DONNA AND THE FATMAN (Crime Thriller Fiction) (10 page)

The skinhead ran his thumb along the blade and a drop of blood, a perfect crimson sphere, began forming on the skin.

‘Fuckers, Merv.’

Mervyn thought about it.

‘Good question, Billy.’

‘Thank you, Mervyn.’

‘Because I think we should be told.’

‘We should.’

‘Maybe we can ask them later. Once we’ve done the business, as it were, we can ask them if they fuck a lot.’

‘And they can tell us,’ Billy said.

‘Or even show us.’

‘And we can watch, and make suggestions from the floor.’

‘Be like sitting in the theatre.’

‘I’m very partial to a bit of theatre.’

‘I thought you might be.’

And they smiled at each other, for they were happy boys.

‘Better start, then,’ Billy murmured. ‘No point waiting, as we’re here.’

He came round the bed to Joey’s side. He had the flick-knife in his hand, and was looking quite good, he was looking quite smart, if one’s being quite honest. He’d taken pains, he’d made an effort: red Doc Martens and a velvet bow-tie, for he liked to dress up, when occasion demanded. But you wouldn’t want to be in Joey’s place, not at that moment. Not if you’ve got sensibilities, which many people have. If you were lying there, with girly by your side, you might have felt a sudden, burning pain, a spasm in your bladder, as you watched the wordless Billy gazing down.

The skinhead sighed, and shook his head. You could almost see what he was thinking. He was thinking: Hello, mate. It’s a funny old world. And more in sorrow than in anger, he placed a knee on the naked chest, and leaned his full weight forward. Then he pressed the blade so close against Joe’s neck that a breath too deep would break the skin, and said:

‘Over to you then, Merv.’

Which meant: it’s her turn, now.

And Mervyn said:

‘It’s your turn, now.’

The red-painted tip of the baseball bat. The rhythmic slapping against his palm. He could have hefted that thing above his head, could have stepped up close and braced himself. He’d pause for a moment, let her savour for a moment, then he’d bring it down, he’d swing it down, he’d slam it down upon her head. The cracking of the Donna skull. Splintered bone. Nose smashed flat against the cheek. Incandescent pain.

‘Joe . . . ’ she whispered.

He swung the stubby end towards her.

‘Like the stripe?’

Pushed it up against her mouth. Not too hard, didn’t ram it in. Just pushed it gently against her mouth.

‘I said d’you like my stripe?’

Does she like the stripe?

The slightest motion with her head, a nod of acquiescence, the sort of movement you tend to make when power steps inside your room with a grin on its face and a club in its hand.

‘Because you should have said, see, if you liked it. Shouldn’t have waited to be asked. Should have told me straight away.’

The pleasing touch of polished wood on soft and yielding mouth.

‘I’m right, though, aren’t I? I mean you should have
said
.’

He frowned.

‘Say sorry, then.’

She mumbled something, moved her head.

‘I think I missed that, darling.’

‘I’m sorry, Merv.’

‘Because . . . ?’

‘I should have said.’

And something passed across his face, for he’d made his mark, he was getting through. So persevere, he told himself, don’t stop now.

‘Like the whole bat, do you? Or just the stripe?’

Pause for half a beat, to let the question percolate.

‘I like all of it.’

‘That the God’s own truth?’

She nodded.

‘Yes.’

‘Cause if you like it, see, you ought to kiss it, really.’

He’s holding it flat, like a red-coned torpedo.

‘Am I right, there, Billy?

‘As ever, Merv.’

‘So kiss it, precious . . . ’

Pushing it slowly against her mouth.

‘That’s perfect, sweetheart. Just spread the lips, you’re doing fine. Now lick it . . . yeah, all round the tip. Good girl,’ he said, ‘you’re doing great.’

And he touched himself where he liked it best.

‘She gorgeous, Billy, or is she not? Cause when you look at her, really look at her . . . ’

‘Please . . . ’ she said.

‘Did she say please?’

‘She did.’

‘You think she means: please can I have some?’

‘She does.’

