Free Hawthorn and Child by Keith Ridgway Page A

It need anything?
    – It’s fine.
    – How’s the missus?
    He tensed, and his stomach did something, and he tried to look blank but he was sure he didn’t.
    – Who?
    – Mary Mary, all contrary. The boss was telling me. You should come out at the weekend. To my place. Sunday afternoon . I have some of the lads over sometimes. Girlfriends, wives, kids. That sort of thing.
    Price was wearing jeans. A blue jumper. He was smiling. He had his hands stuck halfway into his pockets.
    – Don’t look so fucking shocked, kid. It’s a good thing. Wholesome. Family-friendly. Barbecue and drinks. Got a big plunge-pool thing for the kids. Watch out for Vinnie’s missus after she’s had a couple. You’ll love it.
    – Whereabouts?
    – Near Braintree. Easy. You can take the car if you want I suppose. But probably better to hitch a lift with Pawel. Teetotal. He doesn’t live far from your place. Five minutes. Give or take.
    – I said I’d see my father this weekend.
    Price frowned.
    – Don’t bring your father, no offence.
    – I mightn’t be able to make it though.
    Price rocked back and forth. Glanced to his left.
    – You should come. You know, put on some friendly. It’d be smart. Let me know tomorrow.
    Price nodded to his left.
    – Your date is here.
    Mishazzo was standing outside the office door looking at them, a little smile on his face, his umbrella clutched under his arm and his hands peeling the cellophane off a packet of cigarettes.
    They drove all the way to Luton, not talking, listening to Ernest Carvallio’s Music Of The Barrios, the smile on Mishazzo’s face as constant as the road.
     
    – Is there a procedure? For … if I get in trouble. What happens? What do you do?
    Hawthorn rubbed his eyes. He smelled of a long day.
    – You’re a long way off anything like that.
    – He knows where I live.
    – Of course he knows where you live. What made you think he wouldn’t know where you live? You probably told him where you live. When you went there first.
    – No.
    – Your father then.
    He said nothing. He sipped his coffee. He bounced his fucking knee and he looked out the fucking window.
    – So you won’t help us?
    – You don’t need help. You’re panicking. You’re being stupid. They are not suspicious. They like you. They’re being friendly.
     
    He tried to tell her to tie him tighter. To hit him harder. To yank his head back by the hair. He wanted her to spit in his face, in his mouth. He wanted her to hit him. But he was no good at talking. He tried to make her guess things by the way he reacted. She seemed to get it. But not enough. She was too careful, too considerate. She checked too much. He thought about writing it in the book. Like instructions. But the book was not for that.
     
    Price called him on the Friday.
    – Don’t need you today after all.
    – No?
    – I’ll pay you half.
    – OK.
    – You coming on Sunday?
    – Sure.
    – Good boy. I’ll get Pawel to pick you up about midday. What’s the girlfriend’s name again?
    He looked at the curtain. The day was making it bulge. She had gone to work. He pressed his thumb against a bruise on his ribs.
    – Mary.
    – Right. Mary. Informal. Bring a bottle.
    And he hung up. Without asking for the address. Not even which number flat. Nothing.
     
    – You’re not going to help us.
    Hawthorn sighed again.
    – What do you want me to do?
    – Money. At least some money.
    – For what?
    – To get away.
    Hawthorn laughed.
    – Where are you going to go?
    – Morocco.
    – Morocco. What are you talking about?
    – Or Spain. Morocco or Spain.
    Hawthorn crossed his arms. He looked like he was going to cry, but his body was angry and his voice was cold and he was laughing at him. They sat in Hawthorn’s kitchen, at Hawthorn’s table. He felt like he had never been there before.
    – You want to run away to Morocco or Spain because a couple of dodgy geezers have invited you to a barbecue?
    Hawthorn’s voice was quiet. There was a shake in