DONNA AND THE FATMAN (Crime Thriller Fiction) (16 page)

‘I can’t be sure, but it’s possible.’

‘Because she’s always gabbing, never stopping.’

‘Always with the mouth, the big, capacious mouth.’

‘You’ve met her, then.’

‘I have.’

‘Boys . . . ’ Henry murmured. ‘If I might have your attention, for a moment. If you’d care to gather round, I’d be obliged.’

Henry spread his arms indulgently, as though he would have embraced them all, as though he’d like to wrap them in his boundless love and squeeze them till they wept.

‘We’d better start now, lads. Cause there’s no point hanging round, not now we’re ready.’

A quick glance round, just to be sure.

‘We
are
all ready, I take it?’

Mervyn nodded.

‘As ever, boss. Just say the word.’

‘I’m saying it, Merv.’

He glanced at his watch.

‘Let’s stand them both together.’

They hauled Joe over and leaned him against the front of the Daimler. He was quietly moaning. Blood around his mouth. Henry smiled at the assembled group and slowly peeled off his gloves.

‘So here we are again,’ he murmured. ‘Our merry little band.’

He stamped his feet and blew into his hands.

‘Boys . . . ’ he began.

A courteous bow.

‘Ladies . . . ’ he added gravely. ‘Before we start, I should like to say a few words, cast some modest thoughts upon the water.’

He took out a packet of medium-strength.

‘Because it seems to me it’s rare enough that we’re all together, chewing the cud and talking things over.’

He spread the tobacco on a small white square.

‘The cut and thrust of honest debate.’

Rolled it between his fingers.

‘So I just want to say, that whatever might occur, whatever might transpire . . . ’

He licked the paper down.

‘ . . . I hope we’ll still be friends.’

He tapped one end against his thumbnail, squeezed the other, and placed the roll-up between his lips.

‘And I’d like you all to know,’ he said, ‘that I don’t blame Joey. Cause he was a good little lad, till she came along. A polite little bleeder, till she came along.’

He gazed at her.

‘You listening, darling? Cause I’m talking, darling.’

He struck a match, holding the flame to the end of the fag.

‘Pull her up, Billy. Think she’s sagging again. Lift up her head, so she can get a good look.’

The bright red tip as he sucked in heat.

‘Some people, see, you try to help them, you do your level best to extend to them a helping hand.’

The muted crackle of burning tobacco.

‘And what do they do? They trash your car, they steal your dough, they stick their fanny in your face and gaily walk away. What I’d term ungrateful people. Think they’re not accountable. Don’t realize they’re beholden.’

He flicked off ash.

‘They never seem to understand that they’re alive, they’re breathing on this earth, because I’ve got a tender heart. I’ve got what’s called a tender, beating heart, and I let them live a while. I let them go about their business. I let them fuck, and fart, and think they’ve got a purpose.’

He shook his head.

‘And because I didn’t tread on them, because I didn’t stamp my foot and smear them on the pavement, they think they’ll get away with it, they think that they’re immortal, they think they’ll screw the Fatman.’

Billy’s fingers in her hair, the head jerked back, arms flapping by her side. The big man moved forward, stopping a foot or so in front of her.

‘It’s very sad,’ he said gently, ‘that you’ve brought us down to this. I mean I like to think we’re civilized, and look what you’re making us do.’

His cheeks caved in as he took a drag.

‘You’ve been a bad girl,’ he said, ‘so I’m going to teach you a lesson.’

He blew a thoughtful smoke-ring in the air.

‘I’m going to teach you to be good.’

He dropped the cigarette on the ground.

‘One will be punished, and one will watch.’

We are nothing, she realized. Weightless, on this earth.

‘One will fall, and one will be saved.’

Oh mother, come and help me now.

His piggy eyes flicked between them, as if making a rapid calculation, as if he knew what would happen and was merely playing out some ritual, some bizarre game that only he understood, and that only he could win.

He pointed a finger at Donna.

‘Eeny.’

Swung it towards Joe.

‘Meeny.’

Back at her.

‘Miney.’

Slowly swivelled back to Joe.

‘Mo.’

A contented Fatman sigh.

‘I’m afraid you’ve drawn the short straw,’ he said. ‘Bad luck, old son.’

He unbuttoned his coat.

‘The belly, Mervyn, if you wouldn’t mind.’

