In the last room, also locked, there were old newspapers tied into bales, and a broken bed, a lampshade, a sofa with a burst seat and two large tin trunks, padlocked. There were markings on the trunks, numerals, the word Maatschappij and a Dutch name. Hood found the right keys and released the hasps, opened the padlock on the biggest one and lifted the lid. And he whistled. Inside, piled on top, were Sten guns which had been broken down, barrels lying beside stocks; digging down he found boxes and clips of ammunition. The second trunk held more ammunition, low-calibre pistols and fist-sized grenades, and what he recognized as Armalite rifles. The sight of this small arsenal made him self-conscious. Without examining it further, he shut the trunks and securing that room, went back to the first room to make sure it was locked.
He was trying the door when he heard a bang and the rattle of a glass pane downstairs; then a thud, a child hitting the floor. Finally, a woman’s voice: ‘— because I said so, that’s why!’ He heard footsteps downstairs, the woman crossing the house, the sound of the radio being switched on, the child yelling. He locked the door and pocketed the keys.
He did not sneak. He coughed and came down the stairs hard to alert the woman, and before he had gone ten steps he heard the radio switched off and the sound of her running to the foot of the staircase. She drew back when she saw him and tried to speak, but before she could utter a word Hood said with easy familiarity, ‘Can’t seem to find your gas meter anywhere, lady. Where do you hide it?’
‘Who are you?’ The woman was breathless with fear, and she did not seem to notice the child kneeling behind her, holding her legs. ‘What do you want?’
‘Nothing much,’ said Hood, continuing down the stairs. ‘Say, he’s a big fella. Hello, tiger.’
‘How did you get in?’
‘The door was open a mile,’ said Hood, still grinning. ‘I was upstairs waiting for you to come back.’
‘You’re from Rutter,’ said the woman.
‘Sort of.’
‘Bastard. Well, you can tell him it’s all locked — you’ve seen for yourself. I don’t have the key.’
‘I’ll tell him that.’
‘Send you around, did he?’
‘Nope. I don’t work for him,’ said Hood. ‘He works for me.’
‘I’ve seen you somewhere,’ said the woman. ‘But you ain’t English.’
‘Maybe you haven’t heard about the American branch.’
‘Ron never mentioned it. But he never told me anything. Look,’ she said impatiently, ‘I want that stuff out of here and fast. The coppers’ll be asking — Oh, Christ!’ She pushed the child aside.
Hood said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘So you just walk into people’s houses? You’ve got some nerve!’ The woman had become calmer, and calm she regained her indignation. She glared at Hood. ‘Okay, you’ve had your look, now get out.’
‘Who’s that man, Mummy?’ The boy whined, thumping her leg.
‘Big kid,’ said Hood. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Jason. He’s a villain. Just like his dad.’
Hood said nothing. He looked at the boy’s large head and saw the man’s malice.
‘Were you a mate of Ron’s?’
Hood hesitated, then said, ‘I knew him.’
‘Some layabout done him.’
‘So I heard.’ He stared, trying to perceive a reaction on the woman’s face.
She shrugged. ‘He was asking for it. He thought he was so flash, with all his big talk about his connections, Rutter and all. And look what he leaves me with — two rooms full of stolen junk.’
‘Do you know what’s in there?’
‘I don’t want to know, but if the coppers get wind of it they’ll break the bloody door down.’
‘You’ll be all right,’ said Hood.
‘That’s what Ron used to say. You’re just like him — all talk, and underneath you’re nothing.’
‘Maybe I’d better go,’ he said. He wanted to be away; he wished he hadn’t seen the arsenal, the strewn toys, the woman in the cold house. For the first time he felt his anger turning against him, souring into guilt, endlessly repeating. It was physical self-loathing, as if his skin had gone scaly and trapped the sour feeling in him. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘What are you afraid of?’ said the woman. ‘Me?’
Jason began to slam a toy car on the floor and make the grunting sounds of a motor.
‘I’ll be all right,’ said the woman, mocking. ‘Eighteen quid a week, widow’s pension. And all his big talk about Rutter.’ She walked down the passage to the kitchen, and Hood followed, stepping over the child. The kitchen was a narrow cubicle: a tiny table, a shelf of cups, a worn biscuit tin, the plastic clock and a sink with a scrubbed wooden drainboard. Having seen that he could not leave her, she put a kettle on the stove and when she turned to him again her face was creased.
‘It must be tough,’ he said.
‘It’s not what you think. Not Ron. He was a real bastard — he nearly killed me once. Used to throw things. Always walking out on me and then coming back. He had to come back — for the kid, for the stuff upstairs.’ She sighed, and now Hood saw a slight scar, a half-inch of whiteness on one of her eyebrows. ‘It’s locked. I’ll bet there’s tons of it. I can’t sleep thinking about it — it’s stolen, you know, every bit of it.’
‘I can help you get rid of it.’
‘It’s all locked.’
‘I’ll pick the lock.’
‘I still won’t get to sleep.’
‘Maybe I can take care of that, too.’
‘I’ve tried sleeping pills. They don’t work.’
‘Not sleeping pills.’
‘Bit of the other, eh?’ The woman set out two cups. ‘Just like Ron.’
‘No, no,’ said Hood. ‘I’ve got what you need.’
The woman eyed him suspiciously. ‘You weren’t waiting. You sneaked in here. What do you want from me?’
‘I was waiting for you,’ Hood said, and he sat down.
7
In the train, Brodie licked the cigarette, set its twisted end on fire, puffed it hard and passed it to Murf, who crooked his skinny fingers like tongs on a coal and sucked a lungful of smoke from it. He gave it back wheezing a gust of air the colour of steam: ‘Fanks.’
They rode with their feet braced on cushions in an empty eight-seat compartment, rocking away from Deptford. The great brown warehouses flew at them, knocking the train’s own clatter through the window with an odour of rope and fried bricks. Smoking pot usually flung them into hilarity: they tasted marvels. The sun glanced on the river between buildings and shone in the mirror on the wall opposite, spangling the ceiling with swimming reflections like discs of light from water. The mirror flashed a window of blue sky at them, caught more of the river’s dazzle, a boat dissolving into a prism, a jumping council estate. Murf crept over to it and drew out a broken crayon. He wrinkled his nose, set his bat’s face against it, and scrawled on the glass ARSENAL RULE.
‘Freaks me out, that does,’ said Brodie.
‘You got a buzz on,’ said Murf.
‘No,’ she said, pointing to what Murf had written on the mirror. ‘That. They’ll think it’s football villains.’
‘Forget it.’ He took the cigarette, puffed it and passed it back. ‘Football villains don’t do that.’
‘They do and all,’ said Brodie. ‘Write stuff all over the shop.’
‘Get off. I’ll show you.’ He took his hunting knife from its sheath and kneeling on the seat swung at the mirror, landing the knob of the handle on its centre. There was a crunch; the mirror at once deepened and glittered and a web of hairline cracks shot from the bevelled edge and met at a crusty dent. But the spikes of glass, held together by a tight chrome frame, did not fall. Seeing that the train was drawing into London Bridge station Murf scrambled to a sitting position and grinned at the shattered mirror. ‘That’s what them football villains do. Make holes.’