I Love My Smith and Wesson (20 page)

The kid nodded vaguely, not really interested. He was staring beyond Rawhead, back at the windows of the building where the tragedy had occurred. Rawhead joined the flood of terrified party guests and walked calmly away. Behind him, the man with crazed eyes was still shouting, “Nobody move! Nobody leaves this fucking house…”

*   *   *

As he drove into town Rawhead kept laughing to himself. He hadn't had so much fun in a long time. He realized how much he'd missed killing, how vital it was to his well-being. It was what he was born for. Like earthquakes, tidal waves, and man-eating tigers, Rawhead's sole purpose was to keep down the population.

When he arrived at the car park behind Diva, he rolled a spliff, still smiling at the memory of the crazy-eyed tool who'd let him walk because he was carrying a woman. After a few minutes, Rawhead got out of the car.

As he closed the door, something cold pressed against his face. He heard a man's voice close to his ear.

“Don't you fucking move, you cheap fucking prick.”

Rawhead remained perfectly still.

“Get back in the car. The other door. As slow as you fucking like.”

The man's breath reeked of cigarettes and garlic. When Rawhead had unlocked the passenger door, the gunman instructed him to slide across slowly until he was behind the wheel. Then the gunman got in beside him and slammed the door. Now Rawhead could see who it was.

It was Sirus. His left wrist was in plaster and he had gauze taped over his nose.

“What's this about?” asked Rawhead calmly.

“It's about you acting hard, fighting dirty, putting the boot in on me when I weren't fucking ready. It's about you putting me in fucking hospital. Start the motor.”

Rawhead found his keys and switched on the engine. “You realize you're about to die a horrible death?”

“Fuck you, cunt!” Sirus jammed the gun barrel hard into Rawhead's cheek. “You're the one who's gonna fucking die. Now drive.”

Twelve

I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci

Thee Hath in thrall!”

—“LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI,” JOHN KEATS (1795–1821)

Like the killings in Prestbury, the massacre in Salford made the national news. The British government was supposedly cracking down on gun culture, which made the story highly topical. The police remained coy about the precise death toll, but it was clear the Medinas had been the prime targets.

Chef wasn't particularly surprised. Sure, they'd put some good deals his way, which was why he'd given them work. But in his opinion, the Medinas had been arrogant punks with no manners. The brothers had many enemies.

But the gunman had worn a hood. He had walked into a crowded party and killed several people. He had used two identical Magnum revolvers with long barrels. Then he had left without being observed.

To Chef, this sounded worryingly familiar.

Then he got a call from the Spirit of Darkness.

*   *   *

They met in the churchyard of St. Mary's in Nether Alderley. It was a filthy black night, so cold and vile that Chef almost phoned to cancel. He knew that if he did, the Spirit would privately sneer at him, but he didn't want to get wet, either. By way of compromise, he took an umbrella.

He drove himself, not wanting anyone to know on whom the ultimate safety of his organization depended. As far as his men knew, the Spirit was a faceless, brooding giant with permanent five o'clock shadow.

Chef stood in the churchyard under the square tower, watching the rain pounding off the path and dripping from the trees.

Directly in front of him lay a fresh grave, piled high with flowers. The rain pattered on the cellophane covering the wreaths. Chef was slightly surprised to see the grave, didn't even realize that people still got buried. Every corpse he had ever said good-bye to had been cremated.

They had arranged to meet at eight. It was two minutes after the hour. Chef was beginning to wonder why someone so reliable would be late for such an important meeting when he glanced to his right and saw a woman standing next to him. She was about five foot eight, with dark hair, razored short. Chef was startled but tried not to show it. She'd walked right up to him without catching his eye or making a sound. No wonder they called her the Spirit.

Chef towered above her. He had met her only once and had forgotten how she disoriented him. She looked and moved like a woman, but she was not quite like any woman Chef had ever seen. There was calm, self-contained menace in every movement she made.

