I Love My Smith and Wesson

by David Bowker

  When Billy returned to the ballroom, it seemed even emptier. Rawhead was still sitting in the same place, emanating pure hatred.

  An uncle of Nikki’s approached Billy to ask who the scowling maniac in the corner was and should they call hotel security. Billy confessed that the man in the corner was not an escaped lunatic but a friend of his. Besides, he wasn’t threatening anyone. There is no law against the evil eye.

  The band played on valiantly for another few numbers, until they, too, succumbed to the pestilence of fear. The lead singer lost heart in the middle of “Mustang Sally,” simply stopped singing, and sat down on an amp. Then the musicians put down their instruments. It made no difference that they were being paid until midnight and had only twenty minutes to go. The atmosphere in the ballroom had become too oppressive to endure.

  They’d had enough. They didn’t even offer a last dance, because no one was dancing. They packed their equipment away hurriedly, anxious to leave the venue before something terrible happened. Finally even Nikki deserted Billy, mumbling something vague about checking up on Maddy.

  An overzealous waiter turned out half the lights. Then it was only Billy and Rawhead. Rawhead got up and walked over to Billy, two men standing alone in the darkened ballroom. When they were face-to-face, both were silent for a few moments.

  “I need you to come with me,” said Rawhead.

  He turned and walked out of the ballroom. Billy followed a few paces behind him. The two men climbed the stairs to the hotel lobby and nodded to the sleepy night porter, who opened the doors to a white wilderness.

  They walked through the car park, their feet sinking deep into clean, untrodden snow. A calm had descended upon Billy. He hadn’t left a will. But now that he was married, all his wordly goods, all future royalties from his books, would automatically pass to his wife and heir.

  Huge crystals spun down from a dark gray sky. Billy raised his face to them, wondering why only one snowflake in six seemed to feel wet against the skin. There was a stone wall at the back of the hotel, separating the hotel grounds from a track and the woods that rose in the west. When Rawhead clambered over the wall, Billy considered running back to the hotel and raising the alarm. But he felt this would merely sentence his wife and daughter to death.

  The snow was deep on the slopes leading to the woods. The water flooded Billy’s thin leather shoes. He kept slipping. Rawhead kept hauling him upright, more like an alpine guide than an executioner. Then they walked into the shade of the pine trees, and the eerie white carpet at their roots.

  They walked on, brushing past branches, growing wetter and colder. Billy saw a stout fallen branch on the ground. He contemplated picking it up and using it as a club. But he doubted he could kill Rawhead this way. More likely it would just make him angrier.

  They came to a large clearing, out of the shadow of the trees. Snow hurtled down vertically, blocking out the sky. The pines towered around them on all sides. Billy peered through the dense blizzard. About a hundred yards away, a grim little tableau awaited him. It was as if a lunatic had designed a child’s snowstorm, imprisoning an abomination under the glass rather than Father Christmas or a fairy cottage.

  In the center of the clearing stood a young fir tree, no more than twelve feet tall. From its branches, like a macabre Christmas decoration, hung a dead man. He was upside down, his left leg caught in a noose, his hands trailing on the ground. He was dressed like a trapper in a thick parka, sturdy boots, leather mittens, and a woolly hat. His throat had been cut. The blood that filled his eyes and mouth resembled treacle threaded with ice.

  Billy didn’t want to look. But he couldn’t help himself. The corpse’s mouth gaped. Its eyeballs were sugar-coated. Snowflakes fell on the extended tongue. Billy had seen two dead people in his life. This was the second. On both occasions he’d been in the company of Rawhead.

  “Who is he?” said Billy.

  “I don’t know,” said Rawhead. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

  In a single fluid movement, Rawhead drew a huge, broad-bladed knife.

  Billy looked at the knife and looked at Rawhead. “Now it’s my turn?” he said.

  Rawhead gave a solemn nod.

  A snow-laden breeze spun around Billy Dye’s head and ears. All he could think of at that moment was his daughter. He regretted that he’d never see her grow up, or even live to see her second birthday. But mingled with the sadness was an unmistakable sense of relief.

