Felix Shill Deserves to Die

by Gareth Busson

  The landlord, who has pre-empted his intentions, is surprisingly agile for a man of his size and he quickly cuts off the escape, so that by the time Mallory reaches the door, he finds a pair of broad, damp shoulders blocking his way. Seconds later, I hear a key turn in the lock.

  ‘Now, now,’ the landlord says, slipping the key into his pocket. ‘Let’s have none of that, Mallory. You’ve had a good night of fun and games, and all at other people’s expense. You’re not about to leave just as the tables are about to turn.’

  My father is shaking with rage. If he had a gun he would use it, I don’t doubt that. He flexes momentarily, like a rat about to pounce, but soon loosens when the landlord steps menacingly forward. Argyle moves to diffuse the situation.

  ‘Why don’t you sit back down and play the hand out, Shill?’ he says calmly. ‘You were about to bet your entire pot to defend a bluff call as I remember. Let’s pick things up from there, shall we?’

  Reluctantly, and without ever looking at anyone else, my father moves back to the table. He picks his chair up from the floor and sits, sideways on, several feet away from the light. He is scowling at the landlord standing guard.

  ‘How much do you have there,’ Argyle asks with relish.

  My father looks at the bundle of notes and throws it onto the table with a grimace.

  ‘Why don’t you count the fucker and find out for yourself.’

  Argyle does just that. Then he draws out a bundle of his own and, with a deliberately relaxed air, counts out the six thousand pounds difference. To finish off, he takes the watch from me and lays it so that it sits like a prizefighter’s belt over the mountain of money.

  My father looks at it and somewhere behind his twisted snarl of contempt, I can see a spark of confused recognition.

  For a few seconds nothing but smoke and dust particles moves in the room. Then, without touching his cards, Mallory Shill springs to his feet and rushes back towards the door.

  ‘Right, you’ve got what you wanted,’ he hisses at the landlord, ‘now let me the fuck out.’

  The big man smiles graciously and obliges my father with an exit. We can hear his protestations continue as he scurries along the hallway and down the stairs.

  Once he’s gone the landlord lets out a fatigued cackle. He’s soon joined by Argyle who, having leaned over and revealed the two sets of cards, is staring down at them in disbelief.

  ‘Your two jacks against an ace and a four,’ he says in astonishment. ‘Can you believe that? The prick was trying to bluff you out with an ace high.’

  The landlord comes to see for himself.

  ‘Typical fucking Shill,’ he says.

  At first the mood is relaxed as we digest what has just happened. We could almost be friends. Fairly soon however, the feeling changes. Becomes more sinister. The overturned cards become irrelevant when compared to the small fortune that is spread out before us.

  ‘That’s a lot of money,’ the landlord says eventually. His tone is dangerously relaxed. ‘Y’know, you could get yourself some real fucking action with that.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ I reply, ‘but I’m not into paying for it.’

  The big man begins to laugh again. ‘Who said anything about women? Mind you, it looks like you could do with some of the other.’

  I don’t dare reply. I know that the longer I keep that money out in the open the greater the chance I will lose it. I smile and start gathering it together.

  When I’m finished, the bundle is too big for me to hold, let alone carry in one pocket and so I split the money in two and fill each of my inside pockets.

  Argyle is busy admiring his new watch. He looks up, nods at me and then I turn towards the door, only to find the landlord blocking my path.

  ‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going already?’ he growls. ‘Some of that money’s mine.’

  This is it. This is where it happens. You were kidding yourself to think that they would let you just walk out of there.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice even.

  The landlord walks slowly towards me and stands a few inches from my face.

  ‘You owe me,’ he says intently, ‘for one bottle of vodka,’

  I swallow hard and, without lowering my gaze, pull out a clutch of notes from one of my pockets. Praying that they are not all fivers, I hold them up between us. Out of the corner of my eye I can see a smattering of pale color with at least one flash of red.

  The landlord’s eyes drop down and he considers them for a second. Then his face softens.

