DONNA AND THE FATMAN (Crime Thriller Fiction) (17 page)

‘Joe . . . ’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Joe.’

And they trained him well. They must have told him when he was a boy, a little lad so full of sweetness. They must have whispered in his ear: You’re nothing, Joe. You’re less than zero. Made him used to it. Accustomed him to hearing he was something lesser, someone to be pissed on, a piece of dreck they stepped in by mistake. Joey growing up and never fitting in. Squeeze his balls and make him cry. Tie some string around his cock and lead him round the playground. But all in fun, they only jest, a bit of laddish humour. Because they’ve fucked him all his life, been shafting him since he was small. Spread him out and shoved inside, so it’s nothing new, not too surprising. Joey playing host again. Welcoming his friends.

‘My fault . . . ’ she said.

He shrugged.

‘Rather me than you, though.’

Bitter smile on Joey’s face. All broken mouth and bitter smile.

‘That what you’re thinking, is it? Better it was Joey-boy, cause that’s what Joey’s for?’

You could hardly bear to look at him. He had a crumpled, flattened look, a kind of rubbish-look, a look of pure, unblemished impotence. The look of someone who’d been bent and spread, who’d been well and truly entered by his betters.

The wind came scything across the field and forced its way inside her mouth.

‘Joe . . . ’

She touched his shoulder. The barest touch, which barely made him quiver.

‘You should get in the car,’ he muttered. ‘Catch cold out here.’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Don’t want you getting a chill,’ he said.

She shook her head, trembled in the wind.

‘We driving into town, then, Joe? We going now? We off now, Joey?’

He didn’t even look at her. Kept staring at the ground.

‘I don’t think so really.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think we should do things like that.’

‘Like driving . . . ’

‘Do things together. I don’t think so, no.’

The nail inside her skull.

‘I think we should do things apart,’ he said. ‘Makes sense, really. Better split, I mean. We’re different, now.’

‘Still the same.’

‘Can’t say I agree with you, there. Not really of one mind, I’m afraid. So we’d better say adieu.’

The rusted nail inside her skull.

‘So I’ll see you then,’ he said. ‘Been fun, I guess.’

‘You mean I—’

‘I mean you’d better go,’ he said.

He placed a fag between his lips.

‘I think you’ll find that’s what I mean.’

* * *

CHAPTER 22

The air was bad in there as she tried to recall the number, the receiver cold against her ear. She looked outside, saw thick, grey cloud hanging low above the rooftops. It was fat and bloated, pressing down. So close it was, she could have stabbed it. Could have ripped it open, if she’d had a blade.

Donna in stiletto heels, standing in the booth. You couldn’t tell by watching her, couldn’t guess by looking at her face the kind of thought the Donna bitch was thinking. You’d have to get inside her, have to crack the fragile skull and touch the pulpiness inside, hammer on the shell to reach the brainy bits inside. So you couldn’t tell, if you’d have seen her, that she had this vacant feeling in her belly, a void and puked-out feeling, a sense of being finished, gutted, empty. Her and Joey. Dust and garbage. Nothing, on this earth.

She punched out the number and waited. There was a Y-shaped crack in the middle window, as if someone had banged his head against the glass, as if he’d simply had enough, and had rammed his bovine head against the British Telecom glass.

The phone rang three times, was answered on the fourth. That smooth, familiar voice. She shut her eyes. Nothing, on this earth. Less than nothing. Minus nothing. Weightless, on this earth.

‘Hello, Henry . . . ’

Speaking quietly. Nice and docile.

‘It’s me.’

A soft release of breath, a sigh of almost pleasure, came floating down the line. She could almost hear the cogs begin to whirr inside his brain. Could almost hear him spread his legs, and touch his groin, and quietly tell himself: the bitch is back.

‘Nice to hear from you, sweetheart.’

Easing himself back in the padded chair.

‘Been wondering when you’d get in touch.’

The smirk came seeping down the line.

‘So how’s my little luscious?’

The tongue felt swollen in her mouth.

‘I’m . . . I want to come back.’

Something pale and viscous glistened on the floor. A small and perfect pool of sputum. A souvenir gobbed up the day before.

‘Course you do,’ he murmured. ‘Not got many options, darling. Just a sweet young thing who’s good in bed. Who’s always known, from an early age, that her fanny would be her fortune.’

