THE NEXT DAY, WHEN he arrived for work, Duffy was again greeted by a punch on the bicep from Casey, and a chortle of ‘Cun’’. This flutter of affection from the Tattooed Man touched Duffy, and he began to wonder if he could unfix Casey. If he didn’t have to fix him, if he could leave all the thieving with McKay where it truly belonged, then that would square him with Hendrick. And if he unfixed Casey, then that would also be another promise broken towards Mrs Boseley, and that couldn’t be bad. It might be just worth a try, as long as it didn’t put him out too much.
At lunchtime he telephoned the hifi villains. If they had any sense, they wouldn’t have rushed straight round to their nearest middleman with the stuff; they’d wait a few days just to see if there wasn’t going to be any follow-up. He got the driver who liked the oil patches. Duffy’s voice was tuned to its streetiest.
‘It’s Duffy ’ere, from ’endrick, ’eafrow. ’Bout that case of sparks I frew in by mistake the uvver day. O.K. if I come rahnd this evening?’
‘What, mate?’
‘Case of sparks you got wiv yer hifi. I loaded for yer. Frew ’em in by mistake.’
‘Sparks?’
‘Ligh’ers, you know, snout ligh’ers. Frew in a case. Gotta ge’hem back or get the cowing sack.’
‘Can’t say I remember any, mate.’
‘Awri’, well, you prob’ly didn’ unload them. Prob’ly still sittin’ wivver hifi. But we go’hem booked aht t’ya, see?’
‘I’ll just go and check, old cock.’
‘Awri’.’
He was away several minutes, and Duffy was afraid of running out of 10p pieces before he returned. He sounded displeased.
‘We found them, mate, they were in with some tape-decks.’
‘Fanks, oh fanks a lot, you saved my skin.’
‘Well, I’m afraid one or two of them are missing. Someone seems to have been helping himself round here.’ The hifi villain’s pound of flesh, Duffy thought.
‘Lock ’em up till I get rahnd, willya? And fanks. You saved my skin.’
‘Any time.’
He didn’t sound as if he meant it.
It was going to be a busy evening, he could see that, so he decided to start early. Skipping off work at half four would irritate Mrs Boseley a great deal, which was of course an end in itself, but it would also enable him to get to the hifi villains in Ealing before they closed.
He picked up 140 of the original gross of lighters which he had switched, and drove home. Then he went to the nurses’ hostel and collected a small item from Christine. Home again, he packed a holdall with everything he thought he’d need and set off for Geoff’s flat. As he rang the bell, he pulled down his zip, and let his trousers gape. He did this every time he called on Bell.
‘Do your flies up, Duffy,’ said the entryphone. Duffy smiled. He’d never been able to spot the camera. Most people liked to let you know you were being spied on, through the fish-eye lens in the door, or the not-so-hidden camera; it gave them a sense of power as well as of security. Bell got his pleasure from knowing that you didn’t know you were being examined.
‘Armpit, groin or back?’ was his greeting. Duffy groaned to himself. It was always like this. He tried to show as much interest as possible in Bell’s techniques, but the fellow did exaggerate. There were fifteen miniature tape recorders laid out for inspection on the work bench. Duffy imagined the arguments about their respective merits that would doubtless ensue: arguments not between Duffy and Bell, but between Bell and Bell.
‘Does it matter?’
‘Of course it matters. It’s the first question. Where do you want the mike, where do you want the recorder?’
‘I don’t know. Are there any factors that make any difference?’
‘Course there are, Duffy. Who are you taping? And where? I don’t want to be told, of course, I just want to be told enough. How long do you want to record for? How far away will your friend be? Will you both be stationary? Is there going to be any background noise? Will you be able to slip away and change the tape?’
‘I see,’ said Duffy, but Bell had only paused for breath.
‘Will you want to change your clothes? Is it as important to record you as it is your friend? Will there be any third parties? And then, of course, there are the physical matters.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is anyone likely to try and kick you in the balls? Or punch you in the back? Will you want to hit anyone while you’re recording? Or before you’re recording? Will you want a stop on the recorder so that you can pause the tape, hit someone, and then go back to recording?’
‘You don’t think I’m very nice, do you, Geoff?’