  ‘That looks fair to me,’ he says. ‘Mallory Shill’s been put in his place, Argyle got his watch and I’ve sold a bottle of vodka for what looks like close on a grand.’

  He plucks the money and then tilts his head back in a half nod towards the door.

  ‘Now on your way.’

  *

  After almost falling downstairs in panic, I find that the bar is in virtually the same state as when I left it. What bothers me most though is the increased thug quota. Word must have gotten around that there was a half dead man carrying a king’s ransom because all of their mumbled conversations stop when I appear.

  They scrutinise me, blatantly trying to work out if I am still holding the untraceable cash they saw earlier. A few moments later their hopes are confirmed when the landlord re-emerges.

  ‘You still here?’ he says to the room. ‘I’d have thought you’d be out spending all those winnings.’

  I cringe a smile. ‘Thought I might have one for the road.’

  The landlord shrugs and then serves me another VAT.

  ‘I won’t ask you to pay as much for this one,’ he says, and pockets my tenner.

  With my back against the bar, I stare out into the street. If I walk out there then I’m done for. I’ll be found penniless in some gutter before I’m even half a mile away. Most of these kids would kill for a fraction of what I was carrying. Secretly the landlord must be hoping for that to happen. At least that way he can expect to see some of the money flow back through his tills.

  No, I’m staying put for a while. The CCTV cameras mounted around the bar might deter an attack long enough for me to figure out what I’m going to do.

  Then, as if in response to my plan, one of the louts approaches the bar.

  ‘Alright, mate?’ he slurs, in his wily north London accent.

  ‘Alright.’ I don’t look at him.

  ‘You’re a new face, incha? How comes we’ve never seen you before then? You not from round here?’

  I mumble something and reach into my pocket for a cigarette.

  ‘What’s that?’ he presses me, but I silenced him by holding up a lit match. Once my cigarette is burning he tries again.

  ‘So where you from, mate?’ There’s a tight-lipped menace to his question now.

  ‘Oh, y’know, around these parts.’

  ‘Are you? ‘Cause we’ve never seen you before.’

  It’s we now. We. The collective.

  I take a nervous sip from my glass. The youth shuffles impatiently. My evasive responses are playing right into his hands, enabling him to wind himself up. It’s like jabbing a stick in the face of an animal that knows the cage door is unlocked.

  ‘You gonna answer me, then?’ the lout asks again.

  Just then, the doors open and a pensioner walks into the bar. I watch him approach. Over his shoulder, I catch sight of something that makes my heart leap. An illuminated light box perched on a stationary car outside.

  A taxi!

  The cab is stuck in a line of stationary cars. It must have stopped at the traffic lights to allow the pensioner across. I need to move. Now.

  Placing my glass down on the bar, I hurry past the old man. Someone whistles behind me. Onto the pavement just as the lights are changing and the taxi moves forward. I break into a run, the survival instinct anaesthetizing any pain.

  Mercifully, the back doors are unlocked and before the driver knows anything about it,
he has a fifty-pound note in his face.

  ‘The dog track, please, mate,’ I say, panting heavily, ‘and you can keep the change as long as you lock these doors now.’

  The driver’s surprise is soon replaced by urgency and he rests his elbow on the lock. I hear the doors let out a satisfying clunk just as the lout and a few of his fellow Neanderthals appear on the roadside.

  Once they are out of sight, I allow myself to relax. A thought soon occurs to me.

  ‘Actually, mate, I’ve just had a better idea. Can you take me here instead?’

  I pull out the sheet with the private investigator’s findings written on it and point to my father’s home address. The driver’s not about to quibble over a few hundred yards and within five minutes I am standing at the end of the requested street.

  In the distance I can see my father’s lean figure. With no money he’s been forced to walk and is only now returning home. I duck behind a nearby hedgerow and watch him. He walks on a while further until he almost reaches the end of the road and then disappears into one of the front gardens. I follow.

