I Love My Smith and Wesson (27 page)

Early the next morning, the police let Billy go. He arrived home to find Rawhead parked outside his house. Rawhead was sitting in his BMW, reading Billy's latest novel. Billy opened the car door and sat beside him. Rawhead's face was cold and stern.

“Did you tell them anything?” said Rawhead.

“Did I tell who what?”

“Don't shit me, Billy. They took you in for questioning.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the police never tidy up after themselves. Your house is wrecked; they've searched every inch of it. So I'm guessing they put you in a cell while they ripped up your floorboards.”

Billy swallowed nervously. Rawhead remained still, not moving his eyes from Billy's face. “So what did you tell them?”

“Nothing,” said Billy. “Not about you, not about me. Absolutely fuck all.”

Rawhead nodded. He could see that Billy was telling the truth.

“I only told them stuff they could check. That Malcolm Priest hired me as a ghostwriter. And that people only started dying after Priest had sacked me.”

“That's good,” said Rawhead. “That's very good. There may be hope for you yet.”

*   *   *

That afternoon Rawhead drove Billy and his daughter to Slippery Stones near Macclesfield Forest. They ambled beside the brook on a mild, sunny afternoon. There was no one else in sight. Rawhead and Maddy threw stones into the water. Billy, suddenly overcome, couldn't stop crying.

Rawhead picked up the child in his left arm. With his free hand he passed Billy a tissue. Billy blew his nose loudly. “This is really where she's buried? It's beautiful. You couldn't have picked a nicer spot.”

Rawhead nodded. “But I'm not going to tell you exactly where the grave is. Because you're too much of a blabbermouth. So don't ask me.”

“OK.”

“You're doing the right thing, Billy. Nikki wouldn't have wanted you to go to prison. As long as you continue to keep your mouth shut, you'll be fine.”

“What did you do with the gun?”

“No one will ever find it.”

“I loved that Smith & Wesson.”

“I think you loved your wife more.”

“God, yeah.” Billy tried to smile.

Rawhead wasn't angry with Billy anymore. All he felt now was affection.

Maddy had dropped the soft toy she was holding. Rawhead stooped to pick it up and Billy noticed the scar tissue on the back of his hand. The words tumbled out before Billy had time to consider them. “And to think I tried to kill you.”

For an instant Rawhead tensed and a shadow crossed his barbarous face. Then the danger passed. Pressing the toy into Maddy's hands, he looked directly into Billy's eyes. “That's all in the past, now.”

Billy shook his head in disbelief. “You knew what I'd done and you still stood by me. Why?”

Rawhead smiled. The smile contained nothing but warmth.

“I mean, look at me,” said Billy. He was crying again. “I'm a twat! A walking disaster. Anything good happens to me, I destroy it. What the fuck do you see in me?”

Rawhead glanced down, saw that Billy was wearing his ring. “Myself,” he answered simply.

*   *   *

Chef and the Philosopher went to visit Average in hospital, where he was being treated for concussion and a bruised ego. They took him a box of chocolates and a glossy car magazine. Average, bandaged around the head and midriff, lay on his bed in a fetid, overcrowded ward.

“This is what happens if you don't take out medical insurance,” joked the Philosopher.

Average didn't laugh. Briefly, in a hoarse and weary voice, he related what had happened. Then he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep.

Later, walking out to the car park, the Philosopher suggested disciplining Little Malc before things got out of hand. “We could chop the bastard's legs off. Call it ‘reasonable chastisement.' Do it now, right away, so everyone knows what he's being punished for. I'd happily do it myself.”

Chef unlocked the Rolls and eased himself into the back. “It's too late for that.”

Chef took out his phone and called the bank, hoping to stop the check he'd paid the Spirit. The check had already cleared. Chef sighed and lit a cigarette. The Philosopher knew this was a bad sign. Chef only smoked when he was troubled.

“What's the problem?” said the Philosopher.

“Just a feeling.” Chef turned to scrutinize the Philosopher, noticing the lines around his eyes, the faint stubble on his jaw. “Maybe you should tell me now.”

“Tell you what?”

“Exactly what you saw in that house.”

The Philosopher breathed in and out. “There was a cellar. You know those mass graves in Iraq and Bosnia?”

Requiring no further explanation, Chef nodded and rolled down his window. He blew smoke out into the crisp, cold air.

“That woman,” said the Philosopher. “She's the Spirit. Am I right?”

Chef nodded cagily.

“And she really killed all those people by herself?”

“No.” Chef smiled. “No, that was Rawhead's house. The Spirit killed Rawhead. Any other bodies you saw down there were down to him.”

“Then that guy was something else. I mean, you and me, we've done bad things, right? But nothing on that scale. We're absolute fucking choirboys compared to that.”

“But it's over now. He's dead,” said Chef. “You said so. You saw the body.”

“I think I did.”

“You
think
?” Chef rolled his eyes furiously. “Four days ago you were certain.”

“It was that guy who came to the restaurant with Little Malc. So if he was Rawhead, that's who I saw.”

Chef still wasn't happy.

“What's up?” said the Philosopher.

“Like I said, just a feeling. I want you to phone round our friends in Leeds and London. See who they've got going spare. We need new people. They need to be able to shoot. Tell 'em we'll pay top prices for the right men. Can you do that?”

“Sure. Why, though?”