‘What? What do you mean?’ Bell, Duffy realised from his surprised expression, had been talking from a purely technical angle. Hitting someone, as far as he was concerned, was merely a factor which might interfere with sound quality.
Duffy began to outline what he needed. He’d estimated that the visit might take forty minutes; in the event it took two hours. He emerged feeling as if he’d just had all his ribs bandaged at Uxbridge Hospital. A recorder the size of a crispbread was plastered into the small of his back; wires ran into each of the pockets of his blouson: switch in the right pocket to start, switch in the left pocket to pause. He’d better remember that.
It was dark now as he drove along the M4. All that survived of the mad, self-destructive jumbos were a few twitching lights in the sky; red, green, white. It was their fault if they crashed now, Duffy reflected: going out in the dark like that. It shouldn’t be allowed.
At the shed he unloaded the cigarette lighters and dumped them close to his dunce’s corner. He’d think up a story for Hendrick later. First, though, he had to get through Plan B. He flicked the top of his left ear and made it throb. That made him feel better about Plan B. He picked his way across to Mrs Boseley’s glass office, dumped his holdall beside the desk, sat in her chair, steered his foot well away from the security buzzer, took a deep breath and picked up the phone.
Come on, come on, answer it, you’ve been in every time I’ve watched you, don’t go out tonight, maybe you’re polishing that big Granada of yours in the drive, come on, ah –
‘Gleeson, it’s Duffy. Yes, Duffy from work, that’s right.’
‘What the fuck do you want?’
The main thing was, to get it in the right order, not give him anything which would make him ring off before he saw he had no choice but to pick the course of action Duffy was leading him towards.
‘I called Mrs Boseley, but her husband said she’d gone to stay with a friend for the night.’ Get that into his skull for a start.
‘Where did you get my number from? Why are you calling?’
‘I got your number from a big book which is sitting in front of me called E–K. All right?’
‘Why are you calling me?’
‘I found some heroin today at the shed.’
‘You what? Duffy, where are you?’
Duffy let that pass. He paused. He rather felt he had Gleeson’s attention for a while.
‘At least I thought it might be. So I took a bit of it – you may have noticed I left early – and I showed it to a friend, who said he thought it probably was, and we’d better hand it in or something. I said I’d better ring the people at Hendrick Freight, so I got out the phone book … ’ He enjoyed spinning it out.
‘Where on earth did you find it?’
‘ … and I rang Mr Hendrick.’ Pause at that.
‘What did he say?’ Gleeson didn’t sound too secure.
‘Oh, he wasn’t there, he’s out for the evening. Then I rang Mrs Boseley as I said, and she’s out for the night, so I thought maybe you’d know what to do.’
‘Quite right, Duffy. Let me think.’
Duffy gave him about four seconds space and then said, ‘Shall I call the police?’
‘Let’s not rush anything, Duffy. Let me think. I mean, we don’t want it to look bad for Hendrick Freight.’ That set it up nicely.
‘I don’t care the fuck how bad it looks for Hendrick Freight. What do I owe Hendrick Freight? How much is Hendrick Freight giving me for my fucking ear? I’m going to ring the fucking police.’ He let his voice climb towards the hysterical.
‘Don’t, Duffy,’ said Gleeson. ‘Stop, let’s think it out. No, of course you don’t care about the company, why should you? But I don’t want to be hasty.’
Duffy reckoned he had him now. He put on a calmer tone.
‘Well, if you want to think it over, I suppose I could show you where it is. I mean, I’ve got a key to the shed.’ The hook was going into the roof of the mouth: would he notice?
‘You what? How?’
‘Yeah. Didn’t ever use it, but Mr Hendrick gave me one when he hired me.’
‘O.K., that’s a good idea. It’d be awkward tomorrow with all the other people around. Where are you now?’
‘I’m at home, but I can get out there in about half an hour. If I get there before you I’ll let myself in and turn on one of the small lights. I shouldn’t think it’s a good idea to turn them all on.’
‘No, quite right. I’ll set off straight away now. Oh, and, maybe you could bring that bit of the stuff you took this afternoon. Then we can put it all back together.’
‘Of course.’
