DONNA AND THE FATMAN (Crime Thriller Fiction)

by Helen Zahavi

  ‘It settles the stomach.’

  ‘I think I’ll pass.’

  He tore off a piece from a long baguette.

  ‘You’re like my boys,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t know what you’re missing.’

  He compressed the bread between his fingers, and dipped it into the liquid.

  ‘You want to try it, sometime. Might calm you down.’

  He placed the sodden morsel on his tongue. For several seconds, no sound but that of mastication, of Henry getting pleasure. Then he drained the cup and licked his lips, and a small, white blob of milky bread rolled down his chin.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Course.’

  ‘You’re fond of Joe, right?’

  ‘We have our moments.’

  ‘Cause it’s beyond me, see, how blokes like him contrive to get their women.’

  ‘He’s a looker, Henry.’

  ‘But he’s poor, my love, and like I always say, a poor man’s like a dead man. He’s insubstantial, isn’t he? Not a lot of presence, really. So a girl who goes with a bloke like that, she’s letting a kind of corpse inside, she’s communing with the dear departed. And that’s not nice, in my opinion. That’s not what I’d call wholesome, frankly.’

  ‘He’s got his good points.’

  ‘Yeah? Like what?’

  ‘He’s kind and gentle.’

  Henry snorted.

  ‘So’s Larry Lamb. So’s Andy fucking Pandy.’

  ‘No need to shout.’

  ‘Can’t help it, darling. I’ve got this cock, see, and we’re like that, sometimes. Blokes, I mean. The three-legs of this world. We get aggressive, from time to time, and if your Joey doesn’t, he’s not what I’d call blokey, sweetheart. Not quite a lad . . . ’

  He wiped his mouth.

  ‘Bit wimpy, really.’

  With which acute remark, he got to his feet and unzipped his flies. A shade optimistic, possibly, but she felt it prudent not to say. He pulled down his trousers, peeled off his shirt and stood there, waiting, by the bed. It was an opportune moment to have a good look. The boss of bosses had off-white panties, pouting nipples, and a look of expectation on his face. There was a modest amount of body-hair. Just enough for decency, not quite enough for potency. But he passed the Donna test, for she’s never liked them smooth. If you like them smooth, she’s always thought, you really want a girly.

  He slipped a hand inside his pants and moved it gently round.

  ‘It’s okay, precious. Only checking.’

  She had a sudden, urgent need to avert her eyes, and her gaze alighted on the bedside table. She looked again, just to be sure, and there it was: pure loveliness, sheer poetry. For the first time since she’d stepped inside, she was seeing what truly excited her, and her dormant passion began to stir.

  ‘What’s that money, Henry?’

  ‘What money, sugar?’

  ‘By the bed, Henry.’

  ‘That’s yours, my love.’ He moved a little nearer. ‘A wodge of notes in your sticky hand, for services as yet unrendered.’

  ‘So apart from wiping Joey’s debt . . . ’

  ‘You get a bonus.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She gazed with fondness at the waiting pile. Small, brown tenners, and large, blue twenties, and a few sweet fivers, just for luck. A thick, little heap of unused notes. All mine, she thought, with a sudden rush of self-esteem. For me, she thought. Because I’m nice.

  He pulled her close, pressed his mouth against her neck, then reached behind and cupped the tender, Donna rump inside the velvet jeans.

  ‘Be good,’ he said, ‘you just be nice, and the Fatman will take care of you. Because I’ve always been quite kind like that, been generous to my ladies.’

  He eased his groin against her crotch.

  ‘I like to keep them happy.’

  ‘How happy, Henry?’

  She reached towards the beckoning notes.

  His full lips parted. The faintest smile.

  ‘Not quite yet,’ he said, and clamped his sweaty fingers round her wrist.

  ‘I think we’re being somewhat previous. Somewhat premature, in fact.’

  He pulled her arm away.

  ‘First we get friendly, and then we get paid.’

  His face was filmed with perspiration, the eyes a pale and washed-out grey, like an English sky in winter.

  ‘So if you’d care to get undressed, I’d be obliged.’

  So close he was, all milkiness and drooping age.

