To Kill For (2 page)

But just when I'd think that, she'd smile at me and take my arm and push herself close to me and I'd start to think that maybe I had a chance after all.

The market was busy. It was summer and hot and there were tourists and locals squeezed along the road, between stalls that sold cloth and handbags and leather jackets that smelled warm in the warm air. Brenda tottered along on her high heels, picking things up and showing them to me and saying stuff like, ‘What do you think, Joe? Does it make me look sexy?'

I could never tell if she was making fun of me. I didn't much care if she was. She had that spark in her eyes. She was enjoying herself. That was all I cared about.

At one stall she tried on a pair of shoes and asked how much they were. The bloke said he'd let her have them for fifty. She put them back.

‘I'll think about it,' she said.

Finally she bought some make-up stuff, beauty cream, that kind of thing.

But then something happened to her. She froze, and I looked at her and saw that her gaze was on something in the distance. I looked, but could only see a crowd of people.

I asked her what was wrong, but she only said it was too busy for her. She didn't like so many people, she said.

She dumped the creams in the plastic bag the woman had given her. Then she took my arm and said she was hungry. I was hungry too. I'd been hungry for a couple of hours.

She dragged me to a greasy spoon, well away from the market. We had burgers and chips. She ate in silence and that spark was gone from her eyes. I wondered about that.

When we were having coffee, she opened the bag of stuff she'd bought and fished through it all and then put the bag down on the floor.

‘Shit,' she muttered.

I asked her what was wrong.

‘Oh, it's nothing.'

‘What?'

She sighed.

‘I'm annoyed with myself. With this lot, this junk.'

‘Why'd you buy it?'

‘I dunno. Retail therapy, I suppose. Only I can't afford to really treat myself. So, I buy this crap, when what I really want is something really nice.'

She looked at me, waiting, so it seemed. Then she went back to drinking her coffee and I went back to drinking mine, thinking there was something she was waiting for me to say, not knowing what it was. I felt a fool around her, sometimes. I felt old and ugly and stupid. Usually, I didn't care about all that. But with her…

‘You haven't been out with many women, have you?' she said.

The coffee cup had been halfway to her mouth. Now she'd put it down.

I thought about what she'd asked me. I'd been with women, of course. But ‘out' with them?

‘No,' I said. ‘Not really.'

‘You see,' she said, quietly, ‘you're supposed to buy something for me.'

And then I went cold, and a kind of fear hit me in the guts. I call it fear, but I'm not sure that's right. I don't know that I have the words for it.

I'd known fear lots of times. You couldn't live like I had and not know it. But it was always a kind of good fear. It was something you could get hold of and fight and use. It pushed you on. It fed you.

Often, it was a fear of dying. In those times, if you tell yourself you probably will die, the fear has no way to get to you. You say, yes, I'll die, so what.

But this time, in the cafe the fear was different. It was a sick kind of fear, a terror, in a way. Mostly, though, I think it was more like sadness.

Or despair.

So, there it was. I'd wondered all along why she'd want to be with me.

I took my wallet out and started to pull some notes from it. Then she put her hand on mine, and I looked at her, not knowing what the fuck I was supposed to do. And I saw on her face I'd made a mistake. There was an odd look to her. It was almost panic.

‘Christ,' she said. ‘No. No.'

That first night she'd talked to me and asked me if I wanted to get a cup of tea, I'd asked her how much it would cost me. I wasn't used to any other kinds of women. And she was a pro, after all. So I just assumed I was a john to her.

But I'd hurt her that time.

And now I'd hurt her again.

‘Shit,' she said. ‘I didn't mean that. Oh, Christ.'

She wiped a tear away from the corner of her eye.

‘Sorry,' I said, putting the money away.

I felt relief, though. I felt that.

‘Is that all you think of me?' she said. ‘After the time we've been together, and you just think of me as a whore?'

‘No.'

