by David Bowker
“No way. In the past, maybe. My dad, God rest his soul, used to have us dealing drugs from behind the fucking bar in them days. When he died I told Chef. I told him, I said: ‘Top entertainers are staying away from the venue because they don’t want to be associated with a lowlife drug den.’ Chef gave me his word there’d be no more of it. I’ve got his word.”
“They’re dealing. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. That’s what Chef’s word is worth. You know nothing illegal goes on in Manchester without the Priesthood taking a share. So what does that tell us? The Medinas are dealing in your club with Chef’s permission. Otherwise they’d be dead. Don’t you see that?”
“No.” Little Malc’s eyes seemed to tremble in their sockets. You could see him battling the sheer logic of what he was hearing. “He wouldn’t do that to me.”
“Does he still use you for recruitment?”
“Eh?”
“Chef. Does he still pay you to send him new boys?”
“Now and then.”
“Didn’t Bryan Edwards used to take the coats in the club?”
Little Malc sniffed. “Take the piss, more like.”
“I’m right, though, aren’t I? Bryan was one of your dad’s sops. Now he’s an altar boy. In a couple of years he’ll be ordained.”
“What’s your point?”
“That you’re treading water. If you find good people, Chef takes them off you. Leaving you to look for new people.”
“People move up when they see the chance. That’s the way it’s always been.”
“Yeah? When are you going to move up?”
“Eh?”
“What are your promotion prospects? I’d say they were nonexistent.”
“Hey, pal. Don’t you worry about me. I’m happy enough. I’m not a gangster. I’m a showman. Give me a song and a glass in my hand, I’m happy as Larry.”
“Malc, listen,” said Rawhead. His eyes gleamed oddly, reflecting light from nowhere. “Is it all right to call you Malc?”
Little Malc either nodded or suffered an involuntary neck spasm. Rawhead wasn’t sure which.
“I saved your life. Do you admit that?”
“Yeah. I admit it. Thanks.”
“So you can trust me. Yes?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, look. Your Uncle Chef is fucking you over. Completely and comprehensively. What did he say when you put out the contract for Rawhead?”
“He said he understood,” said Little Malc. “He said the love between a father and son was special. He didn’t agree with me, but he understood. He said if that was my decision, he wasn’t going to interfere.”
“I bet.”
“Look. Everyone knows Chef and me are partners. If I was in trouble, he’d come to help me. Course he would.”
“Yeah? Where was he the other night when that punk tried to waste you? You’re alone. You’re so wide open, I can see the sky. And there’s Chef, safe in his electrified kingdom, with a whole army around him. Vive la différence.”
Little Malc sulked like a small child.
Rawhead sighed and looked straight ahead. A rather shamefaced man was walking a little dog in a red velvet waistcoat. When the dog crapped on the pavement, the man instantly bent down and scooped it up. It was that kind of neighborhood. Rawhead wouldn’t have been surprised if the owner had wiped the dog’s arse.
“It’s like this, Malcolm. I can protect you. I can protect you from anyone. If that’s what you want.” He appraised Little Malc coolly, offering his hand. “Well?”
Little Malc felt excited, confused, and scared all at once. Mostly he felt excited. He took Rawhead’s hand and clasped it. “It’s what I want,” he said.
* * *
Rawhead got Little Malc to drop him off at a bar in Sale. As soon as the Rolls was out of sight, he stepped out of the bar and walked back to his lodgings. Mrs. Munley was sitting in the living room, watching a game show on TV. Rawhead could hear her laughing indulgently as the young morons went through their carefully rehearsed routine. “I’m easily bored,” said the girl who was choosing a date. “I enjoy fine wines, particularly champagne. Contestant number one: How would you wine and dine me?”
As Rawhead went upstairs, he imagined an honest answer to the mindless question. “Well, Sarah … I’d take you to a nice little wine bar. We won’t need champagne: your beauty will be more than enough to make this boy fizz. When I’m chilled, you can help to pop my cork. Then you can taste my fine vintage. And then I’ll kill you and bury you in the cellar.”
