Kristou got up gingerly, tears of rage and shame in his eyes. Someone laughed and a harsh, aggressive Yorkshire voice said from the shadows, Now thats what I call really being in the shit, Kristou.
Jack Meehan walked into the light, his brother Billy at his heels. They were both dressed exactly as they had been in the newspaper photo. It really was quite remarkable.
Meehan picked up the clipping. What in the hell did you want to show him that for? I sued the bastard who wrote that article and won.
Thats right. Billy Meehan giggled. The judge would have made it a farthing damages only theres no such coin any more. His voice was high-pitched, repellent nothing masculine about it at all.
Meehan slapped him casually, back-handed across the mouth, and said to Kristou, his nose wrinkling in disgust, Go and wipe your backside, for Christs sake. Then we talk.
When Kristou returned, Meehan was sitting at the table pouring whiskey into a clean paper cup, his brother standing behind him. He sampled a little, spat it out and made a face. All right, I know the Irish still have one foot in the bog, but how can they drink this muck?
Im sorry, Mr Meehan, Kristou said.
Youll be a bloody sight sorrier before Im through with you. You cocked it up proper, didnt you?
Kristou moistened dry lips and fingered his spectacles. I didnt think hed react that way.
What in the hell did you expect? Hes a nutcase, isnt he? I mean, they all are over there, going round shooting women and blowing up kids. Thats civilised?
Kristou couldnt think of a thing to say, but was saved by Billy who said carelessly, He didnt look much to me. Little half-pint runt. Without that shooter in his fist hed be nothing.
Meehan sighed heavily. You know there are days when I really despair of you, Billy. Youve just seen hell on wheels and didnt recognise it. He laughed harshly again. Youll never come closer, Kristou. He was mad at you, you old bastard. Mad enough to kill and yet that shooter didnt even waver.
Kristou winced. I know, Mr Meehan. I miscalculated. I shouldnt have mentioned those kids.
Then what are you going to do about it?
Kristou glanced at Billy, then back to his brother, frowning slightly. You mean you still want him, Mr Meehan?
Doesnt everybody?
Thats true enough.
He laughed nervously and Meehan stood up and patted him on the face. You fix it, Kristou, like a good lad. You know where Im staying. If I havent heard by midnight, Ill send Fat Albert to see you and you wouldnt like that, would you?
He walked into the darkness followed by his brother and Kristou stood there, terrified, listening to them go. The judas gate opened and Meehans voice called, Kristou?
Yes, Mr Meehan.
Dont forget to have a bath when you get home. You stink like my Aunt Marys midden.
The judas banged shut and Kristou sank down into the chair, fingers tapping nervously. God damn Fallon. It would serve him right if he turned him in.
And then it hit him like a bolt from the blue. The perfect solution and so beautifully simple.
He picked up the telephone, dialled Scotland Yard and asked to be put through to the Special Branch.
It was raining quite heavily now and Jack Meehan paused to turn up his collar before crossing the street.
Billy said, I still dont get it. Why is it so important you get Fallon?
Number one, with a shooter in his hand hes the best there is, Meehan said. Number two, everybody wants him. The Special Branch, Military Intelligence even his old mates in the IRA which means number three that hes eminently disposable afterwards.
Whats that mean? Billy said as they turned the corner of the alley and moved towards the car.
Why dont you try reading a few books, for Christs sake? Meehan demanded. All you ever seem to think of is birds.
They were at the front of the car by now, a Bentley Continental, and Meehan grabbed Billy by the arm and pulled him up quickly.
Here, what the hells going on? Wheres Fred?
A slight concussion, Mr Meehan. Nothing much. Hes sleeping it off in the rear seat.
A match flared in a nearby doorway pulling Fallons face out of the darkness. There was a cigarette between his lips. He lit it, then flicked the match into the gutter.
Meehan opened the door of the Bentley and switched on the lights. What are you after? he said calmly.
I just wanted to see you in the flesh, so to speak, thats all, Fallon said. Good night to you.
