Beggars Banquet

Someone Got to Eddie

They paid me not to make mistakes. Not that I ever made mistakes, that’s why I was the man for the job, and they knew it. I was cautious and thorough, discreet and tight-lipped. Besides, I had other qualities which they found quite indispensable.

He was lying on the living-room floor. He’d fallen on his back, head coming to rest against the front of a leather armchair. It looked like it might be one of those reclining armchairs, you know, with a footrest and everything, an expensive item. The TV was expensive too, but then I don’t suppose he ever went out much. They don’t go out much, people like him. They stay indoors where it’s safe. The irony of this being, of course, that they become prisoners in their own homes, prisoners all their lives.

He was still alive, breathing badly through his wet nose, his hand sort of stroking the front of his T-shirt. There was a big damp stain there, and it was all his. His hair had gone grey in the past year or so, and he’d put on a lot of weight. His eyes were dark-ringed from too many late nights.

‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘Please.’

But I was busy. I didn’t like interruptions. So I stabbed him again, just the twice, probably in his abdomen. Not deep wounds, just enough to give him the hint. His head slouched floorwards, tiny moaning sounds dribbling from his lips. They didn’t want a quick painless death. It was in the contract. They wanted something that was both revenge on him and a message to others. Oh yes, I was the man for the job all right.

I was wearing overalls and gardening gloves and a pair of old training shoes with the heel coming away from one of them. Disposable, the lot of it, fit for little more than a bonfire. So I didn’t mind stepping in the small pools of blood. In fact, that was part of the plan. I’d put the overalls and gloves and trainers on in his bathroom. This was just prior to stabbing him, of course. He’d been surprised to see me coming out of the bathroom looking like that. But of course it hadn’t dawned on him till too late. Always watch your back, they say. But the advice I’d give is: always watch your front. It’s the guy you’re shaking hands with, the guy you’re talking to who will turn out to be your enemy. There aren’t monsters hiding in the bushes. All they hide behind are smiles.

(Don’t worry about me, I always ramble on when I’m nervous.)

I got to work. First, I dropped the knife into a plastic bag and placed the package in my holdall. I might need it again, but at this stage I doubted it. He wasn’t talking any more. Instead, his mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish in an unaerated aquarium. You hardly knew he was in pain. Pain and shock. His body was going to wave a white flag soon, but the brain was taking a little time to understand. It thought it was still in the foxhole, head down and safe.

Aquariums and foxholes. Funny the things that go through your mind at a time like this. I suppose it’s to shut out the reality of the situation. Never mind virtual reality, this was visceral reality.

I was keeping the gloves on for the moment. I walked around the living-room, deciding how the place should look. There was a table in the corner with some bottles and glasses on it. They could go for a start. Hold on though, some music first. There had been no indications that any neighbours were at home – I’d watched outside for an hour, and since coming in had been listening for sounds – but all the same. Besides, music soothed the soul, didn’t it?

‘What do you fancy?’ I asked him. He had a cheap little midi-system and a couple of dozen CDs and tapes. I switched the system on and opened the drawer of the CD player, slipped in a disc, closed the drawer and pressed ‘play’. ‘A bit of Mantovani,’ I said needlessly as strings swelled from the small speakers. It was a version of the Beatles’ ‘Yesterday’. Good song that. I turned the volume up a bit, played with the treble and bass, then went back to the corner table and swept all the stuff on to the floor. Not with a flourish or anything, just a casual brush of the forearm. A couple of wine glasses broke, nothing else. And it didn’t make much noise either. It looked good, though.

The sofa was next. I thought for a moment, then pulled a couple of the cushions off, letting them drop to the floor. It wasn’t much, was it? But the room was looking cluttered now, what with the bottles and cushions and the body.

He wasn’t watching any of this, though he could probably hear it. His eyes were staring at the carpet below him. It had been light blue in colour, but was now looking like someone had dropped a mug of tea (no milk) on it. An interesting effect. In the films blood always looks like paint. Yes, but it depends what you mix it with, doesn’t it? Red and blue would seem to make tea (no milk). Suddenly I felt thirsty. And I needed the toilet too. There was milk in the fridge. I poured half a carton down my throat and was putting it back in the fridge when I thought, What the hell. I tossed it towards the sink. Milk splattered the work surfaces and poured on to the linoleum floor. I left the fridge door open.

After visiting the toilet, I wandered back into the living-room, took the crowbar from my holdall, and left the house, closing the door after me. Checking that no one was around, I attacked the door jamb, splintering wood and forcing my way back inside. It didn’t make any noise and looked pretty good. I closed the door as best I could, tipped the telephone table in the hall on to its side, and returned to the living-room. His face was on the floor now, deathly pale as you might imagine. In fact, he looked worse than a few of the corpses I’ve seen.

‘Not long now,’ I told him. I was all but done, but decided maybe I should take a recce upstairs. I opened his bedside cupboard. Inside a wooden box there was a wad of folded banknotes, tens and twenties. I slipped off the rubber band from around them, chucked it and the box on to the bed, and stuffed the money in my pocket. Let’s call it a tip. It’s not that I wasn’t being paid enough, but I knew damned fine that if I didn’t pocket it, some dozy young copper first on the scene would do just the same.

