the only thing special about that particular feature was that it hardly ever moved, not even when he spoke. It was hard and small and straight and it told you everything you needed to know about Ray. It was the mouth of a man who could wait for revenge on an unfaithful wife. Which was what Ray had done. Heâd had a firm in Birmingham that had been doing very nicely until his number two, a man called Jackie Smails, had started pumping up Rayâs wife every Wednesday afternoon. Rayâs wife had been the usual, but Ray apparently had never seen it. They never do. To Ray sheâd been the perfection every man always wanted; perfect except to everyone else who didnât have to use bifocals. Itâd taken Ray even longer than usual to find out what was going on under his nose. When he did of course he had Jackie Smails reduced to little bits, but left just alive enough to remember the pain for the rest of his invalid life. Of course this threw the shits into Audrey, Rayâs wife, and she must have started packing her cases the minute she heard about Jackie. But Ray had got to her before she could clear off. And to everybodyâs surprise, not the least Audreyâs, heâd done absolutely nothing about it. Never even mentioned it. Come home, had his dinner, watched TV, taken Audrey upstairs and given her the usual pumping up. Got up the next day, had his breakfast, went out, back in the evening. The same thing for a month. Audrey couldnât believe her luck. So naturally sheâd turned it on all the more, given him the ever-loving bit twenty-four hours a day, and according to Ray sheâd been even better than ever in the pit. So after about a month or so Ray had suggested a weekend in London, a kind of second honeymoon, taking a couple of open cheques instead of luggage so that Audrey could do a bit of kitting out. The Saturday, he took her round all the shops and let her have whatever she fancied. One item heâd chosen for her himself, and that had been a French lace negligée. In the evening heâd taken her to dinner at Quaglinoâs and then theyâd gone back to the hotel and sheâd put on her new negligée and theyâd got into bed and Ray had taken this razor out of his pyjama pocket and cut her face so that she was all one gaping mouth. Then heâd taken her over to the mirror and made her look at what heâd done and then he had put the razor to her throat and still forcing her to look heâd drawn it across her flesh until there wore two new mouths instead of one. Then heâd sat down on the edge of the bed and smoked a cigarette and watched her until she was dead. That was the kind of man Ray Crompton was.
I used to go through this kind of mind-exercising with all the cons. Iâd done it in every nick Iâd ever been in. It helped to pass the night away. And recently, since my last caper, it had become more and more necessary.
It helped keep away the thoughts of Sheila. And the kid.
The shop is warm with morning sun. Dad sits at the counter, the paper spread out in front of him. Next to him, discarded, waiting for me, is the crisp new copy of the Hotspur. I take it from the counter and go and sit down on the stairs. Today is the final episode of Montana Mike, the boy with a past. Itâs the most fantastic story Iâve ever read. Mike is being hunted for a murder he committed under extremely extenuating circumstances, but in spite of this he lives by his own code of great fairness and integrity.
I read the final episode. Mike is killed, sacrificing his own life to save that of Marshall Ned Rutter, the man who has been hunting him, although each respected the other. I read the episode again, unable to accept Mikeâs death, unwilling to give up the world set out on the sweet smelling newsprint. I feel depressed. A sense of loss and anger at returning to the real world of my parents clouds my mind. Mike is dead. I wish I was. Dead that