To Die For Read online

  It was something she never understood.

  ‘You take what you need,’ I said. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘That’s cynical.’

  She was still fiddling with her food, not looking at me.

  ‘Is it?’

  She looked up and there was something in the way her eyes were shaped, like she was sad or something.

  ‘Poor old Joe,’ she said. ‘Heading for the breaker’s yard.’

  ‘I’ve got a way to go yet.’

  ‘You couldn’t have been like that all your life. That cynical. There must have been a day once when you wanted to do something else. What did you want to be when you were a boy?’

  I told her I’d done woodwork at school. I’d liked making something with my hands. It was the only good thing that school ever taught me.

  She’d ask me that kind of thing sometimes, and talk about what she wanted to do and what we could do together.

  ‘You could have been a carpenter, Joe. You still can. You can do a course. They do courses in all sorts of things.’

  She’d talk like that, like everything was possible, like we could start again. Sometimes I almost believed her.

  One time, I got to thinking about what she’d said. I had the feeling that she wanted me to help her get out from under Frank Marriot. So I went to see him.

  He had a large office at the back of a strip club along a narrow side street in Soho. The place was quiet when I went in, only a few staff getting the place ready. A couple of the girls were sitting around, chatting, smoking. I ignored the bloke at the bar who asked me what I wanted. I went into the back.

  The office was cluttered with boxes of magazines and photos and videos. There were grey filing cabinets and a computer and desk next to a window which looked out on to a brick wall over the road. In some ways it was like a million other small businesses up and down the country. In some ways.

  Paget was in the office when I entered, leaning against the wall by the door. There was no reason for him to be there, as far as I could see. But he stayed where he was, and watched me through slit-like eyes.

  Marriot sat behind his desk, scanning one of his magazines, making notes on a pad.

  ‘Hello, Joe,’ he said, all bright and breezy. ‘Nice surprise. I thought I’d see you again. I told Kenny, didn’t I, Ken? I said, Joe’ll come round sometime, have a word.’

  ‘You did,’ Paget said.

  ‘You been thinking about my offer?’ Marriot said.

  ‘I want Brenda off your books.’

  He put the magazine down.

  ‘Do you?’ he said. ‘Well, sure, I can understand that. Young couple like you, in love, whole world ahead of you, full of promise.’

  ‘I want her off.’

  Paget made a noise. I turned to look at him. His lips thinned. I think he was laughing.

  Marriot sat back. He pulled his glasses off his face, wiped them on his tie.

  ‘Any reason?’

  ‘Lots of them.’

  ‘Any reason in particular?’

  ‘Why do you care?’

  He slid his glasses back on to his sour-looking face.

  ‘I have to think about Brenda, you see. I’m sort of responsible for her. I have to wonder if you’re here off your own bat, perhaps what you want her to do is not in her best interests. I’m just looking out for her. Right, Kenny?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So, give me a reason I can understand.’

  ‘Fuck reasons,’ I said. ‘I’m not asking your permission. She’s out.’

  ‘Well, if it’s what she wants.’

  ‘It’s what she wants.’

  ‘You sure about that, Joe? Because I don’t think she wants to leave. All them blokes. I think she’s having too much fun.’

  I reached over and grabbed him by the front of his cheap suit and hauled him up out of his seat and pulled him over the desk. It was the first time I saw him lose that smug look.

  I pulled my fist back. Then something cold touched the back of my head. I could hear Paget breathing close to my ear.

  ‘I squeeze, your head blows apart,’ he whispered. ‘I’m good at squeezing.’

  I dropped Marriot and walked out.

  When I told Brenda what I’d done, she was angry with me. I didn’t understand why.

  We were at her place. I was washing the plates; she was drying. I’d gone over for a meal and afterwards I’d told her what I’d told Marriot. She stopped drying the saucepan she was holding and slammed it down.

  ‘What did you do that for? Did I ask you to do it?’

  ‘I thought you wanted to quit.’

  ‘I do, it’s just...’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘It’s not that easy.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Please, Joe. Forget about it, eh?’

  ‘It’s a dangerous business. You know that. You know what they’re like, the blokes you go with.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she said, like she was talking to a child.

  ‘Tell me, then.’

  Marriot was in with some serious people, she said. He didn’t like his girls leaving him, she said. She was doing okay, she said.

  The more she said all that, the more I thought she was lying, making excuses. I didn’t push it. I washed, she wiped. She didn’t leave Marriot.

  ‘I’ve got a date,’ she’d say. She always called them that – dates – as if love was involved. Maybe it was easier for her that way. ‘Some businessman,’ she’d say, ‘posh type,’ or, ‘some copper Marriot’s got on the roll,’ or, one time, ‘some funny little bloke. I seen him around the place.’

  It went like that. She talked about them like I talked about jobs I did. Some jewellers, some bank in Stepney, some fucking thing.

  If ever we went out, I never took her to places we both knew, places where we might run into Marriot or Paget. I thought I’d do something stupid if I came across them. Brenda never said anything about it, but I got the feeling she understood.

  One time, I took her to see a fight. She didn’t like it and we left early. On the way out, we bumped into Browne.

