wouldnât be long now.
The passing weeks did nothing to soften the Scully familyâs resolve. To people like the Scullys, time was salt: it aggravated every wound. Barker realised the vendetta could go on almost indefinitely; they seemed to have developed a taste for it. Strangely enough, heâd been noticing something similar at work. Old bouncers, thatâs what happens. You get a reputation over the years and suddenly thereâs some kid, nineteen or twenty, heâs heard about you. Youâre hard, but heâs harder. It never stops.
His shirt had stuck to his back. He leaned forwards, lifting it away from his skin so the sweat could dry. In the last few months he had begun to feel that the odds were stacked against him. So far heâd been lucky. But prison ran in the family, like wiry hair and heart disease. Sooner or later heâd be put away for something, even if he was innocent. Either that, or heâd get badly hurt. There had been a time when he would never have dreamed of backing down. All that pride, though, it had faded like the tattoo on his chest. Was it age did that?
Some would say he was running. Well, let them say it.
The coach pulled in under a high glass roof. Lines of people waited below, their eyes flicking left and right like tadpoles ina jar. He could feel the city air, the speed of it, much faster than the air down on the coast.
Outside, the driver opened a flap in the side of the bus. He looked at Barker over his shoulder. âCan you see yours?â
Barker pointed at two black canvas bags. The driver gripped the handles and, grunting, hauled the bags out on to the tarmac. Then he stood back, hands on hips. âChrist, mate, what you got in there?â
Barker didnât answer.
âI know,â the driver said. âYou killed the bloke, but the body was too big. So you had to cut it in half.â
Barker just looked at him. âYou tell anyone,â he said, âIâll have to kill you too.â
Drive Away Monkey
The door of the pub creaked open under his hand, crashed shut behind him. He ordered a pint of bitter and drank a third of it, then he put his glass down and glanced around. Half a dozen suits, two girls in office skirts and blouses. A scattering of old men wearing hats. Not a bad place, though. The booths looked original, the name of the brewery elaborately carved into the panes of frosted-glass. Statues of women in togas hoisted opalescent globe-lights towards the dark-brown ceiling. A polished brass rail hugged the foot of the bar. His brother Gary would have approved. Gary used to deal in antiques.
He asked the barman if Charlton Williams was around.
The barman jerked his eyes and eyebrows in the direction of the window. âOver there.â
From where he was standing, Barker could only see Charlton Williamsâ back. Brown leather jacket, grey trousers. Cropped black hair. Barker moved across the pub towards him, pint in hand.
âCharlton Williams?â
The man who swung round was this side of forty, but only just. He was going bald from the front, his hair receding at both temples, leaving a round piece that looked as if it might fit into a jigsaw. He reminded Barker of a wrestler who was always on TV on Saturdays in the late sixties.
âThe nameâs Barker Dodds. Iâm a friend of Rayâs. Ray Peacock. He said to find you here.â
Charltonâs pouchy eyes narrowed. âYouâre the bloke that needs a place to stay, right?â
Barker nodded.
âSo whereâs the luggage?â
âBus station. Victoria.â Barker drained his pint.
Charlton pointed at the glass. âSame again?â
âCheers.â
Charlton Williams. According to Ray, Charlton had been named after the football club. People used to call him Athletic, which was a bit of a laugh, Ray said, because Charlton had never played sport in his life, not even darts. Charlton was drinking with Ronnie and Malcolm,