A Fifth of Bruen: Early Fiction of Ken Bruen

Book I

The thoughts burned neon in Danny’s head. As the train moved off from Kennington, he watched the antics of two skinheads. They were sprawled across a range of seats and the train was crowded. Instead of chucking these two from the seats, people cowered away. In the English fashion, as if the two didn’t exist. An Englishman’s home might be his castle, he thought, but they’d given up all rights on the underground.

The skinheads couldn’t have been more than 16 years old. But they were aged in bitterness. Nazi signs competed with the Union Jack in their display of tattoos. A series of grunts and obscenities dribbled from them. They’d keep.

At the oval, Danny had to fight to leave the train. A young black woman with a baby in a push-car cried,

“Excuse me... excuse me, I’m getting off.” No one moved.

Danny grasped the end of the push-car and helped her on to the platform.

She gave him a frightened look.

“Such is London,” he thought, “the Good Samaritan matches the police photo-fits.” The Four Top’s song, “Reach Out, I’ll Be There,” unraveled in his head.

He could go the distance so he said.

“The stairs are steep, why don’t I help you.”

She looked round, but no other offers were available.

“O.K.,” she said.

They’d just gotten to the escalator when Danny was jostled and the skinheads raced past, a breath of badness lining their speed. One roared,

“Yo’ nigger lover... give ’er a bit o’ white, John... eh.”

The girl appeared not to hear. You traveled on the Northern Line often enough, you developed a selective deafness. It was that or get a walkman... or a magnum.

Danny smiled.

“Do you like the four tops?”

“Who?”

“Motown, the hits machine...”

She looked blankly at him. He shrugged and said,

“Never no-mind.”

The skinheads were baiting a guy who was attempting to sell The Big Issue.

“Geroff... buy The Big Issue... Yah prick... hey, gis a job man.”

Danny walked straight to them, said,

“Excuse me?”

The skinheads, surprised, took a moment before the sneers set.

“Wotcha want, nigger-fooker?”

“I wonder if I could interest you chaps in some money.” He hoped his plum accent would hold. They looked at each other.

“Yea, how much then?”

“A hundred pounds, how does that sound?”

“Each.”

“Well... Oh dear, all right, a hundred each... you chaps drive a hard bargain.”

The two now leapt to suspicion.

“Hey, is this some gay-boy thing... you wanna play bumboys, is it... you get somefin’ in your arse all right mate, yea, a fookin size 12 Doc Martin.”

Loud guffaws engulfed them. Danny waited, he never expected this to be easy. Then he said,

“Good Lord, no, I’m doing a magazine on the youth of London. I’d like you two chaps on the cover.”

“Yea’... wot’s the magazine, then?”

“Borough Life.”

“Yea’, well... when do you want to do it, then, like we got fings to do man.”

Danny shot his hand out, he couldn’t resist a leap out of them. His hand narrowly missed one of their faces.

“See St. Mark’s Cathedral, over there? We’d like that as background. This evening at 7, where the benches are.” Uneasiness passed between the two, and before they could protest, he added a sweetener,

“I’ll bring along a case of beer. You chaps aren’t averse to a little drink, I hope.”

“Yea’... get special brews.”

“All right then, see you at 7.”

As Danny walked briskly away, he felt a river of sweat cascade down his back. He muttered,

“Jesus.”

The pain in his back hovered.

Danny... Danny Taylor was forty-six years old. He’d worked as a site foreman for the past fifteen. Two years ago, a fall had injured his back. An industrial tribunal had awarded him substantial damages, and he lived from that. The years on the sites had kept him fit, and his 5’10” height was free from flabbiness. Brown hair was graying fast. It didn’t give him a distinguished look, it looked like brown hair graying. A slightly crooked nose gave a hard look to his face, and he didn’t discourage it. Brown eyes with heavy laughter lines. Danny didn’t believe laughter had much to do with them. His mouth was set mainly in a hard line but transformed completely when he smiled. A rare event.

