A Fifth of Bruen: Early Fiction of Ken Bruen

“He-cups... that’s what I call them.”

“Excuse me?

“That’s my little pet name for them. You think that’s chauvinistic I suppose.”

Beck didn’t suppose anything... save the man was an ejit. The rumble of the tube train could be heard. People milled forward. The man moved right up to Beck, continued,

“Hey... hey, sonny, I’m talking to you... too much to expect a reply... is it? Too snooty to answer a person?”

A faint but persistent hiccup was indeed evident. Beck turned, said,

“Faint ones are a symptom of AIDS.”

“What... Are you serious?”

“I don’t know. I mean... personally I don’t know. But according to The Lancet...”

Beck let him digest that... the train was fast approaching. He reckoned he’d the man nigh full primed. Another little push...

“The Lancet is...”

“I know what the flaming thing is. Christ on a bicycle... they’d know... I mean... they’re the experts...”

“Gotcha,” thought Beck and, “now.” He let his expression darken and just before he hopped the train, said, “It’s the masculine ones... the he-chaps... they’re the ones to do you in.”

As realisation hit the man’s face, Beck was losing himself in the crowd... he muttered, “Suck on that.”

Stephen Beck was 38 years old. To quote James Ellroy,

If he had to quote a writer, make it a crime one... and a particularly manic type. Keep them guessing. When people retorted,

“Ah, you read crime novelists.”

He said,

“No.”

He was 5’10” in height, losing what brown hair he’d had and stockily built. Brown eyes redeemed a mouth that longed to remain turned down. His nose looked broken and badly repaired. A sinus problem didn’t add to its appeal. His teeth were white, even and gleaming. Usually in a glass.

Once watching Tony Bennett, he felt a surge of identification.

“Nothing about either of us is real.”

Beck was a college graduate. In sociology. This equipped him, he believed, to juggle balls on street corners. What he did was run a market stall.

Tell folks you were in marketing and they launched into stocks and options banter.

“Which area of marketing, Stephen?”

“Where the Walworth Road meets East Lane. A statistic up from the Elephant and Castle.”

They thought he was droll... if somewhat tedious. His mother on first hearing the news shrieked,

“For this you went to college...?”

“Mother, I spent twenty years in Education. I reckon another twenty to undo the damage.”

Beck had made some major fuck-ups. No argument.

An ex-wife, an ex-child and no excuses. His daughter, four years old, was the light of his existence. But it seemed he saw her less and less. Perversely he reckoned this increased his love... and it wasn’t a redeeming love. It tortured him. He’d removed her photo from his wallet and scorched her further from his heart.

Lately, he’d placed a Dictionary of The Saints next to Elmore Leonard. He’d search through it, for the Martyrs, wanted to know how they screwed up initially and then recovered all in or by the final burning act. A death scenario he wasn’t planning, but the general plan lay in there somewhere.

Take Kerry. A virgin she’d said... O.K. Then she’d blown, rode, teased, tied and used him through every variation. Midway she’d said,

“Don’t come yet!”

“Excuse me?”

He wasn’t claiming to be some expert but had he missed something along the way. But come on... was it the sort of quote virgins uttered — Surely... the coming was generally held to be of some surprising significance. Enough women had faked it with him for him to know the result.

Later, he’d had to ask...

“Am... I thought you said you were... am...”

“A virgin?”

“Am... yes.”

“Technically I am.”

“Technically!”

“Oh sure, I’ve had dozens of men — dozens.”

A neon sign lit above his head. It screamed AIDS.

“No man has ever penetrated my heart.”

... And goodnight Kerry.

The success of the family was Martin. He was almost beyond cliché... tall, handsome, smart, capable. You met Martin. You reached for superlatives. Worse, he was a nice guy. In the old sense of that label. He’d lend you money without a lecture and in his company you felt of worth.

He was three years younger than Stephen and they’d always been close. In the early ’80s, he made mountains of money in property. A darling of the Gods. But, as usual, they turned vicious, sent “Black Monday” and Martin came crashing down. First financially, then all the others too. He hit the booze and then the booze lashed back. With ferocity. Dark clouds had never entered Martin’s view. Now it seemed as if a permanent winter had bought his soul.

With no option to sell.

The spiral fizzled out at the Maudsly Hospital. Martin was now already ten months a patient there. Only Stephen was welcome.

He’d said,

“So, Stevie, did you know I tried A.A.?”

“No... any good?”

“Well now Stevie, I’m here, in the lock-up ward... What do you think, eh... am I a success story?”

“Are you going to tell me about it or not?”

Truth was, Stephen wasn’t even vaguely interested. Martin sensed this and thus continued,

“They said it was easy. All you had to do was go to meetings and...”

“And?”

“Change your whole freaking life.”

“Sounds a piece of cake.”

“They’re all C.I.A.”

Uh... uh, thought Stephen... paranoid delusion, spooks everywhere. Wistful smiles from Martin.

“Don’t frown like that, Stevie... it highlights yer baldness.

“C.I.A... it’s a little A.A. humour.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Yeah...

   Catholic

   Irish

   Alcoholic

   ... gettit?”

Yea, Stephen got it all right. What he didn’t get was where it was particularly humorous. Perhaps you had to be there. But would you want to be?

Martin was warming to his theme. Stephen’s sourness helped. A sidebar of Martin’s illness was “No more Mr. Nice Guy.”

“They’re a weird outfit these same A.A’s. A young girl told the most horrendous story.”

“Her name wasn’t Kerry was it?”

“What...”

“Nothing, you were saying?”

“Yea right. So this girl who is NOT CALLED KERRY does her horror number and you know what they did?”

“I have no idea.”

“They laughed... shower of BASTARDS. Anyway, this guy cornered me after the meeting. A holy roller. Piety was leaking outa him. He was Welsh, with that singsong voice. I misheard him and thought he was trying to flog me something. Yo... boys, I said, I got family in the market... in the actual market place.

“... O.K., so I was being literal but he got real shirty and pushed off. Only later I realised he was saying ‘Higher Power.’”

Beck was lost.

“I’m lost, Martin, I don’t catch the gist.”

“For fucksakes, Steve-o, wake up and smell the coffee. I thought he said ‘Hire Purchase’”

Martin’s voice had risen.

“You used to be so sharp... you’re not paying attention, is that it. The mental case is boring the arse off you... is that it?”

Stephen tried to interrupt. Martin was a decibel from roaring and ranted further.

“The old mad house humour not up to yer high standards...? Oh God, I’m shouting... Whoa, hey, can’t have that. Keep the lunatic tranquil.”

“Martin... Ple-ASE, don’t say that.”

“Well it’s true, I mean look around you... this ain’t the Golf Club. It’s the Bobby Hatch

   A Home for the Chronically

   Wired

   for the dipstick dysfunctional.”

A nurse came running.

“Time to leave Mr. Beck...”

“Yeah,” said Martin, quieter now, “Run from the loony,” and then in a whisper,

   “... Sorry Steve-o

   ... sorry

   I’m sorry.”

Steve fumbled his way to the bus stop. A bus came almost immediately. Dropping into a seat, a woman opposite him said,

“You’re in luck love, this is the first bus for ages.”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Not in luck, what I’m in is bits.”

The woman settled herself and her whole posture suggested “Chat.” With a sinking feeling, he knew intuitively she’d share her surgical experience.

“Ah for fucksakes,” he groaned, and leapt from the platform at Camberwell. He heard her exclaim,

“Well, I never!”

There’s a mean pub on the Green, it has a reputation for violence.

“Good,” thought Stephen and slammed in.

“Yo”... from the barman. “Here comes the Cisco Kid!”

Stephen did the smart thing, ignored it. The barman was short, bald and despite a beer gut, enclosed in an ultra tight waistcoat.

Stephen said,

“Gordons... yeah, Gordons if you’ve got it.”

He wanted to add,

“And if you can spell it.”

But, priorities, drink first, insults later.

Miffed, the barman said,

“Would sir require lemon?”

“Yea, float one of those suckers in there.”

Large gulp and the glass was empty. Stephen felt it hit his stomach like bad news. Exactly what he’d planned.

The barman tapped his own bald head.

“When did your thatch leg it?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not a difficult question, when did you go bald?”

Each time was like a fresh shock — somehow. Stephen hoped it was like the flu... unpleasant but of limited duration. He never believed truly HE was bald. Receding maybe, strong forehead... OK even, Godhelpus, stripped temples... these could be borne. But bald, so blunt and final.

Stephen had no answer to give so he didn’t even try.

That the pub had a rep for violence was no surprise. People probably stood in line to pump the crap out of the barman.

“Let me have another Gordons, better make it a double... and have one yourself.”

“Thank you kindly... don’t mind if I do... the old stomach’s playing up... perhaps a hint of brandy & port for settlement purposes.”

They smiled.

“Cheers.”

“Good health... and hair.”

“So... no work today?”

Stephen sighed, said,

“It’s raining!”

“This prevents you working? Good grief, I hate to be the one to break this to you, seeing how we just met, but you’re living in the wrong country. To coin a bon mot,” (he pursed his lips), “but England is not renowned for its dryness... thus in fact... The Burberry...”

Surely, Stephen thought, one brandy couldn’t alone be responsible for this verbal onslaught. The bastard must have been nipping all morning.

“The markets. I have a stall.”

“... and no cover, thus climatic conditions have stalled operations.”

“Touché,” said Stephen, and all of a sudden he was tired of the guy.

Draining the gin, he made to leave. The barman performed what can only be described as a pirouette.

“You’ll come back and see us real soon... you hear?”

Stephen muttered,

“Not in this lifetime, pal.”

Stephen had a council flat near the Oval cricket ground. “An area coming back,” according to a quality Sunday paper. “Where had it been?” he wondered.

In an old building, the flat was basic. One bedroom, living room, bathroom, kitchen. Each room appeared smaller than the next, damper than December. The living room had one armchair, one sofa. All of one wall was lined with books. A beaten record player, still functional, propped the books. Teems of records overspilt the carpet. One large bay window had a sizable hole. Depending on his mood, he attributed it to either the Pakistan fast bowler or a 12 gauge.

Times too, he half believed it. Why not, might it indeed have been thus. He took the Saint’s Dictionary in his lap, the Penguin edition. The soft fold of the book was comfort of itself. Bend it, and in time... it slipped back to itself. Unlike Martin.

Was there a Martin the Martyr? He found this entry:

A pope no less, in 655. He fell foul of the Byzantine Emperor, Constans II. A nasty piece of work. For 47 days, Martin refused water to wash and was racked by dysentery. What food he received was enough to make him vomit. He died in the Crimea and was then deemed a martyr.

Stephen pondered this. Things weren’t quite so rough at The Maudsly. He’d have to check out the food, but didn’t imagine dysentery was a major problem. Still, in S.E. London, you couldn’t be too careful.

On a flick through the start of the book, he was startled by an entry. Yea, under B... there it was, Bee.

Beck’s mother was Irish and her full name was Elizabeth Mary Beck née Olionnor. She’d always been called Bee.

“As I was industrious... always working.”

Stephen had never known her to do a hand’s turn. From Galway, the hometown of James Joyce’s wife.

