DONNA AND THE FATMAN (Crime Thriller Fiction)

by Helen Zahavi

  ‘Cause it occurs to me she might have come out just as we were leaving, come running out the shop all loaded down with sweets and tampons, seen us shooting down the road.’

  The soft, seductive Fatman hiss.

  ‘That’s what I’ve been thinking, see, and it’s a tantalizing thought.’

  He moved the hand that held the knife, pressed it slightly closer.

  ‘You listening, son? Cause I’m talking, aren’t I. Doing what’s called making conversation.’

  Joe was staring straight ahead. His thoughts were slowly clearing, brain kicking into gear. He couldn’t see much road, just swirls of mist, a yard or so of broken lines. If he hadn’t known the way, if he hadn’t known the curves and bends of every street from Edgware Road to Tufnell Park, he might have panicked slightly. He might have lost his nerve and veered across the asphalt, shut his eyes and smashed against some overloaded skip. But he was Joey-boy the expert driver, and he knew what he was doing. Might have been a Fatman in the rear and a blade against his throat, but the gun was weighing on his hip and he knew what he was doing.

  They went from Baker Street to Camden, then up to Kentish Town and across to Tufnell Park. They looped around the football ground and doubled back towards the centre.

  ‘Case we’re being followed. Case girly’s in a minicab, consumed with girly rage.’

  The Fatman chuckled softly. You could see he thought he was a wag. You could tell he liked himself, immensely.

  ‘Now take a left,’ he said. ‘Straight on a bit. Another left. Good lad,’ he breathed. ‘You’re a bright boy, Joe, like I’ve always said. Not quite as thick as you pretend. Go straight, go straight. Now slow a bit. Now right, son, that’s it. Down the ramp.’

  A municipal car-park beneath the shops. You slid your pound inside the slot and in you went. The sort of place that’s deserted after dark, so you could go there of an evening, park the car and do the business. Suburbia, don’t knock it. Henry pressed his lips against Joe’s ear and gave him his instructions. They circled down to the bottom level, pulled up near a lift. Joe cut the motor.

  ‘So here we are, then,’ Henry murmured. ‘Alone at last.’

  Neon light was sharding down, water dripping in a corner. Henry cocked his head and sniffed the air. There was a dank, familiar smell of engine-oil and rubber. A pervy, car-park kind of smell. He felt himself relaxing.

  ‘Heard you were round your mum’s Joe, you and little girly-bitch. A major point in your favour, that, because I like a lad who loves his mum. Might pop round myself, sometime. Go round and introduce myself. Say: ‘Hello, Joey’s mum.’ Might do it, if I’m passing. Have some tea and a currant bun. Be kind to her, that sort of thing.’

  He smiled to himself, for he was feeling nice.

  ‘My mum, Joe — may she rest in peace — she said I’ve got what she termed foibles. Because I like to be indulged a bit. I like to get my way.’

  The milky breath on Joey’s neck.

  ‘I mean I take my pleasures where I find them, and I find them fairly often. You get my drift, son, course you do. Don’t have to explain it, do I, eh? Not to you. Not soft and luscious Joey-boy.’

  The blade against the throat.

  ‘So me and you, son. Eh, Joe? Eh?’

  Joe felt himself begin to shudder, the vomit churning through his belly. He heard his heartbeat marking time, like a rap-song pounding in his ears. Not me, he thought, not that. The sweat came trickling down his back. He could smell the fear, could almost taste it. Concentrate, he told himself. Think, you cunt. Knife against your throat, loaded gun inside your pocket, and a voice that’s seeping through your brain, saying: do it, Joe, just take a chance, just do it now . . .

  And when he braced himself, when he pictured Donna in the dark and held his breath and braced himself, something must have flickered through his skin, perhaps his blood betrayed him. There was a sudden swish of movement, and then a blow that caught him from behind.

  Like a brick against his skull. As if the bones exploded.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 32

  ‘They’re good, these.’

  Henry pulled out the clip and counted the rounds.

  ‘Italian, see. From the land of vendetta.’

  He slid the clip back in. Went in nice and smoothly, hardly made a sound.