The vacant feeling in her belly. The sense of being finished, gutted, empty.

‘So sell it while you can, my love. Milk it, while we want it. That’s what girlies do, when they’ve got no other choice. They take what’s being offered. They bend the knee, and bow the head, and walk the trodden path.’

She could smell herself, the mud on her clothes and the sick on her blouse. She could smell the stink of Donna bitch.

‘Please . . . ’

Nothing, on this earth.

‘Have to think a bit,’ he said. ‘Have to sit and cogitate.’

The damp was leaking into her bones. Making them soft. Making them porous. He could have pressed his thumb against her spine and pushed it gently in, he could have made an indentation in her vertebrae.

‘You’ll have to forget the lad,’ he said.

‘Already forgotten.’

Bend the knee and bow the head.

‘Don’t want him, any more.’

‘Didn’t think you would. Thought you might have cooled, a bit.’

‘Things are different, now.’

‘I know they are. I spoiled your goods. I went inside and spoiled your goods.’

Cold inside the booth. A whiff of urine in the air.

‘So what’s the problem, darling?’

‘Got no money,’ she whispered. ‘Feeling bad.’

‘Tell me something new,’ he said. ‘You’ve been running round with rubbish, see? Eating slop and sleeping rough. Living like a pig.’

The ooze of Fatman happiness.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘He led me on.’

‘So I did him for you.’

‘Brought me to my senses.’

‘Big soft lad, and I sorted him out.’

‘You did him, Henry. Did him hard.’

‘And I’ll tell you something . . . ’

‘Tell me, Henry.’

‘Shall I tell you, darling?’

‘Tell me, Henry.’

‘He liked it, didn’t he.’

That urine smell. That all-pervading urine smell.

‘Fucking loved it, if you’re asking.’

The gob on the floor and the smell in the air.

‘Ought to kiss my calfskin boots. Just go down on his knees and kiss my fucking boots, cause I did the boy a favour.’

She could hear him smiling down the phone. And once again that thought, that dirty, Donna thought: he who doesn’t crave to bury his tormentors is maybe better in the earth, where he can slowly putrefy. For if he doesn’t ache for retribution, not even in the privacy of damp and clammy dreams, not even then, not even fantasize, not even privately, he’s maybe better dead. They’d better finish him completely. Just snuff him out and melt him down and spread him on the vegetables. Just put him in a petticoat and lay him in the ground. Just shove him in and walk away. Just fuck him and forget him.

‘Want to come back . . . ’she muttered.

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Back where I belong . . . ’

‘Have to have a little think.’

‘Please . . . ’ she urged.

‘I mean you’ve given me a lot of grief, the last few days. Made me lose my temper. Made me get my tool out in a frozen field in Hertfordshire.’

‘I’m sorry, Henry.’

‘You’ll have to prove it.’

That vacant feeling in her belly. The sense of being finished, gutted, empty.

‘Got to make amends,’ he said, ‘because you let him in, my love. Turned me down, and let him in. Now I’m not the type who holds a grudge, I’m not what’s termed vindictive, but that upset me, frankly. Made me kick some doors in, and I’m not too fond of hooligans. So I had to make things right again. Had to teach you both a lesson. I mean I like to think of us as friends, but sometimes even friends require a spanking. Stands to reason, really. Firm but fair, is what I am. So there we are,’ he said, ‘and off we go.’

‘And you’ll take me back . . . ’

‘Long as you behave,’ he said. ‘I like my girlies when they’re good.’

‘Can I . . . may I say something?’

‘Of course you may.’

‘You didn’t have to do it, Henry.’

‘But that’s the point, my love. It was what we call gratuitous.’

She’s swaying on her feet. Taste of metal in her mouth.

‘So I’m coming round . . . ?’

‘Merv’ll bring you. You can meet him somewhere handy. Nice boy, Merv. Quite fond of you. He’ll bring you round.’

‘Can’t I come straight over?’

‘Better not.’

Grinning down the line.

‘Just in case,’ he said. ‘We don’t want any . . . incidents. Might get impulsive, darling. Might do something silly. Lose your head and get carried away, you know the way you do.’

‘I’m different now.’

‘I know you are. But you come round here, and you’ve got to behave.’

