by Helen Zahavi
Joe passed her a plastic carrier-bag. She dropped the little package inside, rolled it up, and passed it back. He pushed open the door.
‘Just shove it in?’
She looked at him and moved her lips.
‘Nice and deep.’
He trudged off up the road. Scattered grey flakes were floating down. Not quite snow, but near enough. She watched him lower his head and hunch his shoulders and bend against the wind, too fragile for this earth. And she felt a kind of pain inside, a jagged sense of weakness, a consciousness of being helpless, of running through the city with a man who couldn’t save her. A poor man, like a dead man, who would have to let her go.
Cold air gusted through the window and began to eat her skin. She shivered as she watched him. Be finished soon, she told herself. Their little escapade would finally be over. But it didn’t seem right, to give it back. It left her feeling queasy. It made her want to quietly puke, to stick her fingers down her throat and feel herself regurgitate. Giving back the Henry dosh, it made her feel quite nauseous. It wasn’t as if he needed it, for his purse was well and truly bulging, and what he had he’d stolen. A fat and thieving man. One day she’d do it properly, she’d rob him like a Donna should: take the roof off his head, and the shirt off his back. Make him go out begging in the street. Go begging, naked, in the street.
Joe reached the skip and leaned cautiously over, peering down like it’s the lucky dip. She watched him drop the stuff inside, shove it nice and deep, make it hard to find. He looked around and picked up a binbag lying on the pavement. He slit it open, had the briefest sniff, then emptied the contents into the skip. A quick glance back and a fleeting grin. That’s him, she thought. My Joey-boy.
Pink-hued steetlights blinked suddenly on. He walked back to the car and climbed inside.
‘All done,’ he said.
‘What was it like?’
‘Lot of trash in there.’
‘You mean builders’ rubble?’
‘I mean takeaways.’
He switched on the ignition.
‘Lot of flies and stuff. Bit pissy, too.’
She clipped on her seatbelt, for she likes to be careful.
‘Good idea, then, she remarked.’
‘Great idea.’
‘Shame for the boys, though.’
He revved up the motor.
‘Yeah,’ he muttered. ‘Shame.’
He drove round the block and parked a couple of streets away, then they walked back to a café nearly opposite the skip. He didn’t think it was a good idea to stick around. He thought it was a fairly bad idea, in fact. Not quite as bad as robbing Henry in the first place, but pretty close. They sat one row back from the window.
‘You sure you want to stay?’
‘You got anything else to do?’
‘They’ll see us,’ he said.
‘They won’t.’
‘But they might,’ he said.
‘So they will.’
She sipped her tea. It was hot and sweet. Like her, she thought. Like Donna bitch. The windows were slowly misting up, but they could still see out. They’d already checked the loo, which opened on to a courtyard. Just in case, Joe had said, because you never knew when you’d have to go, you never knew when you’d have to split.
‘Is that good?’
‘Is what good, Joe?’
‘That bacon roll.’
‘Not bad.’
She took another mouthful and chewed thoughtfully.
‘Not great,’ she said, ‘but not bad.’
He lit another cigarette.
‘Do you think you might be pregnant?’
‘No.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘Because I know.’
He sucked smoke into his lungs.
‘I thought you might be, that’s all.’
‘Oh really?’
‘Because you seem to eat . . . I mean you seem to have to eat, sort of . . . frequently.’
She took another bite of lettuce and streaky bacon, a taste of heaven in a sesame bun.
‘You saying I eat too much? That what you’re telling me?’
‘Course I’m not.’
‘Cause that’s what it sounds like.’
‘Just been wondering where it goes, that’s all.’
‘Well maybe I’ve got a worm,’ she said.
‘Don’t say that, please.’
She paused, mid-bite.
‘Say what?’ she asked.
‘Worm,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ she insisted.
‘Because,’ he said.
She gazed at him, entranced.
‘You mean I can’t say worm?’
‘Correct.’
‘And I can’t say bowels?’
‘Correct.’
The gently furrowed Donna brow.
‘But what if there’s a worm inside my bowels?’
He stubbed out his fag.
‘You’re not funny,’ he said. ‘You know that, don’t you.’
She chewed on the roll.
‘Yeah, I know that.’
She swallowed it down and wiped her lips with a paper napkin. She felt better now. A nice warm glow was spreading inside. She pulled one of his ciggies out of the pack. He hesitated for a second, then struck a match and leaned across the table.
‘Thanks,’ she murmured.
‘Welcome,’ he grunted.
He flicked the match into the saucer, and glanced out the window.
‘He’s here.’
She twisted round in her seat.
‘Where?’
‘Coming up the road.’
And there he was, easing his way through the Paddington crowd, pushing his way through the early evening crowd. Shoving gently, shouldering softly, tunnelling a path through the uncomprehending crowd. Not long now, she thought. Soon be over now, she thought.
He was wearing his black leather jacket and pale blue jeans. The Billy uniform, the clothes of Billy choice. Probably knew that she’d be watching, probably guessed that she’d be waiting. He looked scrubbed and clean and barbered, a wholesome-looking hooligan. For her, she thought. He’d shaved and primped and oiled himself for her.