  ‘Rather not,’ she said, ‘for the moment.’

  She took a step back. An apologetic smile.

  ‘Bit prim, you see. Bit ill at ease.’

  ‘Won’t take long,’ he promised. ‘Be over in a jiffy.’

  ‘Another time, perhaps.’

  ‘Don’t like it when you’re difficult . . . ’

  ‘Doctor’s orders, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Cause if you’re going to be difficult, I’ll have to be firm.’

  ‘I’m allergic, see . . . ’

  Her brain moved fast.

  ‘ . . . to sperm.’

  He paused.

  ‘You mean the creamy stuff?’

  ‘The very same.’

  Which shut him up for a good few seconds. He sucked his teeth and gazed at her. Fixed her with his piggy eye.

  ‘You’re serious, right? Not having me on? Cause I’m quite devoid of humour, where my privates are concerned.’

  ‘I’m sure you are, and I wouldn’t dare.’

  He was looking doubtful.

  ‘Why’d you come here, then?’

  ‘Because you asked me, Henry. For tea,’ she added. ‘Scones and things. Toast and honey and Radio Four.’

  ‘Honey?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘In luck, then, aren’t you.’

  He picked up the jar and examined the label.

  ‘Marks & Sparks. That good enough?’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she breathed. ‘You’re a very sweet man.’

  ‘I know I am.’ He peeled off his pants. ‘Can’t help it, really.’

  And he stood before her, completely naked, pink and gleaming in the light. Oh shit, she thought. Oh buggeration. He passed her the jar and a silver teaspoon.

  ‘You smearing, then?’

  ‘You smear, Henry. I’m too excited.’

  He led her into the bathroom, an endless expanse of chrome and tile, and perched his frame on a wooden stool. Unscrewing the lid, for she likes to be helpful, she placed the jar on the laundry box.

  ‘I’m glad we’ve got that sorted,’ he muttered, ‘because I made it all nice, even changed the sheets.’

  Grunting slightly as he leaned his weight forward, he dipped his hand in the open jar and scooped out a generous glob. Then he parted his legs and anointed himself, spreading it over the purple sack, the veined and baggy Henry pouch, which contained his modest orbs. The slap of skin on tender skin. The pleasures of the flesh.

  ‘For you, this is,’ he reminded her. ‘So come on, darling . . . ’

  He sucked his fingers, one by one.

  ‘ . . . .make an old man happy.’

  She gazed, entranced, at the glistening mess. The words ‘horrified fascination’ slipped, unbidden, into her brain. Henry was dripping on the floor. His belly hung discreetly down, not quite obscuring the bits and bobs, the moist and waiting succulence, that nestled coyly between his thighs. The air, she realized, smelled of milk and honey. She had reached her promised land.

  ‘You’re looking good,’ she commented. ‘Looking really yummy, Henry.’

  She stared at him, and knew she couldn’t do it. Not for Joe. Not even for money, and she’d always been quite keen on money.

  ‘Suppose I’d better get undressed, then, hadn’t I.’

  She edged towards the doorway.

  ‘Pin my hair up, type of thing.’

  He scratched his armpit.

  ‘I’ll be waiting, sugar.’
/>   She blew him a kiss.

  ‘Don’t start without me.’

  She stepped into the bedroom and closed the door, her heart pulsating in her chest. Had she been the type who sweats, one might have noticed perspiration. The cash still waited on the bedside table. It was hers, she reasoned. She’d done her bit, she’d earned it, fair and square. She’d watched him spreading honey on his thingy, so the dosh belonged to her.

  She smoothly palmed the notes and stuffed them in her bag. A couple of minutes was what she reckoned. Two clear minutes before a sudden roar of comprehension, a bellow of slick and dripping rage, would bring the minions running.

  She left the bedroom and padded along the corridor. She hoped there wouldn’t be a scene, no confrontation, or other aggravation. She began to make her way downstairs. Don’t run, she thought, for ladies never run. Girlies might, but ladies don’t. Down the first flight, along the landing, down the second, and she’s nearly there. Joey outside, and she’s nearly there. She rounded the bend, and:

  ‘My, my, my . . . ’

  Merv was standing in the hall, leaning against the steel-backed door. Gloomy down there, just a single bulb. The Fatman saving pennies. He watched her coming down the stairs.