Danny owned the ground floor of a house on Vassil Road. He kept it Spartan and functional. The sole luxury was music. One wall was lined with albums. He hadn’t yet joined the C.D. revolution and felt a record belonged on a record player. Mainly, he just liked the feel of a disc and to handle the sleeve of a record. He made coffee and let the Moody Blues re-sing the seventies. A Scot on the building site said once,

“I came to London on a Sunday for a Moody Blues concert.”

... And...

As “Knights in White Satin” kicked in, the face of Kathy tried for a foothold in his mind; he blanked it and sang.

He took down the metal aerosol container and checked the spray was loose and ready.

“Test time,” he said.

In his small bathroom, he took a newly purchased sponge and set it in his bath. The sponge was shaped as a pink duck. Then he judged the distance...

“Get up close... O.K.”

And he pressed the nozzle.

Later that evening, he dressed for the meeting. A worn faded track suit that, apart from being comfortable, gave him ease of movement. Dark trainers that gripped and weighed almost nothing. He put four cans of special brew in a hold-all, and then carefully laid the aerosol alongside. Taking a deep breath, he said aloud,

“Let’s rock and roll.”

After he left, a faint hiss still came from the bathroom. Shreds of the pink duck lay in the bath. Part of the enamel from the bath’s side was fully dissolved as the last of the acid burned through. On the floor were the usual creams and cleansers. Nigh hidden among them was a full jar of Brylcreem, the old style formula. Glue like it sealed the hair when applied.

The end of March, and Danny had clocked up three events. He called them that as he refused to use the word, “Attack.” Each event, he’d used the aerosol. A white chart hung in his bedroom, and in black script it read,

   1. Two skinheads

   2. One punk

   3. Two teenage girls

The newspapers were slow to pick up the thread. But now they’d sensed a pattern, and the “events” got to page 2 on most of the tabloids. He hadn’t made the quality papers yet, but he wasn’t in any hurry. It was time for a new weapon, and he’d gone to High Street Kensington.

As he strolled past Barkers, a line from Bruce Springsteen leapt in his mouth,

You could night smell the money that lined the street. A young man asked him for “a few bob”. Danny recognized the lilt of Dublin. Katie had the same accent. For her, maybe, he gave over a few pound coins. The man was astonished.

“Jaysus, thanks a lot.”

“How do you like London?”

“Fuckin’ brutal.”

While perhaps not how Samuel Pepys would have put it... the accuracy couldn’t be faulted.

Katie had introduced him to the poetry of Louis MacNeice, the lines from “Autumn Journal” about the Irish. Danny saw them lines as a sort of damning:

   “they stagger round

   the world

   with a stutter and

   a brogue

   and a faggot of useless

   memories.”

A part return, he’d bullied her into listening to “All the Old Songs.” When Darcy had come along, the little girl had lit his world with wonder. Once she said,

“Daddy, do you love me as much as songs?”

Whoa-hey.

Thoughts of Darcy hit his stomach like a poll tax. He forced a new feeling into place. Right here on Kensington High Street, Richie was driving and they’d stopped for a red light.

From nowhere a windscreen merchant appeared. Before you could protest, these guys had your windscreen covered in suds and then wiped it off. A spit and sod job. Richie rolled down the window.

“Hey... hey, you wanna ask or somefin’ before you paste my screen with that gunge.”

The guy smirked and said,

“Any contribution will help.”

Danny leant over and said,

“Here’s a contribution, learn some manners.”

The guy turned his face and said,

“Who asked you, fuck face?”

Danny was out of the car, grabbed the guy’s right arm and snapped it cleanly across his knee.

Richie gunned the engine and Danny piled into the back.

As they burned rubber, Richie asked,

“What the hell is wrong with you, Dan-yell, are you crazy? Jesus... what a thing to do, You broke that cat’s arm.”

“I wanted to break his legs, too.”

“Chill out, Danny... Good grief, you’re losing it, get a bloody grip.”

