DONNA AND THE FATMAN (Crime Thriller Fiction)

by Helen Zahavi

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You’re a skinhead, son, and you made a joke.’

  Billy nodded, gratified.

  ‘Guess I did.’

  Albert plucked a biscuit from the plate and crammed it into his mouth. Wholemeal crumbs cascaded down his shirt.

  ‘I need a presence, see. Something to scare the bleeders off.’

  Billy pondered.

  ‘Get a dog.’

  The old boy sighed. He’d try again.

  ‘So tell me this, okay? I got one simple question, and I’d like you to answer it.’

  ‘Be a pleasure, Albert.’

  He settled back expectantly.

  ‘Why do I pay you?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I mean I pay protection, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And I’ve got a problem, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And you don’t want to sort it. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So why am I paying you?’

  Billy furrowed his brow, for it was an interesting point. He mulled it over in his skinhead brain. Albert leaned forward.

  ‘I mean who, exactly, are you protecting me from?’

  The bashful, Billy face as he remembered.

  ‘From me and Merv and Henry, Albert.’

  Of course, he thought. Stands to reason.

  ‘From us, old mate.’

  And he picked up his mug and slowly smiled, all soft, pink cheeks and cupid lips.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 25

  ‘You know something?’

  She was staring out of the window.

  ‘We missed the ending.’

  ‘What ending?’

  ‘The movie,’ she said. ‘We don’t know what happened.’

  ‘Right,’ he grunted.

  He took out a fresh pack of cigs and slowly unpeeled the cellophane.

  ‘Shame, that.’

  Two hours after Mervyn, and they’re parked and waiting down Lambeth Road. The chill was leaking through the glass, her breath condensing in the air. Mid-afternoon, and a dankly shining London day, bright with noise and leaden with fumes. Packed double-deckers spewing out diesel, fluorescent labourers digging up the road. A gang of lumpy schoolgirls lurking on the corner, eating cheese-and-onion crisps and aching for a ruck. A raucous, blaring kind of day that makes you feel alive. The stench of it, the pure and perfect reek. The sort of day that makes your finger start to quiver and your head begin to burst, that makes you want to turn to someone close to you and let him glimpse your soul.

  ‘How d’you want to die, Joey?’

  He considered for a moment.

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘That’s where we differ.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Because I’ve been planning my own departure like other girls plan their weddings. Down to the last detail, see, because I don’t want to mess up on my big day. Even thinking about it gives me pleasure, and I like a bit of pleasure, Joe. Just now and then. I’m not averse to being pleasured, on occasion.’

  He lit a cigarette and took a thoughtful drag.

  ‘Do you think that’s normal?’

  ‘I never said I was normal, Joe. Never made outrageous claims like that.’

  When she died, she thought, she’d like to die in London. Let them sentence her and string her up. Let them hang her by her thin and fragile neck, she wouldn’t mind. She knows you’ve got to keep them happy, give the punters what they want. Let the low-life come and gawp, let them watch her slowly turning in the air, gently swaying in the breeze. Let them pick up snotty toddlers so they’d have a better view. See, they’d say, nodding at the unlamented, pointing at the dear departed. See what happens, when you’re bad.

  She pictured the glorious scene, the public extinction of her perfumed self. Trafalgar Square on a Saturday night. The velvet sky, the lions keeping guard, the double row of coppers holding back the pressing crowd, penning in the urgent throng. The whiff of frying burger to keep the hunger-pangs at bay. The TV arc-lights blazing down. The human slime of tabloid hacks. The silent executioner. Her last and final words, the parting thoughts she’d offer to humanity. The hood, the rope, the sudden loss of wood beneath her feet.

  A millisecond’s dangling pain and terror.

  And then the bliss of nothingness. Then rest in peace, then fuck them all, then Donna bitch in paradise.

  ‘Here we go.’ Joe stuck the fag between his lips and turned the key. The engine shuddered into life.

  She peered through the tinted windscreen, and there was a sudden tightness in her chest, a moment of contraction, a passing recollection of an empty field in Hertfordshire, of mud in her face and earth in her mouth and hearing the cunt word, over and over. She watched him coming striding out. He had a jaunty kind of look, a look of skinhead satisfaction, all jeans and polished ankle-boots. Sunlight bouncing off his head, and that smile on his face, that Billy grin.

