“Isn’t he scared of the noise?” Petey asked.
“Nah,” the hitman said. “He uses a .22. Delicate little piece. Sounds no louder than a cap gun.” He looked at his watch. “We have to go soon.”
“Another job?”
“Nah. Got my dance class tonight.”
“You dance?”
“Oh, yeah.” He showed them. Nifty piece of footwork ending up with a 360-degree turn. The monkey applauded, so they joined in. “You want to see some more?”
An hour later and the hitman had well and truly missed his dance class. But he seemed happy enough that he’d had the chance to entertain them and he’d forgotten about (or forgiven) the slap on the cheek. And the truth was, he was extremely good at dancing. All that spinning around and never once getting dizzy. Apparently, so he told them, it was all in the way you twisted your head to the side, focused on a particular spot, and let your body turn.
Like Petey had said, if the hitman was as good at killing people as he was at dancing, Dunlop didn’t stand a chance.
Anne wrote the hitman his cheque and handed it over.
“If you don’t cough up the rest when I’m done,” the hitman said, “I’ll have that fine-looking tractor I saw out in the turnip field.”
Lester stiffened. Nobody was getting their hands on his tractor. “You’ll get the money,” he said. “When are you going to do it?”
The hitman looked at his watch. “Well,” he said. “I’ve no other plans for the rest of the night.”
“What are we going to do?” Lester asked, after he’d gone. “He’ll be back for his money later.”
“What do you mean?” Anne asked.
“We don’t have any. He’ll take my tractor.”
“It’s not yours,” Bamber said. “It belongs to all of us.”
“He’s not getting it,” Lester said.
Anne stroked his beard. “I don’t know that we have any choice.”
Lester went back in the house and knocked on the door of the cupboard under the stairs.
The girl who lived in there opened it. She was about nine, wore clothes that were far too big for her, the sleeves of her jumper hanging over her wrists, trouser legs flapping over her feet.
“What?” she said.
“I want to borrow your shotgun,” Lester said.
She tilted her head, licked her lips. “Why?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“What’re you going to do with it?”
“Please just let me borrow it.”
She stood there, hands on her hips. “You know what happened the last time I leant it to someone.”
That was the time Dad had found Alf in bed with Mum.
“So?” Lester said.
“You going to shoot someone too?”
“Maybe.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
Lester stared at her. “But this guy, he’s going to take my tractor,” he said.
“Oh,” the girl said. “Oh, dear.” She pouted. “That’s probably for the best, don’t you think?” Then she swivelled on the balls of her feet and closed the door.
When the hitman returned, about eleven, he was covered in blood, and alone. They all went out to meet him. He climbed out of his Mini and they all wandered over to the barn together.
“Is it done?” Anne asked, once they were inside.
“Crazy coot, that Dunlop,” the hitman said. “You people never told me. Just kept talking to himself.”
“Is he dead?” Petey asked.
The hitman was out of breath. He held up a hand, then said, “Yeah.”
“Where’s the monkey?” Bamber asked.
Lester was glad Bamber had asked. He wanted to know too but was afraid of what the answer might be.
“Didn’t make it,” the hitman said, lowering his eyes. “Dunlop did something to him. He said, ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘Oh, I’ve come to kill you.’ ‘That’s nice. Why?’ ‘I don’t know, it’s what I do.’ ‘But you’re a monkey.’ ‘And?’ ‘You shouldn’t be shooting people. In fact, you shouldn’t be talking like this.’ ‘I’ll talk how I like,’ the monkey said. And fired his first shot. Wide. The second got Dunlop in the leg. Dunlop said, ‘You’re a freak of nature.’ ‘I’m a monkey.’ ‘A monkey freak.’ The third shot got Dunlop between the eyes and that was him. But the monkey wasn’t finished. He looked at me and I told him no, he wasn’t a freak, but he didn’t believe me. He put the gun in his mouth and squeezed the trigger. That’s how I got covered in all this crap.”
“Bit of a mess, right enough,” Anne said.
“Sorry about your monkey,” Bamber told him.
“Never mind that,” the hitman said. “Where’s my money?”
Anne ran a hand through his hair, looked at Lester. Then away. “Don’t have it. You’ll have to take the tractor.”
“Fine,” he said.
But it wasn’t fine. It wasn’t fine at all.
Lester lunged towards Petey. Grabbed the fence post from him and swung it down, two-handed, on the hitman’s head. There was a thunk and the hitman reeled. Lester whacked him again. And again. The hitman dropped to his knees and groaned. Lester hit him again. Kept pounding his skull with the fence post.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Thunk.
When Lester’s arms hurt too much, he stopped.
Nobody spoke for a while.
Then Petey said, “Can I have it back?”
Lester held out the fence post. It was covered in blood, and bits of hair and scalp were stuck to it.
Petey started to cry.
Lester said, “He’s not getting my tractor.”
“No,” Anne said. “He’s not.”
Anne took the hitman’s arms and Bamber took his legs and they carried him over to the freezer. Lester helped them lift him inside.
When they closed the lid, it was as if nothing had changed.
“You okay?” Anne asked.
Lester got up at 4.30 the next morning. He washed, brushed his teeth, dressed, and was outside by 4.45. The sky was cloudy and drops of rain fell on his face.
In the field, the turnips poked through the soil like rows of naked scalps. He didn’t want to touch them. Didn’t want to go anywhere near them.
He tiptoed through the field towards his tractor. He opened the door, climbed inside the cab.
He sat there, shaking.
Then he got out again and ran back into the house. He stopped outside the cupboard under the stairs and thought about asking the girl once again if he could borrow her shotgun. But he walked on, upstairs, into his mum’s bedroom where he took his clothes off and climbed into bed beside her and Petey.
Mum woke up, stroked his hair.
Birds chirped, Petey snored, and his mum kept stroking his hair.
Lester thought he might stay here for a long, long time.
As God Made Us
A. L. Kennedy
Dan never explained why he woke up so early, or what it was that made him leave the flat. Folk wouldn’t get it if he told them, so he didn’t tell. He’d just head off out there and be ready for the pre-light, the dayshine you could see at around 4 a.m. — something about 4 at this point in the year — he’d be under that, stood right inside it. Daily. Without fail. Put on the soft shoes, jersey, tracky bottoms and the baseball cap and then off down the stairs to his street. His territory. Best to think of it as his — this way it was welcoming and okay.
He’d lean on the railings by number 6 and listen and settle his head, control it, and watch the glow start up from the flowers someone had planted in these big round-bellied pots, ceramic pots with whole thick fists of blossom in them now: a purple kind and a crimson, and both shades luminous, really almost sore with brightness, especially when all else was still dim. They only needed a touch of dawn and they’d kick off, blazing. Dan liked them. Loved them. He would be sorry when they went away.