Ruthless - [16]

And, hopefully, you were wiser next time.

As always, Rufus did the job dispassionately, collected the cash, and departed. Ignored the spitting, the anguish, the tears, the occasional kick or inexpertly thrown punch from the punter under pressure. It was all in a day’s work. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

Soon as he was back in London, he headed for the pub.

‘Heard a word on the street,’ said Gabby, setting the drinks on the table.

‘Oh yeah?’ Rufus took his first mouthful of Guinness. Nectar.

‘Someone’s been asking around about you.’

His interest sharpened. ‘Who?’

‘It’s been passed along to me by a mate or two. Some Irish called Callaghan was interested in finding you, they said.’

Rufus’s stomach clenched sickly as the cold Guinness hit it. He went very still, sitting there at the table, ‘Sultans of Swing’ playing on the jukebox. The telly over the bar, sound turned down, was tuned into the Moscow Olympics coverage. Everyone was going crazy because Seb Coe had won the fifteen hundred metres.

‘Feck,’ he said.

Rufus looked at his pal. He’d got quite matey with Gabby over the last few years, but trust him? No. He didn’t trust anyone much any more. Not since Rory’s missus had dobbed him in. He’d been living on his own in London, giving out nothing about his background. It was obvious he was Irish. He only had to open his mouth to reveal that. Fear of discovery, of Big Don Callaghan tracking him down, had made him cautious.

He’d been so careful. Thought he was settled, sorted, at last.

And now, this.

‘You know him, this Callaghan fella?’ asked Gabby.

‘Maybe,’ said Rufus.

‘Well, go careful. Lay low a bit.’

‘Thanks for that, Gabby.’

‘No problem.’

They had another round, and then Rufus made his excuses. ‘Got a bird waiting,’ he said.

He didn’t. But suddenly the pub felt too open, too exposed. Everywhere he turned, he seemed to see covert glances, people eyeing him up and then quickly looking away. Ridiculous, of course: but Gabby’s news had made him edgy.

If Don caught up with him, he was dead meat.

He thought again of poor Pikey, erupting in flames like a fucking Roman candle. Damn, Don couldn’t think that he’d wanted things to turn out that way, could he?

On the other hand, if he were in Don’s shoes, he would react the same. He would want revenge on the one responsible for his nephew’s death. And the one in charge that night had been Rufus, which made him responsible for what happened. He couldn’t argue with that.

‘Give her one from me,’ said Gabby with a salacious wink.

‘I will,’ said Rufus, and made his way to the door.

From the pub, Rufus headed straight for his flat. He was so jumpy now. He felt wired, as if he’d been on the steroids like so many of his colleagues, fuelled up with ’roid rage. But Rufus wasn’t into all that. His body was a temple, he wasn’t going to sully it with drugs. He’d even packed up the fags. He knew he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, but his health and fitness meant a lot to him. It was his living, after all.

Instead of parking in his usual spot, he left the car round the corner, just to be on the safe side. Trying to look casual, he studied the cars parked along his road, keeping an eye out for anyone sitting in a car watching, or loitering on the street, waiting for him to show up.

Nothing. All the cars were empty, the street was deserted.

He began to calm down. False alarm.

Then he saw the flare of a lighter in a doorway and spotted two men, not twenty yards away, smoking, chatting in low voices, glancing around them, paying particular attention to the entrance to his block. They were waiting for him to show up. Rufus felt his guts clench with queasy fear. His heart started to hammer wildly in his chest. Gabby was right. Don had found him.

Carefully, he backtracked. As soon as he was out of their sight he ran, scrambled into his car and drove, fast, away from them. He’d prepared for this. He didn’t dare return to his flat now. He drove down to the warehouse near the Albert Dock, and made his way to the wall.

Removing a few of the bricks, he rummaged inside the cavity and drew out the plastic package he’d hidden there. It contained a fake passport with his picture in it, and a stash of francs. Then he drove to Portsmouth, parked up on a quiet side road, bought a foot passenger ticket and boarded the ferry to France.

17

Paris, 1983

Rufus loved France. More especially, he loved the club life along the Champs-Elysées, where he quickly found work as a bouncer. No one cared who he was here, no one knew him. It was all fine. He moved into a small flat on Faubourg-du-Roule and started dating one of the louche blonde dancers from GoGo, the club he worked in.

He didn’t speak the language fluently yet, but it wasn’t a barrier to him. He set himself the challenge of learning more as soon as he could. But most of the French spoke English. And everyone, from all around the globe, understood fuck off when a meaty eighteen-stone redhead with muscles bulging out from his suit like ball bearings in an overstuffed sock, said it.

He stayed there, enjoying