  When I reach the little semi-detached house, I check to make sure the number on the door tallies with my information and then step into the front garden. The gate hangs from its rusted hinges and the lawn is badly in need of a trim, but the flowerbeds are immaculately well maintained. So my father was living with another woman. Maybe even married.

  These thoughts are soon erased from my mind however, when I raise my hand to rap the letterbox and find that the door is ajar.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand out there,’ I hear him call from inside. ‘Come in.’

  11.45a.m. Sunday, July 4, 1976

  The tiles of the church floor shone like slabs of black ice. They were so cold that if Felix rested on his hands for too long they began to sting, but he was willing to brave such discomfort. The rest of the congregation had made their excuses half an hour since, leaving Felix and his fantastic new toy car all alone on the vast open surface. The smooth stones were perfect, much better than the carpet at home, and the high ceiling, that seemed to stretch up to heaven itself, turned his enthusiastic engine noises into something deeper and more realistic.

  After a while a thought occurred to him: perhaps the car would be able to make it along the whole length of the nave, from one end of the church to the other. The challenge was tantalising and as he scampered over to the font Felix could hardly contain himself. He lined up his aim, ran the car backwards and forwards a couple of times for practice, and then let fly.

  The little black motor shot forward, its hard wheels whirring loudly, and at first looked to be in good shape. However, once the car came into contact with one of the newer tiles its course was altered drastically. It veered off, struck the edge of a pew with a thwack and disappeared between the rows.

  Felix panicked as the noise echoed around him. He looked up at the golden eagle atop the pulpit and seemed to hear it crowing, “How dare you! This is not how good little boys behave in the house of God! Good little boys sit still and keep themselves quietly occupied while their mothers attend to church business.”

  Felix lowered his head reverently and scurried after the wayward toy.

  When he reached the scene of the accident the car was nowhere to be seen. Without a thought for his Sunday best, Felix flattened himself against the floor and scanned its surface. But still it was no good. The birthday present, which he had only hours before received and had pleaded with his mother to be allowed to bring, was gone. Felix sat up and wondered: maybe God had confiscated it?

  Just then he heard his mother’s voice coming from a nearby curtained doorway. It was muted, but there was no mistaking her soft tone.

  Instinctively, Felix was drawn towards it. Bebe would help find the missing present. She always knew where his missing toys were.

  There was a small gap in the faded green drapes and through it Felix could see the feet of his mother, the toe of her Sunday shoes pressed back against the floor, as if she were kneeling. He knew better than to interrupt her prayers and he sat and waited for her to finish, keeping himself quietly occupied, like a good little boy should.

  After a few minutes a low moan broke out from inside the room. Wondering who was in pain, Felix leaned in a little closer. The velvet fabric of the drapes smelled heavy, like the cellar at home.

  ‘That’s right, my child, my flock,’ a deeper voice said. ‘You must purge yourself of this guilt, you must let me shoulder some of your burden, that way you can better serve God. Tell me, what it is that troubles you so?’

  The response was muffled, but as the person’s distress grew, so did their voice until Felix made a disturbing realization. It was Bebe who was crying!

  ‘I’m… I’m sorry,’ she choked. ‘It’s always hard for me to be strong today, on his birthday.’

  ‘You don’t have to apologise to me, Barbara,’ the deeper voice replied. ‘But carrying this amount of pain around with you is not healthy. Tell me, why is today such a test of your faith.’

  ‘It’s Felix. He doesn’t know this, but he’s… he’s…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He’s supposed to beat wings.’ And with that she broke down completely.

  Felix shook his head. Beat wings? What on earth…?

  ‘Oh my child, my poor, dear child. Tell me, what happened?’

  Her sobs turned suddenly bitter. ‘It was him… he did it. He killed him, punch-’

  But Bebe’s sentence was abruptly stifled, as though a pillow was now smothering her face. Still afraid, but suddenly and urgently fearing for his mother’s safety, Felix teased the edge of the curtain to one side.

