Decay Inevitable

“Do you know how sad you are? In two minutes, you’re going to be as dead as the thing in Vernon’s boxers, dangling there, kicking imaginary footballs, but I’ll still be earning a crust and getting my back scratched by the girls In Country.”

“For how long, Tim? As soon as you start slowing down, or fucking up, whichever comes first, how long do you think they’ll keep you in custard, hey? For as long as it takes to find another weirdo who’ll happily go wandering among the stiffs while they sit back and rake in the goodies.”

Tim was staring at him, but Sean couldn’t work out if it was because he had hit a nerve or whether Tim had just switched off, as he had seen him do at the de Fleche building sometimes.

“We all share the takings,” Tim said.

“Really?” The noose was causing Sean’s throat to itch. It hugged his Adam’s apple when he swallowed. It felt as though the rope was getting to know him, sizing him up. It felt impatient for the work it was best at. “There’s more than just money. Rich pickings you haven’t been told about. Vernon there. Have a guess how old he is.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Vernon. Do you know how old he is?”

Tim’s mouth was opening and shutting like the slow gape of fish in restaurant tanks. At last, he said, “Vernon’s my friend.” He busied himself checking the knots on Sean’s wrist and around his throat, but he was troubled, Sean could see that. He must suspect something himself, even if he wasn’t saying as much now. Sean suggested that was the case.

“Just fuck off,” Tim said, the profanity sounding clownish coming from his too-soft mouth. “All right? Just fuck off. It’s not going to save you. Nothing’s going to save you.”

“What’s going to save you, Tim?” And then he told him how old Vernon Lord really was.

“What?” Vernon said, when he was distracted from his tabloid newspaper for long enough to see that Tim was gazing at him, his shoulders slumped, the end of the rope like a limp prick in his hands. “What’s up?”

Sean said, “What is it, Tim? You not getting any of this deal? They give you a bit of pocket money to shut you up and send you on your way? And there’s Vernon. Pink and perky. And old enough to be your great-great-grandfather.”

“He’s having you on, Tim,” said Vernon. “Listen to what he’s saying. The madness.”

Sean went on, “You never see Vernon with a cold, or a bad back, do you? And all those things wrong with you, Tim. They could sort you out in a second if they wanted to. But they don’t want you or anyone else getting too strong. They want people they can control.”

Tim said, “In Country, I can breathe clearly. My chest doesn’t hurt. I’m well there.”

“And how often are you allowed over there, Tim? My guess is, not very often, and when you are, they’ve got you on a leash. Vernon doesn’t take those risks, and look at him. Look at a photograph of him from fifty years ago, like I did, something Kev showed me, and you won’t find a single difference. They’re ripping the piss out of you.”

Tim returned his attention to Vernon, who had pulled himself to his feet, a sorry expression on his face. He was slowly shaking his head. Tim said, “Is that true?”

“Timmy,” Vernon said, weakly. “You’ve been like a son to me.”

Gleave strode back into the room, a mobile phone clamped to his ear. It came away from his ear when he saw what was going on.

“Why isn’t he dead yet?” he asked, waving the phone vaguely in Sean’s direction.

Tim said, “I want more life.”

Gleave’s expression was that of a father who had just returned from an apocalyptic Christmas shopping trip to find he has forgotten the turkey. “I want you to do as you’re told. Now string that fucker up.”

Tim said, “No. I want to know why I’m not in the loop. Why aren’t I getting what I deserve?”

“You want what you deserve?” Gleave asked, all patience evaporated. He grabbed Vernon’s revolver from the older man’s hand and pointed it at Tim’s face. There was a flash of light, but the sound that the revolver made, in the same instant that Tim was launched off his feet to paint the wall with his own colours, was not that of a gunshot. Sean, pulled onto his side when Tim dragged the bight of the rope with him, his neck on fire, thought that clouds had entered the room. They passed in front of the sun, blocking the light. But clouds don’t carry brick-dust in their hearts, and their thunder is not caused by collapsing masonry.