Duffy put down the phone. Then he took a chair from Mrs Boseley’s office and placed it beneath the one light he had turned on, about a third of the way down the shed. Next to the chair he put his holdall, having first extracted a couple of items which he stuffed down the front of his blouson. Then he went over and waited near the side door for Gleeson to arrive. He’d have two advantages: Gleeson wouldn’t know quite where he was, and it was very dark in the shed. It was even darker than in Dalby’s wankpit. Twenty minutes went by.
‘Duffy.’ The side door clicked shut and Gleeson stood there blinking into the murk.
‘Over here,’ said Duffy from about ten yards away. Gleeson walked towards him, and Duffy immediately said, in as peremptory way as possible, ‘This way.’
He turned away from Gleeson and set off fast across the shed. That’s what it looked like to Gleeson, anyway, who trotted in pursuit. Except that after taking four paces Duffy wheeled round, and, as Gleeson came up to him, punched him extremely hard at the top of the stomach. Gleeson’s momentum increased the effect of the punch: he bent half-forward, gasping for breath. Duffy wasn’t much of a believer in the left-uppercut, right-cross-to-the-point-of-the-chin school of fighting. If you had hurt someone in a particular place, it always seemed logical to Duffy to hurt them some more in the same place. This time he used his knee. Then he used his fist again.
Gleeson didn’t fall over. He just stood there, all gorilla-armed, eyes popping, as if he was in the middle of a heart attack. He barely noticed as Duffy dug into his blouson and handcuffed his wrists. He racked them up tight, the way he used to do with villains he really disapproved of. Then he dug out a length of rope and sat on the floor by Gleeson’s feet. He looped the rope round the far foot and pulled it until it was next to its partner, almost toppling Gleeson in the process. Then he tied the ankles together.
Duffy took a while to get his breath back. Gleeson took longer. Duffy gave him time for the heart attack to subside. He wasn’t a sadist. Not yet. Then he said,
‘Hop.’
Gleeson stared at him, half-scared, half-puzzled. Duffy pointed across the shed at the chair set up under the light.
‘Hop. Oh, and by the way, if you feel like shouting, I’ll put a gag in your mouth and pour half a pint of Castrol down your nose. All right?’
Gleeson hopped, like a child in a school race. He looked pathetic. He looked as if he’d gone in for the sack race and someone had stolen his sack. Duffy didn’t feel sorry for him. He thought he could hold that sentiment at bay for as long as it took. For ever, come to think of it.
Gleeson hopped as far as the chair, looked at Duffy, and sat himself down in it. Duffy got out some more rope and tied him to the chair.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘here are the rules. If I tip you over from this side, you smash the back of your head in. If I push you over from behind, you smash your face in. If you start screaming, I pour Castrol down your nose, O.K.?’
Gleeson could have worked most of that out for himself. But Duffy wanted him to know that their minds were as one. Gleeson nodded. He looked scared. He was right to be.
Duffy pulled over two empty packing-cases and placed them just outside Gleeson’s kicking range. He sat down on one, and unpacked his holdall on the other. He did it in an order which, he hoped, would keep Gleeson guessing for as long as possible. First a box of matches. Then a lemon. Then a candle. Then a knife. Then two saucers. Then a small tin of Marvel milk. Then a plastic bottle. Then a spoon. Then a small polythene bag of white powder. Then an oblong cardboard box. He opened the box and took out a hypodermic. Then he lit the candle. Then he looked at Gleeson. Then he said,
‘Right.’ And flicked out the match.
‘I don’t know anything about this,’ said Gleeson.
Duffy barely paid attention to him. That’s what they all said. Some of them used to say it whimperingly, pathetically, when they’d been caught with their pants messed and the half-dressed child on their knee; some of them said it confidently, aggressively, when they’d been picked off the street outside Fine Fare and thought they’d just cleared the goods through the fence in time, and they knew their fucking rights and Bendy Benson, lawyer to crooks for twenty years, would be round to fix them bail pretty soon.
Gleeson said it midway between these two points. But even if he’d said it at the top end of the scale of confidence, Duffy wouldn’t have been perturbed. No Bendy Benson would be popping into Hendrick Freight tonight, with his soiled briefcase and paralysing attacks of fairmindedness. And Duffy wouldn’t exactly be fretting about the Judges’ Rules. He might even have to trot round the back of Gleeson from time to time and see how he liked that.
