Angels of Death (3) Napoleon Baconparts

The pig rasped unhappily, struggling to breath, his eyes glazing over.

 

His kennel had a perfect view of the city below, the streets of London where he’d once walked every day, dragging his owner behind him on a leather lead, taking him wherever he fancied. Those days seemed long behind him now, as he lay, lacking the energy to move so much as a step. He had taken to going to the toilet in nappies, the ultimate indignity of frailty and age. Even to a pig it was humiliating, especially to a pig that had once had the whole of London at its mercy.

 

“There, there, Napoleon,” said the man standing over him. “You’ll soon be better. The boys are fixing things, you’ll soon be back on your trotters.”

 

The old man patted him and held out some sprigs of asparagus. “Try these, Napoleon,” he whispered, “They’re fresh, from the local farm. Full of vitamins.”

 

Napoleon had just stared at the veg emptily.

 

The old man looked tired, sad, pathetic. Norris! The feared gangster, king of the town, but he didn't look it. Didn't feel it.

 

“You do know it’s Hewson’s funeral today?” Knox had said to him  earlier that day.

 

“Of course I know,” he had barked back. “When have you ever known me not know anything? It’s my business knowing things”

 

“You’re not going like that are you?” Norris was dressed in bright yellow cycling shorts and an overlarge T-Shirt which read ‘I shot JR’ on the front and ‘You’re next you cunt’ on the back. Back in the 80s he’d had twenty shirts made with the same text, had found it very amusing at the time. Thirty years later he still used the last surviving shirt to potter round the house in, when he couldn’t be bothered to dress.

 

“I’m not going,” he’d replied.

 

“But Hewson did a lot for us.”

 

“You go then, represent me. Send my regards. Organise flowers. I’m not leaving Napoleon like this.”

 

Knox had nodded ascent, though Norris could tell he didn’t approve. None of his men ever had. Any time he’d put off business to take the pig for a walk, or, latterly, to the vet. But Napoleon had done a lot for them. What the boys didn’t understand was the importance of image. The gangster that goes on a daily walk with a pig – it works on every front. It’s eccentric, it’s talked about, it shows that that you don’t give a stuff what the rest of the world thinks. If there are rumours about the pig’s diet, in particular what happened to Freddy Maltega, well, that doesn’t do no harm either. 

 

No, the gang owed everything to Napoleon, which is why he’d left everything he owned to the pig. Napoleon stood to inherit his entire empire, every last penny, his wife, kids, friends, nobody else would get a thing from him.

 

Not that the pig looked likely to inherit. The pig rasped on, breathing seemingly the best it could do.

 

“You hang on in there, Napoleon,” the old man said. “The boys are sorting things. The surgeon’s booked. This time tomorrow you’ll have a new heart and you’ll be back jumping around like a piglet.”

 

The pig let out an enormous anal roar, and the nappy bulged.

 

“Tanya,” the old man shouted, “nappy change.”