Chef coughed to mask his unease but only drew attention to it. “I'm alone.”

“Not quite,” she said. “There are ghosts all around us. Every day of our lives.”

“Meanwhile, back on Planet Earth,” said Chef.

“You think we live and die and there's nothing more?” she asked him.

Chef was struck anew by her soft southern Irish lilt. Few would suspect a woman with such a voice of being a murderer. “I think we know nothing before we're born,” he said. “We know nothing after we die.”

“But knowing and existing aren't the same things,” she said.

Chef nodded as if he knew what she was talking about. He had always wanted to ask about her background but knew such questions were out-of-bounds. His knowing too much about her would endanger them both.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he said. “Why not? There are some nice little drinkeries in this neck of the woods.”

He almost blushed to hear himself, knowing he sounded like the office manager trying to get off with the young receptionist.

“No,” she said, in a voice like sudden death.

Absolutely fucking stone-faced.

Chef was slightly in awe of the Spirit of Darkness. Despite his advancing years and general aura of greasiness, most women in Manchester would have crawled the length of the Arndale Centre on their hands and knees just to sniff his crotch.

Not this woman. No flirtation in her eyes or voice. No winsome little smiles. Not only was she unimpressed by his power. She didn't seem aware of his
manhood.

A lesbian. She had to be. There was no other explanation.

“What if I buy you something to eat?” he asked her.

(Did Spirits of Darkness eat?)

She gazed up at him with genial contempt. “Why don't we talk in your car?”

*   *   *

They sat in the pink Rolls-Royce Chef had inherited from Malcolm Priest Senior, talking quietly while the rain pounded the roof. The warm car smelled of soap and leather. They sat on the vast backseat with a whole body space between them, like would-be lovers that hadn't yet taken the plunge.

The Rolls was luxuriously upholstered in cream leather. There was a TV, two phones, and a small refrigerator. When Chef opened the fridge door, a light flashed on. He withdrew two bottles of iced Michelob and a bottle opener. He flipped the cap off one bottle and passed it to Spirit, then opened his own.

She held the bottle in both hands, gazing down at it without drinking.

“That shooting in Prestbury. That was you?” he asked her.

“Partly.”

“I paid you to watch Billy Dye. Not to shoot holes through spacks.”

“I only shot one police officer. Nobody else.”

She told him how it had been, watching Billy Dye's house from the neighbors' garden, then turning round to see PC Spack bearing down on her.

Chef stared at her. “What did you do next?”

“What do you think I did?”

“You ran.”

“Right.”

“The way I imagined it,” said Chef, “the neighbors reported a prowler; you shot the neighbors and the guys in the patrol car.”

“No, I didn't kill those other people.”

Chef nodded to himself. “So the spack who you thought was running at you was probably running away from our friend.”

“That's the conclusion I've come to.”

“You were lucky,” said Chef. “If you'd stayed around any longer, you'd be dead.”

“No,” she said, “he'd be dead.”

Chef turned away, watched the rain streaming down the windows. “Because of Rawhead, I've had to rebuild this organization. From scratch. I don't want to have to do that again.”

“What's your point?”

When Chef's wife talked to him that way, he slapped her in the mouth. But he needed the Spirit's help.

“The guy beat us. Now he's beating you,” said Chef. “I pay you to stake out Billy Dye and what happens? You go all the way to Scotland, lay a trap for Rawhead, and end up stringing up some fat old poacher.”

“These things happen.”

“Oh, they do, do they? Well, listen. I'm not paying you to box innocent bystanders. You're meant to be hitting Rawhead.”

She said nothing.

Chef took out a tissue and blew his nose. “I suppose you heard about the Medinas?”

“Only what I saw on the news.”

“I'm pretty sure that was him, too.”

“A pair of pimps? Why?” She sounded skeptical. “Why would he bother?”

