DONNA AND THE FATMAN (Crime Thriller Fiction) (14 page)

‘Make it bigger,’ Henry murmured.

The boy twisted the knob. The gas hissed louder and the flames turned yellow. He broke the match with his thumb and flicked it into the fire.

‘You feeling cold, boss?’

He heaved himself up.

‘You getting a chill?’

Henry stared at the boy, at his dead eyes and his scrubbed skin. The unformed teenage face, all bone and tufts and blemishes.

‘You still picking them?’

‘Boss?’

‘Still scratching them, are you, when you shouldn’t?’

‘They’re getting better.’

‘I got news for you . . . ’

‘Got to rub them, sometimes.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Just now and then,’ the boy insisted. ‘Nothing major.’

‘You want to leave them alone, son, like I told you. Cause they’ve got germs, see? Pukey little bacteria that get under your nails. So I’d keep them under wraps, if I were you. Wear a fucking mask, or something. And keep your spotty face well out of my kitchen.’

Henry picked up the money.

‘Don’t go touching my food, right?’

He stubbed out his fag.

‘Right?’

Billy scowled at the floor.

‘Right.’

Henry shook his head. It was sad really, when he thought about it, for he gave them good advice, he tried to help, and were they grateful? Were they fuck. Who cared, anyway? It was hardly his concern what the toerag looked like. Long as he didn’t drip pus-drops on the carpet. Long as he didn’t do that. The spreading Fatman smile.

‘Glad I don’t have to kiss you, son.’

He weighed the bundle in his hand.

‘How much did you say?’

‘Six hundred exactly.’

Henry nodded.

‘You think that’s a lot, Billy?’

‘It all adds up.’

‘That’s very true,’ the big man murmured.

He peeled off some twenties.

‘And I’ll tell something, shall I? I had a lot of hassle, getting this back.’

He screwed them into a ball.

‘Aggravation, one might say.’

He tossed them into the fireplace.

‘And you’re right,’ he said, ‘it all adds up.’

The skinhead watched in silence as flames began swallowing the paper. As if he couldn’t quite believe, at first, that his boss was burning money.

‘What you doing?’ he muttered, finally.

Henry tossed in a handful of twenties.

‘I’m baking a cake, Billy.’

The skinhead frowned.

‘You being funny, boss?’

‘I’m being funny, Billy.’

No sound save that of banknotes burning, and the skinhead suddenly scratching hard.

‘I got filthy getting that. Went poking round in a fucking skip.’

‘I know you did.’ Henry’s soothing voice. ‘And don’t think I don’t appreciate it, because I don’t.’

He chucked a few more notes into the flames.

‘But some things are more important than money,’ he explained.

Casually, as if dealing cards, he tossed the rest of the tens and twenties into the fire.

‘Principle is more important, and I’m a man of principle.’

They watched the banknotes curl and blacken.

‘Fuck this,’ the skinhead muttered, ‘I’ve had enough.’

Henry sighed.

‘You only think you have.’

‘Doing garbage for a cunt like you.’

‘You too good for it?’

‘I reckon.’

‘Cause there’s plenty more lads would be willing.’

Dismissive skinhead shrug.

‘But are they able?’

Henry smiled at this, because he likes some lip.

‘I’ve got plans for you, Billy. Things are in motion. I’ve got your future mapped out, and it’s a great future, it’s a shining future.’

‘When do I get there, boss?’

‘Give it time, son. Just do as you’re told, and you’ll get there. Just walk the trodden path, and you’ll get to your shining future.’

Billy fingered his matches.

‘But I want a shining path as well as a shining future. Feel like I’m marking time, see. Just waiting to fill a Fatman’s shoes.’

‘Better watch your mouth there, son.’

‘When you retired, I meant . . . ’

‘Don’t get ideas, right? My boys start getting ideas, I start getting worried. So bend the knee, and shut your mouth, and walk the trodden path.’

He moved over to a rosewood bureau by the wall.

‘Just come round tonight, okay? And bring the other cretin with you.’

He pulled open the middle drawer.

‘Cause you know something, Billy. Shall I tell you something, eh?’

He reached inside.

‘She thinks she’s clever,’ he said softly. ‘She thinks she’s really
it
.’

He took out a two-foot crowbar and laid it carefully on the varnished wood. Few more hours, he told himself. Not long now.

