by Hugh Fraser
‘When did he say that?’
‘What time did he phone Mum?’
‘Just gone nine o’clock this morning. Fucking bastard! I’ll have his eyes out for what he done to you, and if he touches your Dawn I’ll string him up by his bollocks and cut his fucking head off!’
‘All right Mum.’
Danny nods to the cigarette and she puts it to his mouth with a shaking hand. He takes a drag and waits while she settles.
‘You’re going after?’ he asks.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ I say.
‘What, her?’ says Mum, looking at me with disbelief.
‘She’s good,’ Danny replies.
His mother gives a harrumph and takes a drag of the cigarette herself. I smile at Danny.
‘Any idea where he might be keeping her?’ I ask.
Danny shakes his head. ‘Could be anywhere.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
‘Most of Viner’s lot are Finsbury Park way, but I don’t know where.’
‘Where does he go of a night?’
‘I’d check Viner’s clubs. He’s so far up his arse to get the earners.’
It seems like I’m not going to get any more and I’m reaching for my bag and about to get up when Mum says,
‘You’d better tell her about Dawn, son.’
I sit down again. Danny looks at me, then lowers his eyes.
‘She’s pregnant.’
2
Bert drives me home and I get out of the lift at my floor and walk past Lizzie’s door. She’s been in Dubai for the last week, doing strange things to some bankers over there, and I wish she’d come home. She’s stopped having clients at her flat, since she found one of them hanging by the neck on the back of a door. She’s got a job as a hostess at the Kazuko club in Rupert Street now, which gets a lot of foreign businessmen, so she does the odd bit of mistress work abroad when the money’s right.
I let myself into the flat and there’s a letter on the floor with the Leavenden School crest on it. I pick it up and see Georgie’s neat handwriting. I go into the kitchen, sit at the table and read that she’s doing fine and has just been picked for the school lacrosse team. She goes on to say that her form mistress has suggested that she takes the Cambridge University entrance exam. When I think that she might be going to Cambridge, I feel so proud I nearly start crying. She’s been through so much in her young life, growing up in a foul slum with rats and mice, her mother lying around drunk all day, being raped by a monster when she was only nine and her little brother dying, who she loved so much. Through it all she kept trying so hard with her school work, always studying and reading. I was so glad to be able get her into Leavenden School a couple of years ago, well away from all the rough stuff I’m mixed up with. She’s done so well there and if she can go to Cambridge, I’ll be over the moon.
She tells me that she’ll have to stay on for an extra term after her A-levels to do the exam and asks me if that would be all right, as it would mean paying extra fees. I go into her bedroom, find a bit of notepaper and sit at her desk while I write back to her that I’m really pleased she’s taking the entrance exam, the fees are no problem and well done to her for getting in the lacrosse team.
As I’m putting my letter in an envelope I notice there’s a second page to Georgie’s where she tells me they’ve got an exeat coming up and she wants to go and stay with her friend Annabelle at her big country house and ride ponies and such. Annabelle lives at Ringwood Hall in Berkshire. I was there a couple of years ago, when I put a stop to her grandfather’s nasty little sex games with dead girls. His crimes were covered up and the part of the house where he did foul things was burnt down. Annabelle will never be told what the old pervert got up to and neither she nor Georgie will ever know I was there.
I add a couple of lines to my letter saying it’s fine that she’s going and I hope she has a good time. As I fold the notepaper I notice how spidery and bad my writing is compared with Georgie’s. I put the letter in an envelope, seal it and find a stamp in one of the drawers. I’m really glad she’s made a close friend at the school. She’s never really had friends before, always staying in her room reading or working, or going to galleries or concerts on her own.
