‘Not much.’
‘You should be fuckin’ flattered, man, ’cause that’s about as much as you’ll ever amount to.’
Thanks.’
‘You’ve had a good career. Pity it’s over.’
Gavin felt iced lead in his belly: he’d hoped Preetorius was going to be content with a warning. Apparently not. They were
here to damage him: Jesus, they were going to hurt him, and for something he hadn’t done, didn’t even know anything about.
“We’re going to take you off the street, white boy. Permanently.’
‘I did nothing.’
‘The kid knew you, even with a stocking over your head he knew you. The voice was the same, the clothes were the same. Face it, you were recognised. Now take the consequences.’
‘Fuck you.’
Gavin broke into a run. As an eighteen year old he’d sprinted for his county: he needed that speed again now. Behind him Preetorius laughed (such sport!) and two sets of feet pounded the pavement in pursuit. They were close, closer – and Gavin was badly out of condition. His thighs were aching after a few dozen yards, and his jeans were too tight to run in easily. The chase was lost before it began.
The man didn’t tell you to leave,’ the white goon scolded, his bitten fingers digging into Gavin’s biceps.
‘Nice try.’ Preetorius smiled, sauntering towards the dogs and the panting hare. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, to the other goon.
‘Christian?’ he asked.
At the invitation Christian delivered a fist to Gavin’s kidneys. The blow doubled him up, spitting curses.
Christian said: ‘Over there.’ Preetorius said: ‘Make it snappy,’ and suddenly they were dragging him out of the light into an alley. His shirt and his jacket tore, his expensive shoes were dragged through dirt, before he was pulled upright, groaning. The alley was dark and Preetorius’ eyes hung in the air in front of him, dislocated.
‘Here we are again,’ he said. ‘Happy as can be.’
‘I… didn’t touch him,’ Gavin gasped.
The unnamed cohort, Not-Christian, put a ham hand in the middle of Gavin’s chest, and pushed him back against the end wall of the alley. His heel slid in muck, and though he tried to stay upright his legs had turned to water. His ego too: this was no time to be courageous. He’d beg, he fall down on his knees and lick their soles if need be, anything to stop them doing a job on him. Anything to stop them spoiling his face.
That was Preetorius’ favourite pastime, or so the street talk went: the spoiling of beauty. He had a rare way with him, could
maim beyond hope of redemption in three strokes of his razor, and have the victim pocket his lips as a keepsake.
Gavin stumbled forward, palms slapping the wet ground. Something rotten-soft slid out of its skin beneath his hand.
Not-Christian exchanged a grin with Preetorius.
‘Doesn’t he look delightful?’ he said.
Preetorius was crunching a nut. ‘Seems to me – ‘ he said, ‘ -the man’s finally found his place in life.”
‘I didn’t touch him,’ Gavin begged. There was nothing to do but deny and deny: and even then it was a lost cause.
‘You’re guilty as hell,’ said Not-Christian.
‘Please.’
‘I’d really like to get this over with as soon as possible,’ said Preetorius, glancing at his watch, ‘I’ve got appointments to keep, people to pleasure.’
Gavin looked up at his tormentors. The sodium-lit street was a twenty-five-yard dash away, if he could break through the cordon of their bodies.
‘Allow me to rearrange your face for you. A little crime of fashion.’
Preetorius had a knife in his hand. Not-Christian had taken a rope from his pocket, with a ball on it. The ball goes in the mouth, the rope goes round the head – you couldn’t scream if your life depended on it. This was it.
Go!
Gavin broke from his grovelling position like a sprinter from his block, but the slops greased his heels, and threw him off balance. Instead of making a clean dash for safety he stumbled sideways and fell against Christian, who in turn fell back.
There was a breathless scrambling before Preetorius stepped in, dirtying his hands on the white trash, and hauling him to his feet.