England's Lane (10 page)

“I say nothing.”

“You sure …?”

Jonathan Barton looked at the man levelly. His eyes then relaxed into a sort of amusement, and he fingered his mustache.

“What is it that you want …?”

The man gave a whoop, and jubilantly slapped Mr. Barton on the arm—who recoiled with a gasp and within an instant as if assailed by some so very vile thing, both deadly and repellent.

“Now you're talking, Mr. Barton sir! That's much more the thing.
I knew you'd see reason, clever man such as yourself. Now I understand you're very busy—a thousand things to attend to, shouldn't wonder—and I know this is all very unexpected and very likely quite, well—upsetting, really, I suppose it must be. Yes. So let me come right out with it, if I may: one hundred pounds, and there's an end on it. Not much really, is it? When you think of all what's at stake. Not much at all, I shouldn't have said.”

Jonathan Barton inclined his head, eyeing his toecap reflectively.

“I would appear to have misjudged you, Mr. um … what is your name, in fact?”

“Walton, sir. You call me Jackie like everyone does.”

“Misjudged you, Mr. Walton. Quite a head on your shoulders. Now tell me … this, er—information, of which you imagine yourself to be in possession. Spoken to anyone about it …?”

“I'm not stupid, Mr. Barton—like now I think you realized. What would be the good in that? What I'm offering you is pure. No one knows but me. And I'm also the only one what knows that Mr. Jonathan Frost now go under the name of Mr. Jonathan Barton, family butcher, and currently resident in England's Lane, north London. A very long ways from where anyone last clapped eyes on you. You been bright, Mr. Barton. I take my hat off.”

Jonathan Barton nodded—threw across a grin of complicity.

“One hundred, you say …”

“I was going to say guineas, but then I thought nah—who am I kidding? I'm not a guineas sort of a person.”

“Let me tether your pig in the yard—seems to be getting rather restless. Don't want the neighbors disturbed, do we? I'm assuming that the creature is still part of our transaction …?”

“Took your tenner, ain't I? Business as usual.”

“Quite. Well … that sort of cash … I don't keep it lying about, you understand.”

“Understand perfectly, Mr. B. But you got some of it, ain't you? Half, say. Rest tomorrow. How about that?”

“Half. Well yes I daresay I might be able to lay my hands on half of it. In the refrigerator, out at the back. Where I keep it. Shouldn't be telling you really, should I?”

“My lips is sealed, Mr. Barton. You can rely on old Jackie.”

“Right—well come along then, Mr. um … See what I can find. Galton, is it? Might only be forty …”

“Walton, yeh. Forty quid is a quite acceptable deposit, Mr. Barton. I'm not grasping. Patient man. And then tomorrow you can hop across the bank, can't you?”

“Yes. I can't see that that should present a problem.”

Jonathan Barton had led the way out of the back door and into a small darkened yard, crates and sacking piled up haphazardly against the rough and crumbled walls. He tied the pig to a hook by the door, and it set to truffling its snout into the bits of bone, skin and sawdust that had drifted up into a corner. From the considerable fob on a chain that led from his trouser waistband into a pocket, Jonathan Barton selected the key to the large refrigerator, turned it and tugged down and forward sharply on the handle.

“Woo—you ain't never going to starve, is you Mr. Barton? Look at it all! Cow, is it, that …? Beef, so to say. Chickens—cor: how many chickens you got in there? Never seen the like. Lamb and all, if I'm not mistaken.”

Jonathan Barton was smiling, almost shyly. “I like to keep a fair array. Shan't be a moment.”

He braced himself against the piercing lance and judder of cold as he entered the cold store, the shock of it already covering his fingers as he pulled out some wadding from the left-hand corner, down at the floor where the jugs of kidneys were.

“You're in luck,” he said quite easily, as he reemerged shivering into the yard. “Forty-five. More than I thought.”

“That'll be lovely, Mr. B. That'll be just lovely.”

Jackie Walton's two large hands closed upon the rustle of five-pound notes. He licked a thumb and riffled them eagerly.

“And you rest assured, Mr. Barton—I may be no gentleman when it come to clothes and speaking and that … but I does keep my word. You square me with the rest in the morning, and you won't never hear another dicky bird. You can stand on that.”

