England's Lane by Joseph Connolly Page B

all very unexpected and very likely quite, well—upsetting, really, I suppose it must be. Yes. So let me come right out with it, if I may: one hundred pounds, and there’s an end on it. Not much really, is it? When you think of all what’s at stake. Not much at all, I shouldn’t have said.”
    Jonathan Barton inclined his head, eyeing his toecap reflectively.
    â€œI would appear to have misjudged you, Mr. um … what is your name, in fact?”
    â€œWalton, sir. You call me Jackie like everyone does.”
    â€œMisjudged you, Mr. Walton. Quite a head on your shoulders. Now tell me … this, er—information, of which you imagine yourself to be in possession. Spoken to anyone about it …?”
    â€œI’m not stupid, Mr. Barton—like now I think you realized. What would be the good in that? What I’m offering you is pure. No one knows but me. And I’m also the only one what knows that Mr. Jonathan Frost now go under the name of Mr. Jonathan Barton, family butcher, and currently resident in England’s Lane, north London. A very long ways from where anyone last clapped eyes on you. You been bright, Mr. Barton. I take my hat off.”
    Jonathan Barton nodded—threw across a grin of complicity.
    â€œOne hundred, you say …”
    â€œI was going to say guineas, but then I thought nah—who am I kidding? I’m not a guineas sort of a person.”
    â€œLet me tether your pig in the yard—seems to be getting rather restless. Don’t want the neighbors disturbed, do we? I’m assuming that the creature is still part of our transaction …?”
    â€œTook your tenner, ain’t I? Business as usual.”
    â€œQuite. Well … that sort of cash … I don’t keep it lying about, you understand.”
    â€œUnderstand perfectly, Mr. B. But you got some of it, ain’t you? Half, say. Rest tomorrow. How about that?”
    â€œHalf. Well yes I daresay I might be able to lay my hands on half of it. In the refrigerator, out at the back. Where I keep it. Shouldn’t be telling you really, should I?”
    â€œMy lips is sealed, Mr. Barton. You can rely on old Jackie.”
    â€œRight—well come along then, Mr. um … See what I can find. Galton, is it? Might only be forty …”
    â€œWalton, yeh. Forty quid is a quite acceptable deposit, Mr. Barton. I’m not grasping. Patient man. And then tomorrow you can hop across the bank, can’t you?”
    â€œYes. I can’t see that that should present a problem.”
    Jonathan Barton had led the way out of the back door and into a small darkened yard, crates and sacking piled up haphazardly against the rough and crumbled walls. He tied the pig to a hook by the door, and it set to truffling its snout into the bits of bone, skin and sawdust that had drifted up into a corner. From the considerable fob on a chain that led from his trouser waistband into a pocket, Jonathan Barton selected the key to the large refrigerator, turned it and tugged down and forward sharply on the handle.
    â€œWoo—you ain’t never going to starve, is you Mr. Barton? Look at it all! Cow, is it, that …? Beef, so to say. Chickens—cor: how many chickens you got in there? Never seen the like. Lamb and all, if I’m not mistaken.”
    Jonathan Barton was smiling, almost shyly. “I like to keep a fair array. Shan’t be a moment.”
    He braced himself against the piercing lance and judder of cold as he entered the cold store, the shock of it already covering his fingers as he pulled out some wadding from the left-hand corner, down at the floor where the jugs of kidneys were.
    â€œYou’re in luck,” he said quite easily, as he reemerged shivering into the yard. “Forty-five. More than I thought.”
    â€œThat’ll be lovely, Mr. B. That’ll be just lovely.”
    Jackie Walton’s two large hands