‘I don’t know anything about this,’ repeated Gleeson, in the sad mumble of a drinker into his beer.
‘Gleeson, this isn’t going to be complicated,’ said Duffy, still not bothering to look at him. ‘It may be painful, but it isn’t going to be complicated. Oh, one thing first, though.’
He dug into Gleeson’s inside jacket pocket, leaning close to his face as he did so but again pretending he wasn’t there, and pulled out Gleeson’s wallet.
‘Fair amount of folding in here. I should be careful where you go, carrying this lot around.’ He reached in and took out twenty pounds. ‘That’s for the stud, Gleeson. I reckon that’s what it’ll cost. And you’re lucky I’m National Health, otherwise it would have burned you a sight more.’
Gleeson falsely discerned a lightening in Duffy’s tone.
‘I didn’t really mean to do it,’ he said.
‘That makes it worse, not better,’ replied Duffy coldly. He walked round the back of the chair, noted where the useful parts of Gleeson’s back were, and readjusted him so that the crossbar didn’t protect his kidneys too much. While he stood there he flicked the Start switch in the right-hand pocket of his blouson.
‘Right. Now you’re going to tell me everything you know, from the beginning.’ A stab on the Pause button in the left-hand pocket. ‘And if you stop, or hesitate, or lie, I’m going to hurt you. And if you scream or shout, you’ll get Castrol down your nose.’ To indicate that this wasn’t a figure of speech, Duffy dug into his holdall and placed a round, one-pint tin of the oil on the packing-case.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You’re going to tell me all about the heroin, and Mrs Boseley, and Dalby, and how it comes in, and where it comes from, and who it goes to, and when the next shipment’s coming through.’ Always ask them more than they’re likely to know, that was one of the rules.
‘I just work here.’
Duffy walked round the back, flipped the Pause button, punched Gleeson hard in the kidneys, waited, punched him once more, and started recording again.
‘It’s a nice big Granada you’ve got in your drive. Wife has private money, does she?’
‘Pools,’ he grunted. Why didn’t they ever think up anything better than that?
‘How often do the pools come through?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’ This was getting tedious. Duffy flipped the Pause control and punched Gleeson again. Then he changed tack. Escalate quickly, that was one of his rules.
He sighed, strictly for Gleeson’s benefit, picked up the hypodermic and held the point of the needle briefly in the candle flame. Then he made as if he was having second thoughts, turned towards the Castrol tin, and carefully rubbed the needle in the accumulated dirt round the pourer.
‘You need it explained? I’ll explain it. When we’ve finished, I’m going to use this spike to inject you. Now, as far as you’ve got a choice, here it is. This little bag,’ he pointed at the polythene with the white powder, ‘is, they assure me, ninety per cent pure. No, of course I didn’t find it in the shed,’ he replied to Gleeson’s questioning glance, ‘I went out and bought it. Now, I’ve only got their word for it, but as far as there are straight dealers, they’ve always proved straight. You might like to take a risk on how pure it is, but then again you might not.’
He let Gleeson puzzle at that for a while, then continued.
‘If you feel you’re unable to co-operate, or if you lie to me, or if you hold back, I’m going to inject this ninety per cent pure straight into your arm.’ Which would kill you; he didn’t need to tell him that. ‘If you feel you can co-operate, then, when we’ve finished, I’m going to cut the smack with Marvel.’ Which would make you feel you’d been hit with a sledgehammer, but wouldn’t actually kill you. ‘Whether or not I drop the needle in the dirt a few times before I inject you depends very much on how I feel the evening’s going.’
‘You wouldn’t kill me, Duffy.’ There wasn’t much bravado in the voice.
‘I would kill you with no second thoughts.’ What did another death on the route matter, especially that of someone who shifted the stuff? He said again, in a perfectly level voice, ‘I would kill you with no second thoughts.’ He left Gleeson to work out the angles, to imagine himself sitting roped to the chair, with a smear of blood on the inside of his forearm where the spike had come out, pop-eyed with fear, even after death. And the police would come, and they’d put it down as another small score being settled by someone on the heroin trail; and then they’d go into Gleeson’s bank account, and then they’d watch Hendrick’s shed for a while, but of course they wouldn’t catch anything, and after a while they’d decide to keep it on file, which is another way of saying they’d wash their hands of it, and what did it matter anyway, just a fat pusher with mutton-chops roped to a chair, waiting for the dawn. It wasn’t a nice death, either; you shitted yourself, you got a comic erection, you drowned in sweat. There was nothing to be said for it at all. Duffy’s thumb flicked in his right-hand pocket.
