by Helen Zahavi
About ten past three the buzzer rang. Joe grinned his nervous, Joey grin. He smoothed down his hair and opened the door, and there they were, Merv and Henry, come to have their tea.
‘Hello, son,’ the Fatman said, and stepped inside. He allowed his face to register the mildest distaste, the faintest suggestion that he might have seen better salons in his day.
‘You’ve laid the table,’ he noted. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘I like a man who uses doilies.’
His presence seemed to fill the room.
‘Take a pew, Merv, that’s the spirit. Make yourself at home, that’s right. Joe won’t mind, cause Joe’s a pal.’
He spotted the girl. A flash of yellow smile.
‘I grew up round here, can you believe it, eh? The Fatman had a humble start. So I’m not a snob, in case you wondered. Might be a cunt, but I’m not a snob. That’s why I like to come and visit. I just step inside the door and it all comes flooding back again: the filth of it, the shittiness. Makes me feel nostalgic, almost. I get this sort of tender wave inside my gut, and I think of my old man, poor bastard. My poor old dad, I think, the poor old fuck.’
He took off his coat, draped it over a chair.
‘But nice little place you got here, Joe. Not too big, if you take my drift. What’s known as compact, in the trade.’
He delicately sniffed the air.
‘Got a pleasant whiff to it.’
A frown of concentration.
‘I’d say you had braised beef and gravy for dinner. Some kind of stew, from some kind of can.’
He smacked his generous lips together, as if he wished he’d been invited, as if it were his favourite meal.
‘Am I right, Joe, eh? Tell me, Joey, am I right?’
He grinned at them. He was feeling good.
‘Say something, why don’t you.’
Joe patted the button-down sofa.
‘Have a seat,’ he suggested. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’
‘I will, son, don’t you worry.’
He pulled out his handkerchief and whisked it neatly over the cushions. It was a habit of his, when making housecalls. In case of crumbs and things.
‘Amazing what they can do with plastic, these days.’
He sat down carefully, squeezing his large buttocks on to the small seat.
‘I mean it almost looks like leather, doesn’t it? Not close up, of course, but when you’re standing in the doorway, having a good look round. You’re giving it the eyeball, and you see this big thing shining in the light, and fuck me, you think, Joey’s got a leather sofa. The toerag’s living well, you think.’
He pulled one of the cups towards him and filled it with dark brown liquid.
‘And then you step inside, and you come up close, and you relax a bit, you unwind a bit, you calm down a bit, because it’s only plastic, isn’t it? Cause Joe can’t pay his rent, and when you live on tick you shouldn’t sit on leather. Shouldn’t park your arse on handstitched hide when you’ve still got bills to pay.’
A dash of milk, two lumps of sugar.
‘You ought to squat on the ground, if I’m being honest. Ought to sit on the pavement, just sit in a puddle on the fucking pavement. That’s what you ought to do, Joe. That’s my honest opinion, for what it’s worth, which isn’t much.’
He took a cautious sip and nodded to the girl.
‘Nice spot of tea, this, sweetheart. Is it Darjeeling?’
With which remark he paused and drained his cup. No sound, save that of liquid going down the gullet. So not quite silence, but very nearly. He was feeling mellow, quite at ease, the tannin warmth cascading through his belly. He leaned back in the sofa and flicked his gaze around the room.
‘If I had to find a term for it, I’d call this flat appropriate. You’ve found your niche, my boy. You’ve found your place in life.’
He picked up a chocolate digestive.
‘Just open the window, now and then.’
Allowed himself a generous bite.
‘Lift the sash and let some air in. Make a pleasant change.’
Washed it down with a glass of squash.
‘You’re getting like my clients, Joe. I mean I go and see them, and their rooms smell bad. They haven’t heard about open windows, they don’t believe in London breezes. What might be termed as common types, just rubbish, really, just hoi polloi. They sit inside all day and breathe stale air. They rub and sweat and touch themselves, and forget about their creditors. You should leave it open, I tell them. An hour or so a day, and you get your circulation. Fresh air won’t hurt you, I tell them. Billy might, but fresh air won’t.’
