Oh, Play That Thing by Roddy Doyle
—So?
—So, why all this? Why have I come after you? All this way, to bump you off.
—Yeah.
—It’s a nixer, he said.
—A fuckin’ nixer?
—A fuckin’ nixer; exactly. There’s the lads who pay me. You know some of them, at home. And then there’s the lads who will pay me, once I send you on your way. And you know some of them too. Our Italian friends and some of our Semite friends. I’m doing it as a favour to them and they’ll still insist on paying me for it. It’s the way they do things over here; you know that yourself. It’s a great fuckin’ place, isn’t it?
He smiled.
—They’d be happy enough to do the job themselves. But, no, I said, I’ll take him off your hands. And they’re happy with that; they trust me. I wouldn’t let them pay me in advance. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting here for you?
It made sense to keep him talking.
—How long?
—Half an hour.
He grinned, and let go of a snort.
—Money for jam, he said.
—But I’m not dead yet, I said.
Stupid.
—No, he said. —Not yet.
He brought a hand to his jacket, and leaned sideways slightly, to free the cloth under his arse. Then he changed his mind and sat up again.
—You don’t carry a piece yourself these days, Henry?
There was no point in bluffing, none that I could figure. I’d stay alive longer if I told the truth.
—No.
—No, he said. —So she said.
I didn’t let it sink. I reminded myself of who I was talking to, of when I’d first met him.
I stared at him.
—You’ve been acting the maggot, Henry. On two fuckin’ continents. And where did you think you were going, with your Glic?
I shrugged.
—You’re confused, Henry. Aren’t you?
There was no reason not to admit it. It would keep him talking; he was enjoying himself.
I shrugged again.
—Good man.
He pulled back his sleeve, and looked at his wristwatch.
—We’ve a few minutes, he said.
He covered the watch.
—Will I start at the beginning?
I was calm again. I didn’t feel like a dead man. I wasn’t thinking yet. I shrugged.
—That looks like a yes, he said. —So. There I was in Kilmainham. Doing my duty for the Empire. I was no republican, Henry. Did you ever meet a unionist before?
He patted his chest.
—I served. Marched off in 1914. For King and country. And I came home to a different country, and I didn’t like it. So, anyway. I was letting myself get thrown from cell to cell. Picked up a bit of information here, a little more there, nothing much from yourself, if I remember right. Anyway, after you hopped over the wall, I was thrown into – I fell gracefully into this one cell. Your friend, Jack Dalton. He was about as talkative as you were. But I’d learnt my lesson. I was as talkative back. I asked nothing and said nothing. The strong man. I must have done a good job, because they fuckin’ rescued me. Myself and Dalton, and another flute called Archer – you know him. We all escaped, over the wall. It frightened the shite out of me. On the run with those thicks, trying to stay a step ahead. But I made it up as I went along. Like yourself.
He sat up, and re-crossed his legs.
—And I must have done alright, because they’d have sworn they’d known me since the schooldays with the Brothers by the time we stopped running. And by then I knew that it was all over for King and Empire and the time had come for a change in career. So I just kept on being what they thought I was. Gas, isn’t it?
I nodded. I might even have smiled.
—So then we have the Civil War. Jack goes one way, Archer goes the other. I said to myself, no more of the tricks. I’d been against the Republic but I’d changed sides and now I’d go right for it. So, Lieutenant Edwin McKittrick of the Royal Irish Rifles – that was me before I went secret – became a diehard republican. I even shot Jack. And then there was the truce, the war’s all over, and they sent me over here.
—For me.
He shook his head.
—You’re a vain little cunt, Henry. I could see that back then too. We weren’t after you. Why the fuck would we have been? You’re shite.
It was the line that announced the arrival of the firing squad. I looked at him. I looked around. But no one; we were still alone.
—But we did keep an eye on you.
—You followed me around, all this time?
He grinned, a short one, and stopped.
