I Love My Smith and Wesson (8 page)

Irritated by the lack of response, Snowy tried again. “The Beast used to come in.”

“I knew him,” said Pest, without bothering to look up.

Pest was a little hook-nosed scumbag. When he was stoned, which was most of the time, he had a habit of threatening anyone in earshot. His companion, Jammer, was a tall, angular man who said little and, to his shame, hadn't had a fight since he was thirteen, when he'd been soundly thrashed during a dispute about a packet of jaffa cakes.

Pest and Jammer were both grammar school boys from the seventies who had deliberately dumbed down in the hope of being accepted into the criminal fraternity. It hadn't worked. Now they were middle-aged, bitter, and unemployed.

“That's right,” said Snowy, cig hanging from his mouth, pint of bitter in his hand. “Big bloke, quiet voice, horrible ginger hair.”

“My wife's ginger,” said Jammer.

“Oh, sorry,” said Snowy. “Didn't mean anything by it. Sometimes you can get very attractive red-haired people.”

“Not my wife,” said Jammer.

Pest nodded and smirked.

“He knows,” said Jammer, nodding to Pest. “He's fucked her.”

“Several times,” said Pest, shaking his head to dispel the memory.

Another customer came in, tall, wearing sportswear, ski goggles, and a woolly hat. Snowy glanced at him dismissively and continued his story.

“Anyway, the Beast comes in, has a couple of pints. Nice chap, we have a chat about football. Next thing I hear, he's dead. Apparently, he parked his car at the lights on Glossop High Street, up comes some little prick biker on a 125, and bang, shoots him fucking dead.”

“I heard it was the public bogs in Stockport,” said Pest. “He's having a piss; then the guy pissing next to him leans over and sticks a meat skewer through his neck.”

“I've just won fifty quid,” said Jammer.

“Half that money's mine,” said Pest, peering at the card covetously. He looked up at Snowy.

“The Beast wasn't shot,” said Jammer. “You're thinking of Mick the Lampshade. It was Mick who got shot in Glossop. No one knows what happened to the Beast. They never found his body. He disappeared along with Heidi, Doc, and Malcolm Priest. All dead in a fucking trunk somewhere.”

“Yeah? I heard Priest isn't dead,” said Snowy. “I heard he'd retired because he was getting too fat. They did liposuction on him, sucked off all the blubber. Now he lives in a French château with a gorgeous nineteen-year-old blonde. That's what I heard, anyway. He's a bit like Elvis. People keep getting sightings of him, but no fucker can pin him down.”

“I heard Elvis was dead,” said the stranger in the ski goggles.

“Fuck off,” said Pest. “Who asked you?”

The stranger shrugged and inched farther down the bar. “What can I get you?” said Snowy. He eyed the man in ski goggles sternly, as if to warn him that if he was no match for Pest, he was certainly no match for the yellow-toothed landlord of the Old Cow.

“Remy Martin. A double.”

Pest and Jammer, overhearing the order, sniggered at its ponciness.

Privately, Snowy was impressed by the stranger's request. Normally he catered for the worst inhabitants of Glossop, punters that were one step up from the meths bottle. Few of them had heard of champagne cognac, let alone drunk it. Despite his bizarre appearance, the stranger was clearly a man of discernment. Snowy pumped out two shots from a bottle encrusted with dust and grease. But for the sake of appearances he slammed the glass down insultingly and snatched the proffered note from the stranger's hand.

Pest wasn't about to let Snowy get off so lightly. “I don't know who you've been talking to … probably the cockroaches in your filthy fucking toilets. But anyone who's anyone in Manchester knows that Priest's dead.”

“Yeah?” said Snowy. “Well, it's facts that impress me. Not rumors.”

“What's more, everyone knows who fucking killed him,” continued Pest. “Rawhead. That's fucking who. The Priesthood was the greatest gang in Manchester. The greatest gang anywhere in the globe—Leeds, Newcastle, you fucking name it. Rawhead was this fucking legend; the law couldn't get near him.

“Then Mal Priest does something to piss him off and Rawhead goes on the rampage. Next thing you know, the Beast, Heidi, Priesty all vanish off the face of the earth.”

“Who the fuck was Rawhead?” said Snowy rhetorically. “No cunt knows.”

