was an ancient stove in one corner, a sink with a dusty frilled curtain draped underneath it. There were cracked flagstones under his feet. A bare dead light bulb, the cord holding it frayed and dangerous, dangled over his head. Crumbling stone on the walls, mossy green with damp in places. And there was a small window, with thin tatty drapes pulled closed across it, so that the light level in the little room was dim, but good enough to see by. The air was cool in here, not like the dry, perfumed oven-blast of the air outside.
‘What do you mean – Rufus?’ he asked in his passable French. ‘My name’s not Rufus.’
Now he could see the bulky, dead-eyed man standing in front of him, and his blood froze.
It was Big Don Callaghan.
I’m a dead man, he thought.
Rufus struggled to orientate himself. His head ached like a bastard. But he was still alive. He tried to move and couldn’t. He was tied to a chair. His feet were free, but not his hands. How long had he been out of it? Wouldn’t the Saudi contingent raise the alarm, get people searching for him?
No. They wouldn’t, not yet. The diplomat wasn’t due to leave the hotel for three days, and during that time no one would give a fuck where Rufus was or what had become of him. When the boss was ready to check out, the interpreter would come looking for him, to ensure that the car would be clean, refuelled, and that Rufus had overseen the packing of his master’s bags into the capacious boot. Everything ran smoothly around the diplomat. But not on this occasion.
Rufus thought that Don had aged badly. He was fatter, his hair thinner. Pouches sagged under his beady, spite-filled eyes. Nonetheless he exuded an air of menace – as did the two heavies who were standing on either side of him.
‘That’s a mighty good French accent, Rufus,’ said Don. ‘Impressive.’
Rufus said nothing. Dully, he peered up at Don, who was shaking his head sadly.
‘I’m disappointed in you, Rufus. Poor Pete, my sister’s boy, he died, and what did you do? You legged it. Didn’t even pause to give me an explanation.’
Rufus said nothing.
‘Her heart was broken by it. He was her only boy. Now, are you going to tell me what happened?’
Rufus still said nothing.
‘OK, he wasn’t exactly the cream of the crop. I know that. But I trusted you to see him right. To assess his possibilities.’
Possibilities? Rufus thought bitterly. Pikey had been useless. And he had told Don that, even before he’d foisted the boy on him and set the whole disaster in motion.
‘What’s the craic, eh? Say something, Rufe. Even if it’s only bollocks.’
Rufus worked some spit into his mouth. ‘The boy was a fucking washout.’
Don drew in a sharp breath. ‘That’s not nice, speaking ill of the dead. Boy’s not here to defend himself. If he was, what a fucking fright he’d look. Burned to a fucking cinder the way he was.’
‘It was an accident,’ said Rufus. ‘He was a bag of nerves. He spilled the petrol. Set light to himself.’
‘Yeah? But that’s beside the point, isn’t it. Because you were in charge. The buck stops with you, Rufus. The foreman always takes responsibility for any balls-ups.’
‘What do you want me to say, Don?’ asked Rufus, feeling exhausted, in pain, defeated. He’d been putting this off so long, and now here it was, here it came for him. He wasn’t going to walk out of this room, he knew it. ‘God knows I didn’t want it to happen. But it did.’
‘What I want you to say is that you’re sorry, Rufus. That’s what.’
‘I am sorry. Jesus, he was only a kid. He should never have been there, Don, he wasn’t up to it. I got shot, Pardew shot me. But I got him. I went to church when I was well enough, after it happened, lit a penny candle for Pikey’s – Peter’s – soul.’
‘And I’ll light one for you,’ said Don, and nodded to the man on his left.
He was holding a petrol can.
Ah Jesus . . .
He took off the cap, and emptied
‘What do you mean – Rufus?’ he asked in his passable French. ‘My name’s not Rufus.’
Now he could see the bulky, dead-eyed man standing in front of him, and his blood froze.
It was Big Don Callaghan.
I’m a dead man, he thought.
Rufus struggled to orientate himself. His head ached like a bastard. But he was still alive. He tried to move and couldn’t. He was tied to a chair. His feet were free, but not his hands. How long had he been out of it? Wouldn’t the Saudi contingent raise the alarm, get people searching for him?
No. They wouldn’t, not yet. The diplomat wasn’t due to leave the hotel for three days, and during that time no one would give a fuck where Rufus was or what had become of him. When the boss was ready to check out, the interpreter would come looking for him, to ensure that the car would be clean, refuelled, and that Rufus had overseen the packing of his master’s bags into the capacious boot. Everything ran smoothly around the diplomat. But not on this occasion.
Rufus thought that Don had aged badly. He was fatter, his hair thinner. Pouches sagged under his beady, spite-filled eyes. Nonetheless he exuded an air of menace – as did the two heavies who were standing on either side of him.
‘That’s a mighty good French accent, Rufus,’ said Don. ‘Impressive.’
Rufus said nothing. Dully, he peered up at Don, who was shaking his head sadly.
‘I’m disappointed in you, Rufus. Poor Pete, my sister’s boy, he died, and what did you do? You legged it. Didn’t even pause to give me an explanation.’
Rufus said nothing.
‘Her heart was broken by it. He was her only boy. Now, are you going to tell me what happened?’
Rufus still said nothing.
‘OK, he wasn’t exactly the cream of the crop. I know that. But I trusted you to see him right. To assess his possibilities.’
Possibilities? Rufus thought bitterly. Pikey had been useless. And he had told Don that, even before he’d foisted the boy on him and set the whole disaster in motion.
‘What’s the craic, eh? Say something, Rufe. Even if it’s only bollocks.’
Rufus worked some spit into his mouth. ‘The boy was a fucking washout.’
Don drew in a sharp breath. ‘That’s not nice, speaking ill of the dead. Boy’s not here to defend himself. If he was, what a fucking fright he’d look. Burned to a fucking cinder the way he was.’
‘It was an accident,’ said Rufus. ‘He was a bag of nerves. He spilled the petrol. Set light to himself.’
‘Yeah? But that’s beside the point, isn’t it. Because you were in charge. The buck stops with you, Rufus. The foreman always takes responsibility for any balls-ups.’
‘What do you want me to say, Don?’ asked Rufus, feeling exhausted, in pain, defeated. He’d been putting this off so long, and now here it was, here it came for him. He wasn’t going to walk out of this room, he knew it. ‘God knows I didn’t want it to happen. But it did.’
‘What I want you to say is that you’re sorry, Rufus. That’s what.’
‘I am sorry. Jesus, he was only a kid. He should never have been there, Don, he wasn’t up to it. I got shot, Pardew shot me. But I got him. I went to church when I was well enough, after it happened, lit a penny candle for Pikey’s – Peter’s – soul.’
‘And I’ll light one for you,’ said Don, and nodded to the man on his left.
He was holding a petrol can.
Ah Jesus . . .
He took off the cap, and emptied
Similar Books
