Tom tried again to ring Bridie. Her phone was now off the hook. He contemplated going over there.
“And then what?” he thought, “Ask her if she’s shooting half the male population of London. Still, it made a change from marrying them.”
A more immediate problem was the certainty that the police would be around again... and again. If he was to do a job, he’d have to do it now before the heat really increased. They’d never expect him to go thieving today. He forced his mind to business and made half a dozen calls round the estate agents.
A place in Brompton Road had just been let... close to Knightsbridge. He didn’t like to work this fast but time was becoming scarce. Out came the labourers gear and he tried to match his enthusiasm to his haste.
The two policemen walked casually to the fourth floor of Bill’s building. The Super vetoed the lift as he said,
“No need to advertise our arrival, and the exercise will do you no harm.”
The sergeant said nothing. They listened outside Bill’s door. Another door opened and a middle-aged woman said,
“Oh he’s in there all right, fell in drunk as usual last night, the smell of drinking in the corridors was appalling, just appalling.”
Superintendent Barnes said,
“Well Sergeant, don’t just stand there, give it a good thump.”
He did.
Bill had fallen into an alcoholic stupor.
The knock stirred him and he came to in a panic, though the door was being forced. Without thinking he squeezed both triggers of the shotgun.
The blast took out most of the door and slammed the Sergeant against the far wall, killing him instantly. For a few moments, nothing moved. Superintendent Barnes, shocked and crouched, saw Bill’s head appear through the shattered door. He was whimpering.
“It was Terry... not me... I didn’t do nowt.”
Tom marveled at the flimsy lock on the door to the apartment and in sixty seconds, he was inside. He knew the rents for these places were exorbitant and yet they wouldn’t spend a penny on a decent bolt. Once inside, he leant against the door and listened for sounds. Twice he heard voices in places and had left instantly. Only silence here. He looked at his watch, ten minutes tops.
The living room was strewn with clothes and empty cups. A quick frisk there revealed nothing. Then to the small kitchen and opened the fridge. Milk, frozen burgers, large containers of Greek yoghurt. He took the tops of these and put his hand in... extracting jewellery wrapped in cellophane. A matching set of male and female Rolex into his pocket.
The second carton held a batch of Krugerrands. Not as valuable as they’d once been but a nice earner. He spotted a tin of pure ground coffee... and they had a percolator. The temptation to brew up was nigh overpowering. But he knew what he did in people’s homes was bad enough. Somehow he felt that using their cups or food was in the realm of desecration. A chill hit the back of his neck and without waiting to look round, he dived to his left. A baseball bat crashed down on the coffee tin, flattening it like rotten fruit. A large black man in some ceremonial African dress was wielding it. He swung round to get another shot and Tom scurried to his feet. The man had tribal scars on his face and an expression of concentrated murder. He held the bat with a practised ease. Tom faced him. In prison he’d learnt the rules of fighting.
— There are no rules.
Do whatever it takes to bring them down and ensure they’re in no mood to rise. Tom feinted to his right and the man in his eagerness for damage lunged there. As he did, Tom dropkicked him with all his might and that was that.
Tom let out a long breath of fear and relief. Then he noticed the woman standing at the kitchen door. Also in ceremonial dress, she was tall with a face of striking composure and dignity.
Shame washed over him. He said,
“I’m so sorry... he’ll be okay... just a bit sore... you have nothing to fear from me... I’m going.”
He didn’t even know if she spoke English and with a deep mortification he began to shuffle past her. All he wanted was to get out fast.
He’d moved past and was half way across the living room when he heard a horrendous scream and she came rushing at him. Her assault knocked him backwards and she fell over with him. Then her nails went for his face and narrowly missed his eyes as she tore down. Burning lacerations exploded on his cheeks as she sank her teeth in his ear and bit deep. He screamed and smashed his fist into her face. She went over backwards and was still.
Trembling with shock, pain and outrage, he dragged himself to his feet and shouted,
“What the fuck is wrong with you people? Jesus, didn’t ye ever hear of passive resistance.” He pulled himself over to a cupboard and tore it open, grabbed a bottle of whiskey. He drank deep and shuddered.
Moving towards the bathroom, he looked in on the black man in the kitchen. The man was doubled up, whimpering softly. Tom said,
“I swear, if you get up, I’ll kill you. I’m not able for any more of this shit.”
He picked up the baseball bat in case any more of the family were lurking.
Tom had heard your whole life flashed before you when you’re right up close to death. What he found was two incidents rushed into his head with astounding clarity. What they were related to or why they should surface now, he couldn’t figure. A blast of madness perhaps.
The first involved his father telling him a joke.
“A man tells his wife he has only six months to live. She answers ‘never mind dear, with summer coming, you’ll never find the time passing.’”
And secondly, when he was 19, he’d gone to the Big Irish Dance on a Saturday night. You couldn’t fail to score according to local heroes. He’d said to the first girl who danced with him,
“Might I have the last dance?”
She said,
“Honey, you’re having it.”
In the bathroom, he was horrified to see two long ugly gashes in his cheek and his ear looked like it was mangled. All were bleeding freely. He found some band-aids in the cabinet and managed to cover up most of the carnage. He now looked like Frankenstein unbinding. And he cursed out loud for the instinct that had him shave his beard, saying,
“Well, fuck-it-all to hell, wasn’t I busy.”
There were some Tylenol and he swallowed a handful, washed them down with a Whiskey. The room spun and he thought he’d better get going. If he passed out here, maybe the Africans would eat him. As he got to the door, he took out the Rolexes and tossed them on the sofa, saying,
“You sure earnt these back.”
He almost fell out on the street and used the bat to steady himself. A car was directly in front of him and the door opened.
Bridie leant out. Tom didn’t know if he was hallucinating and said,
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I followed you, I wanted to see you at work. You look like something chewed you.”
“They did.”
“So, was it worth it?”
“What... was what worth it?”
“All that for a baseball bat, wouldn’t it be easier to buy one... Oh by the way, you’re bleeding all over the footpath.”
He got into the car and an overwhelming compulsion to sleep came at him. He said,
“I’d love to sleep.”
“So do.”
And she put the car in gear.
It was hours later before he came to full consciousness. A vague memory of Bridie’s house in Kennington and her helping him inside. Something about her Civil Servant lodger chasing Arab boys in Morocco or was it the other way round.
Sitting up now he saw Bridie at the table, watching him. His face was freshly bandaged and his ear had a dressing. The sleep on the sofa had restored him partially. As he turned he felt something stick in his side. Reaching down, he took out the bundle of Krugerrands and let them drop to the floor.