And then he laughed, to let them know he was only joking, and cut himself a generous slice of lemon sponge.
‘Give me a break,’ Joe said. ‘Be reasonable.’
‘People are always saying that, son. What they usually mean is they can’t make the payments. They don’t say it right out like that. They never say it straight out. They circle round it, like it could burn them. Be reasonable, they say. Like I’m a mug.’ He peered at Joe. ‘You think I’m a mug?’
Joe shook his head.
‘Didn’t quite catch that.’
‘No, boss.’
‘No, boss. I’m not a mug. I’m not soft, see, nor am I stupid. I’m the man who lent you money. I’m the man, the reasonable man, you came to when you had a problem. I need a grand, boss. Lend me a grand, boss. And did I keep you waiting? Did I say: not now, come back next month? Did I try and tell you times were hard? Did I?’
‘No, boss.’
‘I handed it over. Just like that. Without arguing. Without quibbling. Without asking for collateral. And you know why I don’t ask for collateral?’
‘No, boss.’
‘Because you are the collateral. And your mum. And the little bit of lusciousness who’s sitting by your side.’
‘Give me another week, that’s all.’
‘I’ve always been soft like that. They come to me, these people, these types who can’t get credit when everyone can get credit, when children can get credit, they come to me and they say: Help me, Henry. Tide me over. And out of my good nature, my limitless compassion, I say: what do you want, pal? You name it, I say, and you’ve got it. You want a grand? You’ve got a grand. And I never say when I want it back. I never tell them I need it back by a certain date. I don’t even give them a fucking date. So they never have to pay it back, unless they really want to. All they have to pay is the five percent. Five percent, per week, every week, is all they have to pay. And I explain this to them. I sit them down and explain it to them, and I let them decide if they want my dough. And if they do, if they go away and think about it and come back and say: Henry, you’re the lender for me, all I get is a verbal agreement. There’s nothing to sign, see. I don’t take their pension books, their child allowance books, nothing like that. Because I’m a man of principle. I just hand over the money and we shake on it and they give me their word they’ll come through each week. Their word is their bond, I tell myself. Sound people, I tell myself. A promise made is a promise kept, I tell myself. Am I right?’
‘Yeah, but . . . ’
‘So if someone takes my money, freely takes my money, and all I want is the interest, the percentage interest he agreed to pay, the five percent he gave his word he’d pay, is that unreasonable? Is it? I’m asking.’
‘It’s not.’
‘Too right, it’s not. What’s unreasonable is some people, people who don’t open their windows, people who live in smelly flats, thinking they don’t have to pay what they ought to pay. People who think they can keep my cash. That’s what I call unreasonable.’
Joe shifted in his chair.
‘You know you’ll get it,’ he muttered.
‘I know that, son. I just don’t know when. And it’s the when that counts, see. It’s the when that matters.’
Henry wiped his fingers on a paper napkin.
‘Don’t tell me you can’t manage, that’s all. Ju
st go for a walk one night, stick your fist through a car window and take the stereo. Then sell it down the pub. Then do the same the next night, and the night after that, until you’ve got enough to pay what you owe. Then whatever you make will be profit. Whatever you make, you’ll be getting ahead. You’ve got a duty to your lady, Joe, and you’re falling down on your duty. You’ve got to feed her, clothe her, get a decent car, live in a better neighbourhood, mix with smarter people. You’ve got to start acting like you’re someone, Joe. Start taking what you need, and then you’ll get respect.’
Henry paused for breath. Good speech that, he told himself. Deserves appreciation. He glanced at Mervyn, but Mervyn wasn’t listening. Mervyn was eating custard creams, to which he seemed quite partial. Joe was staring at the carpet, saying nothing, there being nothing much to say. Donna was bending over the table, stacking dishes, nice and docile.
The Fatman picked up his empty plate.
‘Want some help, there, darling?’