“He always wore a hood. That's what's so bloody clever about it,” marveled Jammer, wishing
he'd
thought of wearing a hood. “For all we know, Snowy could be Rawhead. I could be Rawhead.”

“No, you fucking couldn't,” said Pest. “
I
could. You couldn't.”

Jammer went quiet.

Pest wouldn't let it rest. “Who's number one? I am. Who's number two? You are. Repeat after me, ‘I'm number one; you're number two.'”

“I don't want to,” said Jammer.

“Say it!” warned Pest, spraying spittle across the bar.

Jammer shrugged. “I'm number one; you're number two.”

Pest pulled a Beretta. “You fucking what? Are you fucking saying you're better than me?”

“No,” admitted Jammer. “I was just repeating what you told me to say.”

Pest held the gun to Jammer's head. “Say ‘I'm a hairdresser.'”

“Pest.” Jammer sighed. “What're you pointing that at me for? You know as well as I do that gun ain't real.”

“Of course it's real. It's a real copy.” Pest placed the replica Beretta on the counter and shoved his empty glass over to Jammer. “It's your round, dear.”

“It was my round last time.”

“And it'll be your round every time, till kingdom fucking come, unless you stop behaving like my Aunty fucking Mabel.”

“These are on the house, lads,” said Snowy, not wanting another death on the premises just yet. “You were telling me about the Priesthood, Pest.”

“Now Chef's in charge of the gang,” said Pest. “No one sees him.”

“He's shared the power out with Little Malc, Priest's son,” said Jammer. “Chef lives out in Knutsford. Little Malc runs the club at Salford Quays.”

“It all comes down to money,” lamented Pest. “Without capital, you can't even set yourself up as a criminal no more. Little Malc inherits his dad's club—what do I inherit? Me mother's false teeth and the piss pot from under her fucking bed. Guys like me, with brains and balls but no fucking money, we're caught in the poverty trap.”

Pest thought he heard laughter to his right. He turned to ask the prat in the ski goggles what was so funny, but there was no one there.

*   *   *

It was after three on a dark January afternoon when Pest walked home to his lonely terraced hovel in old Glossop to sleep off the seven pints he'd drunk at lunchtime. A knackered-looking Ford Sierra was parked outside his front door. Pest didn't own a car but resented people parking outside his house. He kicked in the nearside headlamp as he passed it.

Pest entered his house, bent down to pick up the notice of eviction that was lying on the doormat, and felt something cold brush his left temple.

“Don't turn your head,” advised a calm, low voice.

The warning was uttered with such quiet conviction that Pest froze, remaining bent over the doormat. In the corner of his eye he could see something dark, and he knew that a handgun was touching his skull. “If this is about the money I owe Phil Haye, he'll get it back on Wednesday when I get me giro.”

“Get up and walk over to the sofa. Don't look at me. Just sit down.”

Slowly, Pest did what he was told. Rawhead, standing behind him, noticed that he was shaking. “There's an envelope on the sofa. Open it.”

Pest peered into the envelope. It was full of ten-pound notes. “What's this?”

“One hundred. You get the same again when the job's done.”

“What job?”

Rawhead dropped a Browning automatic over the back of the sofa. The gun had belonged to one of his victims. “Have you heard of Malcolm Priest Junior?”

“Fucking hell!” said Pest.

“Do you know what he looks like?”

“Yeah, but … he's in the fucking Priesthood.”

“Used to be. Let's just say Little Malc has passed his expiry date.”

There was silence as Pest struggled to absorb and interpret this information. If this was a commission from the Priesthood, perhaps glory beckoned. “Why don't you do it yourself?”

“I'm not here to satisfy your idle curiosity.”

“'Cause you don't want to get fucking shot,” sputtered Pest.

“Shut up and listen,” said Rawhead. “Little Malc is regular in his habits. He leaves his club every morning just after four. No one'll be with him. He has a driver who picks him up in a Rolls.”

“Does Little Malc carry a piece?”

“No.”

“What about the driver?”

“No. A hairpiece, maybe.”

Pest shook his head and lit a cig. “Maybe I've got a bad head for figures,” he said, “but two hundred don't seem enough for a job like this.”

Miraculously, a set of car keys fell into Pest's lap.

