DONNA AND THE FATMAN (Crime Thriller Fiction) (4 page)

He peered down at the necklace, eyes narrowing slightly.

‘And I’m glad you’re spending money on her. Shows you care, see? I like a bloke who spends on his wife. Even when he’s in debt. Even when he can’t pay what he owes, if he still keeps spending on his wife that makes me happy, Trevor. It makes my scrotum start to tingle, and I get a nice, warm feeling down below . . . ’

The Henry smile.

‘ . . . which can’t be bad.’

He pressed the tips of his fingers against cold plate glass.

‘What’s the damage then, Trev?’

‘Well, normally . . . ’

‘To me, Trevor. What’s the damage to me?’

‘Three hundred.’

Henry emitted a low, mock-impressed whistle.

‘And worth every penny, I shouldn’t wonder. Only wish I could afford it. Would suit my little Donna, here.’

He gently stroked her cheek.

‘Am I right, Trevor? You think she’s worth three ton? Because I think she’s worth it. I’d say three hundred quid to make her happy was what I’d call a bargain.’

He turned her round to face him, and let his eyes slide up and down. He gave the girl his full and frank attention.

‘So speak up, sweetheart. Don’t be shy. You want that thing, or not?’

She considered for a moment, cogitated carefully, and then she said:

‘I think I’d rather not.’

‘Too posh for you?’

‘Too cheap.’

‘Three ton, you tart.’

‘It’s not enough.’

‘Joe couldn’t buy it.’

‘Not quite the point.’

He gazed at her for several moments.

‘I prefer it when they’re talkative.’

Smoothing his fingers along his lapel, playing with the end of his pointed lapel.

‘Don’t you love it, when they gab a bit? Can’t beat it, can you, the lippiness of little girls. That’s why we want them, eh, Trev? And when it gets too much we can shut the mouth, just stop it up, just shove the cork back in the bottle.’

And Donna, who has this streak in her, who lacks a sense of preservation, looks him in his Fatman eye and says:

‘I reckon you can’t afford me.’

‘I can afford anyone.’

‘Almost anyone.’

‘That’s right, darling. Keep on gabbing.’

‘Just a small-time crook . . . ’

‘Like kids, they are, when they get like this. Got to give them a smack when they get too cheeky.’

‘Bit of thieving, bit of fencing, bit of lending on the side . . . ’

‘But they’re delicate, see, so not too hard. Not in the face. I don’t hit girlies in the face.’

‘Bit of pimping, here and there . . . ’

‘Unless they really ask for it.’ His tongue flicked out between his lips. ‘Unless they really want it bad.’

‘Toerag stuff, I would have thought . . . ’

‘You might be right,’ he said, and slapped her twice with the back of his hand. Once on the cheek, once on the mouth, and every time the small and sated Henry-grunt that issued from his throat.

He examined her face, held it up to the light.

‘Glad we’ve cleared the air,’ he said. ‘I’m feeling better, now.’

Her cheek had turned bright crimson, although he hadn’t hit her hard, he thought. Not properly, just nice and gently. He watched the tears begin to flow, and knew what she was feeling: the shock, the pain, the lurching recognition that she’s weightless in this world. He knew all that. He understood those things. He’s an understanding man.

‘You know something, Trevor? She’s probably the type who doesn’t like gifts. I mean some girls don’t.’

He slipped a hand inside his coat and brought out an eight-inch hammer, being the sort who carries one round, as they often come in handy. He placed it gently on the counter.

‘They’d rather their blokes were poor but honest, scratching a living in a Kilburn flat. Eating shit, and dressed in chainstore garbage. Always smiling, always ready to help the neighbours. Decent, wholesome blokes, God help us. They like them, Trevor, and it beats me why. Because a poor man’s like a dead man, see? He’s nothing, on this earth. So when a girly’s being friendly to a corpse, it makes me wonder, sometimes. Makes me start to speculate. The ladies, son. I try and guess what makes them tick.’

He eased off his gloves and glanced at his watch.

‘Running late now, Trev, so I think it’s time I made my purchase.’

He took out his handkerchief and dabbed a tear from her swollen cheek. I’m kind, he thought. I’m a decent bloke.

‘Turn off the bells,’ he murmured. ‘There’s a good chap.’

