Paper Money (28 page)

the ground, casually thrown away by a child.

Obviously, Ma had been out when it happened, which was a mercy. Tony

decided to clear up before she got back.

He got a spade from the outhouse. Between the yard and the garden gate

was a small patch of poor soil which the old man used to cultivate

intermittently. Now it was overgrown. Tony took off his jacket, marked

out a small square of ground, and began to dig.

The grave did not take him long. He was strong, and angry too. He trod

the spade viciously and thought about what he would do to the killer if

he ever found him. And he would find him. The bastard had done it out of

spite, and when people did things like that they had to boast about it,

either before or afterward, otherwise they would have proved their point

to nobody but themselves, and that was never enough.

He knew the type.

Somebody would hear something, and tell one of the boys in the hope of a

reward.

It crossed his mind that the Old Bill might be behind it. It was

unlikely: this was not their style.

Who, then? He had plenty of enemies, but none of them possessed both the

hatred and the guts to do a number like this. When Tony met somebody

with that much front he usually hired the bloke.

He wrapped the dead dog in his jacket and placed the bundle gently in

the hole. He shoveled the earth back in and made the surface even with

the flat of the spade. You didn't say prayers for dogs, did you? No.

He went back into the kitchen. The mess was awful. There was no way he

could clean it up alone. Ma would be back any minute it was a bloody

miracle she had stayed out this long. He had to have help. He decided to

ring his sister-in-law.

He went through the kitchen, trying not to spread the blood around. It

seemed an awful lot of blood, even for a boxer dog.

He went into the parlor to use the phone; and there she was.

She must have been trying to reach the phone.

A thin trail of blood led from the door to the body, lying stretched

full length on the carpet.

She had been stabbed only once, but the cut had been fatal.

The look of horror frozen on Tony's face changed slowly as his features

contorted, like a squeezed cushion, into an expression of despair. He

raised his arms slowly upward and pressed his palms against his cheeks.

His mouth opened.

At last words came, and he roared like a bull.

"Ma!" he cried. "Oh God, Ma!"

He fell to his knees beside the body and cried: huge, loud, racking

sobs, like the cries of a child in total misery.

Outside in the street a crowd gathered around the parlor window, but no

one dared to come in.

THE CITY TENNIS CLUB was an establishment which had nothing to do with

tennis and everything to do with afternoon drinking. Kevin Hart was

often struck with the implausibility of its title. In an alley off Fleet

Street, squeezed in between a church and an office block, there was

hardly room to play table tennis, let alone the real thing. If all they

wanted was an excuse to serve drinks when the pubs were shut, Kevin

thought, they could surely have found something more credible, like

philately or model railways. As it was, the nearest they could get to

tennis was a coin-in-the-slot machine which displayed a miniature tennis

court on a television screen: you moved your player by twiddling a knob.

However, it did have three bars and a restaurant, and it was a good

place to meet people from the Daily Mail or the Mirror who might one day

give you a job.

Kevin got there shortly before five o'clock. He bought a pint of draft

beer and sat at a table, talking idly to a reporter from the Evening

News whom he knew vaguely. But his mind was not on the conversation:

inside, he was still seething.

The reporter went away after a little while, and Kevin saw Arthur Cole

come in and go to the bar.

To Kevin's surprise, the deputy news editor brought his drink across to

the table and sat down.

By way of greeting Arthur said: "Quite a day."

Kevin nodded. He really did not want the older man's company: he wanted

to be alone to sort out how he felt.

Arthur sank half his beer in one, and set his glass down with a sigh of

satisfaction. "I didn't get one at lunchtime," he explained.

Just to be polite, Kevin said: "You've been holding the fort on your

own."

"Yes." Cole took out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, and put them

on the table. "I've said no to those all day. I wonder how long I can

keep it up."

Kevin looked surreptitiously at his watch, and wondered whether to move

on to El Vino's.

Arthur said: "You're probably thinking you made a mistake ever to join

this profession."

Kevin was startled. He had not credited Cole with that much

perspicacity.

"I am."

"You might be right."

"That's very encouraging."

Cole sighed. "That's your trouble, you know. You will come out with

these clever remarks."

"If I've got to lick boots, I am in the wrong profession."

Arthur reached for the cigarettes, then changed his mind. "You've

learned something today, haven't you? You're beginning to understand

what it's all about, and if there's anything to you at all, you've

acquired a trace of humility."

Kevin was angered by the patronizing tone. "It amazes me that after

what's happened today there is nobody around here with a sense of

failure!"

Cole laughed bitterly, and Kevin realized he had struck a chord:

Arthur's sense of failure must be more or less permanent.

The older man said: "You people are a new breed, and I suppose we need

you. The old way--making everyone start at the bottom and work their way

up slowly--was better at producing reporters than executives. God knows

there's a shortage of brains in newspaper management. I hope you'll

stick it out. Want another pint?"

Arthur went to the bar. Kevin was somewhat bemused. He had never had

anything but criticism from Cole, yet now the man was asking him to stay

in newspapers and become a manager.

That was not in his plans, but only because he had never thought of it.

It was not what he wanted: he liked finding things out, writing, working

for the truth.

He was not sure. He would think about it.

When Arthur came back with the drinks, Kevin said: "If this is what

happens when I get a big story, how am I ever going to get anywhere?"

Arthur gave that bitter laugh again. "You think you're alone? Do you

realize I was news editor today? At least, for you, there will be

another story." He reached for the packet of cigarettes, and this time

he lit one.

Kevin watched him inhale. Yes, he thought, for me there will be another

story.

For Arthur, there won't.