How to Be Bad (27 page)

Now the café was in uproar. People were hiding under their tables, a baby was wailing and a middle-aged man in a flat cap was having a fit on the floor, threshing about in a pool of Earl Grey tea.

I turned to Bad Jesus and saw he'd been too fast for me. He was already holding a dainty little low-calibre pistol and its muzzle was pressed against Caro's head. Caro was staring at me in wide-eyed terror but Jesus didn't seem interested in me or the gun I was holding. All his outrage and malice was directed at the woman who had betrayed him.

“You stupid, stupid slut,” he said. “You told him where we were, didn't you?
Didn't you?
”

Caro jabbered something about not meaning it. I blurted out my next line but in my terror, got my words confused. “Spread your hands in the table where I can see them.”

Jesus didn't seem to hear me. “Give me one good reason,” he said to Caro, “why I shouldn't kill you here and now.”

“I'm having your baby,” said Caro.

Her words sounded so surreal among the gunsmoke and the screams.

Jesus stared at her. “Say that again?”

“I'm pregnant.” She kept her eyes fixed on his. The tears were rolling down her face. “If you kill me, you'll kill your own child.”

“You're such a whore it could be anyone's,” countered Jesus.

“You could get a DNA test,” said Caro. “Shoot me afterwards if I'm lying. But I'm not.”

She was very convincing. I could see that Bad Jesus was beginning to wonder. For one fraction of a second he forgot what he was supposed to be doing and lowered the gun. I saw my window of opportunity and seized it.

I shot him twice, once near the heart and once through the left hand when he raised it to protect himself. Jesus dropped the gun and rocked in his chair, his chin sagging forward onto his bloody chest. With a strange animal whimper, Caro kicked the table aside and ran for the door. I followed her. As we were leaving, an old lady in a Margaret Thatcher suit unleashed a truly shocking volley of expletives.

A young couple who had been standing on the street, gaping at the carnage through the café window, jumped clear as we rushed out. They backed straight into the path of a car. The driver braked just in time but was hit by the car behind and shunted forward, knocking the couple over anyway.

We ran down the street, barging into startled tourists. It was not over yet. Turning left into the passage that led to the Swan's parking lot, we met the Jazzman coming the other way. His hair was wet and slicked-back, as if he had just stepped out of the shower. At the sight of us, he stopped dead and reached into his jacket. But I had the advantage.

In my witless confusion, I was still holding the Kimber. I fired my weapon before his was drawn, aiming for the Jazzman's chest but missing and blowing a hole through his neck. He reeled horribly, spraying blood all over the shiny parked cars before collapsing on the cobbles. The noises he was making made me sweat with shame. I shot him again. This time, the Jazzman lay still.

At the far end of the car park lay a narrow road that bypassed the local brewery. There was no one about. I thrust my hat into my pocket and gripped Caro's hand. “Walk,” I told her. “If we walk, it'll be less obvious.”

It seemed to work. The strollers on the sea front, dressed in their Easter Sunday best, paid us no attention as we made our way to the Audi. It was only when we were inside the car that I realized that Caro's face was spattered with the blood of her captors.

I turned the car round and drove sedately back toward the harbor end of town. Three police cars, lights flashing, tore past us on their way to the high street. I thanked God that we were escaping in a dull, insignificant car. The police didn't spare us a glance as they raced by. Why would they? We knew nothing about violence and crime. We were just two sweet-natured lovers out for an Easter Sunday drive.

*   *   *

C
ARO INSISTED
that we take a slight detour. Feeling, not without reason, that our hands were contaminated by the blood of many, she asked to visit the holy shrine at Little Walsingham. She wanted to pray for our immortal souls. I didn't argue. Just because I don't go in for praying myself doesn't mean I'm not flattered when other people think I'm worth praying for.

Before leaving the car, I moistened a tissue with some bottled water from Caro's bag and used it to clean her face. As I wiped the blood away, her eyes took in my own battered features. “Poor baby. I'm so sorry. I've really fucked up your life.”

“Not necessarily,” I said.