I get up from the desk and have a look at Georgie’s bookshelves. I’ve just finished Northanger Abbey, which I loved, and I look along the row of Jane Austen’s books that she’s got and see that I’ve read them all now. Daphne du Maurier is the next author along the shelf and I take out Rebecca. I open it and read the first page where she’s dreaming about going to Manderley and it makes me want to go there too, so I put the book under my arm, go into the hall and put my letter to Georgie on the telephone table. I haven’t got time for a good read now, if I’m going to get to the Vauxhall Tavern and find Viner, so I put the book in my bedroom, go into the living room, open up the radiogram and put on the Rolling Stones album that came out the other day. I pour myself a whisky while Mick tells me to get my kicks on Route 66. I saw their first gig at the Marquee a couple of years ago. Me and Lizzie had gone to see Alexis Korner’s Blues Incorporated, who Jagger was fronting at the time, but Alexis Korner got a BBC gig or something so the manager let the Stones fill in at the last minute and they gave us a great night playing all rocking bluesy stuff. We used to go and see them in the clubs after that, when they got the regular line-up together.
I turn the volume up, go into the bedroom and have a look in the wardrobe for a suitable outfit for a drag night in Vauxhall. I reckon it’s either the Ossie Clark trouser suit, in a tonic mohair, or the Dorothy Perkins polyester one. I try them both on and decide that the Ossie Clark, with the box jacket and the tighter trousers, looks more butch. I find a white blouse with button down collar to go with it and a pair of black Chelsea boots. I sit at the dressing table, put my hair up and add a bit more make-up round my eyes. I don’t want to take a bag so I take a hundred from what George gave me, put it in my pocket, along with a pencil torch, and drop the rest in my underwear drawer. I take my Smith & Wesson out of the wardrobe, slide it into the back of my waistband and check in the mirror that the jacket is long enough to hide it.
It’s dark and raining when I leave the building and walk round the corner to where my Mini Cooper’s parked in Hall Road. As I’m driving towards Marble Arch I realise I’m starving and it could be a long night, so I decide to stop at the Wimpy Bar on Edgware Road. It’s crowded and all the seats are taken. I stand in the queue and listen to a couple of girls in front of me slagging off some boy who’s been two-timing them and mucking them about something terrible, although they go on to agree that they’ll still use him for a night out and a bunk-up now and again. I get to the front of the queue and order a burger to take away. When I see the meat sizzling on the hotplate an idea strikes me about how I might be able to get to Viner.
I pay for the burger, go outside and look round for a phone box. There’s one on the corner a few hundred yards away and I bite into the burger as I approach it. I go into the phone box, dial a number, push a coin in the slot and after a few rings the man I want answers. I tell him what I need, he says he can do it and I say I’ll be round in twenty minutes. I walk to the car, finish the burger, drop the wrapper in a litter bin and drive down Park Lane, round Hyde Park Corner and over Vauxhall Bridge to Elephant and Castle. I park outside a chemist’s shop at the top of Walworth Road and ring the bell. A light goes on in the back, and Ben Griffin lifts up the flap of the counter, lets me in and hands me a small package. I take the wad out of my pocket, peel off thirty quid and give it to him.
‘Cheers Ben.’
‘See you Rina.’
I drive on to Kennington Lane, park beside the Royal Vauxhall and wait until I see a group of Mods approaching. As they walk past me I get out of the car and follow them into the pub. It’s big and almost full, with a horseshoe shaped bar that curves out into the room from the back wall. The crowd is mostly men in suits or jackets and all quite discreet, except for the odd b
it of make-up here and there. There are a few butch-looking women and a group of leather queens over in one corner. The Mods I tagged along with get drinks and stand near the back of the room. I make my way through a fug of cigarette smoke to the end of the bar, order a large whisky and find a place near the back wall, next to a pillar. I look around and notice that there’s another bar, off to the side, which you can see into through windows that have the names of different whiskies and gins on them in gold lettering. When I move forward to get a better view through the window, I see Tony Viner at the bar talking to a young bloke with blond hair in a black leather jacket, who I reckon is Brindle.
