The Charmer

by Mandasue Heller

  ‘You know, I really should paint you,’ Jippi said, changing the subject with lightning speed and slapping his hand down on Joel’s thigh – far too close to his groin for comfort. ‘How about it? You get naked and roll around in paint, and I get on top of you and move you into different positions on the paper. Oh, it’ll be such great fun. I’ll exhibit you in Paris and make you famous. I’ll call it Cock on Coke . . . Or maybe just, Cock on Cock! What do you think?’

  ‘Er, no, I don’t think so,’ Joel said nervously. If Jippi was half the woman he wished he was, Joel would be in Heaven. But Jippi actually scared him, he was so full on.

  ‘Oh, you’d be such a boring shag,’ Jippi said disapprovingly. ‘And that’s a real shame, because you are so damn hot to look at. But, hey ho – maybe one day I’ll get you to loosen up. So . . .’ Another dismissive flap of the hand. ‘You’ve got the coke?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got it,’ Joel said, lowering his voice in the hope that Jippi would do likewise. Talk about broadcasting to the nation.

  ‘Let me see.’ Jippi held out a hand.

  Taking a sample wrap out of his pocket, Joel handed it to him under the table.

  Chuckling softly, Jippi opened it up on his lap. Sucking his little finger suggestively while gazing into Joel’s eyes, he dipped it into the powder, then pulled his skirt up and rubbed it onto his Prince Alberted dick.

  ‘Christ,’ Joel gulped. ‘Put it away, man. If anyone sees you, they’ll think I’m shagging you.’

  ‘Bet you wish you were now that you’ve seen Big Daddy-O,’ Jippi teased, bringing the finger up and licking it. ‘Want some?’

  ‘No,’ Joel said in a manly tone. ‘Never touch it when I’m working.’

  ‘Cock, or coke?’

  ‘Both.’

  Laughing loudly, Jippi pulled the skirt back down. ‘You kill me, you homophobic little hottie! Go on, then . . . I’ll take it. What you got?’

  ‘An O,’ Joel said, breathing a sigh of relief.

  ‘How much?’ Jippi reached for his handbag and pulled out a thick wad of cash.

  ‘One and a half,’ Joel said, doing a double take. The handbag looked like a baby alligator.

  ‘Like it?’ Jippi held it up proudly. ‘I got it off a foul little swamp-man in the Everglades. My friend Lilli put a zip in it for me, and I walked straight through Customs with it over my shoulder. Fabulous, isn’t it?’

  Joel grimaced. He’d seen stuff made out of skin before, but never with the face still attached. That made it particularly gross.

  ‘I thought it was illegal,’ he said.

  ‘And this isn’t ?’ Jippi laughed, dangling the coke bag in the air – almost giving Joel a heart attack.

  ‘Put it away!’

  ‘You’re way too straight, guy,’ Jippi teased, slipping the coke into his bag. ‘You should come and spend a week in my Paris loft. I’ll blow your mind.’

  ‘I won’t say I’m not flattered,’ Joel said, winking as he pocketed the money. ‘But it’s not my scene.’

  ‘I’m patient.’ Jippi smiled slyly. ‘But think about letting me immortalise you in paint in the meantime. Those looks won’t last for ever, you know.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Joel held out his hand. ‘Have fun while you’re in town, but I’ve got to go, man. Give me a ring when you want another meet. But leave it a couple of weeks if you can. I’m going to be out of action for a while.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ll be busy for a while myself,’ Jippi said, lighting a long, thin spliff. ‘I sold up in the States, so I’ll have to get a whole new set together. But soon as I’m back on track, I’m getting a place here and having parties. And you know what that means, don’t you? . . . Lots of fuck-head starlets flashing the cash and snorting their little tushies off. You want in on that, don’t you?’

  ‘Too right.’ Joel grinned. ‘Just give me a bell and I’ll be there.’

  Hailing a cab down the road from the bar, Joel had the driver take him to Rusholme and wait around the corner while he ran round to pay the Gallaghers what he owed and tell them he was taking a short break. Jumping back in the taxi then, he had it drop him in Didsbury, a few streets from Maria’s house. Feeling safer by the second, he trotted the rest of the way and let himself in. Then, locking up with a satisfied sigh, he made his way up the stairs.

  Maria had fallen asleep watching TV. Kissing her, Joel smiled when she opened her eyes.

