DONNA AND THE FATMAN (Crime Thriller Fiction) (23 page)

‘Your dinner, Henry. Thought you wouldn’t want to be disturbed.’

‘That was very thoughtful of you.’

The Fatman walked over to the corner table, motioning the boy to sit down opposite.

‘You got anything in the oven?’

Carlo shook his head.

‘We had some pigeon-breast, before.’

‘I like a bit of breast . . . ’

‘All gone, now, I’m afraid.’

‘Punters like it, did they?’

‘They loved it, Henry.’

‘I’ll bet they did, the bastards.’

Henry sighed, for he quite liked pigeon.

‘Do me a steak, then.’

‘How d’you want it?’

‘As it comes.’

He took out his handkerchief and wiped his nose. Catching a chill, he thought. Shouldn’t have had that sodding bath.

‘Who’s in the kitchen?’

‘Just me, Henry. No problem.’

‘I know that, Carlo. That’s why I come here, see? Cause there’s never any problem.’

The Fatman moved the salt so it was next to the pepper, and flicked a breadcrumb to the floor.

‘So better get cooking, then, if I was you. Better put your pinny on and do the business.’

He shoved the hanky back in his trousers. Glanced at the boy.

‘What’s your name, son? Oswald, is it?’

‘Oscar.’

Henry nodded.

‘Good name, that. Quite classy, really.’

The Fatman drummed his fingers on the table and looked around. Mellow light and polished wood. He almost felt at home.

‘I like this place,’ he muttered. ‘Know what I mean?’

He undid his collar and loosened his tie, his fingers brushing the fleshy neck. The skin felt moist, for he was quietly sweating. Glowing with contentment. Be over soon, he thought. Be finished, well and truly.

The thick-cut fillet was medium-rare, and when he cut it with his knife pink juice oozed out and slowly encircled the sauté potatoes. Nice bit of beef that, he told himself, because he needed his protein. Helping of runner-beans on the side, some pan-fried onions for character. There was a decent Bordeaux, to aid his digestion, while something classical came floating from the speakers. He put a chunk of steak inside his mouth and began to chew. The pleasing slap of lip on lip.

‘I mean it’s not a bad life, is it?’

He swallowed.

‘Not fucking brilliant, but not too bad.’

He looked up at the young apprentice, the trainee-driver, his dinner-companion for the evening. Oscar blushed and moved his hand away from his face.

‘What you doing there, son?’

‘Nothing.’

Henry put down his fork.

‘You picking your nose?’

‘No.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘Course I’m sure.’

‘Cause I could have sworn I saw your finger up your nose.’

Oscar shrugged.

‘Just scratching, boss.’

‘Inside the nostril?’

The boy wiped his finger on a napkin.

‘Had an itch,’ he shrugged. ‘That’s all.’

Henry looked at him. Bleak, unblinking eyes.

‘Well I got news for you. You scratch an itch that’s up your nostril, you’re what we term a nosepicker, in the trade. And they never told me, did they, when I took you on. They never said: ‘Nice lad, Oswald, but he picks his nose.’ Didn’t let me know upfront, so I could take precautions, see? Remember not to watch you while I eat my fucking dinner.’

He shoved the plate away in disgust. Oscar’s gaze was focused on the steak.

‘You leaving that?’

‘You being funny?’

‘I’m only asking.’

The Fatman glared.

‘Well fucking don’t, right? Just keep it buttoned.’

His stomach was starting to churn, and he shoved a fag between his lips. He had a sudden vision of Merv and Billy, and for a second or two he almost missed them, he felt almost nostalgic. But they’d gone and left him and he was all alone, with acid forming in his gut and a tosspot for a driver. He shook his head and sucked on the fag. Not fair, he thought. Not fucking fair.

Footsteps sounded from behind the wall.

‘Boss . . . ?’

The Fatman swivelled round. Pushing through the kitchen door, with Carlo sweating close behind, came the Limehouse twins, two big, strong boys with shoulder-pads. And tightly held between them, if he wasn’t too much mistaken, permed and tinted and soft as chiffon, with tape stuck down on the ruby mouth, and thumbs tied together, in case she got fretful . . . 

He felt himself go calm again, for all things come to him who waits. I’m clean, he thought. I’m scrubbed and ready.

‘Hello, sweetheart.’

The warmth in the groin.

‘Glad you dropped by.’