“Oh, I knew Nora Barnacle. A plain girl.”

Impossible as this must have been, she clung to it and felt it gave her an insight into the writer.

“If he’d found a pretty girl, he wouldn’t have bothered with all that smut.”

A tall woman with striking eyes, she gave the impression of intelligence. What she was... was sick. A cunning mixed with manipulation was cloaked in sweetness. You’d nearly thank her for making you feel bad. Stephen’s most recent encounter with her had not gone well.

He’d gone round to her home off Clapham Common. Her welcome was close to manic.

“Stephen, darling... how wonderful. What a beautiful surprise.”

“Bit over the top, Mother... eh?”

She was wearing a bright pink track suit, her hair was currently fiery red. The impression was of a thunderball, blazing... And coming right at you.

“Unchained Melody” was blaring in the background. She saw herself as a child of the sixties which was as true as the Nora Barnacle yarn.

“Sit down darling... you must have smelled the tea.”

“Coffee, Mother... I don’t drink tea... Remember... it’s Martin, he drinks tea.”

“How is Martin, poor Lamb?”

“Mad.”

“Oh dear, at what?”

“Clinically mad.”

“Yes, well, I’ll get the tea.”

Stephen fell into the armchair. Such times he wished he smoked. His mother chain-smoked Silk Cut Mild and he’d inject heroin before he’d follow.

“Now isn’t this cosy.”

A large tray was placed between them. China cups, scones and a mammoth teapot.

Stephen had a malicious thought, said,

“Let’s let you be mother and pour.”

Waste of time. She’d skipped past such remarks all her life... Stored them... sure, and paid back, but later.

“Milk?” she asked.

“That’s tea... is it?”

“Yes, you asked for tea... odd, I thought you were a coffee drinker.”

He gulped the tea.

“Jesus... Mother, what is that... dried seaweed?”

“Chamomile?”

“Couldn’t you just get Lipton’s or something?”

“You’ll develop a taste for it.”

“But why would I want to?”

“Health, Stephen, treat the body well and the mind will follow. It’s not too late to save your hair.”

... Paid back.

Wearily, he took a shot.

“This... this from a smoker... no... a chain smoker.”

“Tut, Stephen, sticks and stones! There’s something I wish to ask you.”

“So ask.”

“How would you like to call me B.B.?”

“What?”

I feel the time has come to deformalize our relationship. ‘Mother’ sounds so... so cold, distant even. I think this might bring us closer.”

“Like buddies you mean?”

“Oh yes, Stephen, you’ve got it exactly. You are that clever. You could have gone so far, like Martin.”

“I’ve just been to where Martin went. I didn’t like it much.”

“You like it then... B.B.?”

“Sounds like an airgun.”

“You kidster, Stevie... Think how if we were in a restaurant, how it would sound to the waiter.”

“You’d want the waiter to call you B.B. too?”

“NO, silly... he’d hear you address me as B.B. and...”

“And what exactly. He’d tell the boys in the kitchen, there’s a bald guy calling his oul wan B.B.”

“I hate to rush you, Stephen, but then I’m expecting an important call.”

They had an awkward moment at the door. A hug was out of the question.

“Then you’ll call me B.B.?”

He looked at his shoes... then slowly met her eyes.

“Not if I live to be a hundred.”

Stephen replayed the talk with his mother on his marriage plans. At first she said nothing. Then,

“You know Stephen, I have quite a healthy nest egg put by.”

“That’s good, Mother. Nice to sleep easy at night.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking. A young man ought to have his own pad... a bachelor pad... in a nice area.”

“Pad... Jesus wept... Have you been mixing with beatniks or something? Jack Kerouac will never be dead.”

“Really Stephen, you talk so strange. Anyway, where was I?”

“You were thinking... As Sundance said to Butch, ‘Keep thinking Butch, it’s what you’re good at.’ As I recall the Mexican army was just about to punch their tickets.”

“Do stop interrupting... What I had in mind was £25,000 to secure down payment on a good single man’s apartment.”

“Ah, right, this... this inducement is open only to a continuing bachelor.”

“Tut tut, Stephen, as if I’d bribe my own son. Really, the very idea of it... it’s just that were you to marry at this moment in time, I’d be unable to disturb the nest egg.”

Stephen knew exactly how to respond. How you’d tell someone you behaved. Naturally, you leapt to your feet... spluttering... bristling with indignation. He was especially fond of the bristle. The old splutter wasn’t too bad either. You cried,

“How dare you attempt to bribe me... the effrontery to think for a minute I could be bought. This is the woman I love. I’ll thank you never to mention her name again. The cheque hasn’t been written, etc... However, if you didn’t intend telling anyone.”

Stephen rose, looked squarely at his mother and said,

“When might I have this money?”

Three weeks later, he and Nina were married. Mrs. Beck, Senior, was not among those in attendance. Peter Ustinov said that parents were the bones on which children sharpen their teeth. Stephen would dearly have loved to introduce his mother to him. See what he’d write then.

NINA

Stephen met her his first year at college. Just over 5 foot, she had the English pretty face that disintegrates into plainness. Inclined to plumpness, she lived from diet to tortured diet. Her quietness attracted him. She had a sporadic humour that time would sharpen.

Mrs. Beck disliked her instantly and showed it. Nina studied English Lit. and did a further year’s training as a Teacher of English as a Foreign Language. On graduation, Stephen proposed and she said “No.” She wanted to travel, and Stephen... he said,

“I want to stall.”

“You’ve stalled enough, Steve, time to get moving.”

“I’m serious Nina... I want to run a market stall.”

“Whatever else you might be Steve, alas, serious isn’t one of them.”

Mrs. Beck was delighted.

“You’re well rid of that wan. Mark my words, she’ll end up working for the poor in Calcutta.”

“She’s a teacher for God’s sake.”

“Wait and see. The likes of that wan ease their guilt by highlighting everyone else’s.”

“Mother, that might even be profound were it not so vicious. As it is, it’s plain vicious.”

“And Nina is a professional depressive. She works at it...”

Stephen got his stall and then the years blended into casual encounters, the pub and banality.

The night of his 33rd birthday, he invited some of the market traders for a drink. On the other side of five vodkas, the good side, he said aloud,

“Fuck, how did I get to 33? I turned my head for an instant when I was 19... and bang... I’m over 30... from nowhere.”

“Your language hasn’t improved.”

First he didn’t recognise her... she had glasses, the plumpness was gone. A leanness now and her hair cut short.

“So,” she asked, “did you miss me?”

“What do you think.”

“I think you might buy me a drink.”

He did, and six months later, they married. The twenty-five grand he lodged in a new account. Martin was best man. A rich one. He’d asked,

“Do you love her?”

“No.”

“At all?”

“I’m not even sure I like her.”

“Well Steve-o, I hate to be obvious, but why did you decide to marry?”

“She’s pregnant.”

“Steve... this is the ’80s, buddy. No one does the decent thing. You fuck off, it’s almost mandatory.”

“I like to be awkward.”

“From your lips to God’s ear.”

“I don’t think God listens a whole lot anymore, Martin.”

“Let’s hope he isn’t today.”

The baby came, a girl, and turned Stephen’s world. He expected he’d like the child... well, it was natural. He intended to provide for her. But he never expected to be involved. The day of her birth, they handed the baby to him. He had the appropriate responses prepared,

“Oh gee... wow... I’m amazed.”

And then?

And then what you did was go to the pub and get legless. “Wet the baby’s head,” total strangers bought you buckets of it. He liked that scenario.

Ideally, you’d have contact with the baby when she was four and cute and most of all... behaved. All the leaky parts you left to the mother. Guys don’t know about that stuff.

From the moment he held her, looked at her, he was taken. His heart felt kicked. The pub was forgotten. In the weeks after, he was the one to wash, feed, change and comfort. Nina went back to work, his stall went to the dogs. A love beyond him had altered the world. For 6 months, he lived in her tiny shadow.

Almost the caricature of the doting father. If a stranger asked him the time, he’d show her photo first. His local pub had her framed next to Lady Di. That he was tiptoeing on the lunacy of obsession fazed him not at all.

“You love that child too much.”

“How can you love too much?” he asked... I wish I’d had that problem myself!

He bought a video to check out the range of children’s cartoons and found he loved Lady and the Tramp. The day she’d watch with him was a source of joy in purity. Even Sesame Street had become unmissable.

When he was checking through brochures for schools, Nina sat before him.

“What are you doing Stephen?”

“Schools. I want to be sure they’re the best.”

“That’s nice... Do you think the market stall will pay for them? What? You’ll sell a few extra Korean watches and pay for a term, is that it... is that the master plan? Bearing in mind you haven’t tended the stall for six months. ‘If I might plan a little,’ that’s bloody rich, in fact... it’s priceless.”

Nina, this may be the best time of all to tell you. I have money. A whole bundle of it, and I think you’ll appreciate the irony.

He told her... Then added,

“£25,000, are you delighted?”

“You’re a piece of work Stephen, a real one off. You thought I’d be pleased... you... you fuckin’ moron... As if I’d touch a penny of that... or let my daughter be smeared with it.”

“Our daughter... Jesus Nina, come on... Money has no conscience, it doesn’t care.”

“I care... I bloody care, how dare you sell me?”

“What?”

“You like surprises... well, here’s one for you. I got the job in Brussels and I leave in a week.”

“Brussels, what job, you never said.”

“No Stephen, you never listened...”

“But the baby, how will you be able to leave her?”

“I don’t intend to.”

“What, you think I’ll go to Brussels?”

“I don’t want you to come.”

Slowly he began to comprehend what was happening.

“You’re leaving me?”

“That’s right... you’ll miss me, is that it? You haven’t touched me since the baby came.”

He floundered, felt it all slide... in desperation tried...

“The market, that’s it, isn’t it? Don’t worry, I’ll do something else... use my degree.”

“Worry... I’m not worried Stephen. I now know the market is where you belong. You can feel superior and still have street cred... ‘Oh, I could do anything I wanted’ — wise-up. You’ve risen to the level of your arrogant incompetence. Poverty is still a romantic notion for you. Well not for me. I was raised with it, the smell and feel of it... no toilet, six in a bed, third-hand clothes. You’re worse than a loser Stephen... You just never showed up.”

Stunned, he was silent. Nina had never spoken this much in all the time he’d known her. He wanted to say “my Mother was right about you.” Looking at her face, he felt she might stab him if he did. Instead he said,

“I’ll fight you... I won’t let you take the baby... I’ll use the money to get lawyers.”

“You won’t do shit, Stephen.”

The curse was like a slap.

“You’ve never fought for a thing in your life. I don’t doubt you think you want to, but you just don’t know how...”

“Believe you me, I do and I will.”

“You’ll do nothing.”

She was right. That evening she left for her mother’s. Stephen sat in the same chair, the school brochures before him. From time to time, he’d lift one, give a soft murmur, and lay it gently back on the table. As gently, as carefully as if it was a baby. When the hall door banged, he remembered the stage direction at the end of Ibsen’s The Doll’s House. Remembered and felt forlorn.

When he was sure they were gone, he threw back his head and let loose a howl of anguish... Then he whispered,

“My Mother... my Mother... was... my...”

