Read Online Black Out by John Lawton - Free Book Online Page B

usually go through clothing and articles myself. Nothing of any help in the pockets, labels snippedout of his clothes with nail-scissors. The shot to the face killed him instantly. Bone fragment straight up into the brain, but that wasn’t all. There was an aggravated wound to the leg. Can’t recall which.’
    ‘Aggravated? In what way?’
    ‘As though he’d run, hobbled more like, for quite a way after he’d been shot. Bullet passed right through, so I’ve no idea whether he was shot twice with the same gun or what. But he’d increased tissue trauma consistent with using the leg muscles after the initial wound. Must’ve hurt like hell. Why isn’t Kolankiewicz telling you this? The bastard hasn’t sloped off has he?’
    ‘Far from it. He’s pretending he doesn’t know me.’
    Kolankiewicz had retreated behind his newspaper so as not to be seen eating the stolen scone. Troy saw the waitress turn round from the pleasures of the Americans and place a hand on her hip in a forthright manner. He knew what was coming. These days you could die for an onion, kill for a scone.
    ‘Must dash. I’ll call you when I can.’
    ‘’Ere,’ the waitress was saying, ‘you light-fingered so-and-so! Where is it?’
    She pulled down the newspaper. Kolankiewicz’s cheeks were stuffed like a hamster’s. Even in the teeth of the evidence, he munched on stolidly, returned her gaze with knobs on and shook the paper free of her hand. As Troy struggled past the rows of tables to get to Kolankiewicz, the young Arkansian had risen from his seat and was offering to assist.
    ‘He nicked it. So ’elp me the little bugger nicked it!’
    ‘Who you calling bugger?’ said Kolankiewicz, having swallowed the evidence, his accent thickening as he resorted to his Polish identity to feed his defiance. ‘Is it for scrubbers to insult customers in this way?’
    ‘Hey, now you hold on a minute there, buddy,’ said the American, ‘I don’t know what you said but it sure sounds like no way to talk to a lady!’
    ‘Scrubber,’ said Kolankiewicz, ‘by definition a female who courts the company of an organised body of men in the hope of procuring and offering sexual favour. I think you will find it has become a national pastime among the British.’
    The American paused, somewhere between curiosity and anger.
    ‘What d’he say?’
    Before the waitress could answer, Troy slipped between them and took Kolankiewicz by the elbow, forcing him to stand up.
    ‘He means,’ he said, ‘that he’s very sorry to have troubled you both, and hopes that this will cover our bill.’
    Troy slapped a florin on the table and steered Kolankiewicz to the door. Behind him he heard the waitress declaiming in predictable terms of ‘damn cheek’ and ‘don’t come back’.
    Kolankiewicz shook free of Troy’s grip and went through a showy display of realigning his hat. Troy knew that he might look more like a policeman if he too wore a hat. He might also look as silly as Kolankiewicz did now, standing on his injured pride and rearranging the visible symbol of dignity.
    ‘The bullet that killed your German. What was the bore?’
    ‘Bullets, schmullets. Don’t ask me, Troy. I’m a flesh-and-blood man. The details of calibres and twists stay in my head long enough to dictate to Anna. Ask me about the state of a man’s liver two years after I cut it out, chances are I will remember.’
    ‘Did you have a chance to look at the cartridge case I left you before you came down?’
    ‘Forty-five for sure.’
    ‘Forty-five automatic? There’s a Colt forty-five automatic that’s a standard issue American-forces weapon.’
    ‘Yes – but the black market these days. I know a pub in Mill Hill where you could buy a Howitzer over the counter.’ Kolankiewicz gestured at the café window. ‘Most of your colonial cousins would sell you anything from a pair of nylons to a half-track. You need a second-hand Flying Fortress? Try the Railwayman’s Arms in Mill Hill. And