DONNA AND THE FATMAN (Crime Thriller Fiction)

by Helen Zahavi

  He turned back to the table.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he announced. ‘He’s happy now.’

  He slid the sugar-bowl away from him. There were brown smears inside where one of the boys had dipped in a wet spoon, and he’d always found such things distressing.

  He glanced at Mervyn.

  ‘So here we are, then,’ he murmured. ‘Right, Merv?’

  ‘Right.’

  Henry squinted at the girl.

  ‘She’s looking bored.’

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Your lady friend . . . ’

  ‘She was waiting for her coffee.’

  ‘Well she’s had it, now.’

  ‘You want her to leave?’ Mervyn, ever helpful. ‘Want her chucked outside?’

  ‘Manners, Merv.’

  The big boss smiled, showing neat yellow dentures. He held out his hand.

  ‘Henry,’ he announced, and squeezed her palm. ‘They call me the Fatman, but I don’t mind.’

  ‘Donna,’ she said.

  The skinhead sniggered.

  ‘Donna Kebab.’

  The Fatman pointed at the boy in leather, who’d pulled up a chair and flipped it round, and now sat quietly straddling it, all bulging crotch and faded denim.

  ‘That one’s Joe, as you’re asking. My boy,’ he said, ‘my Joey-boy.’

  He leaned across and cuffed him lightly on the head. Joey-boy, with his pale blue eyes and his near-black hair. Looked like such a wild young man. You looked at Joe, and you wouldn’t know that he lived in a basement flat, and slept in a single bed, and ate from tins and paper bags, and held his essence in his hands, and loathed himself with the pure and utter certainty of one who knows he can’t be wrong. But he looked like such a wild young man.

  ‘He’s everything to me. That right, lads? My driver, gofer, faithful friend. He’s the baseline, the constant point of reference, my poor but honest Joey-boy. He’s where I started from, and I keep him by my side to measure just how far I’ve come.’

  The flesh of his neck seemed to quiver slightly when he turned his head, as though it were almost liquid, as though you could almost spoon it up and have it for dessert.

  ‘Will you look at her watching, eh? Giving us the eyeball. Like she thinks she’ll sum us up. You’ve told her all our little secrets, have you? Filled the girly in? Because she’s looking pretty eager, frankly, looking pretty hopeful. So what I’m wondering, see, is does she know we’re bad boys? Think she knows that? Eh, Joe? Eh?’

  He leaned his bulk towards her, and she was suddenly aware of a milky smell, an infant scent surrounding him that made her think of baby-food and nappies.

  ‘D’you know that, sweetheart? They tell you, did they?’

  The pale, grey tongue between his lips. The odour of milk and drooping age.

  ‘Speak to me, darling. Just open your mouth.’

  She slowly uncrossed and recrossed her legs, taking her time, for she’s in no great rush. A single, fluid movement in black, velvet skirt and slingback shoes. She stubbed out her fag and looked at him. For the very first time since he’d come inside, she took a good look at the Fatman.

  ‘Hello, Henry.’

  ‘Hello, sugar.’

  ‘You saying you’re bad?’

  You could see him relax, you could feel him unwind.

  ‘I’m fucking evil.’

  ‘What’s your line, then?’

  ‘Have a guess.’

  ‘You’re sort of in business.’

  ‘Well put there, darling, because sort of in business is what I am.’

  ‘What kind of thing, exactly?’

  ‘Little bit of this,’ he said. ‘Little bit of that.’

  He removed the cigar-butt from his mouth and rolled it between his fingers.

  ‘Let’s just say that I’m involved in various enterprises, I have my finger in various pies, I’ve pushed my thumb in a number of rectums.’

  He paused to search for the perfect phrase.

  ‘Venture capital, kind of thing.’

  ‘Like a bank,’ she suggested.

  ‘That’s right, sweetheart. I lend people money, then I ask for it back.’

  She plucked a speck of cotton from her sleeve.

  ‘Is that called financial services?’

  ‘No, darling . . . ’

  He shoved the cigar-stub back in his mouth.

  ‘It’s called demanding money with menaces.’

  He bent towards her. The small, wet mouth beside her ear.