—I’d love to say Yeah. I’d love to. But, no. There’s no point in messing. It’d be more accurate to say we kept an eye out for you. Lots of eyes, actually. Two of which, Henry, have seen plenty of you.
I looked at him.
—She told you, I said.
—She did, yeah.
I didn’t believe him; I felt and knew it, a certainty that sat quietly and said nothing.
—But we’d had you marked earlier, in New York, what, six years ago?
I gave a slight nod.
—It was the Glick thing. When we heard the name. Glick, Smart. Very fuckin’ clever. More of your fuckin’ vanity. Anyway, there was a story about pigeons. Am I right?
I nodded.
—I can’t remember. Were they Madden’s or Schultz’s?
I shrugged.
—One of them, anyway. You killed their pigeons.
—I didn’t.
—Yeah, yeah. It doesn’t matter. We found out. Madden’s a good Irish boy, and he puts a bit of work our way now and again. And he was going to throw you at us, which would have been nice. But that gobshite, Mister fucking No, wanted you for himself. He was very keen. Him and his mott. What was her name?
—Mildred.
No mention of the half-sister.
—That’s right. Mildred. So we left him to it. You were off the list. And you got away, of course. You’re fuckin’ gas. And we lost you. And, to be honest, we didn’t give much of a fuck. You were no danger to us. Just a nuisance. A little bit of business it would have been nice to finish, just in case you ever thought about going back to Erin.
He stopped, and looked. I shook my head. He shrugged.
—But, anyway, off you went on us. And then you were in Chicago.
He smiled and sat back. The smile stayed.
—She didn’t tell you she was still involved, did she? Missis Smart. Did she? After your reunion.
I stared at him. All my shake went to my eyes. I stayed still, and stared. Absolutely still.
He took the gun from his pocket. He pointed it at me.
—What I’d love to do is. I’d love to stop now and shoot you. I’d love to do that. You cunt. She informed on you.
I couldn’t stop myself.
—Yeah?
—Yeah.
—Is she here?
—Oh, yeah.
—Where?
—Upstairs.
I was out of touch. I didn’t recognise the gun. Talk was all I had.
—Why are you telling me this?
—I’m getting it off my chest.
He smiled. I saw his hand shake. Suddenly, and it had nothing to do with what I saw and heard, there was one thing I was sure of. It sat in me, the certainty: it wasn’t going to happen.
—You’re not alone, are you? I said.
—Of course I’m not.
—Are you not worried your pals will hear you?
—None of them are Irish. They wouldn’t have a clue what I’m talking about.
He lifted his hand, brought fingers together, to click them.
—One more question, I said.
—Be my guest. It’s a hotel.
—A fuckin’ quiet one.
—The question.
—Well, I said.
I sat up and leaned towards him.
—Why?
—Ah now, Jaysis. r />
—Why are you doing it? Now? I left Dublin eight years ago.
—When did the English invade Ireland? You know yourself. That’s not even a long time. There are men who’ll be pleased to know that you’re dead and they’ll be pleased to know that I was the one that killed you. The diehards are getting very respectable over there, I’m told. They’re ready for power. New coats, elections. You’re a loose end, Henry. And so am I. But I’m less loose, if you follow me. But, dear old Ireland being dear old Ireland, some of the diehards are getting even harder. They won’t be going the respectable way. And they’re the ones who’ve never really trusted me, which is a big reason why I’m over here. I’ll tell you, the cloud over my head might not be as black as the one over yours, but it’s there. Oh yeah. Doubts. Always been there. But I’ve a feeling the doubts will blow away when it gets known that I was the one that got rid of you.
He clicked his fingers. And the boys were there. Two at the lobby door, more from the kitchen – I didn’t look; probably two more. I heard the door hinges clunk, and clunk again as they settled back. Kellet plus four, maybe three. So what? There was nothing I could do. There’d be more outside. I’d seen them.
—Stand up.
—Why?
