The Knife Sharpener (39)

39.

Nichola turned around. ‘Bob?’ she asked.

            ‘One and only.’

            ‘The fuck you doing here?’

            Helmut stood behind her. She could hear his breath.

            ‘Robert?’ asked Helmut.

            ‘Bohemian Bob, these days, matey. What you callin yourself? I heard all kinds on the tramlines, so to speak. Scurrilous rumours, to be sure. But definitely that your moniker was tossed out – reCrafted eh? That and that no one quite knew where you scuttled off to. Or chose not to say.’

            ‘Helmut.’

            ‘Odd choice.’

            ‘Made sense at the time.’

            ‘New names always do. I quite like mine.’

            Nichola was looking back and forth between the two men. Bohemian Bob noticed. ‘Oh, yeah, darlin, we go back some ways to the good ol days. They ain’t all stories now, Nicky.’

            She couldn’t find any words.

            ‘Ah, you might not have heard em of course, being that you never tagged along on me Chapel pilgrimage. That story, bout the Wastes and a special set of cutlery – that one always came later in the night.’

            A motor droned along Grey St. Washing over the calls and clinking of heels.

            ‘Colour me sandy yellow and call me a wuss, but we’d best skedaddle. I bet me remaining teste that them Biffs who’ve been doin laps of Grey St for the last hour or so will be back soon,’ said Bohemian Bob and moved off to the van.

            ‘Black car?’ asked Helmut.

            ‘Spot on.’

            ‘It drove past us before,’ said Nichola.

            ‘Then they’re probably just deciding what to do next. That, or ticking all the boxes. Ministry regulations.’ He shrugged. ‘Ain’t that a thing we don’t miss, eh Helmut?’ said Bohemian Bob still wandering away.

            Nichola turned to look directly at Helmut. He wore his usual impassivity. Recognition and surprise melted off. His face met hers and he shrugged. She saw headlights coming down Grey, lighting up the mouth of the one-way street.

            ‘Ministry regulations?’ she asked. He ignored her. More and more about the man that needed to be clarified. What did he know of Ministry and their arcane rules? ‘We can trust him?’

            ‘I can hear, lovey,’ said Bohemian Bob. ‘But you go ahead and tell her. Old Bohemian Bob, he’s fine. Got the Helmut out of a scrape or two. Not much time for that yarn, but. Time to move.’

            Helmut nodded and followed the man Nichola ha thought was merely an old drunk.

            Bohemian Bob ducked down the other side of a large skip near the van. Gestured Nichola and Helmut to his spot. The same black Ministry car cruised past the one-way street. Seemed to slow down. Then moved on. Its low motored drone fading.

            ‘Trumpet cunt. They’ve marked it,’ said Bohemian Bob.

            ‘Where are they going, then?’ asked Nichola.

He looked out around the skip. ‘Trying to make us relax, I’d say. They’ll come back on foot. Quiet, like.’ Bohemian Bob pushed Helmut towards the van. ‘Grab your sharpening shit, then it’s time to say fuck off to your ride, matey.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s obvious ain’t it?’

‘No. My tools.’

Bohemian Bob gave half a glacne to the chef’s bag in Nichola’s hands. ‘Might need em,’ he said.

            Helmut moved to the van.

            ‘Quickly,’ said Bohemian Bob.

            Nichola watched as he pulled open the door and grabbed his toolbox.

            A female voice called out from Grey St. “What brings you two stiffs on down my way tonight? Looking to manage my trois? Or does one of ya just want to watch?’ It was answered with muffled laughter. Then, ‘now, now. I was joking youse two. No need for that.’

            ‘They’re comin. Hurry the fuck up,’ said Bohemian Bob. Helmut slide the van door closed quietly and returned to the skip.

            ‘Right, you all got your bits and bobs, yeah? Then lets make like a willy-willy and spi –’

            An explosive shot rang out. They all fell to the filthy pavement behind the skip. Screaming started on Grey St.

            ‘This way,’ said Bohemian Bob, lurching off in a gracefully crouched drunken stagger. Nichola and Helmut followed. Yelling and cursing echoed around the narrow streets. In between flats and terrace housing.

            They followed his fluoro torn footy shorts, starting to ride down his bum. Bouncing and darting along the sidewalk. Bohemian Bob kept moving until he reached a wire fence leading into a small apartment courtyard. He grabbed hold of it and split it apart where he had clearly previously cut it. Crept through, still peeling it open.

            ‘Through here,’ he said. ‘We’ll circle back round.’

            Nichola crept in. Then Helmut, pushing his tools out in front of him.

            ‘Well, is that the van?’ said a nasal, male voice behind them.

            ‘It would certainly seem that way,’ said a nasal, female voice.

            ‘If we both have reached this conclusion, can we then assume agreement? That it is the van we saw before?’

            ‘I think that this would be correct, yes.’

            ‘Well done.’

            ‘Brilliant.’

            ‘And those shadows?’

            ‘Indeed.’

            Another enormous gun shot and the crunching, crumbling sound of brick exploding nearby.

            ‘Go,’ said Bohemian Bob, closing the wire gate behind them. He took off in a half collapsing run towards the apartment. Nichola and Helmut fell in behind him. Hard, slow steps followed in the street. A gun cocked metallically.