Danny asked,

“What do you think of Philip Larking?”

“Yo... I dunno them National Hunt jockeys, I only follow the flat.”

“You ignoramus, he’s regarded as among Britain’s finest poets.”

“Hey, Danny, I’m a black man, remember. What I want to know about a white man’s poems?”

A sulky silence settled as the car moved slow towards Marble Arch. Richie spoke.

“O.K. man... what we have to say, this Barking...”

“Larkin! He said that poetry was like trying to remember a tune you’ve forgotten.”

“So, Daniel... are you writing poems, is this some confession, man?”

“Jeez, Ritchie, I dunno why I bother trying to talk to you. I’m showing you a piece of my soul here. My life feels like that... as if I’m trying to remember a tune that had all the right words, if I could just get the melody, I’d be all right.”

“So, meanwhile, you break my arms, yea’? I dunno what that is man, but I don’t think it’s poetry.”

And, indeed, theirs was an unlikely friendship. Five years before, Danny was managing a site in Croydon. One of the labourers called him,

“Dan... Danny, there’s a darkie looking for a job, he’s down in the office.”

“Tell him we’re not hiring.”

“Jaysus... Danny, he’s a big fooker, you tell him, you’re the governor.”

Big he certainly was. Over six foot and weighing in at about 15 stone. Not so much black as tinted.

Danny said,

“You’re a big ’un.”

“I’m not afraid of work, man, and I’m strong.”

“Where were you before?”

The man looked around, then down at his feet and finally taking a deep breath said,

“I was in prison man, alright, and mos’ like I go back there. But I met a woman, a real fox, and she on that straight and narrow. If I to keeps her, I gotta work. This kinda work, yea’ man, I gotta be outa them doors... so man, I ain’t askin’... I’m begging, and I ain’t never, no sir, no time, ever begged in my life. But I got’s to tell you, I only gonna beg once and this here is it.”

Sweat had cruised down his face and he swiped at it.

Danny said,

“When can you start?”

And they took it from there.

Danny snapped out of his reverie. An American sports shop was next to Kensington Market. No sooner had he entered than an assistant was upon him. A lanky man in his twenties, he wore a Laker’s T-shirt, baseball cap and aviator glasses. His American accent lapsed into Hackney at intervals.

“Yo, partner, and what can we do you for?”

“Excuse me?”

“Was there a particular item sir wanted to purchase?” Danny felt his teeth grit but resolved not to lose it; however, he had to know one thing.

“Firstly, I’m not your partner, O.K.... or your buddy, so let’s drop the breezy tone. Secondly, are you American?” The man looked anxiously around. No help in sight. “I’ve spent a lotta time there, quality time.”

“But you’re not actually an American, so let’s drop the phoney bit, eh. Now, I’d like to see a baseball bat... not metal or some new unbreakable plasticine. Just wood, can you do that?”

He could.

In no time, he brought back a long box and produced the required item. He then stood well away. Danny rested it in both hands and then took an easy, flowing swing. A quiet shoosh followed in the wake. The man said,

“State of the art, sir, and as a special promotion, we provide a Yankees cap in a colour of your choice.” Danny stopped his swing.

“Do me a friggin favour, eh.”

“You don’t want the cap?”

“Just wrap the bat, alright.”

As Dany left the shop, the radio in the shop kicked into life and Peter Sarstead came on,

By the time Danny got to the tube, he hummed most of it and a gentle sadness lined his face. He gripped the bat tightly, like a prayer.

Back at his flat, he rang the largest of the tabloids and asked for the features editor. Finally a gruff voice came on,

“Baker here, what’s the story?”

“Are you familiar with the L.V. attacks?”

“L.A., the riots, that’s old news, fellah.”

“L.V.”

“What... what’s that, luncheon vouchers or somefin’, eh?”

“London Vigilante, do you want this story or not?”

“Oh, right... am, just let me get me a pen here. Now, your name is?”

