Beggars Banquet

  ‘A hundred.’

  I paused at that. A hundred pounds, just to dispose of a package . . .

  ‘But you’ll need a deep hole,’ said Daintry.

  Yeah, of course. It was that kind of package. I wondered who it was. There was a story going around that Daintry had set up a nice little disposal operation which dealt with Human Resource Waste from miles around. Villains as far away as Watford and Luton were bringing ‘packages’ for him to dispose of. But it was just a story, just one of many.

  ‘A hundred,’ I said, nodding.

  ‘All right, one twenty-five. But it’s got to be tonight.’

  I knew just the hole.They were building a new footbridge over the North Circular, over to the west near Wembley. I knew the gang wouldn’t be working night-shift: the job wasn’t that urgent and who could afford the shift bonus these days? There’d be a few deep holes there all right. And while the gang might notice a big black bin-bag at the bottom of one of them, they wouldn’t do anything about it. People were always dumping rubbish down the holes. It all got covered over with concrete, gone and quite forgotten. I hadn’t seen a dead body before, and I didn’t intend seeing one now. So I insisted it was all wrapped up before I’d stick it in the car-boot.

  Daintry and I stood in the lock-up he rented and looked down at the black bin-liner.

  ‘It’s not so big, is it?’ I said.

  ‘I broke the rigor mortis,’ he explained. ‘That way you can get it into the car.’

  I nodded and went outside to throw up. I felt better after that. Curried chicken never did agree with me.

  ‘I’m not sure I can do it,’ I said, wiping my mouth.

  Daintry was ready for me. ‘Ah, that’s a pity.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets, studying the tips of his shoes. ‘How’s your old mum, by the way? Keeping well, is she?’

  ‘She’s fine, yeah . . .’ I stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing. Let’s hope her good health continues.’ He looked up at me, a glint in his eye. ‘Still fancy Brenda?’

  ‘Who says I do?’

  He laughed. ‘Common knowledge. Must be the way your trousers bulge whenever you see her shadow.’

  ‘That’s rubbish.’

  ‘She seems well enough, too. The marriage is a bit shaky, but what can you expect? That Harry of hers is a monster.’ Daintry paused, fingering his thin gold neck-chain. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he took a tap to the skull one of these dark nights.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He shrugged. ‘Just a guess. Pity you can’t . . .’ He touched the bin-bag with his shoe. ‘You know.’ And he smiled.

  We loaded the bag together. It wasn’t heavy, and was easy enough to manoeuvre. I could feel a foot and a leg, or maybe a hand and arm. I tried not to think about it. Imagine him threatening my old mum! He was lucky I’m not quick to ignite, not like him, or it’d’ve been broken nose city and hospital cuisine. But what he said about Brenda’s husband put thoughts of my mum right out of my head.

  We closed the boot and I went to lock it.

  ‘He’s not going to make a run for it,’ Daintry said.

  ‘I suppose not,’ I admitted. But I locked the boot anyway.

  Then the car wouldn’t start, and when it did start it kept cutting out, like the engine was flooding or something. Maybe a block in the fuel line. I’d let it get very low before the last fill of petrol. There might be a lot of rubbish swilling around in the tank. After a couple of miles it cut out on me at some traffic lights in Dalston. I rolled down my window and waved for the cars behind me to pass. I was content to sit for a few moments and let everything settle, my stomach included. One car stopped alongside me. And Jesus, wouldn’t you know it: it was a cop car.

  ‘Everything all right?’ the cop in the passenger seat called.

  ‘Yeah, just stalled.’

  ‘You can’t sit there for ever.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If it doesn’t start next go, push your car to the side of the road.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ He made no move to leave. Now the driver was looking at me too, and traffic was building up behind us. Nobody sounded their horn. Everyone could see that a cop car was talking with the driver of another vehicle. Sweat tickled my ears. I turned the ignition, resisting the temptation to pump the accelerator. The engine rumbled, then came to life. I grinned at the cops and started forwards, going through an amber light.

