I Love My Smith and Wesson (22 page)

At the end of the kitchen, a flight of stone steps led down to a blue cellar door. The Spirit descended the steps and tried the handle. Locked. But from behind the locked door came a series of gurgling sounds that rose and fell, like someone singing underwater.

She climbed the steps and searched the kitchen. A fat bunch of keys hung on a nail by the back door. Not believing that Rawhead would be so reckless, she descended to the cellar door.

For a moment, the Spirit stood there, wondering what to do next. She had been sent to kill Rawhead. The man making all the noise was almost certainly
not
Rawhead. So why should she go to him?

Because he was a fellow human being in distress?

Fuck that.

Because he might lead her to Rawhead.

The door was secured by a Chubb lock. The Spirit tried six keys, convinced she was wasting her time. The seventh key fitted. She opened the door. Out from the darkness came a cloud of flies and the most unutterably disgusting smell she had ever encountered.

She shone the flashlight through the doorway. The cellar was long and low, with stone walls and a plastered ceiling. The wall to her left was newer, made of red bricks. In the center of the wall was a door of oak, secured with two strong bolts.

The Spirit wiped sweat from her brow with her forearm. She took a black silk scarf from her jacket and tied it around her mouth and nose to lessen the overwhelming stench. There was no light switch in the cellar. She was forced to rest the torch on a stack of old fruit crates, pointing it in the general direction of the door.

She walked over to the door and with a struggle drew back the heavy bolts.

When she had finished, the door flew open. A freezing-cold wind blew over her, its wings scented with the odor of human putrescence. A smell so powerful it burned her face. Shit, sweat, bile, and ammonia. The perfume of Azrael.

At last, the Spirit of Darkness could hear what the stricken man was saying.

“Oh God, please, Jesus, don't do this. I'll give you money, anything; me dinners's on the table. Oh Christ, Jesus.”

Then a dreadful retching, heaving groan.

The Spirit unholstered the Sig.

With the gun in her left hand and the torch in her right, she took a quick glance through the doorway. She was looking down a long, claustrophobic tunnel with a low ceiling. The earth walls were supported by pit props. She could smell the damp, bittersweet soil. She could smell the huge gray rats scurrying before her feet. Mostly, she could smell death.

Rather than repelling her, the filthy odor lured her on, like the incense that summons an ancient, bloodthirsty goddess.

“Please, I don't know, what? What? Why? I've learnt my lesson. Jesus. Man City won. He's coming; he's coming.”

The hoarse voice echoed all around her.

Straight ahead lay a solid stone wall. In the wall someone had cut a diamond-shaped gap, large enough for a very fat man to crawl through. The stone was dark gray, but the edges of the hole were ragged and white. The Spirit shone the torch beam through the gap to find herself looking down into a deep oblong chamber, approximately three times the size of the average lift shaft.

It was a charnel house, built into the foundations of the church. In the fifteenth century, when the church was erected, the remains of plague victims would have been laid here prior to burning. Now, showing fine respect for tradition, the man she was hunting was using the chamber for its original purpose. The vault was stacked high with dead bodies.

Her heart rate quickened. Her clitoris contracted. The Spirit of Darkness was impressed.

As she shone her torch over the skulls and the skulls-to-be, insects of all shapes and sizes flitted through the beam. The walls above the bodies glistened with slimy fat. And in the middle of the heaving, humming mass of twisted corpses squatted a living man.

He looked like a pop star, his hair bleached platinum blond. He was trembling and sweating, holding a seething wound in his belly. There was a filthy dressing over his nose, and the front of his shirt was caked with blood and vomit.

He was a pitiful sight. For those capable of pity.

“No, no, Mum, did you call the doctor?”

He was delerious.

“What's your name?” she called, her voice echoing in the monstrous cave.

Shock registered on his face as he realized he was speaking to a stranger. “Who's that?”

“I asked first.”

“I saw your mother's shadow on the wall.” He pointed wildly. “Look! Look! She's from Ashton-under-Lyne.”

“Tell me your name.”

“I came and he did this and I don't know why and he never … and I fucking, fucking never … I don't know. I don't know.”

