The Thing Itself

EIGHTEEN

‘I wonder if you’re worth fucking?’ Laker said to William Simpson’s wife. She was sitting on the edge of a sofa, her knees pressed tight together. ‘Hard to tell sometimes. You’re a bony cunt, aren’t you? But the scrawny ones are sometimes the most fun. You got kids?’

‘One,’ she said, crossing her arms across her breasts.

‘Oh, of course — Kate. And I don’t know why I ask about the kids really as I was assuming I’d be using the tradesman’s entrance. Has that had much use? Aside from the usual function, of course.’

She hugged herself.

‘No? Can’t say the same for your husband’s. I must say, he’s egalitarian when it comes to sex with his boys. Sometimes he’s up them, sometimes they’re up him. Very equal opportunities.’

‘How do you know my husband?’ she whispered.

‘Ah, now that’s a long and not particularly edifying story. Suffice it to say that I do. Your daughter too. Well, kind of. Heard she had a lucky escape the other day.’

Laker stood and she shrank back on the sofa, a moan escaping her lips.

‘Trust me, darling — you’ll have the time of your tight-arsed life. Although you might be — how shall I say this? — changed when I’m done with you. If I’m done with you. Who knows? I might put you to work to pay off Willy’s debt. You’re getting on, it’s true, but some men get a kick out of doing snooty cows like you. At a stretch I could get a year out of you before you need diapers.’

She moaned again.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Simple: when is your husband going to deliver the fucking goods?’

‘I’ve no idea what he owes you.’

‘That’s a shame.’

He held out his hand.

‘Let’s be civilized and do it upstairs, shall we?’

William Simpson tilted his head.

‘What do you want?’ he said to Bob Watts. ‘I’m a man without power now. The pretend coalition government has done for me. I don’t have Peter’s clout. I can’t sit in a wingback chair wearing a smoking jacket and a cravat and pitch my memoirs.’

‘Scum like you always come up smelling of roses. I’m sure you’re consulting somewhere.’

‘I still have value, it’s true. This government wants to cut. I know how to cut. I’ve probably missed the free school gravy train but another will come along in due course.’

‘What about this thing going on in Brighton?’

‘This thing?’

Watts leaned forward.

‘For God’s sake, William, your daughter has just been beaten almost to death. Don’t you have any feelings about that?’

Simpson grimaced.

‘My feelings are my own and not to be shared with others — especially with you.’

Watts wanted so badly to hit him. To drag him to the floor and give him a good kicking. This man was his brother? He scowled at Simpson, though actually he was scowling at his father for doing this to him. He scowled at his father for many things.

‘What are you caught up in, William? I thought it might be Cuthbert or John Hathaway putting the screws on you but they are both out of the picture. Is it Charlie Laker, sending you a warning.’

‘Charlie Laker?’

‘Don’t play innocent, for God’s sake.’

Watts examined Simpson’s face. Nothing. Just that cold sheen of complacency.

‘You don’t have your government support now, William. You can’t call on the intelligence services to help you out. You’re on your own. In fact, you’re fucked.’

‘Well, there’s fucked and there’s fucked, Bob. I’d say you’re fucked big time and I’m. . inconvenienced.’

‘William, I admire your resilience. But I loathe your lack of feeling for your daughter.’

Simpson flushed.

‘Bob, in a world of change it’s good to see that some things don’t. You’re still a sanctimonious prick. You have no idea what I feel about my daughter and what’s happened to her. No idea. But I’ll tell you one thing. Those who did it will suffer. Have no doubt about that.’

‘You’re sounding confident. Who are they? Maybe I can help.’

Simpson laughed and waved the waitress over.

‘I’ll take another gin martini and get my comedian friend whatever he wants.’

‘The same,’ Watts said. ‘With olives, not lemon.’

‘You sound like your father,’ Simpson said. ‘How is he?’

Simpson was putting on a good front — his lifetime’s work — but Watts could see the strain behind his eyes.

‘He’s in hospital. He’s had a stroke.’

‘Sorry to hear that. Always liked him — he was a bit of a buccaneer. I never knew my father, of course. The cancer. .’

‘William, I’m not here in any official capacity. I will get you for the Milldean Massacre but that’s not for today. A lot of shit has gone down in Brighton. Tell me about you and Charlie Laker.’

The waitress brought their drinks. Simpson watched her walk away.

‘There’s nothing quite like an arse, is there?’

‘You’d know better than me, William.’

Watts was deflated. He’d been dreaming for months of bringing William Simpson down but due to the blood ties he now found himself in some sort of Shakespearean drama.

‘You and Charlie Laker?’

‘I’ve met him a few times over the years.’

‘What does he want from you?’

Simpson watched him over his martini glass.

‘How’s your pal, Tingley?’ he said.

Watts shrugged.

‘Doing your job somewhere in Europe.’

Simpson took a sip of his drink.

‘You’re not with him?’

‘Clearly not. I have family matters to sort out.’

Simpson put his drink down carefully on the table. He smiled without warmth.

‘Life, eh?’

‘Morning, Willy. How’s it hanging? Is it hanging? Probably only hanging, the stress you’re under.’

Laker was standing in the entrance hall of the Notting Hill house, hands on hips. William Simpson put his briefcase down and looked up the stairs. He tugged on his goatee.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Willy, you’ve got a big debt to settle. I did you a massive favour getting that blackmailing scuzz, Little Stevie, off your back. But you seem reluctant to keep your part of the bargain.’

‘I paid you for that,’ Simpson said indignantly.

‘Willy, the dosh was only part of it — you know that.’

‘I never agreed to the other — and stop calling me Willy. My name is William if you must call me anything.’

Laker reached out and almost lazily smacked Simpson open-handed across the face. Simpson staggered, his hand to his cheek.

‘Watch your mouth, Willy. You promised to put a cabinet minister in my pocket.’

‘We’re not in power any more,’ Simpson said. ‘Or haven’t you noticed?’

Laker made to move forward and Simpson stepped back, colliding with a spindly-legged table. The vase of flowers on it toppled over and smashed on the tiled floor. Water and broken glass exploded across Simpson’s shoes and trouser legs. Laker hopped back.

‘Steady on, Willy. Those flowers look like they cost a quid or two.’

‘Where’s my wife?’ Simpson said. He called up the stairs: ‘Lizzy?’

‘Never mind about her. Focus on me. I want you to get me one of the new lot — we know for sure that one half of them can be bought.’

Simpson looked down at his sodden trouser bottoms.

‘I’m not in power any more,’ he muttered. ‘My sway was over the other side.’

‘I’ve heard you’re still doing stuff for the new lot.’

‘That’s small beer.’

Laker shrugged.

‘Well, you’re going to have to come up with something, old son. Do you want me to go after your daughter again?’

Simpson glanced upstairs again.

‘What have you done to my wife?’

‘She’s upstairs. I’m afraid she’s a bit of a mess. She’ll be right as rain in a few days — just not as toffee-nosed. I was thinking of bringing her into my stable but I don’t think she has the stamina.’

Laker could almost see Simpson’s brain working angles.

‘I’m going to give you a week to arrange a meeting with someone in the cabinet.’

‘Why is it so important to you anyway?’ Simpson said. ‘I thought most of your business interests were in the US?’

‘Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.’

Laker pushed past Simpson and opened the front door.

‘One week or your daughter’s mine.’