Maps of Hell. Paul Johnston
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‘So it does. That’s the offer, Kyle, and it comes with a promise.’
‘What’s that?’ Kyle’s eyes flicked sideways to where his backup sat. Some backup, thought Jonjo. I could slit Foxy here open like a pear before that twat got halfway across the floor.
‘We do the deal at six grand and you don’t get any trouble.’
Eric was keeping well out of the way polishing glasses. He didn’t want to accidentally overhear anything. The jukebox suddenly erupted into life and Kyle jumped. Ned Miller started singing. Jonjo hated it and felt annoyed. Orbison was the business, now that was class. That Australian chap Ifield was okay, too. He saw one of the Irishmen at the end of the bar turn and say something to Julie. She smiled.
‘Six grand,’ he reiterated to Kyle. ‘And nothing happens.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Kyle. Nervous sweat was rolling down his face now. He stank of fear.
Jonjo shrugged. ‘Well, let’s say for instance you don’t fall under a bus, you don’t get your legs accidentally broke, you don’t unexpectedly wake up one morning fucking dead, do you see what I mean, Kyle?’ Jonjo’s voice had lowered and now it was a growl. Kyle’s Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down like a marble on a string. ‘It could be very inconvenient, that, don’t you think?’
Kyle’s fingers were clutching the bar top so hard they were white.
‘So what do you say, Kyle? Six and we shake on it?’
‘Six,’ said Kyle. He’d anticipated a better offer. Up to ten, he’d thought. But fuck upsetting this geezer. This one had crazy eyes. Kyle had seen eyes like that when he was inside. Killer’s eyes. You didn’t push your luck with a man with eyes like that. ‘Six then.’ He held out a shaking hand.
Jonjo shook it. ‘I’ll arrange for collection and payment tomorrow.’ He smiled. ‘We know where you live, don’t we.’
‘Yeah.’ Kyle gave a horrible grimace of a smile.
‘We’ll give you a bell, Kyle. Drink up. It’s been nice doing business.’
He left Kyle and went down the other end of the bar. One of the Irish was putting a coin in the juke and saying to Julie: ‘Go on, pick out another.’ And she was giggling and sipping the drink he’d bought her and making cow eyes at the fucker.
She turned as Jonjo came up, and the Irish bloke gave him the once over.
‘You’re talking to my woman,’ said Jonjo.
‘What’s it to you?’ asked the Irish.
Jonjo snatched a glass off the bar just as the Irish started to throw a right-hander. The red mist descended and he let him have it in the face with the glass. Blood spurted and Julie screamed. The Irishman’s eye was hanging out on his cheek and he was yelling blue murder. His pal came at Jonjo and Eric came round the bar with the ice pick, but Jonjo didn’t need any help. He dropped the glass and decked the pal then grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. The Irish turned red and then blue. Eric was pounding at Jonjo’s back without effect. The landlord bent down and looked urgently into Jonjo’s eyes.
‘That’s enough, Mr Carter,’ he gasped. ‘Come on, that’s enough now. Don’t kill the bastard, not in my pub, that’s enough.’
And Jonjo heard him at last. He came to with both Irishmen on the floor, one with his face in tatters and one unconscious. He got to his feet and ran a hand through his hair, tidied his coat. There was a speck of blood on the lapel and he looked at it with distaste. He looked around for Kyle and his minder, but they were gone. Julie was still howling her stupid head off.
‘You get off, Mr Carter. I’ll sort this out,’ said Eric.
‘Thanks, Eric. We’ll pay for any damage.’ Jonjo grabbed Julie’s arm and marched her out the door. She still had the Babycham in her hand, and Ned Miller was still warbling on. Fucking women, thought Jonjo. They always caused trouble.
Ruthie sent Dave, her minder, to fetch Kath, her cousin, down to the big Surrey house on Miss Arnott’s day off. It was just a month since the wedding and she should have been on cloud nine but she was bitter to the bone, knowing how completely she had been betrayed. She was miserable and she was bored too, to tell the truth.
Max had said to her, redecorate, do whatever you like, but she hadn’t the heart.
He’d had clothes sent down from posh West End boutiques for her to try, saying that he liked this one, and that one, but never the one that Ruthie liked herself in best, so that one was always sent back.
Max didn’t come home very often. Most nights he slept at Queenie’s old place in the East End, or was out working or having a meet with the boys upstairs at Queenie’s, so he phoned her and told her he’d be back tomorrow, or the day after. Sometimes a whole week went by without her seeing him. Down here there was only Miss Arnott the prune-faced housekeeper and Dave who was on the door. Her minder, she supposed. Built like a tank, he was. He never said a word.
Kath’s reaction to Ruthie’s new home did cheer her up a bit, briefly. Kath came in the front door and stopped dead in the centre of the huge hall with her mouth hanging open in amazement.
‘Bloody hell, Ruthie,’ she gasped, then laughed. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. Only in pictures. Those stately homes, you know? It’s a fucking stately home.’
Ruthie looked around her and knew that what Kath said was true. The place was beautiful. She took Kath’s coat and led her all over it, enjoying playing lady of the manor for a brief time while Kath marvelled over the lovely furnishings, the thick velvet drapes, the expensive flock wallpaper, the carpet which was so deep you sank into it, the huge soft beds.
‘Jesus wept!’ Kath was bouncing up and down on one of the beds, laughing like a delighted child. ‘How many bedrooms did you say, Ruthie?’
‘Seven,’ said Ruthie.
The feelings of emptiness, of coldness, washed over her again.
And nothing happening in any of them, she thought.
‘Come on, let’s go downstairs and have a drink,’ she said.
Kath watched her cousin covertly as they tramped down the huge staircase and went into the drawing room.
A fucking drawing room! thought Kath. There was a roaring log fire, big couches on either side of it. A massive gilt mirror above the mantel. Drapes and carpets and … God, it was a fabulous place. Kath was pea-green with envy.
At least, she was until she looked at Ruthie’s face.
Because this wasn’t the Ruthie she knew of old.
This was a pale, drawn stranger.
Kath thought that Ruthie didn’t look well. She had dark shadows under her eyes, and she’d lost weight. She was wearing an olive-green dress and jacket with a lovely silky sheen to it. Her hair was pulled back into one of those classic French chignon things. She was nicely made-up. Ruthie looked elegant, and skinny, and … well, rich. Which of course she was. But she didn’t look well. She didn’t even look happy. There was a sort of bleakness about her and once she’d been so warm, so full of laughter.
‘It’s so lovely to see you, Kath,’ said Ruthie as they stood warming themselves before the fire.
Kath saw that there were tears in her eyes.
‘Ruthie, Ruthie.’ Kath rushed forward and hugged her. Ruthie felt frail, as if she might snap in two if you hugged her too hard. Christ, she even smelled different now. Kath inhaled a sweet expensive perfume when she pulled Ruthie into her arms. Whatever scent