Those Who Feel Nothing by Peter Guttridge Read Free Book Online Page A

Vietnamese wise guys have tried to put the pinch on him. He’s seen them all off.
    A certain amount of myth has accrued around him. Colonel Kurtz madness; Rambo righteousness; Fu Manchu sneakiness. All stereotypes. All wide of the mark. You met him thirty-five years ago. You were pleading.
    Paradise was in shadow. Of course. He gave you twenty seconds then cut you off.
    â€˜Stop, for Christ’s sake,’ he snarled. ‘A grown man begging turns my stomach. You never get anything with begging.’
    â€˜The person I’m talking about is someone I care for very much.’
    You couldn’t see his face but you could hear the grimace in his voice.
    â€˜More fool you,’ Paradise said. ‘We’re not going to get along if you carry on like this. First thing you need to learn is that emotion is pathetic and useless. Look around: the world belongs to those who feel nothing.’
    â€˜Just let me know the whereabouts,’ you said. ‘I’ll do the rest.’
    â€˜It doesn’t work like that in my country.’
    â€˜I’ll pay.’
    â€˜That was a given.’
    â€˜A lot.’
    â€˜That’s where we begin to diverge. What constitutes “a lot” for you and for me are, I fear, two quite different things.’
    â€˜Payment doesn’t have to be in money,’ you said.
    â€˜I don’t want your arse, thanks very much.’
    â€˜I didn’t mean that,’ you said. ‘I have skills you could use.’
    Paradise was silent for a long moment.
    Now the cockney outside the bar is looking you up and down. You can see behind him that his friends in the bar are huddled together.
    â€˜What’s your name anyway?’ he says.
    You tell him.
    He eases away.
    â€˜Well, brother, if I come upon this Mr Paradise I’ll be sure to mention your name.’ He glances around you. ‘In the meantime, why don’t you stick that glass up your arse?’
    The two women aren’t there any more. You point the glass at the cockney but not in a combative way.
    â€˜What’s
your
name?’ you say.
    â€˜Neal.’
    â€˜Cassady?’
    He laughs so you know he understands the
On The Road
reference. And that means he is tipping you to the fact that he knows Paradise.
    â€˜Just help me get started with him,’ you say. ‘You can’t do whatever it is you do without his say-so. Give me a number.’
    Neal gives you the once-over again. Frowns.
    â€˜You look like a stiff wind would blow you down. Why do you want to mess with Paradise?’
    â€˜That’s a long story,’ you say.
    You’re aware that Neal has shifted a couple of feet away and changed the angle between you. His stance is casual but you know he’s getting ready.
    You’ve been having problems with your temper lately. A lot of stuff coming up that you can’t always control. There’s been a lot of yin and yang going on. Mostly yang, unfortunately. Yoga and deep breathing exercises on the one hand; wanting to pummel people to death with your bare hands on the other.
    You have the glass of neat vodka in one hand and your lighter in the other. You’re tempted to throw the vodka over his head and touch the lighter to his hair.
    But you’ve also been trying hard to be mellow. You drain the vodka, acutely watchful for any move from him to ram the glass into your teeth.
    He’s focused on you but is still caught off guard when you swing the glass away from your mouth into his left eye socket.
    He stumbles back, instinctively putting his hand to his eye. You put him down with an elbow driven hard into his collarbone and another whack of the vodka glass, this time to his temple.
    You walk back inside. You approach the table where the three men are sitting having a desultory conversation.
    â€˜I’m looking for Sal Paradise,’ you say.
    In the sudden silence Neal shouts something groggily incoherent from outside. They jerk