Open Writing

The journey did not take long. On the way, Ruth talked non stop. She was naturally garrulous and the excitement had hyped her up. She speculated about where Toni might be and how earlier she had thought everything was settled.

"I was so relieved. Especially after reading about the murder hunt."

"Murder hunt?"

"A Scottish lad. Nineteen. They said it was a gang fight. The others are in hospital. The lads from Stirling that Jimmy Doc told you about, who got thrown out of Riley's. When I first heard about it, I thought they were relatives of the Doc's. They're not related are they, Maudie?"

"They're not related. They're just unlucky."

At the house he told her where the spare key was hidden in the garden and she unlocked the front door and helped him inside.

"You stink."

"Can't be helped. There isn't time for a bath."

He winced again and held his side.

"What is it?"

"Busted rib, I think. There's tape upstairs. You'll have to tape me."

"Where is it?"

"In the suitcase on top of the wardrobe. Bring the case down."

He took off the jacket and ripped open the shirt whilst she went upstairs. By the time she returned he was stripped to the waist.

"My God. What a mess."

"I look better when I breathe in."

"What did they hit you with?"

"Anything they had. Look. Stop admiring it and tape it."

She placed the suitcase on the coffee table and dropped clean clothes in a chair.

"You can at least change. You stink to high heaven and . . ."

He opened the suitcase and she was silenced by its contents. He handed her a wide roll of surgical tape.

"Tape me."

She still looked at the open suitcase.

"Are you going to start a war?"

"No. I'm going to finish one. Tape me."

She taped him from his waist to his armpits, encasing him tightly in the strong self adhesive.

"Save some for my leg."

He allowed her to remove his trousers without embarrassment and pointed out where he wanted the tape around his left thigh. When she had finished she helped him to dress in slacks and knitted shirt.

"What time is it?"

He leaned against the back of an armchair and pretended he felt better.

"Half eight."

"Get the hire car out of the garage. The keys are under the driver's seat. I’ll follow you."

Ruth hesitated.

"What is it?" he said.

"Why not call the police?"

"No time. They'd ask questions before they'd do anything. And it's too late. There's no way to stop this now. All you can do is ride it out."

She nodded, although he knew she did not fully understand, and went out of the back door.

Maudie pulled on a lightweight trenchcoat that was hanging in the hall. It was too stylish for his age but perfect for his purpose.

The pockets were merely slits. He could put his hands through and scratch his bollocks if he wanted to. Below the slits, on the inside, were patch pockets. He put on a fresh pair of surgical gloves that he took from the suitcase before he began.

In the left-hand pocket he put three canisters, two of smoke and one of CS gas. He wiped the Luger of prints and stuck it into his belt, the butt concealed by the loose shirt. The flick knife with the six-inch blade he taped horizontally on to the tape that covered his stomach. He did it with care so that it would tug loose if he needed it.

He picked up the shotgun and felt its power. It was a beauty. An Ithica stakeout gun. They had a wicked way with weapons in the United States. A five-shot, slide-action repeater with short barrel and pistol grip. It was fully loaded and he put a handful of extra 20-gauge cartridges into the right-hand patch pocket.

He put his hand through the slit pocket and took hold of the grip. The gun lay beneath the folds of the coat, ready and lethal.

Ready to go the limit.