Suzerain: a ghost story Read online

  "Is this conversation supposed to be intimidating me?" the kid said. "Because if it is, then it isn't."

  Billy felt the chill of his own smile. He'd been moving along the bar by increments since he'd started talking and now he leaned in close to the kid. "Then why are you shaking?" he said. He took one of the kid's cigarettes from the pack and tucked it into his shirt pocket. The kid didn't object. "I can see you all the way through," Billy said. "Soft."

  "Really?" the kid said.

  "As shit," Billy said. He stepped back.

  The kid was fast. He landed one on Billy's cheek that if Billy were honest he hadn't seen coming and later, drifting off to sleep with the front of his brain buzzing from a heavy joint, Billy would rub his cheek and be glad for the kid for getting this one in. And it was only the one. Billy blocked the kid's right and all in one fluid movement grabbed a handful of the kid's long hair. With a flurry of jabs he smashed his fist three times into the kid's face. Yep, definitely felt his nose crack. He let the kid go and the kid tried to sit with his hands covering his face. Blood streamed from both nostrils and ran between his fingers and there was shock and disbelief in his eyes. He missed the stool and went down and then pulled over the stool trying to stand. Billy hooked the stool out of the way with the toe of his boot and heaved it across the room where it clattered into an empty table. Then he kicked the kid in the jaw. His head cracked sideways and a spume of blood looped across the dirty brown carpet. He collapsed into the tongue-and-groove bar-front, raised an arm, dropped it, turned onto his hands and knees and began to crawl along the floor, holding a steady course parallel with the bar-front. Billy kicked him up the ass to knock him flat and then he walked around and raised his leg locked straight and brought down the heel of his boot onto the fingers of the kid's left hand. He heard bones break and the kid screamed and drew his arm beneath the protection of his body. Billy wondered which hand the kid wrote his poems and sea stories with. Perhaps he should break the right one too.

  "You know why I'm doing this?" Billy said. "In case you can't guess, I'll tell you: there's a certain somebody you need to stay clear of. Understand?"

  The kid wagged his head pathetically.

  "What I'm saying is, a certain married somebody - let's call her Mrs Costigan - that if you even look at again, I'll cut off your poncey little cock and use it for bait. Understand?"

  The kid nodded again.

  Then Dell was back. There wasn't much here that he hadn't seen at least once a week since he'd made the mistake of taking on the Baxter with these bastard fishermen coming in drunk since morning with a grand in their ass pockets and eight-day sea-grudges burning in their sullen hearts. He picked up the phone.

  "No Dell," Billy said. "Not this time. I got too much tied up in this."

  Dell exhaled a heavy, nasal breath. He put down the phone carefully, as if to show that the decision was his. He was a big man and Billy had seen him in a rough spot a time or two and he'd handled himself well but he wasn't in Billy's league and they both knew it. Dell probably liked the kid - and even to Billy the kid had seemed likeable enough - but Dell didn't like anyone (not even his game sluts) so much that he'd willingly lose his teeth for them. "I'm going down to change a barrel," he said. "I'll be a couple of minutes. When I come back up I want you gone. Make sure there's enough left of him so's he can walk out under his own steam. We have to call an ambulance, Billy, I'll grass you and call it fair play."

  Billy tipped an imaginary hat. "You're a reasonable man Dell," he said.

  "And you were a better man when you fished. Don't you ever come back while my name is above that door," Dell said and descended into the cellar.

  "I hope you didn't think I was finished with you," Billy said to the kid. Dell's remark had annoyed him.

  The kid was sobbing and he'd lifted his head during the hiatus and blood and snot were streaming from his nose. Billy kicked him in the ribs to shut him up. It only made him worse so Billy snatched an empty Grolsch bottle from the bar and leant in and smashed it over the back of the kid's skull. He was just deliberating whether or not he could do something with the jagged bottle neck that wouldn't kill the kid when he heard a slow clapping of hands behind him. He turned and saw a woman sitting on the edge of the table in front of the window. The light outside was failing so he could see her well enough in the glow of the wall lamps even though she was framed by the window. And damned if she wasn't beautiful with her cropped blonde hair and her good, dress-down clothes; her jeans tucked into suede boots, a new buckskin jacket. Red wool scarf around her throat. He hadn't heard her enter but she'd evidently been in the room long enough to seat herself and Billy was slightly puzzled as to why she hadn't simply fled. She stopped clapping once she'd gained Billy's attention and lowered her hands to her thighs.

