Murderers Anonymous (36 page)

The fire crackled and spat, the tree sparkled in the corner. The gang of chums was gathered around the tree drinking Hertha Berlin's coronary-inducing Christmas punch, waiting for the annual present exchange.

The presents were all present and correct, it was just one of the participants who was missing. Sammy Gilchrist had yet to return after leaving the previous meeting. They'd also had to wait for Morty Goldman, but he had been back for some twenty minutes.

Conversation was low, but the alcohol was flowing and the mood was improving. Chances were, they mostly thought, the night had potential. One or two of the inmates who saw themselves failing in their love quest were already thinking of calling on a couple of outside agencies of sex to provide the entertainment. Things could have been worse. And given the obtuse minds involved, the gift exchange was usually pretty interesting.

Barney waited nervously, the words of his grand venture into poetry going through his head. Wondering if Dillinger would know it was him who had written it; and wondering how he'd tell her it was him, on the assumption she didn't work it out.

'You don't think something's happened to him?' said Dillinger to Arnie Medlock. Barney had been watching them talking for the previous ten minutes, and had assumed it was far more intimate than it actually had been. His own attempt at introductory conversation – 'Apparently if you pull a condom over your head you can still breathe for nearly three minutes' – had crashed and burned, and she'd wandered off in search of something more conversationally appetising. Barney needed better lines.

'Who?' said Medlock. He was in his element. Playing the king; the senior figure; the captain; the skipper, the chief, the boss; El Presidente; General Fantastic; Mr Invincible; The Amazing Captain Sperm. He saw himself as the Godfather to these people, and the Christmas weekend was his time to establish that position even more. And like so many, the hubris got worse with drink.

'Sammy,' said Dillinger, slightly annoyed. Fully aware that Medlock knew about whom she was talking. Hated it when he did his Al Pacino.

'That poof?' said Medlock. 'He's a jessie. Wee Morty just looked at him funny and the guy creamed his pants. He'll be back, the sad bastard, you can count on it. Won't want to miss out on his present.'

Dillinger took another dive into the depths of her Christmas punch and bit her bottom lip. Could see the weekend falling to pieces, despite the current revelry and good humour among the inmates.

'What if something's happened to him?' she said. 'I'm beginning to get a bad feeling about this weekend.' And she caught the eye of Morty Goldman as she said it, then his eyes slimed away from hers.

'Settle down, babe, everything's going to be fine,' Medlock said, then noticed her looking at Goldman. 'Don't worry about Morty, for goodness sake. I can take care of him. He's a bit daft, but he's under control.'

He rested his hand on hers to reassure her, and she felt a sense of relief at the words. Yet Medlock could not have been farther from the mark. For Morty Goldman was not fine, not by any means.

Barney saw the blatant hand-touching and recoiled. Buggerty shit-farts, he thought. Bugger, bugger, bugger.

Silver bells, silver bells, lah-de-de-dum-de-de-lah-lah
... So sang Bing Crosby for the eighth time that weekend. The drink was the thing, and none of them was getting fed up with it. Then in the midst of the Christmas festivities, the door opened and in walked Sammy Gilchrist. A bit of mud on his shoes, face slightly damp with sweat, hair a bit wet, breathing hard, but trying to cover it up. The appearance of the guilty man about him.

Morty Goldman slung him a sly look, then turned away; the carpet to contemplate. The carpet and other things.

Medlock nodded towards Gilchrist and Dillinger followed. Relaxed when she saw him, Medlock felt the tension leave her fingers.

'Told you,' said Medlock. 'The big poof was probably out pulling his pudding behind a tree somewhere.'

Gilchrist moved straight for Hertha Berlin's pungent punch. Ladled a glassful, swallowed, went through the appropriate facial contortions, then poured another glass.

He turned and surveyed the scene and realised that everyone was watching him. An antagonistic few words flashed through his head, but in the air there was the feeling of Christmas, so he went for conciliation.

'Sorry about that,' he said. Still a little breathless. 'Just went for a wee walk and I got caught in the rain, you know. Pishing down like a bastard the now. So are we doing the presents?' he added, sitting down away from Morty Goldman.

'Aye, we are,' said Dillinger. 'Glad you're back all right, Sammy.'

'No bother.'

'Poof,' murmured Arnie Medlock under his breath, to general amusement. Sammy Gilchrist snarled and took another long swallow from his second lethal punch. Could already feel it having the required effect on his limbs and head.

'Right,' said Dillinger, 'come on, round the Christmas tree. Arnie's going to be Santa Claus.'

Medlock quaffed the rest of his quadruple Lagavulin and headed for the tree. Magnanimous look on his face. Santa Claus. The bearer of gifts. The controller of people's emotions. The Almighty. That was him. And Dillinger pottered after him, Santa's little helper. Barney watched in envy.

The annual Christmas present handout. Something childish about it, something alien to the very being of this group, but Dillinger thrust it upon them every year, and every year they moped and grumped, but every year they enjoyed it all the same.

So they topped up their drinks and they gathered round into a small circle. Eleven wise men or women, and they were all overcome by the atmosphere, the lights, the music, the alcohol and the general feeling of goodwill. Even Sammy Gilchrist and Morty Goldman were prepared to lend a hand to the air of geniality. Even the jealous Barney.

