Ian Rankin - Beggars Banquet

‘Story she gave her doctor was she fell down the stairs.’

‘Well, I think it’s a shame.’

Mum looked up and saw me. ‘I thought you’d be down the club.’

‘Not tonight, Mum.’

‘Well, that makes a change.’

‘Hallo, Mrs Gregg.’

‘Hallo, love. There’s a band on tonight, you know.’

‘Where?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘At the club. Plenty of lovely girls too, I’ll bet.’

They wanted rid of me. I nodded. ‘Just going to my room. Won’t be long.’

I lay on my bed, the same bed I’d slept in since I was… well, since before I could remember. The room had been painted and papered in the last year. I stared at the wallpaper, lying on one side and then on the other. This room, it occurred to me, was probably the size of a prison cell. It might even be a bit smaller. What was it, eight feet square? But I’d always felt comfortable enough here. I heard my mum laughing at something Mrs Gregg said, and pop music from the flat downstairs. These weren’t very solid flats, thin walls and floors. They’d knock our block down one of these days. I liked it well enough though. I didn’t want to lose it. I didn’t want to lose my mum.

I decided that I was probably going to have to kill Daintry. I packed some clothes into a black holdall, just holding back the tears. What would I say to my mum? I’ve got to go away for a while? I’ll phone you when I can? I recalled all the stories I’d heard about Daintry. How some guy from Trading Standards had been tailing him and was sitting in his car at the side of the road by the shops when a sawn-off shotgun appeared in the window and a voice told him to get the hell out of there pronto. Guns and knives, knuckledusters and a machete. Just stories… just stories.

I knew he wouldn’t be expecting me to try anything. He’d open his door, he’d let me in, he’d turn his back to lead me through to the living-room. That’s when I’d do it. When his back was turned. It was the only safe and certain time I could think of. Anything else and I reckoned I’d lose my bottle. I left the holdall on my bed and went through to the kitchen. I took time at the open drawer, choosing my knife. Nothing too grand, just a simple four-inch blade at the end of a wooden handle. I stuck it in my pocket.

‘Just nipping out for some fresh air, Mum.’

‘Bye then.’

‘See you.’

And that was that. I walked back down the echoing stairwell with my mind set on murder. It wasn’t like the films. It was just… well, ordinary. Like I was going to fetch fish and chips or something. I kept my hand on the knife handle. I wanted to feel comfortable with it. But my legs were a bit shaky. I had to keep locking them at the knees, holding on to a wall or a lamppost and taking deep breaths. It was a five-minute walk to Daintry’s, but I managed to stretch it to ten. I passed a couple of people I vaguely knew, but didn’t stop to talk. I didn’t trust my teeth not to chatter, my jaw not to lock.

And to tell you the truth, I was relieved to see that there was someone standing on the doorstep, another visitor. I felt my whole body relax. The man crouched to peer through the letter box, then knocked again. As I walked down the path towards him, I saw that he was tall and well-built with a black leather jacket and short black hair.

‘Isn’t he in?’

The man turned his head slowly towards me. I didn’t like the look of his face. It was grey and hard like the side of a house.

‘Doesn’t look like it,’ he said. ‘Any idea where he’d be?’

He was standing up straight now, his head hanging down over mine. Police, I thought for a second. But he wasn’t police. I swallowed. I started to shake my head, but then I had an idea. I released my grip on the knife.

‘If he’s not in he’s probably down the club,’ I said. ‘Do you know where it is?’

‘No.’

‘Go back down to the bottom of the road, take a left, and when you come to the shops it’s up a side road between the launderette and the chip shop.’

He studied me. ‘Thanks.’

‘No problem,’ I said. ‘You know what he looks like?’

He nodded in perfect slow motion. He never took his eyes off me.

‘Right then,’ I said. ‘Oh, and you might have to park outside the shops. The car-park’s usually full when there’s a band on.’

‘There’s a band?’

‘In the club.’ I smiled. ‘It gets noisy, you can hardly hear a word that’s said to you, even in the toilets.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that is so.’

Then I walked back down the path and gave him a slight wave as I headed for home. I made sure I walked home too. I didn’t want him thinking I was on my way to the club ahead of him.

‘Short walk,’ Mum said. She was pouring tea for Mrs Gregg.

‘Bit cold.’

‘Cold?’ squeaked Mrs Gregg. ‘A lad your age shouldn’t feel the cold.’

‘Have you seen my knife?’ Mum asked. She was looking down at the cake she’d made. It was on one of the better plates and hadn’t been cut yet. I brought the knife out of my pocket.

‘Here you are, Mum.’

‘What’s it doing in your pocket?’

‘The lock on the car-boot’s not working. I’d to cut some string to tie it shut.’

‘Do you want some tea?’

I shook my head. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I said. ‘I’m off to bed.’

It was the talk of the estate the next morning, how Daintry had been knifed to death in a toilet cubicle, just as the band were finishing their encore. They were some sixties four-piece, still performing long past their sell-by. That’s what people said who were there. And they’d compensated for a lack of ability by cranking the sound system all the way up. You not only couldn’t hear yourself think, you couldn’t think.

I suppose they have to make a living as best they can. We all do.

It was the assistant manager who found Daintry. He was doing his nightly check of the club to see how many drunks had managed to fall asleep in how many hidden places. Nobody used the end cubicle of the gents’ much; it didn’t have any toilet seat. But there sat Daintry, not caring any more about the lack of amenities. Police were called, staff and clientele interviewed, but no one had anything much to say.

Well, not to the police at any rate. But there was plenty of gossip on the streets and in the shops. And slowly a story emerged. Mr McAndrew, remember, had been a lad at one time. He was rumoured still to have a few contacts, a few friends who owed him. Or maybe he just stumped up cash. Whatever, everyone knew Mr McAndrew had put out the contract on Daintry. And, as also agreed, good riddance to him. On a Friday night too. So anyone who’d tapped him for a loan could see the sun rise on Monday morning with a big wide smile.

Meantime, the body was found in Daintry’s lock-up. Well, the police knew who was responsible for that, didn’t they? Though they did wonder about the broken lock. Kids most likely, intent on burglary but doing a runner when they saw the corpse. Seemed feasible to me too.

Mr McAndrew, eh? I watched him more closely after that. He still looked to me like a nice old man. But then it was only a story after all, only one of many. Me, I had other things to think about. I knew I could do it now. I could take Brenda away from Harry. Don’t ask me why I feel so sure, I just do.

‘Hellish about Anthony.’

‘Christ, isn’t it? Six years.’

‘Six is a long one.’

‘The longest,’ Thomas agreed. ‘I’ve only ever done two and a half.’

‘Three, me,’ said Paul. ‘My shout then.’

‘No, Paul, it’s mine,’ Philip said.

‘Your money’s no good today, Philip,’ Paul said. ‘Hiy, Matthew, give us two spesh, a dark rum, and a vodka.’