  "You might want to leave, my love," Billy said. "This isn't the kind of thing you want to see on holiday," he added, because out-of-season grockle-hood was the likeliest explanation.

  "I'm not on holiday," the woman said, "and I'm not your love."

  Unbelievable. Another fucking American.

  She seemed totally unimpressed by what she saw, even though the kid had started his blubbering again, and she calmly produced a packet of cigarettes, lit one up and inhaled deeply. Women were rare in the Baxter and beautiful women were like a miracle. This was shaping up to be an interesting day.

  The woman blew out a stream of smoke through fluted lips. "Why don't you put the poor thing down?" she said.

  Billy looked at the kid and back to the woman. Frank's wife. Had to be. The kid had started to crawl again. He looked like he was making for the toilet, or maybe he hoped to crawl under the pool table. "You mean kill him?" Billy said.

  "I mean," the woman said, with slow emphasis on the second word, "let him alone."

  "You think he's had enough?"

  "I think he's almost certainly crossed his pain threshold. Yeah. I'd have to say that."

  "Nicely put," Billy said. He two-strided the distance the kid had put between them and he kicked him in the hip, more to gain his attention than to inflict any further damage. "You hear that you soft cunt?" he said. "This is your lucky day. Female intervention. That's a rare thing in this piss-hole. Might be a first. You'll be famous." He tossed the bottle neck over his shoulder and stepped to the bar and put the kid's smokes in his shirt pocket. He took out the cigarette he'd stashed there earlier and lit it with the kid's lighter. He was breathing hard but not so hard that he couldn't drain the kid's beer glass in one long gulp. He set down the empty glass and turned to the woman. She'd crossed her legs and was calmly smoking her cigarette. She was watching Billy, not the kid. Billy belched good-naturedly and then smiled. He didn't know what to say. Then he did. "You Frank's wife?" he said.

  "For my sins," the woman said. "Want to join me for a drink?"

  Unbelievable. Truly fucking unbelievable. Talk about fickle.

  "Not here," he said. "I've run out of welcome here. Go on up to The Cove. You know it? Good. I'll be along directly."

  "I'll look forward to it," Frank's wife said. She pushed herself from the table, picked up her bag - Billy noting that she'd been calm enough to put it down in the first place - set the strap over her shoulder, stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette, pushed open the door and then walked out into the thin chill light of the early evening. The sound of gulls wheeled around the room and then the door swung closed behind her. Well, grockle Frank had certainly got his money's worth because his wife's affair with brown-eyed, soft-as-shit, sporting-dolphin-at-the prow-of-the-boat, long-haired romantic boy was now well and truly in the land of forgive and forget.

  Billy stubbed out the cigarette and lifted the bar hatch. The kid had made it a good few yards towards the toilet. Billy walked behind the bar. Tusker Martin, glass-collector and prophet of doom, watched Billy through the gap in the wall. The old man dropped his woeful, cadaverous gaze when Billy looked him back. He kicked the cellar door closed and ran the bolt and then he ripped the p
hone from its socket. Dell started to bang on the cellar door. "It's alright Dell," Billy told him loudly, "I'm off to pastures new. One of these blokes is bound to let you out when they get thirsty." He wrapped the cable around the phone and carried it out with him.

  It was always fuggy in the Baxter even when it was almost empty and the cold wind felt good. It was a full moon and high tide tonight and the sea was already halfway up the harbour wall. There was a dead dog-fish in the road and Billy kicked it casually without breaking stride so's its head smashed against the brick curb. Then he heaved back and hurled the phone into the wind-ruffled harbour. It made a quiet splash, upended and then sank. Dell could have all the other lines and mobile phones that he wanted; Billy had made his point. Later, if he had time, he'd get that little shit Olly to wipe the CCTV tape. Dell always went out for an hour after Olly arrived for his shift. Billy paused to look at the long arm of the breakwater far side of the harbour. His heart spoke to the sea beyond. You'll not take me, it said. You'll not get us both.

