Bucket Nut (15 page)

Now do you get it? A weapon the Eskimos use to catch birds in the Arctic is also used by gauchos in South America to bring down larger animals. The bola gets tangled in their legs and they fall over. And what is a human being if it isn't a larger animal? Tell me that, or do I have to explain everything?

I did not make one bola. I made three. Because it wasn't as if I was only in trouble with one person. I was in trouble with just about everyone. Of course everyone that counted thought I was dead, but that wouldn't last.

Because I was going to be famous, wasn't I? I was fighting Rockin' Sherry-Lee Lewis, Star of the East. And after that, who knows. You can't be a famous wrestler if everyone thinks you are dead. Nobody gives a wet fart about a dead wrestler unless you are someone like Milo of Croton.

I like working with my hands. It takes your mind off your troubles. You think about what you are doing instead of about what you are thinking. But when you've finished what you are doing, you often find that your brain has been carrying on without you. Which is nice of it really – it gets its own work done without upsetting you.

Brains are funny things. You'd think a brain would do what you tell it, like an arm or a leg. But it doesn't. Sometimes it does the opposite. I don't know about yours, but
my
brain has a mind of its own.

If you don't believe me, listen to this. When I finished making my three bolas I found I had made them about a foot shorter than the SAS Survival Handbook says. I was quite pleased with myself about that because bolas are supposed to be used in wide open spaces and there aren't many of those in London. In fact, when I pictured Mr Cheng all tangled up and falling bum-over-bonce, it was always in his own restaurant.

That was all right, but the funny thing was that I found I had solved the problem of how to get Simone's address out of the solicitor. It was simple. I would get that artist dweeg, Dave de Lysle, to do it for me. He had exactly the right sort of voice. He could pronk-off to a solicitor for hours without breaking wind. All I had to do was to let him draw a couple of drawings of me. After all he did say I was ‘perfect'. And perfection has a price.

Just to prove that some things are fated – when I went to look for the solicitor's letter I found that Goldie had put it with Dave de Lysle's catalogue. They were one on top of the other under the jam pot just like she said. Which went to prove that Goldie was straight with me.

Right then and there, the thought that popped into my head was, ‘Golf balls'. First – I bet myself that Dave de Lysle and the solicitors were golfing types. Second – you could make a super-de luxe model bola with golf balls. Now tell me the brain isn't a peculiar thing.

All this time I had been feeling quite safe and comfortable. But I was
getting prepared. I packed a bag. I replaced everything I had kept in my survival tin. And I added some tins of stew, beans and soup. Because in my head were two pictures. In one picture I was camping in a derelict house eating the stew. In the other picture I was swinging the bag with amazing force and hitting someone over the head with it. Tins of stew are good for that.

I kept looking at my London Lassassin poster. It was me, and it was not me. I am the villain – the one in the black costume – the one they love to hate. That's me, but it's not me. An assassin is a paid killer. I'm not. But I am. Three people dead at Count Suckle's. I did it. And I did not do it.

To tell you the truth I was not sure what I was. I can't expect you to understand, so there's no point talking about it. It made me feel bad – bad like a villain, and bad like angry and sad. But there's no point talking about it so I won't.

All I wanted was to be ready.

Someone knocked on my door and I was ready for that. I went to answer it with a bola in one hand and a tin of soup in the other. You never know who you're going to find behind a door.

But it was only that tart-raker, Rob from the yard, looking for Goldie. The nerve of him!

‘Eleanor here?' he said.

‘No.'

‘I thought she'd want a drink later.'

Blokes like him take it for granted women will want what they want.

‘She ain't here,' I said.

‘Tell her I asked,' he said, without a please or thank you. Which is typical.

‘Tell her yourself,' I said and shut the door.

He knocked again.

‘Listen,' he said, when I opened up, ‘I asked you nice

‘And I told you nice. She's out.'

‘When's she coming back? Only someone's been sniffing round. I didn't say nothing, but she'll want to know.'

‘Who?'

‘I'll tell her myself.'