The jeweller was staring at the hammer. It looked synthetic, somehow, lying on the counter, beside the Fatman’s hand. Unreal, beside the plump and hairless fingers.

‘Pretty sharpish, if you wouldn’t mind. Joey’s on a double yellow, and you know the way he frets.’

‘I’m sorry . . . ?’

‘The alarm,’ Henry clarified. ‘Better switch it off, old mate. We don’t want to wake up wifey.’

Trevor bent and reached under the counter. His skin was turning grey, he seemed almost to be shrivelling. It was as though the flesh were melting from his bones, as though he were retreating from this world. Tiny drops of moisture appeared, as if from nowhere, on his forehead. Maybe he was sweating. Maybe it was the light.

Henry picked up the hammer.

‘Good lad,’ he said.

She watched him move a few feet back. He raised his arm, seemed to half-run forward, and then, with a soft moan of pleasure, an exhalation of quiet contentment, he brought the hammer down, he swung it down, he slammed it very quickly down. Bright shards of glass arrowed into the air. The sound seemed to shatter inside her skull.

‘I’ve always liked a noise,’ he murmured. ‘Bit of sound and fury.’

He reached inside, shoved away rings and bracelets, and plucked the silver necklace from the tray. He held it up and examined it carefully, turning it over to catch the light. The prize, he thought. The longed-for trophy. A modest gift for little girly.

‘We’ll take it as it is,’ he said. ‘You needn’t wrap it.’

And he wished the jeweller all the best, took her firmly by the arm, and walked her through the door. By the time they reached the car, Joe had the engine running. Revs down low, just keeping it warm. Henry climbed in the back and pulled her down beside him, still gripping her tightly with his oldman’s fingers.

‘That’s right, precious. Snuggle up close.’

The red mark on her face was already fading to a faint, becoming blush. It was almost gone, which he almost regretted.

Joe flicked off the radio and released the handbrake. He glanced in the mirror, waiting to be told.

‘Back to me,’ Henry ordered. ‘She’s coming to lunch.’

She took out her ciggies. (Camel Lights, her weed of choice.)

‘I’m not hungry.’

He struck a match.

‘You don’t have to eat.’

She leaned towards the flame.

‘I want to go to Kilburn.’

‘What’s wrong with Hampstead?’

She pressed a button. Her window slid down.

‘Too green . . . ’

She squinted up at the London sky.

‘ . . . too countryfied.’

Joe held the clutch at biting point.

‘Boss?’

The Fatman sighed. She was a nylon type, not used to better things. Indulge her, for the moment.

‘You saying you prefer his place to mine?’

‘It’s got more character.’

‘Like damp and mould.’

‘Yeah, stuff like that.’

Henry grunted. Made no difference, anyway. Take a bit longer, but same thing in the end.

‘I like to please the ladies, Joe, can’t bear it when they sulk. So just drop me off, okay? You take her back to yours, and I’ll come round later. Discuss some business, type of thing.’

He watched East Acton accelerate past the window.

‘Might bring Mervyn,’ he added, softly. ‘Help pass the time.’

* * *

CHAPTER 4

Joe cut open a tin of steak and kidney and emptied it into the saucepan. The girl was standing next to him, watching the mixture as it settled and spread.

‘Nice necklace,’ he commented.

‘It’s all right.’ She passed him the plastic fork. ‘Your boss gave it me.’

‘That was generous.’

‘He got it for nothing, anyway.’

Joe turned down the gas and began to stir.

‘So did you.’

Early afternoon, and they’re killing time till the Fatman comes, waiting for Henry to pay them a visit. They’d both agreed she should stay a while, and she’d unpacked her things and stowed them away. The rain was sheeting down outside, thudding hard on the greasy pavement and bouncing off the basement steps. She switched off the gas.

‘Shall I tell you something?’

‘No, ta.’

‘I don’t know why you work for him.’

‘It’s a job,’ he muttered.

‘So’s cleaning drains.’

He poured the brown stuff into a soup-plate.

‘You having some?’

She thought about it, for a nanosecond.

‘You have it, Joe.’

‘I don’t mind sharing . . . ’

She shook her head.

‘You need your strength.’

She watched him pull out a chair and sit down at the table. He peeled some slices off the open loaf and started spooning up his lunch. He took his time, when he had his meals. Ate them slowly, with refinement. He might eat shit, she told herself, but he ate it like a prince. She idly wondered what Henry was having, what piece of prime-cut fillet was comfortably filling the Henry belly, what sated burp of satisfaction was softly parting his Fatman lips.