  ‘Sorry, babe . . . didn’t mean to wake you.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said softly, rubbing at her eyes. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Fine.’ Taking his clothes off, Joel draped them over the back of the bedside chair. ‘Rod wanted me to go to France for a week to check out a venue, but I told him I was busy.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that for me,’ Maria said guiltily.

  Climbing into bed beside her, Joel pulled her into his arms. ‘I told you I want to spend some uninterrupted time with you, and that’s more important to me right now – okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ Maria murmured, moaning softly when he started to kiss her.

  15

  The Volvo looked like a low-rider as it rolled slowly along the rain-slicked street. But it was the weight of the five men crammed into it that made it sit so close to the ground: Fletch and Psycho’s kid brother Jimmy up front; Psycho and his other brother Eamon in back with Gerry the Genius – all built like brick shithouses from pumping iron in prison gyms.

  It was dark and windy out, the trees spitting bits of branch at the car as it passed. Swerving when a bin bag billowed up like a black ghost and smeared itself across the windscreen, Fletch cursed and flipped the wipers on to shift it.

  ‘Hurry the fuck up,’ he barked irritably at Jimmy who was peering out at the house numbers. ‘This is the third time round. We get clocked, I’ll do ye in, pal!’

  ‘There,’ Jimmy said, pointing to a small block of flats, the door of which was partially shielded by a row of bushes that ran alongside the path to the pavement.

  ‘Halle-fuckin’-lujah!’ Psycho grunted. ‘Park up down that lane we passed back there, Fletch. We’ll walk back round in ones – meet up at the door.’

  ‘How we getting in?’ Gerry asked in a pissed-off voice.

  They had set out on a high after getting Mack to cough up the address. But Gerry’s mood had dipped two hours back, when they’d pulled in for a piss and a cuppa at a Little Chef and Jimmy had nicked his place, leaving him squashed between Psycho and Eamon in the back.

  ‘With your magic wee fingers,’ Psycho said, pulling on a pair of gloves and flexing his fingers to loosen the leather. ‘Straight in – straight out. Fast and furious. Everyone got their gloves and masks?’

  They all confirmed that they had what they needed.

  ‘He’ll be long gone by now, if he’s got any sense,’ Fletch muttered, wired from all the driving.

  ‘Maybe not,’ Gerry said thoughtfully. ‘It’s only been a few hours since Psycho worded him up. That’s not long to pack ten years’ worth of shite. And he’d have to be thorough, because he cannae afford t’ be leaving anything behind that we could trace him by. We might catch him at it.’

  ‘Yeah, well, if we don’t we’ll just have to talk to his neighbours,’ Eamon said, testing his flick knife out on the back of Fletch’s headrest.

  ‘Fuck off with that before ye stick me with it,’ Fletch complained, switching the car lights off and turning along the dark little lane they’d spotted on the way in.

  ‘Quit griping,’ Eamon laughed. ‘Anyone’d think it was your motor, y’ possessive cunt, ye. It’s nicked – get over it.’

  ‘I don’t give a flying twat about the motor,’ Fletch snarled. ‘It’s me fuckin’ head I’m worried about. It’s bald enough without you scalping me.’

  ‘Save it for when we find the fucker and get him out on the moors,’ Psycho said when Eamon started making Red Indian whooping noises. ‘You can make as much racket as you want once we’re out in the open,’ he went on, grinning evilly.
‘Just so long as I can still hear the grass screaming like a little pussy cunt.’

  Rolling to a stop beneath a flapping tin canopy at the side of a derelict cottage that was more or less hidden by overgrown hedges, Fletch cut the engine and everyone got out, stretching and stamping to get the feeling back in their limbs.

  Trudging back up the lane on foot, they headed for the back of the flats in single file, blending easily into the shadows in their dark clothes.

  There were no lights at any of the windows, and the rear security door was locked, but that wasn’t a problem for Gerry the Genius, who more than made up in electrical know-how what he lacked in humour. After a couple of minutes of messing with the circuitry, the door popped open.

  ‘Voilà!’ he whispered, stepping aside to let Fletch go in ahead of him.

  Taking a hammer out of his pocket, Fletch slipped one of his leather gloves over the head and gave the wall-mounted communal light a quick smack, plunging the hallway into gloom.

  ‘Jimmy, get your mask on. You can stop down here and watch the door,’ Psycho hissed when they were all in and the door was locked behind them.

  ‘What the fuck is that ?’ Fletch hissed when Jimmy pulled his mask on.

