by Helen Zahavi
And what they didn’t know, what no one had, as yet, explained to them, was that it wouldn’t be enough, to be like them. If you didn’t want to take too much, and you weren’t too grasping, and you didn’t want to take it all, you wanted just to have the basics, it often meant you finished up with nothing.
But all that knowledge would come to them later. For now, they’re sitting in a chipshop, full of warmth and happiness, and Joe drains his cup and says to her:
‘Can I ask you something personal?’
She stared at him.
‘How personal?’
He shrugged.
‘Fairly personal.’
She took out a ciggy and let him light it.
‘All right,’ she muttered, ‘but nothing to do with age.’
A good, long drag, to give her strength.
‘I don’t like age-questions. Give me aggravation.’
‘It’s not about age.’
‘So fine,’ she said. ‘So fire away.’
He picked up an unused fork. Scraped it along the tabletop.
‘I can ask, then, can I?’
‘But not about age.’
‘It’s not about age.’
‘You can ask,’ she said.
‘You sure?’ he queried.
‘I’m sure,’ she said.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘what I’ve been wondering, see — and you don’t have to answer this, if you don’t want to — but I thought it might be interesting, and I’ve been meaning to mention it, the past few days . . . ’
‘Say it, Joe.’
‘It’s not about age, right?’
‘Just say it, sweetie.’
‘Well what I’ve been wondering, as you’re asking, is how many men there’ve been.’ He swallowed. ‘Before me.’
The blank, unyielding Donna gaze.
‘What do you mean, been?’
‘You know . . . ’
‘No.’
‘I mean, how many have there been?’
‘Been where?’
He placed his thumb on the fork and began to spin it round.
‘Been in you.’
She shifted in her seat.
‘You mean right in?’
He scratched his ear-lobe.
‘Yeah.’
He gazed at her.
‘So how many?’ he said. ‘Roughly,’ he clarified.
She stared at his face. Such a beautiful face.
‘You’re the only one, Joe,’ she promised. ‘More or less.’
‘Am I?’ he murmured, taking her hand.
‘Sort of,’ she said.
He kissed her fingers.
‘The only one?’
She smiled at him. That soft, elusive Donna smile.
‘Very nearly . . . ’
* * *
CHAPTER 17
Henry picked up the saucepan and tipped it forward, and a cord of boiling milk flowed into the thermos. Wisps of steam curled out of the neck and he bent, and sniffed, and softly sighed. He stared at it thoughtfully for a moment, then added a teaspoon of honey and stirred. Because I’m nice, he told himself. Because I’m kind.
He screwed the cap back on and put the thermos near the door. He wouldn’t want to forget it, in the rush. Wouldn’t want to leave his milk behind and go out blindly in the night, have to do it with an aching gut. Take care of your health, they always said, and the rest takes care of itself. Which was almost true, he thought. Not quite, but very nearly. Stop the gut-ache if you can, and you’ll sort out all your problems. Specially ones who like to gab a lot. Ones who think they’ve got away. Snotty little cunty ones.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. Gone one a.m., and the call hadn’t come. But he didn’t mind waiting, he was a patient man. He’d shaved and showered an hour ago. Chosen his grey silk suit, and his Chelsea boots. They made him taller, which always helped, for he liked to look his best, at times like these. Whatever happened, they should say of him: the Fatman did it, and he was looking good.
A buzz came from the front of the house. He went into the hall and cocked an ear and his face creased into a smile. The night had barely started, and already they were bickering. He opened the door and waved them in, his boys, his lads, his protégés.
‘Fucking cold out,’ Billy muttered.
‘You moaning, son?’
‘I’m only saying.’
‘Cause we know it’s cold. Cause it’s winter, see?’
‘But I was only saying . . . ’
‘Well you’ve said it, right?’
They followed him into the drawing-room. Billy parked himself in front of the fire, while Mervyn headed for the scotch.
‘No booze,’ Henry said.