It was a pretty sad little room, this bedroom. There were porn mags on the floor, very few decent clothes in the wardrobe, a couple of empty whisky bottles under the bed along with an unused pack of vending-machine condoms. A transistor radio lying on a chair with some dirty laundry. No framed photos of family, no holiday souvenirs, no paintings on the walls.

He’d been on medication. There were four little bottles of pills on the bedside cabinet. Nerves, probably. Informers often suffer from nerves. It comes of waiting for that monster to jump out of the bushes at them. OK, so after they’ve given their evidence and ‘Mr Big’ (or more usually ‘Mr Middling’) has been locked away, they’re given ‘protection’. They get new identities, some cash up front, a roof over their heads, even a job. All this comes to pass. But they’ve got to leave the only life they’ve known. No contact with friends or family. This guy downstairs, whose name was Eddie, by the way, his wife left him. A lot of the wives do. Sad, eh? And these informers, they do all this just to save themselves from a few years in the clink.

The police are good at spotting the weak ones, the ones who might just turn. They work on them, exaggerating the sentences they’re going to get, exaggerating the prizes awaiting under the witness protection scheme. (‘The Witless Protection Scheme’, I’ve heard it called.) It’s all psychology and bullshit, but it sometimes works. Often though a jury will throw the evidence out anyway. The defence counsel’s line is always the same: can you rely on the evidence of a man who himself is so heavily implicated in these serious crimes, and who is giving evidence solely to save his own skin?

Like I say, sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. I went downstairs and crouched over the body. It was a body now, no question of that. Well, I’d let it cool for a little while. Ten or fifteen minutes. Now that I thought of it, I’d broken open the door too soon. Someone might come along and notice. A slight error, but an error all the same. Too late for regrets though. The course was set now, so I went back to the fridge and lifted out what was left of a roast chicken. There was a leg with some meat on it, so I chewed that for a while, standing in the living-room watching through the net curtains as the sun broke from behind some cloud. Want to know what blood smells like? It smells like cold chicken grease. I stuffed the bones into the kitchen bin. I’d stripped them clean. I didn’t want to leave behind any teeth-marks, anything the forensic scientists could begin to work with. Not that anyone would be working too hard on this case. People like me, we’re seldom caught. After a hit, we just melt into the background. We’re as ordinary as you are. I don’t mean that we seem to be ordinary, that we make a show of looking ordinary, I mean we are ordinary. These hit men and assassins you read about in novels, they go around all day and all night like Arnold Schwarzenegger. But in real life that would get them noticed. The last thing you want to be if you’re like me is noticed. You want to blend into the scenery.

I’m running on again, aren’t I? It was just about time. A final lingering inspection. Another visit to the toilet. I checked myself in the bathroom mirror. I looked fine. I took my clothes back out of the holdall and stripped off the overalls, gloves, trainers. My shoes were black brogues with new soles and heels. I checked myself again in the mirror as I knotted my tie and put on my jacket. No tell-tale flecks of blood on my cheeks or forehead. I washed my hands without using soap (the fragrance might be identifiable) and dried them on toilet paper, which I flushed away. I zipped the holdall shut, picked it up, and walked back through the living-room (‘Ciao, Eddie’), into the small hallway, and out of the house.

Potentially, this was the most dangerous part of the whole job. As I walked down the path, I was pretty well hidden from view by the hedge, the hedge Eddie must have considered a comfort, a barrier between him and prying eyes. At the pavement, I didn’t pause. There was no one around anyway, no one at all, as I walked briskly around the corner to where I’d parked my car, locked the holdall in the boot, and started the engine.

Later that afternoon I returned to the house. I didn’t park on a side street this time. I drew right up to the kerb in front of the hedge. Well, as close as I could get anyway. There were still no signs of activity in any of the other houses. Either the neighbours kept themselves to themselves or else they all had places to be. I gave my engine a final loud rev before turning it off, and slammed the door noisily after me. I was wearing a black leather jacket and cream chinos rather than a suit, and different shoes, plain brown rather than the black brogues. Just in case someone had seen me. Often, witnesses saw the clothes, not the face. The real professionals didn’t bother with hair dyes, false moustaches and the like. They just wore clothes they wouldn’t normally wear.

I walked slowly up the path, studying the terrain either side, then stopped at the door, examining the splintered jamb. The door was closed, but suddenly swung open from inside. Two men looked at me. I stood aside to let them pass, and walked into the house. The telephone table in the hall was still lying on its side, the phone beside it (though someone had replaced the receiver).

The body was where I’d left it. He’d been so surprised to see me at his door. Not wary, just surprised. Visiting the area, I’d explained, thought I’d look in. He’d led me into the living-room, and I’d asked to use his loo. Maybe he wondered why I took the holdall with me. Maybe he didn’t. There could have been anything in it, after all. Anything.

There were two men crouching over the body now, and more men in the bathroom, the kitchen, walking around upstairs. Nobody was saying anything much. You can appreciate why. One of the men stood up and stared at me. I was surveying the scene. Bottles and glasses everywhere, cushions where I’d dropped them, a carpet patterned with blood.

‘What’s happened here?’ I asked unnecessarily.

‘Well, sir.’ The Detective Constable smiled a rueful smile. ‘Looks like someone got to Eddie.’