DONNA AND THE FATMAN (Crime Thriller Fiction) (13 page)

‘We going to sort it, then, or we just going to sit here?’

The Fatman shrugged.

‘Give back the bonus and we’ll call it quits. You can keep the car.’

‘What about the other one?’

‘The one you trashed?’

‘The one we sold.’

‘I’ve got it back.’ Complacent Henry grin. ‘Got a whisper from a friend, and Phil was happy to oblige.’

‘So just the bonus?’

‘And peace will reign. We’ll be friends again.’

‘No more boys . . . ?’

‘Like it never happened.’

She thought it over.

‘And you’ll wipe the debt.’

‘Can’t do that, sweetheart.’

‘You’ll wipe it, right?’

‘I’ll extend his credit.’

‘How long?’

‘Three months.’

‘Twelve.’

‘Six,’ he said.

‘Done.’

He cleared his throat, swallowed down the phlegm.

‘Call me tomorrow, right? Just dump it somewhere, and let me know. The boys can collect.’

He got to his feet.

‘They like to keep busy.’

‘So it’s over, then?’

‘It’s over, sweetheart.’

He gazed at her. The bleak, grey eyes.

‘Just remember, won’t you: whatever you took, I’ll be getting it back. Cause it’s only fair, and I like to be fair. You follow me, darling? You get my drift?’

‘Course I do.’

Of course she does.

With which agreement, they both shook hands. For peace will reign. And pigs might fly.

* * *

CHAPTER 14

Joe hung a left off Lisson Grove, then left again, and pulled up by a tattered row of shops.

They’d chosen Paddington for the drop. Couldn’t beat it, really. Great little place, if you like that type of thing. Perched on top of Notting Hill, and right next door to Maida Vale. Tucked in rather nicely, and always plenty of skips about. An ideal spot for dumping stuff. You just bomb along the Edgware Road until you reach the underpass, then drop your problem in a skip and quietly walk away.

You don’t have to ask, because nobody cares, and even if they do, they’ll very rarely mention it. They’re taciturn folk in that part of town. Got that buttoned-down look on their faces, that sullen, wary, London look. That ground-down, pissed-off, fuck-you look, that makes you want to emigrate. But they’re a tolerant sort, round Paddington. You can walk down the road with a cosh in your hand, and they’ll move out the way if you’re smiling. A very Henry kind of place, jammed with three-legs full of beer.

But you need to have an attitude, for otherwise you’re shafted. If you’ve got no muscle, you go under. If you’ve got no boys to back you up, you shouldn’t really step outside, shouldn’t look at passers-by, shouldn’t even breathe too much, if you can possibly avoid it. Better keep your head down and your voice low. Keep your window shut, and your door bolted, and hope you win the Lottery.

‘I can’t believe we’re doing this.’

‘We’re doing it, babe.’

‘I mean it’s bad for my digestion. You hear me, Joe? This is bad for my bowels.’

‘Don’t say that word, okay?’

‘What word?’

‘You know what word.’

‘You mean the bowels word?’

‘Don’t say it, all right?’

She shrugged.

‘All right.’

He cut the engine. Silence in the car. Mid-afternoon and the sun was shining, bright and cold like a junkie’s heart. Across to the right there was an endless line of greybrick flats, marching off to nowhere, while straight ahead was a patch of open space, a kind of extended yard for the local lads, where they could sniff their glue and hone their blades.

Henry territory, absolutely. Sort of place he worshipped with a passion. Somewhere he could urinate in peace. He liked to pull up in his limousine and step on to the pavement. Then he’d stride up to the wall, take it gently out, and let the goodness flow. He knew the locals wouldn’t mind, being mostly in debt, mostly to him. Not for them to mind where Henry made his water. Just smile, and wave, and ‘Hello Henry.’ Very blokey. Nice and matey.

She wound down the window and had a look at the skips. There were two of them side by side, about thirty foot away. Dusty pink and fairly full. Aesthetically they weren’t too bad. Not entirely unappealing. There was the slightest stench, if you were parked downwind, but nothing too outrageous. A vaguely dog-food kind of smell, but nothing too bizarre.

‘Better do it, then.’

‘You sure you don’t want to?’

‘It’s man’s work, sweetie. Rather you than me.’

