I Love My Smith and Wesson (12 page)

With ease he climbed the low wall and strolled over the front lawn to the house. There were two cars, a nice little Rover 45 and a battered Nissan Bluebird. Billy obviously wasn't as rich as he'd like to be—not yet, anyway.

Rawhead rounded the house. None of the curtains were drawn. As he drew closer, he could hear raised voices. Billy was standing with his back to a massive widescreen TV. He looked tired and disheveled. He was arguing with somone out of sight, not angrily but forcefully. Then, waving his arms, he walked out of the room.

Rawhead moved round to the kitchen. From the bushes nearby came the sound of a hedgehog snuffling and grumbling. Rawhead stepped to one side of the window and peered in. Nikki was in the kitchen. She had her arms folded and was staring into space, waiting for the kettle to boil. The kitchen window was wide open. Rawhead heard the click of the kettle as it turned itself off.

Like Billy, Nikki looked far from happy. Unlike Billy, she was wearing nothing but a T-shirt and knickers. Rawhead looked at her legs and the long dark hair tumbling down her back and felt an unexpected pang of desire.

Billy walked into the kitchen and for a moment Rawhead thought he'd be seen. Billy's eyes seemed to be staring directly at him. Then Billy turned to his wife. “It isn't just my fault,” he said. “You should have reminded me.”

“Reminded you?” Nikki couldn't believe what she was hearing.

“Why not?” he said. “Next time you're in bed with me, give me a nudge.”

“Billy, every night since the wedding, I've been practically dancing naked in front of you.”

“Oh, is
that
what you were doing?” said Billy. “I thought you were trying to lose weight.” He laughed uproariously at his own joke. His wife's face darkened. “I was
joking.
Don't be ridiculous. You're not overweight.”

“No, but you are.”

“No, I'm not.”

“If your arse gets any bigger it'll start appearing on ordnance survey maps.”

“Well, at least it isn't sagging like yours.”

“A moment ago, I wasn't overweight.”

“You're not. Doesn't stop you from sagging.”

“Your soul's sagging.”

“Fine,” said Billy. “If I'm that unappealing, why do you want to shag me?”

“I don't. But as long as I'm stuck with you, I think our relationship should include sex.”

“Or we could just hit each other with baseball bats. It'd achieve the same effect. In fact, it'd be more fucking fun.”

Nikki folded her arms and glared at him.

There was a long pause. With a hearty sigh, Billy started to undress.

“What are you doing?” said Nikki.

“We're arguing about not having sex. So I think we should just do it.”

“Don't be stupid.”

“It isn't stupid. Why not? A quickie. Right here on the floor. It'll be just like the old days.”

She sighed despairingly. “Jesus Christ almighty…”

Billy wobbled, balancing on one foot with the other leg trapped in his trouser leg. “What?”

“You,” she said.

“What about me?” said Billy.

“You just don't understand, do you?”

“Understand what?”

“Everything. Sex isn't about sticking things up people.”

Billy looked baffled. “Isn't it?”

“Is it hell.”

“Well, what's sticking things up people called?”

“Why does it have to be so basic? Why can't we try nonpenetrative sex?”

“I haven't got the faintest idea what you're talking about.”

*   *   *

Rawhead had heard enough.

Thanking God that he'd never been in a steady relationship, he tapped one ear as if to knock the bickering voices out of his head. Then he explored the rest of the garden. A glass-fronted summerhouse purchased from a garden center stood at the far end of the lawn. The summerhouse was brand-new. Rawhead tried the door. It slid open. He stepped inside, to the sweet smell of new pine. There was a picnic table and two chairs. A folded sun lounger rested in a corner.

At the back of the house lay a deep ditch, and beyond the ditch a vast field. Rawhead inhaled the darkness, the air cold in his lungs. Overhead, stars shivered in a Spielberg sky. The waning moon blazed. He spat into the dark and turned back to the house.

Nikki was still in the kitchen, pretending to be preoccupied with wiping and tidying the work surfaces. As Rawhead watched, Billy reentered the kitchen and quickly folded Nikki in his arms. There was tenderness in the action, but there was also need.

