and they had been happy.
Laski had accepted the stolen money more readily than Tony expected.
Maybe the crafty sod thought he could embezzle some of it: just let him
try. The two of them would have to cook up some scheme for concealing
the true nature of any withdrawals Tony made from the funds. That
couldn’t be difficult.
Tonight, nothing could be difficult. He wondered what to do with the
evening. Perhaps he would go to a gay bar and pick up a friend for the
night. He would dress up, put on some fancy jewelry, and stuff a roll of
tenners into his pocket He would find a boy a couple of years younger
than himself, and shower him with kindness: a wonderful meal, a show,
champagne–then back to the Barbican flat. He would knock the boy about
a bit, just to soften him up, and then … It would be a good night. In
the morning the boy would go away with his pockets full of money,
bruised but happy. Tony enjoyed making people happy.
On impulse, he pulled up outside a corner shop and went in. It was a
news agent’s, with bright modern decor and new racking along the walls
for magazines and books. Tony asked for the biggest box of chocolates in
the shop.
The young girl behind the counter was fat, spotty, and cheeky. She
reached up for the chocolates, letting her nylon overalls ride up almost
to her bottom. Tony looked away. the lucky lady, then?” the girl asked
him.
“My mum.”
“Pull the other one.”
Tony paid and got out fast. There was nothing more revolting than a
revolting woman.
As he drove away he thought: really, with a million pounds I should do
something more than just going out for a night on the town. But there
was nothing else he wanted. He could buy a house in Spain, but he got
too hot out there. He had enough cars; world cruises bored him; he did
not want a mansion in the country; there was nothing he collected. It
made him laugh when he thought of it this way: he had become a
millionaire in a day, and the only thing he could think of to buy was a
three-pound box of chocolates.
The money was security, though. If he went through a bad patch–even if,
God forbid, he did a stretch–he could look after the boys more or less
indefinitely. Running the firm could be expensive at times. There were
about twenty blokes in all, and each of them looked to him for a few
quid every Friday, whether they had had a tickle or not. He sighed. Yes,
his responsibilities would weigh less heavily now. It was worth it for
that.
He pulled up outside his mother’s house. The dashboard clock said four
thirty-five. Ma would. have tea ready soon: perhaps a bit of cheese on
toast, or a plate of baked beans; then some fruit cake or Battenberg;
and canned pears with Ideal milk to finish off. Or she might have got
him his favorite-crumpets and jam. He would eat again later tonight. He
had always had a good appetite.
He entered the house and closed the front door behind him. The hall was
untidy. The vacuum cleaner stood unattended halfway up the stairs, a
raincoat had fallen from the hall stand onto the tiled floor, and there
was some kind of mess by the kitchen door. It looked as if Ma had been
called away suddenly: he hoped there wasn’t bad news.
He picked up the raincoat and hung it on a hook. The dog was out, too;
there was no welcoming bark.
He went into the kitchen, and stopped with one foot still in the hall.
The mess was awful. At first he could not figure out what it was. Then
he smelled the blood.
It was everywhere: walls, floor, ceiling; all over the fridge, the
cooker, and the draining board.
The stench of the abattoir filled his nostrils, and he felt sick. But
where had it all come from? What had caused it? He looked around wildly
for some clue, but there was nothing; just the blood.