I Love My Smith and Wesson (26 page)

The torch fell first and the Spirit followed it, firing uselessly into the dark. She couldn't tell whether he had slipped or jumped, but Rawhead fell with her. Then they were both rolling in a maelstrom of limbs and jellied putrescence. The scarf had come loose. She opened her mouth to breathe, only to gulp down the foulest air she had ever tasted.

She fumbled around in the dark for the gun and accidentally placed her hand in what felt like a wet, cold mouth. She cried out and snatched her hand away.

A pale funereal glow defined the edges of the hole in the wall above. Thinking to climb to safety, she started to wade through the corpses, but they shifted and stirred as she moved, sucking her down. The more she struggled, the deeper she sank. When she was buried up to her waist, she felt Rawhead's hand curl around her throat. Just one enormous hand, squeezing the life out of her.

The torch lay close by, shining into a dead man's gaping face. She groped for it, thinking to use it as a weapon. Instead, she touched the illuminated head. The head rocked under her hand. The Spirit realized it was not attached to a body. Clutching the hair, she swung the skull round, smashing it into her enemy's face. Rawhead grunted and momentarily eased his grip. She hurled the head into the darkness he occupied and made another attempt to reach the wall.

This time she succeeded and began to climb, finding handholds where there were none. She was halfway up the wall when he grabbed her right foot and dragged her back down into the odorous mass.

She lunged at him, punching wildly, snarling in his face like a crazed animal. Rawhead responded by locking her in a deathly embrace that pinioned her arms and made further resistance impossible. Even then, she still found the strength to butt him in the face. His grip tightened, and he moved forward, forcing her down. Now she was on her back and he was lying on top of her.

It was then that Rawhead kissed her. It was not a kiss of conquest or mockery. It was a tender, searching kiss that asked a simple question. When it was over, Rawhead rolled off her and waited.

The Spirit leaned over and returned the kiss. And then, their brief courtship over, the two murderers consummated their love on a bed of human carrion.

*   *   *

It had been the Spirit's idea for Rawhead to play dead.

When the Philosopher had viewed the body and Chef and his men had gone, the Spirit dropped a rope through the gap in the wall. Rawhead threw aside the cold entrails he'd borrowed from Sirus and tore off his maggot-infested clothes. Then, naked, he climbed to safety. He took a long, hot shower to wash away the stench of death. Later, in clean clothes, he took tea with the Spirit in the parlor.

The Spirit stood in the center of the room. Rawhead was sitting on the sofa. “Congratulations. You're now officially a corpse,” she announced in her leisurely, unexcitable drawl. “What are your plans?”

“I'm going to create the greatest gang Manchester has ever seen.”

“Yeah? Who's the front man?”

“Little Malc.”

When the Spirit had finished laughing, Rawhead said, “I'm not joking. He's personable. People like him.
I
like him.”

“And he's easy to manipulate.”

“Yeah. Let someone else have the glory. I'll just have the money.”

“Why not take the reins yourself?”

“I've dabbled in public life,” he declared flatly. “It doesn't suit me.”

She sat down beside him. “And what's Chef going to think about this? Do you have any idea what you're starting?”

“Yes. I'm starting a full-scale war. You're going to help me.”

“How?”

“You can stay at home and do the cleaning and the ironing.”

She didn't laugh.

“We'll be partners, working side by side. For the time being, you can carry on working for Chef,” said Rawhead. “It'd help to have someone in the enemy camp.”

“This may surprise you,” she said, “but I was hoping to retire.”

He shook his head. “One hundred thousand isn't enough to retire on.”

“I'm getting double that.”

Rawhead shot her a sideways glance. “I think you're forgetting my share.”

After a moment's pause, she nodded. “But remember, money can't buy you happiness.”

Rawhead smiled. “Maybe I'm not looking for happiness.”

Seventeen

Love, thou art Absolute sole lord

Of Life & Death.