‘A little girl with big ideas.’

The skinhead frowned. He looked perplexed.

‘They’re gone, boss . . . aren’t they?’

Henry pushed the drawer gently shut. His gut felt calm, his scrotum warm.

‘But not forgotten, Billy.’

* * *

CHAPTER 16

They ate quite well, that night. They almost dined in style. Stuffed themselves with cod and chips, were generous with the vinegar. Pineapple fritters for the Donna bitch, and a large pickled onion for the nice young lad. They were parked by a chippy off Letchmore Heath. Twenty past ten, it must have been, and the rain was pelting down. You could even hear it in the shop, it was bucketing down so hard. Even sitting in the corner, cramming down the fish and chips, you heard it hissing on the empty road and running down the drain.

She was chewing on batter as the door banged open. Two teenage lads came loping inside, all pitted skin and rampant hormones. A fleeting recollection of her childhood days, that damp, forgotten time of loneliness and puberty, of utter insignificance. The endless stream of takeaways, the plate-glass, steamed-up windows, the one-armed bandit by the wall, the sweating, moon-like face of the man behind the counter, the close-cropped lads who pushed and shoved, the noise, the stench, the wretchedness. My youth, she thought. My fucking youth.

But she’s not complaining, don’t get her wrong. She could have eaten that food forever. She could have swallowed chunks of fish and deep-fried chips, and washed it down with beer and cola, because she doesn’t ask for much in life: wholesome grub, a fag or two, a good-looking bloke, and the Fatman’s money. She’s a simple girl, with simple tastes. A moment’s pleasure, now and then. A bit of friction, where it counts. A spot of rubbing, where she’s tender, and she’s happy.

‘Okay, that, is it?’

‘It’s fine,’ she said.

‘Not too greasy?’

‘It’s fine, Joe, really.’

They were leaving London, and feeling good. They’d lanced the boil of Henry’s rage, and there was no more cash to burden them, no weight to press them down. They were skint again, in their natural state, the only true and natural state in which they felt at ease. The Henry problem had been resolved. It was gone and finished. End of story.

‘We heading north?’

‘Might as well.’

‘Because I hope it’s not too countryfied.’

‘Get away from the smoke,’ he said. ‘Can’t be bad.’

‘Because I don’t like green, Joe. I’m urban, see. I like my burgers in a toasted bun, not stood in a field with flies round their eyes.’

‘Just a week or two.’

He spooned some sugar into her tea.

‘You’ll probably like it, once we’re up there.’

She gave him a suitably withering look.

‘That’s what you said about the jelly, Joe.’

‘Was it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Right.’

Just the bread-and-butter basics, was all they wanted. A two-room flat in a tree-lined road, a bit of cash for a good night out. Steady work and a simple life. They didn’t want to take too much. They weren’t too grasping, as people went. Not too demanding, as it were.

And what they didn’t know, what no one had, as yet, explained to them, was that it wouldn’t be enough, to be like them. If you didn’t want to take too much, and you weren’t too grasping, and you didn’t want to take it all, you wanted just to have the basics, it often meant you finished up with nothing.

But all that knowledge would come to them later. For now, they’re sitting in a chipshop, full of warmth and happiness, and Joe drains his cup and says to her:

‘Can I ask you something personal?’

She stared at him.

‘How personal?’

He shrugged.

‘Fairly personal.’

She took out a ciggy and let him light it.

‘All right,’ she muttered, ‘but nothing to do with age.’

A good, long drag, to give her strength.

‘I don’t like age-questions. Give me aggravation.’

‘It’s not about age.’

‘So fine,’ she said. ‘So fire away.’

He picked up an unused fork. Scraped it along the tabletop.

‘I can ask, then, can I?’

‘But not about age.’

‘It’s not about age.’

‘You can ask,’ she said.

‘You sure?’ he queried.

‘I’m sure,’ she said.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘what I’ve been wondering, see — and you don’t have to answer this, if you don’t want to — but I thought it might be interesting, and I’ve been meaning to mention it, the past few days . . . ’

‘Say it, Joe.’

‘It’s not about age, right?’

‘Just say it, sweetie.’

‘Well what I’ve been wondering, as you’re asking, is how many men there’ve been.’ He swallowed. ‘Before me.’