For one had to be a hairy type, an uncomplaining three-leg, to shove a wodge of notes among the garbage, to poke one’s hand inside the muck and leave one’s benefaction. But she’d done her bit, she’d made her contribution to the cause. She’d pulled some greasy paper from a bin and wrapped it round the money-pile. It would let the Fatman know she cared, let him know she valued him. Help him understand the state of her emotions.

Joe passed her a plastic carrier-bag. She dropped the little package inside, rolled it up, and passed it back. He pushed open the door.

‘Just shove it in?’

She looked at him and moved her lips.

‘Nice and deep.’

He trudged off up the road. Scattered grey flakes were floating down. Not quite snow, but near enough. She watched him lower his head and hunch his shoulders and bend against the wind, too fragile for this earth. And she felt a kind of pain inside, a jagged sense of weakness, a consciousness of being helpless, of running through the city with a man who couldn’t save her. A poor man, like a dead man, who would have to let her go.

Cold air gusted through the window and began to eat her skin. She shivered as she watched him. Be finished soon, she told herself. Their little escapade would finally be over. But it didn’t seem right, to give it back. It left her feeling queasy. It made her want to quietly puke, to stick her fingers down her throat and feel herself regurgitate. Giving back the Henry dosh, it made her feel quite nauseous. It wasn’t as if he needed it, for his purse was well and truly bulging, and what he had he’d stolen. A fat and thieving man. One day she’d do it properly, she’d rob him like a Donna should: take the roof off his head, and the shirt off his back. Make him go out begging in the street. Go begging, naked, in the street.

Joe reached the skip and leaned cautiously over, peering down like it’s the lucky dip. She watched him drop the stuff inside, shove it nice and deep, make it hard to find. He looked around and picked up a binbag lying on the pavement. He slit it open, had the briefest sniff, then emptied the contents into the skip. A quick glance back and a fleeting grin. That’s him, she thought. My Joey-boy.

Pink-hued steetlights blinked suddenly on. He walked back to the car and climbed inside.

‘All done,’ he said.

‘What was it like?’

‘Lot of trash in there.’

‘You mean builders’ rubble?’

‘I mean takeaways.’

He switched on the ignition.

‘Lot of flies and stuff. Bit pissy, too.’

She clipped on her seatbelt, for she likes to be careful.

‘Good idea, then, she remarked.’

‘Great idea.’

‘Shame for the boys, though.’

He revved up the motor.

‘Yeah,’ he muttered. ‘Shame.’

He drove round the block and parked a couple of streets away, then they walked back to a café nearly opposite the skip. He didn’t think it was a good idea to stick around. He thought it was a fairly bad idea, in fact. Not quite as bad as robbing Henry in the first place, but pretty close. They sat one row back from the window.

‘You sure you want to stay?’

‘You got anything else to do?’

‘They’ll see us,’ he said.

‘They won’t.’

‘But they might,’ he said.

‘So they will.’

She sipped her tea. It was hot and sweet. Like her, she thought. Like Donna bitch. The windows were slowly misting up, but they could still see out. They’d already checked the loo, which opened on to a courtyard. Just in case, Joe had said, because you never knew when you’d have to go, you never knew when you’d have to split.

‘Is that good?’

‘Is what good, Joe?’

‘That bacon roll.’

‘Not bad.’

She took another mouthful and chewed thoughtfully.

‘Not great,’ she said, ‘but not bad.’

He lit another cigarette.

‘Do you think you might be pregnant?’

‘No.’

‘How d’you know?’

‘Because I know.’

He sucked smoke into his lungs.

‘I thought you might be, that’s all.’

‘Oh really?’

‘Because you seem to eat . . . I mean you seem to have to eat, sort of . . . 
frequently
.’

She took another bite of lettuce and streaky bacon, a taste of heaven in a sesame bun.

‘You saying I eat too much? That what you’re telling me?’

‘Course I’m not.’

‘Cause that’s what it sounds like.’

‘Just been wondering where it goes, that’s all.’

‘Well maybe I’ve got a worm,’ she said.

‘Don’t say that, please.’

She paused, mid-bite.

‘Say what?’ she asked.

‘Worm,’ he said.

‘Why not?’ she insisted.

‘Because,’ he said.

She gazed at him, entranced.

‘You mean I can’t say worm?’

‘Correct.’

‘And I can’t say bowels?’

‘Correct.’

