Read Online DONNA AND THE FATMAN (Crime Thriller Fiction) by Helen Zahavi - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Helen Zahavi
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stairs.
‘She does look well.’
Hands sunk deep in trouser pockets, and that look on his face, that knowing smirk.
‘Bit flushed, perhaps.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Bit pink of cheek.’
She reached the bottom and he moved towards her.
‘But it suits you, sweetheart, so don’t be shy.’
The rosebud mouth approached her ear.
‘Had our tea, then, have we?’
He grabbed the flesh of her upper arm. Enough to hurt, though not to bruise.
‘Had our bite of sticky bun?’
His face pushed up so close, she could see the blackheads round his nose, the fresh, new cold sore on his upper lip.
‘Got a problem, Merv?’
‘No problem, sugar.’
His eyes slid slowly up and down, took in the tight, black jeans, the three-inch heels, the low-cut top. Looking good, the boy was thinking. The Donna bitch was looking good.
Muffled banging from upstairs, the sound of wardrobes being searched and trashed. She gently pulled away.
‘Better dash, sweetie. Boss might want you.’
He drew back the bolts and opened the door, and she went before him, out of the darkness and into the light.
‘Next time you come to visit,’ he said, ‘try and save some for the boys.’
The fleeting, Donna smile.
‘I’ll do that, Merv. Believe me.’
* * *
CHAPTER 7
She didn’t like to move too much, if she could possibly avoid it, but when she left that house, she came out running.
It was late on a frozen afternoon, and the cold so bitter that had she been the weepy type she would have wept. The wind came slicing down the road and cut into her face. It made her skull begin to hurt, and her teeth begin to ache, and forced her lips so far apart you might have looked at her and thought that she was grinning, you might have thought the Donna bitch was in a state of exaltation, when you saw her running from the house.
Getting dark outside, the colour drained away, as though they’d hosed it clean, as though they’d pulled the plug and rinsed it down the sink. Joe was leaning on the bonnet, oblivious of everything, absorbed in rolling the perfect fag. He licked the paper down and stuck it in his mouth, exuding such convincing calm it was almost catatonic. The briefest flame, an orange glow of inhalation, and a half-burnt match was tossed away.
But it doesn’t take long to run down a drive. Even in your three-inch heels, when you’re not the sporty type, and it’s a longer sort of drive in a better part of London, you can cross it fairly quickly. The gravel tends to suck you down, but you can manage, if you concentrate. And as she tottered forward, her breath condensing in the air, her underrated Donna brain was throbbing in her head, quietly pulsing beneath the bone, for she’s thinking of that ever-grinning piece of pus who answers to the name of Merv. Fifteen seconds to climb the stairs, another five to walk down the hall, then he’d step inside the Fatman’s den, and . . .
‘Joe!’ she shrieked. ‘We’re going, Joe!’
You had to hand it to the boy, he could shift himself when he really had to. He was round the front and in the seat before she’d caught her breath, before she’d finished sucking air. He leaned across, shoved open the door, and she slipped inside.
‘You okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m okay. Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’
I wiped your debt, she nearly added, got a bonus, too. She’d stuffed it in her bag, she’d crammed it in and snapped it shut. Safe within her leather bag she had the Fatman’s money, the only thing of his she wanted buried deep inside. It made her panties moisten, frankly. Made her start to lubricate. All that money, on her lap, it made her melt between her legs. Because she likes it when they give her things, she loves it when they spend a bit, but she adores it when she takes it, for that’s the kind of girl she is.
For they’re forgetful types, the three-legs. They forget to take her out, forget to buy her what she wants, forget her name, forget the way she
‘She does look well.’
Hands sunk deep in trouser pockets, and that look on his face, that knowing smirk.
‘Bit flushed, perhaps.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Bit pink of cheek.’
She reached the bottom and he moved towards her.
‘But it suits you, sweetheart, so don’t be shy.’
The rosebud mouth approached her ear.
‘Had our tea, then, have we?’
He grabbed the flesh of her upper arm. Enough to hurt, though not to bruise.
‘Had our bite of sticky bun?’
His face pushed up so close, she could see the blackheads round his nose, the fresh, new cold sore on his upper lip.
‘Got a problem, Merv?’
‘No problem, sugar.’
His eyes slid slowly up and down, took in the tight, black jeans, the three-inch heels, the low-cut top. Looking good, the boy was thinking. The Donna bitch was looking good.
Muffled banging from upstairs, the sound of wardrobes being searched and trashed. She gently pulled away.
‘Better dash, sweetie. Boss might want you.’
He drew back the bolts and opened the door, and she went before him, out of the darkness and into the light.
‘Next time you come to visit,’ he said, ‘try and save some for the boys.’
The fleeting, Donna smile.
‘I’ll do that, Merv. Believe me.’
* * *
CHAPTER 7
She didn’t like to move too much, if she could possibly avoid it, but when she left that house, she came out running.
It was late on a frozen afternoon, and the cold so bitter that had she been the weepy type she would have wept. The wind came slicing down the road and cut into her face. It made her skull begin to hurt, and her teeth begin to ache, and forced her lips so far apart you might have looked at her and thought that she was grinning, you might have thought the Donna bitch was in a state of exaltation, when you saw her running from the house.
Getting dark outside, the colour drained away, as though they’d hosed it clean, as though they’d pulled the plug and rinsed it down the sink. Joe was leaning on the bonnet, oblivious of everything, absorbed in rolling the perfect fag. He licked the paper down and stuck it in his mouth, exuding such convincing calm it was almost catatonic. The briefest flame, an orange glow of inhalation, and a half-burnt match was tossed away.
But it doesn’t take long to run down a drive. Even in your three-inch heels, when you’re not the sporty type, and it’s a longer sort of drive in a better part of London, you can cross it fairly quickly. The gravel tends to suck you down, but you can manage, if you concentrate. And as she tottered forward, her breath condensing in the air, her underrated Donna brain was throbbing in her head, quietly pulsing beneath the bone, for she’s thinking of that ever-grinning piece of pus who answers to the name of Merv. Fifteen seconds to climb the stairs, another five to walk down the hall, then he’d step inside the Fatman’s den, and . . .
‘Joe!’ she shrieked. ‘We’re going, Joe!’
You had to hand it to the boy, he could shift himself when he really had to. He was round the front and in the seat before she’d caught her breath, before she’d finished sucking air. He leaned across, shoved open the door, and she slipped inside.
‘You okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m okay. Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’
I wiped your debt, she nearly added, got a bonus, too. She’d stuffed it in her bag, she’d crammed it in and snapped it shut. Safe within her leather bag she had the Fatman’s money, the only thing of his she wanted buried deep inside. It made her panties moisten, frankly. Made her start to lubricate. All that money, on her lap, it made her melt between her legs. Because she likes it when they give her things, she loves it when they spend a bit, but she adores it when she takes it, for that’s the kind of girl she is.
For they’re forgetful types, the three-legs. They forget to take her out, forget to buy her what she wants, forget her name, forget the way she
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