I Love My Smith and Wesson by David Bowker Read Free Book Online Page A

connection—Victor was Frankenstein’s Christian name. With Mrs. Munley’s permission, Rawhead used the tools in her late husband’s workshop. He repaid her by driving her to the doctor every Tuesday for her physiotherapy. Afterward he took her to the supermarket for her weekly shop.
    Mrs. Munley was under the impression that Rawhead worked for a security firm, guarding buildings and people at short notice, hence the odd, unpredictable hours he worked. Sometimes he stayed out all night. She was a good sleeper and was rarely aware of his nocturnal arrivals and departures. She and the neighbors found Victor to be quiet, even mysterious, but pleasant enough.
    If he was home, she liked to cook him a meal. Something warming and simple, like shepherd’s pie. That was what she cooked him tonight, when he came home from not shooting Little Malc. They ate together, Rawhead and the nice old lady, sitting at a table in the tiny dining room. Rawhead had a huge plate of food; Mrs. Munley had a child’s portion on a saucer. On a bookcase by the window stood framed photographs of the grandchildren she never saw. Her son and daughter lived in Australia.
    â€œYou should get yourself a young lady, Victor,” said Mrs. Munley. “You’re nice-looking enough. How old are you now?”
    Rawhead looked at her coldly, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Thirty-four,” he said finally.
    She read his lips. “Thirty-four? That’s not old. But it’s not young, either. You should have settled down by now.”
    â€œI’ve never been able to find the right woman,” confessed Rawhead.
    The kettle had boiled. She wandered off into the kitchen. “What kind of girl are you looking for?”
    â€œA woman who knows when to lie down and when to shut her mouth,” he replied, knowing she couldn’t hear him.
    â€œWhat was that?” she said from the kitchen.
    â€œAn honest woman, who will never pretend that she knows better than me. A wise woman, who, when I’m tired of her, will have the good grace to leave before I’m forced to hit her with a shovel and bury her in a lonely place.”
    â€œIt’s no good, Victor.” Mrs. Munley shouted back. “I can’t hear a word.”
    *   *   *
    That night at eleven, Rawhead drove into Manchester. He parked the car at the far end of Water Street and squirted shaving foam over his registration plates. Then he slipped on a woolly hat and ski goggles and walked back to Little Malc’s club. Two bouncers stood on the door. From behind them came the repetitive boom of dance music. One of the doormen was the fat guy with the curly hair Rawhead had seen earlier. The other was a little Scottish guy with swollen knuckles and a horribly flattened face.
    â€œWhere do you think you’re going?” said the Scot, holding his hand out so that Rawhead walked into it.
    â€œIn there,” said Rawhead.
    â€œNot dressed like that,” said the fat guy, glancing rapidly up and down the street.
    â€œBut these goggles cost more than your suit,” protested Rawhead.
    The Scot pointed to a sign on the wall. “See that? ‘Dress code: smart casual.’ No way are you smart. Now fuck off before I smack your legs.”
    â€œBut I’m a special guest of Little Mike’s,” said Rawhead.
    The bouncers exchanged smirking glances.
    â€œLittle ‘Mike,’ eh? You’re no special guest of nobody,” said the Scot. “Now do what the man says while you’ve still got teeth.”
    â€œDid you realize you’re supposed to call me sir?”
    â€œYou fucking what?” said Fats.
    â€œI’m a member of the public. And even if you refuse me admission, you’re still meant to call me sir.”
    â€œDo you know what I love most about knuckle dusters?” said the Scot to no one in particular. “The way you can hear the crack as they split open a