Unknown to himself, he’d begun to shred the brochures.

By the time darkness fell, his chair was littered with scraps of glossy paper. From a distance, the street light hit the shiny paper and suggested a picture of almost cosiness.

Soft cries, such as a baby makes, punctuated the silence.

When he’d come to trail the Martyrs in later years, it wouldn’t occur to him to check “Nina.” Eventually he would, and find no trace; saint, martyr or even blessed. A grim satisfaction followed.

During his years at college, Stephen had one close friend. A priest who had to take sociology courses as part of the new Church expansionist outlook. Fr. Jim was a mature student. Ten years older than the other students, he cultivated the professed Irishness so beloved by the B.B.C. A native of Dublin, he was over 6 foot, built to endure with a wild head of greying curls. Stephen met him as they near collided to the door of a lecture. Jim was carrying a large heavy stick. Stephen stepped back to allow him to enter first.

“Manners, Good Lord... what a rarity.”

Jim was in civvies so his calling wasn’t apparent.

“That cudgel you’re carrying would improve anybody’s manners.”

“That’s not a cudgel, yah ignoramus. You’ve no Irish connections, me boyo, or you’d know that’s a hurley.”

“A wot?”

“It’s used in the game of hurling... and before you display further ignorance, hurling is a cross between hockey and murder. That wood is ash...”

“Ash and you shall be answered.”

“That’s very poor, are you sure you’re on the right course, with wit as putrid as that, you should be in political science. Come to think of it... you have the look of a socialist... or is that socialite...”

“You don’t half talk do you. I’m Stephen... Stephen Beck.”

“Pleased to meet you, Stephen Beck. I’m Jim Nealy... in fact, I’m Father Jim Nealy... what do you think of that?”

“To tell the truth, I’m more impressed with the hurley.”

“Wise man... let’s go in and get educated... O.K.? Mebbe later we’ll get a drink. You do drink, don’t you?”

“Does the Pope dictate?”

“... Less of that, boyo... you don’t know me yet.”

Two days after Nina’s departure, Stephen moved from the flat. He gathered up all the booze they had. Quite a selection.

   Scotch

   Crème de Menthe

   Rosé wines

   Port

   Pernod

   Guinness

   and even four of a lethal number called Arak.

He poured all into the blender, a wedding present, and let it rip. The he took the baby’s bottles and filled six of them with this cocktail from hell.

They were lined up next to the armchair. Next, he prepared the music. A mix of

   Emmylou Harris

   Sex Pistols

   The Messiah

   And Jose Carreras.

He set the control to repeated play. Finally, he put on a battered pair of 501’s and a Lakers sweatshirt. And in his bare feet, he gingerly in the chair.

“Let us now begin,” he muttered, and chuzzled a swallow of the first bottle. The Sex Pistols began to roar as it hit his stomach. As “Anarchy in the U.K.” stormed, he felt the bombshell hit.

“Oh, for the love of God,” he screamed, as the urge to vomit began. “Stay, ya bad bastard.”

It did. As the bottles emptied, he hollered out of key, out of tune, but mainly out of his head. The music kept pace.

At one point he believed the door opened and left it thus, sinking back into the chair. If an armchair had been sometimes described as the neurotic’s workshop, then his seat was a monument to flagellation.

He felt finally a hand slapping his face, and fought against the climb to consciousness. The slaps continued.

“Stop frigging that,” he roared and looked up into the face of Fr. Jim. His hand, trembling, reached up to touch his friend’s face.

“Are you real?”

“To the bane of Protestants everywhere, that I am.”

Stephen began to cry and the priest put his arm round and began to rock him. He said,

“Sure, why wouldn’t you bawl. Anyone who had to listen to that racket of music need never do another day’s penance.”

Later, he persuaded Stephen to shower and change clothes. As he began to tidy up, he smelled the baby’s bottle.

“Lord God, I can only pray you weren’t feeding this to the child.”

“No... it was me.”

“And did you never hear of glasses? Sit down there and I’ll make you some hot broth.”

He didn’t inquire as to Nina or what had happened. Such is friendship.

Stephen said,

“Are you wondering what happened?”

“No, if you need to tell me, you probably will.”

“Because I’m conditioned to tell a priest, is it?”

“Ah, don’t turn nasty, I’m your friend whether you tell me or not, and no matter what you tell me.”

“I never understood why you’re my friend.”

“Me neither.”

“She’s gone... and the baby, too.”

A wave of despair rocked him, and he bit his clenched fist to suppress a howl of anguish hammering at his heart. Jim moved to him and gave him a hug like he’d never experienced. They were locked thus when a voice from the doorway said,

“Well, I never... have ye people no shame, or is an open door an essential part of the kick?”

Mrs. Beck, resplendent in a bright green track suit, green trainers and a distinctly yellow tinge to her hair. Her hand held the inevitable cigarette.

Jim leapt back. Stephen said,

“Mother, this is Father Jim.”

“A priest... worse. I’ve heard stories of course, but one never expects to have it shoved in one’s face... and one’s own son.”

“Shut up Mother, just shut the fuck up... What’s all this ‘one’ business? You’re Irish for Godsakes... not some Tory outrider.”

Jim made to leave. Unfortunately, so did Mrs. Beck.

Stephen said,

“Maybe you’d better go, Jim. Mother’s about to pull her concerned parent number. It won’t stop her smoking, but it’s nearly always hysterical.”

Jim left quietly, promising to call later. Mrs. Beck began to rock and waul; this was the Irish wailing and lamenting. Even without a hangover, it’s rough.

Gradually, Stephen had returned to the world. The following four years were merely significant for their insignificance. His daughter’s photo disappeared from the pub, replaced for a time by Arthur Scargill. But he, too, had a sell-by date and Elvis now alone remained. Some icons are built for endurance. Stephen moved to the flat near the Oval and Martin went down the toilet.

The market stall resumed and he made a steady income. Electrical goods of all descriptions and watches. If pressed for a quality rating on these, he’d have said, “Shiny.” Shone they did but briefly. Surprisingly few people complained and he was doing all right. For some, it is written, comes a horseman, for Stephen it came November. To paraphrase Scott Fitzgerald, “it was always that month in the darkness of his soul.”

A line of Korean lighters called Tippos were moving fast. The sun was actually shining and Stephen felt, if not contentment, at least a respite from nothingness.

A man stood directly before him. “I shall require your attention.”

“Not like that old son.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The sunglasses, Squire. I’m not talking to a set of black frames. I know my Paul Newman cinema. Next, two Tippos, a wise investment — need a bag?”

The man didn’t budge, said something Stephen only vaguely caught, something about bats.

“No bats here old son, least not till the sun goes down.

“Could you move out of the way, I have a business to run...”

“Your business is exactly why I’m here. V-A-T... I should have to see your returns.”

“What, now?”

What he thought was, “Oh shit,” and debated legging it.

The man read him exactly.

“Let’s do this quietly, shall we... No playing silly beggars, eh, there’s a good chap.”

Stephen stared at him.

“Silly beggars! I can’t believe you actually said that... this isn’t Coronation Street, nobody talks like that!”

“Wotcha say me ole cock we nip down the old Bush & Bull... drink a few old toddys...”

“... Do us a bleeding favour.”

Which was probably the wrong way to deal with officialdom. His stall was impounded and he’d be notified of a court appearance. The sun continued to shine on the other traders. Rodney, the oldest trader, came to commiserate.

“Bad break son, want me to come to court with you?”

“Thanks Rod, yeah, that would be good.”

“How’s Martin, is he still something in the city?”

“Well... not in the city.”

“And yer old Mum, how’s she then?”

“Still smoking.”

“Ah Stevie, you only get the one... Ought to watch out for yer old Mum, know what I mean?”

“Believe you me, I know exactly what you mean.”

As they hauled his livelihood away, he managed to palm one of a new line of watches. The irony of stealing from himself was not entirely lost on him. He did what you’d do after such an event.

Drink.

The pub near Waterloo was packed. Train robbers and florists.

Much the same thing these days. Service was fast and furious. No food available. Not a place for dabblers. You went there to get micky-arsed. Darts, pool, etc. were never mentioned. Look for a soft drink and you’ll be whistlin’ Dixie for it. No decoration or photos. A sole mammoth poster behind the bar proclaimed,

“Elvis has left the building.”

Stephen hurriedly got on the other side of several large scotches. The glow began in the pit of his stomach and climbed delicately up behind his eyeballs. Such times he almost had a sense of fellowship so that even his mother couldn’t have upset him.

He checked his new watch. It was either midnight or noon... and remained thus.

“Uh... uh,” he thought.

Russian made, not bad to look at. Just as well as it didn’t appear it had a whole lot else to recommend it.

“Pay V.A.T.?”

On these... oh yeah sure. The man next to him was humming quietly. It had the vaguest relation to Colonel Bogey, he had the cut of a docker.

The drink was cruising in Stephen’s system, and he thought,

“Such men are the salt of the earth, made England what she was.”

He asked,

“Do you have the time please?”

The man slow turned and asked,

“What’s that on yer wrist?”

Stephen thought-switched, “A bad bastard... and a big one.”

“What’s it look like, it’s stopped.”

“What make is it?”

Stephen felt fury obliterate his bonhomie.

“Jeez, what is this, a quiz... I ask you the time, you hit back with fifty questions. It’s Swiss.”

Huge guffaw from the man.

“Swiss... Christ son, where have you been, the Swiss lost interest... they’re totally into chocolate... Look.”

And here he shoved a meaty wrist under Beck’s nose, resplendent with an instrument fit to launch rockets, he continued,

“Tells the time all over the world.”

“Wonderful... Congratulations. Does it by any chance give an idea of the time in S.E. London? Remember where I came into this conversation?”

“Hey, don’t get sniffy with me my lad, I’ve a son your age.”

The scotch bellowed thru Stephen. “You can take him,” it urged. He listened to it and said,

“Do you think if you gave him a call, he might know the fuckin’ time?”

“Time! Time is it, laddy... maybe time you learnt some manners.”

But whatever he was drinking veered off him in another direction. Mellowness suddenly lit his face.

“What would you think I do, laddie... Go on, take yer best shot.”

Stephen debated a right hook to the jaw... but said, “The docks... you’re a loader, are you?”

High indignation lit the man’s face. He shot two ploughs of hands into the air. Stephen near ducked.

“Docker... these are artist’s hands, laddie. I knew Salvador Dali. I’ve suffered like he did. Gala made a pass at me once... Yo, barman, bring us a bunch of drinks.” The barman did.

Stephen wondered who Gala was. “Who was Gala then?”

The man slurped some major alcohol.

“Gala was his Belle Dame... and not an ounce of mercy in the bitch, not a friggin’ drop. When I met her, she was having live-cell injections. Course she wrote the book on plastic surgery. Alas, all of it became unglued, (so to speak) — and,”

he gave a manic laugh,

“— She was like a walking exploded boil.”

“Jaysus,” said Stephen, who could see her.

“Dali abandoned her. I took my work away from him then. He spent seven years, begging for death, lying alone in a black room... and drip fed...”

Stephen slipped quietly from his stool and stole out. The man was booming.

“Augustus John, now there was a Titan... And women, he’d ride yer mother.”