Nat King Cole had headed into enemy territory on
O! Holy Night
, and the Christmas tree shimmered.

'Hope I'm going to get loads of condoms,' said Billy Hamilton, and laughed.

'You don't need them for rubber women, Billy,' said Arnie Medlock, and he laughed louder and longer and was joined by the others, including Hamilton, because he had that Christmas feeling, which only comes once a year.

'Right, then,' said Medlock, delving into the sack beneath the tree where all the presents had been discreetly placed. 'Ho fucking ho. The first one's for Katie herself. There you go, hen.'

Instant nerves for Barney. A stranger in this crowd, wishing he had left, but here was a good reason to still be here. Wondered if his long-thought-out poem would bring home the goods. Also worried that she would instantly recognise it as being from him and would denounce him publicly in front of the others.

'No, no,' she said, 'I'll go last. Let one of the others have theirs.'

Her protest was greeted with a chorus of disapproval, and Medlock thrust the present into her hands.

'On you go,' he said. 'Santa says,' he added, magnanimously.

Dillinger smiled and began to unwrap the gift with a certain childish abandon. Barney watched nervously. Felt like a teenager; or at least what he assumed teenagers felt like, because he'd never felt much like a teenager when he'd been one.

The paper came off and all was revealed.

A box of chocolates. A man of limited imagination, our Barney. Had thought long and hard, had even gone so far as to check out a couple of lingerie shops, but hadn't had the nerve. It was all in the poem, he thought. The chocolates were mundane, he knew that, but the poetry would sort her out.

She smiled appropriately and seemed genuinely pleased. Knowing the sort of thing that the others got up to, she immediately suspected Barney. The conservative idea of a new boy. If he was still here the following year, she thought, he'll be buying vibrators the same as the rest of them.

'That's brilliant,' she said, beaming. 'Thanks.'

She hasn't noticed the poem! thought Barney. She hasn't noticed the poem. It was still in the wrapping. Bugger, bugger, bugger. I can't say anything. Shit, shit, shit. Bugger. Should I say? If I say she'll know it was me.

The poem! he screamed silently at her.

Medlock reached into the bag for the next present. Barney nearly exploded in frustration. The poem! Look at the poem!

'Here,' said Ellie Winters, who from now on would be known to Barney as The Saviour, 'is that not a card or something in the wrapper for you, Katie?'

Medlock hesitated. Dillinger lifted up the wrapper, fished out the small card and opened it.

'Ooh, it's a poem,' she said, with a little more enthusiasm than she would feel once she'd read it.

'Read it out!' a few of them cried.

Dry throat, Barney held his breath.

'All right, all right,' said Dillinger. Medlock eyed her suspiciously. Bloody poetry, he thought. Should he find out who sent it, he'd kill them.

She quickly looked over the poem – and then decided to read it out, despite what it said.

You're nice, you're smooth, you're sexy as fuck;

You're hard, you're strong, you're tough.

I want to kiss you everywhere

And see you in the buff.

And feast my eyes on every inch

Of your delicious body,

And do the kind of sordid things

That Big Ears did to Noddy.

A long silence. Dillinger looked up, slightly red. Trying not to look at Barney, because this was the sort of thing that none of the others would have written. And she knew all their handwriting.

'Ooh,' she said, to no one in particular.

'Fuck,' said Ellie Winters. 'Smooth bastard that, eh? Your luck's in the night, ya bitch.'

'You never know,' said Dillinger, and finally she risked a glance at Barney. Barney stared at the floor. Arnie Medlock fumed.

'Jesus!' said Socrates. 'I didn't know that Big Ears and Noddy were shagging. Bloody hell. You just don't know, do you?'

Without further hesitation, Medlock handed out the next present. Morty Goldman held out his hand, Medlock got the feel of a clammy finger, and the show was once again on the road. Dillinger snuck another glance at Barney and this time he caught her eye. Bright red.

And so the presents continued. A large kitchen knife for Morty. A pump-action shotgun for Socrates. False breasts for Annie Webster (and she was not amused). A blow-up rubber woman, with real hair, moving parts and fully operational triple orgasm mechanism for Billy Hamilton (who always got a blow-up rubber woman). Half a litre of cyanide for Ellie Winters. A working replica 1940s Luger for Bobby Dear. A full set of Davie Provan videos for Fergus Flaherty. Four different types of lubricating jelly for Barney; a present originally intended for the ubiquitous Hammer Galbraith. A range of penis rings and other genital attachments for Sammy Gilchrist. Round they went, and each was pleased or disinterested in turn, and none of them went so far as to be upset by their gift. It was Christmas, and for all that the Day of Days was two days away, when it came it would not match the feeling of drunk relaxation that they each felt now. For Christmas Day itself would either be spent in unruliness with family, or passed alone in front of the television, succour only to be gained from Jimmy Stewart or Judy Garland.

Arnie saved the most important to last. He always received an original or limited-edition Conan Doyle. It was a Christmas tradition within the group. A bit of a bugger for whoever picked Arnie's name from the hat, but it was expected of them. He was their spiritual leader, after all, with Dillinger more the secretary and the accountant.