  ‘How are the headaches?’ he said. ‘Are they getting worse?’

  I shrugged.

  He saw Brenda and introduced himself.

  ‘I’m the one who used to fix him up,’ he told her. ‘So that he could get back in the ring the next bloody night and get more of his brain pummelled to mulch.’ He saw the look on her face. ‘Take no notice of me,’ he said. ‘Joe’s all right. To be honest, there’s not much up there to damage.’

  Outside, Brenda asked me about the headaches. I told her that it was just what happened when you’d fought for a long time like I’d done.

  ‘Do you take anything for them?’

  ‘Codeine sometimes. If they’re bad.’

  ‘Are they getting worse?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She was quiet for a while. I could see that she wanted to say something, but she didn’t seem to have the words.

  ‘All that fighting, Joe,’ she said finally.

  She hooked her arm in mine and we walked through the night. She didn’t say anything, but every now and then she’d tighten her hold on my arm, pull herself closer to me.

  She never again mentioned my work or my lifestyle or her work or the pain of life.

  Sometimes, when we were sitting watching TV, or in a pub, she would get a faraway look in her eyes. She wouldn’t say anything in those moments, but her mouth would frown now and then, and her eyes would seem startled one second, angry the next, like her face was having a conversation with itself. I wondered what she was thinking when she went quiet like that. I should’ve asked her.

  19

  I opened my eyes and didn’t know where I was. It took me a long time to work out that I was in a cab, and that I was alone. I was cold.

  My head was fuggy, thoughts far off. The cab rolled through dark empty suburban streets, grey and bleary through the fogged-up window. I watched
it all like a man watches his face age.

  I was starting to remember. I was going back to Browne’s. I’d been to see Eddie. People wanted me dead.

  I thought about the meeting with Eddie. Something he’d said twitched inside my mind.

  I was wondering what that something was when the cab stopped in front of Browne’s. I reached forward and paid the cabbie and everything swam around me. As I fell out of the taxi, I realized that the wet feeling beneath my shirt was more than sweat.

  I had a key to Browne’s place, but it was more than I could do to get the bloody thing out and put it into the keyhole. I banged on the door. I was surprised when I stumbled into the house. Browne muttered something that I didn’t catch. My body weighed half a ton now and I had trouble dragging it to the kitchen. Browne followed me.

  ‘Sit down, for God’s sake,’ he said. ‘What the hell have you done?’

  I collapsed on to the seat. I followed Browne’s eyes and saw the blood seeping from my arm, dripping on to the floor.

  ‘You’ve broken the bloody stitches,’ he said, pulling off my jacket.

  The left side of my shirt was thick with blood. Browne fiddled about with my arm.

  ‘No hospital.’

  ‘No hospital. I know. What the hell were you doing going out? You’re lucky to be alive. I don’t know how there’s a drop of blood left in you.’

  He packed tea towels around my arm and went off for bandages.

  It was then that I saw the girl standing in the doorway. I’d forgotten about her. What was it Browne had called her? Kid? I was supposed to ask her some questions, wasn’t I? I couldn’t think what they might be. She stared at the blood with eyes wide with awe and horror, as if she was looking at the terrible slaying of an animal.

  ‘Why are you still here?’ I said to her.

  Her eyes moved up from the blood.

  ‘I cannot go, sir.’

  She pronounced the words exactly, hitting the ‘t’ and ‘s’ with neatness. There was an African accent. I didn’t know what country it was from. I could have asked her, but I didn’t care enough.

  ‘Don’t call me “sir”.’

  She wanted something, but I didn’t know what it was, and I didn’t want to know.

  ‘What shall I call you?’ she said, looking directly at me, arms straight by her side as if she was talking to a teacher or master or something.

  ‘Don’t call me anything,’ I said. My face was cold and clammy. ‘Just go.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  My head was light, floating up to the ceiling. My body was lead. I wondered if Browne had given me something. I was trying to remember if he’d stuck me with a needle. I remembered that something had been on my mind, but I couldn’t get a fix on it. I could hardly stay upright in my seat. And the damned girl was there, staring at me, telling me she couldn’t go. Couldn’t? What the fuck did she want?

  ‘Why?’ I asked her.

  I didn’t hear an answer. I felt myself slump forward in the seat. I saw her hand reach out towards me. She touched my arm as I fell and hit the floor.

  I woke with a start. Something was touching my right hand. It was dark and I was still light-headed. I wasn’t sure now that it had been anything after all. A dream, maybe.

  After a few seconds, or a few hours, I realized I was lying down. I was back on the mattress. I didn’t know how I’d got there. The room was black. There was a weight on my chest. I wanted to sit up, but something was pushing me down. My left side was numb.

  I lay still for a while, drifting in and out of sleep. Thoughts came to me, tangled with dreams, and were gone before I could make them out. But always, far off, was a feeling of doom, like I was heading for some black hole lying in the black night. It was like it had been all those years ago, walking through the fog, knowing that somewhere ahead of me, maybe only a few yards, soldiers were waiting to cut me in two with their automatic fire.

  When I woke again, I knew what the weight was. I could hear her breathing. I tried to lift her off, but I didn’t have the strength. She was facing my right side, my good side, curled up, her knees to her chin, her head on my chest. She’d placed herself as far from my damaged arm as she could.