It was black, till the pain caught up with me and I was on the floor, and suddenly not. I was in the air, held up, let go, and standing in front of Kellet. My head was hopping – probably a gun butt.
—That’s amazing, he said. —I’ve just seen your eyes fill with blood. Could you feel it yourself?
—I’d other things on my mind.
—Good man, he said. —Joking to the death. The blood just flowed across the whites, like water. It suits you.
He was sweating, now that I was up to him, held tight by the lads who’d come through from the kitchen. I could see the jaundice in his eyes and skin.
—Have you seen your own eyes lately? I said.
He took the step back. I expected the kick.
—Come on.
He turned. He picked his hat up from the floor beside his chair.
—You’re not doing it in here? I said.
—God, no. That’s not part of the deal. We can’t be dragging bodies in and out. This is a business address, Henry. We’ll have to put you up against a different wall. Come on.
The shove sent me at him.
—Wrong way.
I turned; he shoved. The doors were held open by someone, two more, inside, and I was in the kitchen, going back the way I’d come in. No one looked, no one stopped working. Life went on, meals for the guests I hadn’t seen, sent out on trays to the empty dining room. Back, through two doors to the alley and the cold. Back down towards the street, two men in front, two behind, and Kellet, down the alley. Under laced, dead windows. It was colder again; the sun was well behind the street. No traffic passed, no one stepped across. Five foot two, eyes of blue. The radio from the garage. What now? Where? But oh! what those five feet could do. I expected a car, the door pushed open, the shove.
A car did pass but didn’t stop.
—In.
I stopped.
—The garage.
—Been done before, I said. —Last year. Valentine’s Day.
—Good man, said Kellet, behind me. —In you go.
I thought about running. Has anybody seen my girl? The corner, the Upton Oil truck around it, maybe still there. I could get to it. I could knock over the men in front of me. Turned-up nose, turned-down hose. Or across the street, zigzag, into the department store, through the window the bullets would shatter before me. Flapper? Yes, sir, one of those. The two guys in front turned at the entrance and made a wall, coat shoulder to shoulder. I walked into the gloom of the garage. I stopped. I didn’t know where to go. Has anybody seen my girl? But one of the guys was ahead again. He had a golf bag over his shoulder. Big bag, two golf clubs – there was room in there for other things. Work went on as I was brought through. Metal on metal, somewhere near. But could she love, could she woo? I went between two cars. I followed the guy with the heavy golf bag. Another door, steel. Another alley. Could she, could she, could she coo? Darker, colder, ice on the ground. No street I could run to. Has anybody seen my girl? I heard the door slammed, the bolt pulled across, inside.
I followed the golfer. This alley had corners. He took one, left. I went with him. A rat slipped away. A big bastard, there – gone. There were two men right behind me now, up against my back. The golfer stopped at another metal door. New painted. Dark green. He knocked. Right behind me, close, cigarette breath, sweat. There was no spot I could run to, no room to start running. The bolt was pulled, the door opened out. We all stepped back. We entered.
A warehouse, or something. Empty, and huge because of that. High, narrow windows in the far wall. They let in good light, and I guessed that there was a wide street behind the wall. There was an arched double-gate, high and wide enough for any vehicle, and I could hear traffic. The place was empty, except for a piece of canvas, folded near my feet, and a couple of broken barrels, on their sides, in the centre of the floor. There were other doors, all shut, and steep wooden stairs to a glass-fronted office, to my left, maybe twice my height above my head. The glass was long-dirty; no face looked down. The place had been cold all winter.
—Home, said Kellet.
I was pushed. I’d been ready but it caught me; a foot took my foot as I went forward. I was on the floor; I landed well. I could smell old alky and the quick stink of the kerosene that had been rubbed on the barrels to mask the profitable stink of the contents. There were other doors, another rat.
—Choose a wall, Henry, said Kellet.
—Lady’s choice, I said.
