I Love My Smith and Wesson Read Online Free PDF Page B

stumbling and sliding in the snow, face aglow from the heat of his exertions.
    But Rawhead always remained ahead of him.
    Always just out of sight.

Two
    Oh, turn away those cruel eyes,
    The stars of my undoing.
    â€”“THE RELAPSE,” THOMAS STANLEY (1625–78)
    Ever since Rawhead had pointed a gun at him, Lol Shepherd had been ill with his nerves. Not that his nerves had been in good shape prior to that event. As a young man, Lol had been infamous for his tendency to jump at the slightest sound. He was incapable of raising a cup and saucer without an accompanying rattle or carrying a drink across a room without spilling it, and as for unfastening a bra strap—well, forget it.
    Lol had once worked for Malcolm Priest. Until his death, Priest had been the formidable leader of the Priesthood, the gang that ruled Manchester. Most gangsters have a sentimental streak and Priest was no exception. Finding Lol’s tremulousness oddly endearing, Priest had hired him as a chauffeur, dog walker, and trusty retainer. It had been easy money—should have been a lot easier after Rawhead shot the dog.
    But Lol was a gentle soul who had never stolen or intentionally hurt anyone, and meeting a hooded assassin on a dark night had wrecked him. It made no difference that Rawhead, apparently on a whim, had spared Lol’s life. Lol’s trust in life had always been fragile. Now it had been shattered.
    Lol was afraid to leave his house. He was afraid of the dark. Mostly, he was afraid of going to sleep. Yet oddly, he wasn’t isolated. He had many visitors. People sought his advice, valuing his long memory and his encyclopedic knowledge of Mancunian lowlife.
    A week before, Chef himself had paid a visit, bringing oranges. Lol guessed that Chef had chosen oranges because Don Corleone buys oranges in The Godfather. Chef had asked Lol’s advice. Little Malc sometimes called to do the same. Lol was careful not to repeat to one visitor what another had said. As they used to say in the War, careless talk costs lives.
    Every Wednesday morning Lol’s eldest daughter, Julie, came to take him shopping and to the cemetery to change the flowers on Violet’s grave. Violet, his second wife, had died suddenly a few years ago. Not as suddenly as Rawhead’s victims, but suddenly enough. The coroner said it was an embolism. To this day, Lol had no idea what an embolism was.
    Violet was buried in Norbury Churchyard. Julie waited in the car while Lol walked to the grave. Today the noise and bustle of the supermarket had proved too much for him—Lol had been obliged to sit in the café, shaking over a cup of chicken soup, while Julie rushed round the aisles, loading his groceries into a trolley and ticking them off on a list.
    It wasn’t a cold day, but Lol was swaddled in a brown abercrombie coat. On his head he wore a trilby. Both the hat and the coat were at least thirty years old. Lol drew comfort from old things.
    He felt safe in the cemetery. The people that lay here were not about to jostle him or make demands. The morning was cold but bright. The winter sun shone, warm and comforting.
    But the sun could not penetrate the bleakest corners of the graveyard. Patches of unmelted snow clung to the base of the churchyard wall, and the gravel over Violet’s plot wore a thin veil of ice. Lol took off his hat as a mark of respect.
    The inscription on her headstone read:
    Violet Shepherd 1932–99
    Beloved wife of Lawrence (Lol),
    Sadly missed mother to Julie and Suzanne.
    â€œIf tears could build a runway
    And love could make a plane
    I’d fly all the way to heaven
    And bring you back again”
    And at the foot of the stone:
    headstone kindly donated by Malcolm Priest
    Lol’s daughters had queried the taste of having Priest’s name on their mother’s memorial. But Lol had insisted. Priest had paid for the funeral, as well as the headstone. No one else had offered, and Lol was not a wealthy