‘That’s not on,’ said Beezer to Harlan days later. They were in Charlie’s Tower Bridge apartment and Beezer had something on his mind. He was pacing up and down between the two big white leather couches, while Harlan lounged on one in his dressing gown, yawning.
‘What?’ asked Harlan, wondering what the old fool was talking about.
Beezer stopped pacing and looked down at his boss’s son. ‘You kicking off at Peg’s place like you did. Hurting Sugar. It’s not on.’
‘Hurting her? I didn’t,’ said Harlan.
‘That’s not what Peg said. She said Sugar was hysterical. She was covered in bruises. You beat her up. And that’s not on.’
‘Says who?’ asked Harlan, and got lithely to his feet. He crossed to the patio doors and slid them back, admitting a gust of sharp river air. Down below a barge sailed by, leaving barely a ripple behind in the dark olive-green waters. From here, he could hear the traffic passing over the bridge. The sky overhead was full of black roiling clouds, promising rain.
Harlan crossed to the railings and leaned on them, grinning as Beezer joined him out there on the balcony.
Beezer was looking mad, the wind ruffling his thinning hair. ‘You know your problem, pal?’ he said.
‘No I don’t. What is it?’ asked Harlan.
‘You’re a sick little pervert,’ said Beezer. ‘You fuck a girl, fair enough. You didn’t have to play rough with the poor bint.’
‘I’ll send her some flowers,’ shrugged Harlan, admiring the view from here, which Charlie had told him was one of the most expensive in the whole of London. He watched the barge float on by.
‘Too fucking late for that. Peg’s seriously pissed off. She says Sugar left next morning. She’s gone back on the streets, she said it was safer. She thought you were going to pissing well murder her, you moron.’ Beezer was still pacing, casting irritated looks at Harlan. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’
Harlan shrugged and spread his hands. ‘I don’t think when I’m fucking,’ he said.
Beezer stopped pacing the balcony and stared at the younger man, his face twisted with fury. ‘No, you don’t think at all. That’s your trouble.’
‘You know what? You could be right,’ said Harlan.
He reached out and grabbed Beezer’s snazzy jacket by its lapels. Then he heaved sideways. The much lighter Beezer, caught off-guard, staggered and had no time to snatch at the railings or even see what was coming.
Harlan lifted Beezer out and over.
With an ear-splitting shriek, he fell.
Then Harlan leaned over the railing. He looked down at the wreckage of Beezer, stretched out dead on the pavement far below, blood starting to ooze in a crimson tide from his shattered body.
‘Certainly didn’t think about that,’ he said to himself with a smile. Then he drew back and went into the apartment to get dressed. ‘But I’m glad I did it.’