The Bullet Trick (7 page)

I didn’t go far, a walk of a few blocks, counting the turnings, though I knew the way. I hesitated outside the Tron Theatre looking upwards at its spire, and for an instant thought I saw the form of a hanging man dangling from the window below its turret. It sagged there, still and dark beneath the pointed hat of the building. But perhaps I was just remembering that this was the district where they hanged criminals in the old days, because when I looked again there were nothing but shadows clinging to the walls.

I skirted the building, keeping my eyes on the pavement, then turned up a side street. Across the road a tattoo parlour glowed iced-neon blue. I thought of my own tattoo. Four aces splayed above a laughing skull in a top hat. It had hurt like a napalm burn but I’d thought the pain worth it. Now I’d happily slice it off. I leaned against the aluminium grille that screened the door and reached into my jacket for my fags. Above my head a sign twirled Tattoo/Artist, Tattoo/Artist, Tattoo/Artist, then reached the peak of its revolutions, hesitated and twisted back in the opposite direction Artist/Tattoo, Artist/Tattoo, Artist/Tattoo.

Opposite, the glass front of the theatre bar shone into the street. I could see the audience crowding into the space. Even from here I could sense the halftime buzz, the disagreements and posturings as they discussed the show. For an instant I thought I glimpsed Sylvie amongst the crowd, but I’d grown used to such sightings and ignored the leap in my stomach. The girl turned and I saw the angle of her jaw was wrong, her face so different it seemed impossible I could have imagined any resemblance.

I was lighting my fag when a slim shadow edged into the doorway, blocking my exit. He was a thin spider of a lad, his jacket even older than mine, hair longer and danker; he stank of piss and neglect. We faced each other across the lighter’s glow and I wondered if I was looking at my future self, Old Scrooge meeting the ghost of Christmas future. I killed the flame and pulled out my cigarettes, offering him one to negate the image in my head. Then I ruined the effect by saying, 'Piss off son, I’m not looking for company.'

The boy took the cigarette impatiently, without thanks and slid it behind his ear. He reached towards me, gentling his nasal whine down till it was close to a keening. 'There’s a lassie round the corner does the business, thirty quid a time.'

'Fuck off.'

'She’s clean.'

His smell penetrated the nicotine. I took the lit cigarette from my lips and threw it to the pavement. Red flakes of ash scattered as it dropped towards the gutter. The junky watched it fall. I waited for him to bend towards the dowt, but he had the single-mindedness of a true scaghead. His eyes fixed mine; his hand touched the edge of my lapel in a tentative stroke.

'I’ll set you up with her for a fiver.'

'Fuck off.'

I shoved him away, but his hands were persistent, patting my body now with all the efficiency of a drunken border guard.

'Come on, mister.'

He was the first person to touch me in an age. His voice was soothing, coaxing. Revulsion shivered through me, and this time my shove was harder. My only intention was to get him off me, but the boy was frail. He lost his footing and staggered backwards. For a second it seemed he might regain his balance, but then his heel slipped on the kerb, gravity won and he pitched backwards hitting his head against the cobbles with a gunshot crack that sounded across the street. I saw him lie still, felt a sickening realisation, then stepped towards him. My move was reflected across the road in the bright lights beyond the plate glass. In the mirror world of colour and warmth a girl stood up, pointing towards me. A man followed her aim, shook his head and raised his pint to his mouth.

I took a step towards the boy, leaned forward to feel his pulse, then heard a shout. The silhouettes of two policemen stood outlined against the bright lights of Argyle Street. Suddenly I was on my feet and running, my boots clattering against the pavement. I glanced behind me just before I turned the corner, hoping I’d see the junky move, but seeing only one of the police bending over him and the other one haring towards me. I outran him so easily I guessed he wasn’t putting his whole effort into the chase.

For a week and a half I stuck to my room, only venturing down to the licensed grocers at the foot of the close for essentials. I lived on morning rolls, ham and crisps, washed down with milk or strong lager occasionally braced with blended whisky. The Evening Times was my oracle. I forced my way through drownings and arson, robberies and knifings. I knew of every murder and act of violence reported in the city. I dreaded sight of my crime, but was never relieved to find it absent.

Eventually the walls of my room started their old trick, shifting until they took on the proportions of a coffin. I decided there’d be more space in prison and ventured out, as nervous of a hand on my shoulder as a teenage shoplifter on their first spree.

It was a week before I saw him. A pathetic figure slumped in an Argyle Street doorway, the grey remnants of a hospital dressing still stuck to his head. He didn’t give me a glance until I shoved a tenner into his hand, then the look he gave me was pure love.

London

BILL’S OFFICE WAS three storeys up, at the top of the building. I gave a sharp rap at the door and Sam unlocked it, grinning. Bill was talking in a low voice to someone on the telephone. He motioned me inside and pointed towards a chair, still talking to whoever was on the end of the line. Sam locked the door behind me. I sat at one side of the desk, Bill at the other, one of his endless chain of cigarettes smouldering in the ashtray beside him. Sam leaned against the wall behind Bill, looking pleased with himself.