—“A HYMN TO THE NAME AND HONOUR OF THE ADMIRABLE SAINTE TERESA,” RICHARD CRASHAW (1613–49)

Little Malc hadn't been sleeping well. When he did sleep, it was only for an hour at a time. On the night of Rawhead's visit, Malc had returned from the club early. He was in bed by two. By 3:15 he was awake again, so tense that he could hardly breathe. He didn't need pills. He knew what the problem was.

At 3:30 Little Malc went downstairs to make himself a drink and there was the problem, sitting in his favorite armchair. Rawhead in a long black coat, looking relaxed and at home. Little Malc turned gray at the sight of him.

“Sorry I haven't been at work,” said Rawhead, “but I'm back now.”

“How did you get in?”

“Chubb locks are very easy to pick.”

Little Malc just stared at him.

“I know I shouldn't come into your home like this; I'm sorry,” said Rawhead calmly. “But, for the time being, I can't be seen at the club. And I needed to talk to you.”

Little Malc stood there for a few moments, not daring to move. A short guy in a dressing gown that exposed his hairless chest and his fat pink legs. When the spell broke and Malc walked into the kitchen, Rawhead followed him.

“I'm making some tea,” said Malc. “Do you want some?”

“Sure.”

Little Malc opened a drawer. When he turned round, there was a large carving knife in his hand. He took a lunge at Rawhead, who grabbed Malc's wrist and twisted it expertly. The knife clattered to the floor. Childishly determined, Little Malc stooped to retrieve it. Rawhead kicked the knife out of reach.

“You've been talking to Chef,” said Rawhead.

“He told me you were dead. You fucking deserve to be,” said Little Malc. “I know who you are; I know what you've done.”

“What have I done?” said Rawhead. Making him say it out loud.

“You killed my dad. Didn't you? You murdering cunt.”

“No.”

“You are a lying fucking bastard.”

“I never touched your father. I tried, but I could never get near him. He was killed by someone close to him.”

“I know it was…” Little Malc tried to say “you.” He was so nervous that the word mutated into an enormous belch.

“Chef killed your old man,” said Rawhead. “Everyone in Manchester seems to know that apart from you.”

“You evil twat!” Little Malc flew at Rawhead, fists flailing. Rawhead didn't retaliate, just slapped Little Malc's hands away until he got tired.

“Chef likes setting people on fire. That's what he did to your father.”

“No, he didn't! He didn't!” It was almost a plea.

“I promise you, I absolutely swear, that I'm telling you the truth.”

“Get out. Get out of my house.”

Rawhead unbuttoned his coat. From his belt he removed a gun with a very long barrel.

“I've got a family,” blurted Little Malc.

“I know,” said Rawhead.

He opened the cylinder to show Little Malc the fat shiny cartridges, then passed him the gun.

“What's this for?”

“I'm putting my life in your hands. That's how much I trust you. If you can't trust me, then you may as well pull the trigger.”

Little Malc meant to do it. He truly did. With a trembling hand he pointed the cowboy gun at Rawhead's heart and was about to shoot when he thought how much his wife and his little girls would miss him when he was in prison. Then he wondered if Chef would ever take the kind of risk that Rawhead was taking now. Little Malc knew the answer before he asked himself the question.

Then Little Malc thought of that special way Chef's men had of looking at him, their expressions wavering between pity and scorn. He imagined his dad, screaming as he burned to death. Little Malc put down the gun and started to cry.

Rawhead held him while he sobbed.

“I'm fucked,” wailed Little Malc. “Everything's fucking well fucked.”

“Listen to me,” said Rawhead. “You're going to rule this city. Just like your father before you.”

When the tears subsided, Rawhead passed Malc a piece of kitchen towel. Little Malc blew his nose. “You mean it? You really see me as a leader?”

“It's your destiny,” said Rawhead.

*   *   *

Once a month, Chef's men toured the bars and restaurants of Manchester, picking up goodwill. Goodwill was their name for the regular payments received from businesses in the city center. Generally, people showed goodwill, knowing that if they didn't, they'd end up in a hospital bed, suffering from criminal damage, only to die of criminal neglect.

There was little violence. The Priesthood stayed away from Moss Side and Chinatown, leaving the blacks and the Chinese to be exploited by their own kind. The rest of Manchester was theirs.