  Sure enough, Bebe was resting on her knees in front of the solemn man, the one who stood in the high golden box and who talked down to them every Sunday. Felix knew it was him because he was still wearing his long white gown. It hung down over Bebe’s face, which was buried between the man’s legs.

  ‘That’s it my child,’ he said, stroking the back of her head with his thumbs. ‘Let it out.’

  He closed his eyes and smiled.

  ‘Let it all out.’

  12

  I pushed the door open just in time to see my father shuffle into an adjacent room, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and two glasses rattling in the other. I stepped into the hallway. There was none of the usual clutter that typically fills the entrance to a home: no shoes lying around, nor coats hanging on the end of the banister. Instead there was only a tiny nest of tables, with a couple of ornaments on each cascading layer, all nattily positioned on lace doilies. I closed the door behind me. Its window pane rattled.

  The room I followed my father into was equally twee. It smelled deep-down sweet, in spite of my fathers best efforts to pollute the room with his unique blend of cheap aftershave, sweat and cigar smoke. I don’t suppose I was helping much on that score either.

  The curtains were half drawn and my father was sitting in the darkest corner of the room with his back to the window. I held my hand up to the light and strained my eyes in an attempt to read his expression.

  ‘So you know who I am then?’ I said.

  The blurred outline of his head moved slightly. ‘I worked it out when I saw you getting out of the taxi – about thirty seconds after I calmed down.’ He raised a lethargic finger. ‘There’s a drink next to that seat, you look like you could do with both.’

  He wasn’t wrong.

  ‘It was a nice play, using my old watch against me like that,’ he said, an unnerving lack of resentment in his voice. ‘Never saw it coming. Must be getting old, I suppose.’

  He took a pinch from his glass. ‘I take it that Argyle was in on it?’

  ‘Not at all, I never met the guy till today.’ My father snorted dismissively. ‘Seriously, that was one hundred percent above board. Dumb luck is what it was.’

  ‘Why does that not surprise me?’ he muttered.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He pulled a pack of cigarettes from
his shirt pocket, lit one and threw the pack across to me.

  ‘And make sure you use the ashtray,’ he said.

  Like the obedient son that I never had the chance to be, I did as my father said.

  ‘Someone’s got you well trained,’ I joked. He was having none of it.

  ‘Does your mother know about this little visit?’

  ‘That depends on your religious beliefs, doesn’t it? She died about eighteen months ago.’

  The news seemed to take him a while to absorb. ‘Ah, well, I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yeah, sure you are.’

  ‘No, Felix, I really am. At my age, it hurts whenever anyone from your past disappears. It reminds you that the story’s almost over.’ He swirled the whiskey around in his glass. ‘Never mind, son. You’ll understand one day.’

  The mist descended.

  ‘Don’t you call me that,’ I snarled, the smoke pouring out of my mouth. ‘Don’t you ever fucking call me your son again, you’ve not earned the right.’

  With my eyes now acclimatised to the darkness, I stared intently across at my father, willing him to come back at me. Instead he simply turned his head and peeked behind the curtain at the street outside.

  ‘Do you know where your name comes from, Felix?’

  The question knocked me sideways.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your name.’ He looked back at me now. ‘Did your mother ever tell you where it came from?’

  ‘No, she didn’t.’

  ‘I don’t suppose I should be surprised.’

  ‘Really? Why’s that, then?’

  ‘Because it was me that gave it to you.’

  ‘Wha–?’ For a moment I was too afraid say anything more, just in case the subject was changed somehow. In the end, curiosity got the better of my apprehension. ‘You gave it to me?’

  ‘Yes. Me,’ he replied proudly, and downed his whiskey.

  I was astonished and frustrated in equal measure. On the one hand, I wanted to wrap my fingers around the old bastard’s neck, to squeeze and shake him until the gaping hole that he left inside me was gone. Yet at the same time I was aching to know more. I wanted to pluck every last shard of information out of him, no matter how sharp and painful it might turn out to be, just so long as it enabled me to understand more about my past.