I Love My Smith and Wesson (15 page)

Everyone turned up. Fats and Brando, Sirus and Rawhead. Little Malc was wearing a Manchester City strip, his short pink legs dangling from a pair of oversize shorts. “OK. Everyone listen up. As of now, I'm doubling your wages.”

Blank stares and sardonic snorts. No one believed him. Little Malc was forced to repeat his pledge. “Whatever you're earning now, times it by two. That's the good news. The bad news is that you're going to have to earn your fucking money. Firstly, by being able to stand up. It's come to my attention that some of you aren't as fit as you ought to be. For men in your line of work, that's a fucking problem. So Stoker here has very kindly offered to act as our personal fucking trainer.”

“What the fuck does he know?” demanded Sirus, speaking for the majority. He was wearing a black karate suit tied with a black belt.

Rawhead, who was dressed in his normal clothes, walked to the center of the dance floor. “If you'll give me a chance, I'll show you. I need a volunteer.”

No one offered.

He pointed to Sirus. “You'll do.”

“You can't teach me anything about fucking martial arts,” complained Sirus. “I was a karate black belt by the age of fucking ten.”

“Give him a chance, Si,” said Little Malc quietly.

When Sirus was standing in front of him, Rawhead pointed to his bleached hair.

“Nice highlights.”

Sirus sighed.

“Did you go to John Frieda or Vidal Sassoon?”

Sirus was about to answer when Rawhead punched him in the Adam's apple. Sirus staggered, choking.

Rawhead turned to the others. “Rule number one,” said Rawhead. “Don't talk. Real life isn't a spaghetti western.”

Sirus was still gagging and clutching his throat. Before he had time to recover, Rawhead bounded forward and swung his right elbow up into Sirus's face.

Sirus opened his mouth to complain and a torrent of blood and teeth poured out. Afraid of looking helpless, he launched a respectable roundhouse kick. Rawhead caught the offending leg and swept it upward, throwing Sirus heavily onto his back.

Fats, who didn't like to watch an unfair fight, looked at his own feet. Brando chewed gum thoughtfully, surprised to see a fit man like Sirus dispatched with so little effort.

“You fucking bastard!” screamed Sirus from the floor.

Rawhead bent over and slapped him. “Shut up.”

It should have been enough. But Sirus wouldn't do what he was told. “Right! You cunt!” he yelled, blood lining the cracks between his remaining teeth. “My mates are going to hear about this.”

Rawhead smashed his heel into Sirus's ribs. Sirus doubled up with pain.

“Tell them about that as well,” said Rawhead.

It was violence as God intended. Fast, businesslike, and thoroughly unpleasant.

Little Malc and Brando stared in amazement.

“See that?” said Rawhead. “He knew I didn't like blond hair. But he still bleached it. Rule number two: Don't be a ponce.”

Sirus was crawling away across the dance floor, mouthing threats.

“You're a fucking maniac,” marveled Little Malc, giving voice to the feelings of the majority.

Rawhead smiled. “As long as that's understood.”

*   *   *

Nikki got out of the bath to hear the doorbell ringing. She didn't want to answer in case it was the police or another journalist.
“Mrs. Dye, one of your neighbors has been murdered. How do you feel about that?” “Relieved.”

Whoever it was wouldn't go away. Nikki suspected the caller was her mother. It was meant to be Nikki's time off, the day her mum looked after Maddy. It would have been just like the old cow to get bored and bring the child back early.

The caller tired of the bell and resorted to the knocker. A volley of deafening raps rang through the house like pistol shots. Finally, overcome by curiosity, Nikki slipped into a dressing gown and went down. She stumbled on the stairs and had to clutch the banister for support. She was drunk. Although it was not yet noon, she was already on her fourth rum and Coke.

It was only when she was unbolting the front door that she thought of the shootings. What if the killer had returned?
So fucking what,
she thought. Her life was complete shit anyway.

It took her a few seconds to recognize the tall man in the porch as Billy's friend. Steve was dressed like a rock star. A long fur coat, a simple black top that showed off his hard chest and belly, jeans supported by a studded belt. He was holding a bottle of Taittinger. “Hi. Is Billy coming out to play?”

