see you there.â
Barker nodded. Bending low, he watched the scissors closely as he steered them round the top of the lorry-driverâs ear. Short white hairs dropped through the air, thin as the filaments in lightbulbs. He hadnât seen Charlton for at least a month. In February they had met in a pub in Stepney and drunk pints. Later that evening they had dropped in on a friend of Charltonâs, a stand-up comedian, who had offered them cocaine. Charlton did a couple of lines. Barker said no. He listened to them talk for half an hour, their eyes fixed, glittering, their thoughts fascinating and important to each other, then he walked back to his room in Whitechapel.
âFriend of yours?â Higgs said when Charlton had gone.
Barker dusted the lorry-driverâs neck with talcum powder and whisked the few loose hairs away with a soft brush. âHe did me a favour when I first moved up here. Heâs all right.â
Higgs turned away, shaking his head.
In the café Charlton was eating toast, his pale lips shiny with butter. He was still wearing his coat. Barker sat down opposite. When the waitress came, he ordered a chicken-salad sandwich and a Coke.
âYou still in that shitty little bedsit?â Charlton said.
Barker didnât answer.
âIâve got a business proposition for you.â Lowering his head, Charlton reached out with his lips and drew the top half-inch off his cup of tea. It was a strange sound, like something being played backwards.
He told Barker he had heard about a flat. It was five minutesâ walk from Tower Bridge. Good area, he said. Central.
Barker waited.
âOnly one problem,â said Charlton, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. âThereâs people in it.â
âYou mean ââ
âThatâs right. Can you handle it?â
Barker looked at the table.
âYou were a bouncer, right?â Charlton said.
âHow many people?â Barker asked.
âThree.â
Barker looked up again. âAnd if I do the job, the place is mine?â
âFor a while.â
âWhatâs that mean?â
âSix months. Maybe longer.â Charlton lifted the two fingers that held his cigarette and pressed them to his mouth, the back of his hand facing outwards, the thumb and little finger spread. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked the smoke into his lungs. âYouâd have bills to pay, but no rent. You could even have a phone. Just like a normal fucking human being.â
On his next day off, which was a Sunday, Barker walked south through Shadwell, crossing the river at Tower Bridge. The few people who were out looked at him oddly. It must have been the sledgehammer he was carrying. By ten-thirty he was positioned opposite the building Charlton had told him about. Behind him stood a warehouse that had once belonged to a leather company; the loading bays had been painted a sickly orange-brown, and the hoists lay flush against high walls of inky brick. It was a quiet street. To his right, he could see green metal gates, some early roses. Trees rushed in the wind.
Can you handle it?
A scornful noise came out of him, half grunt, half chuckle. He didnât know what Charlton had ever done, but he knew what he himself had done, sometimes for money, sometimes for the joy of it, the buzz. He used to have a temper. A short fuse. Someone only had to look at him the wrong way, or look at him too long, and he was in there with his forehead, his boots, the bottle he was drinking from. The worst thing he ever did? One night, in Stonehouse, he looked up to see George Cattâs face floating towards him through a fog of cigarette smoke. The sagging,bloodhound slant of Cattâs eyelids. Almost as if heâd had a stroke. George Catt. Owner of the night-club where he worked, his boss.
How would you like to earn yourself five hundred quid?
When Barker asked him what heâd have to do, Catt tapped a cylinder of ash into
Barker nodded. Bending low, he watched the scissors closely as he steered them round the top of the lorry-driverâs ear. Short white hairs dropped through the air, thin as the filaments in lightbulbs. He hadnât seen Charlton for at least a month. In February they had met in a pub in Stepney and drunk pints. Later that evening they had dropped in on a friend of Charltonâs, a stand-up comedian, who had offered them cocaine. Charlton did a couple of lines. Barker said no. He listened to them talk for half an hour, their eyes fixed, glittering, their thoughts fascinating and important to each other, then he walked back to his room in Whitechapel.
âFriend of yours?â Higgs said when Charlton had gone.
Barker dusted the lorry-driverâs neck with talcum powder and whisked the few loose hairs away with a soft brush. âHe did me a favour when I first moved up here. Heâs all right.â
Higgs turned away, shaking his head.
In the café Charlton was eating toast, his pale lips shiny with butter. He was still wearing his coat. Barker sat down opposite. When the waitress came, he ordered a chicken-salad sandwich and a Coke.
âYou still in that shitty little bedsit?â Charlton said.
Barker didnât answer.
âIâve got a business proposition for you.â Lowering his head, Charlton reached out with his lips and drew the top half-inch off his cup of tea. It was a strange sound, like something being played backwards.
He told Barker he had heard about a flat. It was five minutesâ walk from Tower Bridge. Good area, he said. Central.
Barker waited.
âOnly one problem,â said Charlton, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. âThereâs people in it.â
âYou mean ââ
âThatâs right. Can you handle it?â
Barker looked at the table.
âYou were a bouncer, right?â Charlton said.
âHow many people?â Barker asked.
âThree.â
Barker looked up again. âAnd if I do the job, the place is mine?â
âFor a while.â
âWhatâs that mean?â
âSix months. Maybe longer.â Charlton lifted the two fingers that held his cigarette and pressed them to his mouth, the back of his hand facing outwards, the thumb and little finger spread. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked the smoke into his lungs. âYouâd have bills to pay, but no rent. You could even have a phone. Just like a normal fucking human being.â
On his next day off, which was a Sunday, Barker walked south through Shadwell, crossing the river at Tower Bridge. The few people who were out looked at him oddly. It must have been the sledgehammer he was carrying. By ten-thirty he was positioned opposite the building Charlton had told him about. Behind him stood a warehouse that had once belonged to a leather company; the loading bays had been painted a sickly orange-brown, and the hoists lay flush against high walls of inky brick. It was a quiet street. To his right, he could see green metal gates, some early roses. Trees rushed in the wind.
Can you handle it?
A scornful noise came out of him, half grunt, half chuckle. He didnât know what Charlton had ever done, but he knew what he himself had done, sometimes for money, sometimes for the joy of it, the buzz. He used to have a temper. A short fuse. Someone only had to look at him the wrong way, or look at him too long, and he was in there with his forehead, his boots, the bottle he was drinking from. The worst thing he ever did? One night, in Stonehouse, he looked up to see George Cattâs face floating towards him through a fog of cigarette smoke. The sagging,bloodhound slant of Cattâs eyelids. Almost as if heâd had a stroke. George Catt. Owner of the night-club where he worked, his boss.
How would you like to earn yourself five hundred quid?
When Barker asked him what heâd have to do, Catt tapped a cylinder of ash into