Rawhead took a bath, dressed, and cooked himself an omelette. Then he made tea for himself and Mrs. Munley. He’d bought her a box of Lindt chocolates and she ate them while she watched some laughable shit about a casualty ward, in which all the accident victims gave lengthy speeches to let the audience know how they were feeling. “Oh, Victor, it’s a long time since I’ve had company on a Saturday night,” said the old woman.
* * *
After his landlady went to bed, Rawhead sat in his room reading The Oxford Book of English Ghost Stories. When the house was still, he loaded his gun and went out in the BMW. He drove to Prestbury. According to the guidebooks, Prestbury was a picturesque Cheshire town at the foot of the Pennines. It had a thirteenth-century church, many of its shops occupied listed buildings, and practically none of its citizens pissed in the streets. And now Billy Dye, Rawhead’s blood brother, had exchanged his three-story slum in one of the poorest parts of Manchester for a house in this pleasant bourgeois village.
Prestbury was a retirement village for Daily Telegraph readers, not a gifted writer who had once spit on society’s corrupt values. To Rawhead, living in such a place was proof that Billy had fallen a long way.
Billy’s new house was on a country road at the edge of the village. Rawhead parked in a lay-by round the corner. The house was only a century old, a mere stripling of a dwelling by local standards. Its black and white timbers conveyed money without taste rather than the Tudor opulence that was intended. There was a stone fountain on the front lawn. The house had land on all sides, at least five acres. As Rawhead strolled by in the dark, it seemed to him that cozy yellow light shone in every window.
With ease he climbed the low wall and strolled over the front lawn to the house. There were two cars, a nice little Rover 45 and a battered Nissan Bluebird. Billy obviously wasn’t as rich as he’d like to be—not yet, anyway.
Rawhead rounded the house. None of the curtains were drawn. As he drew closer, he could hear raised voices. Billy was standing with his back to a massive widescreen TV. He looked tired and disheveled. He was arguing with somone out of sight, not angrily but forcefully. Then, waving his arms, he walked out of the room.
Rawhead moved round to the kitchen. From the bushes nearby came the sound of a hedgehog snuffling and grumbling. Rawhead stepped to one side of the window and peered in. Nikki was in the kitchen. She had her arms folded and was staring into space, waiting for the kettle to boil. The kitchen window was wide open. Rawhead heard the click of the kettle as it turned itself off.
Like Billy, Nikki looked far from happy. Unlike Billy, she was wearing nothing but a T-shirt and knickers. Rawhead looked at her legs and the long dark hair tumbling down her back and felt an unexpected pang of desire.
Billy walked into the kitchen and for a moment Rawhead thought he’d be seen. Billy’s eyes seemed to be staring directly at him. Then Billy turned to his wife. “It isn’t just my fault,” he said. “You should have reminded me.”
“Reminded you?” Nikki couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“Why not?” he said. “Next time you’re in bed with me, give me a nudge.”
“Billy, every night since the wedding, I’ve been practically dancing naked in front of you.”
“Oh, is that what you were doing?” said Billy. “I thought you were trying to lose weight.” He laughed uproariously at his own joke. His wife’s face darkened. “I was joking. Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not overweight.�
�
“No, but you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“If your arse gets any bigger it’ll start appearing on ordnance survey maps.”
“Well, at least it isn’t sagging like yours.”
“A moment ago, I wasn’t overweight.”
“You’re not. Doesn’t stop you from sagging.”
“Your soul’s sagging.”
“Fine,” said Billy. “If I’m that unappealing, why do you want to shag me?”
“I don’t. But as long as I’m stuck with you, I think our relationship should include sex.”
“Or we could just hit each other with baseball bats. It’d achieve the same effect. In fact, it’d be more fucking fun.”
Nikki folded her arms and glared at him.
There was a long pause. With a hearty sigh, Billy started to undress.
“What are you doing?” said Nikki.
