The Slaughter Man (30 page)

‘You done?’ I asked him. ‘Because you look done to me.’

His courage came back by the time we reached the motorway.

He was in the X5’s passenger seat, leaning forward, half-sitting on the hands that were cuffed behind him. A warning signal went
ping-ping-ping
because he was not wearing the seat belt, but I was not taking him out of the cuffs. I saw the cocky, knowing grin on his face and I waited. I looked in the mirror and I could not see the rest of our convoy. Somehow I had lost them.

Nils Gatling chuckled to himself.

It was dark now and the traffic towards London was thin. I watched the accelerator increasing with a kind of detached interest, as though it didn’t really have much to do with me. I saw the sign that said LONDON and I longed to be home.

Nils Gatling moved in the passenger seat, as if he was both deeply amused and mildly uncomfortable.

‘You don’t
seriously
think that my sister could possibly be interested in a man like you, do you?’ he said.

I said nothing.

‘You see, when you get them started that young – as I did with both Mary and Charlotte – then they are never really the same again,’ he said. ‘There’s some damage that can never be repaired. And I have that over you. And I will
always
have that over you. Every time you kiss her, you are tasting my—’

There was black ice on the motorway.

You can’t see black ice very well because it is not black at all – it is transparent, ice that is devoid of air bubbles, clear ice, a thin layer of ice so clear that you can see the black stuff beneath it. But it is not invisible.

You can see it if you are trained to see it.

And I saw it. I was trained to see it.

And I knew that if the BMW X5 hit the black ice and lost traction and went into a skid that I could not pull out of then Nils Gatling would likely put his face through the windscreen and bounce one hundred yards down the motorway, almost certainly breaking his neck while my face was buried deep in a big comfy BMW air bag.

Shut his mouth forever
.

I deliberately steered onto the black ice, and the X5 went into a sickening skid, the back of the big car swinging around like an executioner’s axe.

There was a moment when I could have put the bastard through the windscreen. But I let the moment pass.

And I found myself going through the drill on muscle memory alone.

Don’t panic
.

Don’t brake
.

Don’t over steer
.

Turn into the skid
.

And I gained control of the X5 and then the black ice was suddenly behind us and we were on smooth motorway with the lights of London ahead of us.

I felt calm and crisp and strong.

Nils Gatling was panting with terror in the passenger seat, wondering what had just happened. He kept his cakehole shut for the rest of the journey.

I handed custody over to the duty sergeant at West End Central and they took him down to the holding cell. And then I did something that the black ice on the motorway almost stopped me from doing.

I went home to Scout.

I got a call from Edie Wren when I was fixing our breakfast. They had found Nils Gatling at first light. At some point in the night he had ripped his cashmere sweater to shreds, tied it to the bars of the custody cell and hung himself by the neck until dead.

I think I was expecting the call.

Because sometimes bullies and cowards don’t have the nerve to kill themselves and at other times they lack the nerve you need just to stay alive.

The days were getting warmer.

On the last Sunday of the month I stood at the window of our loft, the great market still and silent on its day of rest, and I could see the seasons changing before my eyes.

Above the dome of St Paul’s, the fierce winds of late March made it seem as if the whole of the sky was moving. But the days were lighter now and it felt like the long winter was finally gone. Something cold and dark had been lifted from our city, and it was suddenly beautiful again.

As the cathedral bells rang for morning prayers, so close they sounded as though they were coming from our kitchen, I got down on the floor to do one hundred press-ups. When I had to pause at fifty for a triple espresso, Stan raised his head from his basket and looked at me with mild surprise.

It was true. Somewhere between long hours and a stab wound, I had let my fitness slide.

I had missed too many of my regular sessions with Fred. But it would always be waiting for me. The heavy bag, the speedball, the pads and the sparring. The endless sweat and the occasional splatter of blood, with The Jam and The Clash and James Brown always on the sound system. I looked forward to getting fit with Fred.