He stopped a few yards back from the skip and lit a cigarette. Pause for long and thoughtful drag. That’s right, Billy. Take your time. Check we’re not around to jump you, do nasty things like that. Make sure you’re all alone, old mate. He chucked the ciggy into the gutter. Knows he’s being watched, she thought. Just knows he’s being watched.
He slipped a hand inside his jacket and took out a pair of pink rubber gloves.
‘He doesn’t like germs.’
‘He doesn’t, does he.’
They watched him lean over the rim. There was a moment’s hesitation as he peered inside, as if there might be something nasty down below, perhaps some piece of rotting haddock, wrapped in yesterday’s Daily Mail. But Billy’s made of sterling stuff, so he girded his loins, spat on the ground, and shoved his strong, right arm inside.
Seemed to take him a while to find what he wanted. He kept bringing out cardboard boxes, and paper bags, and things that had a slimy look. His face went slowly puce, and he might have shouted something, though she couldn’t be sure.
‘You think he’s swearing?’
‘Might be, babe.’
‘Pity, that. Bit vulgar, really.’
A minute or so later, the plastic bag appeared above the metal edge. Her idea, of course. Put the Fatman’s notes in a Mothercare bag, a girly bag for Billy-boy. And she was just beginning to indulge herself, to relish the image, to savour the moment, when all too abruptly it was over. It had barely even started, and all too suddenly it was over. She watched him walk off down the road, get in a cab, and disappear.
She sipped her tea. A sense of almost anti-climax.
So that was that then, she reflected. Gone and finished. End of story.
* * *
CHAPTER 15
Henry stood by the wind
ow, watching a vapour-trail inch across the sky. The almost-snow had gone, and it was a crisp and flawless afternoon, with sunlight shafting through the glass. He felt the tension ebb away, he felt himself begin to warm, was conscious that he mellowed in the yellow.
‘Did you count it?’ he said quietly.
‘Yes.’
Henry narrowed his eyes against the glare, conscious of a throbbing in his gut.
‘It’s all there?’
‘Yes.’
He turned away from the light. Billy was standing in the middle of the room. The money was on the table. Henry glanced at the clock. Three-thirty. Few more hours. Not long now. He walked over to the table and spread the banknotes out in a fan. His insides felt raw and he reached for his milk-drink.
Billy judging, quietly watching. The sudden, vicious grin.
‘You all right, boss?’
Henry smiled.
‘I am, son.’
Spasms in his belly.
‘And yourself?’
‘I’m fine, boss.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘I’m positive.’
‘So we’re both all right . . . ’
Henry took out his fags.
‘ . . . that’s grand.’
The briefest hesitation, and Billy struck a match, leaned forward.
‘Ta, son.’
Almost as soon as he inhaled, the Fatman started coughing, hawking up phlegm into a paper tissue. He held it slightly away from him, frowning at what he saw. Changing colour, fuck it. He nodded towards the hearth.
‘Would you be kind enough,’ he said softly, ‘to light that for me?’
Something unfathomable passed across Billy’s face, and then he squatted down by the grate and switched on the gas, holding a match to the imitation coals. Small blue spears of flame appeared.
‘Make it bigger,’ Henry murmured.
The boy twisted the knob. The gas hissed louder and the flames turned yellow. He broke the match with his thumb and flicked it into the fire.
‘You feeling cold, boss?’
He heaved himself up.
‘You getting a chill?’
Henry stared at the boy, at his dead eyes and his scrubbed skin. The unformed teenage face, all bone and tufts and blemishes.
‘You still picking them?’
‘Boss?’
‘Still scratching them, are you, when you shouldn’t?’
‘They’re getting better.’
‘I got news for you . . . ’
‘Got to rub them, sometimes.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Just now and then,’ the boy insisted. ‘Nothing major.’
‘You want to leave them alone, son, like I told you. Cause they’ve got germs, see? Pukey little bacteria that get under your nails. So I’d keep them under wraps, if I were you. Wear a fucking mask, or something. And keep your spotty face well out of my kitchen.’
Henry picked up the money.
‘Don’t go touching my food, right?’
He stubbed out his fag.
‘Right?’
Billy scowled at the floor.
‘Right.’
Henry shook his head. It was sad really, when he thought about it, for he gave them good advice, he tried to help, and were they grateful? Were they fuck. Who cared, anyway? It was hardly his concern what the toerag looked like. Long as he didn’t drip pus-drops on the carpet. Long as he didn’t do that. The spreading Fatman smile.
‘Glad I don’t have to kiss you, son.’
He weighed the bundle in his hand.
‘How much did you say?’
‘Six hundred exactly.’
Henry nodded.
‘You think that’s a lot, Billy?’
‘It all adds up.’
‘That’s very true,’ the big man murmured.
He peeled off some twenties.
‘And I’ll tell something, shall I? I had a lot of hassle, getting this back.’
He screwed them into a ball.
‘Aggravation, one might say.’
He tossed them into the fireplace.
‘And you’re right,’ he said, ‘it all adds up.’