  He’d never have to brush his teeth again or comb his hair. Never have to get up in the morning or worry about money, or desire the unattainable or regret anything ever again. He’d never grow old or sick.

  Death definitely had its good points.

  Rawhead, eyes sunk in shadow, cheekbones protruding savagely, gazed down at Billy.

  Then the moment passed.

  Rawhead turned away, grabbed the corpse’s head, and lifted it. The hat fell off, showing sparse tangled hair. Rawhead’s right arm began to move in a rapid sawing motion.

  At first, Billy felt drunk with relief. Then he edged closer and realized that Rawhead was cutting off the corpse’s head. “Aw, Jesus,” said Billy.

  Ignoring protests, Rawhead continued to slice through muscles and tendons.

  “What’re you doing that for?”

  “I want to know who this is. Normally, I’d take a snapshot. But I don’t happen to have a camera on me.”

  There was a crack as the head came free. Rawhead put the knife away, took out a pocket torch, and shone it into the dead man’s face. An undistinguished face, fat, coarse, and bearded. He looked extremely surprised.

  “You’re sure you don’t know him?” said Rawhead.

  “Positive.” Billy jumped back as the head swung close to his leg. “Keep that fucking thing away from me.”

  “OK. But would you do me a favor? Would you have a closer look?”

  “No way.”

  “I’m not going to do anything.”

  Reluctantly Billy leaned closer. Rawhead thrust the disembodied head into Billy’s face. Their mouths touched in a frozen kiss. Billy jerked his head back far enough to scream; then Rawhead grabbed Billy’s neck and repeated the exercise.

  “Billy, meet Nobody. Nobody, meet Billy.”

  Billy fought and punched himself free, then sprawled on the ground, gagging and rubbing his lips with snow to take away the taste of the dead, gaping mouth.

  “You are such a horrible bastard,” said Billy when he’d got his breath back. “Just kill me and get it over with. At least I won’t have to look at you again.”

  “What’s all this shit about me killing you?” said Rawhead.

  He turned away and stormed back through the woods. Billy followed reluctantly, snow-laden branches flicking back against his face and body.

  “So we’re just going to carry on like we did before, are we?” shouted Billy. “How many people are going to die this time?”

  “I can’t tell you, Bill. That’d ruin the surprise.”

  “What gives you the right to fuck up my life?” screamed Billy.

  “You’re the one who fucks up lives, Billy. At least twenty people have died already because of your big mouth!”

  “Yeah. And who fucking killed them?”

  They were on the rim of the woods. Rawhead stopped abruptly and extended his left leg. Billy fell over the leg and skidded downhill, headfirst. He came to rest against a tree trunk, groaning and holding his head. Rawhead stopped, lit an elegant spliff, and knelt down beside him, resting the startled corpse head against the trunk of the tree. Rawhead seemed relaxed, even amused. “So you really don’t know who this poor plain-faced bastard was?”

  “No,” said Billy.

  Rawhead passed the joint to Billy, who took a deep drag, then coughed. Rawhead gave a short, dry laugh.

  “What’s so fucking funny?” said Billy.

  “Your face. When you saw me on the beach. Talk about shock.”

  “I wasn’t shocked. I knew you were coming.
”

  “Bollocks.”

  “Course I fucking knew. You sent me a card, remember.”

  “What card?”

  “Don’t give me that. The fucking Frankenstein wedding card.”

  “I don’t send cards,” said Rawhead. “I’ve never sent a card to anyone in my life.”

  “You are such a fucking liar.”

  “I didn’t send any card.”

  Billy was stunned.

  Rawhead persisted. “What card? Let me see it.”

  “I haven’t got it. I burned it.”

  “Same old fucking idiot,” said Rawhead dismissively.

  He snatched the spliff from Billy, picked up the dead man’s head, and started walking. Billy got to his feet and scrambled to the foot of the slope. Rawhead had taken the track and was walking parallel to the wall, away from the hotel. A tall, purposeful figure, head bowed against the wind, a human head dangling from his right hand.

  “So that’s that, is it?” shouted Billy. “You come back, ruin my fucking wedding, scare the fuck out of me, then just walk away?”