As I move back behind the pillar to stay out of sight, music starts up and one of the barmen calls to everyone to take their glasses off the bar. A slinky figure, in a short silk dress, very high heels and a tall black wig, steps up onto the bar and sashays back and forth along it, swinging his hips and miming to Shirley Bassey singing ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’. There are claps and whoops as he points and pouts at different men in the crowd and flicks up his dress to give us a glimpse of his frilly knickers. I look round and see Tony Viner clocking the action through the glass. Brindle takes a quick look over his shoulder and turns back to his pint. The song finishes, The Supremes take over with ‘Stop! In the name of Love’ and our man goes into a high kicking routine which has the crowd braying and me thinking he’s going to fall off the bar any minute. The act winds up with him passing his silk scarf between his legs and sliding it back and forth over his crotch as he slowly lowers himself into the splits. He gets a good round of applause as he stands up and takes a bow, then he leaps off the bar into the arms of a big bloke in a black suit who gives him a kiss and carries him off to a table in the corner.
People crowd round the bar and order drinks. Viner’s still talking to Brindle as the music starts up again and the barman calls for glasses to be cleared off the bar. He picks up a hand mic and clears his throat.
‘Ladies and gentlemen – Mrs Shufflebottom!’
The applause gets louder as a blousy middle-aged blonde, in a sequinned evening gown and a fur coat, is helped up the steps onto the bar. He takes the mic and goes into a routine about his fur coat being very expensive and very rare and known in the fur trade as “untouched pussy” and how it can’t be found anywhere in London at the moment. The crowd give a big laugh and he goes on to say how he was kissed on both cheeks by a Frenchman the other night, when he was bending down to tie his shoelaces and how the Frenchman had told him he reminded him of Liz Taylor because his figure had gone for a burton. While he goes on in the same vein and the crowd gets louder, I turn round and see Viner looking through the glass at a teenage boy near the bar, in jeans and a blue shirt, who looks to be on his own. Viner says something to Brindle who has a quick look at the boy and goes out of the door into the street. Moments later I see him come into the main bar and I back off behind my pillar while he makes his way towards the boy in the jeans and starts talking to him. The boy turns and looks into the other bar and after they’ve talked a bit more, he follows Brindle towards the door. Viner leaves the other bar and I go after them.
When I get through the crowd and out of the door, Brindle is hailing a cab on Kennington Lane and Viner and the boy are walking round the side of the building. I get round the opposite side of the pub in time to see Viner following the boy onto the waste ground at the back. They pick their way over the rough stuff towards Vauxhall Gardens and disappear in among some bushes. I’ve no desire to get any closer to what’s about to happen so I walk away and stand behind a tree.
Ten minutes later Viner emerges from the bushes, straightens his jacket, walks towards the road that runs between the pub and the railway line and gets into a black Mercedes. I hurry to where my car’s parked near the front of the pub and move off just in time to get on his tail as he pulls out onto Kennington Lane. I glance in the mirror and catch sight of the boy walking back into the bar. I follow the Mercedes over the river, up through the City, into Hackney and onto the A12.
An hour later, as we get near Chigwell, Viner turns off the main road and I switch off my lights and follow him along a two lane road with big detached houses on either side. I keep well back and after a mile or so he turns into a driveway and stops. A pair of electric gates open slowly, the Mercedes passes through and the gates close behind it.
I get out of the car, climb over the stone wall and drop down onto the grass. The house is set back behind trees at the end of a gravel drive. It’s big and ugly, like the man who owns it. The Mercedes is parked at the head of the drive. There are dogs barking and Viner’s walking towards a squat brick building at the side of the house. I move to where I can see him, as he looks through a barred window and says something I can’t make out. The dogs stop barking and Viner goes to the front door, unlocks it and walks in.
Lights go on in the house and I sit down, lean back against the stone wall and wait. When the lights go off, I stand up, take the gun out of my belt, release the chamber, give it a spin and snap it shut. I look up at the sky, see the moon sliding behind a cloud and walk slowly towards the house. I circle round to the side and creep towards the kennel. I crouch below the barred window, until I’m sure I haven’t woken anyone, then I straighten up slowly, take the pencil torch out of my pocket and shine it through the bars. Two Pit Bulls are lying asleep, one in each corner. They’re wearing collars with evil-looking spikes on them and they’re some of the ugliest dogs I’ve ever seen. I go to a woodpile nearby, select a solid piece of oak about four feet long, go back to the window and bash it against the iron bars. The dogs wake instantly and bark up a storm. When I hit the metal again they leap up at the window, snarling and yelping and slavering as they try to push their heads through the bars. Lights go on above. I back off and stand beside the door of the house. An outside light goes on, the door opens and Viner, wearing a purple silk dressing gown, walks towards the kennel. ‘What the fuck’s wrong with you two bleedin’ idiots?’