“Don’t think so,” muttered Stephen.

The fresh air walloped him and he gasped.

“Cripes, I’m well pissed.”

A wino waylaid him.

“Penny for the guy.”

“Here, give him a watch, it’s Russian so he can do his bit for Glasnost.”

As Stephen crossed Waterloo Bridge, he glanced back. The wino hadn’t moved. He was shaking the watch then holding it to his ear. Seconds later, he was chasing a pedestrian in an attempt to flog it.

“A nation of shopkeepers,” belched Stephen.

Back on the Oval, Stephen looked long into the bathroom mirror.

“Is it on meself or do I look less bald?”

This was a regular occurrence, he’d drink way, way past target and believe his hair was returning. Alcohol as a hair restorative was a secret hope. Some saw elephants, he saw follicles. Come sleep, come baldness anew.

Two days later, he took his dictionary to the table.

This, too, was a Penguin edition.

Time to visit Martin.

A nurse said to him, “After you visit Martin, might I have a word.”

Her badge read, “Emma O’Brien.”

A little over five foot two, she had soft auburn hair to her shoulders. Stark blue eyes were huge in her head. A button nose highlit a mouth that was built to turn down. Her face and personality had other plans. A slight Irish lilt gave a gentleness to whatever she said.

He was staring.

She said, “So, see something you like, fella?”

“Wot... oh right... am... I’m a sucker for anyone in uniform.”

“I’d say you got the sucker bit right...”

Martin was dressed in black, a jet-black track suit. White trainers had smudged as black as he could make them. A book lay open in his lap. Stephen started to speak but was shushed as Martin began to read,

“Know that?”

“I don’t.”

“It’s Rilke. ‘The Panther’. I found it in their library here. Pretty depressive dude all round, but he’s in the right place. You’re thinking I’m in black for the poem. Right.”

“Actually I was thinking I’d murder for a cup of tea.”

“Oh, we’ll get you that... I’m in mourning for the person people hoped I’d be.”

“I didn’t hope you’d be anybody else.”

“What else can you say. Who cares though, who the fuck cares what you think.”

This fair obliterated conversation for a time. Martin said,

“I got a ‘Get Well’ card from Mother. Do you want to see it?”

“Am, not just now, maybe later.”

“She addressed it to Martin Bic... does she think I’m a biro now?”

“It’s so the postman won’t know you... or her.”

“What, do we know him? Anyway, she signed it B.B. What do you know about that?”

“It’s a long story and a pathetic one.”

Martin leapt to his feet.

“Nurse O’Brien, oh Nurse, two teas please.”

Stephen began to protest but was cut off.

“You want the fucking tea or don’t you?”

Nurse O’Brien brought two mugs. One had a logo for Rambo, the other read, “I’m your honey.” Stephen took that. She asked,

“So lads, any biscuits or jam fancies for ye?”

They declined. Stephen drank, it was strong and kicked. Martin flicked his wrist and turned his mug over on his legs. The hot tea caused a rapid small cloud to rise. He smiled.

“They expect this sort of behaviour. Now you know why I wore black.”

Stephen felt like rage personified, he bit on the edge of the mug for control. An urge to flake Martin to an inch of his petulant hide was overwhelming.

“Do you ever think of Dad?” asked Martin.

Mr. Beck had left when they were toddlers. Nothing had been heard of him since. Mrs. Beck had been linked to a man named Stan for fifteen years, but that’s a later story.

“No... no, I don’t.”

“I miss him, Steve. I never knew him and I miss him. Daresay I say, isn’t that madness.”

“I don’t... miss him... that is... he’s a non-runner, an early withdrawal. He barely made it to the starting post, as it was. But I guess he’s the English streak in me... You know I drop litter on the street, then I sneak back and put it in a bin.”

Martin laughed, a real sound.

“Well, Steve, we’ll keep a bed for you here.”

“Thanks!”

“I don’t think you’ll find a more English Englishman than T. E. Lawrence.”

“Lawrence of Arabia?”

“Yea... same guy. I like to think Dad is in the desert, looking at vast expanses of nothing and those amazing skies.”

“Sure, full of scud missiles and other air-to-ground beauties.”

“Last week I tired to read ‘The Seven Pillars of Wisdom,’ drives you mental, but one piece, I learnt it for you. Want to hear it?”

Stephen didn’t, God knew he didn’t.

“A little later, yea, I’m still digesting Rilke.”

Martin stood, cleared his throat, and began,

Stephen was unsure whether the recitation was concluded. It wasn’t.

“So, Stevie baby, how do you like them apples?”

“Is there a point to this?”

“There will be, oh you can count on that.”

Martin stood up.

“Will you go now, I’m tired of you.”

“What... oh, O.K.... is there anything I can get you?”

“Yea, actually there is... a Walkman, I’d like to blot out the shrieks in here. You sell them, don’t you?”

Stephen didn’t think it opportune to mention his V.A.T. trouble. He said,

“I’d be glad to... any tapes you’d like?”

Martin gave a look of pure cunning.

“Oh, Steve, I’ve my own tapes. I’ve been listening to them for a long, long time.”

“Well, if you’re sure. I’ll say goodbye then.”

“Say anything the fuck you like, just the fuck go.”

Nurse O’Brien put five fingers in the air. He guessed she’d see him in five minutes or at five... in four hours time. He spotted a hardback chair and sat. A man came right up to him. He wore a puke green track suit and had glasses on a gold chain around his neck. These he lifted and used to look crossly at Stephen... who was thinking he’d like a share in the manufacturers of track suits.

“You’re sitting in my chair.”

“What... oh sorry, there wasn’t a name on it.”

“Well, get off it.”

“Jeez O.K.... they need to increase your medication pal.”

The man pulled a spotless white hankie from his pants and brushed the chair vigorously. Stephen wanted to put a shoe in his ass, but reckoned the poor bastard couldn’t help it.

Nurse O’Brien appeared, with a navy mac over her uniform.

“Time to join me for my coffee break, Mr. Beck?”

“Sure... yes, I do. That guy in the grey track suit?”

“Dr. O’Connor.”

“You’re kidding... Jeez, well, I tell you, book him a bed... He’s already got a chair.”

“He’s a marvel.”

“He’s friggin whacko is what he is.”

“Now, now, Mr. Beck.”

“Call me Stephen, will you.”

“I could do that, yes... There’s a small café just on Denmark Hill, they do a nice pot of tea.”

Stephen groaned, and she looked at him. Understanding kicked in and she smiled.

“However, the pub does a healthy soup.”

He thought, “she has definite potential.”

This pub was aimed at the leisure classes, which accounted for its emptiness. A barmaid took their order, soup, roll and a large scotch. When the order came, the barmaid asked enough to ransom a small sultan. Stephen walloped the scotch. Emma looked on the verge of uttering,

“You needed that.”

He said,

“I needed that... so Nurse... or Sister, was there a specific topic?”

“Please call me Emma... I wanted to know if your Martin has a mother... I mean... do ye... I think that’s what I mean.”

“What, you think we found him under a bush. Yes... we have a mother. Do you?”

“Oh dear... yes, I worded that badly. On Martin’s form, under parents, he put dead.”

The barmaid reappeared.

“Anything else?”

Stephen glared.

“What, you rushed off your feet or something? Yea, another large scotch... Emma, anything?”

“No, thank you.”

“Our parents are alive, well sort of. Good ole Dad is M.I.A., and dear ole Mom... well, she’s something else.”

“A dysfunctional unit?”

“Is that the same as fucked? Yea, that’s us all right.”

Emma made to rise and said,

“Oscar Wilde would have loved you Stephen. He said,

“Wilde hadn’t yet met my mother... not that she wouldn’t claim she knew all belonging to him. When does a nurse get time to read him?”

“I ain’t always a nurse.”

Stephen didn’t know what he felt for her; he did feel he didn’t want her to go.

He said,

“Don’t go.”

“And watch you drink, is it. Thanks, I’ve seen men drink, and I’ve seen mean men drink... I think you know which class you fit... I’ll say goodbye then... Oh, and thanks for the soup, no doubt I’ll find it sustaining.”

And she was gone.

He drained the second whiskey and noticed she’d touched nothing. The buttered roll sat like an insult. On his way out, the barmaid shouted,

“Hurry back!”

Stephen stood for half an hour at the bus stop. The fast whiskies had rained off and down lashed further rain. A man offered to share his umbrella. Stephen was nearly too cranky, but he said, “O.K., thanks.” The man was tall and too well dressed for bus travel. A wool suit that whispered, “a little cash.” Hand-crafted shoes that were made to taunt English weather. Pale silk shirt and a tie knotted in what used to be termed, “Windsor.” Before ties and the Royals went neck and neck down the toilet. A subtle hint of scent suggested, “ye olde Barber Shoppe.”

“Car’s in the shop,” he said.

“The wife’s got mine,” answered Stephen. And didn’t add, “plus my child.”

He smiled in the way polite liars do. A flaw was then revealed in the man’s impeccable appearance.

Rotten teeth, notorious to the point of horror.

“You’ve no work today?” he asked.

Still no hint of a bus. Stephen guessed he’d have to answer.

“No, compassionate leave.”

“Ah, good man. Might one inquire as to the nature of your calling?”

“The army.”

“Bingo... By golly, I knew it, despite your lack of hair, I recognised the bearing. I was with the Enniskillens myself. And you...?

“Fusiliers,” said Stephen, not caring a toss as to how blatant his yarns appeared.

“Capital... splendid outfit. I’m not in current employment myself.”

Stephen figured some interest as to why this was should be expressed.

“Why?”

“I’m glad you asked me that. The day they took Terry Waite hostage, I downed tools. Just walked right out.”

“From where?”

“Well, the B.B.C. naturally. Didn’t I say I’m a technician... and a rather good one?”

“Jeez, I hate to break this to you, but you can take up your tools again... the hostages have been released.”

The man gave a loud, cynical laugh. “Oh, those hostages have.”

“What... do you mean there are more?”

Now Stephen received a pitying look.

“There are always hostages... but the kernel of my protest, the very essence, the raison d’être of my gesture is, ‘I shall never return as long as there’s even the hint... even a smidgen of a suggestion that hostages can be taken.’”

... And still no bus. Stephen reckoned he was in that deep, he might as well find the bottom line. There always was. He asked,

“The D.H.S.S... how did they respond to your, am... ‘crusade’?”

“Nazis... not a schetzkel.”

A bus came. The man stood back and gallantly waved Stephen aboard.

“I don’t take public transport. I can’t be seen to be weakening.”

Stephen was still shaking his head as he offered a pound coin to the driver.

“No change mate.”

“What... well, just give me a ticket. Keep the change, all right?”

“No can do mate, against regulations.”

Stephen appealed to the crowded bus.

“Anybody got spare change?”

“Get a job,” roared someone.

The driver re-opened the door.

“You’re not allowed to beg on public transport, mate, against regulations.”

Whatever Gods there are lightened up or got bored. Stephen found a vein of change in the lining of his jacket. After he got the ticket, he said to the driver,

“You’re wasted in this job pal, they’re crying out for the likes of you in the D.H.S.S.”