  ‘She fired three rounds, then. Quite a girl, eh? Have to watch my mouth when I catch up with her. Mustn’t banter with Donna, must we, for she’s not the bantering kind. Made a mess of Billy, I heard. Cause I’ve got my sources, Joe. Pals who phone me up and keep me posted, lads who keep me au courant with what transpires.’

  He wiped the barrel on his sleeve.

  ‘So we know why we’re here, Joe, don’t we. No beating round the bush, right? No need to go all . . . euphemistic. Because I like to call a spade a spade, I’ve always been an upfront sort of bloke.’

  A sudden frown of doubt.

  ‘You listening, Joe?’

  He peered at the boy. He was propped against the side of the Opel, one eye closed and turning blue. Henry bent down and tipped him forward slightly, to examine the back of his head. The blood seemed almost black. Like tar, he thought, disgustedly. He pushed him back against the wheel. He felt big with rage, engorged with loathing, the misanthropic urges getting stronger, deeper, ever warmer. He shoved the gun into the waistband of his trousers. There was a feeling of pleasurable discomfort as it chafed against his lower belly.

  ‘What’s that you wearing son? New jacket, is it? Bit of leather on your back? Can’t be bad. I say it can’t be bad. Made you feel a toff, I bet, walking round town with a jacket like that. Must have made you feel all right. Suits you, frankly. Bit of well-cut leather on a tough young lad like you. A mean and moody lad like you.’

  He leaned towards him, lowered his voice.

  ‘Except you’re soft inside, so sweet inside. Like a summer peach, when you get inside.’

  The fat and female Henry grin.

  ‘Am I right, Joe?’

  Cigar-stub clamped between his teeth.

  ‘Tell me, Joey, am I right?’

  Joe licked his lips and murmured ‘fuck you’ very softly. You’d have to strain to hear it. You’d have to tilt your head and cock an ear and concentrate, quite hard. Henry shook his head. He looked concerned.

  ‘I do believe I’ve upset the boy. I do believe I have.’

  A slow and drawn-out Fatman sigh. He did his best, he consoled himself, but it’s always misinterpreted.

  ‘How you keeping, anyway? Because you’re looking a bit pale, if you don’t mind me saying so. Looking slightly shattered, frankly.’

  He narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Been getting all your sleep, I hope. Been getting all your shut-eye, have we? I mean I hope she lets you get some rest. Because they’re like that, aren’t they? The girlies, Joe. Always making their girly-demands. So I hope you’re sleeping, cause there’s nothing worse, I’ve always thought, than coping with life when you need some kip.’

  He scratched his head.

  ‘Or almost nothing.’

  He bent down and grabbed the boy under the arms.

  ‘Eight full hours I get. Just shut my eyes and off I go. Keeps me young and wholesome. Helps the juices flow.’

  He began to heave him round.

  ‘So I hope you’re getting all you need, is what I’d like to say. Good for the skin, see. Nice and healthy. Help you keep that glow you’ve got.’

  Grunting as he heaved.

  ‘You know I like your glow.’

  Heavy bastard, he was thinking. Hard fucking work, and no mistake.

  ‘I mean we don’t want Joey looking peaky. We like him when he’s fresh and pretty.’

  He was wheezing as he propped Joe up against the boot. Out of condition, he told himself. Been a while, though, hadn’t it. Been a year or two since he’d done a solo. My boys, he thought. I need my boys. He squatted down on his haunches, tried to catch his breath.

  ‘I feel I know you,
Joe, because we’ve been what’s termed as intimate. I think I understand the way you’re feeling, and what you’re in right now — the state, I mean — is what we call an existential crisis. You’re hovering on the edge, old son, and I’m about to push you off.’

  He spat the cigar-butt to the ground.

  ‘You’re too good for this world, so I’m sending you to the next.’

  He grabbed Joe’s shirt with his right hand, the belt with his left.

  ‘I’m doing you a favour, you poor, benighted fuck.’

  He flipped him over. A sudden vision of a verdant field, his bosom pals, a perfect day in Hertfordshire.

  ‘Shame she’s not here,’ he mumbled, ‘because I like it when she’s watching.’

  He heaved Joe forward a few inches. He hadn’t done it this way before, so it’d be something new for both of them. Only problem, the boy might slip off, which would be unfortunate. Need someone to hold him, really. Need a Billy or a Merv to hold him steady, and they were gone, he sighed, the toerags.

