Free Hawthorn and Child by Keith Ridgway Page B

it. He couldn’t tell if it was laughter or anger.
    Fuck. Fuck it.
    He tried to hit Hawthorn. He threw his left arm out – why his left arm he didn’t know, all his strength was in the right – and Hawthorn simply leaned away from it, and it glanced off his shoulder, maybe his ear, and Hawthorn had stood and his chair was clattering to the floor, and he had stood up too, apparently, and he threw the right and Hawthorn caught it, and something hit his stomach and he clenched, and then Hawthorn was smothering him, his arms around him, clamping him down so that he could not hit again, couldn’t raise his hands, and he tried to butt with his head and break the hold, but he was just jerking in Hawthorn’s arms like a crying child and he could hear sobs, and he looked for the door, he just wanted the door, and he struggled and he shouted Let me fucking go, and he had made no impact at all, none, and they broke from each other and he could not look back, and there was just a simple gap where there had previously been something complicated. On the stairs he wiped his cheeks but they were dry.
     
    She was watching television. He stood in the doorway. Eventually she looked back at him.
    – What is it?
    – We have to go.
    – What?
    – Pack, he said. Quickly.
    She stared at him. He could see her start to feel afraid.
    It was the way he looked.
    – EastEnders , she said, very quietly.
    – Pack. Now. Not much. Basic stuff. Money. Passport. Some clothes. We might not be back … for a while.
    – What the fuck?
    – Just do it.
    He went to the bedroom. He threw things on the bed. Clothes. He couldn’t think. He pulled bags from the top of the wardrobe. He took the shoebox from the bottom drawer, tipped it out on the dresser. Her passport, his, the other half of his drivers’ licence, a credit card he never used, some euro notes. He stopped. He took off his shoes, his jeans. He walked back into the living room. She was on the phone.
    – Who are you talking to?
    – My mother.
    He didn’t know what to say.
    – Tell her you’ll call her tomorrow.
    He went to the bathroom. He took off the rest of his clothes and switched on the shower. He was sweating. He stepped in and stood under the water and he thought about trains. Trains, hotels, money. He thought through all of it again. He knew he wasn’t thinking straight, but he didn’t know how to fix that. After a few minutes she came in.
    – Where are we going?
    – Paris.
    – What’s happened?
    – I’ll tell you when we get going. Please go and pack.
    When he got out she was still there.
    – It’s OK, he said. Everything will be OK. Just fucking pack, will you.
    – You have to tell me.
    – I fucked up. Stay if you want to. I have to leave. I’m going in about ten minutes.
    He walked, dripping, through to the bedroom. In the doorway he froze. It took him a second or two to realize that it hadn’t been ransacked, that he’d made the mess himself.
     
    In the taxi she called her mother and told her they were flying to Barcelona for a couple of days on a cheap last-minute deal. At St Pancras they had to rush. It hadn’t cost much, he told her. He ran up the escalators with both their bags. He could hear himself wheezing. Cigarettes. They had two seats facing the wrong way. When they were settled he kissed her. Then he told her. He told her about Mishazzo, that he was a big deal. He told her about the violence. How they went and beat people up. He told her about Price. He told her about the gunshot. He told her about the two policemen who had picked him up by the Emirates. He told her about the deal they gave him. This was the story. He told her about the hotel jobs. He told her that he’d had no choice. He told her that Price was a psycho. He told her that the cops were psychos too. He told her that Price had become suspicious. He didn’t know why. Maybe he’d heard something. That the cops were talking to someone. He didn’t know. Price was on to him, he thought.