  They could probably arrest me for that. It was five minutes before I stopped staring in the rearview mirror. But I couldn’t see them. They’d turned off somewhere. I let all my fear and tension out in a rasping scream, then remembered the window was still rolled down. I wound it back up again. I decided not to go straight to the bridge-site, but to drive around a bit, let all the traffic clear along with my head.

  I pulled into a bus-stop just before the North Circular and changed into my work clothes. That way I wouldn’t look suspicious. Good thinking, eh? It was my own idea, one Daintry had appreciated. I had a question for him now, and the question was: why wasn’t he doing this himself ? But he wasn’t around to answer it. And I knew the answer anyway: he’d rather pay someone else to do dangerous jobs. Oh yes, it was dangerous; I knew that now. Worth a lot more than a hundred and twenty-five nicker, sixty of which was already in my pocket in the shape of dirty old pound notes. Repayments, doubtless, from Daintry’s punters. Grubby money, but still money. I hoped it hadn’t come from the McAndrews.

  I sat at the bus-stop for a while. A car pulled in behind me. Not a police car this time, just an ordinary car. I heard the driver’s door slam shut. Footsteps, a tap at my window. I looked out. The man was bald and middle-aged, dressed in suit and tie. A lower executive look, a sales rep maybe, that sort of person. He was smiling in a friendly enough sort of fashion. And if he wanted to steal my car and jemmy open the boot, well, that was fine too.

  I wound down my window. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I think I missed my turning,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me where we are, roughly?’

  ‘Roughly,’ I said, ‘roughly we’re about a mile north of Wembley.’

  ‘And that’s west London?’ His accent wasn’t quite English, not southern English. Welsh or a Geordie or a Scouser maybe.

  ‘About as west as you can get,’ I told him. Yeah, the wild west.

  ‘I can’t be too far away then. I want St John’s Wood. That’s west too, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, not far at all.’ These poor sods, you came across them a lot in my line of work. New to the city and pleading directions, getting hot and a bit crazy as the signposts and one-ways led them further into the maze. I felt sorry for them a lot of the time. It wasn’t their fault. So I took my time as I directed him towards Harlesden, miles away from where he wanted to be.

  ‘It’s a short cut,’ I told him. He seemed pleased to have some local knowledge. He went back to his car and sounded his horn in thank you as he drove off. I know, that was a bit naughty of me, wasn’t it? Well, there you go. That was my spot of devilry for the night. I started my own car and headed back on to the road.

  There was a sign off saying ‘Works Access Only’, so I signalled and drove between two rows of striped traffic cones. Then I stopped the car. There were no other cars around, just the dark shapes of earth-moving equipment and cement mixers. Fine and dandy. Cars and lorries roared past, but they didn’t give me a second’s notice. They weren’t about to slow down enough to take in any of the scene. The existing overpass and built-up verges hid me pretty well from civilisation. Before unloading the package, I went for a recce, taking my torch with me.

  And of course there were no decent holes to be found. They’d been filled in already. The concrete was hard, long metal rods poking out of it like the prongs on a fork. There were a few shallow cuts in the earth, but nothing like deep enough for the purpose. Hell’s teeth and gums. I went back to the car, thinking suddenly how useful a car-phone would be. I wanted to speak to Daintry. I wanted to ask him what to do. A
police car went past. I saw its brake lights glow. They’d noticed my car, but they didn’t stop. No, but they might come back round again. I started the car and headed out on to the carriageway.

  Only a few minutes later, there was a police car behind me. He sat on my tail for a while, then signalled to overtake, drawing level with me and staying there. The passenger checked me out. They were almost certainly the ones who’d seen me parked back at the bridge-site. The passenger saw that I was wearing overalls and a standard-issue work-jacket. I sort of waved at him. He spoke to the driver, and the patrol car accelerated away.

  Lucky for me he hadn’t seen the tears in my eyes. I was terrified and bursting for a piss. I knew that I had to get off this road. My brain was numb. I couldn’t think of another place to dump the body. I didn’t want to think about it at all. I just wanted rid of it. I think I saw the travelling salesman hurtle past, fleeing Harlesden. He was heading out of town.