He had called me with bad news. Rocky’s injuries in the Oak Hill Farm riot had ended his career as a pro before it had even begun. The last Fred had heard, Rocky and Echo had moved out to Essex, the way generations of Londoners had moved out in search of a patch of grass to call their own.

I was sad to hear that Rocky had stopped training. But he had the woman he loved. They had a child on the way. They had a new home. Life was not over for him. It was just beginning.

The training may have been over for Rocky, but for an ordinary man like me, it never ended. My kit bag was already packed to go, because Fred had taught me that the first thing you do when you get back from the gym is to pack your pack for the next time.

My body ached with the bone-deep weariness of someone who is still recovering from being given a beating by experts. But there were no reasons worth giving. There were only excuses.

With the bitter tang of the espresso in my mouth, I forced out the remaining fifty press-ups, noting the build-up of lactic acid in my arms and the way my heart and lungs were being made to work hard, knowing that the final handful of press-ups – the ones you didn’t feel like doing, the ones that would be easy to skip because you had already done enough – were where you claimed real and lasting strength.

And I had to be strong. I had to be fit. I had to be healthy. My heart and my muscles and my lungs – they could never let me down.

Because Scout still had a lot of growing to do.

And I was going to stand by her side every step of the way.

It was late afternoon, the days noticeably getting longer and brighter and milder, and Stan and I were alone in West Smithfield where he sniffed the bins, getting his pee-mail before leaving his own mark –
I, Stan, passed this place –
while I read the inscription from
Oliver Twist
that covers the stone chairs, Charles Dickens’ hymn to the ghosts of the meat market.

‘Countrymen, butchers, drovers, hawkers, boys, thieves, idlers and vagabonds of every low grade were mingled together in a dense mass … the cries of hawkers, the shouts, oaths, and quarrelling on all sides, the ringing of bells and roar of voices that issued from every public house …’

But Smithfield was silent and empty now.

The meat porters were at home in the suburbs. The clubbers were tucked up in bed. And the tourists were all gathering around the bells of St Paul’s.

It was a good and a quiet time and we lingered there until the soft spring light was fading and it was time to pick up Scout from her friend’s party.

It was three miles from Smithfield to Mia’s home in Pimlico but the route passes through some of my favourite parts of the city, and Stan and I elected to walk.

It was a glorious day. We went down to the river and then along the Embankment as far as Big Ben, then around Parliament Square and took a right into Birdcage Walk before taking the long way round for an excuse to stroll through St James’s Park.

The park was where I saw her.

On the far side of the lake.

Charlotte and Bradley, looking exactly like mother and son, both of them shaking with laughter as they tried and failed to float some kind of mechanical boat on a lake that was as still as glass.

A blonde woman in a red coat, dressed too warm for this time of year, and a small boy who looked at her as if she was his everything.

She glanced up and saw me.

I said her name once, and started around the lake towards her.

Then a woman’s voice behind me stopped me.

‘Excuse me?
Excuse
me!’

It was a voice so posh you could have used it to stir Pimm’s. Its owner was one of those Chelsea widows who bought their house early and clung on after the wealthy foreigners from Russia and China and the Eurozone moved in and all the people who fly first class were bought out by all the people who fly in private planes.

Somewhere in her late seventies, the Chelsea widow wore a Hermès scarf, Hunter boots and was carrying a dog lead that had an orange plastic bone containing poo bags. She glared at me with well-mannered ferocity and I felt an enormous affection for her. She had probably lived through the Blitz, knew all the waiters at Wilton’s and was as much a part of the old London that I loved as the porters of Smithfield.

‘Do you have a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel?’

‘Stan,’ I said. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Have you seen what your Stan’s doing to my Lulu?

‘Lulu?’

‘My Labradoodle!’

Stan was struggling to mount a pissed-off looking Labradoodle with a look of abject misery in his eyes. He could not help himself and I remembered something a wise man said about the male sex drive, how it was like being chained to a maniac.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘He gets excited. He’s just being friendly.’