‘Then you won't tell her at all,' I said. “Cos unless I know who to look out for she'll find another place to stay.'

He thought about it. You could hear the gears grinding. Then he said, ‘Couple of sammies. Big bastards. None of us here'd give them the time of day.'

‘When?'

‘Hour or so ago.'

‘Right,' I said. ‘Thanks. I'll warn her.'

It gave me belly-ache to thank him, but I did.
That
is mental discipline and Harsh would've been proud of me. But the other thing which gave me gut-ache was the fact that someone, probably from Count Suckle's or Bermuda Smith's was looking for Goldie. It made sense. Bermuda could be after her because of the CS gas, and Count Suckle because of me. If you are seen in the wrong company when the smelly stuff's flying you are in bad trouble. I'm used to bad trouble – I didn't mind. But Goldie might.

I had to look after her.

I left the Static. Everything I needed was in an army surplus knapsack. If everyone is gunning for you, really you should do a little more than crawl underground with a few cans of stew for company. But if push comes to shove you should be ready to do that too.

The only trouble was I wanted to be famous.

The only trouble was Goldie.

The only trouble was that when I left the yard and went to find my Cortina I saw two black guys camped out in a white Maestro van just round the corner where they could spy on the gate.

They did not see me – well maybe they did, but they were looking for Goldie and reading the
Racing News.

They were a bit of a problem because my Cortina was parked just behind them. I ducked out of sight and went the long way round the block coming up on the Cortina from behind.

All the time, I was wondering if I should stuff a hamburger up their exhaust pipe and lob a breezeblock through their windscreen just to show them who they were dealing with. But by the time I got to the Cortina I decided that if everyone thought I was dead I might as
well stay dead till after Sherry-Lee Lewis. After that it wouldn't matter. After that I'd be a contender too and they'd have to think twice before messing with me. Everyone would know I was alive and kicking.

I started the motor, U-turned and drove off before they'd had time to pick a winner in the 3.30 at Newmarket. No flies on me – a cloud of dust with the speed of light, hi-ho, Silver – and away I went. Lovely. I'd show Harry Richards how dumb I was! I'd show everyone.

But when I got to the gym there was nobody there. Not a soul, and I suddenly felt flat and a bit shivery. You can't show everyone if no one's there.

And I had to warn Goldie about the two guys in the Maestro van. I could just see her going home to the yard to find me and those two phlegm-blobs jumping on her from behind. She had to be told, but she wasn't there.

I'd never thought about it before, but a gym without any bodies in it is a sad place. It smells of old sweat and all the machines stand idle like a factory gone bust. There's none of that clanking and thudding and grunting that make it human.

While I was standing there, wondering which way to turn, Sam came in with a spanner and an oil can, so I said, ‘Where's everyone gone?'

He looked at the clock on the wall. It was two-thirty.

He said, ‘The lunchtime trade came in. Your mob went to the pub.'

I should have thought of that, except I had been too busy to think about the time. Us professionals don't mix much with the recreationals. Too many plump office workers spoil the atmosphere so we move over the road to the Prince of Wales for a beer and a meat pie.

I went straight away.

The Prince of Wales is a gloomy pub. They don't waste much money on bright lights and video games. The only extra they have is a snooker table in the back. Otherwise it is just a pub.

When I went in I couldn't see anyone and it worried the life out of me. But I went through and found them all in the snooker room.

Mr Deeds was showing Goldie how to play, dirty old tosser, and he was leaning over her, saying, ‘You've got to keep the bridge hand steady, darlin'!'

Gruff Gordon said, ‘Give it some deep screw, girlie.' He was nudging Pete and leering like the brainless tub of lard he was.

‘I think I'd do better, George, if you didn't crowd me so much,' Goldie said. You couldn't fault her on her manners. I'd've nailed his willie to the floor if he'd rubbed it up against me the way he was rubbing up against her.

The Julios were playing cribbage in a corner and Harsh was sitting by himself reading the
Independent.

Goldie looked up when I came in. She looked up and smiled at me. The snooker lights which hung over the table caught her hair and gave her a halo. She seemed to be glowing – all gold. Even her skin looked like honey.

