Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [78]
Carl Scraton hated them all. They were filthy broken people. They didn’t deserve to live in the same city as respectable, decent white folk. Especially not the blacks. And they were everywhere in Notting Hill.
Thinking of them reminded Carl of his task. They were near the place where the paperboy lived: Carl had carefully memorized the road names before he left the club. Just thinking about the paperboy made Carl tense up. He’d had him in his hands the other night and he’d let him get away. He should have 130
finished him, stuck his knife in him. But he’d failed. Failed to do the job.
Failed his brother. If he’d done the job properly, then there wouldn’t be any need to drive out here with Billy Spot. Maybe there wouldn’t have been any need for Billy Spot to be here at all. Everything might be the same as it usually was.
The man in the passenger seat continued to whistle. The sound was really getting on Carl’s nerves. He started to imagine what it would be like to hurt Billy Spot. To make him cry out in pain. To wipe the smile from that broad, attractive face; knock a few teeth out of that laddish smile. Carl gripped the steering wheel tightly and drove on.
‘Tell me,’ Billy Spot said, out of nowhere, in his bright cockney accent, ‘don’t you think it’s a little strange that your man Gordy wants a little boy killed?’
That was it! Carl hit the brakes. The car skidded to a halt, the back swinging around until the Rover was at a right angle to the road, blocking both lanes of the quiet street.
Without needing to think about it, his razor was between his fingers, and its blade up against Billy Spot’s throat.
‘You don’t question my brother’s orders, all right?’ He scraped the edge of the razor against Spot’s Adam’s apple. ‘You understand?’
Billy Spot raised his hands in a gesture of submission. ‘Whatever you say.’
He tried to smile, but Carl could see that beneath the smile the armed robber was scared. That made Carl feel good. He started to relax and let out a giggle.
He left the cut-throat resting lightly on the armed robber’s throat for a long moment, fighting the urge to open an artery.
Behind them, someone sounded their horn.
Reluctantly, Carl tucked the knife away in his jacket pocket. ‘This is my job.
I’m gonna do the boy. He’s mine.’
‘You’re the boss,’ Billy Spot said, sounding anxious.
‘I’m the boss,’ Carl repeated. ‘That’s right. Just as long as we understand each other.’
‘Perfectly,’ Billy Spot replied, and wiped his forehead with a brightly patterned handkerchief. ‘Perfectly.’
Mikey took one look back at the room, before he climbed out of the window and then reached back in and lifted Dennis out. He wondered if he would ever see the place again. The room was small and damp and sharing it between four of them hadn’t been easy, particularly when he’d finally worked out why Jack and Eddy didn’t sleep top to tail like he and little Dennis always did.
Yeah. That had been quite a surprise.
It had taken a long time to find a landlady who would have a Jamaican as a tenant, and Mikey didn’t relish having to go trudging through the streets hunt-131
ing for accommodation again. Particularly not now that he had his brother to think of as well. At first he’d been shocked when he realized why he had found it so hard to find a room, when most of the English lads on the site hadn’t had any trouble at all. It was only later that he had felt angry.
Jack climbed out of the window after them, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
‘Ready?’ Jack asked, and Mikey nodded.
They made their way down to the street, careful to duck under the front window of Mrs Carroway