Stephen rose on December 1st with a resolution to seriously alter his life. He’d return to literature and read one quality book a week. He spoke aloud, “Well, O.K.... a month, let’s not go totally ape-shit... and I’ll only drink on weekends. I’ll join a computer dating agency and not worry about my hair.”

He made scrambled eggs, a large tea and began to read a book by Lotus de Berrnieres. This was selected because of its dedication,

Between bites of egg, he said,

“Sounds a winner!”

Stephen was relishing a character in the book who had elevated masochism to such a level, “that he learned to smoke in his sleep.”

The phone rang. Stephen was still in throes of amusement as he said breezily,

“Hello?”

“Stephen Beck?”

“None other.”

“This is Nurse O’Brien. I’m afraid there’s been an incident here at the hospital.”

“A what...? Good Lord, is it Martin, is he all right...? hello...”

She could be heard taking a deep breath.

“I don’t really think I should go into it over the phone. Could you come to the hospital?”

“For Gods sake, is he dead, did he hang himself? Do I bring sweets or condolences? Tell me.”

“No, he’s not dead. Please come. I must go,”

... and she rang off.

The thought of his little girl zoomed into his head and he called her name like a lamentation.

“Suzy... little Suzy.”

He could feel the warmth of her tiny hand and looked down. Looked down, half in dread that he might see her tiny fingers. What he saw was the fork with a dilapidated shot of scrambled eggs still clinging. Flung it across the room and said,

“I always hated fuckin’ eggs.”

The phone rang.

Snapping it, he shouted,

“Hello.”

“Stephen, no need to shout, it’s B.B.”

“For Jaysus-sake, Mother... What?”

“Got out of the wrong side of bed, did we?”

“Was there something you wanted, Mother?”

“I’ve had some news about Nina.”

“Nina...! What have you got to do with her?”

“I can’t go into it on the phone.”

“Jeez-louise, you don’t know a Nurse O’Brien, do you?”

“What...? When can you come over?”

“Tonight, Martin’s in some kind of trouble.”

“Plu-eeze, Stephen, don’t mention that boy to me, he’s a heart scald. I sent him a ‘Get Well’ card and he never replied, the little pup.”

“‘Get Well’ card! Mother, it’s not the friggin measles, he’s in a mental hospital. Look, I’ll see you tonight...” and he banged the phone down. Give her a sore ear for a bit.

Then he remembered the Walkman for Martin. “Ker-ist,” he thought, “I’d better stop off at the market.” He rang a mini-cab and told them he’d be outside the Oval tube station.

The station thronged with winos and panhandlers.

A guy was roaring at the height of his lungs,

“Buy the Big Issue... Buy...”

It seemed to Stephen it must be like a bad night in Beirut. The cab came. A Pakistani driver whose geography was as bad as his English, got hopelessly confused by the roundabout at the Elephant and Castle, and twice ended up heading for the Oval.

Stephen said,

“Yo, buddy... let’s pack this in. I’ll walk. I’d like to get to the market before next Sunday. How much?”

“Fifteen pounds, friend.”

Stephen gave him four pound coins, and said,

“Leave it out, Buddy, O.K.... I’m a Londoner and not a fuckin’ tourist, O.K.... just don’t start. You might consider a new career with British Rail.”

His mood deteriorated as he saw the crowds on E. Street. Time was burning in his head. Rodney, the market perennial, came out of the caff.

“Steve, what’s the story?”

“Rodney, am I glad to see you or wot. I have to get hold of a Walkman... for Martin, he’s... well, you know he’s away.”

“No worries, son, give me five minutes.”

Back he came, with the latest Japanese model.

“Yo, Stevey, this is state of the art. It does everything, in fact... treat it right and it will even walk the dog for yah.”

“Smashin... what’s the damage?”

“Tell you what, I might be able to put a bit of work your way, and there might be a drink innit for the both of us. Take it as a sub. Alrite.”

“Yea, wonderful.”

“So give us a bell towards the end of the week.”

A wino bumped into Stephen and he nearly dropped the Walkman.

“Sorry Sur... so sorry.”

Stephen noticed the man had a full head of hair. Tangles, dirty, but definitely luxuriant... He realised he’d never seen a bald wino. Had he discovered a cure, albeit a rough one. “Lose everything, but save your hair.”

He spotted a No. 12 bus and managed to leap on to the platform. Anxiety or speculation as to Martin’s condition hadn’t had time to torment him. Rushing into the hospital, he asked at reception for Nurse O’Brien. A teenager, a girl with spiked blond hair, was waiting in admission. She had her head in her hands and was moaning quietly. A small bag with “ADIDAS” logo was beside her Doc Martens, the scuffed laced up boots were tapping rapidly.

Nurse O’Brien appeared.

“Dr. O’Connor will see you now, Mr. Beck.”

“Mister... what happened to Stephen?”

“Really, Mr. Beck, I thought it would be more important to know what’s happened to Martin.”

Thus reprimanded, Stephen was led into an office. The doctor was behind a desk, reading a file. One chair, hard-backed, in front. This was the doctor who ordered Stephen from a chair on the last visit. He didn’t look up. Stephen said,

“Will I just park it anywhere?”

Dr. O’Connor looked up... he had half-framed glasses which he straightened and peered through.

“Ah, the brother.”

Stephen thought, “Uh... uh.”

“Your brother...” Here he picked up the file, checked something with his finger, snapped the file shut, and continued, “Your brother, Martin, got hold of two forks from the refectory, and somehow used them... to...”

He hesitated. Stephen knew he was supposed to say something here, but all he could think of was the Les Dawson line, “POOR, you want to talk poverty? Till I was 16, I thought cutlery was jewelry.”

He didn’t say this and waited. The doctor said,

“He used these to puncture his eardrums... Rather seriously I’m afraid.”

“Jesus Christ... what!”

“He’s under sedation now, of course, but it would appear that the severity of the... action... will mean, he’s going to be permanently deaf.”

The room spun. Stephen could see the doctor, his mouth forming words, but for an instant, he too, was deaf. In that moment, something died in him. He felt a huge kick of pain and then it finished. Dazed, he felt reality return.

“Mr. Beck... Mr. Beck, are you all right?” The doctor was standing over him, shaking his shoulders.

“Get your hand off me.”

“Mr. Beck, I realise it’s a bit of a shock, but practicalities must be discussed.”

“So... let’s discuss them.”

“Well, we can’t really keep Martin here, the risk of further incidents.”

“Private... get him in a private place.”

“There are excellent facilities, but a bit costly.”

“Do it then, I’m good for it.”

Stephen stood up. The doctor extended his hand,

“I’ll be in touch.”

Outside, at reception, Stephen saw the teenager still waiting. He said,

“Here, have a Walkman.”

She took the machine and looked at it closely.

“Where’s the batteries?”

“In it.”

“Got any tapes?”

Stephen didn’t answer, and headed for the exit. Nurse O’Brien came running, catching him at the door.

“Mr. Beck, where are you rushing to?”

“Fuck off.”

Outside, he thought, “Martin’s got himself a permanent Walkman.” The sounds of the world were now forever blocked out. A nightmarish thought then hit, “What if the sounds in his head, in his new silence, were worse than the world’s... what then?” Stephen clenched his fists and swore quietly, he swore he’d function on a harder level for pure maintenance... his and Martin’s.

There were no through trains to Morden, he got off at Kennington. The lift out of order. The spiral staircase is the steepest climb in London. Rumours are that Chris Bonnington trained for Everest there. Totally knackered, Stephen emerged to a deserted station, save for one lone Santa who blocked his path. Gasping, Stephen asked,

“Bit early for it... isn’t it?”

“Penny for the guy?”

The smell of drink was ferocious.

“Afraid you’ve got your festivals mixed fellah.”

Santa swung at him. Stephen side-stepped, then moved in and kicked him in the balls. Santa dropped to his knees and Stephen leaned in close.

“They told us... Martin & me... As kids like, that Santa had no cobblers. Another myth gone... eh? But there’s something for the guy,” and head-butted him.

A couple looked in... decided not to take the tube. The man muttered,

“Muggin’ Santa now.”

He went home, lay on his bed and waited for the time to visit his mother. Waited and grieved.

He couldn’t... and indeed, never had, grieved more for a lover lost than he did for Martin. If he couldn’t ever now speak to him, then he was as if he were dead to him. When Fr. Jim’s Mother had died, he’d quoted a poem of James Joyce. Stephen couldn’t remember all of it but he could hear the solemn, measured tones of Jim as he said the lines. Now Stephen repeated what he could remember, and repeated them softly, over and over...

He knew he’d spend the rest of his life calling to Martin. He knew, too, that his voice would never reach him.

Then the anger began to seep to his heart, and he felt if he could hug that cold rage, he could function and continue. Thus he began to mutter,

“Someone’s to blame, it’s got to be some fucker’s fault, and by Christ, some bastard will pay. The tab will be paid.”

It was evening when he stirred. Amazement hit him as he realised he hadn’t gone on the piss. A change indeed had fastened to him, part hate, part madness, he knew, and said,

“Whatever gets you through.”

He thought of his Mother and his upbringing. She had never neglected them as regards food, clothing and the essentials. But she had wielded a subtle campaign of belittlement and undermining. It wasn’t a coldness in her, but an insidious spite. Fr. Jim had said,

He’d gone on to say that

“Amen to that,” said Stephen.

Stan, her “companion,” was a constant visitor to the house. Like a shadow, you knew he was there but you didn’t notice. A gruff man from Yorkshire, he had elevated the concept of unobtrusiveness to a fine art. Stan’s face looked like someone had flung a pan of grease into it. Not only had it stuck, it had set. Stephen reckoned there was a factory up there that produced “Stans.” They were solid and silent and said things like,

“I’m a no frills man,

I tell it as it is lad,

Yorkshire pud and two veg, that’s yer staple,

Canno go wrong then lad.”

If you misplaced your current “Stan” model, they’d slip you a new Stan by return, and you’d never tell the difference.

In the years when Stephen cared, he’d once asked him, “Don’t you ever get excited, Stan? I mean, are you ever, ‘Really starving,’ could you really wallop in a few a cold ones...?”

Stan said,

“Moderation in all things, lad.”

Yes, yea.

Stephen had searched through literature to find the meaning... if not of life, then perhaps... Stan. In Henry James, he’d read,

Ironically, Henry James had said to his brother,

Stephen made coffee. A mug of black, strong instant. He put in two sugars and racked his mind as to what might give coherence to his thoughts. Anything, rather than the thought that he’d never say anything to Martin again.

Jim had introduced him to Schopenhauer and he searched the bookcase for him. Behind his Ruth Rendell’s, yea... still there.

He took a large gulp of coffee... felt it burn his tongue, and exclaimed,

“Jaysus, that’s sweet... I’m giving up sugar, but not today.”

He read aloud in the hope that volume would bring clarification.

Stephen was nodding his head and gulping coffee.

“Yea, O.K.... Schopy... I’m with you so far...”

He read the last lines louder, several times. Then he made more coffee, powdered heaped spoons of sugar, said,

“Mother gives the lie to them lines.”

He was about to put the book down when a few lines caught his eye,

“Hello...? I don’t remember this bit.”