Walsingham was even more genteel than Southwold, its timbered medieval houses breathing out an air of piety and foreboding. Today, the streets were flooded with pilgrims, all intent on paying homage at the Anglican shrine. When I saw the crowds, I tried to persuade Caro to turn back. She refused.

I arranged to wait for her outside the pub in the marketplace while she walked down Holt Lane to pay her respects to Our Lady of Walsingham. The pub was closed, so I couldn't get a drink, although I badly needed one. Instead I sat at one of the wooden tables outside, watching the priests, pilgrims, and backpackers happily milling about. There was a strong smell of dog shit, for which I charitably assumed the pilgrims were not responsible.

I took no pride or pleasure in the events of the morning. I had gunned down three men, probably killed them. Indirectly, I was also responsible for the shooting of a waitress and an old lady. Five casualties, eight if you counted the car-crash couple and the epileptic.

I had saved Caro. But I had also defiled England. The thought gave me a strange satisfaction.

Ten minutes passed. By now, I was bored with waiting. I heard an ominous marching sound, accompanied by the clamor of many voices. Two coachloads of nuns swarmed into the little square, all laughing and talking at once. The noise was tremendous. Most of the nuns were under the age of forty, yet as far as I could see, there was not a single sex bomb among them. They clamored around a small dark-suited guide who was striving in vain to maintain order.

“The historic village of Little Walsingham…” the guide kept saying, but the unruly women never let him complete the sentence.

I walked to the end of Holt Road to see if I could spot Caro returning from the Anglican shrine. After a few moments of peering through the milling hordes, I saw her unmistakable cropped blonde head approaching. Then I saw something else. Coming up behind her, a full eight inches above the rest of the crowd, was a man with long auburn hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and a face so pale that it was startling.

Bad Jesus.

Caro was now less than fifty yards away. I pointed frantically and shouted out a warning, but she thought I was waving and waved back. I saw something glitter in Jesus' hand. When the knife came down, Caro faltered. She put a hand to her shoulder, saw blood, and lurched forward. Then Jesus stepped forward to stab her again. With all the force available to me, I opened my mouth and roared.

“Jesus!” I called.

Something extraordinary happened. The river of bodies passing up and down Holt Road parted, clearing the way for Caro to run into my arms. A large patch of blood was spreading over her left shoulder blade. The nuns, all silenced by my shout, looked where I was pointing and saw a huge, pale man swaying in the street, his clothes stained with blood, his face shining with an unearthly waxen glow. Here was the man from Nazareth, returned to earth.

There was a collective sigh, and as one the nuns surged forward. I hugged Caro to me as they rushed by, leaving a cloud of Bible dust in their wake. Jesus held up a hand to halt the holy sisters, but the sight of the gory hole through his left palm only served to increase their fervor. Bad Jesus spread his arms wide in one last desperate appeal for calm. Then he was lost to view as the black-clad bodies swept over him.

*   *   *

I
N THE
car, I examined the injury to Caro's shoulder. It was an ugly slash, about five inches long, but it wasn't deep, and it wasn't going to kill her. I tore a sleeve from my shirt and pressed it against the wound to stanch the flow of blood.

“Today in the café,” I said quietly, “when you told Jesus the baby was his. That was just a trick, right?”

Her silence confirmed my worst fears.

“How do you know it's his?” I asked her.

“Because I can count,” said Caro.

CHAPTER 14

IRON MARK

I
PHONED
Detective Sergeant Bromley at work. He wasn't there. Then I discovered that he was listed in the Richmond-Upon-Thames phone book. I phoned the number and his wife answered. She sounded friendly and bubbly. I guessed he was a jolly family man, when he wasn't trying to bribe attractive female suspects to suck his knarled old cock. “Who is it?” she said.

“Geoff Sadler,” I said. “We went to school together. Is he there?”

“No, dear. Where do you think he is? I'll give you one guess.”

“In the pub?”

“No. He's playing golf, ain't he? Right here in Richmond.”

I knew I could get onto the golf course by cutting across the western boundary of Kew Gardens. It was a sunny afternoon in early spring. The green was so lush that it was almost a shame to walk on it. When I found them, Bromley and Flett were just about to tee off on the ninth. I didn't know what I was going to do. I had no gun, and there were two of them.