  The Cove was a little more salubrious than the Baxter. Red velvet cushions on the seats. Two paintings (not prints) of ships in storm, another of a ship becalmed at full moon, an aerial photograph of the town and harbour, knotted ropes and mariner's lamps, a five-spoke wheel above the stone fireplace. Fisherman were usually discouraged from drinking in The Cove and this was seldom a place where disputes were aired and resolved. Billy, however, was not discouraged. Not because he was no longer a fisherman (that wouldn't matter; he was fishing class) but because Graham (the landlord) had hired Billy (oddly enough on a recommendation from Dell) to fit a new water pump in his yacht, and - though Graham was what Billy would usually think of as a privileged grockle prick - they had struck up an unlikely rapport. Of course, Graham didn't know that Billy had shagged his wife, but Billy could hold a secret as well as he could hold his drink, and Caroline had too much to lose to go blabbing the fact around a town as small and verbally incestuous as this one.

  There were a couple of well-to-do, blue blazered grey-hairs at the bar and they'd paused their talk briefly to weigh Billy’s presence when he entered. When they resumed their conversation he listened with half an ear for half a second as was his habit. Something to do with finance, investment, ISAs - some well-to-do blue blazered bullshit. Billy belonged to a species nourished only by cash.

  Frank's wife was sitting by the window, the table furthest from the bar. She was smoking one of her long cigarettes and stroking the pub's cat which had stretched itself out on the bench beside her. He watched her long fingers kneading the cat's smoky fur and then he mimed a drinking motion. She held her hand over the full wine glass in front of her to say that she was okay, thank you. He turned to the bar and ordered a Guinness because Caroline was working and she poured a good Guinness.

  "Haven't seen you for a while Billy," she said. She manipulated the glass beneath the tap to put one of those fucking shamrocks that he fucking hated into the head of the Guinness. This was a new one. Christ, she must be bored.

  "I've been busy," he said.

  "Well don't be too busy to visit your friends Billy. Some of them might even miss you."

  "Maybe I'll drop by next week," he said. Caroline had put on weight, but she was still pretty fuckable as far as Billy was concerned. She had those kind of brown doe eyes and long lashes you didn't give a shit what she was thinking, so long as she was batting them at you.

  "Maybe you should. I'll get you this one." She said. "What's your friend having? More wine?" Snotty, the way she said 'friend'.

  "She's got a drink. She's okay," Billy said. Then, though it wouldn't hurt his reputation to be seen in the company of a beautiful, obviously wealthy American woman, he added: "She's not my friend, she's business." No point souring things with Caroline. Something about her voice, her hands. The gold bracelet on her wrist. He really would like to fuck her again. Maybe he would call in next week.

  He set his beer on the table and pulled up a stool opposite Frank's wife. She smiled. He smiled back. She wore a small blue nose stud. A hard little jewel. Her eyes were a beautiful shock of blue. He'd have to watch himself. Caroline didn't seem like much in the company of grockle Frank's wife.

  "That cat's probably got fleas," he said.

  "No way," she said. "Not this cat." She stopped stroking the cat, but only to take a sip of her wine. "I'm Moira," she said.

  Billy watched her run a single finger around the rim of the glass. He hadn't seen blue nail varnish before and he thought it sexy and classy at the same time. "I know your name," he said. "Frank mentions you a lot."

  "Evidently. And your name is…?"

  "Billy."

  "Just Billy?"

  "Just Billy."

  "Funny, Frank hasn't mentioned you at all. Well, Just Billy, how much did Frank pay you?"

  "Five-fifty for the service and the new head gasket. Another two for the new seals in the water-pump. Painting the galley-"

  "Come on Billy, don't play games. I'm not talking about the yacht. Unless I hear that the fucking thing has gone down with all hands, I really don't want to know anything about that goddamned money-pit. No, what I want to know - as you well know - is how much did Frank pay you to beat-up my … paramour?"

  "Your what?"

  "My lover."

  "That's not what you said."

  "Paramour. Lover. Hey, what's the diff?"

  "I'll try to remember it," Billy said. Fucking grockles. English or American. Always this superior bullshit.

