised by someone to do something that you’d just told them you already did. But if Duke wanted to go one up on his story, then who was he to get in his way?

They went and sat outside the front of the pub in the sun, and Duke took off his T-shirt. His skin was pale and hairless.

‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Yes indeed.’ He took a large gulp of beer. ‘And work breeds work, you see? Like money breeds money. I’m only thirty-four, but I’m doing very well for meself. Something comes up, yeah, give old Duke a ring. I’m very well placed.’

‘Why do they call you Duke? Is that your surname?’

‘Me surname? No. Me surname’s Wayne. You know, like in John Wayne. And his nickname was, like, Duke, and I’m a big bloke, so I suppose it seemed appropriate and all that. You know, Duke Wayne, Cowboy Builder.’

Sean smiled into his pint.

‘What a lovely day,’ Duke said, spilling some beer and massaging it into his belly. ‘I think I might take the afternoon off and go fishing.’

‘Fishing?’

‘Sure. Fishing. Magic. If I had the money, I’d retire tomorrow and spend the rest of my life just fishing. You know what my dream is? To own my own piece of land in Scotland, with my own lake, or loch, or whatever they call them up there, and my own stretch of river, full of lovely trout and salmon. Just sit there all day, fishing and drinking Scotch.’

‘I’ll leave the fish to you, if you don’t mind,’ Sean said, picking some dried paint off the back of his hand. ‘But I’ll join you on your estate for some whisky.’

‘Nah, there’s no need to take the piss. I know I’ll never own me own beat, but that’s not the point. It’s just like, you know, something to think about. I mean, you must have some plans, stupid plans, dreams.’ He looked at Sean with a half-amused, half-serious look on his face.

‘I don’t know.’ Sean wasn’t committing himself.

‘Oh, come on, don’t tell me you want to spend the rest of your life sitting around scratching your arse on the dole.’

‘That’s not all I do.’

‘Oh, right, I forgot, you paint people’s houses white and all, don’t you? Very fulfilling. That’s all you ever wanted in life, is it? Don’t give me that, there’s got to be more, there’s always more.’

‘Not really. I’m quite happy, as it goes.’

‘Oh, fuck off.’ Duke shook his head.

‘No, it’s true,’ Sean said. ‘I’m fine. I get a lot of spare time, I do what I want. I’ve generally got enough money to be comfortable. I’m fine.’

‘Yeah, right, so if I offered you a million pounds you’d turn it down?’

‘No, of course not: But I’m not going to break my back trying to make a million pounds.’

‘That’s not what I meant, though, was it? I’m talking about what you’d like to do in an ideal world.’

‘An ideal world, eh? I really don’t know.’

‘There must be something. You must have some stupid fantasy. Like being a film star or an astronaut.’

‘An astronaut? No way.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Really stupid fantasies?’ Sean thought for a moment. ‘Well, when I was a kid I wanted to be James Bond. I guess that’s what comes of being named after Sean Connery.’

‘Nah, every kid wants to be James Bond. But I’m not talking about that, I’m talking about now.’

Sean watched the pattern of light on the pavement, refracted through his glass.

‘I should think most people’s fantasies are pretty similar, really,’ he said, ‘when you come down to it.’

‘You think so?’ Duke asked.

‘Yeah. You know, money, fast cars, women. Everything you see on the TV.’

‘And you’re above all that, are you?’

‘No, of course I’m not. I’m the same as everyone else. That’s what I’m saying. We all want to be like people in films, you know, like, a cowboy, or a cop, or a private eye, or something.’

‘Private eye? Who wants to be a private eye?’ said Duke laughing.

‘Yeah, you know, Philip Marlowe, Mike Hammer.’

‘Bergerac.’

‘I thought he was a copper.’

‘Don’t know, I never watch it. So that’s what you want to be, is it? A private eye?’

‘Nah, not really,’ Sean said, leaning back and tilting his face towards the sun. ‘But they do seem to have a pretty good time of it with the car chases and the shoot-outs and the beautiful women.’

‘You don’t need to be a detective in order to get off with beautiful women.’

‘I’m not talking seriously, am I?’ said Sean. ‘I thought we were talking about stupid fantasies.’

‘Stupid’s the word. You really think about being a detective?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘Yeah, well, perhaps you could go and detect a pint of beer for us.’

‘Sorry, what you having? Same again?’

‘Please.’

When Sean returned from the bar with the two fresh pints, Duke was playing wth a young cat and giggling.

‘Look at this little bastard,’ he said, boxing with it. ‘I love cats.’

‘It’s funny,’ Sean said, putting the beers down on the bench. ‘I was reading this article about private eyes just the other day.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah, you know, what it’s really like to be a modern private detective.’

‘And?’

‘Well, it looked dead boring, actually. It’s all divorces and kids with their fingers in the till.’

‘Yeah, well, everyone knows that. It’s not Sherlock Holmes any more, is it?’

‘Yeah,’ Sean smiled. ‘But it did set me thinking.’

‘What about?’

‘Money-making scheme.’

‘Yeah? And?’

‘Well, all the companies in this article, all the agencies, made one thing very clear.’

‘What’s that?’

‘They’d never touch anything dodgy, never do anything illegal, always keep within the law, everything above board.’

‘They have to say that, don’t they?’ Duke scoffed.

‘No, it’s not worth their while to break the law. They wouldn’t be able to survive. If they’re not respectable, respectable people won’t use them.’

‘Maybe.’

‘But on the other hand, there’s bound to be loads of unrespectable people who did want stuff done which isn’t, you know, strictly within the law. So, what if you set up an agency that only dealt with dodgy work?’