—Make your opponent angry, said Kellet. —Textbook stuff. And bullshit. The bullets will still perforate you. You might as well stand up. To be honest with you, I’m not sure why I put you down there in the first place. Sorry.
—You’re alright, I said.
I stood up in time to see the golfer take a shotgun from his bag. I was almost pleased; a golf club would have worried me more. I looked at them all; the blank faces I’d always been right to be scared of. They’d all kill me, not even happily – it wouldn’t work them up or down. I was a job today, a very small one.
Bollix to that. I could feel it in me. I wasn’t going to be their easy day. I might end up dead, but I was taking people with me. I wasn’t going to fuckin’ die; come and fuckin’ get me. I could feel it in my feet, the certainty – but I hadn’t a clue where it came from. There he was, the golfer, and Kellet nodded at the wall behind me. There was no one near to grab. They’d all stepped back, and there were more. There’d been more men in the warehouse, I didn’t know how many, but I was grabbed now and held stiff by strong arms, and Kellet stepped over and ran his hands down my coat.
—You really don’t have a gun, he said. —For fuck sake, Henry.
—I know.
—Gone soft.
I tried to shrug, but the arms wouldn’t let me.
He found my wallet and took it. He flipped it open; he stared at me. He stepped well back, and put his gun in a coat pocket. Then he looked properly at the wallet.
—Ah look.
It was the photograph. His eyes, his hands on it. It made me strong. I felt the fury, I took it and made it flow. He held up the photograph.
—Who’s the fat fucker with you?
—Ivan Reynolds.
—The big noise himself.
He laughed.
—He’d pay a few quid for this, I’d say. He wouldn’t want to be seen like this, respectable cunt that he is. The best man and all, yeah?
—Yeah.
He laughed again.
—Best man at the soon to be famous Henry Smart’s wedding. And it could all come out at the same Henry’s funeral. D’you want to know why you’re going to be famous, Henry?
He looked at the photograph.
—I’m tempted, he said. —I’m fuckin’ tempted. A nice trip home, a visit to Mi
ster Reynolds, at home or in Leinster House. He’d fork out, alright.
He flicked the photo with a fingernail.
—No. I have to stay squeaky. Clothes off, Henry.
—What?
—You heard me.
—Bullets go through cloth.
—Just get your fuckin’ clothes off.
—All?
—All. I’ll explain as you go.
I nodded. It meant the hands and arms would let me go; it meant more time.
The hands were gone; my weight was mine. I unbuttoned my coat.
—Good man.
The coat was taken before it dropped. I unbuttoned my jacket. Hands took it off my back. I pulled down the Clarence Darrows.
—Can I have them, Henry? said Kellet.
I shrugged.
—A memento.
—Fair enough.
I got down and untied a bootlace. Two pairs of shoes behind me.
—So, I said. —Why am I doing this?
—You’ll like it, said Kellet. —You’re helping an important man out, with a bit of woman trouble.
I changed knees and untied the second lace. There were seven other men in the warehouse.
—You’re her bit on the side.
—Do I know her?
I stood up and pulled off a boot.
—No, he said. —I don’t think so.
No one laughed.
—Doesn’t seem fair, does it, Henry?
I looked as I pulled off the other boot.
I unbuttoned the trousers.
—Jesus, Henry, if you were always this slow getting the pants off, you’d never have got your reputation.
—It’s called foreplay, Ned.
He laughed, and a thick-looking cunt behind him. The shotgun didn’t. I could tell: he didn’t understand. We weren’t talking his language.
—You’re calling me Ned now. Suggesting friendship, a shared history. Thinking I’ll maybe hesitate, yeah?
—No, I said. —You’re a cunt. There’s no getting round that.
I stepped out of the trousers.
—Tell me more.
—The important man.
—Italian?
—Probably. He has a wife and children. Loves the lot of them. He has a girlfriend as well. She is beautiful and she’s been the girlfriend for quite some time. The gent has had enough of her, beaut and all that she is.