He started to move away and Meehan grabbed his arm. You know, I like you, Fallon. I think weve got a lot in common.
I doubt that.
Meehan ignored him. Ive been reading this German philosopher lately. You wouldnt know him. He says that for authentic living what is necessary is the resolute confrontation of death. Would you agree with that?
Heidegger, Fallon said. Interesting you should go for him. He was Himmlers bible.
He turned away again and Meehan moved quickly in front of him. Heidegger? he said. Youve read Heidegger? There was genuine astonishment in his voice. Ill double up on the original offer and find you regular work. Now I cant say fairer than that, can I?
Good night, Mr Meehan, Fallon said and melted into the darkness.
What a man, Meehan said. What a hard-nosed bastard. Why, hes beautiful, Billy, even if he is a fucking Mick. He turned. Come on, lets get back to the Savoy. You drive and if you put as much as a scratch on this motor Ill have your balls.
Fallon had a room in a lodging-house in Hanger Street in Stepney just off the Commercial Road. A couple of miles, no more, so he walked, in spite of the rain. He hadnt the slightest idea what would happen now. Kristou had been his one, his only hope. He was finished, it was as simple as that. He could run, but how far?
As he neared his destination, he took out his wallet and checked the contents. Four pounds and a little silver and he was already two weeks behind with his rent. He went into a cheap wine shop for some cigarettes then crossed the road to Hanger Street.
The newspaper man on the corner had deserted his usual pitch to shelter in a doorway from the driving rain. He was little more than a bundle of rags, an old London-Irishman, totally blind in one eye and only partially sighted in the other.
Fallon dropped a coin in his hand and took a paper. Good night to you, Michael, he said.
The old man rolled one milky white eye towards him, his hand fumbling for change in the bag which hung about his neck.
Is it yourself, Mr Fallon?
And who else? You can forget the change.
The old man grabbed his hand and counted out his change laboriously. You had visitors at number thirteen about twenty minutes ago.
The law? Fallon asked softly.
Nothing in uniform. They went in and didnt come out again. Two cars waiting at the other end of the street another across the road.
He counted a final penny into Fallons hand. Fallon turned and crossed to the telephone-box on the other corner. He dialled the number of the lodging-house and was answered instantly by the old woman who ran the place. He pushed in the coin and spoke.
He counted a final penny into Fallons hand. Fallon turned and crossed to the telephone-box on the other corner. He dialled the number of the lodging-house and was answered instantly by the old woman who ran the place. He pushed in the coin and spoke.
Mrs Keegan? Its Daly here. I wonder if youd mind doing me a favour?
He knew at once by the seconds hesitation, by the strain in her voice, that old Michaels supposition had been correct.
Oh, yes, Mr Daly.
The thing is, Im expecting a phone call at nine oclock. Take the number and tell them Ill ring back when I get in. I havent a hope in hell of getting there now. I ran into a couple of old friends and were having a few drinks. You know how it is?
There was another slight pause before she said as if in response to some invisible prompt, Sounds nice. Where are you?
A pub called The Grenadier Guard in Kensington High Street. Ill have to go now. See you later.
He replaced the receiver, left the phone-box and moved into a doorway from which he had a good view of No. 13 halfway down the short street.
A moment later, the front door was flung open. There were eight of them. Special Branch from the look of it. The first one on to the pavement waved frantically and two cars moved out of the shadows at the end of the street. The whole crew climbed inside, the cars moved away at speed. A car which was parked at the kerb on the other side of the main road went after them.
Fallon crossed to the corner and paused beside the old newspaper seller. He took out his wallet, extracting the four remaining pound notes and pressed them into his hand.
God bless you, Mr Fallon, Michael said, but Fallon was already on the other side of the road, walking rapidly back towards the river.
This time Kristou didnt hear a thing although he had been waiting for something like an hour, nerves taut. He sat there at the table, ledger open, the pen gripped tightly in his mittened hand. There was the softest of footfalls, wind over grass only, then the harsh, deliberate click as the hammer of the Browning was cocked.