I was prepared for anything, but the police officers still managed to surprise me. Seeing me approaching, Flett dropped his club and started running. His flight was flabby and comical, punctuated by stops and starts and frequent glances over his shoulder.

Bromley, too proud to bolt, plucked an iron from his trolley and brandished it like a weapon. A purple nerve rash showed under his chin and around his sagging jowls. “I'm warning you, don't come any closer.”

“Why? What'll you do?”

“Nothing.” His voice was trembling. “Just don't come any closer.”

My reputation had evidently preceded me.

“We want our passports back,” I told him.

“Yeah?” said Bromley. “I can do that. Yeah. Fine.” He was so relieved he almost wept. “No hard feelings, then?”

“All I want is the passports,” I said.

“Great. No problem. I'll get 'em to you tomorrow.”

“Today,” I said.

Bromley hesitated, then nodded with excessive enthusiasm. “I could drop 'em off at your mum and dad's. Sometime early this evening? That okay?”

“Fine.”

Bromley bared his teeth like a chimpanzee. “And that's it? That's the end of it?”

*   *   *

N
OT QUITE
the end.

There was one more thing I had to do. Armed with a brickbat and a can of fly spray. I returned to the Wheatsheaf. I was ready to reclaim one of my favourite pubs. I invited Wallace but he turned me down, claiming he was staying in to wash his hair. I knew this was a lie. Wallace didn't have any hair.

It was just after seven. There were only about a dozen drinkers in the bar. Wuffer was already slouched at his usual table by the window, wearing the Hawaiian shirt he'd worn at our last meeting. Tonight he was alone, staring morosely down at his empty beer glass. I walked up to the bar and Phil the landlord raised his eyebrows in that slightly unfriendly manner he reserved for irregular customers. His carpet slippers were looking a little threadbare.

“A pint of Guinness extra cold,” I said. “And don't have one for yourself.”

The landlord tutted and grumbled. I heard a shuffling sound behind me. Wuffer appeared at the bar beside me and placed his empty glass on the counter. Then he looked at me and nodded.

“Do I know you?” I said.

“Gah?”

“Your face is familiar. Have we met before?”

He shook his head humbly. “Ah gan nose yers, maid.”

Wuffer wasn't faking it. He didn't know who the fuck I was. And suddenly my revenge mission seemed futile and vaguely shameful, like subjecting an old man in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's to a war crimes tribunal.

The fly spray had been intended for Wuffer's face. While he was choking and rubbing his eyes, I had planned to whack him with the brick. I felt it was the very least I could do. This malignant little bastard had attacked me twice and cost me a friendship.

I had come here believing that a man has to do what a man has to do. I now saw that a man needn't do what a man needn't do. I didn't have to fight to prove myself. Being unafraid was enough.

“Ah, bin stinking whacker late, yeah?” Then Wuffer smiled. I looked at him in amazement. Unless I was much mistaken, Wuffer was making conversation about the weather.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Gah?”

I pointed at his empty glass. “What are you drinking?”

Wuffer blinked and stared as if he was now trying to determine which language
I
was speaking. Then, in a perfectly clear, well modulated voice, he said, “Well, thanks very much. I'll have a pint of best bitter, please.”

CHAPTER 15

THIRTY-ONE SENTENCES

C
ARO AND
I went to Switzerland, the traditional refuge for rich scoundrels with ugly secrets. That summer, we hired a house near Geneva while we assessed our situation. Our assessment was that we should quit murdering people while we were ahead. One lunchtime, we were walking by the banks of Lac Leman when I finally told Caro the truth, that until that afternoon in Southwold I had never intentionally killed anyone.

It took a while to convince her. I thought she'd be angry or even disappointed. When she saw I was telling the truth she put her hand over her eyes and laughed. “You and Jesus had more in common than I thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was no killer, either,” explained Caro. “That was why he was so upset when he walked into our house and found two dead people. He'd maimed and scarred a lot of poor bastards but for some reason had never actually gone the whole hog and killed anybody. He had a bit of a complex about it. So when he saw that he'd been outslaughtered by a book collector, he felt he'd been made to look weak in front of his men.”