by Helen Zahavi
The arm around her shoulders, the silent squeeze of ownership.
‘Cause if you like nice things, be nice to me.’
He put his finger on the button, and this time held it down until a man appeared inside, a thin-faced dark-suited man who hurried to the door. They watched him fumble for the keys, and then locks were turned, bolts pulled back, and the plate-glass door swung open.
A moment’s pause, then:
‘Hello, Trevor. Me again.’
He took her by the elbow and they stepped inside. Warmth, she thought, approvingly. The Fatman cast a critical look around.
‘Bit dark in here,’ he observed. ‘Bit gloomy.’
He strode into the middle of the shop.
‘Let’s have some light, then. There’s a good lad.’
The jeweller mumbled his excuses and flicked a switch. Light flooded down.
‘I almost thought you weren’t in,’ Henry said. ‘I almost did.’
‘My wife was sleeping,’ the man said. ‘Didn’t want to disturb her,’ he said, ‘not this early in the morning. All that buzzing . . . ’ he added. ‘I’m afraid you woke her up.’
Henry nodded. The bleak, unblinking eyes.
‘Don’t be afraid.’
‘She’s not well, Henry.’
‘And I’m sorry to hear it, believe me. Most distressed, in fact. Nothing infectious, I hope? No germs floating about in the upstairs ether . . . ?’
‘It’s her nerves,’ the man said. ‘She’s always been a nervy type.’
‘I know she has, I don’t need telling. Very highly-strung, she is. Very what one might call delicate. So shall we pop upstairs and say hello? See your lady in her nightie?’
‘Rather you didn’t . . . ’
‘She’s had her wash, I take it? Because they get that smell when they stay in bed, that yeasty smell. All their hidden places start to pong a bit, which is fair enough, if you like that kind of thing. So I’m not complaining, though Billy might.’
‘Maybe you should come back another time, then. Might be better.’
‘It might be, Trevor, and it might not. You see, today is your day. I’ve set it aside specially, because I’ve been thinking of you, haven’t I. Today, I told myself — while I shaved, before I showered, after I wanked — today belongs to Trevor.’
He undid the single button of his overcoat, letting it hang coyly open.
‘So how’s business, these days?’
‘Not too good.’
The Fatman shook his head, allowed himself a brief and rancid grin.
‘Thought you’d say that. Can’t imagine why.’
‘It’s true, Henry. No one’s buying.’
‘So lower your prices. Cut the margin.’
‘Couldn’t pay the suppliers, I did that.’
‘Fuck the suppliers, son. You’ve got to pay me.’
Henry sighed and glanced at his watch.
‘I was meant to be somewhere else twenty minutes ago. You know that? I’m late for a previous engagement, because of you.’
Trevor blinked unhappily beneath the fluorescent light.
‘My time’s worth more than what you owe,’ Henry said, ‘but some things are more important than money. Principle is more important, and I’m a man of principle. I’ve got a tender heart, and I give a helping hand to people down on their luck. But I don’t like being taken advantage of, do I. Never liked that, old son.’
He took out a packet of twenty.
‘My fault, I suppose, cause I’ve always been good-natured.’
He tapped the base, and a couple of cigarettes poked up.
‘Smoke?’
Trevor shook his head.
Henry lifted the pack to his mouth and slid a cigarette between his teeth.
‘Don’t be like that,’ he said softly.
‘Like what?’
‘Unfriendly.’
The jeweller’s skin turned unhealthily pale. He looked like a man who didn’t eat his greens.
‘I’m not really a smoker,’ he explained quickly.
‘That a fact.’
‘My wife . . . ’ he said, ‘she’s always . . . ’
‘Shall I tell you something, Trevor?’
Henry struck a match.
‘If I owed what you owe, and the man who lent it paid a visit, I’d suck on a fag if he offered me one. I wouldn’t purse my prissy lips and shake my head.’
He held the flame to the end of the weed.
‘I mean I’d suck his fucking cock, if that would make him happy. That’s what I’d do, Trevor. If you’re interested.’
He blew a smooth plume of smoke into the air.
‘It’s called having social graces, old son.’
He took another drag, coughed it out, and glanced at the girl.
‘How you doing, darling? Having fun?’
She gave a little nod, for she doesn’t like to disappoint, she tries to be obliging. But having fun? Is she the type who goes through life aware of having fun? She’s standing, quietly watching, conscious of the hum vibrating in the air, some discreetly watchful alarm-system that has already sized her up, and marked her down, and found her rather wanting. For she gets these feelings, now and then. Feels dispossessed, like she’s outside looking in, like a peasant at the gate.
‘She’s very quiet, isn’t she, Trev? She ought to talk a bit more, or I’ll start to wonder. Might start to think she’s bored.’
He pushed his face right next to hers.
‘You bored, then, are you? Cause if you are, my love, just let me know. Don’t hesitate to mention it.’
And Donna, being prudent, says:
‘Where’s all the other customers, Henry?’
‘There won’t be any others, sweetheart, cause Trevor’s locked the door. Better like that, get some privacy. Cause I like to do my shopping undisturbed, away from all the riff-raff. I keep my distance from the punters. Can’t bear them, frankly. Smelly bastards. That right, Trevor? Am I right, Trev, eh?’
The jeweller nodded, even managed a smile. Henry clapped him on the shoulder. Not too hard, just nice and friendly.
‘He’s the boss round here, you know what I’m saying? He owns this place, he’s not some flunky. Got a stake in this establishment. As has the bank, and diverse others. People who’ve lent him money, see. Soft-hearted types, like you-know-who. So he’s not just nobody, is how I’d put it. He’s not some piece of rubbish, is he?’
He let the statement hang in the air, and then he said:
‘Forgive me, girls, I’m forgetting my manners. Allow me to do the introductions.’
He waved a hand.
‘Sweetheart, this is Trevor. A business colleague, so to speak. Trevor, meet young precious. We’ve come to get her a bauble, Trev. Something bright and shiny. Nothing dull, okay? No antique silver for my girly. Something she can play with on a rainy afternoon.’
He glanced down into the nearest counter and pointed at a necklace made of thin silver chains.
‘That’ll do nicely, I’d have thought. Just right for little luscious.’
‘My wife has one like that.’
‘Does she, really?’
‘Silver’s always been her weakness.’
‘A very discerning lady.’
‘Got quite a collection.’
‘Nothing but the best, eh?’
‘She knows how to keep herself,’ the jeweller added.
‘She does.’ The Fatman nodded gravely. ‘She knows how to dress, your wife, I’ll grant you that. Knows how to comb the hair and tie the scarf. A very elegant wife, she is. Very what I’d call refined. Hugely attractive and deeply seductive, the one you feed and bed, while she gives you head. Your charming lady wife, I know her rather well.’
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.