“Now you’re fucking talking,” he roared, drained the coffee and got washed and dressed.

He caught the Northern line to Clapham, the Morden train.

The carriage was empty save for one old black man who appeared to have silver tips on his shoes. As soon as the doors closed, he got up and began to tap dance... tap, tap, tap, tap.

Stephen shouted,

“Hey... Hey, cut that out!”

... tap tap tap, tap.

And the man said, without looking at Stephen,

“What’s it to do with you Man? Ain’t hurting you... why I should heed wotcha say, Man.”

Stephen stood.

... tap tap tap tap.

“Cos if you don’t, I’ll fuckin tap dance all over yer head.”

The man sat.

An uneasy silence followed.

When Stephen got off at Clapham South, he looked back at the carriage. The man was dancing and he had his middle finger rigid in the air. Stephen suppressed a grim smile.

Stephen felt the cold December night pinch at his cheeks. He turned at the Rose and Crown after Clapham Common. The pub seemed full of pre Christmas warmth. “Come in,” it beckoned.

He moved on to his Mother’s house. She had an intercom recently installed. He ignored that and went down a quiet street at the back of her building and looked up. Her small balcony threw light invitingly.

“As if a person of welcome lived there,” he said.

A quick flick of the back door, and he was in.

She threw open the door.

“What kept you?”

This evening she was sporting what the mail order ads call “A soft velour leisure suit,” in a dashing pink. Her hair was now jet black with a flash of silver. Cigarette smoke caressed her.

“Christ, Mother, you’re in the pink.”

He moved to open the doors to the balcony as the smell of nicotine was ferocious. A tray of drink was perched on a small table.

“I will, thank you Mother,” and he poured a large gin. Mrs. Beck faced him.

“Nina is in Khartoum, and Suzy... and Suzy is in the care of a man named André in Paris.”

“What... Good God, how do you know that?”

“I hired a private detective, a friend of Stan’s... it’s my Christmas present to you.”

“What, you’re giving me a detective... sure beats socks and aftershave.”

“Really, Stephen, don’t be facetious... I should think you’d thank your Mama. All my boys are so unfeeling.”

“Two, Mother, you have two. Did you get a detective for Martin, he’d like one.”

“Plu... eeze... don’t mention that boy, there’s no talking to him.”

“Ain’t that the truth, no never, no more.”

Mrs. Beck moved to pour a drink. Crème de Menthe — she was visibly angry.

“Don’t you care that that... whore has left the child with some whore-master in Paris?”

“Don’t call her that!”

“Oh I’m sorry Steve-o, how shall I put it... your wife is, ‘a care worker’ with the deprived of Sudan. She’s staying at a place called... the Acropolis Hotel. What are you going to do?”

Stephen drained the gin and walked out to the balcony. He didn’t know.

“I dunno.”

Mrs. Beck marched up behind him and said,

“When she was in the hospital, I took one look at the baby and knew you weren’t the father. She had the nerve to call me a... a walking disease... me!”

Stephen felt as if a knife was slow twisting in his stomach. An urge to throw up was near over-powering.

“Do you hear me, Stephen... do you hear what I said... she foisted some man’s bastard on you.”

Stephen turned, his left hand grabbed the top of her suit, the right gripped her hip. He moved one step, two, like the old waltz, then hoist...

hold...

... said, “fuck you B.B.”

and flung her over the balcony.

She never cried out. A sound like a sack of spuds hitting the ground reached him. He stepped back into the room. Took his glass, rinsed, dried and put it on the tray. The gin, Crème de Menthe he uncapped and poured down the toilet. As he did, he saw a packet on the bath. It read,

“Midnight Black Hair Colour.”

The Crème de Menthe bottle he left on the floor, the gin he stood on the balcony edge, looked at his watch.

8:10

Stan would come at 9 on the dot and use his key. Stephen let himself out and didn’t meet anybody. By 8:40, he was getting off the train at the Oval... he headed for The Cricketers.

The barman had a name tag. “Jeff.” Long, thin and bald. He spotted Stephen instantly as the unacknowledged fellowship of baldness dictates. Tighter than Masons. Stephen took a vacant stool and said,

“Yo Jeff, a large gin and Crème de Menthe.”

“Not in the same glass, I trust.”

“Good old London town, everyone’s a comedian, a touch of ‘dancing on the Titanic,’ eh. No... the Crème de Menthe is for my old Mum, a pre-dinner aperitif.”

“Her birthday, is it?”

“Yea... she’s going over the top tonight. Give us a shout when she comes in... can’t miss her, she’s got jet black hair with a silver streak!”

“Bit of a girl, is she then?”

“Oh, she’s a one, all right, have something yourself.” Jeff set the glasses on the bar. Stephen took a hefty belt... and muttered,

“Mother’s ruin.”

The green liquor stood sentry as Stephen loaded down a chain of gins. He ‘n’ Jeff were getting as matey as magpies and as drunk as farts. Stephen was thinking of Oscar Wilde.

And reckoned he’d never felt a day’s love for her... ever...

When Jeff roared,

“Stevie... hey, Steve, yer old Mum’s at the door!”

Heart pounding, Stephen turned. A slap on the back from a jubilant Jeff,

“Just kidding, buddy!.. Gotcha, yea.”

Stephen was too weak to reply. A chill began to slide down his spine. What if it had been... he visibly shook himself. Such a route was a one way ticket to Martinsville. A very drunk Jeff was leaning over the counter,

“So, Stevie, wots the story, bud, where’s the old bird, haven’t done away with her... have you... eh...”

Stephen put his hand on Jeff’s arm and looked right in his eyes.

“How would it be, Jeff, if I broke your arm... eh, Buddy how would that be?... so get the fuck outa my face...”

Jeff fell back.

“No offence... just a bit of fun...”

The fright had jolted Stephen into a wild sobriety. A powerful sexual urge swept him. He went into a phone box and sure enough, the wall was littered with personal ads.

He rang and was given an address on Kennington Park Road.

The walk down increased his desire. A block of flats. He walked to the 2nd floor and rang 2B. A middle-aged woman with dark blond hair opened the door.

“I’m here to see Tania.”

“That’s me, darlin’... come in.”

The flat was spotless, as if no one lived there. Stephen said,

“You’ve aged since our call.”

“Wotcha want darlin, it’s late... I’m not into yer kinky scene,

   — no violence

   — no golden showers

   — no bondage”

“You wouldn’t have a bit of tea or toast?”

“Ain’t a caff, darlin, wotcha want?”

“Am... just the straight thing... the am... basic act.”

“Set yer back twenty-five and five for the towel and French letter.”

“You’re going to write to me?”

“A condom, darlin... So you want to play or wot?”

Stephen gave her 3 tenners. She went into another room and then called him. His desire wasn’t abating, it was downright fleeing. When he entered the room, she was dressed in suspenders and nothing else. Her “buxom” breasts were long past interest. A pot belly near finished him. She pointed to a sink.

“Give yer willy a wash and put this on.”

She handed him a small packet. He filled the sink and removed his pants.

“Hurry it up, darlin, I’m hot for you.”

He had to get her help in opening the packet, the condom highlit his lack of passion.

She appeared unfazed and lay back.

“Give it to me, big boy, you stallion.”

“Am... I wonder if we could mebbe dispense with the conversation.”

“Wotever you like, darlin, your time and money.”

He lay on top of her and she turned her head to the side.

“No kissing.”

Stephen jumped up...

“Ah fuckkit... This is ridiculous.” He thought Martin would enjoy this story and that triggered a wave of despair.

He sat and hung his head between his legs. He heard her dressing.

“Never mind, darlin, happens to the best of ’em.”

She patted his bald head affectionately and left the room. A few minutes later, she reappeared with steaming mugs of tea and toast. They ate and drank in silence. Stephen dressed and made to leave.

“You come back when you’re more in the mood, darlin, there’s a lamb.”

Back home, he thought about thirty quid for a slice of toast. He lay on his bed and was sound asleep in minutes. The phone ringing failed to rouse him.

Stephen woke at nine. The events of the night flooded in. He didn’t feel guilt, remorse, anxiety or even regret. A sour taste in his mouth was routed by toothpaste and he wondered if his lack of feeling was delayed shock. He strongly suspected it wasn’t. At college, he noted his namesake, Julian Beck, who’d said,

He showered and exclaimed, “Dammit, I feel like whistling.” So he did. A mangled version of Colonel Bogy as he supped tea... with loud noises. He ran through his list of martyrs.

“But not any more,” he said.

A loud banging on the door. Two men in dark overcoats. He hoped it wasn’t the V.A.T. crowd.

“Are you Stephen Francis Beck?”

“I am.”

The man produced warrant cards and asked if they might come in.

Stephen said,

“It’s a fair cop. I haven’t a T.V. licence.”

The men looked at each other.

“I’m sorry to have to inform you, Sir, that your Mother has met with an accident.”

“What... is she hurt... or is she in hospital?”

“Perhaps you’d like to sit down Sir... Baker, go and brew some tea, there’s a good chap. I’m afraid your Mother is dead, Sir. It appears she fell from her balcony.”

Stephen began to whimper,

“Oh Mom, Mom... oh, God...”

“When did you last have contact with her, Sir?”

“Yesterday. I phoned her with some rather disturbing news.”

“About your brother, was it Sir? We know about that. She took it badly, did she?”

“He was her whole life... oh, God.”

He didn’t want to overdo the whimpering and it was beginning to grate on his nerves. He decided to go for the distracted look and say nothing.

The other man brought the tea. Stephen didn’t touch it.

“It seems, Sir, she may have been drinking and leant too far over the balcony. I’m terribly sorry, Sir. Is there anything we can do?”

He wanted to say, “Forget the T.V. licence” but opted for the stiff upper lip scenario.

The man produced a slip of paper.

“This is the address of the hospital... I’ve taken the liberty of putting an undertaker’s number there, and they’ll arrange everything.”

“Thank you... thank you, you’ve been so kind.”

After they left, he washed their mugs and said,

“As easy as that, well I never!”

A thought rooted him to the spot. What if they performed an autopsy? All that would reveal was a few sips of Crème de Menthe. How then explain the empty gin and liquor?

“Don’t,” he thought... don’t try. Be as baffled as them. He’d seen too many Columbo re-runs where the suspect provided all sorts of motives and rationales.

If his crime reading had provided anything, it was that an innocent man usually didn’t have an alibi.

Still, it worried him. The big cop... he was the one.

The next few days were a blur to Stephen. A stream of sympathetic calls and he fought hard to avoid the booze. Fr. Jim came and arranged everything. Stephen adopted the role of shell-shocked son and let him. The funeral was big.

Mrs. Beck had a wide circle. Rodney and the street traders came, and Jim did the service.

Stan, suitably morose, asked if he might call on Stephen that evening — “A matter of some urgency.”

Stephen had one long-stemmed red rose which he lay on the coffin. He heard a murmur from the crowd and knew he’d played a blinder. Mrs. Beck was allergic to flowers... people too, but she hid that.

The mourners did the mourning things. Stephen felt, “Good riddance.” A small grey man in a small grey suit touched his arm,

“So sorry to intrude, I’m Simon Alton, your dear Mother’s Solicitor. Might you call on me tomorrow?”

