5 BENEATH THE SURFACE
Days passed into weeks, and it was as though the Silva family had never lived anywhere else. They had been welcomed into the community with open arms, with Mark’s encouragement. Every moment he had, he seemed to introduce Alex to another one of his ‘mates’.
The restaurant had become a big asset too, just as Maggie had predicted. It served steak and chips, burgers for the kids, and half of it she had changed into a carvery which seemed to be proving very popular.
‘For God’s sake, Maggie, how are you making a profit? Those vultures are piling their plates higher than Everest with everything in sight.’
Maggie rubbed her husband’s chin and smiled. ‘That’s why, Alex, love, in the pub trade we give them smaller plates. That way they think they are having a lot, but it’s not that much, really. Yorkshire puddings are just flour, water and eggs. You can make a lot and give two or three at a time; it fills the plate.’
‘You’re a sharp one, Maggie, I will grant you that. And that chef who cuts the meat couldn’t cut it any thinner if he tried. No wonder I love you so much. I thought I was the con man in the family, but I can see I am going to have to watch my back.’ He laughed and slapped her bottom. Taking another sip of his morning coffee, he looked up as the door opened, and Phyllis walked in. ‘Morning, Phyl.’ He beamed. ‘Coffee’s through the back.’
‘Thanks, Alex, I’ll pour Pauline one too. I’ve just seen her get off the bus.’ Trailing her finger along the bar, she pulled a face. ‘I see that cleaner is still on short measures. She sprays polish into the air, trying to make us think she’s been busy. I’ll bring a cloth out from the back with me and give it a spruce up for you, Maggie; that will give you time to get changed.’
Maggie gave Alex a knowing look. ‘Besties are we now, eh?’ She smiled.
‘Yeah, she’s all right really, even though she looks down her nose at everyone. She used to run her own pub until her husband died, then she gave it up. Did you know that Pauline’s sister is a teaching assistant at Dante’s school?’
‘My, you have been busy, Alex. Is there anything you don’t know? You’re like the oracle.’ Maggie couldn’t help but laugh. Alex seemed to have questioned everyone and ingratiated himself in their new community while she had been run off her feet behind the bar. But people enjoyed the way he sat with them and got to know them. Although they never realised that when he ordered a drink for himself, there was no alcohol in it. He had made it a code behind the bar with Phyllis and Pauline that if he ordered a rum and coke or any kind of short that needed a mixer, they were only to give him the mixer. If he ordered a pint of lager, they would give him a shandy. He liked his wits about him, liked to listen to their drunken talk, not the other way around. Phyllis and Pauline had found it unusual that Alex wasn’t a drinker. The truth was, he liked a drink, like anyone else, but he couldn’t afford to let his mouth run free whilst under the influence.
‘I’ve got onto the brewery and asked them about a delivery service. Everyone is doing it these days – takeaway Sunday lunches. They like the idea, and it’s extra profit and good promotion,’ Maggie said.
‘Why would anyone want to do that?’
‘Because people can’t be bothered to get dressed up and come out on rainy days. It’s much easier to sit in front of the television and chill out with your Sunday roast. Some people live on their own and can’t be bothered to cook for one either.’
‘I notice that Percy always seems to hang around near closing time; he thinks we’re a food bank,’ Alex scoffed.
‘He comes in very handy, and giving him a plate of leftovers is no skin off my nose. They would only go to waste. Who wants yesterday’s Yorkshire puddings? Do you know that in his younger days he was a fisherman on the trawlers?’ Maggie smiled as though it was a secret. Percy bored everyone with his days as a fisherman, and his stories became more unbelievable with each tale.
Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, Alex sat on a bar stool and put his head in his hands. ‘Yeah, I know. I’ve heard him say how cold it was. Icy in the Baltic apparently. I swear his stories change each time he tells them. Deana calls him “Uncle Albert” behind his back. You know, the old seaman from Only Fools and Horses. Well, he always started his sentences with “During the war”, but Percy always starts with, “When I was on the trawlers”. She’s a cheeky minx.’ Alex burst out laughing. He thought it was hilarious because that summed up old Percy to perfection. Frowning, Alex looked at Maggie. ‘But what do you mean he comes in handy?’
‘Well, if you took any notice, Alex, you would have seen he is the unofficial glass collector. He puts the dustbins out before I have a chance to. God knows what time he gets up! And when he’s after another free pint, he wipes down the tables in the restaurant. I think he’s lonely.’
‘He’s a creepy pervert,’ chipped in Phyllis, while busying herself polishing the already polished bar and clearly eavesdropping on Maggie and Alex’s conversation. ‘His eyes follow you, especially the ladies. I hate turning my back on him; he’s always spying on your bottom. And why does he have three blue bins for recycling? How much cardboard does a single pensioner who never spends any money have?’
Raising his eyebrows, Alex looked at Phyllis’s bottom, while Maggie gave him a stern, knowing look. Curiosity got the better of him, and he stood up, peering through the window at Percy’s house. Phyllis was right; there were three blue bins outside. Everyone else stored theirs around the back of their houses, so it didn’t make the street look untidy. But there, in full view, were Percy’s bins lined up together. Furrowing his brows, Alex couldn’t help but wonder why. ‘You’re right, Phyllis, he does, and in plain view. That’s strange…’
‘I told you he was weird,’ she scoffed and left the room.