I step forward, smash the oak beam against the back of his head and he falls flat on the ground. The dogs are going berserk. I take the packet that Johnny gave me out of my pocket, pull out two pieces of raw meat, hold them up to the window bars to give the dogs a good sniff and chuck them inside. The dogs go after the meat, wolf it down, return to the window and carry on jumping up and down and barking. I go to the body on the ground and turn him over. I pocket some keys that he dropped when he went down, kneel on his chest, put my hands round his throat, press both thumbs into his windpipe and hold on until he snuffs it.
The dogs are quietening down now as the anaesthetic in the meat gets to them and by the time I’ve unlocked the kennel door they’re lying unconscious on the floor beneath the window. I drag Viner inside, close the door and turn on the light. I get hold of one of the dogs, drag it over to the body, open its jaws, sink its teeth into Viner’s neck and pierce his carotid artery. Blood spurts and I drop the dog and stand back so I don’t get any on me. When the bleeding stops, I pick the dog up, open its mouth and rip open Viner’s face, neck and hands with its teeth. When I’ve made him look as though he’s been well mauled, I take out my gun and shoot the other dog in the head. I wipe my prints off the gun, wrap Viner’s hand round it and drop it beside him. The dog I’ve torn Viner up with is starting to come round and I take a quick look in his mouth to make sure he’s got plenty of Viner’s flesh in there. I smear some blood round the other dog’s mouth as well, then I go out of the door and close it behind me. When I look through the window, I see the surviving dog get up slowly and sniff round Viner’s body for a bit, then he goes over to the other dog and nudges him with his nose. When he gets no response, he wobbles over to a metal bowl in the corner, laps up some water, lies down, puts his head on his paws and goes to sleep.
3
The moon’s shining bright and I’m feeling good as I drive into London through Stratford, then Stepney and into Whitechapel. When I get into the City I find a quiet street and park beh
ind a Triumph Herald. I wipe the inside of the Mini clean of prints, take the blade out of my suspenders, get out and look in the window of the Herald to check no one’s in there. I pick up a sharp stone from the gutter, smack it hard against the window and the glass shatters. I reach inside, open the door, sit in the driving seat and use the blade to prise off the panel under the steering wheel. I cut the wires at the back of the ignition barrel, connect the red ones, touch the brown ones together and the engine starts. I look back at my old Mini as I pull the Herald away and I feel sad for a moment. It’s got me out of a few tight spots over the last few years but I’m saying goodbye to it now, just in case some midnight dog walker saw it outside Viner’s.
I drive west, dump the Herald on Abbey Road, wipe it clean and walk to the flat. Dennis is behind the desk when I go in and he calls the lift for me and tells me that Lizzie got back from the airport an hour ago. I feel a thrill of excitement as the lift climbs to our floor. I open the gate and almost run to her door. I knock and wait until I hear her ask who’s there.
‘The Sheik of Araby,’ I say.
She laughs and opens the door, looking tanned and beautiful.
‘Come into my tent girl,’ she says, as she pulls me inside, gives me a long kiss and leads me along the hall.
‘Bed or bath?’
‘Both,’ I reply.
She turns into the bathroom and I hear water running as I go into her living room and make for the whisky bottle on the dresser. I pour two large ones, take them into the bathroom and give one to Lizzie. We take a drink and set the glasses down on the shelf beside the bath. Lizzie holds me for a moment, purrs in my ear, then she slips my jacket off my shoulders and undoes the buttons of my shirt and then my trousers, like she’s undressing a child. When she finds the knife in my suspender belt she waves a finger at me, tells me I’m a naughty girl and puts it on the floor next to my clothes. I get into the bath, she slips off her nightie and joins me in the warm bubbly water.