‘I didn’t know what it was at first. I didn’t, I swear I didn’t.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘About two years – two and a half years. One day Mrs Boseley comes up to me and says, “Would you mind delivering this case personally? I wouldn’t want it to get lost on the way.” It was something to go to Dude’s. So I said fine – I like the driving, anyway. So I took it – I don’t even remember what it was now – and I drove it to Dude’s and forgot about it. And the next day Mrs Boseley gives me forty quid. Forty quid! “Just a little cash bonus, Gleeson, for delivering that case so well.” Well, first of all I think, Christmas is early this year, then I think, Does she fancy me or something, then I sort of forget about it. Then it happens again, only this time it’s fifty quid I get, and Mrs Boseley thanks me very nicely, and I think, Well if she does fancy me she’s going a very funny way about it.
‘The third time it happens I decide to ask. So after I’ve made the delivery I go to her office and say, “It’s all right, what I’m doing, is it, Mrs Boseley?” and she says, “I’m very satisfied.” And I say, “But, I mean, what is it I’m delivering?” and she says, “Are you sure you want to know?” and I think it over and I say, “No, I don’t think so.” And I say to myself, that’s the last time you do this, Gleeson.
‘And then a few months later Mrs Boseley tips me the wink again, and I say, “I think you’d better find yourself another driver,” and she gets up and closes the door of her office. I remember her doing that. Then she sits down and says, “No, you’re my driver, Gleeson.” And I say, “I just resigned.” And she says, “I’m afraid you can’t.” I say, “Why?” and she says, “Because I’d never find another driver as reliable as you,” and I say, “Bullsh”, or words to that effect, and she just says, “And in any case I can’t let you.” And it makes me feel there’s something up. So I say, “Why not?” And she says, “Because you’re in it now, like it or not. Stand or fall together,” she says. I say, “What have I been taking to Dude’s, then?” And she says, “Small amounts of heroin for medical purposes. Just small amounts; just for someone’s old grandfather who became a heroin addict in China and has to get some stuff regularly, and the import regulations are so silly about it.” And then she gives me a hundred pounds. In advance.’
Duffy hadn’t heard the story before, but he’d heard the pattern of confession a million times – across an interrogation table, from the witness box, in a police cell. First it was I’m Just Mister Nice Guy; then it was Look What They Made Me Do. You wanted to say, if you were Mister Nice Guy you wouldn’t have let Them Make You Do it. But that would be wasted breath. Duffy more or less believed Gleeson’s story; at least, he didn’t disbelieve him enough to hit him.
‘Go on.’
‘Well, it’s sort of carried on from there. I just deliver. I just get paid for each run.’
It could be right, but Duffy didn’t think so. There was always a first point at which a villain decides to halt his story. He thinks, they can’t prove any more than that, so I’ll stop there. That was what Gleeson was doing. Except that the circumstances were different. Duffy didn’t have to prove anything. The burden of proof had shifted. Gleeson had to prove to Duffy that he’d told him everything he knew.
‘And why was McKay crashed?’
‘He was nicking things. He very nearly nicked the last shipment. By chance. We couldn’t take the risk.’
Duffy picked up the knife and cut the lemon in half. He felt like a genteel tea-lady as he squeezed a little juice into the tablespoon. He looked across from the spoon to Gleeson. His guest didn’t look at all happy.
‘Go on.’
‘Go on what?’
In response, Duffy tipped out the small amount of white powder from the polythene bag on to the saucer. Then he picked up the tin of Marvel, began to lever off the lid with the handle of the knife, seemed to have second thoughts, and banged the lid back down. Then, in case Gleeson got any ideas about sneezing or suddenly blowing hard, he put the spare saucer upside down over the one with the powder in it.
‘Who, how, where, when?’
‘There’s only Mrs Boseley and Dalby, I don’t know anyone else, Mrs Boseley doesn’t tell me.’ That was probably correct: heroin trails were normally run as tightly as possible. So Duffy merely said, for the tape’s benefit as much as for the state of Gleeson’s soul,
‘And you.’
