Gerald Seymour - The Collaborator

What else did guys do? They put their affairs in order. Problem was that Eddie had no ‘affairs’ worthy of the name, none that were tidy or chaotic. He had no money beyond a current account and a Post Office savings book that had somehow been forgotten while he was at college or it would have been stripped bare. He had other things to exercise him than worrying about whether he had paid his tax, and whether the last pension contribution had gone out of his account, and that he hadn’t made a will.

Was that actually what guys did?

He thought that his father’s and mother’s affairs would be in order – last letters sealed, with a second-class stamp on them, legal things up to date, all relevant tax settled.

It was because Eddie had become, after a fashion, comfortable and because his body hurt less that his mind had allowed that door to open. He was better off when the pain was rich and thinking didn’t intrude.

Next thing would be – going through that door. How would they do it?

Had to squirm. Had a flash in his mind of the hood going over his head, but seeing a pistol before his eyes were covered, or a knife, or being taken to a high floor and feeling the air on his skin and knowing he was beside an open window. Quite deliberately, Eddie turned on to his right side so that his weight crushed his ribs. The pain might have made him squeal, but he welcomed it, which seemed to slam that door. When ‘How would they do it?’ was gone, he rolled back. The exertion sent the pain into his head and feet, legs and arms, chest and stomach, but the mind was cleared.

More philosophical.

Quite a jab on the nose, actually. A reality check. Eddie Deacon’s life didn’t count when it was set against a principle.

Pretty bloody heavy stuff.

He chewed on it. Who had made the decision? Who had sat on the judgement bench? Had they applied logic and intellect to the process? Or tossed a bloody coin?

If it was logic and intellect, would they go to a chapel, lower themselves on to a hassock and say a smug little prayer? If a coin had been tossed, would they have headed off to the pub and sunk a few, raising a glass to him – ‘Sorry and all that, Eddie, nothing personal’?

Would have been nice if it was all faceless people. Big policemen in fancy uniforms, with medal ribbons in bright lines, politicians waiting for the limousine to pull up, escorts to open the door, and judges in robes – easier for Eddie if it was men who did not have faces.

It was her.

It was his Mac who had said that the ‘principle’ won out.

His Immacolata… He was curled on his side, the pressure off his ribcage, and the pain had subsided. It might have been, from what Eddie remembered, three weeks after he had met her, maybe four, and they had been in the pub with the boys from the house. He’d only been on the second pint and his glass wasn’t even half empty, but she had pushed the table, reached out her hand and taken his, then yanked him up and led him out. They had gone back to the house and she had set the pace, going ever quicker, had run the length of the street to the steps and the front door. It had not been a slow seduction undressing, but a strip-off – and she had beaten him to it, naked when he still had his socks on. They had made love fast, then again, slower, and hadn’t stopped when the boys had come back from the pub. They had done it again when the house was quiet and the boys’ late film was finished. He’d probably only ever said it to her once, whispered it in her ear with wonderment: ‘I love you, Immacolata, and will love you till… ’ She hadn’t let him finish. He thought, remembering the declaration, that it had been after the first time and before the second. The third time, bloody near knackered, she had brought him on hard and deep, and he had damn near broken the bed. He had meant it, every word, every syllable – ‘… will love you till… ’ She hadn’t let him say how long he would love her, and her mouth had closed over his, and her tongue had stilled his, and her body had brought warm sweat to his and he had squirmed under her. ‘I love you, Immacolata… ’ He had said it, she had not. There was a cough at the door.

Salvatore was there.

His Immacolata… Only once had they shared a sour exchange. He’d drunk too much, she was sober. He’d wanted horseplay, she’d wanted to read a textbook. He’d had a normal, undemanding day tomorrow, she’d had an exam.

Salvatore leaned on the door jamb and watched him, was huge above him.

His Immacolata… He had told her, boisterous, to ‘lighten up’, she had told him he was wasting his talent, could do more and go further, that he could make a difference – and he had flounced out, gone for a leak, and it had never been mentioned again and there had been no suggestion as to how he could ‘make a difference’.

Salvatore studied him, as if he was an enigma. Mindful that he was open to another kicking, Eddie glimpsed the face looming over him, and thought it vulnerable – bloody bizarre.

Returned to the core theme. The principle had won, breasted the tape, for Immacolata’s prize. He had not won, bloody hadn’t. Principle coming before his survival didn’t make him angry: it stifled his feelings.

Salvatore had a cigarette in his mouth. Smoke came up from it and went towards the web where the big spider was. Abruptly, he moved a hand – Eddie, trussed, unable to shift, didn’t feel threatened – which went into his pocket and took out a pack of Marlboro Lights. He pulled out a cigarette and bent to slip the filter into Eddie’s mouth, where the lips felt triple-size swollen, and lit it. He didn’t say anything, and Eddie didn’t thank him.

Three times the ash broke off and scattered on Eddie’s chest, then Salvatore retrieved the stub and trod it out under his trainer. He didn’t leave, but stayed in the doorway and stared down.

He did not know if it had been, for Immacolata, a big or small decision to go with the principle rather than his life… He didn’t think he’d ever get to know.

There was a sliver of window that Eddie could see, past Salvatore’s shoulder, and he realised that the day had died and the light had failed, that dusk closed on the buildings. He didn’t know if he would see the dawn – because he was second to the principle.

A body lay on the paving at the base of the giant block that was the Sail where in excess of ten thousand souls lived, and it was unreported. Many who lived in the disparate towers of Scampia, with a population of seventy thousand souls, walked close to it as the shadows lengthened, but were careful not to see it… The rats had drained the pool of blood. Later, with darkness, they might start on the cheeks or the throat.

Few of the residents of the third level of the Sail knew of the first movements along the walkway. It was a precaution. Heavy sacks, filled with packages sealed in oiled, water-resistant paper, were carried away. And – an additional precaution – the locks on the barred gates were checked and heavier chains used to fasten them. Merely as a precaution, the clan capo who controlled that sector moved out, slipped away, went unnoticed.

Massimo had waited more than fifteen minutes at the chaotic road junction at piazza Nicola Amore, one of the pods for tunnelling the new metro system, when he was flashed by a scooter.

He was given a helmet. Awkwardly, he climbed astride the pillion and had barely achieved a grip on the man’s heavy leather coat when it surged away. Massimo knew the statutes of the law – he could have quoted the article that listed Accessory to Murder. The scooter wove though rush-hour traffic. He didn’t know whether he could control the feeling of acute sickness or whether he would fill the interior of the helmet with vomit.