Jonathan Barton said he was sure that that was true, and then he brought down the ax swiftly and hard into the back of the man's neck, looking away briefly as the thud of it connected, wincing at the shot of hot blood that now splattered his cheek. As the man hit the ground, Jonathan Barton roared out briefly, caught up in a whip of fear at the shrieking that was tearing into the air around him. He just stared transfixed at the white of terror in the eyes of the pig, scrabbling on the cobbles and straining hard at the rope that still just held it firm. The squeal was insistent, hysterical and now quite out of control and it took him three and then a fourth quite wild and so very badly mismanaged swipe of the ax to end this noise that had so appalled him, and he gazed down now at the thick red blood that licked and then lapped at his shoes, invading the eyelets. And then from the shop he heard for the first time the woman who was calling him.

Stepping quickly out of the yard, he was careful to lock the door behind him. He only understood how he must have appeared when he saw the incredulity in the wideness of Milly's eyes as she just stood there before him.

“Jonathan … what was that unholy noise …?” she was gasping. “No, don't tell me. But look at you … you're all … you're all covered in blood. Are you all right? Have you …?”

He did his best to raise a smile. Suddenly, he was utterly exhausted.

“I'm a butcher …” he said quite simply, and he heard the sighing behind the words. “Of course I'm all right. Perfectly.”

“But your overall, your apron … you're not wearing your overall. You've ruined that beautiful suit.”

Jonathan Barton looked down at himself.

“Yes,” he said. “I have. Why are you here, Milly? It is not, of course, that I am displeased to see you, but …”

“Well I'll tell you why, Jonathan … are you really sure you're quite all right?”

“I told you. I'm completely fine.”

“Well then I'll tell you why. Why I am here. Doreen. Say it isn't true.”

Jonathan touched his temple, and closed his eyes. The blood was dark and stiffening on his face and fingers.

“Doreen …? Who now is Doreen?”

“You know perfectly well who Doreen is, and don't pretend you don't. The girl in the hairdresser. You know perfectly well.”

“Ah. Yes. Young Doreen. The child. How may I help you there?”

Milly was aware of the thump in her heart. She was ashamed by that. Even of being here.

“You can help me, Jonathan,” she said as plainly as her anxiety would allow, “by assuring me that you did not escort her to the pictures and then leave with her in a taxicab afterward.”

“Well … I'm rather afraid I did do those two things, but with the very best of intentions, I assure you.”

Milly was shocked by the hot flush of anger that now colored her cheeks—was aware of her erratic and impatient tapping of a foot. Then came an aching deep in her heart.

“Very best of
intentions
 …” she was hissing. “I
see
 …”

“She had not the fare. What do you call it? The price of a ticket.
I was happy to oblige. And afterward, well—it was dark, it was raining … I could hardly just leave her there, could I? Of course I had to see her safely home. Being the gentleman I am.”

Milly blinked, and looked up at him.

“Really …? Is that really what happened?”

Jonathan smiled in the way that just made her dissolve. He walked toward her and stooped to kiss the top of her head.

“Milly, my darling. What a foolish thing you are …”

Her head was against his chest. She hugged him hard.

“Oh Jonathan … it's just that I get so …” And then her nose was twitching. “You smell of blood … I'm covered in it …”

“No. I don't. Blood, actually, it has no smell. It is simply …”

“I know. Clean. Very pure. You've told me.”

“Well good. So you know, then …”

But, he thought, gazing over her shoulder as she gripped him close to her, focusing uneasily on the bright white tiles above the chopping block … but … if that man knew, then others too must surely be aware …? Or no—he clearly was working alone. But how did he come to find me? Man was a moron, wasn't he? Was he? But anyway instructed to seek me out, that much is certain. And to whom has he spoken? Who did he tell? How much money did he seriously imagine that eventually he might have pumped out of me? And now … will someone else be coming for me? Yes … oh yes … there is bound to be someone else. Soon …? Will it be soon? That remains the only question: when will they be coming for me? When? And what then will they do …? All I can do is wait, I suppose … that, and administer to young Doreen, the child, a thoroughgoing punishment.

“Where you bin then? Ay? Tea gone cold …”

Milly glanced at Jim as she unknotted her scarf and let the coat shrug away from her shoulders. An uncharacteristic and jagged shudder of irritation had made her eyebrow momentarily flicker. Merely it was the sight of him—still sitting at the dining table in that curiously hunched-up position he habitually adopted, the wetness of the cigarette end between his hard and rust-colored thumb and the pad of a finger that was flicking it, that other mitt pawing at a teacup. Paul was there too, sprawled across the hearthrug and playing with cardboard boxes. Milly had observed with amusement that lately he had abandoned even his very most favorite toys—the soldiers, those little cars—in favor of empty cigarette packets, Smartie tubes … and he even had one of my old Coty powder boxes down there, look. He'd stack them up, and then he'd knock them down.