“This is to tell you there’ll be three more ‘events’ this month. The acid will be replaced by a new instrument.”

“What... is this on the up and up? Are you the one... hey, I can make you famous fella, rich too...”

“Baker, is it... give it a rest, O.K....”

“Look, fellah, you can trust me... really, I’ll put this paper right behind you.”

Danny laughed.

“Good grief, wot a horrible idea... all you need to know is that a small piece of London is being claimed back for ordinary people.”

And he put the phone down.

His shirt was wet through from perspiration, he said aloud,

“Is that what I’m doing... is it, am I making a difference... am I?”

This event was to be the one in which he got stabbed. ‘Event’ was his father’s word, and Danny wondered how he’d like the use to which it was put.

His recurring image of his father was scalded on his heart. The man leaping to his feet, struggling to pull his belt loose, roarin’,

“I’m going to skin you alive.”

Danny told people his father was a drinker.

He wasn’t.

His nigh psychotic temper was simply — bad temper.

He liked to beat people, he loved to beat Danny. Time reaches out for all bullies. At 17, Danny’s father pulled his belt loose and prepared to launch another event. Danny had moved straight to him, seized the belt and whispered,

“How would you like that wrapped round yer fuckin neck, you bastard.”

“Ah son, it’s been to make a man of ye... see, see now you’re learning.”

Danny had snapped the belt from his hand and flung it across the room.

If time brings forgiveness, then Danny reckoned the clock had a bit to go yet.

“Ya bastard,” he muttered as he fitted the bat into a sports hold-all. He took the train to The Angel. A small park near the station was his target. As he waited for the train, he watched a small, aged oriental woman. She had the tiniest feet he’d ever seen, and they were shod in sparkling new white sneakers. Obviously fascinated by them, she made little jumps back and forth. He thought she’d probably been subjected to the binding of her feet as a child. Now she was relishing the freedom or...

“Or,” he whispered, “maybe she just likes the fucking shoes.”

The train came. A line of Flaubert burned in his head.

March was nearing an end, and he could see a stretch in the evenings. Once, he’d have cared. Checking his watch, two minutes to seven, near mugging-hour. He sat in the small park and composed his victim’s face. This was a mix of eagerness and a slightly lost look. It instantly had an effect as a middle-aged woman hurrying paused,

“Oh, you don’t want to sit there, love, no, you don’t want to do that.”

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“Well, my goodness, love, don’t wait long. It’s not safe here.”

He wondered where was, and thanked her for her concern. Richie was expecting him at 10 for a drink. His woman had walked at Christmas and soon after, Richie did the same from his job. He was smoking a lot of dope.

“Nothing hard,” he explained.

Danny liked the explanations for drugs these days.

“Designer”... or “Recreational.” As if they were a nigh useful fashion accessory and definitely not hazardous. His favourite description was “soft drugs.” Did they make you soft in the head, he wondered.

That too.

A nagging suspicion tugged at Danny that just maybe Richie was into dealing. He had to put this on the back burner. If such were so, didn’t Richie qualify for an event? He shrugged it away.

Richie’s most recent acquisition was “ICE.” An amphetamine derivative that was popular in Japan. Just beginning to dent the market in Britain. According to the stories, it was used originally by the Kamikaze pilots. Danny thought that was a suitable metaphor all in itself, but as a selling point? Danny had asked him,

“So what does it do for you?”

“It makes you hyper tense, but like, you see with 100 % perception. You don’t eat, sleep. And it lingers for about three days.”

Danny said,

“Bit like love, is it?”

In fact, the ‘events’ did much the same for Danny. Two youths, black and white, approached him. As if they materialized from the shadows. He hadn’t seen them enter the park, and resolved to cut out these reveries... and muttered,

“Money-vampires. Predators from the pavement.”

“Got the time, John?” they began.

And so did he.

Danny’s daydreaming had nearly cost him his life. He never saw the third. Later, he’d ruefully parody T. S. Eliot,

The knife went in on his left side, deep and ferocious.