I took off my socks.
—So, why all this? Why have I come after you? All this way, to bump you off.
—Yeah.
—It’s a nixer, he said.
—A fuckin’ nixer?
—A fuckin’ nixer; exactly. There’s the lads who pay me. You know some of them, at home. And then there’s the lads who will pay me, once I send you on your way. And you know some of them too. Our Italian friends and some of our Semite friends. I’m doing it as a favour to them and they’ll still insist on paying me for it. It’s the way they do things over here; you know that yourself. It’s a great fuckin’ place, isn’t it?
He smiled.
—They’d be happy enough to do the job themselves. But, no, I said, I’ll take him off your hands. And they’re happy with that; they trust me. I wouldn’t let them pay me in advance. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting here for you?
It made sense to keep him talking.
—How long?
—Half an hour.
He grinned, and let go of a snort.
—Money for jam, he said.
—But I’m not dead yet, I said.
Stupid.
—No, he said. —Not yet.
He brought a hand to his jacket, and leaned sideways slightly, to free the cloth under his arse. Then he changed his mind and sat up again.
—You don’t carry a piece yourself these days, Henry?
There was no point in bluffing, none that I could figure. I’d stay alive longer if I told the truth.
—No.
—No, he said. —So she said.
I didn’t let it sink. I reminded myself of who I was talking to, of when I’d first met him.
I stared at him.
—You’ve been acting the maggot, Henry. On two fuckin’ continents. And where did you think you were going, with your Glic?
I shrugged.
—You’re confused, Henry. Aren’t you?
There was no reason not to admit it. It would keep him talking; he was enjoying himself.
I shrugged again.
—Good man.
He pulled back his sleeve, and looked at his wristwatch.
—We’ve a few minutes, he said.
He covered the watch.
—Will I start at the beginning?
I was calm again. I didn’t feel like a dead man. I wasn’t thinking yet. I shrugged.
—That looks like a yes, he said. —So. There I was in Kilmainham. Doing my duty for the Empire. I was no republican, Henry. Did you ever meet a unionist before?
He patted his chest.
—I served. Marched off in 1914. For King and country. And I came home to a different country, and I didn’t like it. So, anyway. I was letting myself get thrown from cell to cell. Picked up a bit of information here, a little more there, nothing much from yourself, if I remember right. Anyway, after you hopped over the wall, I was thrown into – I fell gracefully into this one cell. Your friend, Jack Dalton. He was about as talkative as you were. But I’d learnt my lesson. I was as talkative back. I asked nothing and said nothing. The strong man. I must have done a good job, because they fuckin’ rescued me. Myself and Dalton, and another flute called Archer – you know him. We all escaped, over the wall. It frightened the shite out of me. On the run with those thicks, trying to stay a step ahead. But I made it up as I went along. Like yourself.
He sat up, and re-crossed his legs.
—And I must have done alright, because they’d have sworn they’d known me since the schooldays with the Brothers by the time we stopped running. And by then I knew that it was all over for King and Empire and the time had come for a change in career. So I just kept on being what they thought I was. Gas, isn’t it?
I nodded. I might even have smiled.
—So then we have the Civil War. Jack goes one way, Archer goes the other. I said to myself, no more of the tricks. I’d been against the Republic but I’d changed sides and now I’d go right for it. So, Lieutenant Edwin McKittrick of the Royal Irish Rifles – that was me before I went secret – became a diehard republican. I even shot Jack. And then there was the truce, the war’s all over, and they sent me over here.
—For me.
He shook his head.
—You’re a vain little cunt, Henry. I could see that back then too. We weren’t after you. Why the fuck would we have been? You’re shite.
It was the line that announced the arrival of the firing squad. I looked at him. I looked around. But no one; we were still alone.
—But we did keep an eye on you.
—You followed me around, all this time?
He grinned, a short one, and stopped.