Stephen would.

Rodney had arranged the function after. A blond lady in her early 20s hooked on Rodney’s arm. She had a pale, beautiful face and her short black mini was like a magnet. Stephen reckoned it was Rodney’s daughter as Rod was the outlaw side of fifty.

“This is Vikki, the Missus.”

“What?”

“Yea, Steve, every bugger says that. What did she see in an old lag like me... eh.”

Vikki gave a tiny smile. As the function ended, she said something to Stephen. Not hearing what she’d said, he said,

“Thank you. I’ll miss her dearly.”

She dug her nails in his arm, and near hissed,

“I’m going to ’ave you, and soon.”

Stephen muttered.

“In the midst of death, there is life, and if me stirrings are anything to go by... a lotta life. Thank you Lord. I owe you a big one, big guy.”

The following morning, Stephen called on the solicitor. Coffee was served and Simon Alton began,

“Do you have any idea of your Mother’s worth, Mr. Beck?”

Stephen had known her worth a long time, but perhaps it was inappropriate to share this early.

“Please call me Stephen. No, I don’t.”

“Right... am... Stephen, she owned the flat in Clapham and it’s of substantial value. Your Father made many shrewd investments in her name, and she added to them over the years... She has included Stanley Rice in her will, he receives five hundred pounds.”

“What... I thought you said she was loaded... I mean comfortable.”

“Ah... well, Stephen, she didn’t trust men, her view of them was somewhat... shall we say, tarnished?”

“Good word... I like that... shall we cut to the chase.”

“She felt Martin had made his own fortune, and...”

“Yea.”

“The bulk of the estate goes to you.”

“Jay-sus... you’re kidding.”

“I’ll have the exact figures for you in a few days, but, suffice to say... you are an extremely wealthy young man.” Stephen wanted to yell, “Yipee!” but kept a deadpan face and said,

“I see.”

“Might I be so bold as to propose a number of schemes to ensure the continued prosperity?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry... perhaps you misunderstood me, my guidance...”

“I said, N — O”

“Might I know why?”

“I don’t know you and I don’t want to, I’ll handle my own affairs.”

“This is most irregular.”

“That too.”

Outside he said,

“Rich... I’m fuckin wealthy... oh, yes.”

He rang Stan and arranged to meet him at the Rose and Crown in Clapham. Nearing lunch time the pub was beginning to fill. Stephen ordered two large vodkas and tonics — V.A.T.s — and found a quiet corner.

Stan arrived, he was dressed in a duffel coat and though not clutching a cloth cap, Stephen felt it couldn’t be too far away.

“Afternoon, Stan.”

“Good afternoon, Stephen.”

He smelled the vodka and didn’t touch it, said,

“A little early for the hard stuff... my usual tipple is half a mild. Moderation in...”

“Ah, don’t be such a prick.”

Stan’s face remained impassive. He said,

“You are aware... well, yes, you know your dear Mother and I had an arrangment of many years duration... I feel she would have liked me to reside in the Clapham flat. We shared many memories there.”

“Naw... never happen old son.”

“I’m sorry... I...”

“Don’t be sorry, Stan, just give me the keys you have and then, basically, on yer bike.”

Stan swallowed the vodka.

Stephen said,

“Your shout Stan... get ’em in... they’re large ones... there’s a good chap.”

Stan did.

They settled again and Stan said,

“I appreciate you’re under a lot of stress, and perhaps later...”

“Cut the shit, Stan... eh, let me ask you... did you go to see Martin?”

“Well no... I didn’t think it appropriate.”

Stephen drained the vodka, stood, and said,

“Righty ho... have yer gear out by the end of the week...”

Stan grabbed his arm.

“I know, lad, we mightn’t have been close, but I felt I was there in the background for you boys. Your Mother would be very... distressed... I mean...”

“Hey, take yer hand off... my Mother is all through with feelings... and you... Stanley... You go fuck yerself... O.K.... Is that plain enough, is that ‘no frills’ message clear?”

He shook his arm free and outside he looked at the Common, and said,

“Nice day for it...”

As he waited for the tube, he thought about Martin, how he loved Scott Fitzgerald. The lines he repeated like a prayer,

“Jay-sus,” he thought... “if that was going round in yer head, you’d mebbe have to deafen yerself or take to the big drink.”

He ran the lines again in his head and thought,

“Yea. Words to live by, right enough.”

En route to the tube, he had to pass the Catholic Church. He thought he might placate the Gods; he’d been battling heavy against them, and it didn’t do to piss them off.

In he went.

The set of vodkas were singing in his head and he inhaled the smell of incense deeply. He stopped at the various shrines and poured money into each one. The Saints in statue weren’t recognisable to him, looked a little like the Osmonds he reckoned. A sort of Brady Bunch in piety.

He’d been hoping for a good grisly martyr, but they all seemed in the peak of porcelain health. As if they’d had massive doses of Valium. Each time he lit a bunch of candles, Fr. Jim had said,

“A candle is a prayer in action.”

Stephen had been schooled in Catholicism by his Mother, but had long since lapsed. The weary rituals of course were branded in his head, and he derived a melancholy comfort from them. Mrs. Beck, of course, knew all about religion and almost nothing about humanity.

To wind up Jim, he’d quote Graham Greene.

He’d read that only a Catholic Irishman, loaded with learning and cunning and soaked in the liturgy of the Church, could have produced the incredible mixture as Joyce did in Ulysses.

The he saw the statue of The Virgin Mary, all blues and whites. He moved right up close; someone had wrapped bright green Rosary beads around the clasped hands. Like handcuffs. The green crystals caught the light from the candles, and, with the vodka, gave him a dizzy feeling.

He looked up into her face. The alabaster eyes were closed. A replay of his Mother going over the balcony danced in his mind.

The Virgin’s eyes opened.

Blue... the deepest blue... bored into his brain... and then they closed.

He started to back down the aisle. A whimpering sound reached him and he was afraid to look round. Then he realised it was himself... and galloped to the door. Heart pounding, he swore,

“Never... never, as long as I live and breathe, will I tell another soul about that... and I’ll rebuild Tara... As God is my witness.”

“So,” Father Jim said, “Her eyes opened, then what did you do?’

“What did I do... I got the fuck outa there... that’s what I did. Wouldn’t you?”

“What do you think now, Stephen?”

“I dunno what to think, that’s why I’m telling you. It’s the business you’re in.”

Jim had come round to Stephen’s flat after a frantic nigh hysterical call. They were drinking coffee. A plate of almond slices on a saucer. Jim reached over, selected the biggest one, and took a heartening chunk.

“Well, I don’t wish to minimise the validity of your experience, but you admit you’d been drinking... and, after all the grief, the stress of your Mother’s death.”

“Jaysus, Jim... the validity of my experience... what’s this, sociology one? Talk English for fucksake... I’m telling you. Her eyes opened. I thought this sort of thing was common. I mean in Ireland, they practically appear on talk shows.”

Jim smiled and took another almond slice.

“What, Jim... did you skip breakfast or what?”

“Steve, miracles or supernatural events tend to happen to people who need convincing, they need demonstrable evidence.”

“Or a good fuckin fright!”

“Steve, could you stop swearing. It’s a bit overdone... O.K.”

“Let me ask you something, Jim. If I confide in you... are you bound to secrecy?”

“If it’s in the nature of confession... naturally... but if it’s a tip for a horse, I’d feel honour bound to divulge it to Ladbrokes.”

“Right... this is a confession... back there a bit... you mentioned my grief and stress over Mother.”

“But of course, what son wouldn’t be... When my own Mum...”

Stephen interrupted him, he couldn’t stomach the sound of Jim laying into a third almond slice, which he showed all the signs of doing.

“Ah, Jaysus, Jim... Can we skip the homily about your Mother... eh... I’ve had a long day.”

Stephen felt an overpowering need to rattle Jim, to shock him out of his smugness... and to stop him filling his face. He stood and snatched the plate with the remaining slices.

“I’d say we’ve had enough of them, Jim... eh, practice a bit of self denial or something.”

“H-m-m, they were delicious, a touch more coffee wouldn’t go astray.”

“I killed her!”

“What?... C’mon, Stevie, it was just a statue.”

“Not her... my Mother... I murdered her... so now...”

Jim shook his head, picking crumbs from his trousers.

“We all think that, Stephen, if only we’d been better sons... if only...”

“Yo... hold the fuckin phones here, buddy. I threw her over the balcony, and what’s more, I’m only sorry I didn’t do it years ago.”

Jim stood up.

“Steve, my friend... you’ve been under tremendous pressure, with Martin, your poor Mother, God bless her... I think you should talk to someone.”

“What... Are you deaf, you thick bastard, I’m talking to you.”

“Of course you are... And that’s good. A very positive sign, but it might be advisable to talk to a man of professional standing.”

“I don’t believe this, you dumb shite... Jaysus wept... maybe Martin and I could get a cut rate for a family thing.”

Jim moved and put a hand on Stephen’s shoulder.

“I’m serious, lad, you need help.”

“Ah, bollocks... go... just go.”

Jim went to the door... and said, “I’ll pray for you.”

“Gimme a break, Padre!”

A rage engulfed him. He picked up the phone and rang Rodney.

“This is Vikki... Rodney’s not home right now... Would you like to come over... and... and wait?”

He would.

Rodney’s house was in Balham. Where the muggers made housecalls. A nondescript one up building on the outside. Vikki answered the ring instantly. She was wearing a thin halter top, micro mini and the old fuck-me-fast heels.

The house inside was laden with antiques, electronic gear of every make, and deep, thick carpets.

Vikki said,

“Would you like a drink? I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Jim... call me Jim,” said Stephen.

He grabbed her shoulder and slammed her against the wall. His hand pushed under her skirt and he tore the knickers aside. He reached for his zip, and as he plunged into her, said,

“Try remembering this.”

He came immediately and withdrew... his heart pounding. Vikki adjusted her few clothes.

“’Ad a good time did you... eh?”

“Well, honey... I tell you, it hit the spot.”

“Not mine it didn’t.”

She moved to a huge wooden world globe. It came apart to reveal a bar. He considered quoting Andy Warhol, “Sex is the biggest nothing of all time.”

“Vodka?”

“Lovely... no ice but a wee smidge of tonic.” He decided to pass on Warhol.

Stephen stretched on a recliner.

“I tell you, Vikki, a man could get used to this.”

“Don’t get too comfortable Jimmy... Rodney will be back soon and he’s not going to be pleased. Oh no, he’s not going to be pleased one little bit.”

Stephen sat up... “I don’t follow you honey, what’s going to upset him?”

Warning bells went off in his head.

Vikki clinked ice in her glass. It matched the ice in her voice.

“You’re his mate, ain’t cha... when he hears you forced yerself on me... Well, Rodney’s an ’ARD man... been inside, you know. Know wot I mean?”

Stephen knew exactly what she meant. He took a long swallow of the vodka, stood... smiled warmly at her and asked,

“Got a balcony... do ya?”

Part II

The heat of Khartoum had walloped him like a fist.

A hard vicious assault. Three days in, he felt the temperature was still climbing... and the walls, he was close to climbing those.