The blank, unyielding Donna gaze.

‘What do you mean,
been
?’

‘You know . . . ’

‘No.’

‘I mean, how many have there been?’

‘Been where?’

He placed his thumb on the fork and began to spin it round.

‘Been in you.’

She shifted in her seat.

‘You mean right in?’

He scratched his ear-lobe.

‘Yeah.’

He gazed at her.

‘So how many?’ he said. ‘Roughly,’ he clarified.

She stared at his face. Such a beautiful face.

‘You’re the only one, Joe,’ she promised. ‘More or less.’

‘Am I?’ he murmured, taking her hand.

‘Sort of,’ she said.

He kissed her fingers.

‘The only one?’

She smiled at him. That soft, elusive Donna smile.

‘Very nearly . . . ’

* * *

CHAPTER 17

Henry picked up the saucepan and tipped it forward, and a cord of boiling milk flowed into the thermos. Wisps of steam curled out of the neck and he bent, and sniffed, and softly sighed. He stared at it thoughtfully for a moment, then added a teaspoon of honey and stirred. Because I’m nice, he told himself. Because I’m kind.

He screwed the cap back on and put the thermos near the door. He wouldn’t want to forget it, in the rush. Wouldn’t want to leave his milk behind and go out blindly in the night, have to do it with an aching gut. Take care of your health, they always said, and the rest takes care of itself. Which was almost true, he thought. Not quite, but very nearly. Stop the gut-ache if you can, and you’ll sort out all your problems. Specially ones who like to gab a lot. Ones who think they’ve got away. Snotty little cunty ones.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. Gone one a.m., and the call hadn’t come. But he didn’t mind waiting, he was a patient man. He’d shaved and showered an hour ago. Chosen his grey silk suit, and his Chelsea boots. They made him taller, which always helped, for he liked to look his best, at times like these. Whatever happened, they should say of him: the Fatman did it, and he was looking good.

A buzz came from the front of the house. He went into the hall and cocked an ear and his face creased into a smile. The night had barely started, and already they were bickering. He opened the door and waved them in, his boys, his lads, his protégés.

‘Fucking cold out,’ Billy muttered.

‘You moaning, son?’

‘I’m only saying.’

‘Cause we know it’s cold. Cause it’s winter, see?’

‘But I was only saying . . . ’

‘Well you’ve said it, right?’

They followed him into the drawing-room. Billy parked himself in front of the fire, while Mervyn headed for the scotch.

‘No booze,’ Henry said.

‘Just a small one, boss.’

He poured out three fingers of amber liquid.

‘Just a weeny one,’ he murmured.

The Fatman’s face remained impassive. You couldn’t tell, by watching him, what he was feeling. You wouldn’t know he had this burning deep inside. Like someone struck a match and poked it in his belly, to see if it was flammable. You couldn’t tell, by watching him. You might have guessed, if you were Mervyn, but you wouldn’t know for sure.

‘We having a party tonight, then?’

The Fatman nodded.

‘Something like that.’

‘Just the three of us, is it?’

‘Be a couple more later.’ He lit a fag. ‘Make up the numbers.’

‘That’s grand, boss, isn’t it. Cause I like a good party.’

‘I know you do. That’s why we’re having one.’

Mervyn took a swig of Johnnie Walker. He wiped his mouth.

‘Be a few chicks, will there? Few nice girlies to pass around?’

‘You partial, are you?’

‘I’m Merv the Perv.’

The Fatman nodded. Of course he was.

‘There’ll be everything, son. For me, I mean. You lads will just be watching.’

‘Bit boring, watching.’

The Fatman shrugged.

‘Tough shit, old mate.’

And they spread themselves out, and settled down to wait. Henry smoking, Mervyn drinking, Billy picking his Billy spots. It was five to three when the call came through. Made them jump a bit, made them palpitate. Henry stubbed out his fag in an overflowing ashtray, and picked up the receiver on the seventh ring. He didn’t interrupt. Kept his silence for half a minute, listened quietly for thirty seconds, being in a listening frame of mind. He glanced across. The boys were standing near the fire. They had that hopeful, eager, bloodhound look. They had a thuggish look, when you really looked.

He watched his lads, and spoke quietly into the phone. The murmured words of Henry when he’s happy.