Moving swiftly across the carpet. Very light on his feet, for such a heavy man. Very quick off the mark, for such a bulky chap. She brushed past him.
‘No.’
He followed her into the kitchen.
‘It’s no bother,’ he said. ‘I like mucking in.’
He watched her hold each dish under the cold tap for a few seconds.
‘That how you wash up?’
She shook water off her hands.
‘Domesticated, aren’t you?’ he observed. He passed her the dishcloth. ‘Make someone a nice little housekeeper.’
He bent towards her.
‘You ever need a job,’ he said, ‘you know where to come.’
The milky breath in her face.
‘Excuse me,’ she said.
She stepped past him and began stacking crockery in a plastic rack.
He took her by the waist and turned her round to face him.
‘Just for once,’ he said, ‘just for today,’ he said, ‘I want you to pretend you like me.’
She gazed at him for several seconds.
‘But I don’t like you, Henry.’
And something flickered in his eyes, but he kept on smiling. He lifted her chin and kissed her wetly on the mouth, and she felt the warm sweat on his face and the hard bulge between his legs.
‘That’s my girl,’ he smiled. ‘My Donna-girl.’
Pressing up so tight she had to brace herself against the wall to shove him off. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘Don’t be like that,’ he said quietly. ‘Be nice, you bitch.’
He wrapped his fingers round her wrist.
‘So fucking snotty, aren’t you?’
He twisted her arm. Not too hard, not enough to break it, just enough to hurt her. Just enough to give the bitch some pain.
‘I mean, a shitty bedsit off Kilburn Lane, and she thinks she’s found a future.’
He felt her try to wriggle free. No strength, he thought. Like holding a bird.
‘He’s a driver, darling, so he’s rubbish, see? Can’t even keep you in tampons, can he? Just a sad little bastard who’ll buy you fuck-all.’
It gave him pleasure, to feel her struggle. So slim, she was. Such a bit of nothing. It pleasured him, enormously. The bitch, he thought. The luscious bitch.
‘D’you like poor blokes, then? Cause there’s a lot of them around, sugar. Blokes like him, see. Blokes who want to stick it in for nothing. All cock and no cash, darling, that what you like?’
‘You can’t imagine what I like.’
‘Try me.’
‘You think money’s everything.’
‘I know it, sweetheart. I know it absolutely. It’s the iron law of life: if you don’t have it, you get shafted.’
And he let her go, watched her rub her dainty skin. Not his fault, he told himself. She made him, frankly. She wound him up. He brushed his sleeve and flicked a speck of vagrant sponge to the floor.
‘I just don’t think you need a dosser, that’s all.’
‘He’s one of your boys, Henry.’ She wiped a teaspoon on the cloth. ‘I thought you looked after your boys.’
‘I do, my love. Long as they’re loyal.’
She chucked the cloth on to the draining board.
‘Only dogs are loyal.’
The Fatman smiled.
‘My boys are dogs.’
He leaned forward and turned off the tap, for he liked to make a contribution, he liked to do his bit.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘let’s be friends, all right? Joe’s basically a mate, so you be nice to me, and I’ll be nice to him.’
‘How nice?
‘He owes twelve grand.’
‘Much as that?’
‘I’ll wipe it.’
‘Because he’s a mate . . . ’
‘Because you’ll be nice.’
He watched her think it over, could see the cogs revolving in her brain.
‘He’s a soft lad, see. Needs cherishing.’
He opened one of the cupboards and began to root inside.
‘Been bullied a bit,’ he murmured. ‘Schoolboy stuff, but pretty nasty.’
A small exclamation of pleasure as he found a pack of assorted wafers.
‘You want to know what they did?’
‘Not really.’
‘Because I’ll tell you if you want.’
‘Rather you didn’t.’
‘Well as you’re asking, as you’re begging: they tied a ribbon round his thing and pulled him round the playground. In front of everyone, can you believe that, eh? I mean kids, I ask you.’
He leaned towards her and lowered his voice.