“OK. Can you tell me who put you here?”

“Where's the bus? Is it a double-decker?”

She tried again. “Who did this to you?”

“Stoker!” he yelled. “Abraham-fucking-Stoker.”

“Bram Stoker?” she repeated incredulously.

The dying man screamed as his intestinal tract made a fresh attempt to digest the bullet that was lodged in it.

The Spirit leaned over the edge and shot him dead. Gave him a third eye in the center of his forehead, just like Shiva. It seemed the only decent thing to do.

The sound of the shot spun around the burial chamber. The bodies in the pit seemed to tremble. Behind her, rats darted about in blind panic. Loose soil rained down from the roof of the tunnel. When the sound of the gunshot had dwindled to a hum, the Spirit looked down at the dead man and said, “
Lord have mercy on the souls in purgatory, and especially on those that are most forsaken; deliver them from the terrible torments they endure; call them and admit them to thy most sweet embrace in Paradise. Amen
.”

*   *   *

The Spirit of Darkness slept on Rawhead's bed, her head on his pillow.

The next day, she drove to Bedford and had Rawhead's keys copied. She also bought a new windowpane to replace the one she had broken. She fitted the pane herself, smearing the putty and glass with dust and ash, patiently covering her traces. When Rawhead returned, she wanted to give him a nice surprise. But what?

What did you give to the man who had killed everything?

Thirteen

Love Lives Beyond The Tomb

The Earth, The Flowers And Dew.

—“LOVE LIVES BEYOND THE TOMB,” JOHN CLARE (1793–1864)

“I don't get it,” said Brando.

“What don't you get?” said Rawhead.

They were standing in a one-bedroom flat above a dentist's surgery in West Didsbury. The flat was clean, furnished, and newly decorated. It didn't smell of anything but paint. There was a bathroom, a living room, a bedroom, and a kitchen. As well as a fridge, washing machine, and cooker, the kitchen even boasted a small dishwasher.

Brando looked at the keys in his hand, then raised his eyes to gaze warily at Rawhead. “You're setting me up like your girlfriend, that it? You drop by when you're passing, bring me flowers, and fuck me?”

“If it's all the same to you,” said Rawhead, “I'll just bring the flowers.”

“I can't take these keys off you till I know what this place is gonna cost me.”

“Nothing. It's one of Little Malc's properties. He's a small-time landlord. It's yours rent-free. All you have to do is pay the bills.”

“He told you to say that?”

“I told
him
to say that.”

“Why, though?” Brando walked to the window and looked out at the cars and the people. Not happy, just stunned. “There's going to be a fucking catch, man. What is it?”

“No catch.” Rawhead passed him a Browning 9mm and a box of cartridges.

“This is the catch?” said Brando. “You want me to shoot somebody?”

“Not unless they try to shoot you first.”

Brando turned the gun over in his hands, looking as worried as fuck.

“Look,” said Rawhead, sitting down on the bed. “Little Malc can't have people in his outfit sleeping in cars. It makes him look cheap. And it's not good for you. You need to look after yourself now. We need you fit and strong. That means plenty of rest and sleep. That's what this place is for.”

Brando held up the gun. “What about this?”

“You'll need to be armed. If you're going to be my second-in-command.”

“Your second-in-command?” asked Brando, shaking his head and laughing. “You're the boss, now, are you? What does that make Little Malc?”

“A funny little guy we all protect.”

“But Malc thinks he's in charge.”

“That's right,” said Rawhead. “And it's our job to pretend that he is.”

“This is getting weird.”

“It'll get weirder.”

Brando gave Rawhead a long, meditative stare. “Tell me something.… If you rate me, why'd you tell me to stay home that night?”

“What night?”

“The night someone tried to kill Malc. You knew something was going down, you told me to stay home. Why?”

“I knew if you were there, you'd try to intervene. I wanted me to be the hero, not you.”

Rawhead's mobile rang. He left Brando to look round the flat while he answered the call. It was Nikki. “I was wondering if you were doing anything tonight? Or whether you'd like to come round for something to eat? About eight?”

