I Love My Smith and Wesson

by David Bowker

  Rawhead glanced at Billy’s right hand. “Where’s your ring?”

  When the boys were teenagers, they’d both bought tacky skull rings as a symbol of their friendship. Billy had thrown his ring away shortly after discovering Rawhead was a mass murderer. Now, with Rawhead’s eyes upon him, Billy shrugged.

  Rawhead reached into his pocket and withdrew a small box, lined with black velvet. He passed it to Billy. “Here.”

  “What’s this?”

  “Call it a wedding present.”

  “Wedding presents are supposed to be for the bride as well as the groom.”

  “Why would I buy a present for your wife? I don’t even know her.”

  Billy opened the box. In it was a brand-new ring, an exact replica of the cheap original. ‘Twenty-four-carat gold. See the eyes? Rubies.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” said Billy.

  “Don’t say anything,” said Rawhead. “Just try it on.”

  Billy slipped the gift onto his ring finger, where it glittered coldly. Rawhead held out his right hand, which bore an identical ring. “It’s a sign of the vows we’ve taken, Billy.”

  “What vows?”

  “The vows we swore when we mingled blood. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”

  Billy shook his head gloomily.

  Rawhead glared at him coldly. Then smiled as he handed back the Smith & Wesson. There was studied contempt in the gesture, as if Rawhead doubted Billy’s ability to pull the trigger, let alone hit anything.

  “Where are you staying?” said Billy, trying to sound casual.

  Rawhead yawned and stretched. “Nearby.”

  “Great. Fantastic.” Billy swallowed noisily. “I hope…”

  “You hope what?”

  “Nothing.” Then came a lie so enormous that Billy could scarcely give it utterance. “Just that you’ll be around for the wedding?”

  “Oh, I’ll be around, Billy.” The waves crashed. The dark morning grew darker. Rawhead placed a hand on Billy’s shoulder and looked directly into his eyes. “I’ll always be around.”

  * * *

  Billy and Nikki were having a quiet nightcap in the hotel bar when Rawhead walked in. He was dressed conservatively, in a dark suit with a white silk shirt open at the neck. He nodded and smiled at them, ordered a drink, and remained at the bar.

  Billy had already told Nikki that an old friend from school had turned up, neglecting to mention that he was a professional murderer who dispatched people he didn’t know for money and killed people he didn’t like free of charge.

  “Why don’t you call him over? He looks OK,” said Nikki.

  “Oh, he’s a real barrel of laughs,” said Billy darkly.

  Nikki wasn’t listening. She was slightly drunk. She walked over to Rawhead, shook his hand, linked her arm through his, and brought him over to their table.

  “I don’t understand,” said Rawhead innocently. “It’s your wedding tomorrow. I thought you’d both be having girl and boy parties.”

  “As if I’d have a party and not invite you,” said Billy sarcastically.

  “We don’t go in for that kind of crap,” said Nikki. “Tomorrow’s going to be long and noisy. Tonight we just want to be peaceful.”

  “Fine. As soon as you want me to go, just say the word,” said Rawhead.

  She reached out and touched his sleeve. “No. You must stay. I want to know all about you. I don’t even know who you are.”

  Rawhead told her.

  Nikki was astounded. “Steve Ellis? Steve the best friend?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Billy, this is amazing. Why didn’t you tell me he was coming?” She turned to Rawhead. “You won’t believe how often he’s talked about you.”

  “Nothing bad, I hope,” sneered Rawhead.

  “Well, I know you went to prison. But that was a long time ago.”

  “Drugs were my downfall,” lied Rawhead smoothly. “And when I came out of prison, I saw I had a clear choice. Either I could continue along the path of crime and substance abuse, or I could do something positive. So I studied hard and went to medical school.”

  “Wow,” enthused Nikki. She turned to Billy, whose face was in his hands. “Billy, why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

  “I didn’t know,” Billy said sourly.

  “As soon as I qualified as a doctor, I decided to specialize in the treatment of drug addiction. I opened my own clinic, which I still run. The rest of the time I work as a traveling ambassador for the World Health Organization.”

  “That’s an incredible story.”