* * *

CHAPTER 35

They stood in the yard behind the restaurant. Hardly room to move, for the ground was thick with empty crates, awash with plastic bin-bags. A forty-watt bulb was jutting from the wall, throwing a dim, orange light over the wet brickwork. Half a mile away the night-train was rumbling through Hackney. Be over soon, he told himself. Be finished, fairly soon. He glanced at the bruising on her chin.

‘Thought you said without a blemish.’

The twins were wearing their velvet jackets, one in grey and one in blue. The grey one shrugged.

‘She got lippy, Henry. Wasn’t our fault.’

‘Not a mark, you said . . . ’

‘We meant ‘more or less’.’

Oscar groaned, an eruption of damply yearning breath that floated lazily into the night. He held her firmly by the arm, was eyeing her like she already belonged.

‘Don’t even think it,’ Henry murmured.

‘Think what, boss?’

‘A bit of breaking and entering, son. Don’t get ideas above your station.’

‘I’m only looking.’

‘Looking’s fine. I don’t mind looking. But I don’t like leering. I don’t like touching.’

The rain had almost petered out. Just a few soft drops, a residual spray. The wind came scudding through London Fields and bit into his skin. Alive, he thought, and feeling good, for he hugged inside himself the sure and certain knowledge that while Mervyn nearly got her, and Joe had gone and lost her, and Billy fell before her, later on tonight, most probably against her will, face down on some garage floor, he, and he alone, would be the one to have the vengeance-girl.

He turned to the Limehouse boys.

‘Five thousand, right?’

He shoved a hand in his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of cash. Unused fifties, from the machine. He weighed the banknotes in his palm, the sum he’d agreed for his favourite slut.

‘But is it a bargain, I ask myself?’

‘Depends what you want it for.’

‘That’s very true.’

He peeled off notes and counted them over. He liked the feeling of money in his hands. Even when he paid it out, he got a sense of validation, of being someone who could buy the things he needed, who could lift the phone and say: Could you find my slag? Could you do it, please? Cause I’d be obliged. So he’s feeling good. He’s feeling like a Fatman should.

‘You search her, lads?’

‘First thing we did.’

‘That right?’ he said. ‘What’s the second thing, then?’

And he grinned at them, because he’s only joking. He knew they wouldn’t sniff around his package, try to poke their Limehouse fingers in its soft and tender places. Whatever they’d do, they wouldn’t do that. They had their standards, after all, their prissy, gangster protocol.

‘Where d’you find it, anyway?’

The blue twin smiled.

‘Just wandering round.’

There was a final spattering of wind-blown rain as the last few banknotes were handed over. Time to shift, Henry thought. Time to make a move. He wouldn’t want it getting soggy.

‘Guess there’s nothing much to say now, gents, except thank you kindly, and goodnight.’

And they all shook hands, for they were decent blokes.

* * *

CHAPTER 36

‘You got the locks on, son?’

He pushed his head forward between the two front seats and pointed at the dashboard. Oscar’s finger hovered above a silver button. Henry nodded.

‘That one, yeah.’

He settled back into the contoured seat and glanced at his watch. Twenty past three, and he needed his kip. If he stayed up too late his ticker started thumping, he’d get his palpitations. Because of her, the selfish cow. She was bad for his health. Infectious, really. A sort of germ, in human form. He turned his head and gazed at her. She was sitting in the corner, staring out of the smoked-glass window. She looked detached, he thought, like she was somewhere else. As if she didn’t care, as if he didn’t matter.

Oscar started the engine.

‘We going home?’

The Fatman thought it over.

‘Eventually.’

He examined his nails. They were very white, he told himself. Very lovely.

‘Thought we’d go for a spin first, Oswald. Have a little ride.’

He considered various options, and came to his decision.

‘Leytonstone, why don’t we.’

The driver pushed the gear-stick into second, and they jerked away from the kerb.

‘Have to check the fuel tank,’ he murmured. ‘Something with the cable, boss. Got to sort it, case the engine cuts out.’

A languid movement of Henry's hand.

‘Later, son. After we’ve finished.’

He smiled at the girl.

‘D’you like my motor?’

Prodding her gently in the side.

‘It’s Mervyn’s, see.’

She went on staring out the window. The bitch, he thought. The luscious bitch.

‘Talk to me, sweetheart. I’m a lonely guy.’

