Give him what he wanted. Needed. It was only right.
And they would keep their promises.
As he would keep his.
He looked up at the building once more. Saw what it once had been. Heard the voices of ghosts, glimpsed them all around. Then saw it for what it had become. And the voices stilled. Now there was… nothing.
He moved towards it. Knew the secret way in. Knew everything about the place.
Pulled his hood on. Felt his breath against the inside. A truer skin than his own flesh.
Felt inside his pocket for the blade.
Smiled inside the hood.
Like God had kept his promise to Abraham, he would make sure they kept their promise to him.
And he would enjoy it while he did it.
40
He took a sip of his drink. Rolled it round his mouth. Good. Fine. Smiled. Took another one. Settled back in his chair. Relaxed.
They’d never find him here. Here of all places. Never think to look.
Not that they were looking for him.
Nah. Everything was fine.
Or it would be.
Bit of a misunderstanding, that was all. Just like he’d told them. Needed the money for the deal to go through. No problem. It would all be sorted out soon. Because no matter what the filth had found – or thought they’d found, because they didn’t have a clue yet – it could all go away with money. Just like the old days. Bung a bit here and there, a few favours, pay for some blind eyes, that was it. Bish, bosh, and free to go about your business. Didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Especially now. Not with-
‘Robin?’ A voice from the bathroom. He’d almost forgotten she was there.
‘Yeah?’
‘I am nearly ready.’
‘Can’t wait to see you, sweetheart. Bet you look spectacular.’
She should. Money he’d paid for her. And she’d better
Another mouthful of whisky. God, that was smooth. Just slipped down like silk on fire. No after-burn at all.
He smiled, gave a small laugh to himself. Robin. A little joke he played with himself. His nom de plume. His alias. Robin Banks. Still made him laugh to think of it. Irony and all that.
He put the whisky on a side table, stretched out in the seat, hands behind his head. Ankles crossed. He looked down his body. Bespoke Savile Row suit. Hand-made Italian leather shoes. Silk socks. Shirts from Jermyn Street. If you’re going to do it, do it properly.
He sighed. He’d fronted it round the table, stuck it out when their questions had got a bit too close. Tried to play it down, look relaxed. But he needed that deal to go through. Desperately. Things had reached the end the way they were, no question. But it would take a bit of vision to move on to the next step. And vision, unlike cash, was one thing he had plenty of.
But there was still that niggling doubt, that feeling that it was all a house of cards that could come crashing down any second.
He brushed all that away. Didn’t need doubts. Never had them, never had need of them; too old to start entertaining them now.
But still…
He sighed. ‘You ready in there yet?’
‘Nearly… ’
‘Well hurry up. Any longer an’ I’ll have had too much to drink. An’ if that happens, that’s your fuckin’ tip gone, darlin’.’
He heard an angry slamming of cosmetics from behind the closed door. He smiled. Good. Get ’em angry. Fire ’em up. He liked it when they had a bit of spirit to them. Made it more memorable.
And made his job easier, if he was honest. At his age, that was a relief.
‘Now come on. I’m takin’ my little blue pill. Don’t wanna waste it.’
He slipped the pill into his mouth, swallowed it down with a shot of whisky. Hoped he’d timed it right. One time, he’d got it all wrong. Barely able to get hard when the bird was there, walking around like a fucking flagpole all the next day.
He put the glass back on the table. Noticed it was empty. Picked up the phone, called room service. Asked for another bottle.
Sat back. Waited.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Blimey, that was quick.’
He levered himself out of the chair, legs stiff, crossed the room. Opened the door.
‘Must be some kind of record,’ he started to say. ‘I only just-’
And stopped.
‘Oh no. Oh no… ’
He had seen who it was.
And what he held in his hand.
‘Oh no… not you, no… ’
The figure advanced into the room. Slammed the door behind him.
‘Look, I’m sorry, right… ’ He backed away from the intruder. ‘I didn’t know you were still… in there… ’
The figure kept advancing towards him. He could hear that broken, ragged breathing, smell that rotted, loamy smell. Hadn’t encountered either for years. The memory made him shiver.
‘Come on, not me… I mean, not me… ’
The figure kept advancing. He was pushed against the far wall.
He reached across to the table, found the empty whisky bottle. Picked it up by the neck, swung it at his assailant.
Who ducked. The bottle missed his head, glanced off his shoulder. A grunt, a huff, but nothing else. Still advancing.
And then he felt his erection starting. Thanks a fuckin’ bunch, he thought. What perfect timing. He pulled at his crotch, trying futilely to rearrange himself.
If his assailant noticed, he didn’t show it. Just swung the blade up above his head.
‘No… no… ’
Brought it down.
And again.
And again.
Until soon all that was left of him was his erection.
The figure turned, left.
Not noticing the muffled screams and sobs coming from the bathroom.
Dissolving away into the night.