“Boxed sets are this guy's speciality.” Chef shrugged. “He did the same thing to us once. He came to the house when everyone was home. Didn't bother to knock, just walked straight in and started shooting.”

“What was it like?”

“What do you mean, What was it like?”

“I mean, describe it to me.”

His face assumed a defensive look. “It was like a bad dream. We saw him coming from a long way off. But none of us quite believed it. You wouldn't have believed it, either. He broke every rule in the SAS handbook.”

“He was in the SAS?”

“No, no. I'm just making a point. If the SAS are the ultimate professionals, this guy behaved like the ultimate amateur. I mean it. He didn't take cover. He had no backup. He was outnumbered. All he had, far as I know, was a six-shot handgun. It was insane. The guy was wide open.”

“Yeah? How come he got away?”

“Because every shot we fired at him fucking missed. And … well…”

“What?”

The big man looked down, his bottom lip protruding. “
Daimonas
.”

She turned to face him. “Sorry?”

“A Greek word. Meaning demon, devil. You believe in power? Real, elemental power?”

She drank some beer. He got the distinct impression that she wasn't really listening.

Jesus, she was hard work.

“You know it when you see it,” he said. “It stops you dead, paralyzes you. Coming up against this guy was like trying to fight a volcano, a tidal wave, a fucking lightning bolt. I don't know how else to explain it.”

“And this elemental force. You still want me to go after him?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe I should just kidnap Billy Dye. Wait for Rawhead to come to me.”

“No!”

The vehemence of Chef's response surprised her. She turned her head to study him.

“That little writer prick has never been lucky for us,” he explained. “Stay away from him. Don't watch him; don't go anywhere near him.”

“How do you expect me to find Rawhead?”

“Try going round to his house.”

The Spirit gave a short, mirthless laugh. She thought he was joking.

“I'm serious,” said Chef. “I know where he lives.”

*   *   *

Now he had her attention.

Chef took her to a restaurant called the Wizard, where he already had a table booked. They ate together, the big-boned, gloomy gangster and the dark, watchful woman. They made a striking couple.

His strength was purely animal. It showed in the big hands and the hard face with its jutting jaw.

With her stillness and her huge dark eyes, the Spirit reminded Chef of a beautiful twisted nun. Her fire was internal, intense yet slow-burning. There was a long, thin white scar on her left cheek. Maybe that was why she never smiled.

Over dinner he told her about tracking Rawhead down to a vicarage in the Bedfordshire countryside. One by one, Rawhead had picked them off. “So finally, I decided enough was enough,” said Chef. “I let him go.”

“You did
what
?”

He lowered his eyes. “It was a managerial decision. What you've got to remember is, we'd already tried to kill Ellis twice.”

“Ellis?”

“That's his real name.”

She lowered her fork and stared at him.

“Steven Ellis. A Manchester Grammar School boy who let down the old school.”

“This gets better. You know his name; you even know where he lives. And you've done nothing about it?”

“It sounds tapped, I know. But each time we hit him, he came back with more. First and foremost, I'm a businessman. In any business, there comes a point when you just have to cut your losses. I calculated that if I left him alone, he'd leave me alone. So far, that's exactly how it's worked out.”

“So what changed your mind?”

“The fear of what he might do next.”

She marveled in silence.

A waiter appeared to refill their glasses. Chef paused until the waiter was elsewhere before explaining, “My business is allowed to exist because of my special arrangement with the Greater Manchester Police. I'm a big fish; they let me swim where I like. In return, I'm expected to contribute to their retirement fund and keep the peace.

“Now, what happened in Prestbury and Salford broke that peace. It's all over the papers; everyone thinks the Manchester gang wars are starting all over again. Naturally, my friends the spacks are very upset. They don't give a fuck if people are murdered in private. But when questions are being asked in parliament, they get nervous. Understandably. Because every time some arsehole goes on a killing spree, the public and the press blame the spacks for letting it happen. And the spacks blame me.”