  I came off the North Circular and just drove around, crawling eastwards until I knew the streets so well it was like remote control. I knew exactly where I’d effected repairs, and where repairs were still waiting to be carried out. There was one pot-hole on a sharp bend that could buckle a wheel. That was down as a priority, and would probably be started on tomorrow. I calmed myself a little with memories of holes dug and holes filled in, the rich aroma of hot tarmac, the jokes yelled out by the Driller Killer. I’d never worked out why he’d try telling jokes to someone wearing industrial ear protectors beside a pneumatic drill.

  Seeking safety, I came back into the estate. I felt better immediately, my head clearing. I knew what I had to do. I had to face up to Daintry. I’d give him back the money of course, less a quid or two for petrol, and I’d explain that nowhere was safe. Mission impossible. I didn’t know what he’d do. It depended on whether tonight was a Goodfellas night or not. He might slap me about a bit. He might stop buying me drinks.

  He might do something to my mum.

  Or to Brenda.

  I’d have to talk to him. Maybe we could do a deal. Maybe I’d have to kill him. Yeah, then I’d just have the two bodies to worry about. In order to stop worrying about the first, I stopped by the lock-up. This was one of a cul-de-sac of identical garages next to some wasteland which had been planted with trees and was now termed a Conservation Area. The man in the High Street had certainly conserved his energy thinking up that one.

  There were no kids about, so I used a rock to break the lock, then hauled the door open with my crowbar. I stopped for a moment and wondered what I was going to do now. I’d meant to leave the body in the garage, but I’d had to break the lock to get in, so now if I left the body there anybody at all could wander along and find it. But then I thought, this is Daintry’s garage. Everybody knows it, and nobody in their right mind would dare trespass. So I hauled the package inside, closed the door again, and left a rock in front of it. I was confident I’d done my best.

  So now it was time to go talk with Daintry. The easy part of the evening was past. But first I went home. I don’t know why, I just wanted to see my mum. We used to be on the eleventh floor, but they’d moved us eventually to the third because the lifts kept breaking and Mum couldn’t climb eleven flights. I took the stairs tonight, relieved not to find any of the local kids shooting up or shagging between floors. Mum was sitting with Mrs Gregg from along the hall. They were talking about Mrs McAndrew.

  ‘Story she gave her doctor was she fell down the stairs.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s a shame.’

  Mum looked up and saw me. ‘I thought you’d be down the club.’

  ‘Not tonight, Mum.’

  ‘Well, that makes a change.’

  ‘Hallo, Mrs Gregg.’

  ‘Hallo, love. There’s a band on tonight, you know.’

  ‘Where?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘At the club. Plenty of lovely girls too, I’ll bet.’

  They wanted rid of me. I nodded. ‘Just going to my room. Won’t be long.’

  I lay on my bed, the same bed I’d slept in since I was . . . well, since before I could remember. The room had been painted and papered in the last year. I stared at the wallpaper, lying on one side and then on the other. This room, it occurred to me, was probably the size of a prison cell. It might even be a bit smaller. What was it, eight feet square? But I’d always felt comfortable enough here. I heard my mum laughing at something Mrs Gregg said, and pop music from the flat downstairs. These weren’t very solid flats, thin walls and floors. They’d knock our block down one of these days. I liked it well enough though. I didn’t want to lose it. I didn’t want to lose my mum.

  I decided that I was probably going to have to kill Daintry. I packed some clothes into a black holdall, just holding back the tears. What would I say to my mum? I’ve got to go away for a while? I’ll phone you when I can? I recalled all the stories I’d heard about Daintry. How some guy from Trading Standards had been tailing him and was sitting in his car at the side of the road by the shops when a sawn-off shotgun appeared in the window and a voice told him to get the hell out of there pronto. Guns and knives, knuckledusters and a machete. Just stories . . . just stories.

  I knew he wouldn’t be expecting me to try anything. He’d open his door, he’d let me in, he’d turn his back to lead me through to the living-room. That’s when I’d do it. When his back was turned. It was the only safe and certain time I could think of. Anything else and I reckoned I’d lose my bottle. I left the holdall on my bed and went through to the kitchen. I took time at the open drawer, choosing my knife. Nothing too grand, just a simple four-inch blade at the end of a wooden handle. I stuck it in my pocket.