—I’d love to say Yeah. I’d love to. But, no. There’s no point in messing. It’d be more accurate to say we kept an eye out for you. Lots of eyes, actually. Two of which, Henry, have seen plenty of you.
I looked at him.
—She told you, I said.
—She did, yeah.
I didn’t believe him; I felt and knew it, a certainty that sat quietly and said nothing.
—But we’d had you marked earlier, in New York, what, six years ago?
I gave a slight nod.
—It was the Glick thing. When we heard the name. Glick, Smart. Very fuckin’ clever. More of your fuckin’ vanity. Anyway, there was a story about pigeons. Am I right?
I nodded.
—I can’t remember. Were they Madden’s or Schultz’s?
I shrugged.
—One of them, anyway. You killed their pigeons.
—I didn’t.
—Yeah, yeah. It doesn’t matter. We found out. Madden’s a good Irish boy, and he puts a bit of work our way now and again. And he was going to throw you at us, which would have been nice. But that gobshite, Mister fucking No, wanted you for himself. He was very keen. Him and his mott. What was her name?
—Mildred.
No mention of the half-sister.
—That’s right. Mildred. So we left him to it. You were off the list. And you got away, of course. You’re fuckin’ gas. And we lost you. And, to be honest, we didn’t give much of a fuck. You were no danger to us. Just a nuisance. A little bit of business it would have been nice to finish, just in case you ever thought about going back to Erin.
He stopped, and looked. I shook my head. He shrugged.
—But, anyway, off you went on us. And then you were in Chicago.
He smiled and sat back. The smile stayed.
—She didn’t tell you she was still involved, did she? Missis Smart. Did she? After your reunion.
I stared at him. All my shake went to my eyes. I stayed still, and stared. Absolutely still.
He took the gun from his pocket. He pointed it at me.
—What I’d love to do is. I’d love to stop now and shoot you. I’d love to do that. You cunt. She informed on you.
I couldn’t stop myself.
—Yeah?
—Yeah.
—Is she here?
—Oh, yeah.
—Where?
—Upstairs.
I was out of touch. I didn’t recognise the gun. Talk was all I had.
—Why are you telling me this?
—I’m getting it off my chest.
He smiled. I saw his hand shake. Suddenly, and it had nothing to do with what I saw and heard, there was one thing I was sure of. It sat in me, the certainty: it wasn’t going to happen.
—You’re not alone, are you? I said.
—Of course I’m not.
—Are you not worried your pals will hear you?
—None of them are Irish. They wouldn’t have a clue what I’m talking about.
He lifted his hand, brought fingers together, to click them.
—One more question, I said.
—Be my guest. It’s a hotel.
—A fuckin’ quiet one.
—The question.
—Well, I said.
I sat up and leaned towards him.
—Why?
—Ah now, Jaysis.
—Why are you doing it? Now? I left Dublin eight years ago.
—When did the English invade Ireland? You know yourself. That’s not even a long time. There are men who’ll be pleased to know that you’re dead and they’ll be pleased to know that I was the one that killed you. The diehards are getting very respectable over there, I’m told. They’re ready for power. New coats, elections. You’re a loose end, Henry. And so am I. But I’m less loose, if you follow me. But, dear old Ireland being dear old Ireland, some of the diehards are getting even harder. They won’t be going the respectable way. And they’re the ones who’ve never really trusted me, which is a big reason why I’m over here. I’ll tell you, the cloud over my head might not be as black as the one over yours, but it’s there. Oh yeah. Doubts. Always been there. But I’ve a feeling the doubts will blow away when it gets known that I was the one that got rid of you.
He clicked his fingers. And the boys were there. Two at the lobby door, more from the kitchen – I didn’t look; probably two more. I heard the door hinges clunk, and clunk again as they settled back. Kellet plus four, maybe three. So what? There was nothing I could do. There’d be more outside. I’d seen them.
—Stand up.
—Why?