“Plus you get to keep the car that's parked outside.”

“That Sierra? Fucking hell! Why didn't you tell me before? I just smashed one of the fucking lights.”

“Should teach you to look after your things. As for the fee, it's the same for all hit men. Shit money at first; then the money gets better on the next job, when we know we can trust you.”

“You're making me a hit man?”

“Yeah.”

“For the Priesthood?”

Rawhead didn't answer.

“Even so,” mused Pest. “Two fucking hundred?”

“I don't see you getting any better offers.”

“And what if I say no?”

“Then you'd better lie down. Facedown on the floor.”

“No need, mate. I'll take the job. I'm up for it.”

“Lie down anyway.”

Pest forced a laugh. “I said I'd do the fucking hit, didn't I?” There was panic in his voice as he stretched out on the stained and ragged hearth rug. “I don't want to fucking lie down.”

“Facedown on the floor. Hands by your sides.”

Pest lay there for a long time, waiting and listening, inhaling the stale piss smell of the rug under his nose. Finally, emboldened by the heavy silence, he raised his head and looked around. The room was empty.

*   *   *

There was a full moon that night. Even Pest, who never noticed a fucking thing, saw how bright the moon was and the way it washed the streets of Glossop and the surrounding hills with milky blue light. He was shocked—he thought he hated nature. In fact, Pest thought he hated everyone and everything. Yet tonight life was a magical thing.

Just that lunchtime Pest had been the same old loser. Now he had a gun, not just a reconditioned copy. A genuine illegal firearm, with a full seven shots on the clip. Bang, one dead fuckface. Bang, another dead fuckface. Bang, bang, bang, three dead fuckfaces squealing in a row. Not only that, but he had wheels, licensed and insured until March. He had a hundred notes to spend on a single night out. In his own eyes, he had become a glamorous figure.

He'd arranged to meet a woman in the Old Cow, a divorcée called Margaret. She was in her forties, hard-faced, with a pointed, argumentative nose. According to Jammer, Pest had fucked her once after a party. Pest had no memory of this event. But the bitch kept phoning for no reason, so he supposed it must be true.

He ordered a chicken vindaloo for himself. As he was eating, he noticed Margaret was sulking.

“What's the matter with your fucking face?” he said.

“‘And what about you, Margaret?'” she answered. Doing an impression of Pest as a considerate suitor. “‘Would you like anything to eat, Margaret?' Yes, fucking thank you. Because I'm out with Pest, and he'd see me fucking starve before he'd offer me a meal!”

At first, Pest didn't know what she was talking about. Then the penny dropped. “What? You expect me to buy your fucking food?” He was so angry he grabbed her by the hair and tried to force her face down in his curry. It wasn't easy. She had strong neck muscles. So it really didn't look as good as Jimmy Cagney. But eventually he managed to thrust her argumentative nose into the vindaloo.

She slapped his shoulder and ran out screaming.

It was a Friday night. The pub was full. For a while, everyone stopped talking. When the chatter resumed, Snowy came over to Pest's table and said, “Out.”

“You fucking what?” said Pest, not understanding what the fuss was about.

“Out of my fucking pub,” said Snowy. “And don't come back.”

“OK. But I haven't finished eating. So give us me fucking money back,” said Pest.

Snowy walked off to the bar and returned with four quid.

“What's this?” said Pest.

“The meal cost seven ninety-five. You've eaten half of it, so there's half your money back.”

“What the fuck is the matter with you?” said Pest.

“I'll tell you, shall I? That woman you were with … her ex-husband is a fucking copper, you pillock. And you assaulted her?”

“Assault? She got a bit of curry sauce on her fucking conk.”

“You don't seem to understand, dickbrain. If this pub gets any more bad publicity, it gets closed down. That's my livelihood down the fucking Swanee. Now fuck off.”

“All right,” said Pest, getting to his feet. “Just one more thing.…”

And then he drew the Browning.

But before he could remove the safety catch, Snowy hit him. It was a wonderful direct punch in the mouth that sent Pest careering over chairs and tables. Pest tried to get up, but Snowy hit him again, this time splattering his nose. Pest was vaguely aware of being dragged through the narrow, crowded bar before being ejected into the cold night.