  “I just wanted to put something back.” Rawhead raised his glass to Nikki and smiled. “So tell me: do you think you’ll feel different when you’re married?”

  “No,” said Billy and Nikki simultaneously.

  “Then why do it?”

  “We wouldn’t have bothered,” explained Nikki, her eyes suddenly turned dark and hard, “but then Billy started making money, we bought a house, and if our relationship goes down the pan, I want to make sure I get my share.”

  Rawhead laughed.

  “Isn’t that the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?” said Billy.

  Rawhead regarded Nikki appraisingly. She was a handsome woman, with dark, knowing eyes. “If that’s your attitude, why get married in a castle?”

  “That was William’s idea,” she said. “He wanted us to be like Guy Ritchie and Madonna.”

  “Except they got married in a real castle,” said Billy.

  “You may as well live while you can,” said Rawhead, raising his glass to them both but looking only at Billy.

  * * *

  It snowed that night. The woods beyond the hotel glowed white in the darkness. When Billy and Nikki were in bed with the lights out, the room was filled with silence and a blue icy glow. They lay in each other’s arms, huddled together because of the cold. When Billy was drifting off to sleep, Nikki asked him a question.

  “Tell me the truth. He’s nothing to do with the World Health Organization, is he?”

  Billy sighed. “No.”

  “Did you invite him to the wedding?”

  “God, no.”

  “So how did he know where to find you?”

  “It’s a long, long story and I really don’t feel like telling it now.”

  “Just tell me this: have you and him been having a gay relationship?”

  “No!”

  “Well, why does he look at you that way?”

  “What way?”

  “As if he owns you.”

  “Do you mind if we have this conversation tomorrow?”

  “This isn’t a conversation, Billy. We don’t have conversations. Because you won’t talk about anything.”

  “Why are we getting married then?”

  “It beats me.”

  Billy said nothing. But in his head, he thought, Fuck off. I’m leaving you; the first offer I get from an ugly woman and I’m out the door.

  He could hear Maddy snoring softly in the next room of their suite. Billy lay still for a long time, until Nikki’s breathing became regular. When she was obviously asleep, he relaxed enough to doze. It was now almost one o’clock. All the creaks, footfalls, and lavatory flushes of a large hotel gradually died away. The silence grew profound, as if the blizzard had moved indoors.

  Then he thought of Maddy and wondered if she was warm enough.

  Billy got out of bed and walked into the next room. As he stood over the cot and his sleeping daughter, he glanced to his right and saw Rawhead sitting in a chair by the balcony window. He was wearing his overcoat and there was a shotgun across his knee. The curtains were open, bathing him in the blizzard’s pale glow.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Billy. Then he realized he was naked. With one hand covering his privates, he turned on his daughter’s night-light.

  Rawhead held a finger to his lips.

  Then he got to his feet and opened the balcony doors. Icy air blasted into the room, rattling
the doors.

  Rawhead nodded to Billy and stepped onto the balcony. Seconds passed. Billy got curious and stuck his head out of the French windows. There was no one out there. They were four floors up; there was nowhere else to go. But Rawhead had vanished.

  Billy sat by Maddy’s cot all night, too jangled to go back to bed. He felt physically sick. He couldn’t believe his bad luck. Rawhead was back. It was only a matter of time before people started dying.

  * * *

  On the following afternoon, William Edwin Dye finally lived up to his initials by marrying Nicola May Bourne. Just before the ceremony, Billy had taken an artificial additive to see him through the ordeal and jolly himself up after his sleepless night. He felt so happy that the solemn nature of his vows was lost on him. He was glad to be marrying a woman, but it didn’t particularly matter which one.

  Billy and Nikki were married by Patricia Izzard, a justice of the peace. She was patient, elegant, and kind—not at all the podgy civil servant with halitosis that Billy had expected. The witnesses were Lorna Bourne, sister to the above, and Roger Alton, Billy’s brother-in-law. Billy and his brother-in-law had never struck up any kind of relationship, but Billy thought he’d make as good a witness as anyone.

  Billy had decided against having a best man. His only real friend, Tony the corrupt policeman, had mysteriously disappeared while Billy had been staying with Rawhead. It would have seemed callous to elect another best man just because his real best man was missing, presumed dead.