‘Just a small one, boss.’
He poured out three fingers of amber liquid.
‘Just a weeny one,’ he murmured.
The Fatman’s face remained impassive. You couldn’t tell, by watching him, what he was feeling. You wouldn’t know he had this burning deep inside. Like someone struck a match and poked it in his belly, to see if it was flammable. You couldn’t tell, by watching him. You might have guessed, if you were Mervyn, but you wouldn’t know for sure.
‘We having a party tonight, then?’
The Fatman nodded.
‘Something like that.’
‘Just the three of us, is it?’
‘Be a couple more later.’ He lit a fag. ‘Make up the numbers.’
‘That’s grand, boss, isn’t it. Cause I like a good party.’
‘I know you do. That’s why we’re having one.’
Mervyn took a swig of Johnnie Walker. He wiped his mouth.
‘Be a few chicks, will there? Few nice girlies to pass around?’
‘You partial, are you?’
‘I’m Merv the Perv.’
The Fatman nodded. Of course he was.
‘There’ll be everything, son. For me, I mean. You lads will just be watching.’
‘Bit boring, watching.’
The Fatman shrugged.
‘Tough shit, old mate.’
And they spread themselves out, and settled down to wait. Henry smoking, Mervyn drinking, Billy picking his Billy spots. It was five to three when the call came through. Made them jump a bit, made them palpitate. Henry stubbed out his fag in an overflowing ashtray, and picked up the receiver on the seventh ring. He didn’t interrupt. Kept his silence for half a minute, listened quietly for thirty seconds, being in a listening frame of mind. He glanced across. The boys were standing near the fire. They had that hopeful, eager, bloodhound look. They had a thuggish look, when you really looked.
He watched his lads, and spoke quietly into the phone. The murmured words of Henry when he’s happy.
‘That far out? . . . Yeah, sure. I know you have . . . No,’ he muttered, ‘we’ll find it.’
He listened intently for several seconds.
‘That’s right. Just business.’
He scribbled some notes on a pad.
‘Got it. You done great . . . I mean it, son . . . Yeah, I owe you.’
He replaced the phone. Didn’t move for a while. Mervyn watched him carefully.
‘That the party, boss?’
The Fatman shuddered. It was a pleasure-spasm, so he couldn’t help it.
‘It is, Merv.’
Almost giddy with delight, for this was the moment, the moment of moments.
‘I knew we’d be having one,’ he said softly, ‘I just didn’t know where.’
He crossed to the wall and unlocked the rosewood cabinet. It was where he kept his most precious things: the iron bars, the family photos, the locks of girly pubic hair. He reached inside and took out a velvet pouch, feeling the hard barrel beneath the soft material.
‘Try and get sober, Merv. Always helps.’
The pistol slid out into his waiting hand.
‘Cause we’re going for a spin,’ he said. ‘A jolly little jaunt.’
He emptied the clip and checked the rounds.
‘So better start the motor, Billy . . . ’
He pushed the clip back in.
‘There’s a good lad.’
* * *
CHAPTER 18
The rain came down spasmodically, at first. A softly deferential sound that spattered in her head and made her curl into a ball of foetal satisfaction. A mile or two away, across the scrubby grass and beyond the line of naked trees, a tractor-engine almost fired. It sounded like an outboard motor, as if some farmer were yanking the cord, and every time it would almost fire, and every time it would suddenly die. Early morning in November, with the birdsong just beginning, and the half-light growing stronger, and the mist hanging low in a Hertfordshire field, and they’re curled in the back of a wideboy car, entwined in the back of a two-tone car.
She was half-asleep and half-awake, and the rain came drumming down. It hammered on the roof and bounced on to the ground. She felt Joe’s breath against her neck, the heat of him beside her. The type of man who doesn’t shave, who lets the darkness grow and gives his girl some trouble with his stubble. Better with him, his smell on her skin and his taste in her mouth, than kneeling before the Fatman, bending the knee and bowing the head and kissing the Fatman’s cock.