Alex walked over and stood behind Maggie, putting his arms around her waist and pressing himself against her, much more than he should. ‘I think he must be weird if he stands at the corner of the bar admiring Phyllis’s arse,’ he whispered. ‘I would much rather look at yours.’
‘It’s not you looking at my arse that bothers me, Alex, it’s what you’re pressing against it. That Latin blood of yours will get you into trouble one day.’ She smiled, half-turning and kissing him on the cheek before Phyllis’s cheerful humming made them quickly part.
‘Deana,’ Alex called up the stairs. Seeing her at the top of the landing, he beckoned her. Lowering his voice, he steered her out of the back door into the beer garden. ‘Did you do as I asked?’ he whispered.
She nodded.
‘Good. Was it hard to bring here?’
‘Not easy. No one expects a sixteen-year-old with a golf bag full of clubs on the bus, and it was bloody heavy!’
Like any good assassin, Alex couldn’t be without his own guns. They were his work tools, and had saved his life many times. And although he’d had everything else taken away from him, he had been determined that they wouldn’t take his guns. He’d known he would need them one day and that they would possibly save his and his own family’s life one last time. With no one to turn to, he had swiftly hidden his guns at his golf club before the police could take them when they had emptied his house.
Informing for the police was a means to an end for Alex, a way to save his wife and kids. He’d always known the next bullet at the next shoot-out could be in his head. That was the world he lived and fought in. What he had done, by turning himself in and grassing up his associates, had been the only card he had left to play with.
He thought back now to the puzzled looks on the faces of the police officers who had ransacked his home but never found any weapons in the house. They knew who and what he was, but Alex Silva didn’t have a gun? That was unbelievable. He’d also reasoned with himself that one day it might be mentioned in court that no weapons had been found at his house, casting a small shadow of doubt that he was known as the ‘Silva Bullet’. An assassin without a gun was like night without day.
These guns were his armour, his friends. Part of his makeup, almost. Knowing he would probably need them someday, now he had a bounty on his head and any gunslinger would want to take their chance for a huge payout, he wanted his faithful friends with him. How could he fight fire without fire of his own?
‘That’s my girl. Bring them to me later then, while you’re working in the restaurant. I’ll meet you outside the fire exit in the kitchen. Be careful; you don’t know who’s watching.’ Alex looked through the hallway to the bar and glimpsed the first of the customers: Percy. Shaking his head at the thought of another trawler story, he retreated to the cellar. Although Maggie and the others thought he was clearing it up, he actually found it was the perfect place to read his newspaper in peace, but first, he had something to do.
The restaurant was busy for a midweek night, the locals popping in for a catch-up with their neighbours. It had become the end of the day meeting place to share gossip. It was never going to make a fortune, Alex mused to himself, but passing trade was pretty good.
Deana was wandering around gathering plates, and she bumped into him. ‘Sorry, Dad.’ She smiled and quickly cocked her head, indicating for him to follow her.
‘Oh Deana, I’ve got gravy on me; I’d better come and clean up.’ Joining in with her playacting, he followed her out through the kitchen to the exit. Deana ran behind a tree and dragged a large golfer’s bag, full of golf clubs sticking out of the top, towards him. ‘Here,’ she panted. ‘How are you going to get it inside?’
‘Round the back, there’s the outside entrance into the cellar the draymen use. I’ve got an old barrel to stash everything we need in.’ Picking it up and throwing it over his shoulder, Alex looked around furtively to make sure no one was around. Deana ran around the back and opened the cellar shutter and walked down the stone steps that led into the cellar underneath the pub. It was dark and full of cobwebs, and Deana searched for the light switch in the darkness. Only a light bulb hanging on a baton in the middle of the ceiling lit up the room.
‘That barrel in the corner, under the stairs, the lid is loose; take it off.’ Doing as she was told, Deana waited for her father to join her with the golf bag. In turn, they reached inside and took out all kinds of guns, rifles and ammunition, filling the barrel to the hilt.
‘My babies.’ Alex held up a handgun and kissed it. ‘Thanks Deana, I appreciate it. Did you get there okay?’
‘Getting to the golf club was the easy part. Carrying the bag across the green and hailing a taxi for the train station was hard. But the bloody bus after! Oh my God, these bags weren’t built for buses. They take up so much space and everyone moaned. Still, it was nice seeing parts of London again and the old golf club. Reminded me of the old days when you taught me to play golf on a Sunday morning.’ She grinned. ‘But when you asked me to do you a favour Dad, I didn’t expect this.’ Rolling her eyes at the ceiling, she looked down into the bag and took out a few golf clubs to get a better view of the contents. ‘Look, they’re all here, just as we left them all that time ago. Christ, I wasn’t sure they would be, Dad.’
Alex scratched his head. ‘To be honest Deana,’ Alex whispered. ‘I wasn’t so sure either. I feared they might have been thrown out, but it just goes to show what a shithole that place really was, doesn’t it?’ He grinned, flashing a perfect row of white teeth. His heart was pounding in his chest. He couldn’t believe it, here was his salvation.
