The Dragon's Skin. Ross Gray

stands and we can see he is average in height. He hefts the sports bag and saunters around the soccer field, stopping occasionally to shout encouragement to his son’s team. Eventually he takes a seat on a bench directly opposite the one he vacated on the other side of the field. No tree. He watches the game.

      At the end of the first half his son runs over and drops heavily, muddily, on the bench with an exhausted but satisfied sigh. ‘We’re winning,’ the boy breathes happily.

      ‘So I see,’ says proud but reticent dad.

      ‘D’ja see me get that ball across?’ the boy asks through vigorous dabs of the towel.

      ‘Sure did. Bloody beaudy. Here.’ He hands his son a bottle and an orange. ‘Don’t guzzle.’ He drapes a jacket over his shoulders. ‘And don’t get cold.’

      They bask, silent except for gurgles, belches and juicy sucks, in the bonding of shared glory, and then the boy races off to join his mates. The second half begins.

      Down the field a figure detaches from the cacophonous clump of parents and supporters and moves in this direction. It is a blunt brick of a man, rounded on the corners and edges. He is wearing a thick straight woollen overcoat that reaches to his knees. It is buttoned to the chin and the collar is turned up to his ears. His hands are stuffed deep in its pockets. He is hatless and the sunlight glistens on a head that has been shaved to a shadow. At a distance he could be mistaken for something designed by Lego. A scarf, similar to soccer dad’s, is draped loosely – and insincerely – around his thick shoulders. Soccer dad’s eyes drift from the play long enough to note his progress.

      The man from Legoland reaches the bench and, without removing his hands from his pockets, bends like a butted cigarette and sits. His eyes are agate marbles and he watches the game, unblinking. Soccer dad twists around and fossicks through the plastic bag in the sports bag. He extracts a crisp hundred-dollar bill and hands it to Lego man.

      ‘You win,’ he says. ‘I didn’t think he’d have the nerve. How’d you know?’

      ‘Didn’t,’ says Lego man. ‘Just playin’ safe.’ His voice is deep, but flat, like a bag of wet sand striking a concrete floor. It begins and ends with his words.

      ‘But you knew he’d come to me?’

      ‘Boss knew.’

      ‘Coughed up double, hardly a squeak, just like you said.’

      ‘What’d he want?’

      ‘He wants an accident. No doubts.’

      Lego man nods solemnly as if this was expected. ‘Give ’im what he wants,’ he says. ‘It’s ’is funeral, an’ he’s payin’.’

      ‘Poetic justice,’ soccer dad says glibly.

      Lego man turns his face towards him and he sees the lengthening of the short hard line of the small mouth, which in this man passes for a smile. ‘Didn’t want ’is own back,’ he says. ‘Shouldna pissed into the wind.’

      ‘It would be simpler and safer just to press delete,’ says soccer dad.

      The smile closes down like a computer screen in a blackout. Obsidian eyes swallow soccer dad’s gaze, like a thin stream of water poured in a well. ‘An accident,’ he states. ‘An’ it better look sweet. The cops are the least of y’ worries.’

      Soccer dad stares at Lego man, something dawning in his eyes. ‘Shit,’ he says. ‘He hasn’t sanctioned this.’

      ‘I’ve sanctioned it,’ says Lego man. ‘There a problem?’

      ‘Nah, nah. Just a bit disappointed. Thought he’d owe me a favour.’ He sighs. ‘Should’ve known. Weeds his own garden, doesn’t he?’

      ‘I owe y’ a favour,’ says Lego man. ‘ ’S almost as good.’

      Soccer dad seems to agree. ‘But he knew about the contract?’

      ‘Didn’t need to. Soon as ’e came to you, Bernie took out a contract on ’imself, didn’t ’e?’ Lego man has been following the play during the latter part of this exchange. ‘Y’ son just got a goal,’ he says.

      Soccer dad’s eyes flick to the running and jumping and hugging melee down near the goal then back to the man beside him on the seat. ‘You know which one is my boy?’

      ‘Yeah,’ says Lego man. His head rotates, owl like, in his upturned collar. His mouth’s grim line tweaks to a grin line. ‘Research.’

      Soccer dad regards him closely. ‘You’ve learnt a lot from him, haven’t you?’

      ‘The Boss? Yeah.’ There is an odd softness in the last syllable. And for a moment he ceases to look like something that would anchor the bowlines of a battleship. Then, abruptly, he stands and the moment is gone. He pats soccer dad heavily on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, you’re not Whitey Poynter.’ Thin grin. ‘I’ll be watchin’ the news,’ he says as he walks away.

      Soccer dad watches the game to its end, distracted from time to time by small inspirations related to his plans for the demise of the blond man. His son’s team wins. After the game, to celebrate, he takes his son to a McDonalds. Just like in the ads on telly.

      A little over two years from now his son, this same boy, hero of the day, will die. An accident – a real one. No human intention or intervention, just stupid fate or the flap of a butterfly’s wing somewhere on the planet. With this event the man described will gain an appreciation of death that had formerly, somehow, eluded him. He will break his pencil in small pieces and never strike out another name. He will let James Bond have backstage as well as front and centre. He will live to a very old age. And not a day of his life will pass that is not tinged with regret and abraded by a question that clots like sand in the perpetually damp Speedos of his immortal soul.

1

      ‘What’s he on?’

      ‘Nothing.’

      ‘I find that hard to believe – a gutless wonder like Benny Bovell. He’d have to be revved on something to pull a stunt like this.’

      ‘Ben isn’t gutless, just raised in menageries that kept sharks in the bath water. Made him a little tentative about … things. If he’s high, he’s high on desperation.’

      ‘Jesus, spare me the pop psychology. From you, it’s as palatable as a shit foccacia.’

      ‘You invited me to contribute.’ The gaze was steady, the slight smile self-effacing, the only movement was his shoulders in an almost imperceptible shrug.

      ‘I didn’t invite you. Let’s make that clear. The invitation came from Benny. You’re the only bastard that dumb-arse will talk to.’ He tried to skewer him with his cold, hard, don’t-fuck-with-me stare. ‘Shit!’ he said, and looked around at the Critical Incident Unit brains trust: the leader of tactical response, the negotiator from the Behavioural Analysis Unit, the explosives expert, the emergency coordinator, technical support, the silver tongue from police media, lads in uniform and lads not. As the situation dragged on unresolved the numbers in the room had crept up like a mortgage. They all looked right back. The silent consensus seemed to be that this bastard was still their best hope of pulling the faggot out of the fire. He turned to him again. ‘Alright. Did the little shit tell you what he wanted?’

      ‘He wants something I can’t give him.’

      ‘Oh? Something you can’t give him? Well maybe amongst all the people Benny has gathered here today,’ he swung his arm in a wild arc that took in the room, ‘we might find someone who can give him what he wants. What the fuck does he want?’

      ‘He wants me to “take care of” someone.’

      ‘So?’

      ‘He also