  ‘The fucking Scream,’ Jimmy snarled. ‘What’s it look like?’

  ‘Like a fucking dickhead.’

  ‘Fucking idiot,’ Psycho said, shaking his head. ‘I telt ye to get someone famous.’

  ‘Yeah, well The Scream is famous. He was in a film with that Courtney shag-Cox.’

  ‘Just stay out of sight, and bell us if anything happens,’ Psycho hissed. ‘Rest of ye, up here.’ He jerked his head for the others to follow him up the stairs.

  Careful not to make any noise, Fletch took out each of the lights along the way.

  Gathering around Joel’s door on the third floor, Psycho put an ear to the wood and listened. Silence. Glancing furtively around, he motioned Gerry forward with a flick of his hand.

  Taking his collection of lock-picks out of his pocket, Gerry did the deed, and they were in.

  Spreading out, using torches so as not to alert anyone of their presence, they checked all the rooms. There was nobody here, but there was plenty of stuff lying around: TV, hi-fi, fully made-up bed, kitchen equipment. There were bits and pieces of food in the cupboards, and milk and wine in the fridge. But no clothes in the drawers or wardrobe, and not a scrap of paper anywhere – no letters, address books or scribbled phone numbers. Nothing.

  ‘He’s definitely done one,’ Eamon said disappointedly.

  ‘Twat,’ Psycho spat, flicking his blade out and angrily slashing at the couch. ‘That should have been his fucking throat!’

  ‘Have you thought this might not be his place?’ Gerry said, frowning at the mess Psycho had made of the sofa. ‘Mack could have been lying.’

  ‘Was he fuck,’ Psycho snarled. ‘Would you fucking lie if I was cutting your cock off? I don’t fucking think so. Anyhow, you can smell the cunt. All that poncey fucking perfume he likes. It’s his gaff, all right.’

  ‘Let’s go wake some neighbours,’ Fletch said, taking the wine out of the fridge and rooting through the drawers for something to open it. Settling on a screwdriver, he rammed the cork into the bottle and took a swig before handing the bottle to Psycho.

  Taking a long drink, Psycho wiped his mouth and passed the bottle to his brother.

  ‘Right, there’s another two flats on this floor,’ he said. ‘Me and Fletch’ll take the left; Eamon and Gerry take the right. First sign of a screamer, cut their fucking throats. And mask up as soon as you’re through the door, ’cos we don’t want no one giving our descriptions out. I’m not going down for that cunt again.’

  ‘Might be an idea to ditch the accents,’ Gerry said, affecting a perfect Liverpudlian twang. ‘Summat like this, yeah?’

  ‘Fuckin’mental.’ Psycho grinned approvingly. ‘Anyone else do any?’

  ‘Why aye, man,’ Fletch piped up.

  ‘What’s that supposed to be?’ Eamon sneered.

  ‘Geordie.’

  ‘Behave, y’ mad fucker!’ Eamon snorted out a laugh. ‘Y’ sound like a fuckin’ kangaroo.’

  ‘All right, so I’ll be a fucking Aussie,’ Fletch said moodily. ‘Least I’m making an effort. What can you do, y’ cunt?’

  ‘Keep me fucking gob shut,’ Eamon said, still chuckling.

  ‘Best idea you’ve ever had, our kid!’ Psycho grinned again. Pulling his mobile out of his pocket when it vibrated against his thigh, he flipped it open. ‘What?’

  ‘Lass and two lads on their way up,’ Jimmy whispered. ‘Student types – pissed as cunts. Deffo on their way to the third, ’cos she’s griping about all the stairs.’

  Flipping the phone shut, Psycho told the others what was happening, then went to the door and eased it open a fraction so that he could see out into the hallway.

  The giggling threesome came around the corner a few minutes later and tripped along to the door at the furthest end of the hall, effectively trapping themselves.

  ‘Mask up,’ Psycho said, pulling his Richard Nixon mask over his face.

  Fletch was Reagan, Eamon was Marlon Brando, and Gerry was Prince Charles.

  Satisfied, Psycho flicked his blade out again and waved for the others to follow him.

  ‘Take it easy, aye?’ Gerry cautioned, seeing the glint in Psycho’s eyes.

  Turning on him, Psycho jabbed the knife at his throat. ‘Don’t fucking tell me what to do, you gimpy fucking twat! I had enough of that shit in the pen, and I ain’t taking it off you!’