‘D’you also owe him?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Does everyone owe him?’

He tore a piece of bread in half and moved it slowly round the plate, soaking up gravy and bits of carrot.

‘Yeah.’

He had peach slices for his afters, then went down the road to the mini-mart. Said he’d get some cake and things, some goodies for the fellers. He made her promise to fix the room, make it look its best, so she cleared the table and shifted some chairs. (Enough, she thought. Don’t overdo it.) By the time her boy returned, the rain was easing off, the clouds were gradually parting. But even so, it was dark inside. No finger of light could poke inside a basement flat in Kilburn.

About ten past three the buzzer rang. Joe grinned his nervous, Joey grin. He smoothed down his hair and opened the door, and there they were, Merv and Henry, come to have their tea.

‘Hello, son,’ the Fatman said, and stepped inside. He allowed his face to register the mildest distaste, the faintest suggestion that he might have seen better salons in his day.

‘You’ve laid the table,’ he noted. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘I like a man who uses doilies.’

His presence seemed to fill the room.

‘Take a pew, Merv, that’s the spirit. Make yourself at home, that’s right. Joe won’t mind, cause Joe’s a pal.’

He spotted the girl. A flash of yellow smile.

‘I grew up round here, can you believe it, eh? The Fatman had a humble start. So I’m not a snob, in case you wondered. Might be a cunt, but I’m not a snob. That’s why I like to come and visit. I just step inside the door and it all comes flooding back again: the filth of it, the shittiness. Makes me feel nostalgic, almost. I get this sort of tender wave inside my gut, and I think of my old man, poor bastard. My poor old dad, I think, the poor old fuck.’

He took off his coat, draped it over a chair.

‘But nice little place you got here, Joe. Not too big, if you take my drift. What’s known as
compact
, in the trade.’

He delicately sniffed the air.

‘Got a pleasant whiff to it.’

A frown of concentration.

‘I’d say you had braised beef and gravy for dinner. Some kind of stew, from some kind of can.’

He smacked his generous lips together, as if he wished he’d been invited, as if it were his favourite meal.

‘Am I right, Joe, eh? Tell me, Joey, am I right?’

He grinned at them. He was feeling good.

‘Say something, why don’t you.’

Joe patted the button-down sofa.

‘Have a seat,’ he suggested. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

‘I will, son, don’t you worry.’

He pulled out his handkerchief and whisked it neatly over the cushions. It was a habit of his, when making housecalls. In case of crumbs and things.

‘Amazing what they can do with plastic, these days.’

He sat down carefully, squeezing his large buttocks on to the small seat.

‘I mean it almost looks like leather, doesn’t it? Not close up, of course, but when you’re standing in the doorway, having a good look round. You’re giving it the eyeball, and you see this big thing shining in the light, and fuck me, you think, Joey’s got a leather sofa. The toerag’s living well, you think.’

He pulled one of the cups towards him and filled it with dark brown liquid.

‘And then you step inside, and you come up close, and you relax a bit, you unwind a bit, you calm down a bit, because it’s only plastic, isn’t it? Cause Joe can’t pay his rent, and when you live on tick you shouldn’t sit on leather. Shouldn’t park your arse on handstitched hide when you’ve still got bills to pay.’

A dash of milk, two lumps of sugar.

‘You ought to squat on the ground, if I’m being honest. Ought to sit on the pavement, just sit in a puddle on the fucking pavement. That’s what you ought to do, Joe. That’s my honest opinion, for what it’s worth, which isn’t much.’

He took a cautious sip and nodded to the girl.

‘Nice spot of tea, this, sweetheart. Is it Darjeeling?’

With which remark he paused and drained his cup. No sound, save that of liquid going down the gullet. So not quite silence, but very nearly. He was feeling mellow, quite at ease, the tannin warmth cascading through his belly. He leaned back in the sofa and flicked his gaze around the room.

‘If I had to find a term for it, I’d call this flat
appropriate
. You’ve found your niche, my boy. You’ve found your place in life.’

He picked up a chocolate digestive.

‘Just open the window, now and then.’

Allowed himself a generous bite.

‘Lift the sash and let some air in. Make a pleasant change.’

Washed it down with a glass of squash.