Prior to departure, he’d gone to Jermyn Street, to “A gentleman’s outfitter for the Tropics.” Four lightweight suits later, he bored a sizeable hole in one of the major investments. April in London, he’d frozen in the cab to Heathrow.

His visa was of ten days duration. He’d reckoned that was ample time to find Nina. His guide book recommended The Acropolis Hotel as being cheap and laden with character. Cheap it wasn’t.

Full of shady characters... yes.

He hadn’t got the swing of the money yet. Whatever transactions he did seemed to cost a bucket of the Sudanese pounds. Smelt; there was a definite odour from the notes and they were filthy. Like newspaper print, they left black marks on his fingers. He’d been advised of the thriving Black Market, but hadn’t found it.

Arak, yea he’d found that. The local booze, and he’d drunk gallons. It kicked back like a psychopathic mule and gave him the kind of diarrhoea he was truly alarmed by...

Huge patches of perspiration dotted his suits; they already looked like something Oxfam would see and say, “Ah no... the third world’s not that desperate.”

The way he felt now, he wished he’d simply sent the suits on the trip.

Rivers of sweat ran across his bald head and down into his eyes.

“Jay-sus,” he said, “no one has this much water in them.” If it continued he didn’t think he’d have it much longer.

He’d reckoned spring was a shrewd time to head to Sudan. Khartoum, even the name had a majesty. No one had told him that April is the start of the habood system. Huge storms of dust howling in from the desert and covering everything. It had a sound like terror, a thin wailing that surrounded him.

Ten days, he’d no idea how he’d last and he still hadn’t found Nina. The telephone system didn’t work and no one had heard of her at the hotel. The care workers he’d met did know her and provided him with two phone numbers. Everyone he spoke to, he gave them his name and phone number. Finally, he’d given various Sudanese the equivalent of the budget for a minor country and they’d promised to find her.

Trying to spot her anywhere was a joke. The women all wore the black chador. These black silk cloaks were from head to ankle. Like huge flocks of grounded jackdaws or malicious nuns. He found them vaguely sinister and had no intention of approaching them.

So he drank the arak, fled to the toilet and counted the minutes. He was told of the huge famine in the Sudan and was near starvation himself.

There were massive shortages of bread, flour and water. He’d brought a packet of Rich Tea biscuits from London... on a whim... and was sparing them now like a lifeline. According to his guide book, there were at least forty types of mosquito in Khartoum and he’d no reason to doubt the claim. He’d been bitten by at least 36 branches of the things.

Chloroquine was the assured and established remedy but he suspected it was attracting them. A large spacious room had been free, and he’d been delighted to see it had an overhead fan. Visions of the movie Casablanca had unfolded.

It didn’t work.

He’d paid a porter to install two floor fans which blew blissful streams of air.

Till the power cuts.

On inquiring when the power might be resumed, he’d heard,

“Insha Allah.”

Back to the guide book which told him this meant, “God willing.” God hadn’t willed it for the past 48 hours.

He was sitting in his Marks and Spencer’s Y-fronts, chugging Arak and dreaming of E Street Market. Oh, to be cold and miserable. A battalion of mosquitoes were stinging him.

A knock at the door.

“Jay-sus,” he said on opening it, “The friggin Grim Reaper in person.”

A black spectre shimmered there.

“Oh, do get a grip, Stephen.”

The hood was thrown back to reveal Nina.

He nearly hugged her.

“Come in,” he gasped, “Come in!”

She glanced inside the room.

“Actually, I’d rather not. Why have you got it like a furnace?”

“I’ve got some Rich Tea.”

He had, in fact, three.

“Get dressed, we’ll go to my place.”

He donned one of the suits and wiped away a yard of sweat with the sleeve.

“Where did you get that suit?”

“Oxfam.”

“Yes, well... they saw you coming.”

Her place was a cool, airy bungalow on the outskirts of the city. They’d driven there in her small Datsun... air conditioned. Divans were scattered haphazardly. Clay pots and posters on the wall. He sank into a divan, said, “I might never leave here.”

“Khartoum?”

“No, this room.”

She made sweet tea which he found enormously refreshing. Then removed her chador. She wore jeans and a white T-shirt with the logo, “SOLEDAD.”

“Why are you here, Stephen?”

“To see you... to find out about Suzy.”

“A letter would have been cheaper. How did you find me?”

He smiled and looked around. A bungalow was the last thing he’d anticipated, the only place he could push her out was the door.

“Well, Nina... it wasn’t easy. Since my family were martyred, you and Suzy are all I’ve got.”

“Your Mother... and Martin... what... are they, are they all right?”

“Dead, a car accident... together.”

It silenced her.

“So Nina, you’re caring for the masses here... who’s caring for Suzy?”

“How dare you... she’s been cared for. I see her every two months.”

“Oh wow, that will do it.”

Nina stood up.

“Stephen, I don’t know what mad scheme you’re planning or what you hoped to accomplish. I want no part of it. I’ll drive you back to your hotel, and if you want my advice... you’ll go back to London. This is no place for you.”

Stephen drained the tea.

The drive back was silent. A choking dust storm had risen, and as he got out of the car... whatever she said was snatched away. In the lobby of the hotel, a thin, dark Arab wearing the tight western clothes approached him.

“Al Labibi... a word in private.”

“Why not?”

“I am Abdul, you are not comfortable here, my friend, I arrange for you to stay at the Sahara. Much clean, much cool.”

“But it’s booked out.”

“Meet here, nine o’clock. I arrange all... Salaam a leccum.”

And this, according to his guidebook, was “Peace be with you.”

Abdul was the business. Not only did he effect a smooth hotel change, but showed the way to food, the black market services. Even Stephen’s suits perked up and were whisked away for cleaning. The second night at the Sahara, a relaxed Stephen was in a generous mood.

“So, Abdul, you’ve got to let me pay for all your help.”

They were drinking Amstel beer, a cold Dutch drink with a sizeable kick.

“No effendi... is for friend... no... maybe you can help Abdul, too.”

“Sure, if I can.”

“For what you work?

“For whom...? is it...”

“I work for the Government.”

“For English Government?”

“Yes.”

“Ah Stefan, effendi... Habibi, can you make for me papers to go to England?”

“Am...”

“You have sad trouble here, my friend, Abdul know... not so happy. Meeting with infidel woman...”

Stephen told him about Nina... about his lost child.

“Ah is no good, bad womans — yes.”

“Yea, you got that right buddy. I don’t know what to do.”

They drank and considered how far they might proceed. Echoes in the Sudan darkness. Abdul decided.

“Stefan... if womans go poof...,” (and he snapped his fingers), “is trouble finished?”

“What... yea... Am... but that’s not possible... is it?”

“Ha... is Sudan my friend, life is nothing. Thousands die every week in famine. For money... ALL is possible... one can go,” and he slapped his hands together — “BANG!”

Stephen took a long swig of beer. “How much... am...”

“Five hundred U.S. dollar... and friend help yes... for life’s in England... is good yes. I go England.”

They decided Stephen should give 250 U.S. “dollar” now and he’d make arrangements for Abdul’s entry to England. “In a pig’s eye,” is what he thought.

The rest of the money on completion of the transaction. Stephen didn’t think there was much chance of old Abdul doing a thing, but just maybe... and was willing to risk 250 dollars on the “maybe.”

“I send you English Language paper with accident report... yes.”

“Yea... you do that, me oul china.”

“Is no problem, my friend.”

“Insha Allah,” said Stephen.

Abdul went to Khartoum airport with him. As they said goodbye, Abdul hung his head.

“Yo... Abdul, lighten up Buddy. Soon you’ll be in London, sampling the delights of the D.H.S.S.”

“My friend... always have I the visions... I see things... I see when the bad things to come.”

“Like a racing tipster... yeah.”

“For you, my friend... when the darkness is visible on your hands,” (he held out his hands, palms upturned), “then, my friend... I am afraid the darkness will destroy your soul.”

Sounds like William Styron, the darkness visible... Don’t worry about me ole mate, I’ll keep me hands to me arse.

It was April 20th on his return to London. At Heathrow, he went straight to the cafeteria and had double egg, double chips, five sausages, black pudding, a hint of fried tomato, toast, and the booster pot of tea. It nearly killed him... As he belched, he said

“Luverly.”

It cost the equivalent of a middle class mortgage.

He headed on auto pilot for the Oval, then remembered, “hold the phone, stop the lights... I don’t live there anymore!”

The new flat was in Holland Park. With a monthly rent that would have fixed an epidemic of accidents in Khartoum. His major requirement had been a balcony.

“For the view?” asked the estate agent.

“Yea, something like that.”

He’d salvaged his photo of little Suzy, and had it enlarged to cover one entire wall. Another was transposed to a keyring. The trauma in his life had begun, he believed, when she’d been taken from him. Get her back and all would be well. Money could buy anything. If needs be, he’d go to Paris and see this “André” chappie who was minding her. The French could be had for cash and a Clint Eastwood video.

He swore.

“I will have her back... nowt else matters.”

The prospect of casually mentioning “my daughter” at every opportunity made him night dizzy with delight.

Entering the flat, he said to her likeness,

“Soon Suzy... you’ll be with yer Dad... people will say... Ah yes, the Holland Park Stephen Becks.”

Picked up his new phone, called the off licence.

Yes... they’d be pleased to deliver some crates of Amstel beer... within the hour... certainly... “Thank you, Mr. Beck.” The suits he placed in a black bin liner for Oxfam. A letter from his new solicitor and accountants assured him the V.A.T. had been fully paid.

How were his finances... very healthy... oh, thank God.

Rang Martin’s private nursing home and he was doing well. Might they expect a visit from Stephen?

... They might not.

The next few weeks, he lounged around Hyde Park. Sometimes he ate chips from newspapers and muttered Suzy’s name like an incantation. He had decorators prepare her room.

The nights were for clubbing. A stretch of women became available. Flick a peep of American Express Gold Card, and it was better than a load of hair... almost.

He liked to have them on the balcony. It gave a rush that the bedroom couldn’t match. He’d run them out fast in the morning with the explanation,

“I’m expecting my daughter any minute!”

On the 19th of June, a letter from Khartoum. The envelope was as dirty as their money. Despite gingerly handling it, it left black tracks on his hands.

By now, he’d installed a wicker lounger on the balcony. Filling a glass tankard with Amstel, he stretched out and opened the letter.

A small press cutting.

“Khartoum today, a 32 year old English care worker, Nina Horton, was fatally injured in a three car collision on General Gordon Boulevard. Tragically, Miss Horton’s young daughter, Susan, was also fatally injured. It is believed the little girl was on a week’s vacation. Other fatalities included a tax inspector and a porter from nearby Acropolis Hotel.”

“Miss...” roared Stephen, “What this Miss Horton shit, she’s Mrs. Beck... of the Holland Park Becks...”

The tankard slipped from his fingers as the rest of the piece sank in.

“Oh you stupid fuckin bastard... You cretinous murderous fooker... AR... GL... AR... GUH...”

The howl he emitted could be heard clear down to Notting Hill. He grabbed the rim of the balcony and began to hammer his head against it, shrieking,

“MARTYRS...”