He was never quite sure how he’d gotten away. The sound of the bat’s swing and his own agonized grunts were the soundtrack. That and breaking bone.

A wedge of money persuaded the cab driver to take him to casualty, plus a mugging yarn.

They patched him up and he was sitting in reception after, waiting for a pain-killer prescription. A nurse stood over him.

“What happened to you, at all?”

Soft brogue.

He looked at her. Average height with dark, curly hair, blue eyes and a full mouth. Pretty in the Irish fashion. Her name tag read, N. Mulkerns.

“Is the ‘N’ for Nurse or Nosy?”

“Nora... what are you so touchy about?”

“Go away, Nora, peddle the Mother Theresa act down the wards.”

She smiled and it transformed her. An average, pretty face came close to beauty. Not completely but in there.

“Aren’t you the wicked one, you have a mighty fierce tongue on you.”

He stood up and pain took a mighty wallop at him.

“Fuck,” he said.

“What kind of language is that from a nice lookin’ man? I’ll get you a cup of tea, to sweeten your disposition.”

She did.

“No bikkies, I’m afraid, economy cuts.”

Danny took a swig of the tea, realized he was parched and drained it. A burning sensation like memories.

“Well now, you certainly enjoyed that.”

Danny felt for his watch... gone in the event.

“What time is it?”

“Half past nine, I’m off duty at 10.”

Danny looked closely at her, said,

“Why are you in my face, is this some follow up treatment or are you just trying to annoy the shit out of me, ’cos believe you me, you’re succeeding.”

She put her hand on her hip and replied,

“You think I’m a hussy, don’t you, that I’m forward. Bur that’s how things are today. It’s a woman’s prerogative to do the asking.”

Danny reckoned she wasn’t all in it.

“You’re not all in it, are yah... O.K. let’s go for a drink, just let me get my pills.”

“In case you got lucky... is it... I’ll get my coat.”

Danny went to the phones and found the pub’s number. After a delay, Richie came on the line.

“Richie, I can’t make it.”

“Who can, Daniel, but we have a little something to put pepper in the old pencil.”

“What, is this drug humour, is that it?”

“Whoa, lighten up, Daniel... I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Nora was waiting. She’d put on a belted navy coat over her uniform. To Danny she looked like a policewoman, but he knew he was batting paranoid.

“So,” she said.

“What?”

“Do you like my coat?”

“Are you serious, I don’t know you five minutes, you ASK me do I like you’re coat.”

“It’s not a difficult question.”

“Look, I don’t even know if I like you... do you want me to call a mini cab or wot?”

Book II

Nora had a car, a beat up mini in what was once bright red. She said,

“Don’t look at it like that, it goes great, the appearance keeps it from being stolen.”

“Promise me one thing... Nora, don’t tell me it has a pet name and start outlining a history of loveable eccentricity. It’s a car, and it goes? Right, let’s go.”

She drove fast but measured. Danny’s wound throbbed and they stopped at a late open chemist. He had the prescription filled and got back into the car.

Nora smiled.

“I hope you didn’t buy any of them condom things.”

“Excuse me?”

“I never do it on a first date so you’ll have jumped the gun... if you’ll pardon my Freudian slip. Let’s go to The Anchor. It’s a quiet place.”

They did.

They did.

The pub was near empty. They’d just sat down when the barman came over.

“Evening all. What’s your poison?”

Nora ordered a medium sweet sherry and Danny asked for a double scotch. Nora said,

“No you won’t... bring him a mineral water... you’re not to mix alcohol with those pills.”

Smirk from the barman. Nora said,

“Don’t sulk, I’ll treat you. What do I call you?”

“Danny.”

“The pipes... the pipes are calling.”

“That’s very original... Nora, it’s Nora, is it? I’ve never had that line before.”

“That’s my name. You say it like a caress, as if you were reciting a poem. I’d like you to drop the sarcasm though.” The barman brought the drinks.

Nora said, “Sláunte.”