He was standing side on, like he already knew the answer and was ready to walk away.

“No,” she said. Suddenly feeling vulnerable.

He smiled again. Like many people who habitually scowled at the world, Steve had a great smile.

“He's in town,” she said. “He's gone to a meeting.”

“Yeah? When will he be back?”

“Good question.”

“Oh. OK.” He seemed disappointed, gazing wistfully down at the champagne bottle. “Well, tell him I called, will you?”

“Was it about anything in particular?”

“No.”

“You sure? What's the champagne in aid of?”

He laughed to himself and shook his head. “OK. I'll tell you the truth.”
I'm the greatest murderer who ever walked the earth.

“Yes?” she said.

“It's my birthday,” he told her, “and I just thought it might be nice to share it with an old friend.”

“Oh, no!” she said, holding her hands to her face. “And he isn't even here.”

“Oh, woe is me,” he said, clowning for her. “Woe, woe. When will he be back?”

“This is Billy we're talking about,” she said, as if no further explanation was required.

“He must have given you some idea?”

“Maybe teatime. Maybe midnight.”

First he'd looked hopeful. Now he looked crushed.

“But you must have something else planned,” she said. “On your birthday.”

“Nope.”

“No, you
must.
” Nikki was almost pleading with him. “You've got other friends, surely?”

He gave her a shy smile. “Not like Billy.”

“Aw! That's so sweet.”

When women talked this way, Rawhead wanted to slap them. He felt like tying them up with bows and ribbons and burying them alive. See how sweet they found the maggots and the worms.

Yet Rawhead was all gentle manly grace as Nikki leaned forward to hug him. As she bent forward, he inhaled the booze on her breath and glimpsed one of her tiny girlish breasts.

The black funeral pyre that was Rawhead's heart began to smolder.

“I'll phone him, shall I? Let me phone him. Come in for a minute.”

He stepped into the bright bourgeois hall, catching sight of himself in a long oval mirror. His eyes gleamed madly, as if he'd taken acid or seen the kingdom of heaven. He turned away, watching her make the phone call. Predictably, Billy's mobile was switched off. Rawhead thanked Nikki and moved toward the door.

“You could always wait,” she said.

“No. Like you say, Billy could be all day. I'd just be in your way.”

“I'm not doing anything,” she said.
Ever.

He stood there, pretending to consider it.

When what she was proposing was exactly what he had in mind.

*   *   *

Rawhead insisted on opening the champagne. It was colder than a Salvation Army bed. Nikki got dressed and they sipped Taittinger together in the vast living room. While they were chatting, a deliveryman called at the house to drop off a parcel. Nikki opened it in front of Rawhead. It was full of paperback books.

“Oh,” said Nikki. “It's Billy's latest. I'd forgotten all about it.”

She passed a copy to Rawhead. The title was
“Not Dead, but Creeping.”
Like all Billy's books, it had a bad cover—a corpse crawling on all fours through a graveyard. “I didn't know he had a book coming out,” said Rawhead.

“Yeah. He wrote that soon after Maddy was born. I think he got an advance of about two thousand for it.”

Nikki watched Rawhead leafing through the book.

“You actually read those things?”

“Yeah,” said Rawhead. “I think Billy's a great writer.”

She looked at him sideways, as if there must be something wrong with him. His face suddenly registered mild shock. “Have you seen this?”

“What?”

He took the book over to her. On page 3, there was a dedication:
TO STEVE ELLIS, FRIEND AND BROTHER
.

Nikki was delighted. “Hey! How about that? You got a birthday present. Take that copy away with you. Happy bloody birthday.”

Rawhead nodded and sat down. For a long time he browsed through the paperback, his face dark and intense.

“How old are you?” said Nikki eventually. “Same age as Billy?”

“I think so,” he said.

She thought he was joking. “How do you mean?”

“My mother abandoned me when I was small.” He said this cheerfully, without a trace of self-pity.