Rawhead, who thrived on his separateness from the rest of humanity, found that need baffling. He had never wanted to own a woman or be owned by one. The women he'd slept with had never been quite real to him. He could live with that. It was when they became real that the problems started.

With a woman, you had to pretend; you had to sacrifice your true self. You couldn't even walk into the darkness without her asking where you were going or what time you'd be back. Rawhead found the whole charade obscene. No woman would ever prevent him from walking into the darkness.

Having seen what he came to see, he walked round the house and exited via the drive. At the front gates he felt a slight tingling at the back of his neck, a nagging suspicion that he should move faster. Rawhead quickened his step. There was absolutely no one in the lane.

He passed a lamppost, its tired light flickering. He wondered why rich people always lived on ill-lit roads.

The BMW was waiting in the lay-by, black bonnet gleaming coldly. He unlocked the door and slipped behind the wheel. The engine fired instantly, a low murmur. The Ruger Blackhawk was sticking into his thigh, so he withdrew the gun from his belt and laid it on the passenger seat.

As he looked into the rearview mirror he saw car lights rounding the curve in the road. The vehicle was some distance away, but he decided to let it pass before driving on. Then the car slowed down beside him and he saw it was a police patrol car. The officer in the passenger seat rolled down his window and leaned out. Rawhead did the same.

“Hello,” said the officer. He had blond highlights in his hair. Apart from the pretty hair, he was rather plain. “Do you mind if I ask what you're doing?”

Rawhead smiled. “I was just out for a drive. Can't believe what a beautiful night it is.”

Blondie wasn't listening. “Only we've had reports,” he said, “of a prowler in the district.”

“Ah. That was me,” said Rawhead.

The policeman laughed amiably enough. “Oh. That was you, was it?”

“I got out to stretch my legs and look at the stars.”

“Why was that?”

“I told you. I was admiring the glittering firmament, Officer. No law against that, is there?”

Apparently there was, because Blondie got out of the car. The driver, a sullen, bearded bastard, followed as quickly as his regulation police paunch would allow. Rawhead picked up the revolver and held it between his legs. Freud would have been proud. Blondie poked his head through the window while Beardie circled the car. The radio in the patrol car bleeped and prattled.

“What's your name?” said Blondie.

“Montague Rhodes James.”

“That's a funny sort of name, isn't it?”

“It's a funny sort of world, Officer.”

“Is this your car?”

“Don't do this, Officer.”

“Let's see your license.”

“Drive away, why don't you?” urged Rawhead. Never blinking, never raising his voice. “While you've got the chance.”

Blondie exchanged a glance with Beardie, who was peering in through the front passenger door window. “You. Get out,” said Blondie.

“Just think of your family,” said Rawhead.

“Out!” barked Blondie. He tugged at the door, found it was locked.

Beardie, less patient than his buddy, hammered on the opposite window. “Unlock these doors this fucking minute.”

Almost indolently, never once removing his eyes from Blondie's, Rawhead unwound the opposite window and fired a shot through it. He didn't see the policeman totter back into the darkness. But he heard the heavy slump as the man fell.

Blondie gaped. The driver door opened, sweeping him off balance.

Then Blondie did something Rawhead hadn't counted on. He started to run. Rawhead was fast, but the speed of the policeman startled him. The guy moved like a professional sprinter, cheeks puffing, head erect, arms and thighs pumping him forward.

Blondie was fit and he wanted to live. It was as simple as that. When he'd been running for eight seconds, he stole a quick glance over his right shoulder. Rawhead was close behind him. Blondie put on a fresh spurt and vaulted over the wall of the house next door to Billy's.

Rawhead followed but caught his foot on the wall and tumbled over onto the lawn. Blondie raced down the side of the house. Rawhead hauled himself to his feet and charged after him. It was as he was passing the side porch that he heard a loud bang.

At first, Rawhead thought that the officer had drawn a gun and was firing at him.

He threw himself onto his belly and aimed the Ruger at the back lawn. Full-length statues, fake Grecian, lined its oval perimeter. When Rawhead reached Blondie, he was lying on his back, his breath coming in quick gasps. There was a smoking black hole through the center of his chest.