I thought I'd blown it. I thought she'd get up and walk out. Instead, she was quiet for a long time, her gaze on the table top. I didn't say anything. I didn't move. I don't think I breathed, not even wanting to disturb the air in case she remembered I was there. I wanted her to forget I was there. I was offensive to her, I thought. I was a stupid lump, I thought.

But just when it seemed she was getting up the courage to leave, she looked at me and smiled a bit and said, ‘I'm sorry, Joe. I'm being unfair. It's just… well, it's that men often buy something for the girl they're with, especially when they've only just started going out. And… and I thought, maybe you don't really like me.'

‘I'm here,' I said.

‘Yes,' she said, sliding her hand over the table. ‘You are here.'

It was odd, I thought, that she was so afraid I wasn't interested in her, that I didn't want to be with her. I was no catch, I knew that, but it seemed important to her that I like her, wanted to be with her. I didn't understand it. Not then. Later, of course, I did.

After a while I told her I had to go out, make a phone call. I ordered her another coffee and told her to wait there. I went to find the geezer who'd had the shoes. He was closing up his stall, as most others were.

‘Gone, mate. Sold.'

‘Haven't you got another pair?'

‘They're originals.'

‘Huh?'

‘They're from the seventies. Retro. They don't make ‘em no more. I can't just go out and buy a few pairs. I can only sell what I get, see.'

‘Right.'

I felt a fool, standing there. I didn't know what the fuck I was doing, running around after a pair of shoes for some bird who'd probably ditch me in a week anyway.

Still, I stayed, looking around the stall for something to buy. The bloke carried on packing his stuff away, glancing at me now and then. Finally, he stopped, looked at me and said, ‘You were here with that black bird. Tall thin girl.'

‘Yeah.'

‘You know, I've got a dress, cotton, would fit her to a T. It's similar to them shoes too.'

So, I bought the cotton dress. It cost me sixty quid. The bloke said that was a bargain.

I gave it to her when I got back. She went all misty eyed and smiled and unwrapped it and held it up and said, ‘Oh, Joe. It's beautiful.'

I thought she was trying a bit hard.

‘The shoes had gone,' I said.

‘This is much better. I've got a secret place where I can put it.'

I must've looked at her a bit odd because she burst out laughing, and whacked me on the arm.

‘Not there, fool,' she said.

She put a hand over her mouth, as if she'd done something wrong. Then she got a bit flustered for some reason.

‘What secret place?' I said.

‘Maybe I'll show you one day.'

After that, things were alright. We had another coffee then we wandered back along the market, which had all shut up by then.

I can't remember much more about that day. But when I do think of it, mostly I remember that moment when I thought I was just another punter to her, just a mug who had to give her money.

So, yes, I'd felt fear a hundred times, a thousand. And I'd learned how to live with it, how to take it out of its hollow and look at it and throw it away. After that, I'd been able to go on, face even heavy calibre Argentinean fire zipping around me, mortars thwumping away, because, when it came down to it, I don't think I'd ever really cared that much about myself.

But, for those few heavy minutes, there in that cafe, I'd been afraid, terrified that she'd up and leave. You don't know how lonely you are until you find someone, anyone. I didn't want to lose her.

I did lose her, of course. And for that Marriot was dead. And for that, I was going to murder Paget.

Eddie came round on the Monday. I was sitting watching some old film on TV, and Browne came back from answering the door and said, ‘Eddie's here. He's got some other men with him.'

Right then I knew we were all back to business as normal. The mourning was over.

I'd known Eddie for a long time. He'd been a boxer once, sponsored by Vic Dunham, a big name in London, to those in the know. They were close, Eddie and Dunham. I'd heard that Dunham had known Eddie's mum. I'd heard that he'd known her pretty well. I don't know if that was true, but there was something between the two men.

Eddie didn't stay with the fights. He switched trades, went to work for Dunham as his right hand. He had the right stuff for it. He was tough, ruthless. Perhaps not as tough and ruthless as Dunham, but much smarter.

‘I told him he couldn't bring them in,' Browne was saying.

He was thinking the same thing as me. What did Eddie want? If he was here, it would be something bad.