The office had probably last been decorated sometime around the coronation. There were hints of how the place had looked then in the bright rectangles around the walls where pictures had once hung. The wallpaper had been plain white intersected by regal bands of red flock. But the flock had darkened with age. It was balding in places, scored and chipped in others, and the once-white background had developed the faint toffee tint that old men and paper take on after decades of soaking up nicotine. The carpet had been chosen to match the walls, a plain red pile that had been good and might still be OK if someone took the time to run a Hoover around. Bill’s desk looked like you could take to sea in it, a grand mahogany structure too big for the small space. Bill had either recently been turned over or he was serious about moving. The room was pretty much stripped. What was left was a guddle of cardboard boxes, slouching half-full bin bags and discarded files. An empty safe yawned behind the desk. High above Bill on a set of almost cleared shelves was propped a picture of the young Queen Elizabeth in full sparkle mode, looking glam and only half horse.

Bill’s voice was soft and serious.

'Yeah, just tell them I’ve had to go out. Unavoidable circumstances.' He put the cigarette to his lips. 'Everyone paid, everyone happy?' He paused, listening to the person on the other end of the line. 'Well, Crowther will take care of them. Just wait till the last have gone and lock the door behind you. Nah, don’t worry ’bout the clearing up. Not our problem any more. Yeah, cheers, Candy, good luck.'

Bill put the phone back on its cradle and I held the envelope out to him.

'Mission accomplished.'

For a brief moment his face was still. I wondered if he was already regretting telling me as much as he had, then his mouth creased into a grin.

'OK, good.' He turned towards Sam. 'You got William’s fee?' Sam reached into his pocket, pulled out a white envelope and handed it to Bill. 'Cheers.' Bill slid it across the desk towards me. 'I think this’ll cover your trouble.'

'Thanks.'

'Fair exchange.'

He weighed the packet I’d given him in his hand and for a second I thought he was going to open it, but the moment passed and he laid it carefully back on the top of the desk.

'OK, I guess there’s no need, but I’ll say this anyway: tonight’s little adventure stays strictly between us.'

Sam raised his eyebrows. I ignored him and said, 'Already understood.'

'Good, because only three people know about it: you, me and Sam. So if word gets out I’ll know where it came from.'

I tucked the fee into my pocket. Sam put his hand on Bill’s shoulder.

'You bought a captain’s hat and a cat o’ nine tails for that new yacht of yours?'

Bill laughed gently.

'Yeah, point taken. OK.' He held out his hand. We shook and Bill palmed the IOUs to me. He gave me a quick wink. 'Good doing business with you.'

'And you.'

I meant it. I’d arrived that night deep in debt and left with cash in my pocket. I got to my feet taking my props case in my hand. Bill came out from behind his desk.

'I’ll show you out the back way. Save you going past that lot.'

Sam stepped to one side and Bill unlocked what I’d thought was a cupboard door in the wall behind him.

I said what had been bothering me ever since I’d slipped the envelope from Montgomery’s pocket.

'There’s always a chance he’s got a copy of whatever it is.'

Sam grinned and suddenly he was the same comic I’d spent countless bar-room nights with.

'Bill will molicate him if he has.'

I laughed but Bill’s nod of agreement was serious.

'He’s treading on thin ice as it is. He knows the score. I got it from him gently this time, for the sake of whatever there was between him and my dad, next time I won’t be so patient.'

'And if he notices and comes up here?'

'Five minutes and we’re gone.'

'Good luck.'

I was already halfway through the door when the knock came from the hallway. Bill tensed, looked at me and put a finger to his lips.

'You in there, Bill?'

We froze, silent as kids in bed hearing their dad come home from the boozer.

'Good going, but you only got half the story there, Billy boy.'

There was a hesitation in the policeman’s voice that made me sure he was lying.

I whispered, 'He’s bluffing, I can tell.'

But Bill shook his head. He shouted, 'Hangon a second.'

Sam said, 'You promised me, Bill, no argy bargy.'

Bill’s whisper managed to be furious and pleading at the same time.

'Jesus fuck, Sam, he’s taking the piss now.'

Sam’s voice was low and determined.

'I know he is and you’re right to be angry, but I swear, Bill, you hit him and I’m out that door with William.'

Bill shot me a dark look and I said, 'I think he means at the same time as me.'

Sam shook his head.

'Bloody hell, William, get a grip.'

The knock came at the door again.

'I know you’re in there, Bill. This is the one chance for you to find out the truth about your mother.'

Sam took the envelope from his lover and shoved it into my hand.

'Look, let him search the place — he’ll find nothing. This’ll be safe as houses with William.'

I hissed, 'This is nothing to do with me.'

Bill’s voice was low and determined.

'Don’t worry; I’ll make it worth your while.' He smiled. 'And if you open it I’ll know and you’ll have your balls to play with to prove it. Now go on, it’s abracadabra time, this is your cue to disappear.'