The skinhead watched in silence as flames began swallowing the paper. As if he couldn’t quite believe, at first, that his boss was burning money.
‘What you doing?’ he muttered, finally.
Henry tossed in a handful of twenties.
‘I’m baking a cake, Billy.’
The skinhead frowned.
‘You being funny, boss?’
‘I’m being funny, Billy.’
No sound save that of banknotes burning, and the skinhead suddenly scratching hard.
‘I got filthy getting that. Went poking round in a fucking skip.’
‘I know you did.’ Henry’s soothing voice. ‘And don’t think I don’t appreciate it, because I don’t.’
He chucked a few more notes into the flames.
‘But some things are more important than money,’ he explained.
Casually, as if dealing cards, he tossed the rest of the tens and twenties into the fire.
‘Principle is more important, and I’m a man of principle.’
They watched the banknotes curl and blacken.
‘Fuck this,’ the skinhead muttered, ‘I’ve had enough.’
Henry sighed.
‘You only think you have.’
‘Doing garbage for a cunt like you.’
‘You too good for it?’
‘I reckon.’
‘Cause there’s plenty more lads would be willing.’
Dismissive skinhead shrug.
‘But are they able?’
Henry smiled at this, because he likes some lip.
‘I’ve got plans for you, Billy. Things are in motion. I’ve got your future mapped out, and it’s a great future, it’s a shining future.’
‘When do I get there, boss?’
‘Give it time, son. Just do as you’re told, and you’ll get there. Just walk the trodden path, and you’ll get to your shining future.’
Billy fingered his matches.
‘But I want a shining path as well as a shining future. Feel like I’m marking time, see. Just waiting to fill a Fatman’s shoes.’
‘Better watch your mouth there, son.’
‘When you retired, I meant . . . ’
‘Don’t get ideas, right? My boys start getting ideas, I start getting worried. So bend the knee, and shut your mouth, and walk the trodden path.’
He moved over to a rosewood bureau by the wall.
‘Just come round tonight, okay? And bring the other cretin with you.’
He pulled open the middle drawer.
‘Cause you know something, Billy. Shall I tell you something, eh?’
He reached inside.
‘She thinks she’s clever,’ he said softly. ‘She thinks she’s really it.’
He took out a two-foot crowbar and laid it carefully on the varnished wood. Few more hours, he told himself. Not long now.
‘A little girl with big ideas.’
The skinhead frowned. He looked perplexed.
‘They’re gone, boss . . . aren’t they?’
Henry pushed the drawer gently shut. His gut felt calm, his scrotum warm.
‘But not forgotten, Billy.’
* * *
CHAPTER 16
They ate quite well, that night. They almost dined in style. Stuffed themselves with cod and chips, were generous with the vinegar. Pineapple fritters for the Donna bitch, and a large pickled onion for the nice young lad. They were parked by a chippy off Letchmore Heath. Twenty past ten, it must have been, and the rain was pelting down. You could even hear it in the shop, it was bucketing down so hard. Even sitting in the corner, cramming down the fish and chips, you heard it hissing on the empty road and running down the drain.
She was chewing on batter as the door banged open. Two teenage lads came loping inside, all pitted skin and rampant hormones. A fleeting
recollection of her childhood days, that damp, forgotten time of loneliness and puberty, of utter insignificance. The endless stream of takeaways, the plate-glass, steamed-up windows, the one-armed bandit by the wall, the sweating, moon-like face of the man behind the counter, the close-cropped lads who pushed and shoved, the noise, the stench, the wretchedness. My youth, she thought. My fucking youth.
But she’s not complaining, don’t get her wrong. She could have eaten that food forever. She could have swallowed chunks of fish and deep-fried chips, and washed it down with beer and cola, because she doesn’t ask for much in life: wholesome grub, a fag or two, a good-looking bloke, and the Fatman’s money. She’s a simple girl, with simple tastes. A moment’s pleasure, now and then. A bit of friction, where it counts. A spot of rubbing, where she’s tender, and she’s happy.
‘Okay, that, is it?’
‘It’s fine,’ she said.
‘Not too greasy?’
‘It’s fine, Joe, really.’
They were leaving London, and feeling good. They’d lanced the boil of Henry’s rage, and there was no more cash to burden them, no weight to press them down. They were skint again, in their natural state, the only true and natural state in which they felt at ease. The Henry problem had been resolved. It was gone and finished. End of story.
‘We heading north?’
‘Might as well.’
‘Because I hope it’s not too countryfied.’
‘Get away from the smoke,’ he said. ‘Can’t be bad.’
‘Because I don’t like green, Joe. I’m urban, see. I like my burgers in a toasted bun, not stood in a field with flies round their eyes.’
‘Just a week or two.’
He spooned some sugar into her tea.
‘You’ll probably like it, once we’re up there.’
She gave him a suitably withering look.
‘That’s what you said about the jelly, Joe.’
‘Was it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Right.’
Just the bread-and-butter basics, was all they wanted. A two-room flat in a tree-lined road, a bit of cash for a good night out. Steady work and a simple life. They didn’t want to take too much. They weren’t too grasping, as people went. Not too demanding, as it were.
