To Kill For Read Online Free
Author: Phillip Hunter
idiot,â he said.
âYouâre drunk.â
âAnd what of it? How else can I cope with you? With this?â
It was a good question. He went back to his seat, and his Scotch and his silent scolding and disappointment. I understood all that. I wouldâve been the same if I hadnât had so much fury inside me.
I stood slowly and waited for the world to stop turning. I swallowed the bile. Browne watched me, but made no move to help.
âChrist, man, you canât do it.â
âI have to.â
âHave to what? Have to destroy the world? Yourself?â
âYeah.â
âWait,â he said, sighing.
He heaved himself up and slumped out of the room. When he came back he had a glass of water. He handed it to me with a couple of pills.
âThatâll help your head, for a while. Do you know where youâre going? What youâre going to do?â
âIâm going to find a man,â I said.
Some funny little man, Brenda had called him. Funny. Yeah.
CHAPTER FIVE
The first thing I did the next day was go see a bloke I knew in Romford. Then I went looking for him, for the funny little man. I knew who he was. His name was Bowker.
He wasnât at the snooker club, and he wasnât at the pub they suggested. I went to his flat. After Iâd banged on the door for a few minutes, a small fat lady opened up and stood unsteadily on swollen legs, her breathing raspy. It mustâve been an effort to get off her sofa and walk five yards to the door. She was all lumps and sags, and she smelled of stale cigarette smoke. When she saw me, she closed her dressing gown, as if she thought I might be tempted to rape her.
âYeah?â
âIâm looking for Jim Bowker.â
âYeah? What for?â
âI want him. Thatâs all.â
âI donât know where he is.â
She started to close the door. I put my hand on it and pushed it back.
âWhere is he?â
âI told you, I donât know. I never do.â
âGuess.â
She looked at me for a few seconds, pretending to herself that she had a choice.
I found him at a bookiesâ in Hackney. I waited further up the street in the car that Cole had let me have. I didnât want to go inside the bookiesâ because these days they all had CCTVs. After half an hour, Bowker came out, lit up a cigarette and started walking slowly in my direction. I got out of the car and crossed the road.
When he saw me, he didnât try to run or call for help. He mustâve heard what had happened to Marriot. He mustâve known Iâd come for him. Maybe he thought my fight with Marriot was only to do with the Cole thing. But Bowker had set Paget onto me and Paget had tried to kill me and he damned well knew I knew that.
Maybe he just knew that running was pointless. He dropped the cigarette and crushed it out and stared at it. Then he looked up and watched as I neared.
In the daylight, his yellow skin looked paler, his eyes darker, more sunken. He still had his thirty-year-old quiff, but it was too thin to be that black. He was wearing that shabby three-piece suit. He mustâve had it for twenty years. He was clinging on to some idea of past success, some memory of a decent score when heâd got himself down to Saville Row and blown a load on clobber. The suit was too big for him these days. It looked like his body was shrivelling up beneath it.
I took him by the arm and steered him along the road, between people who moved aside to avoid us. When we got to a pub, I pushed him through to the car park at the back. I had a look around. There was a brick wall along two parts of the car park, but the upper stories of a few buildings overlooked it. At the side, it had access to a residential street, but little traffic went past. It was okay, I wasnât going to do anything serious. All this time, Bowker hadnât said anything, hadnât struggled.
I let him go and crowded him
âYouâre drunk.â
âAnd what of it? How else can I cope with you? With this?â
It was a good question. He went back to his seat, and his Scotch and his silent scolding and disappointment. I understood all that. I wouldâve been the same if I hadnât had so much fury inside me.
I stood slowly and waited for the world to stop turning. I swallowed the bile. Browne watched me, but made no move to help.
âChrist, man, you canât do it.â
âI have to.â
âHave to what? Have to destroy the world? Yourself?â
âYeah.â
âWait,â he said, sighing.
He heaved himself up and slumped out of the room. When he came back he had a glass of water. He handed it to me with a couple of pills.
âThatâll help your head, for a while. Do you know where youâre going? What youâre going to do?â
âIâm going to find a man,â I said.
Some funny little man, Brenda had called him. Funny. Yeah.
CHAPTER FIVE
The first thing I did the next day was go see a bloke I knew in Romford. Then I went looking for him, for the funny little man. I knew who he was. His name was Bowker.
He wasnât at the snooker club, and he wasnât at the pub they suggested. I went to his flat. After Iâd banged on the door for a few minutes, a small fat lady opened up and stood unsteadily on swollen legs, her breathing raspy. It mustâve been an effort to get off her sofa and walk five yards to the door. She was all lumps and sags, and she smelled of stale cigarette smoke. When she saw me, she closed her dressing gown, as if she thought I might be tempted to rape her.
âYeah?â
âIâm looking for Jim Bowker.â
âYeah? What for?â
âI want him. Thatâs all.â
âI donât know where he is.â
She started to close the door. I put my hand on it and pushed it back.
âWhere is he?â
âI told you, I donât know. I never do.â
âGuess.â
She looked at me for a few seconds, pretending to herself that she had a choice.
I found him at a bookiesâ in Hackney. I waited further up the street in the car that Cole had let me have. I didnât want to go inside the bookiesâ because these days they all had CCTVs. After half an hour, Bowker came out, lit up a cigarette and started walking slowly in my direction. I got out of the car and crossed the road.
When he saw me, he didnât try to run or call for help. He mustâve heard what had happened to Marriot. He mustâve known Iâd come for him. Maybe he thought my fight with Marriot was only to do with the Cole thing. But Bowker had set Paget onto me and Paget had tried to kill me and he damned well knew I knew that.
Maybe he just knew that running was pointless. He dropped the cigarette and crushed it out and stared at it. Then he looked up and watched as I neared.
In the daylight, his yellow skin looked paler, his eyes darker, more sunken. He still had his thirty-year-old quiff, but it was too thin to be that black. He was wearing that shabby three-piece suit. He mustâve had it for twenty years. He was clinging on to some idea of past success, some memory of a decent score when heâd got himself down to Saville Row and blown a load on clobber. The suit was too big for him these days. It looked like his body was shrivelling up beneath it.
I took him by the arm and steered him along the road, between people who moved aside to avoid us. When we got to a pub, I pushed him through to the car park at the back. I had a look around. There was a brick wall along two parts of the car park, but the upper stories of a few buildings overlooked it. At the side, it had access to a residential street, but little traffic went past. It was okay, I wasnât going to do anything serious. All this time, Bowker hadnât said anything, hadnât struggled.
I let him go and crowded him
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