‘I asked you to tell me why it is you can’t go home.’

‘All right,’ April said, leaning her elbows on the bar. ‘All right, then, Pheebs my love, I’ll tell you.’

Chapter 43

There weren’t many things Terry Tice was afraid of, but boredom was one of them. And unfortunately for him, he was easily bored. Returning from the beach, he was hardly in the door at the lupanar before he began to feel restless. The back of his neck was throbbing – his fair skin burned easily under the Spanish sun – and there was sand between his toes, which he couldn’t understand, since he had kept his socks on the whole time he was at the beach.

The Girl started in on him straight away, rubbing against him and trying to get her hand inside his slacks, but he pushed her off.

‘Leave it out,’ he growled. ‘What do you think I am, a screwing machine?’

Bloody insatiable, she was – didn’t she get enough of it in her working day? But ‘a screwing machine’ – he liked that. Sounded like sewing machine, which was why it was funny. Of course, it was wasted on her, since she didn’t understand a word he said.

He lit a cigarette and went and sat moodily by the open window. The street below was all bustle and jabber, as  usual. He already had a headache from the sun. The Girl said something to him in Spanish, asking him some question, and when he ignored her she flew into a rage and started shrieking at him. It was the first time he had seen her like this, and it was quite a sight. He sat back on his chair and folded his arms and grinned at her, saying not a word. That really got her going, and she flew at him and tried to hit him, which was a bad mistake.

*

Funny stuff, human bone. He had seen an X-ray of his own arm once, the time it got banged up when he was working for Jack Comer. Jack, known as Spot because of a mole he had on his left cheek, ran the East End betting rackets after the war. He was one tough Jew, was old Spot. That job that went wrong turned out to be the last one Terry did for the ‘43s’, Spot’s outfit – the day he was let out of hospital, a message came down the line informing him his services would no longer be required by Mr Comer. Unfair, that was, getting his arm smashed in the line of duty and then getting the sack. But you didn’t argue with Spot, not unless you wanted to end up sitting on the floor in a mouldy cellar somewhere with your belly split open and your guts in your hands.