For many things have happened to her, in her short and wholesome life. Many types have impinged themselves, have thrust themselves into her consciousness, have watched her raise her head above the grime and swiftly pushed it down again. They’ve shafted her as best they could, because they long to see her stumble, they ache to see her flounder, they yearn to see her fall. For though she is a sweet, young thing, a lot of people hate her, they loathe her absolutely. And she knows all this, the Donna bitch. She’s a very knowing girl.
The rain came drumming down, a lazy flow that splashed on to the windscreen and forced its way beneath her skull, that trickled down the moulded glass and pushed inside her dream. She stretched, and yawned, and opened her eyes. Cold in the car. Joe slept on, his hand between her thighs. In the distance, the tractor-engine almost turned. For a second it seemed that it almost fired. Her bones felt damp, the morning hunger gnawing at her belly.
A gentle tap on the window. She glanced outside. A bird, perhaps. Some country thing that flits above the grass. She heard the tap and glanced outside, saw shadows on the hood. Two trunk-like objects, planted on the hood. Rooted, as it were, a yard or so apart. Two muscled legs, standing on the hood.
And as she takes this in, as reality begins to seep inside her brain, she notices the legs are wearing stonewashed denim jeans and high-neck leather boots, cherry-red and newly polished. She notices the rolling mist, the sullen light, the stream of yellow liquid drumming on the glass and dribbling neatly down. For Donna is the sort who notices these things.
And then there comes a revelation: the fundamental drawback of a two-door Ford Capri — a car with barely room enough for lovers to entwine themselves, to curl up in the rear and spend a night of almost bliss — the basic disadvantage is you’re jammed inside the back, and there’s nowhere you can run, and you’re dreaming it’s the rain while they’re pissing on the glass, and suddenly you’re conscious that the boys are here, they’ve come for you, the quietly vicious boys.
A mile or so across the fields, the engine turned, and failed, and almost died.
‘Slags!’
The small black hole of Billy’s mouth. It’s early morning in November, with the birdsong just beginning, and the half-light growing stronger, and the mist hanging low in a Hertfordshire field, and you’re curled in the back of a wideboy car, entwined in the back of a two-tone car.
He hefted the crowbar above his head. The tractor-motor suddenly fired. Vomit-panic churning in her belly. He braced himself. Pink-rimmed eyes in a bone-sharp face, and he’s vibrant with hatred, he’s throbbing with loathing.
‘Pair of filthy fucking slags!’
A muted exhalation, a little scream of pleasure, and he swung the crowbar down. The windscreen exploded into the car. Golden drops and shards of glass seemed to hang in the air. Jagged noise erupted in her head. Something thudded against the side. She watched the driver’s window caving in. Slow-motion, like the movies. They reached inside and flicked the lock, yanked open the door.
Joe glanced at her, the briefest second, his face a mask of perfect love and total fear. A fist smashed into the side of his head. She heard him shout her name. Again and again, like a mantra, as if her name could save him. An arm snaked in and grabbed him round the neck. They tipped the front seat down and heaved him over the top. She could hear him choking, someone laughing. A broad and unlined hand fluttered down on to his crotch. It paused a moment, as if in thought, then dug its hairless fingers in. And when she heard him scream, her life began to crumble, she watched her world disintegrate, the universe she’d built herself imploded.
‘Come on, darling . . . ’
Billy's murmur in her ear.
‘Don’t be shy.’
He reached inside and wrapped his fingers in her hair. He banged her head against the door and dragged her out, for he had permission from the Fatman, authority to treat her rough. A special dispensation, on this very special day. There was a brief explosion of pale, grey sky, then mud in her face, and earth in her mouth, and the small, high grunts of skinhead glee as he hissed the cunt word, over and over.