  ‘I’m just saying,’ Gerry replied calmly. ‘You don’t want to go straight back there, do you? Just don’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘I never do stupid,’ Psycho hissed. ‘Mad, and fucking bad, yeah . . . but not stupid. Now keep your fucking mouth shut, Prince fuckin’ Dumbo, or you’ll be walking back with two broken fucking legs – got it?’

  Backing off, Gerry held his hands up. Psycho was too hyped up to be reasonable. God only knew what would happen if he didn’t get the answers he wanted off the neighbours. All Gerry could do was make sure their traces were covered afterwards.

  Creeping up on the unsuspecting trio just as one of the lads opened the door, Psycho grabbed the girl by the hair and laid the blade against her throat.

  ‘Inside, all of you, and no fucking noise or you’re all dead,’ he hissed in a weird mad-Irishman-type voice.

  The small flat shrank to matchbox capacity with Psycho’s lot and the students crammed into the front room. Shoving the terrified hostages down onto the couch, Psycho shone the torch into their faces. They looked like startled rabbits: pupils the size of saucers in shock-wide eyes.

  ‘We’re looking for your neighbour,’ Eamon said in a thick imitation of Gerry’s perfectly affected scouse. ‘Ponce called Kyle.’

  ‘I don’t know who you’re t-talking about,’ the lad with the keys stuttered, the fear rich in his voice. ‘There’s no one called Kyle in this block.’

  ‘Don’t fucking lie to me,’ Psycho said threateningly. ‘We’ve just been in his gaff.’

  ‘I swear to God!’ the lad squealed, flinching back when Psycho balled his fists. ‘I’ve lived here for three years. I swear there’s no one called Kyle.’

  ‘Flat in the middle,’ Gerry said, trying to prompt the lad to save him a savaging.

  ‘That’s Joel’s flat,’ the lad said. ‘But he’s gone.’

  ‘What’s this Joel look like?’ Fletch asked.

  ‘Blond, good-looking,’ the lad said, his voice shaking wildly. ‘Not too big.’

  ‘Sounds like him,’ Eamon said, turning to Psycho. ‘Still a fucking ponce.’

  ‘Where did he go?’ Psycho asked the lad.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he whined. ‘He never said.’

  ‘You,’ Psycho grunted at the girl. ‘He telling the truth, or what?’

  ‘Yes,’ she squeaked, shrinking back into the cushions.

  ‘How d’y’ know?’ F
letch demanded. ‘You know this Joel an’ all, do you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she admitted, swallowing noisily. ‘I live on the other s-side of him. We – we knew him to s-say hello, but that’s all.’ Bursting into tears then, she said, ‘Please don’t hurt us. We don’t know where he’s gone, I swear it. He just said he was going away for a while.’

  ‘I take it youse knew him well enough to say more than hello, then?’ Eamon cut in. ‘So, what else did he tell you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ the first lad answered shakily. ‘Honest. None of us really knew him. He comes and goes a lot. We don’t even know his last name.’

  Psycho narrowed his eyes, putting the pieces together. The first lad and the girl lived in the flats on either side of Kyle – or Joel, as he was apparently calling himself nowadays. And they weren’t too far off being the same age as the grassing cunt, so, chances were they knew more about him than they were letting on.

  ‘Who does he come and go with?’ he demanded, leaning over the girl and running the blade slowly down between her tits. ‘Mates? Bird? Where does he go, who does he visit?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ the girl sobbed, her eyes riveted to the knife. ‘Honest. We only ever talked to him when we wanted a bit of gear.’

  ‘What kind of gear?’ Gerry asked.

  ‘Coke.’

  Gerry and Psycho exchanged a look. Mack had said that Joel was dealing grass, but if he’d progressed to powders, chances were that he was using it himself and wouldn’t want to stray too far from his supplier. On the other hand, he was such a vain, smart-arsed bastard, he was probably selling without using and would have had a stash of money set aside to get himself well out of the country.

  ‘You,’ Psycho shone the torch at the so-far-silent one of the lads. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Fuck all,’ the lad grunted, full of whisky and bravado. ‘I don’t live here, and I don’t know who you’re talking about, so fuck you.’

  ‘Do what?’ Psycho drawled, his voice deceptively low.

  ‘I said, fuck . . . you,’ the lad repeated, too drunk to pick up on the danger. ‘You’ve got what you wanted. They don’t know anything.’ He said it slowly, as if talking to an idiot.