  Billy wore a suit—his first ever—and Nikki looked resplendent in a dress of black satin, her long dark hair scraped back to show her fine cheekbones. Everyone said the bride looked stunning and that the groom looked as if he’d actually taken the trouble to have a bath. After the ceremony and the photographs, they went in to dinner.

  Many guests had used the bad weather as an excuse for not coming. The room was half empty. Billy and Nikki sat at a long table with their immediate family. Their daughter, Maddy, sat between them, imprisoned in a high chair.

  Roger, to everyone’s surprise, insisted on giving a speech. “I’ve known William—Billy—since he was seventeen. I can easily say, without fear of contradiction, that marrying Nikki is the only sensible thing he’s done in all that time.…”

  Laughter and applause.

  For reasons known only to himself, Roger was wearing a kilt in the colors of the Campbell clan. Billy found this a little strange. Roger wasn’t a Campbell, although he had possibly eaten the occasional tin of Campbell’s soup. But he was a scoutmaster and spent a great deal of his life wearing shorts, showing off his hairy legs.

  Billy wondered if Roger’s legs were the link. Maybe he was a bit of a perv. He’d have to be a perv to sleep with Billy’s sister Carole, who always wore frilly, patterned dresses. Today her hair was piled high on her head in the manner of Princess Margaret. Carole reminded Billy of a Stepford Wife that had gone horribly wrong.

  Yet he loved his sister. He even loved her husband. Mostly he loved their teenage sons, Mark and Chris, who, unlike their parents, were still recognizable as living organisms. Billy’s heart went out to the boys, who had been made to wear matching suits and looked profoundly embarrassed by their father’s outpourings.

  “When I first knew this young man,” Roger continued, “he liked to think of himself as something of a rebel. He would never have entertained the very idea of marriage, such was his horror of conforming. What he didn’t appreciate—and has now, perhaps, come to understand—is that conformity can actually be quite pleasant. We may have said good-bye—and some of us would say good riddance—to William the rebel, but I think you’ll all join me in bidding a hearty hello to William the polite, responsible husband.”

  At one time, Billy might have shouted, “Fuck off! I’m still a rebel. I’m just a married rebel. And you’re a white-haired cunt!” But today Roger’s platitudes had no effect on him.

  He was too busy thinking of Rawhead, the harbinger of death.

  The man who thought killing people was a merciful act.

  As the ecstasy wore off, Billy started seeing flashing pictures in his mind. He knew these fleeting visions were connected to Rawhead and the night ahead. Billy tried to blank out the images, but they kept on coming. All he could see was the hotel dance floor piled high with massacred bodies.

  * * *

  Nikki’s cousin, a music teacher in Iceland, had brought a band of jazz rock musicians from Reykjavik over for the wedding. Billy guessed that in Iceland jazz rock was still considered vaguely dangerous. The music was loud and difficult to dance to. This made no difference to Billy. By six o’clock he was too pissed to dance.

  He contented himself with circulating among the guests. Billy’s Uncle Bert was already bad-mouthing his wife, Olive. “See this burn on my collar?” he was saying. “Olive did that. Forgot to turn the iron off. A perfectly brand-new secondhand shirt…”

  Nikki’s father, Kev the slob, was carrying on the fine tradition of wedding stupidity by pretending to dance with a child. The child was Maddy. Kev was so ugly that people regularly mistook him for Nick Hornby. His wife, Marian, was even worse. As hideous as they both were, they hadn’t been able to resist having sex with each other. And the result, miraculously, had been Nikki and Lorna, who were both beautiful. It almost gave you faith in the benign will of the universe.

  Maddy, who had her mother’s face and Billy’s frown, was staring, goggle-eyed, over Kev’s shoulder. Kev didn’t know it, but Maddy had dropped a mouthful of drool onto his jacket, leaving a long, glistening trail. It looked as if a slug had crawled down his back.

  Marian, hardly Billy’s greatest fan, came over to smear lipstick on his cheeks. She was wearing a hat that resembled a backstreet abortion. There were tears in her eyes. “Now, I know we’ve had our little differences, but I hope that’s all over and done with. I hope I’m not gaining a daughter, I’m losing a son.”