Danny said nothing.

She took a sip of the sherry and said,

“If I’m not mistaken, Clapham... and the year... hmm... 92... m... m. Are you married, Danny?”

“I was.”

“Drove her away with your levity, did you?”

Danny drank the mineral water and knew he shouldn’t reply.

All his instincts said to batten down.

“Well, Nora... interesting you should use the word ‘drove.’ My wife Katie... and our little girl, Darcy, were waiting for a bus at Camberwell Green. A joyrider ploughed into them. Cut Darcy in half... and she was only a tiny thing... killed Katie too. People said the joyrider couldn’t have been more than 14, said he couldn’t even see over the wheel. He legged it and they didn’t catch him... not yet anyway.”

Nora looked sick.

“Oh, God, Danny, I’m so dreadfully sorry... I mean I never... I wouldn’t, oh sweet Jesus, me and my big mouth. Oh God!”

Danny excused himself, went to the bar. The barman slowly brought his smirk to the counter.

“A large scotch, please.”

“Don’t let her catch you, eh.”

Danny said nothing, took the drink, and walloped it home.

It shook him. He said,

“Same again.”

“If you want my advice, sir.”

“I don’t, what I want is the same again. Can you do that, eh?”

He could.

Danny brought the second drink to the table. Nora asked,

“Do you know Annie Lennox?”

“Why?”

“That’s the song. Heaven’s above, how did you know?”

“Whoa hey, hold the phones lady... before you get hyper on some ESP garbage or unspoken communication, I was only asking a question, alright... so let’s calm down.” Hurt washed her face and she took a sip of the sherry. Then she said quietly,

“I was only going to say there’s a line in her song that goes, ‘Why can’t I learn to keep my big mouth shut.’ Do... do you know it?”

“I only know old songs. I only like old songs.”

They said little after that and Nora drove him to the Oval. As he was getting out, she gave him a slip of paper.

“That’s my phone number, if you... well, anyway... you’ll know yerself.”

He said goodnight. Almost immediately, a man in his late 30’s approached.

“Wanna score, got some quality stuff?”

“Yea’... got any speed?”

“My man, I got it all. More variety than Boots, and no prescription required.”

They moved into a small lane, lined by railings. The man produced an envelope and began to spill coloured capsules into his palm.

“Let’s see... speed-o... hmmm... downers, quals, dexies... ah, yea’.”

And he dropped some. He bent down quickly and Danny grabbed his hair. With all his force, he slammed the man’s face against the railings... once, twice... and a third, and then let the man slide to the ground. Danny bent and rummaged through his pockets, took a bundle of money and two more envelopes. As he walked away, he stopped and went back to lean over the groaning figure, said,

“My man, do you have the time?” and removed the man’s watch, a heavy, silver Citizen. He liked the irony of that brand name.

As he headed home, he hummed The Commodores,

Richie came by early, a smaller black man in tow. But anyone appeared small next to him. They both sported the reversed baseball caps. Danny felt hungover and his side ached. He went to make tea. Richie introduced his friend as Roy.

Elvis was extolling the “wonder of you,” and Roy said,

“Got any rap?”

Danny said it was tea or nowt. He made a mountain of toast and plonked it all down on a small table. Roy bit into the toast, he was on his third slice when Richie slapped his shoulder.

“What the fuck wrong with yo’ man... this be the man’s breakfast... wotcha gonna do... and take dat cap off man, jeez... where you been?”

He snatched the cap from Roy’s head.

“But ye be wearing yo’ cap, Rich.”

“Am I eating de toast, you see me eating de toast?”

Danny marveled anew at Richie’s rapid register of accents. He’d throw in a toff amid a swelter of Jamaican. Richie turned to Danny.

“So, my man, what’s shaking?”

“Not a lot, Richie... just doing it.”

Roy took a tabloid from his jacket, unfolded it and held out the front page.