He leaned towards her and yanked off the tape, and a stifled moan, a reluctant confession of pain, escaped her lips. That’s more like it, he told himself. Always nice when they respond.

‘So here we are again,’ he said. ‘Having one of our chats, our
tête-à-têtes.
’

The limo went cruising down the road, slicing through the urban sprawl round Homerton.

‘I been reading about girls like you,’ he said. ‘Rough little girls who like causing bother. Been reading these articles in some very posh papers. And I know I shouldn’t believe what they say, but sometimes I just can’t help it, can I? They can’t
all
be wrong, I tell myself. Not educated people, using lots of big words. Medical people, if you follow my drift. Men who specialize in your kind of problem. Diseases of the brain, my love. Abnormalities of the mental area. Cause when men like them say that girls like you need treating, who am I to argue?’

He slapped her round the mouth.

‘You listening, precious? Cause I’m talking, see? So be a good girl and fucking look at me, right?’

Oscar sucked in his breath. He flicked a glance into the rearview mirror, then put his foot down hard and powered on through Leyton. He liked his new job enormously.

The Fatman watched her turn her head. A trickle of darkness was edging down her chin. She fixed her gaze on his face, as if trying to memorize its features, as if she’d never really seen them before, she’d never really noticed them, and now was her final chance. A sound emerged from the back of her throat, as though she’d forgotten how to speak, she’d forgotten how to form the words.

‘You say something, sweetheart?’ The Fatman concern. ‘Spit it out, darling. Don’t be shy.’

Her mouth sagged open.

‘What happened . . . ’

She moved her lips.

‘ . . . to Joe?’

He felt himself relax, the tension leak away. His gut felt calm, his scrotum warm. His blood slowed down to a sullen throb of pleasure.

‘I happened, didn’t I.’

He took out his fags. It was a moment to savour, and it called for tobacco. He tapped the pack and offered the girl. No point being churlish, he thought. No point being stingy. Even lit it for her, being a true-blue gent, and watched her drag the muck and tar inside.

‘It’s very sad,’ he added, ‘but such is life.’

He lit one for himself, then placed the pack and matches in her lap. He was feeling in a generous mood, and ciggies wouldn’t kill her. Whatever put her in her grave, it wouldn’t be tobacco.

‘You’ll have to answer for it, though. What occurred. All the shit, and stuff. Because you caused it, really.’

He flicked a thin, grey turd of ash on to the carpet.

‘You’re what I’d call responsible, darling.’

He stared at the back of Oscar’s neck. Rather closely shaved, he thought. Rather nineteen-fifties.

‘Take us up to Epping, okay?’

‘Sure, boss.’

Henry reached across and took her hand. He turned it over and examined the palm. He spread the fingers wide and gently touched the unlined skin.

‘You been there, have you, up the forest? Our bit of country on the edge of London? Goes on forever, if you’re walking. You get lost in there, you’re not too careful. Cause it’s gigantic, darling . . . ’

He placed her hand between his thighs.

‘ . . . it’s fucking huge.’

They were speeding north: Woodford, Buckhurst, Loughton. The boy switched on the radio, surfing the channels till he found something bland. Henry tapped his foot.

‘That’s nice,’ he murmured.

He leaned towards her and lowered his voice.

‘Just us, the night, and the music, eh?’

Coming up to Debden, and the houses were getting fewer, the lights were getting scarcer, the sense that London’s far behind. And suddenly, emerging from the gloom, spreading wart-like by the road, ten thousand half-bare trees. You could smell them in the car. Even sat in the back of a limousine, you could smell the trees in Epping Forest.

Oscar slowed and took a left.

‘We stopping soon?’

‘Just get in there, will you?’

The boy switched the lights to main beam, and drove on and in. He changed down to second, kept the revs down low. Moved from B-roads on to C-roads, then unmarked tracks. Tree-trunks loomed and passed, while leafless branches slithered across the roof.

‘Like a fairground ride,’ he muttered.

He’d got maybe two miles in when he touched his foot to the brake.

‘This okay?’

A Fatman grunt. Oscar cut the engine and switched off the radio. They sat there quietly, the three of them, in the dense and liquid silence. Night-time, in the forest. Henry touched his groin. She’s mine, he thought. She belongs to me. A sudden, wistful sigh, for the moment had almost come. It was almost there. They were almost in it.