“I had to … there was something I forgot to get at the Dairies.”

Jim was stubbing out the cigarette with ridiculous force—grinding hard. His fingers were scrabbling in the packet for another.

“Dairies is shut. Dairies been shut for, aw—good hour-and-a-half, I'd reckon.”

“She … Edie left it for me round the side. On the windowsill. Down the side of the shop. Sometimes she does that. Now young Master Paul—bedtime, I think. Say goodnight to your Uncle Jim.”

Paul stood up, leaving the litter of boxes behind him. He looked at Jim as he might an iguana, when safely behind glass. Jim, unaware, was scratching at the back of his head.

“On the windowsill …?”

“Ready, Paul? Done all your prep, yes?”

“Did it ages ago. We've got a test tomorrow. Double Math.”

“Left it on the
window
sill …? What you talking about? You saying she left it on the
window
sill …?”

“Well let's go up then, shall we? Are you keeping the fire on, Jim? Only I won't be down again. Not this evening.”

“Left
what
on the bloody windowsill, Christ's sake …?”

Milly just barely winced long enough for Paul to have looked up and seen it. Then she held him softly by the shoulders, revolved him in the direction of the door, and they both walked out of the room. Jim was just left there, blinking into an empty space. And not, he thought—with the usual wad of resentment hard in his stomach (wagging his head, hissing smoke through his two front teeth)—for the first bloody time, neither. You try to please people—you do your bleeding best. And what you get? Ay? What you get? I tell you what you get: you get a smack in the chops, that's what you bloody get. It's like I don't dare open me mouth no more. I mean to say—it's my house, ain't it? My little business what pays for all of the doings. So why I got to feel like I'm just some pile of dogshit what got trod in the carpet? Ay? Not right, is it? Not right, in your own bloody house. Englishman's
home
 …? Don't make me laugh. And what's all that about a bloody windowsill round the side of the Dairies? Ay? What's all that malarkey? Blimey—Mill, she in and out of that shop every hour of the bleeding day, far's I can see.
So why can't she get whatever it is she's needing when the bloody shop's open like a normal sort of a woman? Ay? Why's she got to be creeping down an alleyway halfway through the night and picking up her bits off of a bleeding windowsill? And what she get, anyhow? Ay? Didn't have nothing with her, not when she come in. I dunno. What's a bloke supposed to think? Well me … don't suppose she reckons I'll be thinking at all, that's the worst of it. She know how to think, oh yeh, but not me. Pauly, he can think … blimey—you listen to Mill, you'd reckon little Pauly's like one of them, what are they, them geezers what you hear on
The Brains Trust
, and that. Bleeding Bertrand Russell. One of them. Like that Barton bastard down the road. Talks like he's King of England, he do, but all he is is a bloody butcher, Christ's sake. But Mill—oh dear me. On and on. And what it is—I don't know if I'm meant to get this or if I ain't … but Mill, when she start up on it, she ain't really saying what a swell he is, jumped-up cunt. Nah. What she saying is that I'm just a pile of dogshit what got trod in the carpet.

Yeh well. She married me, didn't she? It's her what said yeh. And I ain't been that bad. I ain't been too bad at all, way I look at it. Who else gonna shell out hundreds—hundreds it cost me—to stick someone else's kid in a la-di-da school then, ay? You show me the poor bloody sap what's gonna do that. And Mill—I give her all the things she says she's needing. Give her them lavender bath doings, don't I? Birthdays and of a Christmas time. Religious. And she got all of them … what you call them—appliances. Yeh. She got all the appliances. She got appliances coming out her bloody ears. Telly, twin washtub—fridge, she got. Hoover, you name it. Blimey—she wants to take a leaf out my old mum's book. When I think back what my old mum had to go through, fair makes me weep. It do. Never give it no mind at the time. Well you doesn't, does you? When you's a kid, you don't think about nothing nor nobody. It's
only after, you get to seeing it—yeh, and then it's too bloody late, ain't it? Because the poor old mare's dead in the ground—worked herself to death. Don't reckon she ever got to bed of a night time, my old mum. Seven of us there was. And my bastard of a dad. He just come home to knock us all about a bit, then he fuck off back the pub. How she got the food on the table, I will never know … but she done it, she always done it: we was never hungry. Mind you—what we was eating … dripping and a slice, beans, bit of scrag end in a soup … you try putting that in front of Pauly, Mister high-and-mighty Pauly, then sit back and see what he do with it. Bleeding Bertrand Russell …