“Some bro’ bin sticking it to the street people.” The headline read,

Danny put down his cup. Richie said,

“Dat de kind of crazy shit you likely to pull, eh, Danyell... you probably rooting for this dude.”

“You think he’s wrong?”

“I think he’s fookin’ crazy, that wot I be thinking and I think he be a fascist, too.”

“Come on Richie, a fascist?”

“Yea, them Vigilantes, today they come for him, tomorrow they be coming for you... Them dangerous mut Danyell, you all listen to ole Rich here. I see them fascists in de prison, all tattoos and patriotism.”

Danny looked at his watch, his Citizen watch. He was unfamiliar with its weight.

Roy’s eyes shone.

“Nice piece of watch, bro’.”

Richie had an odd expression, said,

“Man could be mugged for a piece like that.”

Danny smiled.

“Oh, I don’t think so, Richie, I don’t think so at all.”

“Roy, how about you start the car, seeing is yo’ all had ’nouf toast, n’all.”

Roy put his cap on, fixed it fussily in it’s reverse position, said,

“That Elvis, sure can sing, yea... I’d like to hear him rap.”

Richie stood, looked round as if he expected someone.

“Danny, I gots a problem, need to ask you a favour.”

“O.K.”

“I gots this package, I can’t keeps it at my crib so...”

“Should I ask what’s in it?”

“No... no, Danyell, bests be you don’t.”

“Let’s have it, then.”

Richie produced a brown paper sack, and gingerly handed it over. Danny took it with both hands, it was sealed with brown tape and weighed like a pound of sugar.

“I come by in a few days, take it offa yer hands, how that be?”

“That would be fine, Richie.”

“O.K., my man, you take care now, huh,” and he grabbed Danny in a bear hug. “You no beauty Dan-yell, but you alright.”

“Excuse me.”

“That an old song, that be your Boss, Bruce Springsteen, see, I be listening out for you, always.”

After he’d gone, Danny did what he’d see in a hundred movies. He ripped open the bag, put his index finger in, tasted.

“Well, it doesn’t taste like sugar,” he said.

It had a bitter kick-back. Danny considered it for a moment then went to the toilet. He upturned the bag and watched the white powder spill into the bowl, then he flushed.

“Nobody will find it there,” he said. He most hoped it belonged to Roy, he didn’t like Roy at all.

Danny had to forgo his exercises as his side was too painful. A little worrying this, as he had to be in shape for the events. The lack of these exercises also allowed his memory to kick into gear.

From a blind corner came the words of “Honey”. One of the great schmaltz records, everyone derided it as pure slush and yet it was a massive hit. Twice. It was on its first massive upswing when Danny met Katie and she’d hum it to them, half-in-earnest. Danny frequently called Darcy, “Honey II”.

He wondered what Nora would make of it. A long time ago he’d thrown out the record, with the photos. Danny went to the West End. As he strolled through Leicester Square, he marveled at the amount of event candidates. A nigh feverish hunting ground this would be.

Entering the record shop, he was stunned at the poster for the current hit-makers. Who were these people, he’d never heard of any of them. So ‘O.K.’ he though. ‘I’m out of touch. I’m over 40, but this was a complete alien world.’ He moved to a counter.

“I’m looking for a honey,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Honey, that’s h-o-n-e-y!”

“Sorry, sir, this is a music store, there’s a chemist two doors down. Or you might try our cafeteria on the third floor.”

The girl turned away. Danny wanted to hit her.

“It’s a song... from 1968 or so... by a guy called Bobby Goldboro.”

She looked confused, then like a cartoon a bulb seemed to light above her head. A huge smile and she said,

“I get it, you’re Bobby GoldsBERG, that’s it... is this some 60’s revival thing? You’ll have to go to the basement, sir, for vintage stock.”

She began to giggle, all of 17 years and he must seem older than Steptoe. He turned away, deep mortification burned his gut. Another sixties song, “A Deck of Cards” had a line he could use,

But what he was, was tired.