  ‘Who’s the other guy?’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘The one in the cardi.’

  ‘That’s Albert.’

  ‘What’s Albert like then?’

  Joe pushed the gearstick into first and released the handbrake. He held the clutch at biting-point.

  ‘He’s a bit like me.’

  They watched as Billy said goodbye. He patted Albert’s greying head and punched him lightly on the chin. Nothing nasty, nice and friendly. Then he turned around and climbed into his car. (Souped-up BMW. A very Billy kind of car.) The driver’s window sliding down, and an elbow resting on the sill. Pause to scratch the razored scalp, and he was pulling sharply out, forcing a path into the line of vehicles.

  She clipped on the seatbelt. Took his time, she thought, but she’s not complaining. All things come to she who waits, and the boy was on his way.

  Joe eased his foot off the clutch and edged out into the traffic.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah I’m okay. Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Not long now, she thought. She settled back against the headrest. Not too long, she told herself. They were heading up to Waterloo. Going slowly, crawling more than coasting. She watched the endless sprawl of shops unfolding through the window. She had a tension in her gut, the sort of feeling she always got when she crossed the river. A vaguely anxious feeling, for she’s what they call a northern girl. South London, she was thinking, you can keep it.

  They’d switched the car the day before. Dumped the Capri near Maida Vale, and picked up an Opel Manta. Two-and-a-half litres and walnut trim, and seats that cupped you where you liked it best. Metallic black, and so hot it would scald you, so freshly stolen you’d ache with envy.

  Felt good though, driving out of Lambeth in someone’s well-kept motor. Let no one say it doesn’t feel good. You get a sort of tingle down your spine, because you’re driving something decent, you’re feeling like you matter. And Joe had done it, because he cared. She just pointed to the one she wanted, and in he went.

  She likes that type of man. She likes the type who’ll be standing by her side in Maida Vale, and she’ll point at what she wants and say: ‘That one’ll do,’ and he’ll cross the road and be inside in thirteen seconds, he’ll slip inside and wire it while she’s waiting. Then — bang! — you’re up and running, engine throbbing. In, and grin, and off you go.

  They kept about five cars back. They didn’t want to get too close, if they could possibly avoid it. They didn’t want to shove themselves on top of him. They maintained their distance, and kept their eyes on the small blue cloud that was pumping from his twin-exhaust. Have to tell him, she concluded. Got to have a word in Billy’s shell-like. Have to let him know he’s fouling-up the atmosphere.

  Waterloo Bridge, then Covent Garden, and cruising past the British Museum. Carry on up to Euston Road, and they’re almost on her morning route, which train of thought afforded her a glow of quiet contentment. (The pale grey suit, the Chelsea boots . . . ) It sud
denly seemed an age ago, the Mervyn thing. He’d been, and gone, and was no more, and not a whiff remained. The gentle, Donna smile as she remembers. Such a lad, she thought. Such a naughty boy.

  When she realized they were passing Malet Street, she sat a little straighter in her seat, for she’s always had a great respect for learning, being fairly erudite herself. She’s always got a book or two beside her bed. She’s always starting books. Doesn’t often finish them, but she always likes to start. The rain was spitting down, though nothing too dramatic. A few half-hearted drops that bounced on to the bonnet and spattered in the road. But even so, the passers-by were looking grim. Academics trudging home, foreign students plotting coups, all the mulch and detritus of a windswept Russell Square.

  Joe watched the BMW go racing on ahead.

  ‘Bastard’s really belting. Giving it some throttle.’

  He changed down to third, cutting in front of a Telecom van. Nearly clipped it, which nearly gave her stress. She glanced at him, but his face was impassive. Rigid mouth in a thin, tight line, the knuckles white on the steering-wheel. Quietly and politely imploding.

  They followed their boy down the underpass and out the other end. A bit of London tunnel to simplify the ride. Short and sweet, past Euston Square. You’ve hardly gone in and you’ve come out again, and then you’re cruising along into Marylebone Road, feeling good because it’s almost done. But still the core of doubt, the girly hesitation.

  ‘What if someone sees?’