  ‘I don’t need the money,’ he confided. ‘I do it for the menaces.’

  The milky breath in her face.

  ‘You were telling us about your bloke, I think.’

  ‘Haven’t got a bloke.’

  ‘But you’ve had a bloke.’

  ‘One or two.’

  ‘Tell me about the last one,’ he said. ‘Tell me about the last one who touched you where you’re tender.’

  The plump, warm hand that brushed her thigh.

  ‘Was he like Merv, or was he like me?’

  She shifted her weight on the seat, moved fractionally away from him.

  ‘Afraid I’ve got to go now, Henry. Another time, perhaps.’ Apologetic shrug. ‘It’s been nice, though . . . ’

  ‘Hasn’t it.’

  He sighed his Fatman sigh and leaned back in the chair, spreading slightly over the edges, oozing contentment from his open pores. A profoundly happy man.

  ‘So you’re off, then, are you?’

  He watched her bend and pick up her bag.

  ‘Got a nice flat?’

  ‘Might have.’

  ‘That’s grand,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’ve got a home,’ he said, ‘because some people haven’t, see. I mean dosser-type people. You seen them, right? Spit a lot, because they’ve got TB. Crap on the pavement and ask you for money. Ought to lock them up, you with me, Merv? Cause they’re a blight on the city.’

  ‘They’re a fucking disgrace.’

  ‘But you got a home, sugar, and you’re laughing. You got a room, you got no problem.’

  The piggy eyes were focused on her face.

  ‘And if you haven’t, we can fix you up. Just ask us nicely and we’ll sort something out.’

  He passed a hand across his scalp. Smoothing down the dry, red hair.

  ‘So which one you want, then, the boss or a lackey?’

  A millisecond’s hesitation, and she flicked a glance at the leather-boy. Mervyn grunted, Billy sighed. There was a ripple of disappointment, a collective recognition of pleasure postponed.

  Henry smiled thinly.

  ‘I know that look,’ he said. ‘I think she likes you, Joey. You’re well away there, son. Got your entrance-ticket for that one, if I’m not being too crude, as I sometimes am.’

  A sudden frown.

  ‘Excuse me, ladies.’

  He hawked up phlegm and spat it smoothly into a pale blue handkerchief.

  ‘That’s better,’ he grunted. ‘Clear out the old lungs.’

  He allowed himself a brief, admiring glance at the glob of creamy sputum, then shoved the hankie back in his pocket. He put his hand on Joe’s shoulder and heaved himself up.

  ‘Be needing you in the morning,’ he said. ‘Come round at ten.’

  ‘I’m down the gym.’

  ‘You some kind of nancy, now? Stuff the gym, son. Just be on time.’

  He buttoned up his coat.

  ‘If you’re still on speakers, you can bring her with.’

  He motioned Merv and Billy to follow, then took her hand, brushed it with his lips.

  ‘You made the right choice, believe me. Picked a winner, frankly. Got some style, my Joey-boy. Knows how to treat the ladies. Always splashing out, he is: a burger here, a milkshake there. You be a good girl, you’ll get porridge for brekker.’

  ‘I quite like porridge.’

  ‘Thought you might.’

  He was squeezing her fingers, holding them tight.

  ‘So time to say goodnight
, then, is it?’

  ‘It’s been a pleasure, Henry.’

  ‘More than that, darling. It’s been delightful.’ A joyless smile. ‘Until tomorrow, then.’

  She eased her hand away.

  ‘Keep well,’ she urged. ‘And look after those lungs.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  His bleak, unblinking eyes.

  ‘Sweet dreams, sweetheart.’

  She patted his arm.

  ‘And you, Henry.’

  * * *

  CHAPTER 2

  She woke up in an unfamiliar bed. An acid, grey light was seeping through the curtain and the air smelled damp. She rubbed her eyes and stared at the ceiling. Her bones felt stiff. A rasping noise, a kind of rhythmic grating, seemed to fill the room, a familiar, early-morning sound which she couldn’t quite identify. She rolled on to her elbow and saw Joey standing by the sink, scraping black bits off burnt toast. It’s an encouraging sign for girls like her, because they like a man who’s good in the kitchen, they like them when they’re handy.