‘Please . . . ’ she whispered, for she’s only a soft-boned girly, and she knows she’s a loser, really. She’s got it written on her forehead: I am nothing on this earth. Predestined for a shitty life.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘be nice, why don’t you. A gentle grope, with my middle finger. I’ve trimmed the nail, cause I empathize, so you be nice, and I’ll be gentle, just a little feel for Merv the Perv, and—’

An animal noise, a blur of movement, and Joe half-flung himself on top of her. Joe, she thought, we’re in the movies, Joe. And the warmth of him, the flesh on tender flesh. So when they started beating him, she could feel his ribs vibrate, she could feel it through his bones. I’ll be your shield, he’d said, just you and me, he’d said, against the world. I’ll swallow all your pain, he’d said, for that’s the kind of man he is. No home, no hope, no money, but he’d fling himself on top of her and swallow all her pain. And when they started beating him she felt his ribs vibrate, could feel it through the bones. Then he’s on the floor, and all she sees is Billy’s knee moving up and down, and a flash of red Doc Martens.

Mervyn sighed.

‘Where were we, then? Oh yeah.’

And smiling politely, he spread a hand across her mouth and slid the other between her legs. He pressed his lips against her ear and he whispered softly, murmured gently, the dulcet tones of Merv the Perv:

‘Should get a nightie, darling, cause it’s winter, see? You’ll catch your death, if you’re not careful.’

Pause for thoughtful probing down below, and he removed his hand, he eased it out.

‘Sorry we can’t stay long,’ he said. ‘Just a flying visit. Just to say hello. The bossman sends his best, by the way. Says you took something off him.’ He sniffed his fingers. ‘Says he wants it back.’

He pulled the quilt on top of her and carefully patted it down.

‘Okay, Billy?’

‘Nearly finished . . . ’

A final bit of self-expression, and the skinhead sauntered out.

‘So anyway, darling.’

Mervyn coughed politely and straightened his cuffs.

‘I’m glad we’ve had this conversation.’

He tucked the bat beneath his arm.

‘Cause I feel we’ve bonded, now.’

And he gave her a cheerful, wideboy wink and left through the broken door.

* * *

CHAPTER 11

If she had to drive, she liked to drive at night. Orange streetlamps, frost and sudden fog. Silence, speed and darkness. Black sky, no stars, and all you could see were the maladjusted lights of the oncoming cars: looming, blinding, passing.

It was four a.m. Something like that. Two short hours since the boys had been, and the noise was still inside her head, the pink and grinning double-act of Merv and Billy by the bed. Her skull felt soft, as if they could have prised it open, cracked it like a rotten nut and peeled away the bone. She wrapped her fingers round the wheel. Her brain was throbbing. She was feeling bad.

‘You all right?’

‘Yeah I’m all right.’

She pushed open the quarter-light. Cold air cut into her face. Not long now, she thought. Few more minutes. Nearly there. She glanced at Joe. He was staring straight ahead, the streetlight flickering across his cheek. There was a scab of blood on his lower lip, a purple bruise along the swollen jaw. Him and her, she told herself. Less than nothing. Minus nothing. She felt the steady beat inside her head, the pulse of recognition, as if her brain might suddenly become engorged, explode with comprehension. Him and her, she told herself. The shit on Henry’s shoes.

She changed down to second, went powering through an amber light, and they’re speeding past the Heath. Mellow, redbrick houses. Gravelled drives. Discreet and tree-filled gardens. The wealth so lightly worn: a modest Turner here, a Canaletto there. Hampstead Town, in all its glory. A bit of posh, to which one might aspire.

She managed not to look, stayed focused on the tarmac. Foot down hard and she’s scudding down the road, shooting past the affluence. But still the wind came rushing through the trees, the collective sigh, the shared and sanguine exhalation, of sleeping Hampstead folk. Look at us, it whispered. Feast your eyes on plenitude. See how we live, and marvel. Worship how we live, you bitch.

‘You like this place?’

He was speaking softly as he looked out the window.

‘Not bad,’ she said.

‘Because the boys don’t like it.’

He wiped some moisture from the sweating glass.

‘They don’t like folk who can pay their way. Seems to wind them up a bit. Gives them aggravation.’

He watched the trees go coasting past.

‘But they come round Kilburn, and they’re laughing. I mean you put them in some rubbish-place, and what you’ve got is happy boys. They know where they are in a shithole, see. So when they come round my place, they come in grinning.’