Chef gazed out of the window, his eyes black, his long jaw resolute. “I think we've got a war on our hands.”

*   *   *

The Spirit had a flat at Salford Quays, in comfortable walking distance from Diva and Little Malc. Rawhead drove there to pick her up. It was a Sunday afternoon.

She came to the door in a black dress, smelling of parma violets. She was carrying his copy of
Dracula
. “Thought you might like this back.”

“I imagined you'd have sold it at Sotheby's by now,” he said.

She looked shocked. “Sold a priceless masterpiece? Never. Someone rich and stupid might have bought it.”

He passed the book back to her. “Here. It's yours.”

“Why?”

“It's just a book,” he said. “It's made of paper. And you're real.”

There was suspicion in the Spirit's dark eyes as she slipped the precious volume into her bag.

They got into the car and sat there. Rawhead had never had a real date in his life. He hardly knew what to say to her. “I don't even know your name.”

“The Spirit of Darkness,” she said. “But you can call me Spirit.”

“Pleased to meet you. I'm Rawhead.”

“What's your real name?”

“What's yours?”

She didn't answer. They stared at each other for a long time.

“OK, Spirit,” he said finally. “Where do you want to go?”

“I'm easy,” she said.

“Somehow, I doubt that,” he answered.

“Go anywhere you like,” she said. “I really don't care.”

Rawhead took her to meet his landlady.

Mrs. Munley was delighted to see them both. Blissfully unaware that she was in the presence of the Spirit of Darkness, Mrs. Munley referred to the striking young woman on her sofa as Rawhead's “young lady.”

“And would your young lady care for a piece of battenburg, Victor?”

“Her name's Spirit, mum.”

“‘Spirit.' Oh, very unusual. I suppose it must be one of those modern names.” Mrs. Munley almost curtseyed as she passed the Spirit a slice of cake. “In my day, girls were called Elsie or Doris.”

They took tea together, the old woman and her guests, the two most formidable executioners in the world.

“Victor's kept very quiet about you. How long have you two been courting?” Mrs. Munley asked the Spirit.

“Since the dawn of time,” said the Spirit, without irony.

“Oh. Very nice.”

The tall lean man with the shining eyes knew what the Spirit meant. It was as if their relationship had always existed. He looked at her now and felt a strange, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Was he blessed or cursed? Rawhead wasn't sure.

All Rawhead knew was that he had found his woman. Now they would love and kill together. The loving had spanned many lifetimes. But the killing had barely begun.

Glossary of Priesthood Slang

Altar boy
—probationary gang member.

Blue Swoon, The
—heaven, the afterlife (see
swoon
).

Box
—Kill.

Boxed set
—sequence of related hits.

Car
—a self-propelled road vehicle, usually with four wheels.

Chimp
—any person of ethnic origin; also used as a verb for disrespect, as in “don't chimp me.”

Cracked out
—driven insane, usually by drugs.

Deeply sadden
—beat a victim senseless. Also used for near-fatal wounding.

Doorknob
—bouncer.

Dribbler
—old-age pensioner.

Feed
—money.

Goodwill
—protection money.

Jesus
—police officer on the take.

Juice
—high-quality. As in “Rawhead is a juice murderer.”

Mourned
—dead, as in “get mourned” meaning “drop dead,” or “he got mourned,” meaning “he died.”

Reap
—less common variant of
box
.

Revved
—under the influence of drugs.

Sadden
—beat someone up (see
deeply sadden
)

Sadhouse
—prison.

Scud
—semen; also name for prison officer (see
seeing Sidney
).

Seeing Sidney
—doing time, based on the custom of calling all prison officers Sidney Scud.

Skew
—extortion, particularly by a loan shark, hence “on the skew.”

Skewed out
—penniless.

Sop
—acolyte, hanger-on.

Spack(s)
—police officer, the police force in general.

Spacko
—second-rate or dishonorable.

Stink
—a prostitute.

Swoon
—die.

Tony
—coward posing as a tough guy, after Tony Blair, British prime minister.

Tool
—bodyguard, henchman.

Tug-boy
—male addicted to masturbation.

Weebie
—weak or cowardly person.

Also by David Bowker

The Death You Deserve

 

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The Death You Deserve

“Bowker concocts a heady blend of satire and action.… Bowker's tight, smart style keeps the action clipping along, and his characters range from tragically hip to comically thuggish. For readers who like their mobsters with a side order of smart satire writing—and these days, who doesn't?—Bowker is a welcome addition to the U.S. scene.”

—Publisher Weekly

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—Lee Child,
New York Times
bestselling author of
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The Death You Deserve
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—Book Sense 76 Mystery

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—Midwest Book Review

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—
Heartland Reviews

“Bowker is an evocative writer.… Bowker is a modern author, who has embraced the ‘eeriness' common with the founders of modern horror. This blending is mostly successful and should help create numerous fans.”

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Reviewingtheevidence.com

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… Bowker's wit is hilarious. His characters are real yet sidesplittingly funny.… Can be read in an afternoon with a thirst for more … a great read.”

—
Bookreporter.com

“A compulsive read that tackles some hard issues along the way.”

—
Daily Mirror

“[
The Death You Deserve
] is a deftly drawn masterpiece—well written, with a contemporary twist and some of the author's inimitable black comedy thrown in.… A perfectly paced roller-coaster ride. If you care about world peace, don't read this book.”