* * *
CHAPTER 19
Joe lay on the ground, softly groaning, the long grass flattened around him. Blood trickled out of his nose and mouth. His left eye was closed and beginning to go black. Mervyn was sitting on his chest. He bent forward and allowed a thick gob of spittle to drop from his mouth.
‘See that?’ He sounded jubilant. ‘Bang on the eyeball! Fucking brilliant!’
Henry leaned against the Daimler, his heavy shoulders drooping slightly, the plump legs crossed at the ankle. He was quietly watching, engorged with malice, putrescent with venom.
The November sky was hanging low above, a raw north wind came whipping against their skin, and everywhere the rich, damp smell, the dense and earthy odour, of a bare and unploughed field in Hertfordshire.
Billy grabbed her hair and pulled her up. Pus-faced Billy, having fun. He stared at her, just stared at her, his sandy lashes barely blinking. It made her tremble, the way he watched her. Made her flesh begin to quiver, and her bowels begin to melt, when he fixed her hard with his colourless eyes.
‘I never liked you,’ he remarked, ‘to be quite honest.’
The words condensed in the frosty air, forming a cloud of vicious steam around his head.
‘Never been a fan of yours, exactly.’
So close he was, they were nearly touching, almost kissing. She could see the flakes of dry skin that floated gently down from his forehead, the milky sediment that glistened in the corners of his eyes.
‘I mean you think you’re clever, don’t you? Think you’re such a genius.’
He clamped a hand around her neck.
‘But I’ll tell you something, sweetheart.’
The pitted flesh.
‘I’m glad I’m not the Donna bitch. Not at this moment. Not right now.’
The razored scalp.
‘Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, would I? Wouldn’t want to be in your panties, see. Not there,’ he said. ‘Not me.’
A flash of perfect smile.
‘Because it might be what one tends to call unpleasant.’
Saliva seeped between his lips, the bubbles forming and quietly bursting.
‘Be fairly beastly, frankly. That’s how I’d put it, if you asked me. If you really want to know.’
The grip of skinhead fingers round her neck.
‘So what I’d like to convey,’ he said, ‘is how profoundly glad I am that I’m not you. In fact,’ he said, ‘to put it more succinctly: at this precise and precious moment, in this field of frozen dung, I’m feeling rather grateful that I’m me.’
And having thus expressed himself, he shoved her face away.
‘What’s w
rong with girly?’
Mervyn, fresh from working out with Joe, and sweating slightly, because he’d had to be firm, came sauntering over. He knew he was looking good, that day. Silk-lined coat and velvet collar. Scraped-clean nails and slicked-back hair. He knew he looked the business.
Billy frowned.
‘What d’you mean, what’s wrong?’
‘I mean she’s gone all grubby.’
‘Has she?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well some blokes like that type of thing.’
‘Sort of mucky?’
Billy nodded.
‘They like them dirty, frankly.’
‘They’d like our girly, then.’
‘They would.’
Mervyn leaned towards her. He held her chin and turned her face from side to side.
‘But if I’m being honest, here . . . ’
You could smell the toothpaste on his breath.
‘ . . . I’m not sure I’d want it myself, old mate.’
He peeled some grass from her lower lip.
‘Not now we know where it’s been.’
‘It’s been with Joe.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Gentlemen . . . ’
The sudden rasp that cut the air.
‘If one might interrupt, a moment . . . ’
Billy shoved her forward.
‘Gently does it.’
The Fatman’s voice, thick with satisfaction.
‘Mustn’t hurt her.’
He watched the skinhead tip his foot against her legs, and the Donna bitch was on her knees. A swollen Henry smile.
‘You enjoying yourself, son?’
‘I am, boss.’
‘Cause we’ve barely started.’
‘I know, boss.’
Henry gazed at her benignly.
‘Look at me, darling.’
Billy took her by the hair and helped her raise her head. He pulled it back until she saw the broad and shining, pink and grinning, Henry face. The soft, wet mouth. The milky cheeks. The Fatman in his glory.