‘And me. The stuff comes in about every three months or so. I take it to Mr Dalby.’
‘Always?’
‘Always. No one else.’
‘And you deliver personally to him?’
‘Yes. Mrs Boseley makes a call before I leave and he’s always at the door when I get there.’
‘Which door?’
‘What do you mean, which door?’
‘What does it look like, this door?’
‘It’s just a door, wooden door, says 61 on it.’ Uh-huh; the back way, of course.
‘And he pays you?’
‘No, he just says, “Thank you, my fine fellow”, or something snotty like that, and then shuts the door.’ That was three of the four questions. Now the vital one.
‘How?’
‘How what?’
‘How does it come through?’
Gleeson paused. Duffy unscrewed the plastic bottle and poured a small amount of water on top of the lemon juice. He could sense Gleeson’s popping eyes following the operation.
‘It varies. Sometimes it’s in one thing, sometimes another. They never use the same system.’
‘What is it next?’
‘I don’t know. Mrs Boseley knows.’
‘How does Mrs Boseley know?’
‘I don’t know.’ But he didn’t sound confident about not knowing. Duffy picked up the tin of Marvel and put it down on the floor. On the other side of the packing-case. Where he might easily forget about it.
‘It’s marked on the air waybill number. There’s always a double-four in them.’
Duffy got up and headed off towards Mrs Boseley’s office. After a couple of steps he stopped, turned round, came back, lifted up the Castrol tin, waved it under Gleeson’s nose, set it down again, and went off, all without a word. He returned with the file of invoices referring to Dalby’s business, and with the file of forthcoming shipments.
‘Show me.’ He ran his finger down the first page until Gleeson nodded; then they went down every page in turn. All the shipments, as Gleeson had said, had a double-four in their air waybill number. Duffy opened the Forthcoming file. Again, he let Gleeson do the work, merely running his finger down until the nod came. It came very soon. 783/5236/144. One case tinned lychees. Port of origin: Hong Kong. Arrival date: Thursday. The day after tomorrow. No wonder they had been getting jumpy.
‘That’s the one?’ said Duffy, and read the file number into the record.
‘Yes.’
‘And where’s the heroin in them?’
‘I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me something like that. I wouldn’t want to know anyway. It’ll be somewhere in one of the tins, I suppose.’
‘How many tins?’
‘It’s on the invoice.’ Duffy showed him the file again and let him do the reading. ‘One gross eight-ounce tins of Chung Mon lychees.’ Thanks very much. Duffy reached inside his right-hand pocket, switched the tape off, and began to get excited. Quite visibly so.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Go on what?’ The pitch of Gleeson’s voice was rising with his panic.
Duffy began to warm the spoon over the candle.
‘The rest, tell me the fucking rest, you scumbag.’ His tone was getting a bit hysterical, though his hand wasn’t shaking. It wasn’t shaking either as he uncapped the saucer and carefully tipped half the white crystals into the spoon. Then he carried on warming it.
‘There isn’t any rest.’
But Duffy was scarcely listening to Gleeson any more. He was thinking about dead babies cut open and stuffed with bags of heroin and hurried over the border before they lost their natural colour. Dead babies who had to be under two years of age to be any use. Get past two and you’re safe: you can grow up like any other kid. Grow up to be an addict if you feel like it, or a pusher; it’s a free country.
And he was thinking about a serious-looking girl with dark hair and eyes which grew larger as her body wasted away. A girl intelligent enough to recognise that her own weakness of character was killing her. A girl with a carpet that smelt from her washed-out syringes. A girl he had run away from in case he found out what happened to her.
These two thoughts concentrated Duffy’s mind wonderfully.
‘There isn’t any rest,’ Gleeson whimpered. ‘Mrs Boseley wouldn’t tell me anymore. I don’t know where it comes from.’
Duffy stared at the dissolved liquid in the spoon. He didn’t give a fuck about Gleeson, any more than Gleeson would have given a fuck about Lesley. Or any of them. He put down the spoon, and roughly wiped the dirt off the end of the hypodermic. He moved the tip towards the spoon.