  He took Joe by the hair and lifted his head.

  ‘You’re shivering, son. Not looking too well. I should’ve brought a blanket, shouldn’t I. Always use a duvet myself, but I guess it’s too soft for a hard man like yourself.’

  Pulling open Joe's jaw he pushed the broken mouth around the exhaust-pipe.

  ‘In we go,’ he murmured. ‘Gently does it.’

  He moved Joe’s arms and wrapped the hands around the pipe.

  ‘Hold on, now. You hear?’

  He stood up and stepped back. Might work, he thought. You never know.

  ‘Just remember, son: you’re not alone. I also suffer.’

  He climbed into the driver’s seat and closed the door. He’d brought some sweeties with him, to pass the time, and now he took one out and carefully unwrapped it. His mouth began to water. Not quite his favourites, but very nearly: full-cream toffee with banana whorls. And why not, he thought, as he popped the treat inside his mouth. A bit of what you fancy can’t be bad.

  He leaned against the headrest and slowly chewed, a feeling of mellow satisfaction spreading through him. I’m a lovable rogue, he told himself. Just got some foibles, he reflected. Just get impulsive, now and then, and he switched on the ignition, and the engine fired.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 33

  It was two days later when he got the call.

  A special package, they informed him, ready for delivery. Without a blemish, they were at pains to emphasize. Not a mark, and in perfect nick. So if he liked that type of thing, and was feeling somewhat partial, they’d fix a price and it was his.

  Henry listened quietly. A sense of sublime contentment, of cosmic well-being, began flowing through him.

  ‘Bring it round later,’ he instructed. ‘No, son, not here.’

  He thought for a moment.

  ‘Carlo’s. You know it? Yeah. Bring it round the back, about half one.’

  He replaced the receiver in the cradle. A car-door banged across the street, teenaged voices echoed in the darkness. He frowned at the wall. Yobbos, he thought, disgustedly. Hooligans and vulgar types. He pushed back a cuff and glanced at his watch. Quarter past eleven, which meant a couple more hours to fill, couple more hours to prepare himself. Maybe have a bite before he went. Nothing too heavy, though. Nothing excessive. Scrambled eggs, or something. Perhaps a touch of cream.

  He pushed himself away from the table and stood up, his cotton shirt clinging to his back. The sweat of anticipation, he told himself. The clammy moisture of desire. Better have a wash then, do the decent thing. Couldn’t hurt, he told himself. He climbed the steps to the second floor, went into the bathroom and turned on the taps. Steaming water thundered down as he got undressed. Least I don’t smell, he thought, peeling off a dark grey sock. He poured out a capful of bubble-bath and watched it begin to foam. Might be impulsive, he reflected, as he slid down into the tub, but least I don’t pong.

  It was pleasant while it lasted, but all good things must come to an end, one always has to pull the plug. After the soaking, the tender fondling, he was rather reluctant to get dressed again. Could always stay in, he thought. Just phone and cancel, get some kip. Have some cocoa and an early night, and leave the business till tomorrow. He heaved a sigh of lubricious sadness, for he’d never been one to shirk his duty, he always liked to do his bit. So he pulled on his pants and his thermal vest. The lavender shirt, as he was feeling rakish, and the loose-cut suit with the wide lapels.

  The leather of the shoulder-holster, which he’d bought in Romford, was worn and softened. It was very supple leather. He slipped it up his arm, pulled the band across his chest and slid the tongue through the metal buckle. At first, as he recalled, being made for 45’s, it had been too large for his delicate rich man’s weapon. But he’d taken it round to an obliging cobbler, and now the pistol slid in smoothly, fitted snugly, like he would with little girly.

  He put on the jacket and admired his reflection, felt the comforting weight beneath his arm. He hadn’t bothered with the snack, and was already feeling hungry, getting that sour taste, that empty-Fatman-belly taste, in his mouth. Have some pasta, maybe, when he got there. Some tagliatelli carbonara. He slicked some Brylcreem through his hair and combed it back, then licked a finger and smoothed down an eyebrow. Looking good, he told himself. You’re looking fucking good, old mate.