Someone had gunned him down.

It was impossible; it made no sense. But somene else had got to Blondie before him. Rawhead searched the garden for the killer. He found no one.

He returned to the dying man, whose face was now so white that it glowed in the dark. “Who shot you?” he asked softly.

“Too dark,” said Blondie. Then he died.

Rawhead didn't know whether he was talking about his killer, the night, or the world he was leaving.

*   *   *

Rawhead, silent and damned, walked past the bungalow and across the front lawn. Behind him, the click of a lock. He glanced back and, to his utter disbelief, saw a nice bespectacled old man in pajamas and a silk dressing gown running after him. “No through way! No through way!” he was shouting.

As famous last words go, they were pretty piss poor.

Aiming carefully, so as not to cause unnecessary suffering, Rawhead shot the nice old man through the heart. The nice old man lurched backward and fell, skidding and hurtling over the lawn, getting mud over his nice dressing gown. Rawhead heard a woman scream, turned, and fired at the sound. Then there was no sound at all.

Rawhead kept walking.

Past the flickering lamppost with bats swerving round it.

Past Billy's house where the newlyweds, oblivious to the chaos around them, were still arguing.

Over to the hedge beside the lay-by, where the policeman lay sprawled. After checking the bearded officer was dead, Rawhead stole the retractable baton from his belt. He'd always wanted a police baton.

He drove away with his lights off, guided only by the moon. The road was narrow, with many turns. Sometimes it was so dark he couldn't see where he was going. Rawhead didn't care.

This was the story of his life.

It was always dark.

He could never see where he was going.

He never cared.

Seven

Leave this gaudy gilded stage,

From custom more than use frequented,

Where fools of either sex and age

Crowd to see themselves presented.

—“SONG,” JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER (1647–80)

Early on Sunday morning, Billy woke to the sound of church bells. Billy liked the sound. From a distance, churches filled him with longing and affection. It was only when he got close, close enough to smell the Christians, that he drew the line.

And what else was wrong with churches? As he lay drowsing in bed, Billy tried to think. Then he remembered. Rawhead. Rawhead, who loved tombs and spires and swirling mist.

Billy heard the doorbell ring. Then Maddy squealing and Nikki talking to her softly. The bedroom door juddered as air rushed in through the front door. Billy heard distant voices, then footsteps on the stairs. The door opened. It was Nikki, carrying Maddy. As soon as he glanced at Nikki's face, Billy knew something had happened. “What's the matter?” he asked her.

“The police are here. They want to talk to us.”

“What about?” said Billy.

Nikki didn't know. “You haven't done anything wrong, have you?”

Billy wasn't sure how to answer that but shook his head anyway. He kept thinking,
It's Rawhead; it's something to do with Rawhead.

He got out of bed and slipped into a sweater and jeans. Then he walked to the window and drew back the curtains. Nikki came and stood beside him, holding up their daughter so she could see the scene below. A row of men in white boilersuits were crawling over the front lawn on their hands and knees. The road outside was cordoned off and lined with vans and police cars. A stretcher was being carried into an ambulance.

“It's Mrs. Reisler,” said Nikki.

“What the fuck's going on?” said Billy.

The driver closed the doors and the ambulance moved off.

“Car,” said Maddy happily. It was the only word she knew.

*   *   *

Detective Superintendent Janet Harrop was a fine, rather fierce-looking redhead. Although Prestbury was under the jurisdiction of the Cheshire Constabulary, Harrop was on loan from Greater Manchester because of her vast experience in the investigation of gun-related crime. It made sense, especially for such a high-profile inquiry. The Greater Manchester Force had infinitely more money and equipment than their neighbors across the border, who struggled to get by with outdated computers, radios that didn't work, and patrol cars that routinely failed their MOT inspections.

Harrop's bag carrier, Detective Sergeant Hughes, was also from Greater Manchester. Hughes was neat and unassuming, with a baby face and prematurely white hair. Billy made the mistake of assuming that Hughes was in charge, forcing the sergeant to correct him.