  ‘Sleep well, did you . . . ?’

  He had his back to her, was speaking over his shoulder. Looking good, she thought. Stonewashed jeans and crew-neck vest, and he was looking pretty good.

  ‘Not very. How about you?’

  ‘I was on the floor, wasn’t I. Bad for my back.’

  She allowed herself a sympathetic yawn.

  ‘But good for your character.’

  He dropped some crusts into the pedal bin.

  ‘Only I was wondering, see, cause you were making these sounds all night.’

  She frowned at the pillow.

  ‘What sounds?’

  ‘You know.’ He shrugged. ‘Sort of . . . air-sounds.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She let this filter through her skull and settle in her brain.

  ‘You saying I snore?’

  ‘Not as such.’ His neck went pink. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘That’s all right, then, cause if we’re being personal, here . . . ’

  ‘I know, okay?’

  ‘I mean, that bog you’ve got . . . ’

  ‘I know, all right?’

  He came back out holding two large plates heaped with charred and cooling pieces of bread.

  ‘Want to clean it, do you?’

  The clear blue eyes and the broad Joey grin. He’s mine, she thought. He’s the one for me.

  ‘Think I’ll pass,’ she said.

  A flat and muscular stomach, like the ones you see in magazines, and he hadn’t shaved, which always helped. Could do a lot worse, she told herself.

  ‘Because I’m not too partial to chores and things. Domestic stuff . . . ’ she pulled a face, ‘ . . . not really me.’

  ‘But you could try,’ he persisted.

  ‘I could,’ she agreed. ‘But I think I won’t.’

  He put the plates on the table and pulled up a chair.

  ‘You having some, are you, or you just want to watch?’

  ‘Depends what you’ve got. Cause I’m picky, Joey. I’ve been indulged.’

  ‘There’s strawberry jam, cheese slices, a bit of marge . . . ’

  She rolled out of bed.

  ‘Butter me some toast, then, Joe.’

  She wandered over to the table.

  ‘Not too much,’ she added, ‘just a scraping.’

  She sat down opposite him. They smiled at each other, for it would happen soon. He dug his knife into the plastic tub.

  ‘Cheese or jam?’

  ‘Both, I reckon.’

  ‘You can’t have both.’

  He draped a slice of processed cheese on to a piece of toast and passed it across.

  ‘I’m the guest, Joe,’ she pointed out.

  She placed a spoonful of jam on top of the cheese, and smeared it all over with her thumb.

  ‘I can have what I like.’

  And having thus laid down the rules of their relationship, breakfast was duly consumed.

  They left the flat around nine-thirty, Joe allowing a good half-hour to get from Kilburn up to Hampstead in the fag-end of the rush-hour. A touch cautious, she felt, as they cruised up Carlton Vale. A shade anal, perhaps, though she didn’t want to mention it. The car was a late-model BMW, an executive motor with soft leather seats. It was the third-favourite in Henry’s collection, he told her, the first being his Bentley and the second, his Mercedes Sports.

  ‘What about Mervyn’s Jag?’

  ‘You mean his Daimler?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s Henry’s, too.’

  She stared out of the window.

  ‘So everything’s Henry’s.’

  Joe changed up to third.

  ‘More or less.’

  They crawled along West End Lane and took a right up Lymington Road. He had one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. Now and then she felt him glance across, as if to check she was really there, as if he couldn’t quite believe she was almost his, she was very nearly Joey’s girl. He cut across the junction, put his foot down hard, and they were climbing the slope of Arkwright Road. The German engine barely murmured. She loved that car, really loved that car. Bit of quality in a tacky world. Should be his, she thought. Not right that Joe had nothing.

  When they turned into Fitzjohn’s Avenue, the traffic was barely moving. The fumes were already building up, the air was beginning to thicken. But Hampstead Village, all the same, so you had to make allowances. He flipped the gearstick into second.

  ‘Like to live here, would you?’

  She checked her lipstick.

  ‘Might consider it.’

  He took a left into Church Row, went twenty yards up Frognal, then left again into Redington Road. He parked about halfway down and pulled on the handbrake. She gazed at the houses. Unattainable houses.