You could almost hear it, Joey's brain, kicking into gear. For the scales were falling from his eyes, the doors of perception were inching open. Because the Joeys of this earth, they go through life and there’s nothing that offends them, nothing seems to drive them wild. Nothing makes them want to pull a half-brick from a wall, and wrap it in a woollen sock, and go out in the night and search for meaning in their lives.

They never get the urge to desecrate the sanctum. They accept existence as it is, and swallow what they’re given. They eat a little piece each day, a piece of excrement each day, a freshly fallen, newly minted, moist and steaming turd each day, then lick their lips and ask for more. And Joe’s beginning, just beginning, to find the taste repellent.

‘They entered our room,’ he said.

‘I know.’

‘Our private place.’

‘I know.’

He stared into the darkness.

‘He touched you, did he?’

She waited a moment. Better don’t rush, she told herself. Think, for once, before you answer.

‘Only with the bat,’ she said. ‘Against my mouth.’

Joe listened politely.

‘With his finger,’ he suggested. ‘Between your legs.’

She shook her head.

‘He didn’t.’

‘I thought he did.’

‘It just looked like it.’

He shaped his lips and blew warm air on to the glass, which gradually started to mist up again.

‘But did it feel like it?’

‘No.’

Joe rubbed his jaw.

‘So he didn’t.’

She changed down to second.

‘Only on my thigh,’ she said.

‘So he did.’

‘Not where it mattered.’

‘So he didn’t . . . ’

She turned into the narrow, wooded roads of the village.

‘He didn’t.’

Noise and movement in her head, and the Mervyn thing came flooding back. Good girl, he’d said. That vacant, bovine, sodden face. Behave, he’d said, and pressed the wooden bat against her mouth. And then the finger shoved below, the middle finger, with the nail he trimmed especially. Thick and moist, like a garden worm. Made her want to gag, to think of it. Made the bile begin to rise inside her throat. So block it out, just block it out. Foot down hard, lights on main beam. Let’s go for a drive, she’d said. Let’s take a spin, why don’t we. So here they were, just her and him, about to pay a call. The worm between her legs. Never happened. Just block it out.

She took a left into Redington Road, the
déja vu
of Redington Road. The dull, metal gleam of parked limousines, the cautioning hum of near-silent alarms, and above it all, hovering somewhere in the Hampstead air, the dense, untroubled hush, the deep and trusting exhalations, of the sleeping bourgeoisie. For it’s that raw and jagged hour, that sweet and fetid time of night when all is quiet, and nothing stirs, and decent folk are in their beds.

She let the motor crawl along. No hurry, now. Just take it slowly, nice and easy. Into first and inch along. Scan the road, and there it was, twenty yards down on the right-hand side, behind a brick wall and through a locked gate. The Fatman’s mansion. Squatting, like a half-wit, in the dark. She felt a brief and fleeting satisfaction, that sudden, heady feeling you get when you’ve been driving through a frozen night and you finally arrive. She nudged the car against the kerb and cut the lights.

A video camera peered down from the corner of the porch. There were bars and grilles on the windows, movement-sensors and panic-buttons. And that locked and bolted door, the slab of steel behind the oak facade, for the Fatman wasn’t stupid, he might have been vulgar, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d built a castle against the mob, in case the mob should get ideas. Let the riff-raff putrefy. Let them rot inside their stinking homes. Let them bash each other on the head and steal each other’s benefit, for Henry couldn’t give a toss. He’s tucked up safely in his bed, fast asleep and snoring hard, his limp and flaccid Henry cock glistening on his thigh.

She switched off the engine.

‘Here we are, then.’

He shifted his weight on the seat.

‘Yeah.’

She listened to the silence. A special kind of silence. It hung low above the rooftops and crept inside the car. Curled around her head and made her think of happy times.

‘I saw this policeman once,’ she said. ‘Down Kensington.’

She wrapped the scarf around her neck.

‘A nice young bloke, all navy blue and cleanliness.’

‘Could you marry one?’

‘A copper, you mean?’

‘Get a bloody good pension.’

‘I’d think about it. So anyway, he’s walking past some big, flash car — which is on a double yellow — and he sort of stops,’ she said, ‘and scrapes it.’

‘Like Billy, when he’s in a mood.’

‘Just scraped the paintwork, with his key.’

‘What about the driver?’

‘Wasn’t there,’ she said.

She pulled the quarter-light shut.

‘No one’s there. Just me and him.’