‘Marvel,’ was all Gleeson said. Then again, softly, ‘Marvel.’
Duffy put down the syringe, walked round the packing-case to where the powdered milk was, and kicked the tin very hard. Gleeson heard the tin land fifteen yards away, behind his back; then heard it roll for a while, hit something, and stop. That was the last he heard of the tin. His throat produced an involuntary squeak.
‘There isn’t any rest,’ he repeated. He was speaking very softly, as if he feared the Castrol just as much as the hypodermic. Duffy dipped the end of the syringe in the solution and pulled back the plunger. The liquid was sucked smoothly up into the transparent plastic barrel of the hypodermic.
Briefly, Duffy laid the syringe down. He reached into his holdall and took out a pair of dressmaker’s scissors and a piece of string. He sheared straight up Gleeson’s right forearm, cutting through the jacket and the shirt at the same time. He pulled the flapping bits roughly back, and tied the string round his arm just above the elbow. He watched for a moment and saw the veins come up on the forearm. Gleeson still had good veins in his forearm, healthy, plump, fixable veins. Maybe he should fix Gleeson in the wrist, just below the handcuff. Or in the groin.
Duffy felt he was bursting. His ear throbbed. He picked up the hypodermic, held it at an upward angle, and pressed lightly on the plunger. The solution sprayed out in a fine curve, spotting the packing-case on which he had been sitting. He imagined the spray from Lesley’s spike as she cleaned it out crazily on to her carpet. Then, with a sudden mental jump, he found himself remembering the spray from his cock as he sat downstairs in Dalby’s crepuscular wankpit. Spraying up, out and over the carpet; just the same. Duffy felt excited; he felt a bit crazy.
The veins on Gleeson’s wrist offered a wide choice. Duffy approached them. He held the arm down firmly with his left hand, and moved towards a broad, meandering vein with the tip of the needle. Gleeson passed out; his shifting weight nearly toppled the chair over sideways.
Duffy’s ear hurt. His back hurt too. So did his hand; he was quite out of practice at punching people. He replaced the hypodermic and walked down the shed to where the tin of Marvel had landed. He picked it up, walked back and tucked it into his holdall. Then he put the other things back – the lemon, the bottle, the saucers, the full hypodermic. He unlocked the handcuffs and put them away. Then he untied Gleeson’s feet. Now he was only loosely roped to the chair. Duffy waited for him to come round. It took about five minutes, but that didn’t matter; Duffy needed time to recover as well.
Gleeson opened his eyes, and made his mutton-chops waggle as he shook himself back to consciousness. The first thing Duffy did was to turn round in front of him, haul up the back of his blouson, pull his shirt out of his jeans, and show him the tape recorder. Gleeson clearly couldn’t work out why he wasn’t dead; but Duffy didn’t feel like giving him a hand with that one.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ve got all that, and I’d say, given the current attitudes of the judges, you’ll get at least ten years. Unless you land a softy who might give you eight. Now, you’ve got two choices, the clever choice and the stupid choice. The stupid choice means that you don’t do as I say, and as a result you get ten years, and Boseley and Dalby might just bugger off scot-free. The clever choice means that we get Boseley and Dalby and if we can wangle it that way, you get off; if they shop you, then you’ll have to go down, but I’ll speak up for you about how you came forward and volunteered information. You might get four or five.’
Duffy assumed that Gleeson would pick the clever way, and told him precisely what he expected of him. As he finished, he added,
‘And by the way, just in case you’re not happy with being clever, but want to get clever-clever, I’ll have three copies of this tape made within an hour, and they’ll all be on their way to different addresses.’
Gleeson nodded. He hadn’t said anything at all since he saw the needle coming towards him. Duffy hoped he hadn’t been struck dumb by the shock; he might be needed in the witness box, after all.
‘The ropes are pretty loose,’ he said as he walked off. ‘Put the chair back where I found it, will you? Oh, and turn out the light on your way.’
Duffy drove fast to Bell’s flat – not out of need, but out of exhilaration. He dumped the tape and left Geoff to get on with the copying and the distribution. Then he went back to his flat and unpacked his holdall. He squirted the contents of the hypodermic down the sink. Then he took out the polythene bag with the unused half of the crystals, and carefully, delicately poured them back into the salt cellar, where they belonged.