  ‘We double back or something?’

  Joe switched off the engine.

  ‘Thought we’d take the scenic route.’

  She pulled on her calfskin gloves. The one good thing that she had to her name, a pair of calfskin gloves.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Course you can.’

  ‘How does he manage to fit in the Merc?’

  Joe thought it over.

  ‘We lever him in, then we spoon him out.’

  It was eight minutes to ten. Henry emerged at three minutes past. He walked up the short drive and climbed carefully inside, easing his soft bulk into the back seat. The car was suddenly filled with a faint, almost imperceptible, odour. It floated quietly in the air and swirled around her head.

  ‘Hope you had a pleasant night,’ he said. ‘Hope my boy was gentle.’

  He flicked the back of his hand against Joe’s head. He sort of slapped him, sort of gently.

  ‘That right, son?’

  Another smack, slightly harder.

  ‘You been tender with the lady?’

  The car dipped as he leaned forward. His mouth was open, and that whiff again, that old man’s breath.

  ‘He behave, did he? You can tell me, sweetheart, cause we’re all friends here. Just say it, sugar, just spit it out. Cause I like my boys to toe the line, so tell me, darling, cause I need to know.’

  That Henry-smell, blowing in her face.

  ‘Boiled milk,’ she muttered.

  ‘What’s that, sweetheart?’

  ‘He didn’t do anything, Henry.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘I think I would have noticed.’

  ‘Maybe when you weren’t looking . . . ’

  ‘Doubt it.’

  ‘While you were sleeping . . . ’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep, Henry. Not on that bed.’

  The Fatman snorted.

  ‘What d’you expect? Cause that’s a poor man’s bed, see. That’s the bed you get when you choose the driver not the boss.’

  Joe turned the key in the ignition. The engine fired. He glanced into the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Where to?’
<
br />   A neutral voice. You couldn’t gauge him by his voice.

  ‘You asking, Joe?’

  ‘I’m asking.’

  The Fatman leaned back in the seat. He settled himself down, made himself comfortable.

  ‘Have to think about that,’ he murmured. ‘Got to have a little ponder.’

  He took out a small cigar and slowly unpeeled the cellophane. Where to? he wondered. It was an interesting question, almost metaphysical. Whose life should he enhance today? To which unpaid debt should he attend? Which part of town should he deign to grace with his splendid Fatman presence? He quietly mulled it over. He indulged in rumination.

  ‘You know something,’ he said finally, popping the cigarillo into his mouth, ‘it’s such a pleasant day, and I’m feeling so at peace with life, that I think I’d like to visit Trevor.’

  * * *

  CHAPTER 3

  He placed a black-gloved finger on the buzzer and pressed twice. Cleared his throat and waited.

  ‘I’d like you to meet some friends of mine.’

  Monday morning in Acton Town, and a sour, November wind came whipping down the street, bringing fumes and filth from Hanger Lane.

  ‘They have to live above the shop, poor bastards.’

  She stared at the window-display. Cheap gold bracelets arrayed on fake blue velvet. Low-grade stuff, for girls like her.

  ‘Decent folk,’ he added. ‘You know the sort.’

  He was standing beside her, pressed up close. A different coat from yesterday’s. Camel-hair this time, which didn’t suit him. Her head felt raw from lack of sleep. She glanced over her shoulder. Joe was waiting in the car, fifty yards back down the traffic-clogged road. Nowhere to park these days, Henry had said. Almost no point having a motor, he’d said. Almost worth it taking the Tube, he’d said, if you didn’t mind humanity, if you weren’t averse to body-smells. She shivered inside her jacket, felt him slip an arm around her shoulder.

  ‘You ought to eat more,’ he murmured. ‘Get something hot inside you, of a morning.’

  Smiling at her with his soft, pink lips.

  ‘Do you like nice things?’

  He had an unexpected voice. Never strident, never rasping. A fairly classless, vaguely London, voice. You couldn’t place him from the way he spoke, couldn’t size him up and pin him down, establish where he came from. And quietly, almost in a whisper. You had to listen closely to the words. You had to cock an ear, and hold your breath, and strain to catch the whispered words of Henry.