“We’re arguing about not having sex. So I think we should just do it.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“It isn’t stupid. Why not? A quickie. Right here on the floor. It’ll be just like the old days.”
She sighed despairingly. “Jesus Christ almighty…”
Billy wobbled, balancing on one foot with the other leg trapped in his trouser leg. “What?”
“You,” she said.
“What about me?” said Billy.
“You just don’t understand, do you?”
“Understand what?”
“Everything. Sex isn’t about sticking things up people.”
Billy looked baffled. “Isn’t it?”
“Is it hell.”
“Well, what’s sticking things up people called?”
“Why does it have to be so basic? Why can’t we try nonpenetrative sex?”
“I haven’t got the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
* * *
Rawhead had heard enough.
Thanking God that he’d never been in a steady relationship, he tapped one ear as if to knock the bickering voices out of his head. Then he explored the rest of the garden. A glass-fronted summerhouse purchased from a garden center stood at the far end of the lawn. The summerhouse was brand-new. Rawhead tried the door. It slid open. He stepped inside, to the sweet smell of new pine. There was a picnic table and two chairs. A folded sun lounger rested in a corner.
At the back of the house lay a deep ditch, and beyond the ditch a vast field. Rawhead inhaled the darkness, the air cold in his lungs. Overhead, stars shivered in a Spielberg sky. The waning moon blazed. He spat into the dark and turned back to the house.
Nikki was still in the kitchen, pretending to be preoccupied with wiping and tidying the work surfaces. As Rawhead watched, Billy reentered the kitchen and quickly folded Nikki in his arms. There was tenderness in the action, but there was also need.
Rawhead, who thrived on his separateness from the rest of humanity, found that need baffling. He had never wanted to own a woman or be owned by one. The women he’d slept with had never been quite real to him. He could live with that. It was when they became real that the problems started.
With a woman, you had to pretend; you had to sacrifice your true self. You couldn’t even walk into the darkness without her asking where you were going or what time you’d be back. Rawhead found the whole charade obscene. No woman would ever prevent him from walking into the darkness.
Having seen what he came to see, he walked round the house and exited via the drive. At the front gates he felt a slight tingling at the back of his neck, a nagging suspicion that he should move faster. Rawhead quickened his step. There was absolutely no one in the lane.
He passed a lamppost, its tired light flickering. He wondered why rich people always lived on ill-lit roads.
The BMW was waiting in the lay-by, black bonnet gleaming coldly. He unlocked the door and slipped behind the wheel. The engine fired instantly, a low murmur. The Ruger Blackhawk was sticking into his thigh, so he withdrew the gun from his belt and laid it on the passenger seat.
As he looked into the rearview mirror he saw car lights rounding the curve in the road. The vehicle was some distance away, but he decided to let it pass before driving on. Then the car slowed down beside him and he saw it was a police patrol car. The officer in the passenger seat rolled down his window and leaned out. Rawhead did the same.
“Hello,” said the officer. He had blond highlights in his hair. Apart from the pretty hair, he was rather plain. “Do you mind if I ask what you’re doing?”
Rawhead smiled. “I was just out for a drive. Can’t believe what a beautiful night it is.”
Blondie wasn’t listening. “Only we’ve had reports,” he said, “of a prowler in the district.”
“Ah. That was me,” said Rawhead.
The policeman laughed amiably enough. “Oh. That was you, was it?”
“I got out to stretch my legs and look at the stars.”
“Why was that?”
“I told you. I was admiring the glittering firmament, Officer. No law against that, is there?”
Apparently there was, because Blondie got out of the car. The driver, a sullen, bearded bastard, followed as quickly as his regulation police paunch would allow. Rawhead picked up the revolver and held it between his legs. Freud would have been proud. Blondie poked his head through the window while Beardie circled the car. The radio in the patrol car bleeped and prattled.
“What’s your name?” said Blondie.
“Montague Rhodes James.”
“That’s a funny sort of name, isn’t it?”
“It’s a funny sort of world, Officer.”
