Get Carter (21 page)

“Do me a favour,” I said. “Do you really expect me to go to Eric or Kinnear and push them over on your say so? You must be joking.”

Brumby carried on looking at me.

“I’ll tell you what I think you found out after last night’s sniffing; you found out that they put me on to you hoping I’d do you and then it occurred to you it might be a good idea to get me to do the same to them. Stroll on, Cliff. You must think I’m bleeding barmy.”

“You’re wrong, Jack.”

“Sure,” I said, “if you say so.”

“Jack …”

“Ta-ra, Cliff.”

I walked out of the room. The girl watched me all the way. Or should I say both of me.

I waited in the grey rain for Brumby to leave. The idea was to go back and see Glenda on her own. See what she really knew. And what Cliff really knew. The trouble was it didn’t quite work out like that.

I’d been standing there for about quarter of an hour when the red Jag slid up and tucked in behind the TR4. Only this time there was only one person in the car and that was Con.

He didn’t get out. He lit up and slid down in his seat and relaxed. He looked very comfy.

I was standing in the entrance to one of the blocks of flats. I realised I’d be invisible to Con behind the steamy plate glass. But that was only temporary. I had to move sometime. And after all, there was only Con. I walked out into the rain.

Con saw me. He eased himself up in his seat a little bit and wound the window down.

“Jack,” he called.

I stood and looked at him.

“Here a minute. I’ve something to tell you.”

I stayed where I was.

“Your niece,” he said. “She’s been asking for you. Wants to see you.”

I walked over to the car. Con didn’t get out.

“Have you done anything to her, Con?”

Con smiled.

“Now, would I?” he said. “But I had to leave her with Peter, didn’t I? You know how Peter feels about the opposite sex.”

“Where are they?”

“Get in and I’ll tell you.”

We looked at one another. Con said:

“I’ve got a shooter in my pocket. But there’s no need for that, is there?”

I didn’t say anything. Con opened the door on the driver’s side and slid over into the passenger’s seat. I walked round the front of the car and got in.

“There’s a lovely boy, Jack,” said Con.

I started the car and sat there.

“Carry on,” said Con.

“I don’t know where we’re going, do I?”

“I’ll tell you when we’re moving.”

We pulled away from the curb.

“Where to?” I said.

“Jackson Street,” he said.

We drove through the empty back streets. As we turned into Jackson Street, Con said:

“I wouldn’t have a go, Jack. Remember Peter.”

I began to slow down.

Con had both hands in his pockets. One on the shooter and one on the knife. I stopped the car and pulled the handbrake on. Then I flashed my hand between Con’s legs and grabbed his balls and squeezed hard.

Con opened his mouth to scream but before any sound could come out I pulled his hat over his face and stuffed as much of it as I could into his mouth. I let go of his balls and gave him one in the throat. He began to choke so I hit him on the temple with my elbow and pulled the hat out of his mouth. He fell forward and cracked his
forehead on the dashboard. With a little bit of assistance from myself.

I took the gun and the knife and put them in my pockets and got out of the car without slamming the door. I crossed the pavement and walked down the passage that led to the back gardens, turned left and ducked down below the kitchen window. Nobody came and opened the back door so I had a quick look through the kitchen window.

The door between the kitchen and the scullery was open. I could see right through.

Doreen was sitting in Frank’s chair. Her legs were drawn up underneath her. I couldn’t see her face because her hands were covering it. Peter the Dutchman was sitting on the divan, leaning forward. Looking as though he was chatting in a nice friendly manner.

I ducked down, then straightened up and then very, very carefully I opened the back door. I stood there for a minute or two to make sure I hadn’t been heard. I hadn’t. Peter was still talking.

“Of course,” he was saying, “there’s worse things. I mean, I once saw a snotty little dolly like you given the treatment by a couple of bull-dykes. Nice it was. They like it rough, you know. They like a bit of pain and a bit of blood, some of those bulls. These two did. They had some really good ideas. What they did you see …”

Peter stopped talking. Very abruptly. A shadow had fallen between him and Doreen. Peter did a long slow take until for the second time that day he found himself looking into my eyes.

“What did they do, Peter?” I said.

His eyes were glass. Doreen’s hands fell away from her face at the sound of my voice.

“Come on, Ginger Boy,” I said. “Tell us what they did.”

