The Pure

drink?’ she said.
    ‘Pernod, isn’t it?’
    ‘And water.’
    Uzi was surprised – then not surprised – to find a bottle of Pernod in the minibar. He opened a lager and sat opposite her on the bed.
    ‘What’s your favourite colour?’ said Liberty.
    Uzi looked up woozily. ‘My favourite colour?’
    ‘That’s what I asked.’
    ‘I don’t know. Depends on the situation. Depends what you’re talking about.’
    ‘I’m talking about a car.’
    ‘What sort of car?’
    ‘A Porsche. The new Turbo S.’
    ‘Oh. Well, white. It’s got to be white.’
    Liberty laughed. ‘Why white?’
    ‘Red is too much like a cock. Black is too much like a dealer.’
    ‘Too much like a dealer? You’re hilarious, Uzi, you know that?’
    ‘So have you come to give me a job?’ said Uzi.
    ‘I haven’t finished talking about the car.’
    ‘The car?’
    ‘Your white Porsche.’
    ‘My white Porsche?’
    Liberty smiled. ‘That intel you gave me over dinner – the KAMG intel?’
    ‘What about it?’
    ‘It’s about to make me a lot of money. I wanted to say thank you.’
    ‘My pleasure.’
    ‘I’ll order the car tomorrow. Compliments of Liberty Inc.’
    ‘Thanks,’ said Uzi, listening to his own voice and finding it hollow.
    ‘We’re going to be good together, you and I,’ said Liberty. ‘I can tell.’
    Uzi had always been bad at accepting gifts, particularly extravagant ones. Ever since he was a child, the bigger the present, the more depressed he became; he felt like he was being taken advantage of, lured into debt against his will. And this time, with the car, it was more complicated. He was forgetting who he was; his allegiance was shifting. Even the Kol didn’t understand. Liberty was winding him closer into her web, and it was dangerous. He wasn’t her victim, he was a victim of his own recklessness. That made him feel sick.
    He pulled his Porsche into the wasteland around the back of a derelict pub within reach of the river. The wheels bounced uncomfortably over the uneven ground. Liberty’s Maybach was parked on the far side, next to a BMW saloon. He steered into the shadows and killed the engine. A strange part of London, he thought. Old gangland meets Docklands. Around him were abandoned building sites, burnt-out cars, buildings with boarded-up windows and doors covered in galvanised steel; in the distance towered the gleaming skyscrapers of Canary Wharf. A helicopter buzzed overhead.
    He sat for a while in the shadows. No noise was coming from the boot; the drugs wouldn’t wear off for another half an hour. He peeled the moustache from his upper lip, wincing, and cursed under his breath. Normally he had no problem with the latex adhesive, but it was starting to itch. He pulled out his phone and called Liberty.
    ‘Have you got him?’ she said. There was a coldness in her voice that he hadn’t heard before.
    ‘In storage,’ he replied.
    ‘I’m in the building behind you, on the first floor. Bring him up.’
    ‘He’s heavy. I’m going to need some help.’
    ‘You haven’t killed him, have you?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Then bring him up yourself. I need my men here.’ The line went dead.
    Uzi thumped the steering wheel with his fist and cursed. He had been expecting this; deep down, he had sensed that Liberty was a ruthless woman, and now she thought he owed her something. Well, he didn’t. He wasn’t one of her pawns. He wasn’t under her command. He called back.
    ‘What?’ she said.
    ‘Send me someone to help carry him. Or I’m leaving him here.’
    ‘You won’t leave him there. You’ll bring him up here to me.’
    ‘He’s too heavy. Send me help or I’ll leave him here.’
    ‘You do that and it’s over. I mean it. It’s over.’
    ‘You’ve got five minutes, Liberty.’
    He hung up and got out of the car. This was petty, but he knew he was doing the right thing. He cleared his head and listened to his gut. This was a test, he thought. She was testing him, trying to see how deeply she had come to possess him. He had to admit, butterflies were in his stomach. She almost had him. Almost. But nobody would ever have him completely. Fuck her luxury, her money. He had his slick on the East End Road, he had an escape route, and he was prepared to use it. His freedom would never be bought. He drew his gun, racked it, held it inside his jacket. The wasteland was deserted, long shadows clustered around broken walls and buildings. A pile of car tyres, overgrown with ivy, lay several