Read Online Hawthorn and Child by Keith Ridgway - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Keith Ridgway
Tags: Fiction/General
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he said, wanted no splash-back . They talked about money again. Mishazzo produced a little calculator from his briefcase and they added numbers. Small numbers. 86 plus 134, 17 divided by 5. The other man wrote down some of the numbers on a scrap of paper on his knee. They seemed then to be talking about hurting someone, but then they seemed to be talking simply about collecting someone. Or something. Then they were laughing about everything.
He drove around the Olympic fences, past the hoardings – the long colourful boards sometimes marked by graffiti. They couldn’t really see anything. Mishazzo got bored and told him to turn around. In the back seat they were talking about music. Mishazzo wanted a CD played, then a different one, a specific song.
He braked sharply. He’d been fiddling with the CD player. There was a short silence. Then he apologized.
– My fault, said Mishazzo. I employ you to drive. Not to be my fucking DJ.
Mishazzo and the other man started to sing in the back seat. They sang songs they both knew in raucous, untuned voices and laughed, and he found himself laughing as well, and singing sometimes too when he knew the words or the tune.
The man handed him a roll of money when he got out of the car. It was nearly one hundred pounds in grubby fives and tens that smelled of his father’s kitchen, and sweat, and ropes. Mishazzo told him to drive back to the office. That was it for the day.
– Now you see, he said. Now you see how dull my business is. But it pays well. And it makes you friends.
They lay next to each other in the bed and touched each other and laid their faces one against the other and when they were tired of talking they fucked and when they were tired of fucking they talked, and many different afternoons became one afternoon that persisted in his mind for the rest of his life and he never knew what to make of it, then or after.
– What does Mishazzo do?
– What?
– Mishazzo. Why are you interested in him? What does he do?
– You don’t know?
– I know some.
Hawthorn didn’t say anything.
– I know he does some buying and selling. Stolen cars.
Hawthorn nodded.
– I know he owns a couple of cafés.
– He does.
– They’re just cafés.
– Yeah. They are.
– So what else does he do?
Hawthorn hummed and rubbed his nose.
– He owns two launderettes.
– I didn’t know that.
– Yeah. The launderettes, the cafés. He owns that building in Tottenham.
– The office? I thought he rented.
– No. He’s the landlord. Or maybe his daughter is.
– He has a daughter?
– He has two daughters. Their mother is dead.
– So what does he do?
– He provides. Largely speaking, that’s what he does. He’s a businessman. He talks. He makes deals. He negotiates. He opens up conversations with people running various … rackets, all over North London. He offers them things they might need. Resources. And he introduces people to other people. Broker. Provider. Facilitator.
He nodded. Mishazzo was a businessman. A talker. Like his father.
– It’s tangled.
He wanted to ask Hawthorn how dangerous Mishazzo was. Whether he hurt people. Whether he got Price to hurt people. Whether that was part of business or whether it was all exaggerated.
– What laws has he broken then?
– All of them.
– He doesn’t kill people.
Hawthorn looked at him suddenly, his eyes a bit wide.
– He doesn’t kill people, he agreed.
– He doesn’t?
– No.
They said no more about it. He didn’t believe him.
Child looked at them. He looked at them and seemed to shut his eyes for a tiny moment. He looked from one to the other and seemed to pause, and shut his eyes. For a second. Two seconds. And then he muttered Oh for fuck’s sake , and he went to the counter to pay for their coffees and Hawthorn’s slice of cake and the bottle of water.
He never saw Child again.
Mishazzo stared at him. In the mirror. All he could see was the middle of Mishazzo’s
He drove around the Olympic fences, past the hoardings – the long colourful boards sometimes marked by graffiti. They couldn’t really see anything. Mishazzo got bored and told him to turn around. In the back seat they were talking about music. Mishazzo wanted a CD played, then a different one, a specific song.
He braked sharply. He’d been fiddling with the CD player. There was a short silence. Then he apologized.
– My fault, said Mishazzo. I employ you to drive. Not to be my fucking DJ.
Mishazzo and the other man started to sing in the back seat. They sang songs they both knew in raucous, untuned voices and laughed, and he found himself laughing as well, and singing sometimes too when he knew the words or the tune.
The man handed him a roll of money when he got out of the car. It was nearly one hundred pounds in grubby fives and tens that smelled of his father’s kitchen, and sweat, and ropes. Mishazzo told him to drive back to the office. That was it for the day.
– Now you see, he said. Now you see how dull my business is. But it pays well. And it makes you friends.
They lay next to each other in the bed and touched each other and laid their faces one against the other and when they were tired of talking they fucked and when they were tired of fucking they talked, and many different afternoons became one afternoon that persisted in his mind for the rest of his life and he never knew what to make of it, then or after.
– What does Mishazzo do?
– What?
– Mishazzo. Why are you interested in him? What does he do?
– You don’t know?
– I know some.
Hawthorn didn’t say anything.
– I know he does some buying and selling. Stolen cars.
Hawthorn nodded.
– I know he owns a couple of cafés.
– He does.
– They’re just cafés.
– Yeah. They are.
– So what else does he do?
Hawthorn hummed and rubbed his nose.
– He owns two launderettes.
– I didn’t know that.
– Yeah. The launderettes, the cafés. He owns that building in Tottenham.
– The office? I thought he rented.
– No. He’s the landlord. Or maybe his daughter is.
– He has a daughter?
– He has two daughters. Their mother is dead.
– So what does he do?
– He provides. Largely speaking, that’s what he does. He’s a businessman. He talks. He makes deals. He negotiates. He opens up conversations with people running various … rackets, all over North London. He offers them things they might need. Resources. And he introduces people to other people. Broker. Provider. Facilitator.
He nodded. Mishazzo was a businessman. A talker. Like his father.
– It’s tangled.
He wanted to ask Hawthorn how dangerous Mishazzo was. Whether he hurt people. Whether he got Price to hurt people. Whether that was part of business or whether it was all exaggerated.
– What laws has he broken then?
– All of them.
– He doesn’t kill people.
Hawthorn looked at him suddenly, his eyes a bit wide.
– He doesn’t kill people, he agreed.
– He doesn’t?
– No.
They said no more about it. He didn’t believe him.
Child looked at them. He looked at them and seemed to shut his eyes for a tiny moment. He looked from one to the other and seemed to pause, and shut his eyes. For a second. Two seconds. And then he muttered Oh for fuck’s sake , and he went to the counter to pay for their coffees and Hawthorn’s slice of cake and the bottle of water.
He never saw Child again.
Mishazzo stared at him. In the mirror. All he could see was the middle of Mishazzo’s
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