Kristou breathed deeply to steady himself. Whats the point, Martin? he said. What would it get you?
Fallon moved round to the other side of the table, the Browning in his hand. Kristou stood up, leaning on the table to stop from shaking.
Im the only friend youve got left now, Martin.
You bastard, Fallon said. You sicked the Special Branch on to me.
I had to, Kriston said frantically. It was the only way I could get you back here. It was for your own good, Martin. Youve been like a dead man walking. I can bring you back to life again. Action and passion, thats what you want. Thats what you need.
Fallons eyes were like black holes in the white face. He raised the Browning at arms length, touching the muzzle between Kristous eyes.
The old man closed them. All right, if you want to, go ahead. Get it over with. This is a life, the life I lead? Only remember one thing. Kill me, you kill yourself because there is no one else. Not one single person in this world that would do anything other than turn you in or put a bullet in your head.
There was a long pause. He opened his eyes to see Fallon gently lowering the hammer of the Browning. He stood there holding it against his right thigh, staring into space.
Kristou said carefully, After all, what is he to you, this Krasko? A gangster, a murderer. The kind who lives off young girls. He spat. A pig.
Fallon said. Dont try to dress it up. Whats the next move?
One phone call is all it takes. A car will be here in half an hour. Youll be taken to a farm near Doncaster. An out-of-the-way place. Youll be safe there. You make the hit on Thursday morning at the cemetery like I showed you in the photo. Krasko always leaves his goons at the gate. He doesnt like having them around when hes feeling sentimental.
All right, Fallon said. But I do my own organising. Thats understood.
Of course. Anything you want. Kristou opened the drawer, took out an envelope and shoved it across. Theres five hundred quid there in fives, to be going on with.
Fallon weighed the envelope in his hand carefully for a moment, then slipped it into a pocket. When do I get the rest? he said. And the passport?
Mr Meehan takes care of that end on satisfactory completion.
Fallon nodded slowly. All right, make your phone call.
Kristou smiled, a mixture of triumph and relief. Youre doing the wise thing, Martin. Believe me you are. He hesitated. Theres just one thing if you dont mind me saying so?
And what would that be?
The Browning no good to you for a job like this. You need something nice and quiet.
Fallon looked down at the Browning, a slight frown on his face. Maybe you have a point. What have you got to offer?
What would you like?
Fallon shook his head. Ive never had a preference for any particular make of handgun. That way you end up with a trademark. Something they can fasten on to and thats bad.
Kristou unlocked a small safe in the corner, opened it and took out a cloth bundle which he unwrapped on the table. It contained a rather ugly-looking automatic, perhaps six inches long, a curious-looking barrel protruding a farther two inches. The bundle also contained a three-inch silencer and two fifty-round cartons of ammunition.
And what in the hell is this? Fallon said, picking it up.
A Czech Ceska, Kristou told him. Seven point five millimetres. Model twenty-seven. The Germans took over the factory during the war. This is one of theirs. You can tell by the special barrel modification. Made that way to take a silencer.
Is it any good?
SS Intelligence used them, but judge for yourself.
He moved into the darkness. A few moments later, a light was turned on at the far end of the building and Fallon saw that there was a target down there of a type much used by the army. A lifesize replica of a charging soldier.
As he screwed the silencer on to the end of the barrel, Kristou rejoined him. Any time youre ready.
Fallon took careful aim with both hands, there was a dull thud that outside would not have been audible above three yards. He had fired at the heart and chipped the right arm.
He adjusted the sight and tried again. He was still a couple of inches out. He made a further adjustment. This time he was dead on target.
Kristou said, Didnt I tell you?
Fallon nodded. Ugly, but deadly, Kristou, just like you and me. Did I ever tell you that I once saw a sign on a wall in Derry that said: Is there a life before death? Isnt that the funnlest thing you ever heard?
Kristou stared at him, aghast, and Fallon turned, his arm swung up, he fired twice without apparently taking aim and shot out the targets eyes.