38

Inside the Brewery Taps BJ Quick accepted the envelope from Bear, who slid it surreptitiously across the counter.

‘Who delivered this time?’ Quick asked. ‘Same boy on a bike?’

Bear said, ‘No, different fellow. Came on a motorcycle, wore a black helmet, black visor. I didn’t see his face. Big guy. Black helmet and the usual leather gear.’

Quick snatched up the envelope and went outside, where Furf sat inside the Peugeot. It was raining again, and cold. The afternoon light was dying fast. Quick slid behind the wheel and laid the envelope on his lap. Furf stared at him, red-eyed from dope.

‘They sent a different messenger, Furf. I wonder why. I like consistency. Why did they change the messenger? Why didn’t they send the guy that delivered the first two?’

‘Mibbe he had flu. Something.’

Quick said, ‘Aye, mibbe,’ and opened the envelope.

The picture inside was a black-and-white glossy. He stared at it.

Furfee said, ‘Looks vaguely familiar.’

Dry-mouthed from grass, Quick was about to reply when he realized the envelope contained something else. He tipped it over and a smaller envelope slipped into the palm of his hand. He ripped this open. Hundred-pound notes, a wedge of them. Oh Christ oh Christ, fuck out my eye and call me Long John Silver. Nothing felt better than cash, not even a smooth tit or that soft stretch of inner thigh beneath a young girl’s honeycake. Money money money! Money overruled all other considerations, cancelled misgivings, soothed anxieties. Whatever doubts he had were instantly dispelled. Money was the elixir. It turned base feelings into the gold of exhilaration.

His fingers trembled. He counted five thousand pounds. A slip of paper was attached by a pink plastic clip to the bottom note. Final instalment due on delivery and completion. The handwriting was unfamiliar. It wasn’t the same as before. Different handwriting, different messenger.

So fucking what. Big deal. Money took the edge off paranoia.

‘Half,’ he said.

‘Great,’ Furf said.

‘With the last chunk to come. Written right here.’ He pressed a cold kiss on the money. It tasted good. ‘My darlings, my wee precious darlings. Come to daddy, babies.’

Furf said, ‘Fucking A.’

Elevated, heartbeat fast, Quick sang, ‘Open uppa honey it’s yer lovah boy me that’s knockin’.’

Furf did a truly awful impression of the dwarf on ‘Fantasy Island’. ‘De club, boss, de club!’

Quick stuffed the cash into his jeans. De club. Right on. Club farraday was his Jerusalem, and it burned silver and gold on the horizon, blinding him to everything.