The gently furrowed Donna brow.

‘But what if there’s a worm inside my bowels?’

He stubbed out his fag.

‘You’re not funny,’ he said. ‘You know that, don’t you.’

She chewed on the roll.

‘Yeah, I know that.’

She swallowed it down and wiped her lips with a paper napkin. She felt better now. A nice warm glow was spreading inside. She pulled one of his ciggies out of the pack. He hesitated for a second, then struck a match and leaned across the table.

‘Thanks,’ she murmured.

‘Welcome,’ he grunted.

He flicked the match into the saucer, and glanced out the window.

‘He’s here.’

She twisted round in her seat.

‘Where?’

‘Coming up the road.’

And there he was, easing his way through the Paddington crowd, pushing his way through the early evening crowd. Shoving gently, shouldering softly, tunnelling a path through the uncomprehending crowd. Not long now, she thought. Soon be over now, she thought.

He was wearing his black leather jacket and pale blue jeans. The Billy uniform, the clothes of Billy choice. Probably knew that she’d be watching, probably guessed that she’d be waiting. He looked scrubbed and clean and barbered, a wholesome-looking hooligan. For her, she thought. He’d shaved and primped and oiled himself for her.

He stopped a few yards back from the skip and lit a cigarette. Pause for long and thoughtful drag. That’s right, Billy. Take your time. Check we’re not around to jump you, do nasty things like that. Make sure you’re all alone, old mate. He chucked the ciggy into the gutter. Knows he’s being watched, she thought. Just knows he’s being watched.

He slipped a hand inside his jacket and took out a pair of pink rubber gloves.

‘He doesn’t like germs.’

‘He doesn’t, does he.’

They watched him lean over the rim. There was a moment’s hesitation as he peered inside, as if there might be something nasty down below, perhaps some piece of rotting haddock, wrapped in yesterday’s
Daily Mail
. But Billy’s made of sterling stuff, so he girded his loins, spat on the ground, and shoved his strong, right arm inside.

Seemed to take him a while to find what he wanted. He kept bringing out cardboard boxes, and paper bags, and things that had a slimy look. His face went slowly puce, and he might have shouted something, though she couldn’t be sure.

‘You think he’s swearing?’

‘Might be, babe.’

‘Pity, that. Bit vulgar, really.’

A minute or so later, the plastic bag appeared above the metal edge. Her idea, of course. Put the Fatman’s notes in a Mothercare bag, a girly bag for Billy-boy. And she was just beginning to indulge herself, to relish the image, to savour the moment, when all too abruptly it was over. It had barely even started, and all too suddenly it was over. She watched him walk off down the road, get in a cab, and disappear.

She sipped her tea. A sense of almost anti-climax.

So that was that then, she reflected. Gone and finished. End of story.

* * *

CHAPTER 15

Henry stood by the window, watching a vapour-trail inch across the sky. The almost-snow had gone, and it was a crisp and flawless afternoon, with sunlight shafting through the glass. He felt the tension ebb away, he felt himself begin to warm, was conscious that he mellowed in the yellow.

‘Did you count it?’ he said quietly.

‘Yes.’

Henry narrowed his eyes against the glare, conscious of a throbbing in his gut.

‘It’s all there?’

‘Yes.’

He turned away from the light. Billy was standing in the middle of the room. The money was on the table. Henry glanced at the clock. Three-thirty. Few more hours. Not long now. He walked over to the table and spread the banknotes out in a fan. His insides felt raw and he reached for his milk-drink.

Billy judging, quietly watching. The sudden, vicious grin.

‘You all right, boss?’

Henry smiled.

‘I am, son.’

Spasms in his belly.

‘And yourself?’

‘I’m fine, boss.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘I’m positive.’

‘So we’re both all right . . . ’

Henry took out his fags.

‘ . . . that’s grand.’

The briefest hesitation, and Billy struck a match, leaned forward.

‘Ta, son.’

Almost as soon as he inhaled, the Fatman started coughing, hawking up phlegm into a paper tissue. He held it slightly away from him, frowning at what he saw. Changing colour, fuck it. He nodded towards the hearth.

‘Would you be kind enough,’ he said softly, ‘to light that for me?’

Something unfathomable passed across Billy’s face, and then he squatted down by the grate and switched on the gas, holding a match to the imitation coals. Small blue spears of flame appeared.