‘Between ourselves, of course. I mean he told me that in confidence.’
And he tapped the side of his nose and chewed on a caramel wafer. The girl began edging past.
‘Going back in, are we? Allow me, darling.’
He held the door open and went in after her.
‘Been having a chinwag,’ he announced. ‘Bit of a chat with little luscious.’
‘We off soon?’
‘You bored, then, Merv?’
‘I’ve got this date, see.’
A spasm wrenched the Fatman’s gut, for it always disturbed him, when the boys did that, when they showed their true, unfettered natures, revealed their damp and clammy urges. It pained him in his lower belly, made his insides throb and burn, and he’d have to take some milk to cool them down.
‘Delighted for you. A girly, is it?’
‘In her thirties.’
‘Not like you, son, to be so generous.’
‘Make better fucks, boss. More grateful, aren’t they?’
‘Well-spotted, Merv, and this is tremendous news. Am I right, Joe, eh? You happy for him? Cause I am, see. I’m a happy man.’
The ache inside his Fatman gut, and Henry had this sudden longing to be physical, to unburden all his Henry stress, relieve himself by doing something dirty. A need he had. He couldn’t help it. To feed the need was all he wanted.
He beckoned them over, the three of them. Merv and Joe and Donna, him and him and her.
‘I want to tell you people something.’
He took out a box of slim panatellas.
‘So gather round, cause it’s interesting.’
He permitted Merv to light one for him, for rank must have its privilege.
‘You see,’ he explained, ‘there are two types of man on this brutal earth: the ones who are bent and shafted, and the ones who do the shafting. So when you’re me — what’s known in the trade as the Henry type — you can basically do what you want in life. You can please yourself, more or less. You can treat your friends like the filth they are, and they’ll thank you for it. They’ll bow the knee, and bend the head, and press their eager faces to your groin.’
He spat out a fragment of green-brown leaf.
‘Or that’s what I’ve always found,’ he murmured. ‘Though I might be wrong.’
He gazed at the girl.
&nb
sp; ‘I’m going to prove something to you, sugar, so bear with me, okay? But before I start, you’ve got to understand my basic premise: these lads you like — it’s all show, see? Big, strong lads, and they’re girlies inside. Just acting, aren’t they. Just having you on. So every time you see them strut, every time they look you in the eye, let you think they’ll do the business, just bear in mind they’re just pretending. Cause deep down, sweetheart, buried within their wild-boy hearts, all they want is peace and quiet . . . ’
He dragged the smoke inside his lungs.
‘ . . . and somewhere warm so they can menstruate.’
He flicked some ash to the floor, and then he said:
‘A moment, Joe, if you wouldn’t mind.’
He waved him over, had him come and stand beside him. Then he nodded, almost imperceptibly, and Mervyn, who was used to this, who’d done it once or twice before, grabbed Joe from behind, so that Henry, with his longing to be physical, to unburden all his Henry stress, could relieve himself by doing something dirty. A need he had. He couldn’t help it. To feed the need was all he wanted.
‘The joys of being me,’ he said, ‘the sweet and wholesome pleasures.’
And he slowly slid his hand across Joe’s thigh, until it came to rest right on his crotch, his private parts, his pure and perfect genitals.
‘For when you’re me,’ he said, ‘when you’ve got the great good fortune to be me,’ he said, ‘you can do this sort of thing.’
‘I think he’s partial,’ Mervyn breathed.
‘You reckon?’
‘Yeah.’
The Fatman thought it over.
‘It’s important, Merv. It makes a difference. I mean the question is,’ he said, ‘the question surely is,’ he said, ‘does he like it? Cause if he does, he’s laughing. If he does, we’re doing him a favour, we’re giving him some pleasure, we’re merely being friendly.’
He closed his fingers round the lump. Not too hard, just nice and gently. And Joey standing there, his arms pinned back behind him, with that Joey grin spread on his face, mutely watching while Henry fondled, quietly waiting while he had a fumble. Just standing, big and stupid, while Henry did his Henry stuff.