Chef didn't like to think of it as fear money. He preferred to think of it as legitimate sponsorship. The city's publicans and restaurateurs were sponsoring his efforts to make Manchester safe at night. This meant maiming any thief, dealer, or pimp who wasn't Priesthood-approved. In his own way, Chef did as much to clean up the streets as any policeman.

To Chef's men, picking up goodwill payments was demeaning work. In exchange for a small reduction, many of the city's businesses had been persuaded to contribute by direct debit. This way, the monthly donations went into a Priesthood bank account without the need for unsavory human contact. But this always left people like Dad Cheeseman who didn't have a bank account and only ever dealed in cash.

So, every month, someone had to tour the town in person.

This month it was Average's turn.

Average was not in a good mood. He'd become a gangster for the thrills. Collecting rent from paupers and old men in bad wigs was not his idea of excitement. Plus the fucking sun was shining, his fucking balls were itching, and a gold tooth he'd recently had fitted was beginning to fucking well hurt.

So when Average walked into Dad's place and found a nigger sitting alone at the bar, he was not happy. The nigger looked vaguely familiar. He was acting familiar, too, sipping a nice cool beer and acting like he owned the place.

“Hey, chimp. Where's the fucking zookeeper?”

“In the elephant house, feeding your wife,” said the nigger amiably.

Average was annoyed. Chimps were not supposed to be funnier than white men. It went against nature.

“Aren't there any human beings around I can talk to?” said Average.

The cool nigger just smiled.

“Where's Dad?”

“Dad put me in charge.”

“Then give us the money and I might let you live.”

“Well, there's a slight problem,” said the nigger. Still calm. Still polite. “Mr. Cheeseman isn't happy with the service he's been getting. So he's taken his business elsewhere.”

“Get mourned!”

“It's his right as a consumer. This is a free market economy. If a man pays for protection, he's entitled to protection. Mr. Cheeseman got messed up pretty good by some people you know, and you boys didn't do a thing about it.”

“So fucking what?”

“Also, your boss gave my boss his blessing. He told Malc to go ahead, set up his own outfit, if he could find anyone to back him.”

“Even if he did, what's it fucking got to do with you?” said Average. “You're a nigger. The niggers rule Moss Side, end of fucking story.”

“Yeah. But I'm a nigger of the future. I work with white guys.”

“Then you're a fucking Uncle Tom.” Average suddenly remembered where he'd seen the guy before. “I know you. I've seen you at Little Malc's.” He laughed in derision. “You work on the door; you're a fucking doorknob. Ha! I
knew
I'd fucking seen you.”

“You got me, man. I work for Little Malc. My name's Brando.” Brando extended his hand in friendship.

Average didn't want to play. “And I'm fucking James Dean. Brando? Ha! That's a fancy name for a fucking nigger doorknob.”

Still laughing, Average tried to walk round the bar to the till. That was when it happened.

If a fighter's good, you don't see the blow coming. All you feel is the impact. That was what happened to Average. He heard a rustle of fabric and felt a whump on his chin that rattled his brains and blurred his vision. It was a straight left jab, but to Average it felt like running headlong into a concrete post. Wrestling with nausea, he was forced to seize the counter to stop himself falling.

The cool nigger was very nice about it. He steered Average onto a bar stool and poured him a nice glass of chilled mineral water. “Sorry, man. I got my orders, just like anyone else.”

Average sipped the water. He didn't say anything, didn't know what the fuck to say anyway. After a few deep breaths, he got up and started walking.

Seeing that the guy was unsteady, Brando escorted him to the stairs. All the way, you could see Average plotting his counterattack. It was that obvious. He waited until they were at the top of the stairs; then he grabbed Brando's neck and tried to ram his head into the wall.

Brando slapped Average's hand away and punched him again. Not hard, just hard enough. Average fell down the stairs backward, hitting his head on every riser until he reached the bottom. It was like a scene from
Laurel and Hardy
. Except when Stan and Olly fell downstairs, they didn't spatter blood on the walls.

*   *   *