Joe’s arms were pinned behind him, and Henry slipped a piece of moulded steel around his knuckles. Taking his time, for he was a careful man, he drew back his arm, glanced at the girl, and then the sudden thud of metalled fist on unprotected flesh. Mervyn released an ecstatic gasp. Joey’s legs began to buckle. Billy held her very tight.

‘You know why I do these things, don’t you.’

He removed the knuckle-duster and slipped it back in his pocket.

‘Because I can,’ he explained. ‘And as I can, I will.’

They flipped Joe round and pushed him down over the bonnet. Banged his head hard on the frost-covered metal. Mervyn leaned his weight across Joe’s shoulders.

‘Bring her nearer,’ Henry ordered.

He was gazing down admiringly at his white and hairless hands.

‘Should’ve been a pianist,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t you reckon, Merv? Would’ve been quite good at that, giving concerts and stuff. Easy money, once they know you.’

Mervyn nodded.

‘Just learn a few tunes and you’re laughing, right?’

Henry stared at him.

‘You trying to be funny?’

‘Boss?’

‘Cause they’re cultured people, fuckhead. And we’re partial to culture, aren’t we, son.’

‘Yeah, boss. Sure.’

A soft and rueful Fatman sigh. That a man like him should have to consort with types like that. It pained him, sometimes. Made his insides contract.

‘They give
pleasure
, Merv, and one finds one’s pleasures where one can.’

Which train of thought returned him to the task in hand, and he fixed his gaze on his former driver. The sudden wave of Fatman pity. I’m good, he thought. I’m a decent bloke.

‘You thought it was the worst thing, didn’t you?’

Speaking softly, almost gently.

‘The most hideous thing that could ever happen, when they tied that string around your knob and pulled you round at playtime.’

He shook his head. He empathized.

‘But there are worse things on this earth, Joe.’

Slowly undoing his tie.

‘There’s always something worse, in life.’

* * *

CHAPTER 20

She’d thought it would be her, at first. Thought they’d pass her round and share her out, they’d dip their noses in her goodies and have a furtive poke around. But when she saw the hands around Joe’s waist, the belt unbuckled, jeans dragged down below his knees, something oozed, unbidden, into her brain, a shameful, dirty, Donna thought. They’re doing it to him, she thought. Thank God, she thought, it won’t be me.

The big man watched her as he opened his flies.

‘Remember this?’

His cock in his hand.

‘You know how I’m feeling now, darling? Mellow, is how I’m feeling. I’m finally at peace with myself, my love.’

He passed his tongue between his lips.

‘No one needs to know,’ he confided. ‘It’ll be our little secret.’

With which remark he bent and covered his former driver, his red hair flopping forward, making sure that she was watching him as he shoved himself inside. He gazed at her and smiled at her, even might have winked at her.

‘What they value most,’ he breathed, ‘is what I tend to take.’

And then he was lost in the perfect moment. Sweat broke out on his jowly face, his mouth sagged open, and he was grunting as he thrusted, jerking back and forth with the manic concentration of a dog that’s rutting in the park.

When you scream through a gag, the noise that you make won’t bring anyone running. Even if you weren’t abandoned in a field, there’s no one who’ll come running if you’re screaming through a gag. It’s a strangulated sound, a kind of smothered, high-pitched whine that echoes in your mouth and slips back down your throat.

Makes them laugh though, when you do it. They like it when they hear you howl. They like to hear the Donna bitch debase herself.

‘She trying to distract us?’

‘I think she is.’

‘She’s always been selfish.’

‘Always has to spoil it.’

‘Not a nice girl, is she.’

‘Not very, no.’

A couple more minutes and then he finished, for even Henry had his limits, even the Fatman could have enough. He heaved himself off and buttoned himself up, and the boys were still standing, staring, wanting more.

‘That’ll teach him.’

‘Stupid shit deserved it.’

‘Fucking poofter.’

‘Lucky cunt, then, wasn’t he.’

Henry wiped his forehead with his coatsleeve.

‘Language, boys,’ he chided. ‘Ladies present.’

He eased his gloves carefully on, for they were quality leather, and they fitted well. He looked contented, gently sated. He looked like he looked when he’d just had a feed. When he’d just stuffed his face, and was full of goodwill. He glanced at the girl. Fixed her with his piggy eye.

‘I’m not a bad person,’ he remarked.