  He stepped on to the porch and closed the door gently behind him. Mervyn’s Daimler was parked on the drive. Just like a Jag, he told himself. Like a hairdresser’s motor. He’d barely started walking towards it when the passenger-door swung open. The Fatman climbed inside, savouring the smell of wood and pigskin. He glanced at the driver. Eighteen-odd, and barely shaving.

  ‘All right, son?’

  The driver nodded. The new lad, on probation.

  ‘Let’s go then, shall we?’

  The car pulled into the road, tyres hissing on wet tarmac. Henry lit a cigarette, flicking the match out of the window. The boy switched on the wipers and fumbled in his pocket.

  ‘Okay if I smoke too?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Just drive, son.’

  He sensed the boy shrug, heard him switch on the radio. Techno-music jabbed inside his brain. He watched the orange lamplight trickling by.

  ‘Off,’ he said softly.

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Turn it off.’

  He pulled on the fag and the tip glowed red, reflecting back at him in the glass. Rain came streaking down the windscreen.

  I’m clean, he thought. I’m scrubbed and ready.

  The boy changed down to third, sent them surging past a lorry. Henry waited quietly. He’d give the boy a couple of moments, pause to let him think it through. He’d wait a while, till the fag burned down, till his nails began to feel the heat. Because there’s no point being hasty, unless you really have to. No point acting prematurely. So he stared into the dark, a loaded gun beneath his arm and techno throbbing through his skull. Come on sunshine, be obliging. They flashed past Angel, heading up to Dalston. A final burst inside his head, and the noise was suddenly cut.

  The pure, unfettered sound of silence.

  ‘Good lad,’ he murmured.

  He spread his legs.

  ‘We’ll get on fine.’

  * * *

  CHAPTER 34

  There was only Carlo, when they got there, and he didn’t look well. He had an agitated look, when you really looked. Henry punched him lightly on the shoulder.

  ‘Everyone gone home then, have they?’

  He stepped inside the empty restaurant.

  ‘All packed up, and fucked off home?’

  Carlo pulled down the blind and bolted the door.

  ‘I closed up early,’ he mumbled. ‘After you called. Thought you’d prefer to keep it private.’

  Henry smiled.

  ‘Keep what private?’

  Pause for half a beat. Carlo treading water.

  ‘Your
dinner, Henry. Thought you wouldn’t want to be disturbed.’

  ‘That was very thoughtful of you.’

  The Fatman walked over to the corner table, motioning the boy to sit down opposite.

  ‘You got anything in the oven?’

  Carlo shook his head.

  ‘We had some pigeon-breast, before.’

  ‘I like a bit of breast . . . ’

  ‘All gone, now, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Punters like it, did they?’

  ‘They loved it, Henry.’

  ‘I’ll bet they did, the bastards.’

  Henry sighed, for he quite liked pigeon.

  ‘Do me a steak, then.’

  ‘How d’you want it?’

  ‘As it comes.’

  He took out his handkerchief and wiped his nose. Catching a chill, he thought. Shouldn’t have had that sodding bath.

  ‘Who’s in the kitchen?’

  ‘Just me, Henry. No problem.’

  ‘I know that, Carlo. That’s why I come here, see? Cause there’s never any problem.’

  The Fatman moved the salt so it was next to the pepper, and flicked a breadcrumb to the floor.

  ‘So better get cooking, then, if I was you. Better put your pinny on and do the business.’

  He shoved the hanky back in his trousers. Glanced at the boy.

  ‘What’s your name, son? Oswald, is it?’

  ‘Oscar.’

  Henry nodded.

  ‘Good name, that. Quite classy, really.’

  The Fatman drummed his fingers on the table and looked around. Mellow light and polished wood. He almost felt at home.

  ‘I like this place,’ he muttered. ‘Know what I mean?’

  He undid his collar and loosened his tie, his fingers brushing the fleshy neck. The skin felt moist, for he was quietly sweating. Glowing with contentment. Be over soon, he thought. Be finished, well and truly.

  The thick-cut fillet was medium-rare, and when he cut it with his knife pink juice oozed out and slowly encircled the sauté potatoes. Nice bit of beef that, he told himself, because he needed his protein. Helping of runner-beans on the side, some pan-fried onions for character. There was a decent Bordeaux, to aid his digestion, while something classical came floating from the speakers. He put a chunk of steak inside his mouth and began to chew. The pleasing slap of lip on lip.