  I could feel her heartbeat in my chest. Her hand held mine. She murmured something. I couldn’t hear what. She twitched. She was so light I could lift her up inches just by breathing in. She was thin. I could feel her bones digging into me.

  I slept again and she became a part of the confusion, part of the knot of thoughts and fears, and even while I wasn’t aware of what moved through my mind, I knew she was danger.

  When I next woke, it was daylight. I had the feeling I’d been in and out of consciousness for a couple of days. My arm was painful, but the pain had dulled a lot. I tried to flex my fingers. They moved, but not much. They felt swollen and awkward, and I couldn’t make a fist. Someone had pumped my hand full of hot water.

  I remembered the girl sleeping on my chest. Or I thought I remembered it. I might have dreamed it.

  I listened and heard nothing but the odd car rumble past. The house was quiet and had the feeling of emptiness. I stared up at the ceiling and let my head gradually clear.

  A few hours later, I heard the front door open and close. Browne looked in on me as he passed the room.

  ‘This time you stay there,’ he said.

  ‘How long...?’

  ‘It’s Sunday. That means you’ve been out a couple of days, in case you can’t work it out.’

  He carried on through to the kitchen. It took me a second to see the girl standing in the doorway. She had a strange way of looking at me, always with that amazed and scared stare. And there was something else, something that I didn’t understand. She left then and came back a minute later with a mug in her hands. She came over to me, held the mug out.

  ‘Tea,’ she said, as if she thought I’d never heard of tea before.

  I heaved myself into an upright position and took the mug from her. My throat was dry and my mouth tasted like something dead had gone to live there and died all over again. I gulped the tea. It was sweet, tasted good. When I’d finished, the girl took the mug and held it with both hands, her wide eyes moving from my battered shoulder to my battered face. I thought she’d shrink from the sight of me. I thought she’d move away in fear. Most people did, one way or another. But she just stood there, holding the mug.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ I said.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Everybody wants something.’

  She looked down at the mug in her hands.

  ‘Why did you help me?’ I said.

  That question had been sitting at the back of my mind since the night of the shooting. I didn’t know why that was. I didn’t know why I’d care.

  She shook her head a bit. She looked up.

  ‘I’m sorry I shot you,’ she said, as if that explained everything. ‘I think that you will be okay.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  She didn’t want to answer that. She didn’t seem to want to answer anything I asked. Normally, that would have been okay with me, but this was different. The police were after me for multiple murder; Cole was after me for a million hard cash that I didn’t have; Beckett and Walsh and Jenson and Simpson were dead; Kendall was dead; I was wanted by everyone and running out of money and, on top of all that, this scrawny child had put a hole in my shoulder that felt as if acid was eating its way through.

  ‘Where’d you get the gun?’

  ‘It was there.’

  ‘Where? In the wardrobe?’

  ‘On the bed.’

  ‘Beckett’s?’

  ‘I do not know Beckett.’

  ‘He was the man... he was the one called John.’

  ‘John. Yes.’

  ‘Was it his gun?’

  ‘I do not know, sir.’

  ‘Christ, stop calling me “sir”. Why did you take it? The gun.’

  She wouldn’t look at me now. She gripped the mug tight
ly as if losing it would cost her everything.

  ‘I was scared,’ she said so quietly I could hardly hear her. ‘I thought... I thought you had...’

  ‘Had what?’

  ‘Had come to take me.’

  When she looked up, I saw that she was crying. She ran from the room.

  Browne passed her on his way in. He looked at me.

  ‘I told you to be careful with her.’

  Christ.

  ‘I’m going to need a new car,’ I said. ‘Clothes. A few things.’

  ‘I don’t have a car. And I don’t think my clothes would fit you.’

  ‘In my bag, there’s money in an envelope.’

  Browne’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Money? Where’d you get money?’

  ‘Relax. Some of it’s mine. Some of it’s stuff that they planted on me. That money’s all in new notes. Don’t take that, it’s not clean. Take what you want from the used notes. All right?’

  ‘Not clean?’

  ‘The new money’s traceable. Use that and we’ll have the law on to us, and Cole. Get an automatic car. An old Ford or something. So long as it runs. I’ll give you the name of a couple of places where they’ll sort you out and won’t ask questions.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And dump the car I’ve been using. Take it to a railway station, somewhere a long way off. Buy a long-stay ticket. Buy it from a machine, don’t leave prints on the coins you use. Watch out for CCTV; wear a hat, something with a wide brim – a baseball cap is good – keep your head low. Wipe the car down.’

  ‘That’s not going to help you, Joe. Your blood’s all over it.’

  ‘Never mind that. Take care of your prints. My blood’s all over everything anyway. And take the girl. Give her some money. Lose her.’

  ‘Okay, Joe.’

  There was a noise behind him. She was standing in the doorway. She shook her head.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I want to stay here.’

  ‘It’s probably for the best, darling,’ Browne said. He reached out and took her by the hand. He bent down. ‘I can take you to my sister’s. She’s a nice lady. She has a cat. Wouldn’t you like that?’