  "Don't bother," Frank's wife said. "No one uses it anymore."

  "You just did."

  "I was being ironic."

  Billy sipped his beer, wiped off a foam moustache from his top lip. "You know what I'm wondering right now? I'm wondering does Frank's wife -"

  "Moira," she interjected.

  "I'm wondering, does Mrs Costigan think that I'm a fucking idiot. I bet yonder cry-baby with the busted face would know what 'paramour' meant. I'd bet he'd even use it. Irony or no."

  "Hey look, I'm sorry I insulted your intelligence, but frankly, it's not your intelligence I'm interested in. How much?"

  "You'll have to ask Frank."

  "Don't worry, I will."

  She gave him a hard stare and sucked at the finger she'd been running around the wine glass. Thirty, Billy thought. Thirty-three tops. Frank was in his fifties and Mrs Frank was not what Billy had expected. The truth was, Frank had hardly mentioned her at all until he'd asked him to deal with the kid. The paramour. Two grand? Frank had said. Christ, I could get somebody killed for a grand. Yeah, Billy had said, but killing’s easy. No, outside of this, as far as Billy could recall, Frank had mentioned her just once, and then only to say that she was a writer (apropos of what Billy couldn't remember), a fact which hadn't interested Billy half as much as that Frank was in films. Movies. Billy had managed to conceal his interest (play it cool) not only from Frank but also, for the most part, from himself. Still, he had taken the trouble to find a copy of Caged Animals on video, which he thought was a pile of shit. What's a movie mogul doing in Devon, was the only thing Billy had ever asked Frank on the matter. Must be the wonderful English weather, Frank had answered (or not answered). Yet, despite the fact that Frank was in movies (and even makers of bad movies must carry some cachet for women), and possibly because of Frank's diminutive stature, his air of incipient depression, Billy had imagined Mrs Costigan to be a fat yank of her husband's age - all gold credit cards and cellulite - who'd have to pay a bloke to take her on. Two things here, watching this sexy bitch suck her blue-painted nail: 1) he couldn't blame the kid for fucking her; 2) Frank didn't have all of the power in chez American grockle.

  "Good luck," Billy said simply. He sipped at his beer. "So, Mrs Costigan," he said, "why are we sitting here all cosy, when I've just slapped the shit out of your paramour?"

  "Moira. Call me Moira. Well, maybe I want to fuck you. How would that be?" She buried her fingertips in the fur on the cat's belly and the cat wrapped a paw aro
und her wrist. Billy could hear the damn thing purring like an out-board.

  "It'd be just fine with me," Billy said honestly, "but I work for Frank. I don't think that it would be just fine with Frank."

  "My, what a loyal little puppy you are, Just Billy. I can see it in your eyes how much you'd like to fuck me."

  "How do you know it's not something else?" Billy said. He could feel Caroline's eyes all over them. They wouldn't be so doe-like right now. He took out the kid's cigarettes.

  "Oh trust me, I know."

  I guess you would, Billy thought. He shrugged and lit a smoke. If she was serious about him fucking her why didn't he just fuck her? It wasn't as if a chance like this came along every day. Answer: because Frank was the kind of bloke who paid for violence. And Frank wasn't short of cash, nor Billy the only taker.

  "Well, if you won't fuck me, maybe you could do some work for me."

  "Well, I know you don't want a boat refit. So?"

  Moira sipped her wine, ran her tongue along her top lip. "Five hundred to hit somebody," she said.

  "What do you mean "hit"?"

  "Relax Billy. Not that. Punch. Slap. Whatever the hell you want to call it. Just hit them once."

  "Frank? I don't think so."

  "No, not Frank. I'll deal with Frank."

  There was something (what?- scary? -yes, scary) in the remark that made Billy uncomfortable. "How do you know that once will be enough?" he said.

  "Let's just work on a theoretical level for now Billy. Hey? How would that be?"

  "Go on."

  "Not Frank. Mrs Frank."

  Unbelievable. "You'll have to say that again," Billy said. "You see, what I thought you just said was that you'll give me five hundred quid to hit you. Mrs Costigan. Wife of one of my best-paying clients. Wife of a man who pays to have bones broken."