‘You’re fucking crazy,’ laughed Duke. ‘How do you advertise? “Sean Crawley Detective Agency, nothing legal considered”?’

‘Yeah, I know it’s a stupid idea, but there’s bound to be some money in it. Clean up on all the dirty jobs.’

‘What about ethics?’

‘What about it?’ said Sean. ‘It’s a county near Thuthex, ithn’t it?’

‘Oh, very funny, you stupid twat. But I’m serious. You’re talking about breaking the law, becoming a criminal. I mean, what about that side of things?’

‘Well, you’d have to have no scruples, obviously.’

‘What about you, then? Have you got any scruples?’

‘I don’t know … I just think something like that would be more interesting than painting.’

‘You silly wanker. I’ll stick to fishing, I think.’

‘Tell you what, I’ll set up my dodgy agency as soon as you’ve bought your castle in Scotland.’

‘Yeah, and I’ll bring you some flowers in the nick, mate. Or put them on your grave.’ Duke picked up the cat and blew into its face. ‘I mean, look at you, you’re a nice, quiet, decent little bloke, really, aren’t you?’

‘What makes you think that? You don’t know me.’

‘I know you well enough.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yeah. You know nothing about crime, you know nothing about the law, you’re a scrawny little sod who looks like he’d come off worse in a fight with this kitten. You stick to painting houses, mate. You may not be a professional, but you get the job done.’

‘Yeah, well, maybe you’re wrong, Duke. I learnt decorating, I can learn about anything else.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake …’

‘I’m only joking. I’m not serious about it, am I? I just thought it was an interesting idea. Possible gap in the market. I’ve got no intention of doing anything about it. I’ll let someone else follow it up.’

‘Some other nutter.’

‘Probably. Look, I know I’m never going to be a detective, criminal or otherwise. But I’m going to do something, I know it. I’m not going to be a decorator all my life.’

‘Oh, yeah? Then what?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve just got this feeling. One day it’ll suddenly hit me, and I’ll see the rest of my life mapped out, I’ll know what I was always meant to be.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Yeah, I think so. I mean, at school, they ask you what you want to be, and there’s about three options, I don’t know, join the army, work in a factory, work in a bank, go to college. It seems such a small choice. But there’s millions of jobs out there. I don’t even know what half of them are. So how am I supposed to know what I want to be?’

‘You better make your mind up pretty quick. You won’t be young for ever.’

‘I’m younger than you,’ Sean said.

‘Yeah, but I’ve got a job. I’m a builder. It was the only thing I ever considered. See, I’m not such an optimist as you, I’ll stick with it and not wait for something else to come along, some magic job. And if I were you, you shouldn’t either. It might seem easy now, but believe you me, it gets harder as you get older.’

‘Yeah?’ said Sean. ‘So what do you think I should do?’

‘You’re not a bad decorator, and there’s money in it.’

‘Oh, great. One minute you say I don’t look like I do this for a living, and the next you tell me to stick with it.’

‘No, I mean it, you done a good job. You just don’t look like a painter, that’s all. If you give us your number when you go, I may be able to put some work your way. That’s the thing about contacts, I can get into sub-contracting, make money without even getting out of bed.’

‘We all screw each other, huh?’

‘Yeah. So give us your number and if something comes up, who knows? Tell you what, give us it now, so I don’t forget.’ He took a small notebook from his pocket, and Sean told him the number.

‘Where’s that, then?’ said Duke, frowning. ‘I recognize that code.’

‘Hackney.’

‘Hackney!’ Duke grinned as if at some private joke. ‘Oh yes, I know Hackney.’

That was how it had begun. Duke with his T-shirt off playing with a kitten in the sun; Sean, relaxed on two pints of lager, rambling on about his stupid schemes; none of it meant to be taken seriously. Chance. A chain of chance. A million random switches close and you’re trapped.

When Sean left the job in Fulham, that was the last he thought he’d ever see of Duke Wayne. On the Friday evening he’d packed up his gear, gone home, got into the bath and slipped into oblivion.

He forgot all about Duke and the job until, five weeks later, as he was struggling into his flat with two carrier-bags full of shopping, the phone rang.

He dumped the bags and picked up the receiver. It was Duke, wanting to know if he was busy.

‘Not really, no,’ said Sean, slightly out of breath.

‘Well, I just might have something for you, mate.’

‘What is it? Painting?’ Sean felt a bit pissed off; he hadn’t wanted any more work for a while.

‘Not exactly.’

‘Well, what then? Not labouring?’

‘No, no. I’ll tell you when I see you, all right?’

‘See me?’

‘Yeah. Where’s easy for you?’

‘Anywhere within reason, I suppose, but …’

‘How’s Highbury Corner?’

‘Okay …’

‘Great. You know the Cock? By the station there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Meet me there at seven o’clock, all right? I’ve got a little proposition for you.’

‘What? What sort of proposition?’

‘You’ll see. But I think you’ll be interested.’

‘And it’s not painting?’

‘It’s nothing like painting. I’ll see you at seven, then.’

‘All right, if you want to be mysterious about it …’

Duke laughed and hung up.

So now Sean was considering what to wear. He didn’t want to dress up in any way, but he didn’t want to dress down, either. He had to look normal, like a completely ordinary person. He had no idea what the work might be, so he had to keep up the impression he had tried to give Duke, of someone who could do anything, a blank to be filled in later.

He chose a clean pair of jeans, neither tight nor baggy, slightly faded but not tatty in an. . .