It was black, till the pain caught up with me and I was on the floor, and suddenly not. I was in the air, held up, let go, and standing in front of Kellet. My head was hopping – probably a gun butt.
—That’s amazing, he said. —I’ve just seen your eyes fill with blood. Could you feel it yourself?
—I’d other things on my mind.
—Good man, he said. —Joking to the death. The blood just flowed across the whites, like water. It suits you.
He was sweating, now that I was up to him, held tight by the lads who’d come through from the kitchen. I could see the jaundice in his eyes and skin.
—Have you seen your own eyes lately? I said.
He took the step back. I expected the kick.
—Come on.
He turned. He picked his hat up from the floor beside his chair.
—You’re not doing it in here? I said.
—God, no. That’s not part of the deal. We can’t be dragging bodies in and out. This is a business address, Henry. We’ll have to put you up against a different wall. Come on.
The shove sent me at him.
—Wrong way.
I turned; he shoved. The doors were held open by someone, two more, inside, and I was in the kitchen, going back the way I’d come in. No one looked, no one stopped working. Life went on, meals for the guests I hadn’t seen, sent out on trays to the empty dining room. Back, through two doors to the alley and the cold. Back down towards the street, two men in front, two behind, and Kellet, down the alley. Under laced, dead windows. It was colder again; the sun was well behind the street. No traffic passed, no one stepped across. Five foot two, eyes of blue. The radio from the garage. What now? Where? But oh! what those five feet could do. I expected a car, the door pushed open, the shove.
A car did pass but didn’t stop.
—In.
I stopped.
—The garage.
—Been done before, I said. —Last year. Valentine’s Day.
—Good man, said Kellet, behind me. —In you go.
I thought about running. Has anybody seen my girl? The corner, the Upton Oil truck around it, maybe still there. I could get to it. I could knock over the men in front of me. Turned-up nose, turned-down hose. Or across the street, zigzag, into the department store, through the window the bullets would shatter before me. Flapper? Yes, sir, one of those. The two guys in front turned at the entrance and made a wall, coat shoulder to shoulder. I walked into the gloom of the garage. I stopped. I didn’t know where to go. Has anybody seen my girl? But one of the guys was ahead again. He had a golf bag over his shoulder. Big bag, two golf clubs – there was room in there for other things. Work went on as I was brought through. Metal on metal, somewhere near. But could she love, could she woo? I went between two cars. I followed the guy with the heavy golf bag. Another door, steel. Another alley. Could she, could she, could she coo? Darker, colder, ice on the ground. No street I could run to. Has anybody seen my girl? I heard the door slammed, the bolt pulled across, inside.
I followed the golfer. This alley had corners. He took one, left. I went with him. A rat slipped away. A big bastard, there – gone. There were two men right behind me now, up against my back. The golfer stopped at another metal door. New painted. Dark green. He knocked. Right behind me, close, cigarette breath, sweat. There was no spot I could run to, no room to start running. The bolt was pulled, the door opened out. We all stepped back. We entered.
A warehouse, or something. Empty, and huge because of that. High, narrow windows in the far wall. They let in good light, and I guessed that there was a wide street behind the wall. There was an arched double-gate, high and wide enough for any vehicle, and I could hear traffic. The place was empty, except for a piece of canvas, folded near my feet, and a couple of broken barrels, on their sides, in the centre of the floor. There were other doors, all shut, and steep wooden stairs to a glass-fronted office, to my left, maybe twice my height above my head. The glass was long-dirty; no face looked down. The place had been cold all winter.
—Home, said Kellet.
I was pushed. I’d been ready but it caught me; a foot took my foot as I went forward. I was on the floor; I landed well. I could smell old alky and the quick stink of the kerosene that had been rubbed on the barrels to mask the profitable stink of the contents. There were other doors, another rat.
—Choose a wall, Henry, said Kellet.
—Lady’s choice, I said.
