“What the fuck.”
“Shut up or I’ll blow your balls off.”
He shut up.
The woman sat upright, the gun held in place. She said,
“I can’t for the life of me pronounce the name of this gun but I don’t think you’ll mind. I mean what’s in a name? I can assure you though it works. A Mr. Colbert could have vouched for it but alas, he’s moved on.”
Terry felt fear grip him and thought he was going to soil his pants.
“Now Terry, tell me, how did it feel to kill the dog?”
“It was Bill done that. I love animals...”
“Now isn’t that the oddest thing Terry. I felt in my bones you’d say that. I wonder if I’m psychic.”
He thought “bloody psycho more like” but kept it to himself.
She hummed a while and he wondered what on earth she was waiting for. Finally she said,
“You’d like to fuck people I think, if you’ll pardon my French... Are you uncomfortable Terry?”
“Well, if you could maybe... you know... move the barrel a tad, I feel a bit exposed...”
“I’ll think about it Terry, okay...”
And she went silent again.
Terry had no interest in culture. Indeed he referred to the whole area as a dance floor for nancy boys. Once though, he’d heard Richard Eyre talk about arguments at home. He’d said,
“I was fascinated not so much by the obvious entertainment of the streams of violence but by the silences that followed:
epic
giant
immense
terrible
and
terrifying.”
Terry had said then,
“Wot a load of cobblers.”
But now he understood exactly the meaning of those silences. A strong smell of sweat and fear oozed from him.
She spoke and he tried not to jump.
“Terry, I was at the hairdressers the other day, not that you’re interested in that, but I was reading an issue of Cosmopolitan. Do you know what I read?”
“N... o” This came out as a faint croak.
“Sixty-two percent of Australians prefer surfing to sex. Eighty percent think of sex while surfing. And fifty percent think of surfing during sex.”
This near finished Terry off as it convinced him she was completely whacko.
He heard her say,
“I saw my husband Gerry today.”
And then she pulled the trigger.
Next morning Tom shaved his beard. As he did, Radio 4 played Ave Maria and he sang aloud with it,
As his face emerged, the music rose in him a profound sense of yearning for what he didn’t know. It was he thought the very not knowing that gave the feeling such intensity. An alcoholic in prison had tried to tell him what he reckoned a drink would accomplish.
“I might fill the hole in my soul.”
Tom hadn’t followed that exactly but a junkie had leapt in saying,
“That’s it, that’s nearly it... a fix is like kissing God.”
Tom thought the nearest he’d ever come to fulfilling the yearning was his love for Kendra. It frightened him a little that it made him so vulnerable. But it was as constant as his heartbeat. Clean shaven, he studied his new appearance. Ten years had fallen away but his face looked hollow. All the words in the world couldn’t fill it, he whispered. The Ave Maria finished and the news followed. It included the story about Terry being shot to death in his car. The police were anxious to trace a woman seen leaving a public house in his company.”
“God Almighty,” he said.
Bill had heard the same news. He instantly ran to check the locks on the door and window. Then to the bedroom and pulled the shotgun from under the mattress. Sitting in a hard chair near the door, he cradled the gun on his lap and began to slug from a bottle of scotch. In no doubt about his abilities, he knew Robbie and Terry were superior in every department. But not smart enough to stay alive... no, not that bright at all. He began to mutter,
“You won’t take me so easy you bastard, come and get some of this.”
As the scotch went down his bravado rose and he began to hope the caller would come soon.
Sergeant Woods was in the canteen. A tall man, inclined to fat, he eyed a jelly donut. The cake seemed to howl,
“Eat me.”
He did some calorie calculations. If he had a mug of tea without sugar, maybe he could have a donut. The canteen assistant was well used to the sergeant’s dilemma. It didn’t help that she vaguely reminded him of his mother.
“Ah go on Sergeant. Nobody lives forever... it won’t kill you.”
“Easy for you to say Molly. If the Super finished early in Forensics, he’d have my hide, he says I’m too heavy now.”
“That Super is a miserable git, no meat on his bones, he wants to spoil it for everyone else.”
The Sergeant had the donut and a large mug of tea. Sitting down, he took a huge bite and sweetness enveloped him.
“Bliss,” he thought.
Alas, as life goes, the Super arrived and came straight over.
“God Sergeant, stuffing your face as usual. You’ve got your mouth full and I’ve got my hands full...”
The Sergeant tried to swallow quickly and nearly choked.
“Ah use a napkin for heaven’s sake! I got the report from Forensics... they rushed it through. What’s the damn woman’s name, Margaret, is it?”
“Molly, Sir.”
“Whatever, hey you, bring me a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.”
Molly ignored him.
The Super fixed his tie and began,
“This is getting out of hand. As we feared, the bullets came from the same gun. It gets better, this Terry worked for one Mr. Colbert. Him and another small time villain named Bill.”
The Sergeant had to open his mouth to dislodge the donut remnants and it had the appearance of a yawn.
“Sorry I’m keeping you up Sergeant, but this is of some priority. You’d need to get yer ass in gear laddie or it’s back on the beat for you. Be back bouncing the bunnies in Brixton... wot? Where’s that damn woman with my orange juice.”
“Bone breakers,” said the Sergeant.
“What’s that?”
“Terry and Bill, they operate as muscle and specialize in putting the frighteners on. They’ve quite a rep in certain circles. Terry’s the wide boy, vicious and cunning. Bill is the stooge, no less dangerous mind.”
“What’s the connection then?”
“Well, Bill recently parted from his old lady and Colbert too. Would there be one of them troit things.”
“That’s ‘menage a trois’. You might be on to something there. Where do you place our Tom Kenny, the jailbird, in all of this?”
“The way I see it Sir, how about we grill all players. Shake the tree and see what falls.”
“Remaining players that is... well, it doesn’t look like any orange juice is going to be shaken anyroad. Let’s get moving then.”
Molly watched them leave and when they were well clear of the canteen she said in a dramatic voice,
“Oh Superintendent, your orange juice!”