He draped his cashmere scarf around his neck.

‘Just a bit impulsive.’

The lank and sweat-soaked hair.

‘But I mean well, don’t I. And that’s what counts.’

Mist was slowly rolling in. The frost on the grass was melting.

‘Better be off then,’ he murmured. ‘Got to get back to the smoke.’

He watched the boys climb into the Daimler.

‘Various matters to attend to. Things to sort out. You know what I mean.’

His breath formed insubstantial clouds around his head.

‘Time to say ta-ra then, sweetheart. Got to love you and leave you.’

He bent slightly. Red hair in her face.

‘Keep in touch, why don’t you.’

He kissed her gently on the cheek.

‘That’s what friends are for.’

* * *

CHAPTER 21

She watched the car recede into the distance, listened to the sound of its engine as it became lower, and softer, and gradually disappeared. The field was thick with sudden silence, a shrill and vacant emptiness that forced its way inside her head, as though they’d driven a nail into the skull, hammered it into the bone. No one left but her and Joe. Dust and garbage. Weightless, on this earth.

The mist was beginning to thicken. Soon it would be difficult to make out his features. You wouldn’t be able to read him any more. You’d only be able to see the shape, standing by the car.

‘Getting cold,’ she murmured.

His jacket was lying, neatly folded, by his feet. She didn’t know if she should pick it up. She wanted him to tell her what to do, because things like that she doesn’t know. Things like what you’re meant to do when the boys have been and gone, and the jacket’s lying by his feet, and he’s standing quietly by the car.

So Joe, she thought, so tell me, Joe . . . 

‘Turning frosty,’ she said.

The nail inside her skull.

‘Be turning nasty, fairly soon.’

The wind was slicing across the field. He was standing in his shirtsleeves, staring at the ground. She watched his face and tried to guess what he was feeling, what might, at that precise and putrid second, be spilling through his brain.

‘Better be starting back,’ she said, ‘start heading back to town.’

She hunched her shoulders and blew on her hands. Just keep on talking, fill the silence.

‘I’ll drive, if you want. Always been a decent driver. But we’ve got to get back, Joe, got to get started. I mean it’s getting foggy, so we better get back to town. Lie low for a bit, go find a doctor. Have to go now, Joe, cause I can’t abide the country, see. It’s not me,’ she said, ‘not quite my thing.’

The nail embedded in her skull.

‘All the green, I reckon. Bit too countryfied. Can’t bear it, really, don’t know why. So what d’you say then, Joey? What d’you reckon, Joe?’

She could hear her voice. Such a stupid voice.

‘We making a move?’

He began to button his shirt. The slightest tightening of his lips.

‘I don’t need a doctor.’

His voice was quiet, without inflection. When he bent to pick up the jacket, she heard him gasp, the sort of stifled sound one makes when a wound is stretched. You wouldn’t have heard it, unless you were listening. A brief, astonished intake of breath, when he bent and picked up the jacket.

‘I think you’d better go now.’

He took out his cigarettes.

‘I think you’d better,’ he said.

The nail inside her skull.

‘Just leave me now.’

‘All right.’

She didn’t move.

‘Joe . . . ?’ she whispered. ‘What’ll you do, now, Joe?’

Because she has to know. Because she has no tact, she has no sense of waiting for the moment. For Donna has this clarity of vision, she has this pure and true perception. She knows that if they damage you, you have to take revenge. She knows that when they split you open, when they push inside and poke around, you have to feel complete again, clear out all the dirt.

That’s what she knows, the Donna bitch. Avenge yourself or die. Make them weep, or slit your wrist, just take a knife and lie down in a steaming bath and slit your tiny wrist. For better dead, is how she’d put it. Better in the earth and feeding worms, better just a memory, than like a dog they lead around. Better do it, frankly. Better finish it, just end it, fairly quickly, if you’d rather let them live.

‘Joe . . . ’

For nothing much had changed. It was merely made concrete what had once been abstract, confirmed with flesh and blood what had always been known but left unsaid: that Joe was born for violation, someone destined to be shafted. It was written, as they say. It was printed on his forehead at the moment of conception: this man is put on earth to swallow what you give him. We let him live because he’ll lick his plate and smile, because he’ll bend the knee and bow the head and eat the muck we set before him. So every day of Joey’s life he’s fed a little piece of excrement. A tiny piece, to educate his palate.