Browne was fussing again, probably thinking I couldn't handle them. He was probably right. I was still weak.

Eddie came in and smiled. He sat down on the sofa next to me. Browne waited and watched us for a moment, unsure now where we all stood. That was how quickly it all changed.

‘How about a cuppa?' Eddie said to him.

Browne glanced at me.

‘Fine,' I said.

Browne trotted off to the kitchen. Me and Eddie watched the film for a while. It was an old war film. The Nazis were the bad guys now. Browne came back with a couple of mugs of tea. He lingered for a moment then shuffled off.

I had trouble focusing on the film, and my mind kept wandering, going back to Brenda, to Kid, to anything that wasn't here and now.

I didn't want Eddie to know that. I didn't want him to think I was weak. I kept my face pointed towards the area of the TV and tried hard to bring myself back.

It was early afternoon, and getting dark. Sunlight hit the thin sky over London and spread out and carried on weakly through Browne's net curtains and after all that, died a few inches from our feet. Eddie and I watched John Mills kill some more Nazis and we sipped our tea and it was all very cosy and I wondered what Eddie's game was.

‘How you feeling?' he said, watching the film.

‘Fine.'

‘You look half dead.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Any ideas what you're going to do?'

‘No.'

It was hard going, all this chatter. It took all I had. I could feel things swirling around behind my eyes, but every now and then I'd manage to get a hold.

Eddie tapped his fingers on the mug, watched the film. I don't think he'd noticed how fucked up I was.

‘Cole's having trouble finding Paget,' he said finally.

‘Uh-huh.'

We were both so fucking casual.

‘Vic wants Cole to help sort out the Albanians. Thing is, Cole's got an itch about Paget, won't do anything until he's got that sorted.'

He waited for me to say something to that. When he got tired of waiting, he said, ‘You got any ideas?'

‘No.'

We sat there for a bit longer, watching the film, watching the day get darker. Finally he gave up with the tea and crumpet act and slid the mug onto the coffee table.

‘Alright, Joe, I know you want Paget. I know you're going to try for him.'

I wondered why he cared so much.

‘Why would I do that?'

‘Vengeance.'

‘That's a mug's game.'

He looked at me and smiled.

‘Right. So you're not going to try and find him?'

‘I'll leave it to Cole.'

‘Bollocks.'

I shrugged. What was he going to do? If I'd known where Paget was, I'd have been out killing him. Eddie knew that.

‘Well, if you happen to suddenly get any ideas where he is, let me know, alright?'

‘Yeah.'

After he'd gone, Browne reappeared and sat down. He had a glass of Scotch.

‘Is he going to be trouble?' he said.

‘Maybe.'

Browne was right to fuss. I wasn't right. I didn't want him to know that. I didn't need him on my case, lecturing me, prodding me.

‘Whyn't you let it go, man?' Browne said.

I didn't answer that. I don't think he expected me to.

We sat together, Browne and me, watching the day die, watching the dim light dim more. The TV blathered away. Neither of us watched it, but neither of us turned it off. It was just something to fill the silence.

Browne mumbled something.

‘Huh?'

‘I said she was a sweet lass. Too small to…'

Too small? Who was too small? Brenda?

No. Not Brenda.

I heard a sniffling and saw that Browne was wiping his nose. I think he was crying. He tried to hide it from me. He took a gulp of his Scotch.

‘I don't understand it,' he said to the air. ‘I don't understand any of it.'

I understood it, but I couldn't explain it. How can you tell someone that life is shit? How can you tell someone like Browne, who believed in hope, that believing means nothing?

‘She was used,' I said. ‘And she died.'

And who was I thinking of when I said that? Brenda? Kid?

I found myself trying to remember that time at the market, me and Brenda walking along, her picking things up, showing them to me.

But when I tried, I stopped seeing Brenda and started seeing the girl, Kid.

She was used. And she died.

And that had been my fault. Hadn't it?

‘Joe?' Browne said. ‘Are you with me, Joe? Can you open your eyes?'