Nikki didn't know what to say.

“I was adopted when I was thirteen, and my mum and dad chose today as my birthday. I don't know when my real birthday is. My real mum was a chronic alcoholic, you see. One day was very much like the next to her.”

“I know the feeling,” said Nikki.

Rawhead nodded, his eyes taking in the suburban decor, two goldfish swimming forlornly in a huge bowl, the framed wedding photo above the fireplace.

“Did you ever know your father?” she asked him.

“He was probably some wino who traded a sip from his meths bottle for a fuck. And, believe me, if you'd seen my mother, you'd realize the wino was getting the raw end of the deal.”

Nikki looked at him for a long time. “That's sad, Steve.”

“Is it?” He smiled. “I wouldn't change anything about my life.”

“I think I'd change practically everything about mine,” she said. “Apart from Maddy.”

“You and Billy are having problems,” he said. It wasn't a question.

She nodded. “It's hard, living with a person all the time. After a while, you stop noticing the good things and just home in on the faults. When I met Billy, we were both art students. He was Modigliani; I was Frida Kahlo. Except better. We were going to be the greatest painters ever born. But somehow, I got sidetracked. Billy ended up with a writing career. I ended up with nothing.”

Rawhead looked around him. “Not bad for nothing.”

Her eyes shone with anger. He realized she was probably drunker than she looked. “You think I wanted to live in a house like this? Surrounded by right-wing pricks who toast the queen before every meal?”

“Billy isn't like that.”

“Billy's hardly ever here.” She pointed to a National Trust magazine on the coffee table. “Look at that. We could have supported a charity for the homeless, a charity that feeds children in Africa. And what do we do? We become members of a charity that helps aristocratic scroungers to keep their country mansions. And get this: joining was
Billy's
idea.”

Rawhead shook his head in sincere disapproval. He had occasionally fantasized about killing every member of the National Trust.

“So OK. I live in a big house. But I feel I'm living the wrong life,” said Nikki. “With the wrong person.” She looked at him. Her eyes dark and huge, full of fear and desire.

Fear and desire will destroy the world.

“Er, maybe I should go,” said Rawhead. Knowing that if he left now, she would keep thinking about him.

He saw her flinch as if he'd slapped her. “We haven't finished the champagne.”

He waited awhile, holding the paperback against his chest. “Billy's my best friend. And I don't much care for the thoughts that are running through my mind.”

She leaned toward him. “You can't help having thoughts. Thoughts only become a problem if you act on them.”

“No, I'll go,” he said. “I think I should.”

She followed him out into the hall. Disappointed, vaguely thwarted. At the door, she threw her arms around him. “Will you come back?”

He shrugged. “When's a good time?”

“Any time that Billy isn't here.”

Before he left, she wrote her mobile-phone number on his hand.

*   *   *

That night, a concert in aid of the Sunny Bunny Trust was held at Diva. The concert was followed by an auction. The worst of Manchester's comedians and recording artistes had turned up to perform for nothing. In addition to his role as master of ceremonies, Little Malc sang a song he'd written especially for the occasion:

“Have a care for the children of tomorrow

Give them a future that they will not be denied

They may be crippled, but keep them free from sorrow

They may be colored, but they still have their pride.…”

Little Malc was so moved by his own lyrics that he wept during the song. So did many members of the audience, albeit for different reasons.

Mercifully, Rawhead wasn't there to witness this disgraceful performance. He was on the door with Brando.

“But I don't understand,” said Brando. “I thought I was just promoted.”

“This is your last night on the door,” promised Rawhead.

Halfway through the charity gala, a battered Daimler stopped outside the club. The Medina brothers got out. Tonight, they were alone.

“OK,” said Rawhead. “You know what to do?”

Brando nodded.

Chris Medina got out of the car first, raising his left leg and farting like a horse. Then his brother appeared, laughing and complaining about the smell. Rawhead stepped out into their path. “Sorry, sir. Tonight it's invitation only.”

Chris thought it was a joke. “Yeah. And I'm Cinderella.”