  ‘Doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘But if they do . . . ’

  ‘They won’t believe it.’

  ‘How do you know?’ she persisted.

  ‘Because I know.’

  Two hundred yards past Madame Tussaud’s, and the skinhead moved over into the left-hand lane. Joe checked the wing-mirror and nudged the wheel.

  ‘He’s going for the turnoff.’

  He pulled into Billy’s line of traffic. They were four cars behind. Her bag felt heavy in her lap.

  ‘At the fork,’ he murmured. ‘Right . . . ?’

  Three cars behind.

  ‘Right.’

  Her reply so soft she almost couldn’t hear it, and she felt her heart, her tiny, Donna heart, begin to thump inside her chest. The windscreen was steaming up, almost sweating with excitement. She watched his hand reach out and flick on the de-mister. She felt lucid, connected, as if all the threads had been pulled together. A perfect London day, with the sunlight shafting down, the very air electric, and she’s plugged in, switched on, tooled up. Speed and light and retribution.

  She flipped down the sunshield, checked her face in the mirror. All is vanity, she didn’t quite remind herself, as she passed her tongue over rose-red lips. She slipped on a pair of shades, and gazed at her reflection. The bitch, she thought, the luscious bitch. Joe tensing in his seat.

  ‘You ready, babe . . . ?’

  Two cars behind. Coming up to Lisson Grove. She slipped her hand inside the bag and closed her fingers round the grip.

  ‘Yeah,’ she breathed. ‘Been ready all my life.’

  Four hundred yards from the flyover. One car behind. She lifted out the automatic. Kept it pointing down, below the sill. A chic little matt-black shooter. A very girly kind of gun. The sunlight shafting down, the very air electric, and she’s plugged in, switched on, tooled up. Speed and light and retribution.

  Billy quite oblivious, his shaven head absorbed in random Billy thoughts.

  She kept her eyes on the back of his car, focused on the blue-grey cloud that mushroomed from the chassis. Forty feet behind him. Her mouth felt dry. She pressed a button. The window slid down. Air came scudding against her face. Joe cleared his throat.

  ‘Just say the word . . . ’

  The sunlight shafting down. Speed and light and retribution.

  ‘Now, Joe, baby. Do it now . . . ’

  He palmed the gearstick into second and floored the pedal. The car swerved forward. Everything fluid, everything polished. He pulled alongside the BMW. The flyover looming up ahead, and Joe held it steady, keeping them parallel. She twisted in her seat, gripped the pistol double-handed.

  So near they were, she could have reached across and touched him, could have stroked his downy cheek and helped him understand that life is unpredictable and bad boys are expendable. He was staring straight ahead, completely unaware, and she’s willing him to look across, for she likes her bit of human contact, she likes some interaction. So come on, darling, come on, sweetheart . . .

  ‘Do it, babe.’

  ‘He’s got to see it.’

  ‘Just do it, will you?’

  But she’s paralysed with pleasure. It’s eighty yards before the turnoff, and she’s savouring the moment. Joe cursed his unforgiving gods and touched the horn. Billy glanced across. A brief, untroubled driver’s glance. All he saw was some slag in a car, with a bright, red mouth and mirror shades. His bland, unworried skinhead face. No hint of recognition.

  So she spread her lips and smiled at him. Her special smile. Her hello-fuckhead sort of smile. Sunlight shafting down, the very air electric. And then a sudden tightness in her chest. A moment of contraction. A putrid recollection of an empty field in Hertfordshire . . .

  But she’s plugged in, switched on, tooled up. Speed and light and retribution. She blows the boy a silent kiss and her finger pulls the trigger. Three flawless rounds come shooting out, and she’s saying the cunt word, over and over.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 26

  Joe pressed the buzzer and held it down. Getting dark, the wind licking at his face.

  ‘You sure about this?’

  He hunched into his jacket.

  ‘Cause if you’re not entirely positive . . . ’

  She pulled a sliver of green paint off the door-jamb.

  ‘Might as well.’ She shrugged. ‘I mean it’s something to do, isn’t it.’

  He grunted quietly and took his finger off the button. She was beginning to spoil his afternoon. Not massively, but just enough.

  ‘But why now, sweetheart? Why when we’re busy?’