She looked up and smiled at me.

‘Hello, Eva,' she said. Just that. My friend. Mine.

‘Got to talk to you,' I said. I must've sounded a bit croaky because there seemed to be something caught in my throat.

‘Something's come up,' I said.

‘What's come up?' Pete asked, elbowing Gruff Gordon.

‘Ask George Deeds,' Gruff said, falling about laughing.

I think that's what I hate most about some men – they really do know how to spoil a lovely thing.

‘Smutty sods,' Mr Deeds said, looking flattered.

Goldie straightened up. She laid the cue down and came round the table to me.

‘Somewhere private,' I said. I did not want to be in the same room as Gruff Gordon, Pete Carver and Mr Deeds.

We went through to the bar. I bought myself a beer and a vodka and orange for her. We sat at a table in a corner where we couldn't be overheard.

I said, ‘Someone has been asking questions about you at the yard. And when I left there were two blokes waiting outside in a van.'

‘Who?' she asked, looking at me, very clear-eyed, very steady.

‘I don't know. Two black guys.'

She said nothing. She just kept on looking at me.

I said, ‘They could be from Bermuda Smith, or they could be from Count Suckle.'

Her eyes widened, just a fraction.

‘You know about Count Suckle,' she said. It was not a question. She sighed. ‘I would have told you. I was going to tell you. But I didn't know how things stood with you and Bermuda Smith and the Chengs.'

‘Yeah,' I said. ‘What I thought.'

‘But I don't understand why anyone from Count Suckle's Club would want to see me. I wasn't important.'

‘Because of me,' I said. ‘Each of us was all right on our own. But when we teamed up we were trouble. You got me into lumber with the Chengs and Bermuda Smith, and I got you in lumber with Count Suckle. 'Specially now, with the bomb and everything.'

‘What bomb?'

‘The bomb,' I said, ‘you know, I told you about an explosion.'

‘You said it was a gas main.' She was staring at me. Her face had gone all white and wooden.

‘Yeah … well …'

‘A bomb, where?' she asked. ‘Where, Eva?'

I couldn't look at her any more.

‘Where?'

I said, ‘Count Suckle sent CS gas. Mr Cheng sent a bomb.'

‘The club?' she said. ‘You bombed the club?'

‘No!'

‘What do you mean? You said Mr Cheng sent a bomb.'

‘Yes. Mr Cheng sent it.'

She put her hand on my arm.

‘Look at me, Eva,' she said.

I looked and saw that she was quite steady again.

‘Tell me about it, Eva,' she said. ‘Just tell me.'

‘They were trying to kill me too,' I said. ‘I didn't know it was a bomb.'

‘You took a bomb to the club?'

‘In a Safeway carrier bag. They said it was money for Mr Aycliffe.'

‘Who?'

‘Mr Aycliffe.'

She shook her head. She didn't know the name.

‘Who was there?' she asked.

‘I don't know,' I said. ‘I wasn't supposed to see anyone.'

‘Calvin,' she said. ‘Was Calvin there?'

‘I didn't see.'

‘You saw,' she said. ‘Was he there?'

‘I
didn't
see. They tried to kill me too.'

She stood up.

‘Where are you going?' I grabbed her sleeve.

She shook me off and went to the bar. The barman pointed to the phone. She went to it and dialled a number.

I got up and hurried over. I put my hand on the phone to cut her call off.

‘Don't,' I said. ‘Don't. It's too late.'

She hit my hand with the receiver.

‘Go away,' she said, very steady, very clear.

I backed off.

‘Go
away!'

I went to our table and watched from there. She had the receiver to her ear. She didn't talk. After a bit she dialled another number. Then another. This time she talked.

She turned her back on me and talked to someone. Then she stopped talking. Her arms hung down by her sides, the receiver was still in her hand.

I counted to fifty while I watched her. She stood with her arms by her sides and her back to me while I counted up to fifty.

Then she put the receiver back in its cradle and came over to me.