  Rawhead kept walking. He didn’t look back.

  “Psycho,” said Billy under his breath.

  Billy looked down and saw a large rock, half-covered by snow. He leaned over and prised the rock out of the frozen earth. With a quick, dark thrill, Billy decided to end the nighmare. To get right what he’d tried and failed to do before.

  Rawhead was now lost to view, but his fresh footprints trailed away into the white night. All Billy had to do was follow the tracks. He rushed forward. The snow was unexpectedly deep, as high as his calves. The sweet, freezing air filled his lungs as he ran.

  Rawhead’s trail carried on and on, clear and deep. Long footprints made by huge, sturdy boots.

  A minute passed. All Billy could hear was his own breathing. He was panting like a schoolboy on a cross-country run.

  Dense snow flew into his eyes, so that he could only see a few inches in any direction. His feet burned with the wet and cold. He couldn’t feel his right hand. The fingers clutching the rock had turned bright pink.

  Any second now, Billy expected to see that gaunt, unmistakable frame, swinging its grisly burden. He saw only the deep footprints and the white veil descending. He stopped and listened, standing so still he could hear the snowflakes landing on his clothes.

  And up ahead, there was another sound. The distinctive trudge of boots in the snow.

  He was close now. Very close.

  One determined sprint. That was all it would take. Billy quickened his step, stumbling and sliding in the snow, face aglow from the heat of his exertions.

  But Rawhead always remained ahead of him.

  Always just out of sight.

  Two

  Oh, turn away those cruel eyes,

  The stars of my undoing.

  —“THE RELAPSE,” THOMAS STANLEY (1625–78)

  Ever since Rawhead had pointed a gun at him, Lol Shepherd had been ill with his nerves. Not that his nerves had been in good shape prior to that event. As a young man, Lol had been infamous for his tendency to jump at the slightest sound. He was incapable of raising a cup and saucer without an accompanying rattle or carrying a drink across a room without spilling it, and as for unfastening a bra strap—well, forget it.

  Lol had once worked for Malcolm Priest. Until his death, Priest had been the formidable leader of the Priesthood, the gang that ruled Manchester. Most gangsters have a sentimental streak and Priest was no exception. Finding Lol’s tremulousness oddly endearing, Priest had hired him as a chauffeur, dog walker, and trusty retainer. It had been easy money—should have been a lot easier after Rawhead shot the dog.

  But Lol was a gentle soul who had never stolen or intentionally hurt anyone, and meeting a hooded assassin on a dark night had wrecked him. It made no difference that Rawhead, apparently on a whim, had spared Lol’s life. Lol’s trust in life had always been fragile. Now it had been shattered.

  Lol was afraid to leave his house. He was afraid of the dark. Mostly, he was afraid of going to sleep. Yet oddly, he wasn’t isolated. He had many visitors. People sought his advice, valuing his long memory and his encyclopedic knowledge of Mancunian lowlife.

  A week before, Chef himself had paid a visit, bringing oranges. Lol guessed that Chef had chosen oranges because Don Corleone buys oranges in The Godfather. Chef had asked Lol’s advice. Little Malc sometimes called to do the same. Lol was careful not to repeat to one visitor what another had said. As they used to say in the War, careless talk costs lives.

  Every Wednesday morning Lol’s eldest daughter, Julie, came to take him shopping and to the cemetery to change the flowers on Violet’s grave. Violet, his second wife, had died suddenly a few years ago. Not as suddenly as Rawhead’s victims, but suddenly enough. The coroner said it was an embolism. To this day, Lol had no idea what an embolism was.

  Violet was buried in Norbury Churchyard. Julie waited in the car while Lol walked to the grave. Today the noise and bustle of the supermarket had proved too much for him—Lol had been obliged to sit in the café, shaking over a cup of chicken soup, while Julie rushed round the aisles, loading his groceries into a trolley and ticking them off on a list.

  It wasn’t a cold day, but Lol was swaddled in a brown abercrombie coat. On his head he wore a trilby. Both the hat and the coat were at least thirty years old. Lol drew comfort from old things.