—Make your opponent angry, said Kellet. —Textbook stuff. And bullshit. The bullets will still perforate you. You might as well stand up. To be honest with you, I’m not sure why I put you down there in the first place. Sorry.
—You’re alright, I said.
I stood up in time to see the golfer take a shotgun from his bag. I was almost pleased; a golf club would have worried me more. I looked at them all; the blank faces I’d always been right to be scared of. They’d all kill me, not even happily – it wouldn’t work them up or down. I was a job today, a very small one.
Bollix to that. I could feel it in me. I wasn’t going to be their easy day. I might end up dead, but I was taking people with me. I wasn’t going to fuckin’ die; come and fuckin’ get me. I could feel it in my feet, the certainty – but I hadn’t a clue where it came from. There he was, the golfer, and Kellet nodded at the wall behind me. There was no one near to grab. They’d all stepped back, and there were more. There’d been more men in the warehouse, I didn’t know how many, but I was grabbed now and held stiff by strong arms, and Kellet stepped over and ran his hands down my coat.
—You really don’t have a gun, he said. —For fuck sake, Henry.
—I know.
—Gone soft.
I tried to shrug, but the arms wouldn’t let me.
He found my wallet and took it. He flipped it open; he stared at me. He stepped well back, and put his gun in a coat pocket. Then he looked properly at the wallet.
—Ah look.
It was the photograph. His eyes, his hands on it. It made me strong. I felt the fury, I took it and made it flow. He held up the photograph.
—Who’s the fat fucker with you?
—Ivan Reynolds.
—The big noise himself.
He laughed.
—He’d pay a few quid for this, I’d say. He wouldn’t want to be seen like this, respectable cunt that he is. The best man and all, yeah?
—Yeah.
He laughed again.
—Best man at the soon to be famous Henry Smart’s wedding. And it could all come out at the same Henry’s funeral. D’you want to know why you’re going to be famous, Henry?
He looked at the photograph.
—I’m tempted, he said. —I’m fuckin’ tempted. A nice trip home, a visit to Mi
He flicked the photo with a fingernail.
—No. I have to stay squeaky. Clothes off, Henry.
—What?
—You heard me.
—Bullets go through cloth.
—Just get your fuckin’ clothes off.
—All?
—All. I’ll explain as you go.
I nodded. It meant the hands and arms would let me go; it meant more time.
The hands were gone; my weight was mine. I unbuttoned my coat.
—Good man.
The coat was taken before it dropped. I unbuttoned my jacket. Hands took it off my back. I pulled down the Clarence Darrows.
—Can I have them, Henry? said Kellet.
I shrugged.
—A memento.
—Fair enough.
I got down and untied a bootlace. Two pairs of shoes behind me.
—So, I said. —Why am I doing this?
—You’ll like it, said Kellet. —You’re helping an important man out, with a bit of woman trouble.
I changed knees and untied the second lace. There were seven other men in the warehouse.
—You’re her bit on the side.
—Do I know her?
I stood up and pulled off a boot.
—No, he said. —I don’t think so.
No one laughed.
—Doesn’t seem fair, does it, Henry?
I looked as I pulled off the other boot.
I unbuttoned the trousers.
—Jesus, Henry, if you were always this slow getting the pants off, you’d never have got your reputation.
—It’s called foreplay, Ned.
He laughed, and a thick-looking cunt behind him. The shotgun didn’t. I could tell: he didn’t understand. We weren’t talking his language.
—You’re calling me Ned now. Suggesting friendship, a shared history. Thinking I’ll maybe hesitate, yeah?
—No, I said. —You’re a cunt. There’s no getting round that.
I stepped out of the trousers.
—Tell me more.
—The important man.
—Italian?
—Probably. He has a wife and children. Loves the lot of them. He has a girlfriend as well. She is beautiful and she’s been the girlfriend for quite some time. The gent has had enough of her, beaut and all that she is.
I took off my socks.