  ‘Just nipping out for some fresh air, Mum.’

  ‘Bye then.’

  ‘See you.’

  And that was that. I walked back down the echoing stairwell with my mind set on murder. It wasn’t like the films. It was just . . . well, ordinary. Like I was going to fetch fish and chips or something. I kept my hand on the knife handle. I wanted to feel comfortable with it. But my legs were a bit shaky. I had to keep locking them at the knees, holding on to a wall or a lamppost and taking deep breaths. It was a five-minute walk to Daintry’s, but I managed to stretch it to ten. I passed a couple of people I vaguely knew, but didn’t stop to talk. I didn’t trust my teeth not to chatter, my jaw not to lock.

  And to tell you the truth, I was relieved to see that there was someone standing on the doorstep, another visitor. I felt my whole body relax. The man crouched to peer through the letter box, then knocked again. As I walked down the path towards him, I saw that he was tall and well-built with a black leather jacket and short black hair.

  ‘Isn’t he in?’

  The man turned his head slowly towards me. I didn’t like the look of his face. It was grey and hard like the side of a house.

  ‘Doesn’t look like it,’ he said. ‘Any idea where he’d be?’

  He was standing up straight now, his head hanging down over mine. Police, I thought for a second. But he wasn’t police. I swallowed. I started to shake my head, but then I had an idea. I released my grip on the knife.

  ‘If he’s not in he’s probably down the club,’ I said. ‘Do you know where it is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go back down to the bottom of the road, take a left, and when you come to the shops it’s up a side road between the launderette and the chip shop.’

  He studied me. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem,’ I said. ‘You know what he looks like?’

  He nodded in perfect slow motion. He never took his eyes off me.

  ‘Right then,’ I said. ‘Oh, and you might have to park outside the shops. The car-park’s usually full when there’s a band on.’

  ‘There’s a band?’

  ‘In the club.’ I smiled. ‘It gets noisy, you can hardly hear a word that’s said to you, even in the toilets.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that is so.’

  The
n I walked back down the path and gave him a slight wave as I headed for home. I made sure I walked home too. I didn’t want him thinking I was on my way to the club ahead of him.

  ‘Short walk,’ Mum said. She was pouring tea for Mrs Gregg.

  ‘Bit cold.’

  ‘Cold?’ squeaked Mrs Gregg. ‘A lad your age shouldn’t feel the cold.’

  ‘Have you seen my knife?’ Mum asked. She was looking down at the cake she’d made. It was on one of the better plates and hadn’t been cut yet. I brought the knife out of my pocket.

  ‘Here you are, Mum.’

  ‘What’s it doing in your pocket?’

  ‘The lock on the car-boot’s not working. I’d to cut some string to tie it shut.’

  ‘Do you want some tea?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I said. ‘I’m off to bed.’

  It was the talk of the estate the next morning, how Daintry had been knifed to death in a toilet cubicle, just as the band were finishing their encore. They were some sixties four-piece, still performing long past their sell-by. That’s what people said who were there. And they’d compensated for a lack of ability by cranking the sound system all the way up. You not only couldn’t hear yourself think, you couldn’t think.I suppose they have to make a living as best they can. We all do.

  It was the assistant manager who found Daintry. He was doing his nightly check of the club to see how many drunks had managed to fall asleep in how many hidden places. Nobody used the end cubicle of the gents’ much; it didn’t have any toilet seat. But there sat Daintry, not caring any more about the lack of amenities. Police were called, staff and clientele interviewed, but no one had anything much to say.

  Well, not to the police at any rate. But there was plenty of gossip on the streets and in the shops. And slowly a story emerged. Mr McAndrew, remember, had been a lad at one time. He was rumoured still to have a few contacts, a few friends who owed him. Or maybe he just stumped up cash. Whatever, everyone knew Mr McAndrew had put out the contract on Daintry. And, as also agreed, good riddance to him. On a Friday night too. So anyone who’d tapped him for a loan could see the sun rise on Monday morning with a big wide smile.