weaving without losing balance. As the boy approached, he suddenly flipped the board up so that it spun in the air, in front of him. Both hands neatly grabbed the board by its running tail and swung the board itself in a backward arc. Too late, Rebus saw the manoeuvre for what it was. He tried to duck but the heavy wooden board hit the side of his head with a sharp crack.
He staggered, dropped to his knees. They were on him immediately, seven or eight of them, hands gouging into his pockets.
'Fuckin’ split my board, man. Lookatit. Fuckin’ six inch split.'
A training shoe caught Rebus on the chin and sent him flying. He was concentrating on not losing consciousness, so much so that he forgot to fight or to scream or to defend himself. Then a loud voice.
'Oi! What the fuck d'you think you're up to?'
And they ran, rolling their boards until they had gained enough speed, the hard wheels crackling on the tarmac as they fled. Like a posse in an old western, Rebus thought with a smile. Like a posse.
`You all right, mate? Come on, let's get you up.'
The man helped Rebus to his feet. When his eyes regained their powers of focus, he saw, blood on the man's lip, smeared across his, chin. The man noticed him looking.
`My bird,' he said, his breath rich with alcohol. `She fuckin’ clocked me, didn't she? Got me a good one, too. Couple of loose teeth. Still, they was rotten anyway, probably saved me a ? HYPERLINK “http://fortune.at/”?? fortune at? the dentist's.' He laughed. `Come on, let's get you into the Cock. A couple of brandies'll see you right.'
`Took my money,' Rebus said He was clutching the carrier-bag to him like a shield.
`Never mind that,' said his Samaritan.
They were kind to him. They sat him down at a table, and every now and again a drink would appear, and someone would say, `That one's from Bill’, or `That one's from Tessa’, or `That one's from Jackie', or `That one's from . . . '
They were kind to him. They collected a fiver so he could get a taxi back to his hotel. He explained that he was a tourist, down here for a bit of sightseeing. He'd managed to get lost, had jumped off a bus and ended up here. And they, kind souls, believed him.
They didn't bother phoning the police.
`Those bastards,' they spat. `Waste of time. Wouldn't turn up till tomorrow morning and then they'd do nothing. It's the cops round here that are behind half the crimes, believe me.'
And he did. He did believe them. And another drink arrived, another brandy in a small schooner.
`All the best, eh?'
And they were playing cards and dominoes, a lively crowd, a regular crowd. The TV blared a musical quiz show and the jukebox sang and the one-armed bandit bleeped and buzzed and spat out an occasional win. He thanked God Sammy and Kenny weren't here. How would it have looked to them? He dreaded to think.
At one point he excused himself and went to the toilet. There was a jagged triangle of mirror nailed to one wall. The side of his head, jaw and ear, were red and would probably bruise. The jaw would ache for some time. Where the shoe had connected, there was already a red and purple welt. Nothing more. Nothing worse. No knives or razor blades'. No massed, assault. It had been a clean, professional hit. The way that kid had flipped the board, caught it and swung it. Professional. An absolute pro. If Rebus ever caught him, he would congratulate him on one of the sweetest moves he had ever seen.
Then he'd kick the little bastard's teeth so far down his throat they'd bite his small intestine.
He reached down the front of his trousers and drew out his wallet. The warning from Laine and the knowledge that he was on uncharted ground, had been enough to persuade Rebus that he should hide his wallet. Not to save him from muggers, no. So that no one would find his ID. It was bad enough being a stranger in this place, but being a copper . . . . So he had hidden the wallet, ID and all, down the front of his underpants, tucked into the elasticated waistband. He slipped it back there now. After, all, he was not yet clear of Churchill Estate. The night might turn out to be a long one.
He. pulled open the door and headed back to his table.
The brandy was working. His head was numb, his limbs pleasantly flexible.
`You all right there, Jock?'
He hates that name, absolutely loathes it, but he smiles nevertheless. `I'm all right. Oh yes, I'm quite all right.'
`Great. By the way, this one's from Harry at the bar.'
After she has posted the letter, she feels a lot better. She does some work, but soon begins to twitch inside. It's like feeding a habit now. But it's also an art form. Art? Fuck art. So unbecoming in a man. So art unbecoming fuck in a man. So fuck a man in unbecoming art. They used to quarrel, squabble, argue all the time. No, that's not true. She remembers it that way but it wasn't that way. For a while it was, but then they just stopped communicating altogether. Her mother. Her father. Mother, strong, domineering, determined to be a great painters a great watercolourist. Every day busy at an easel, ignoring her child who needed her, who would creep into the studio and sit quietly in a corner, crouched, trying .not to be noticed. If noticed, she would be sent out of the room fiercely, red hot tears streaming down her face.
Unknown
`I never wanted you!' her mother would screech. `You were an accident! Why can't you be a proper little girl?'
Run, run, run. Out of the studio and down the stairs, through the morning room, and out of the doors. Father, quiet, innocuous, cultured, civilised. father. Reading the newspapers in the back garden, one trousered leg crossed over the other as he reclined in his deckchair.
`And how's my little sweet this morning?'
`Mummy shouted at me.'