She heard a faintly oily sound, as thick and placid lips were brought together. The sound of Henry being happy. Anticipation at the thought of lubrication.

‘We’ll do it tomorrow. Give you time to have a bath. Tomorrow, go up Leicester Square. The Gaumont, right? Get a ticket for Screen Three. You got enough for a ticket?’

‘Yes.’

‘The early evening programme,’ he said.

‘Lunchtime,’ she murmured.

‘What?’

‘Don’t like the dark.’

‘Twelve o’clock, then. Shouldn’t be too crowded. Just sit upstairs, right at the back, and he’ll come and find you. Whatever he says, you do it, right? And don’t cause trouble, cause you know what he’s like when you’re difficult.’

The rustle of cellophane.

‘You’ll have a chat, then he’ll bring you round.’

‘And we’ll start again?’

‘We will.’

The sound of a cigar stuffed in his mouth.

‘How was Joey, when you left him?’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘A bit depressed.’

Henry chuckled.

‘Don’t blame him, frankly, cause if I were him — and thank fuck I’m not — a bit depressed is what I’d be. And I’ll tell you something for nothing, shall I? If he were half a man, he’d kill himself. He had any balls, he’d top himself. Cause it’s disgusting, what he did. Makes me sick to my fucking stomach. You know what I’m saying? Cause I’ve been
in
there, darling. Gone tunnelling inside.’

The click of the lighter.

‘Your boy’s been had, my love.’

The hiss of smoke sucked down the lungs.

‘He’s been shafted, well and truly.’

* * *

CHAPTER 23

She didn’t sleep much, that night. Sleep didn’t creep up and steal her away. She’d found a room behind King’s Cross, and lay there wide-eyed in the dark. She stared at the ceiling and chewed her lip, for there was nothing to do but wait till daylight. Undressed, derobed, ensconced between the sheets, sleep eluded her through a long, black night. Just engines revving on the street, and music leaking through the wall, and every time she shut her eyes the endless field in Hertfordshire.

Maybe she snatched an hour or two, she couldn’t tell. All she knew, it was half-past ten, the room was cold, and her brain felt thick with unfinished dreams. She pushed back the blanket and stared at the ceiling. Thin, brown cracks had fissured the plaster. A lorry was reversing down below, and diesel came seeping through the window.

She rolled out of bed and took a lukewarm shower, then pulled on a skirt and a tight, black top. Her Henry-outfit, as it were. Clothes to please a Fatman. Breakfast was taken across the road. Just a piece of toast and a cup of tea, for she wasn’t in an eating mood, not of a mind to gorge herself. She took her time though, didn’t rush. Read the paper, and checked the horses, and all the while the vague, obscure awareness that someone might be watching.

It didn’t take long to get into town. Thirty minutes, more or less. She took a bus to Euston, then Tubed it down to Leicester Square. Gaudy, filthy Leicester Square. The crowds were bad that day, a fluid mass of scabby tourists eating burgers. Walking slowly, taking up space. You could hardly move for rucksacks, and she had that hemmed-in feeling you get in London, that surge of claustrophobic rage that bubbles up inside until you think you might erupt, until you throb and ache for self-expression. She could have let them know, could have taken one aside and explained it, very carefully, but there were other things to think about, other factors to consider. She had a rendezvous with Mervyn, so she had to save her energy.

By the time she reached the Gaumont, the theatre was dark, the picture just beginning. Barely twenty seats were taken, for which she thanked her deity. She wrinkled her nose and sniffed the air. It didn’t smell too bad, for once. Not too reeking, as it happened. It didn’t have that whiff of strangers packed together, that stink you get when they’ve rushed off on a Friday night to watch the latest from the States, when they’re crammed in tight and sit there, sweating, in the gloom.

She took a seat three rows from the back, near the left-hand aisle. You wouldn’t have seen her, unless you were looking, for she was trying not to push herself. Demure, you’d call her, if you passed her. Fairly self-effacing. The nearest person was eight rows down, which was how she liked it. No point getting close, unless one really had to. No point interacting, prematurely.

She placed her handbag on the floor. Tried to focus on the story. He’d get there soon, with his slicked-back hair and his Fulham smile. Maybe gloating. Maybe not. She stared at the image on the screen. Her guts felt raw. Have to eat, she thought, got to take in fuel. Iron band around her chest, and the blood was pounding in her head.