  He felt safe in the cemetery. The people that lay here were not about to jostle him or make demands. The morning was cold but bright. The winter sun shone, warm and comforting.

  But the sun could not penetrate the bleakest corners of the graveyard. Patches of unmelted snow clung to the base of the churchyard wall, and the gravel over Violet’s plot wore a thin veil of ice. Lol took off his hat as a mark of respect.

  The inscription on her headstone read:

  Violet Shepherd 1932–99

  Beloved wife of Lawrence (Lol),

  Sadly missed mother to Julie and Suzanne.

  “If tears could build a runway

  And love could make a plane

  I’d fly all the way to heaven

  And bring you back again”

  And at the foot of the stone:

  headstone kindly donated by Malcolm Priest

  Lol’s daughters had queried the taste of having Priest’s name on their mother’s memorial. But Lol had insisted. Priest had paid for the funeral, as well as the headstone. No one else had offered, and Lol was not a wealthy man. Malcolm’s only stipulation was that his generosity should be immortalized in stone. And who was Lol to refuse?

  He took the dead chrysanthemums out of the vase on the grave and replaced them with fresh blooms. It was funny how he missed her. She’d been a bitch to live with. When Lol’s age and his drinking caught up with him, giving him a nose like a crimson lightbulb, she’d drawn attention to the defect in public. “Look at his nose,” she’d complain to her friends. “I can’t even dress him up anymore.”

  Yet, strangely, her absence was not the pleasure he’d anticipated.

  Lol got up to leave. It was cold here in the shade, and he was not the kind to make Jimmy Stewart–like speeches to the dead. As he straightened his legs, his knees cracked. He sighed and turned.

  To see Rawhead standing behind him.

  Lol made a sound like a little dog begging at a door.

  Rawhead was wearing the same hangman’s hood and long dark coat that he’d worn on the night of the massacre. Five people had died that night—all had worked for Malcolm Priest; some had been Lol’s friends.

  “Remember me?” said the man in the hood, as cold and implacable as the crosses and the graves. He was holding a Sainsbury’s carrier bag.

  Lol could only nod. He noticed a very bad smell, like rotten cabbage and shit. “Excuse me; I need—”

  “What?”

  “I need to take a tablet,” said Lol hoarsely, pointing to his heart.

  Lol took a small white vial of heart pills out of his coa
t and tried to open the lid. But his hands were trembling too violently. Rawhead placed the carrier bag on the ground, took the vial, twisted off the lid, and handed one of the small white pills to Lol. Lol popped it under his tongue. His eyes were watering. Whether it was through cold or fear or the strain of trying to breathe Rawhead couldn’t tell.

  “Better now?” asked Rawhead.

  “Yes, thank you.” Lol had to stop himself from adding “sir.”

  “OK,” said the hooded man.

  He tipped up the cheap carrier bag and a white football rolled onto the ground, nudging Lol’s shoe. It looked like a crude papier-mâché dummy of a human head. The skin was too pale, the eyes too glassy, to be real. Then Lol realized that the foul smell was coming from the head and that the hair and stubble framing the startled face were real.

  “Do you know who this belongs to?”

  “No,” said Lol. “Oh, my God.”

  “Look at the face.”

  “Please. I need to go home now—”

  “Look at it.”

  Squinting sideways, Lol forced himself to study the bloated features. “It’s no one I’ve ever seen.”

  “Not a member of the Priesthood?”

  “No. I know them all.”

  “Even the new guys?”

  “I’m still in touch with Chef. Oh, my God … excuse me.” Lol released a deafening belch. “I don’t know who this fella is.”

  “Is Chef still looking for me?” said Rawhead.

  “No. He was afraid to. He wanted the killing to stop.…”

  “But?”

  “But a lot of people are. Looking for you, I mean. Fifty thousand is a lot of money.”

  “I think you’d better start again. From the beginning.”

  Lol waited. His long face turned ashen; his body shuddered. With a despairing groan, he bent double and clutched his chest. When he raised his head, Rawhead was gone. Lol looked to the cemetery gate and saw his daughter rushing toward him, as fast as her fat legs would carry her.