Peter’s mouth opened but no words came out. Things exploded in my head. I fell on Peter, straddling him, pushing him down on to the divan. I punched his face until my fists got slippery. Then I turned him over and
gave him some in his kidneys. Doreen watched in a kind of crazy silence.

I stood up and Peter slid off face down on the carpet, one leg still on the divan. I drew my foot back to kick the side of his head. Doreen screamed. I kicked him anyway.

When I’d done that, I took a fag out and lit up and stood there looking down at him. Doreen was looking at him too, but the difference was that she was crying.

I went outside to the car. Con was where I’d left him, trying to lift himself up in his seat. I opened the car door.

“Get out,” I said.

Con tried to get out but he couldn’t. I took hold of his coat collar and pulled. He slid out of his seat and on to his knees on the pavement. A couple of kids on bikes drew level, slowed down, then picked up speed again. I hoisted Con to his feet and bundled him into the house.

I got him into the living-room and dumped him on the divan. Then I went into the kitchen and found the washing line. I tipped Con on to the floor next to Peter and trussed them up back to back.

Doreen hadn’t moved.

“Right,” I said. “From now on you stay with me.”

Doreen carried on crying.

“Do you hear?” I said.

“What’s going on? What’s going on?” she said, shaking her head from side to side.

“Never mind,” I said. “You’ll be well out of it by Monday.”

She carried on shaking her head.

“Come on,” I said.

She didn’t get up so I lifted her up out of the chair.

“Look,” I said. “You’re coming with me.”

“No,” she said her body going limp. “No.”

“All right,” I said. “It’s up to you. But you can’t stay here. I’ll take you to your friend’s place.”

I took hold of her arm and guided her out of the house and put her in the Jag. I got in and pressed the starter.

Wilton Estate was lifeless in the rain. Hedgeless lawns sopped up the wet greyness. I stopped the car.

Doreen was still crying.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “About them blokes: they’re from the smoke. They want me to go back with them, that’s all.”

Doreen didn’t answer.

“Anyway, I’m chucking London. It’ll be all right in South Africa. Sunshine. Modern cities. Not like this hole. You’ll like it.”

“I’m not going. Not with you. Me dad wouldn’t want me to.”

“Why not?”

She took a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.

“Because he bloody hated you, that’s why.”

“Did he say that?”

“He didn’t have to, did he? I could tell. He didn’t have to say owt.”

I looked out at the rain.

“I’m not surprised he hated you now I know you. He’d have killed you if he’d been here. Trying to say he was mixed up in summat. Getting on to me about it.”

“You don’t know it all,” I said. “So don’t think you do.”

She opened the car door.

“Anyway, I’m not going any-bloody-where with you. So you can stuff that in your pipe and smoke it.”

She got out and slammed the door and began to walk down the road. I watched her go. Eventually she turned left into one of the crescents. I eased the car forward and stopped at the turning. Doreen was about half-way up the crescent when she left the footpath and walked across the green towards one of the houses. She didn’t look back. I waited till she was out of sight then backed up into the crescent and pointed the car back in the direction of the High Street.

I drove the Jag into United’s car park. It was three quarters full. An attendant was standing about wearing one of those tent-shaped rubberised coats. I stopped and pushed a half crown piece out of the window. He gave me a ticket and I drove over to the far corner where I’d left the hired car. I parked the Jag nearby and got out and locked it up. I looked over to where the attendant was. He was walking away from me, towards his box. The crowd’s roar ebbed and flowed across the wet sky. I ducked down and took out Con’s knife and did the tires on the Jag. It didn’t take long. Con prided himself on his knife. Then I got into the hired car and drove out of the car park. The attendant gawped into the car as I drove past his box.

The TR4 was still outside the flats. I drove the car round the corner of the flats and parked by the adjoining garage, got out and crossed over. There was no way of knowing whether Brumby was still there or not but I’d worry about that after I’d rung the doorbell.

The flats were as deserted as before. I went up in the lift. Nobody was on the balcony.

I rang the bell and waited. I could hear bathtaps running.

After I’d rung the bell a dozen times and waited nearly five minutes the door opened.

She still had her coat on and she was still drunk.

“I thought maybe I’d come back,” I said.

She stared at me. At least as much as her drooping eyelids and her glassy eyes would let her. Then she smiled and did the tongue and teeth bit.

“What for?” she said.

I said nothing.

“You can’t come in unless you tell me,” she said.

“I thought maybe you’d be able to guess.”

She shook her head, still giving me the stare, the tongue and the teeth.