  ‘She does look well.’

  Hands sunk deep in trouser pockets, and that look on his face, that knowing smirk.

  ‘Bit flushed, perhaps.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Bit pink of cheek.’

  She reached the bottom and he moved towards her.

  ‘But it suits you, sweetheart, so don’t be shy.’

  The rosebud mouth approached her ear.

  ‘Had our tea, then, have we?’

  He grabbed the flesh of her upper arm. Enough to hurt, though not to bruise.

  ‘Had our bite of sticky bun?’

  His face pushed up so close, she could see the blackheads round his nose, the fresh, new cold sore on his upper lip.

  ‘Got a problem, Merv?’

  ‘No problem, sugar.’

  His eyes slid slowly up and down, took in the tight, black jeans, the three-inch heels, the low-cut top. Looking good, the boy was thinking. The Donna bitch was looking good.

  Muffled banging from upstairs, the sound of wardrobes being searched and trashed. She gently pulled away.

  ‘Better dash, sweetie. Boss might want you.’

  He drew back the bolts and opened the door, and she went before him, out of the darkness and into the light.

  ‘Next time you come to visit,’ he said, ‘try and save some for the boys.’

  The fleeting, Donna smile.

  ‘I’ll do that, Merv. Believe me.’

  * * *

  CHAPTER 7

  She didn’t like to move too much, if she could possibly avoid it, but when she left that house, she came out running.

  It was late on a frozen afternoon, and the cold so bitter that had she been the weepy type she would have wept. The wind came slicing down the road and cut into her face. It made her skull begin to hurt, and her teeth begin to ache, and forced her lips so far apart you might have looked at her and thought that she was grinning, you might have thought the Donna bitch was in a state of exaltation, when you saw her running from the house.

  Getting dark outside, the colour drained away, as though they’d hosed it clean, as though they’d pulled the plug and rinsed it down the sink. Joe was leaning on the bonnet, oblivious of everything, absorbed in rolling the perfect fag. He licked the paper down and stuck it in his mouth, exuding such convincing calm it was almost catatonic. The briefest flame, an orange glow of inhalation, and a half-burnt match was tossed away.

  But it doesn’t take long to run down a drive. Even in your three-inch heels, when you’re not the sporty type, and it’s a longer sort of drive in a better part of London, you can cross it fairly quickly. The gravel tends to suck you down, but you can manage, if you concentrate. And as she tottered forward, her breath condensing in the air, her underrated Donna brain was throbbing in her head, quietly pulsing beneath the bone, for she’s thinking of that ever-grinning piece of pus who answers to the name of Merv. Fifteen seconds to climb the stairs, another five to walk down the hall, then he’d step inside the Fatman’s den, and . . .

  ‘Joe!’ she shrieked. ‘We’re going, Joe!’

  You had to hand it to the boy, he could shift himself when he really had to. He was round the front and in the seat before she’d caught her breath, before she’d finished sucking air. He leaned across, shoved open the door, and she slipped inside.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m okay. Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  I wiped your debt, she nearly added, got a bonus, too. She’d stuffed it in her bag, she’d crammed it in and snapped it shut. Safe within her leather bag she had the Fatman’s money, the only thing of his she wanted buried deep inside. It made her panties moisten, frankly. Made her start to lubricate. All that money, on her lap, it made her melt between her legs. Because she likes it when they give her things, she loves it when they spend a bit, but she adores it when she takes it, for that’s the kind of girl she is.

  For they’re forgetful types, the three-legs. They forget to take her out, forget to buy her what she wants, forget her name, forget the way she likes it. But they always remember to stick it in, they’re always ready to push it in, they never forget to shove it in. So they owe her, really, the way she sees it. In her Donna-centric worldview, they owe her in abundance.

  ‘We off, Joe, are we?’

  ‘We’re going, babe.’

  He turned up his collar and put on his shades, for he liked to act the part, he liked to get in character. She blew on her fingers.

  ‘So we’re splitting, yeah?’