Rawhead made a quick calculation. By nine Nikki would be drunk. By ten she'd be in his arms and the final phase of Rawhead's plan to repay Billy Dye for his treachery would be under way.

“See you at eight,” he told her.

*   *   *

Billy was back in his hotel room, busily revising the third draft of the unspeakable piece of shit that he rather whimsically described as
Gangchester,
episode 3, when the phone rang. It was Artemesia, calling him to a meeting that afternoon.

“What time?” he said.

“Any time. Me and Tim are here until six.” She sounded despondent.

“Did you get a chance to read episode two?”

“Yes,” she said. “It's improved two hundred percent. You've thoroughly addressed all our script notes; we're all more than satisfied.”

“Oh. Great.” Relief and glee charged through him like a cocaine rush.

“Come as soon as you can,” she said.

Like most writers, Billy only had to hear words of praise in order to roll over onto his back like a puppy dog. Rather than wonder why it would be necessary to call a meeting to discuss satisfactory work, he focused on Artemesia's claim that the TV bastards were “more than satisfied” with his efforts. It was only when he met Artemesia waiting at Reception that alarm bells rang.

Her face was deathly pale and there were blue shadows under her eyes. It was not the face of a woman with something to celebrate.

Tim was waiting in Larry's office. When Billy entered, he smiled nervously. Billy noticed right away that there was no script in his lap. Billy turned to look at Artemesia and then at Tim. “OK. What is it?”

“We've been forcibly impressed by the quality of the rewrites,” said Tim.

“So impressed that the fucking show's been canceled,” said Billy.

They both looked sick, so he knew he was right. Billy sat down while Tim related the sad story. “It's Sheila's judgment—and we tend, reluctantly, to see her point—that the climate isn't right for a series about gangsters.”

“So it's not going to be on?”

“All those deaths in Salford,” said Tim, his voice quavering slightly.

“Shit.” Billy had to sit down.

“There have been other problems,” said Tim. “Larry's disappearance hasn't helped.”

“What?”

“Larry's been missing for quite a few days now. To make matters worse, we've been getting anonymous threats. ‘Screen this series and we'll cut off Sheila Burman's legs and ram them up her cunthole.' That sort of thing.”

The injustice of it all made Billy rage. “But I've taken out all the fucking violence! It's the first gangster story in history where absolutely nobody gets fucking hurt. Oh … I tell a lie.… Someone gets pushed against a lamppost in episode one.”

Tim and Artemesia stared back at him listlessly.

“No wonder British TV is such a pile of worm-ridden excrement! Everyone who works in it is either cowardly or thick,” said Billy. “No wonder the Americans wipe the fucking floor with us on every fucking level.”

Tim took exception to this. “Now, hang on. We're not the villains here.”

“Yes, you fucking are,” said Billy. “You're a gutless old maid with droopy balls. She's a silly posh girly who only got promoted by sucking Larry Crème's cock!”

Artemesia burst into tears. Tim held up a long forefinger. “There's absolutely no need for that. Throughout all this, Artemesia and I have been your staunchest allies.”

“Listen,” said Billy. “I know
exactly
how loyal you've been. Sheila Burman said the program was axed and you two said, ‘Yes, of course, Sheila; we understand and respect your decision.' You're a pair of spineless fucking twats and I hope you both get run over.”

*   *   *

After leaving Maddy with her mother for the night, Nikki went home to make herself beautiful. She shaved her legs, painted her nails, washed and conditioned her hair, spent ages choosing the right outfit. She was excited and petrified in equal measure, like a teenager preparing for a crucial date. She felt truly alive for the first time in many years.

After bathing in fragrant oils, she put on a dressing gown and cooked dinner, real homemade lasagna. The meal was Billy's favorite. But tonight, Billy wouldn't be eating it. While Nikki was preparing the sauce, she considered the wine. There was a decent bottle of Australian sparkling plonk in the fridge, but Nikki knew that Billy always hid a bottle or two of the real thing at the back of his wardrobe. It was one of the annoying little discrepancies in their relationship that therapy had made her aware of. When Nikki had something to celebrate—and she practically never did—they drank pinot noir chardonnay. Billy's little triumphs were always toasted with real champagne.