“Is this your car?”
“Don’t do this, Officer.”
“Let’s see your license.”
“Drive away, why don’t you?” urged Rawhead. Never blinking, never raising his voice. “While you’ve got the chance.”
Blondie exchanged a glance with Beardie, who was peering in through the front passenger door window. “You. Get out,” said Blondie.
“Just think of your family,” said Rawhead.
“Out!” barked Blondie. He tugged at the door, found it was locked.
Beardie, less patient than his buddy, hammered on the opposite window. “Unlock these doors this fucking minute.”
Almost indolently, never once removing his eyes from Blondie’s, Rawhead unwound the opposite window and fired a shot through it. He didn’t see the policeman totter back into the darkness. But he heard the heavy slump as the man fell.
Blondie gaped. The driver door opened, sweeping him off balance.
Then Blondie did something Rawhead hadn’t counted on. He started to run. Rawhead was fast, but the speed of the policeman startled him. The guy moved like a professional sprinter, cheeks puffing, head erect, arms and thighs pumping him forward.
Blondie was fit and he wanted to live. It was as simple as that. When he’d been running for eight seconds, he stole a quick glance over his right shoulder. Rawhead was close behind him. Blondie put on a fresh spurt and vaulted over the wall of the house next door to Billy’s.
Rawhead followed but caught his foot on the wall and tumbled over onto the lawn. Blondie raced down the side of the house. Rawhead hauled himself to his feet and charged after him. It was as he was passing the side porch that he heard a loud bang.
At first, Rawhead thought that the officer had drawn a gun and was firing at him.
He threw himself onto his belly and aimed the Ruger at the back lawn. Full-length statues, fake Grecian, lined its oval perimeter. When Rawhead reached Blondie, he was lying on his back, his breath coming in quick gasps. There was a smoking black hole through the center of his chest.
Someone had gunned him down.
It was impossible; it made no sense. But somene else had got to Blondie before him. Rawhead searched the garden for the killer. He found no one.
He returned to the dying man, whose face was now so white that it glowed in the dark. “Who shot you?” he asked s
oftly.
“Too dark,” said Blondie. Then he died.
Rawhead didn’t know whether he was talking about his killer, the night, or the world he was leaving.
* * *
Rawhead, silent and damned, walked past the bungalow and across the front lawn. Behind him, the click of a lock. He glanced back and, to his utter disbelief, saw a nice bespectacled old man in pajamas and a silk dressing gown running after him. “No through way! No through way!” he was shouting.
As famous last words go, they were pretty piss poor.
Aiming carefully, so as not to cause unnecessary suffering, Rawhead shot the nice old man through the heart. The nice old man lurched backward and fell, skidding and hurtling over the lawn, getting mud over his nice dressing gown. Rawhead heard a woman scream, turned, and fired at the sound. Then there was no sound at all.
Rawhead kept walking.
Past the flickering lamppost with bats swerving round it.
Past Billy’s house where the newlyweds, oblivious to the chaos around them, were still arguing.
Over to the hedge beside the lay-by, where the policeman lay sprawled. After checking the bearded officer was dead, Rawhead stole the retractable baton from his belt. He’d always wanted a police baton.
He drove away with his lights off, guided only by the moon. The road was narrow, with many turns. Sometimes it was so dark he couldn’t see where he was going. Rawhead didn’t care.
This was the story of his life.
It was always dark.
He could never see where he was going.
He never cared.
Seven
Leave this gaudy gilded stage,
From custom more than use frequented,
Where fools of either sex and age
Crowd to see themselves presented.
—“SONG,” JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER (1647–80)
Early on Sunday morning, Billy woke to the sound of church bells. Billy liked the sound. From a distance, churches filled him with longing and affection. It was only when he got close, close enough to smell the Christians, that he drew the line.
And what else was wrong with churches? As he lay drowsing in bed, Billy tried to think. Then he remembered. Rawhead. Rawhead, who loved tombs and spires and swirling mist.
