Taming the Alien

Applicant

Bill was interviewing killers. Well, would-be or wannabe ones. As usual, he held court in the end section of The Greyhound. Situated at The Oval, it’s a bar that restores pride in the business, and for as long as Bill had been kingpin in south-east London, he’d treated it as his office.

What to look for in a potential hit man.

1. Patience

2. Cool

3. Absolute ruthlessness

A hard man who’d never have to shout the odds. You didn’t ask about his rep, it had already reached you. Word was out that Fenton, The Alien, had lost it or gone to the US. Which amounted to the same thing if you clubbed in Clapham. (No, not night discos but crash-yer-skull clubs.)

Bill had already seen four guys. All young and all bananas. They wanted to be on the front page of the tabloids. Trainee psychos and apprentice sociopaths. They’d call attention. Sipping from a Ballygowan, Bill said to one of his minders, ‘I miss the old days.’

‘Guv?’

‘Get the motor, we’ll call it a day.’

‘Call it what, Guv?’

He sighed. With the Russian villains making in-roads, maybe it was time to head for the Costa and listen to Phil Collins albums. Or album. Seeing how he simply recorded the same one each time.

The minder said, ‘Guv, there’s one other bloke.’

‘Yeah?’

‘That’s him by the cider pump.’

Bill saw a guy in his early twenties, leather jacket, faded jeans, trainers. The urban uniform. There were half a million right outside the door. Nothing to distinguish him, which was a huge plus.

Bill said, ‘Send him over.’

The guy moved easily, no wasted energy.

Bill nodded, said, ‘Take a stool.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Another plus. The last time Bill had heard ‘sir’ was in an Elvis interview. He offered a drink, got, ‘No, sir.’

‘Shit,’ thought Bill. ‘This kid could surprise a bloke to death.’ He asked, ‘You got a name, son?’

‘Collie. It’s Collie, sir.’

‘What, cos you like dogs, is it?’ And got to see the kid’s eyes. Dark eyes that were ever so slightly out of alignment. They gave the sense of relief that you weren’t their focus. Nor would you ever want to be.

Now the kid smiled, almost shyly. ‘Something that happened when I was young.’

Bill smiled, like the kid had to be all of twenty three. ‘Tell me.’ Not a request.

‘Our neighbour had a dog; every time you passed he threw himself against the gate. People got a fright regular as clockwork. Like, one minute there wasn’t a sign of him, then as you passed, he’d jump snarling and barking.’ Bill didn’t comment, so the kid continued. ‘The dog got off on it.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, he got his jollies from it.’ He pronounced the word ‘yollies’, giving it a resonance of distance and disease.

Bill had to ask — ‘How did you know that?’

Now the kid gave a shrug, said, ‘I looked into his eyes.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah, before I strangled him, I took a good look.’

Bill decided to ask the important question. ‘What is it you want, son?’

‘To work for you, sir.’

‘And what do you want, to be famous, get yourself a rep?’

Now the kid looked irritated, said, ‘I’m not stupid, sir.’

‘Done time, ’ave you?’

‘Once. I won’t be going back.’

Bill believed him. ‘OK … I’ll give you a trial.’ Now he reached in his jacket, took out a black and white photo, pushed it across the table. ‘Know him?’

‘No, sir.’

It showed Brant, resplendent in his Aran sweater as he boarded a flight. His face to the camera, he looked like he hadn’t a care in the world. Bill stared at it for a while then, back to biz, said, ‘That’s Detective Sergeant Brant. Due back from America any day.’ The kid waited. ‘Your predecessor, The Alien, was supposed to put some pressure on the man, persuade him to drop his interest in me. But … he fucked it up. And Brant not only didn’t lose interest, he paid me a visit.’ Bill’s face was bright red. Famous for his cool, he was close to losing it. ‘What I want is to hit him where it hurts. Not him — too much attention if he’s damaged personally. But if something he cared for got nobbled … He stopped, asked, ‘Do you follow me, son?’

‘Yes, sir. Damage where he’ll feel it.’

‘That’s it. Think you can handle it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Bill reached again in his pocket, took out a thin wedge. It had the glow of fifties. He nudged it across the table. ‘To get you started; a bit of walking round money.’

The kid didn’t touch it. ‘I haven’t earned it yet.’

‘That’s what you think.’