TOMMY THE TORTOISE

By the time Achilles met Jeremy again on Thursday evening, he was fully prepared to take his scam to endgame, but he also felt a little thirsty, so allowed the older man to buy him a rum and Coke before being so vulgar as to talk money. Usually, at this point in the con, the mark was growing anxious for something sexual to happen between them, suggesting a trip back to his house or flat, but to Achilles’ surprise, Jeremy seemed only to be growing in confidence, exhibiting far less anxiety than he had in any of their earlier encounters, and had yet to show any interest in an erotic development.

They were sitting in a fairly run-down pub in Chiswick, where Achilles was spinning his latest hard-luck story, which, surprisingly, had a thread of truth running down its centre.

‘I know it was only a tortoise,’ he said. ‘But he was my grandfather’s tortoise, and then my dad’s, and when my dad went inside, I was given the responsibility of looking after him.’

‘That must have helped you maintain a connection with him,’ said Jeremy. ‘A pet that both you and your father loved.’

‘Yes, and because I was only four years old when Dad got sent away, it really helped me a lot.’

‘What exactly did your father do, if you don’t mind my asking?’

Achilles adopted a tragic expression and leaned forward, as if he was nervous of being overheard.

‘This isn’t something I tell a lot of people,’ he said. ‘Because it could be dangerous, you know? But I trust you, Jeremy. The thing is, there was a drugs cartel operating on our estate and they were supplying to children. To children! And that’s just not right, is it? So he ratted them out. And then one of their … let’s say, associates … got their revenge planting drugs on him, and he got ten years.’

‘What kind of drugs?’ asked Jeremy.

Achilles thought about it. ‘I want to say … heroin?’ he said.

‘Are you asking me or telling me?’

‘Telling you. Then Dad got killed when he was inside. Some guys who worked for the, you know, for the drug lord, the kingpin, they cut his throat with a toothbrush.’

‘How do you cut someone’s throat with a toothbrush?’ asked Jeremy.

‘You take the bristles out, then you melt the plastic and stick a blade in. Then—’

He made a swooshing and slicing motion through the air, his hair falling into his eyes as he did so.

‘How awful for you,’ said Jeremy, sitting back a little. ‘And how old were you when this happened?’

‘Like, eight,’ said Achilles.

‘They kept him alive for four years and then killed him?’

‘Yes. Weird, I know, but that’s the way it happened.’

Jeremy nodded. ‘What prison was he in?’

Achilles looked around the bar while he racked his brain for the names of prisons.

‘Holloway,’ he said.