shinier and newer than the one beside me. The lorry slowed, turned in, bumped up over the lowered kerb and stopped with its nose against McGovern’s white steel gates. It was painted in a classy pastel green, with a business name in dark-green lettering I didn’t quite catch. The driver rolled his window down, poked the entryphone button with a gloved hand and shouted something into the mike. It gave me more time to read the name on the side of the van: “Daisy Cutters Garden Services.”
I couldn’t hear what the driver was saying, and it seemed that neither could the person controlling the gates—the driver had to repeat himself a few times to be heard over the roar of the shredder. But eventually the gates jerked and rolled open with a whine, slowly revealing a fake-cobblestone drive curving up to the white painted portico of McGovern’s house, where steps led up to a solid wood door. I just had time to register that the house resembled one of those shiny plastic Hollywood mansions you see on US TV soaps featuring shiny plastic Hollywood starlets when the gates started to hum shut again. Dammit, I thought, if I’d been quicker, I could have sneaked in behind the lorry beforethe gates closed … Except, of course, I would have been spotted by the CCTV. The security staff probably would have set dogs on me, and waited a good while before calling them off. All the same, it gave me an idea. I hesitated … Was I really going to do this? If I was, I had better do it right now.
Screw it. I stepped back behind the tree surgeon’s truck, pulled off my hooded sweatshirt and my T-shirt and tied them round my waist.
The shredder in the street was still grinding and spewing when I pushed the button on the entryphone a few minutes later. I heard it crackle into life and a voice squawk out of it, but I couldn’t make out what it said. I stood well back from the microphone and shouted, “I’m with Daisy Cutter,” but I was pretty sure whoever was listening and watching couldn’t make out a word. The voice over the intercom squawked some more, and I stared up at the TV camera and nodded at the gate. I was shirtless, wearing jeans and carrying more leafy green branches in my arms than I could manage. On my face I wore the bored, harassed expression I thought a gardener’s gopher might have if he’d been sent to go pick up the trimmed branches that had fallen outside the client’s wall, but I wasn’t sure if whoever was controlling the gates could even see my face behind all the foliage. Nothing happened, and seemed to go on happeningfor a long time. Had they seen me dash across from the other side of the road? Shit—had they clocked the fact that I wasn’t wearing gardening gloves? I shivered, and it wasn’t the breeze that was chilling me.
The gates jerked and shuddered and slowly parted, the motors whining. I staggered forward with my armful of greenery and gave the camera a grateful smile and a nod. I had barely stepped through when they hummed shut again, coming together with a soft metallic ring. They reminded me of a dinner gong … and I was the starter.
I was pretty sure the security people would still be watching, so I had to go through with it. I staggered up the drive, scattering fresh green leaves in my wake, towards where the Daisy Cutter lorry was parked. The real gardening crew was nowhere to be seen, but I could hear a petrol-driven strimmer firing up on the far side of the house. From what I could see there were more than enough bushes and trees in the grounds to keep a two-man crew busy all day. I dumped my armful of branches by the shredder, pulled on my T-shirt and hoodie and headed towards the sound of the strimmer, still trying to look as if I belonged. I glanced casually around to see if anyone was about, sizing up the house itself. Close-up it still looked Hollywood somehow; everything was shiny and new, expensive and vaguelyfake. Beyond the portico, by heavily draped French windows,
I couldn’t hear what the driver was saying, and it seemed that neither could the person controlling the gates—the driver had to repeat himself a few times to be heard over the roar of the shredder. But eventually the gates jerked and rolled open with a whine, slowly revealing a fake-cobblestone drive curving up to the white painted portico of McGovern’s house, where steps led up to a solid wood door. I just had time to register that the house resembled one of those shiny plastic Hollywood mansions you see on US TV soaps featuring shiny plastic Hollywood starlets when the gates started to hum shut again. Dammit, I thought, if I’d been quicker, I could have sneaked in behind the lorry beforethe gates closed … Except, of course, I would have been spotted by the CCTV. The security staff probably would have set dogs on me, and waited a good while before calling them off. All the same, it gave me an idea. I hesitated … Was I really going to do this? If I was, I had better do it right now.
Screw it. I stepped back behind the tree surgeon’s truck, pulled off my hooded sweatshirt and my T-shirt and tied them round my waist.
The shredder in the street was still grinding and spewing when I pushed the button on the entryphone a few minutes later. I heard it crackle into life and a voice squawk out of it, but I couldn’t make out what it said. I stood well back from the microphone and shouted, “I’m with Daisy Cutter,” but I was pretty sure whoever was listening and watching couldn’t make out a word. The voice over the intercom squawked some more, and I stared up at the TV camera and nodded at the gate. I was shirtless, wearing jeans and carrying more leafy green branches in my arms than I could manage. On my face I wore the bored, harassed expression I thought a gardener’s gopher might have if he’d been sent to go pick up the trimmed branches that had fallen outside the client’s wall, but I wasn’t sure if whoever was controlling the gates could even see my face behind all the foliage. Nothing happened, and seemed to go on happeningfor a long time. Had they seen me dash across from the other side of the road? Shit—had they clocked the fact that I wasn’t wearing gardening gloves? I shivered, and it wasn’t the breeze that was chilling me.
The gates jerked and shuddered and slowly parted, the motors whining. I staggered forward with my armful of greenery and gave the camera a grateful smile and a nod. I had barely stepped through when they hummed shut again, coming together with a soft metallic ring. They reminded me of a dinner gong … and I was the starter.
I was pretty sure the security people would still be watching, so I had to go through with it. I staggered up the drive, scattering fresh green leaves in my wake, towards where the Daisy Cutter lorry was parked. The real gardening crew was nowhere to be seen, but I could hear a petrol-driven strimmer firing up on the far side of the house. From what I could see there were more than enough bushes and trees in the grounds to keep a two-man crew busy all day. I dumped my armful of branches by the shredder, pulled on my T-shirt and hoodie and headed towards the sound of the strimmer, still trying to look as if I belonged. I glanced casually around to see if anyone was about, sizing up the house itself. Close-up it still looked Hollywood somehow; everything was shiny and new, expensive and vaguelyfake. Beyond the portico, by heavily draped French windows,
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