‘
Friendly
?
Friendly
you call it? If you can’t control your dog, you shouldn’t let him off lead.’

She was right. I put Stan on his lead. And when I turned back to the lake the blonde woman in the red coat and the little boy with the boat were gone.

And I missed her.

Stan and I continued on our walk. The Union Jack that flew above Buckingham Palace was visible above the oak and plane and mulberry trees that were coming back to life, and I knew this meant two things.

The Queen was at home.

And Charlotte Gatling had taught me the names of the trees.

They were handing out the party bags when I got there.

It was a room full of little girls dressed as princesses. Snow Whites, Little Mermaids, Belles and a few I couldn’t place, most of them struggling with a sugar rush. There were a handful of boys dressed as pirates, cowboys and Vikings.

‘Scout’s been a little bit upset,’ Mia’s mum said.

I found her in a quiet corner, chin trembling and wet-eyed. A smear of birthday cake down the front of her gold-coloured dress.

I gathered her in my arms, and she felt too warm under her elaborate ball gown. Mia stood protectively by Scout’s side, her hands on her hips, looking outraged.

‘I
told
Hector,’ she said. ‘I
told
Hector to stop being mean to Scout.’

I looked around the room. A seven-year-old pirate was grinning as he bothered a six-year-old Pocahontas with his plastic cutlass.

Hector, I guessed.

Mia’s family gathered around Scout, trying to comfort her. They were good people but we just wanted to go home.

We jumped into a black cab and were back in Smithfield within fifteen minutes.

I watched her for every second. Scout sighed, dried her eyes and calmed down. When we got home she changed into jeans and a T-shirt and handed me her gold ball gown. I wasn’t sure what I was meant to do with it. It was only much later, when I was putting her to bed, that I could no longer resist asking her the question that had been tormenting me since I had picked her up.

‘What did that kid Hector say to you, Scout?’

‘Nothing.’

‘OK, angel. Sleep well.’

I went to turn off the light and her voice held me.

‘Foul marriage,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Hector said that my mummy and daddy had a foul marriage and that’s why I’m the only one in my class who doesn’t have a mummy.’

I came and sat down on the bed.

‘He doesn’t know what he’s saying,’ I said. ‘He’s repeating something he heard his dumb parents say. He’s just a stupid little boy with a plastic cutlass. Did you see his cutlass?’

‘Yes.’

‘What kind of a pirate has a plastic cutlass? Only a rubbish one. Don’t worry about him, Scout. People will always try to hurt you in this world. Don’t let them. Never let them hurt you.’

I hugged her and told her that I loved her. Then I turned off the light and left the room. Across the street the market was already stirring. Monday morning was waiting at the end of the night. I stared at the market for a while and then I went back into Scout’s bedroom. I didn’t turn on her light.

‘Scout? You awake?’

‘Yes.’

‘He didn’t say foul marriage. That stupid little kid. He said
failed marriage
.’

‘OK.’

‘He said failed marriage because your parents are divorced. They call it a failed marriage. That’s what they call it. Failed marriage.’

‘All right.’

Her voice was very small in the darkness.

‘Can I tell you something, Scout?’

‘Sure.’

‘It wasn’t a failed marriage. Your parents split up, but it wasn’t a failed marriage, Scout.’

I controlled my breathing. I wanted to get this right. It was very important to me.

And I saw that it was really very simple.

‘It ended but it didn’t fail. There’s a difference.
And that’s because of you
. It wasn’t a failed marriage because you came along. You were born, Scout. And you are the best of me. You are the one true good thing in my life, Scout. You make this planet a better place and no marriage that produces a little girl like you
failed
, Scout. It didn’t work. It ended. And that’s very sad. But it didn’t fail. And that’s because of you,’ I said, stroking her hair. ‘Because of you, Scout.’

But by then of course she was sleeping.

When I was a lad, and still wearing a black leather jacket in all seasons, every morning on my way to work I would walk past one of the Great Train Robbers.