Read Online Hawthorn and Child by Keith Ridgway - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Keith Ridgway
Tags: Fiction/General
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were waiting for Mishazzo to begin to trust him more.
He didn’t tell them about the bottle. About sitting there dying for a piss, sure that as soon as he started, Mishazzo would reappear. He didn’t tell them about smoking more than he’d ever smoked before, out of boredom. He didn’t tell them about trying to think of things to write in the book, or how most of the things he thought of were things he would never write. His mind was dividing. Parts of it were roped off. There were things he could say. There were things he could not say but could write in the book. And now there were things he could neither say nor write but only think, and they pressed up against the others like they wanted a fight.
Hawthorn told him sometimes about other cases he was working on. A couple of murders. A robbery. Vague, no details. Sometimes Hawthorn asked him if he knew certain people. He named names. Most of them were unfamiliar. Once or twice there was one he thought he knew, but he said nothing.
– How come you know no one?
– I’m not …
– What?
He brushed the skin of his chest.
– I’m not a crook. I don’t hang out with crooks.
Hawthorn said nothing for a while. He was smiling.
– What are you then?
– I just do the driving thing.
– And the pickpocketing thing. And the hotel thing.
– I rob, sometimes. Yeah. But I’m not a crook. I don’t like crooks. I don’t like all that. I stay away from it. I avoid those people.
– How are you going to get ahead?
– I don’t want to get ahead.
Mishazzo asked him one day:
– Why are you looking in the mirror?
– I am?
– Are we being followed?
– No. I don’t think so.
– So why?
– I didn’t know I was looking in the mirror.
– You’re looking in the mirror all the time.
– Sorry.
– That’s OK. You know what to do if we’re being followed?
– I tell you. I drive normally. I describe the car.
– Yes. If it happens, then we drive back to Tottenham. Back to the office. Nice and slow. Nice and normal. It will be police.
He nodded.
Mishazzo swayed his shoulders so that his head travelled from one edge of the mirror to the other.
– If it isn’t police then what do you do?
Price had said that it would always be police. That no one else is that stupid.
– I don’t know.
Mishazzo laughed.
– Then we call the fucking police my friend. We call 999 and you put your fucking foot down.
One day he counted up all the things he’d written. And he counted up all the things she had written. He had written more. More sentences, entries, whatever they were. He wasn’t sure about words. Sometimes she wrote a whole page. Or more. Sometimes she drew little doodles, or pictures. Faces and flowers and a house with windows and a fence in the front and a path to the door, and the sun overhead. Her drawings were terrible, like an infant’s. But he stared at them for ages. Once he started to draw something. A face, he thought. But it was a mess from the first mark he made and he scribbled it out.
He didn’t tell Hawthorn about the book.
He thought that if she died, he would keep it. But he would destroy it before he died, and he would let no one else look at it. No one else in the world, ever, would read it. It would be something that had happened only for them, and when they were gone it would be something that had never happened.
That made him sad to the point of crying, almost, and he felt like an idiot.
One morning there was a man in the car with Mishazzo. This was not unusual. But this time Mishazzo did not want to go to a café. He wanted to be driven around.
– Drive east. Go toward the Olympics. I need to see what it looks like now. We can talk as we drive.
He could sense a pause as the other man gave Mishazzo a look.
– It’s OK, Mishazzo said quietly. It’s good.
They talked about cars. They talked about money. They talked about expanding something that was working well. The man mentioned a name. Gull. Gull,
He didn’t tell them about the bottle. About sitting there dying for a piss, sure that as soon as he started, Mishazzo would reappear. He didn’t tell them about smoking more than he’d ever smoked before, out of boredom. He didn’t tell them about trying to think of things to write in the book, or how most of the things he thought of were things he would never write. His mind was dividing. Parts of it were roped off. There were things he could say. There were things he could not say but could write in the book. And now there were things he could neither say nor write but only think, and they pressed up against the others like they wanted a fight.
Hawthorn told him sometimes about other cases he was working on. A couple of murders. A robbery. Vague, no details. Sometimes Hawthorn asked him if he knew certain people. He named names. Most of them were unfamiliar. Once or twice there was one he thought he knew, but he said nothing.
– How come you know no one?
– I’m not …
– What?
He brushed the skin of his chest.
– I’m not a crook. I don’t hang out with crooks.
Hawthorn said nothing for a while. He was smiling.
– What are you then?
– I just do the driving thing.
– And the pickpocketing thing. And the hotel thing.
– I rob, sometimes. Yeah. But I’m not a crook. I don’t like crooks. I don’t like all that. I stay away from it. I avoid those people.
– How are you going to get ahead?
– I don’t want to get ahead.
Mishazzo asked him one day:
– Why are you looking in the mirror?
– I am?
– Are we being followed?
– No. I don’t think so.
– So why?
– I didn’t know I was looking in the mirror.
– You’re looking in the mirror all the time.
– Sorry.
– That’s OK. You know what to do if we’re being followed?
– I tell you. I drive normally. I describe the car.
– Yes. If it happens, then we drive back to Tottenham. Back to the office. Nice and slow. Nice and normal. It will be police.
He nodded.
Mishazzo swayed his shoulders so that his head travelled from one edge of the mirror to the other.
– If it isn’t police then what do you do?
Price had said that it would always be police. That no one else is that stupid.
– I don’t know.
Mishazzo laughed.
– Then we call the fucking police my friend. We call 999 and you put your fucking foot down.
One day he counted up all the things he’d written. And he counted up all the things she had written. He had written more. More sentences, entries, whatever they were. He wasn’t sure about words. Sometimes she wrote a whole page. Or more. Sometimes she drew little doodles, or pictures. Faces and flowers and a house with windows and a fence in the front and a path to the door, and the sun overhead. Her drawings were terrible, like an infant’s. But he stared at them for ages. Once he started to draw something. A face, he thought. But it was a mess from the first mark he made and he scribbled it out.
He didn’t tell Hawthorn about the book.
He thought that if she died, he would keep it. But he would destroy it before he died, and he would let no one else look at it. No one else in the world, ever, would read it. It would be something that had happened only for them, and when they were gone it would be something that had never happened.
That made him sad to the point of crying, almost, and he felt like an idiot.
One morning there was a man in the car with Mishazzo. This was not unusual. But this time Mishazzo did not want to go to a café. He wanted to be driven around.
– Drive east. Go toward the Olympics. I need to see what it looks like now. We can talk as we drive.
He could sense a pause as the other man gave Mishazzo a look.
– It’s OK, Mishazzo said quietly. It’s good.
They talked about cars. They talked about money. They talked about expanding something that was working well. The man mentioned a name. Gull. Gull,
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