  ‘Because I like a bit of variety, Joe. That’s why.’

  She pushed in front of him and knocked on the door. She’d changed in the car, and was wearing what she termed her Billy-outfit: lilac blouson jacket, a pair of tight-cut jeans, and high-heeled, black-suede ankle-boots. Looking pretty good, she thought, in a slaggy sort of way. She knocked again, for she likes to make an entrance. She likes to make her presence felt.

  ‘No one in,’ he muttered.

  ‘You wish.’

  He stared down at the ground, scuffed a toe against the doorstep. A sense of creeping dread had engulfed him ever since she’d suggested this, and the more he thought about it, the more it seemed a reckless thing to do.

  ‘Look,’ he said quietly, ‘if they’re there — which doesn’t seem likely — we just go in, do the business, and come out, right?’

  ‘Sure, Joe.’

  ‘I mean we won’t stay long, okay?’

  ‘Course not.’

  She touched him lightly on the arm, soothed him with her tender smile. So good she was. So comforting. So milk of human kindness.

  ‘We’ll do the necessary,’ she promised, ‘and then we’ll leave.’

  ‘Cause it’s not in the plan, is it?’

  ‘I know it’s not, but we’ve got to stay loose, see, got to be flexible.’

  She rapped her knuckles on the door, still feeling high. An hour or so after the freeway thing, and the film was spooling through her head, unfolding in her brain. The automatic in her hand and London gusting through the window. Flyover looming straight ahead, and they’re gliding up beside him. Smooth and fluid, torpedo in the water. Pause for solemn contemplation, wait to savour what was coming . . . then sunlight on her skin, and the road like molten silver, and the unbelieving Billy face exploding.

  ‘We could even have tea,’ she suggested, ‘if they’re around.’

  ‘You hungr
y, then?’

  ‘Bit peckish.’

  He watched her bang on the door, heard it echo down the road.

  ‘You’re making a noise,’ he muttered.

  ‘Thought you liked it, when I did that.’

  ‘Not me, darling . . . ’

  He pressed his lips against her neck.

  ‘You must be thinking of someone else.’

  She considered the possibility.

  ‘Yeah,’ she murmured. ‘Guess I must.’

  A finger of mist curled inside the porch. Joe shivered slightly. Be foggy later. He could smell it in the air, that barren smell of late November. He pushed back his sleeve and squinted at his watch.

  ‘We’d better shift,’ he said. ‘They’re not there, anyway.’

  She held her breath and listened.

  ‘I reckon they are.’

  With perfect timing, and as if on cue, indistinct sounds came wafting from inside, a kind of slippered shuffle that gradually grew louder as it moved towards them down the hallway. Joe pulled down his cuffs and cleared his throat. The shuffling sound had halted just behind the door, and it dawned on him, with a sudden, lurching horror, that there were certain things in life which couldn’t be avoided. A wave of curdled panic washed over him, and for a single, terrifying second he thought he might collapse.

  ‘In and out,’ he hissed. ‘Right?’

  They heard the eternal, urban sound of bolts being drawn back, locks being turned, a security chain slotted into place. The door opened a couple of inches and a watery blue eye, slightly myopic, peered through the gap. Thinning grey hair, the eyebrow plucked to nothing, but a soft and gentle voice, a voice like Joey’s voice.

  ‘Hello, baby.’

  Oh precious, precious moment.

  ‘Hello, mum.’

  * * *

  CHAPTER 27

  Henry swivelled slowly in the chair, describing semi-circles in the dusk. He found the motion vaguely calming, and he wanted to be calm. There was a pulsing in his head, and a burning in his gut, and he needed, fairly badly, to be calm.

  The curtains were hanging slightly open, and a grubby, yellow light leaked in from the street. He stared at the shadows on the desk. Almost looked like they were moving. Almost seemed like something crawling in the gloom. He placed his thumb and middle finger on the bridge of his nose. His brain felt gummy with exhaustion. Time he had a rest. Too old for this, he told himself. More a young man’s game. More a game for brave, young bloods. Should have packed his bags and headed off to Spain, cashed in his chips and gone off to the Costa. Got a bit of sunshine on his bones. Not fair, he thought, not fucking fair.