  “Don’t you mean that the other way round?” said Billy.

  Fatty Potts, Billy’s agent, had turned up. Fatty had established an alarming rapport with Billy’s brother-in-law.

  “Thanks for coming,” said Billy to Potts.

  “I wasn’t aware that I had!” said Potts, and laughed uproariously.

  Roger shouted something that sounded like “bare backside!”

  “Where?” said Billy, looking round.

  Roger got to his feet to repeat his inquiry, this time bellowing directly into Billy’s ear. “Where’s the bride?”

  Billy was forced to admit he had no idea. Roger told Fatty Potts this was a great omen for the couple’s marriage. Fatty almost pissed himself.

  * * *

  The roof of the hotel was surrounded by a narrow battlement. A notice on the fire door leading to the roof claimed it was out-of-bounds to guests and that opening the door would automatically trigger a security alarm in the lobby. This was a lie. Billy and Nikki had already visited the roof several times without incident.

  Now Nikki, still wearing her wedding dress, stood alone looking out to sea. It was snowing again. The wind had messed up her hair and she was crying. For some time now, Nikki felt she’d been living the wrong life. Not a bad life, just someone else’s. She had a new home, which she’d decorated herself. She had a huge garden, planted and cared for, all ready to blossom in the spring. But in her heart she felt dead and unfulfilled.

  It wasn’t that Nikki didn’t love Billy or their daughter—just that whatever she had hoped her life might be, this wasn’t it. Now that she was married to Billy, that feeling of wrongness was stronger than it had ever been.

  “Hey,” said a voice behind her.

  It was a man’s voice. Nikki was so cold, drunk, and dazed that she felt no surprise, only mild curiosity. She turned to see who it was. It was Steve, Billy’s friend. He was standing behind her, wearing the clothes he’d worn the night before. His face was grave and thoughtful. His head and shoulders, like hers, were speckled with snow.

  Rawhead lo
oked at her. He hesitated, reached out, and wiped away a tear with his forefinger. With a little sob, she nodded and fell into his arms. It was below zero, but his body felt perfectly warm to her. He took off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. “You’d better go down,” he said. “It isn’t safe up here.”

  She looked at him. He was staring fixedly toward the sea, as if he sensed something out there. Something in his voice frightened her. “Go down,” he repeated.

  He turned to her. There was no reassurance in his cold, dark eyes. She gave him back his jacket and walked toward the fire door, glancing back at him several times to see if he was following. Rawhead remained where he was with his back to her, jacket in one hand, gun in the other, eyes staring over the roof at the ground below.

  * * *

  Billy noticed she’d been crying but didn’t ask her why. He had a feeling he wouldn’t like the answer.

  A little later, as Billy was dancing with his new bride, Rawhead entered the ballroom and sat in a corner. Billy was trying to dance like John Travolta in Pulp Fiction—a mistake many people have made. Then he saw Rawhead over in the corner, watching him like a cat stalking a mouse. Billy felt cold, as if someone was pressing a slab of ice against the back of his neck. The look on Rawhead’s face was murderous. Billy knew his dancing was shit, but he didn’t think it was that bad.

  First Billy and Nikki stopped dancing; then everyone else followed. The party atmosphere died, as if someone had rolled a diseased heart into the exact center of the dance floor. The waves of hatred drifting through the ballroom were toxic. Few could absorb them and live.

  Billy’s sister and her family retired first, joined by Fatty Potts. Their exit gave the more distant relations courage. Feeling they didn’t know Nikki or Billy well enough to risk evisceration at the hands of a gaunt psychopath, the great-uncles and maiden aunts, the friends and neighbors, all started trooping out in threes and fours.

  Billy went to the gents for a piss. The lavatory was empty. He was very drunk. He stood over the urinal, forehead resting on the cold tiles, listening to the pipes dripping. When the door to the gents creaked open, Billy turned, expecting to see Rawhead. But it was one of Billy’s cousins, a guy he hardly knew. The two men exchanged shy nods, embarrassed to be standing side by side in public with their dicks out.