  A final drag, and he chucked the roll-up out of the window.

  ‘We’re on our way.’

  He turned the key. The engine coughed and spluttered out.

  ‘Right,’ he said, and tried again. The motor almost caught. It very nearly almost fired. Three endless seconds in which it almost sparked, then quietly died. He pumped the throttle.

  ‘You’re flooding the engine.’

  ‘You know about cars?’

  ‘You’re flooding it, Joe.’

  He tried a third time. One turn to the right, and ignition on. A half-turn further, and the motor turned over, and then the tubercular sound you get, that sick, familiar, wheezing sound, when the battery starts to fade.

  A spasm shook her gut.

  ‘We off now, Joe?’

  ‘We’re up and running.’

  ‘So we’re going, are we?’

  ‘In a minute, okay?’

  She twisted in her seat and stared back at the house. Lights were coming on upstairs, shadows moving behind the curtains. Henry’s face appeared, a blob of livid malice, framed in the second-floor window. His mouth kept changing shape, for he was shouting something, expressing himself in his favoured way. She watched the hole as it opened and closed. Imagined the insults spewing forth, the globs of Henry spittle arcing through the air before landing, with a soft and glutinous hiss, on the window-pane.

  ‘No need to rush, but I think he’s watching.’

  ‘How’s he looking?’

  ‘Not too happy.’

  Joe worked the motor.

  ‘We better shift then.’

  She kept her eyes on the Fatman’s face and moved her fingers in mute farewell.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘We better had.’

  Merv and Billy beside him now, and he’s pointing down, giving his orders, the black-hole aperture growing and shrinking. Like watching a silent film, she thought, and suddenly realized the boys had gone, they’d disappeared, they’d scooped up their testosterone and vanished. There was just the Fatman, alone in the window. And she couldn’t be sure, she couldn’t be certain, but it looked like he was grinning.

  ‘Will you start the car?’

  ‘I’m trying, aren’t I?’

  ‘Fucking start it, will you?’
>
  ‘You swearing, now?’

  ‘Just press it down. Don’t pump it, right? Press the pedal down.’

  ‘I been doing that, sweetheart.’

  ‘Well this time, fucking keep it down!’

  The front door burst open, like a bad, bad dream. Mervyn boiled out of the house, a six-inch length of metal pipe protruding from his fist. She thumbed down the door-lock. Joe put the gear-stick into second and floored the throttle. Mervyn running up the drive, skinhead Billy close behind. A sudden vision of being dragged upstairs, being bent and spread, abased before the Fatman. Vomit-panic in her belly. Not that, she thought. Not me, she thought.

  ‘God . . . ’ she moaned.

  He jerked the key, the engine turned over. Then he lifted his foot, he was doing it right, and the sweet, sweet sound of a borrowed motor when it finally starts to fire. He released the clutch and the car shot forward, rear wheels spinning till they found the ground. The seductive smell of burning rubber, and Merv and Billy almost had her, they were almost touching, they were almost there.

  Then the car went skidding towards the road, slamming her back against the leather seat. Like when a plane takes off, so good it was, all speed and light and potency. The Fatman-booty in her lap, and Mervyn screaming just behind, and adrenalin coursing through her veins.

  ‘Joe,’ she breathed, ‘we’re in the movies, Joe . . . ’

  And he gunned the engine, and they were out of there.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 8

  Once they’d cleared Heath Drive he cut the speed. He might not know how to start a car, but he knew about stuff like that. You keep your right foot light on the pedal, you don’t go shooting off up Redington Road, panicking all the decent folk. Be like having a sign on the back of your car: Phone in my number, cause I’m a robber. It’s things like that that he knows about, being quite a knowing guy. So having cleared Heath Drive he cut the speed, then just cruised along, went sailing along. Nice and slowly, sweet and easy, like he did it every night.

  He palmed the gearstick into fourth. Cold air was blasting from the vents, droplets forming inside the windows. He switched on the heater, listened to the fan. And then he asked, apropos of nothing much:

  ‘How much you get, then?’

  She didn’t react. You might even have thought that the girl hadn’t heard. She merely said . . .