In McDonald’s, he got a large, black coffee. They throw in a dab of hostility for free. Danny began to think about his mother. Perhaps Nora being Irish too, had let her loose in his head. Or maybe, he thought, it was just time to think a little about her.

A small, shy woman who loved to sing. Her favourite was, “Pal of My Cradle Days.” She’d sing that in a loud, clear voice, and all shyness fell away.

“God gave us songs,” she’d said, “because he didn’t give us wings.”

A shiver ran down his spine and he gulped at his drink. He thought it was Margaret Atwood who described coffee as “Jitters in a cup.”

“Yea’”, he thought, “that, too.”

An employee was attempting to mop under his feet, persistently. The place was packed, yet the man hung at Danny’s table like glue.

Danny touched his arm.

“Hey, could you give it a rest, mate, it’s clean, OK... you’ve been at it for 10 minutes already. It’s fine, OK?”

The man looked blankly at him and began to wipe the table.

“Hey, for fucksake, piss off, alright!”

The manager appeared, he looked no older than the assistant in the record shop. His name tag read, “Bob”.

“Is there some problem here?”

Danny handed him his coffee carton.

“Be a good lad, Bob. Leap up there and get me another of them coffees. No milk mind, and... yea’, I seem to have plenty of sugar. Yea, plenty of that.”

To the amazement of all three, Bob did. Danny said to the astonished cleaner,

“Aye, there’s nowt as odd as folk.”

His mother had caught Guillain-Barré syndrome. Danny often wondered about the usage of the word “caught.” What, the person went out looking for it or something? “Ah, here’s an interesting disease, gotta grab me some of that!”

Danny shook his head. When his father was told the news, he roared,

“Oh, naturally, nothing common for your mother, she’d have to get something that no one an pronounce. Sounds like a poxy French job, eh...”

As time went by, her breathing became more and more laboured. The disease eventually leads to death by suffocation. Danny had been with her till she died. He said to Kate once,

“Do you know what my Mother said the moment before she died?”

“What, Danny?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you serious?”

“No, I’m making it up, what do you think, take a flying, friggin’ guess!”

He was making it up. His Mother had taken his hand and whispered,

“Ah, Danny, I was always afraid in London, afraid of the streets, but not afraid now... well, only a little bit. I’m glad I don’t have to get up for school in the morning, I’ll be here where it’s warm.”

Her hand had slipped from his.

The third event fell into his lap. He’d planned on recuperation, let his body and mind heal. He was wary too, of becoming hooked on the adrenaline rush. Fear of arrest didn’t bother him, he just didn’t want it to happen yet. Rising to his seat, he said to the still lingering cleaner,

“I’m going to the toilet, will you be cleaning in there, or can you give me a head start?”

As he put his hand to the door of the toilet, it was pulled open suddenly. A middle-aged man stuck his head out and said,

“Go find another toilet, shit head, I’ll be here for a while.”

Danny took a quick glance round.

“O.K.” he said, and pushed the door with all his might. He felt it slam the man and he followed through. The man had been propelled back against the wall, blood already pouring from his nose.

“What the fuck,” he gasped.

Danny moved right in, kneed him in the crotch and caught him as he fell, dragged him to the toilet bowl, said,

“You got a dirty mouth mister, and we’re gonna clean it out.”

As Danny worked the flush he thought,

“That’s twice today I’ve flushed the garbage.”

He went to the basin and washed his hands. As he left, he met the cleaner, and said,

“It needs tidying up right enough.”

There’s a small, second-hand jewellers in a near-forgotten lane off Piccadilly Circus. The owner was a small, fidgety man of indeterminate age. As with most London retailers, he treated custom with blatant aggression. His radio was playing, and, to Danny’s delight, Long John Baldy.

The owner gave Danny a sour look.

“What d’you want?”

“Civility would help.”

“What, whatcha say?”

“I want to get a locket and chain, one that looks old.”

“Antique, is it?”

“Did I say antique, did you hear me use the word antique... I said, ‘That looks old’.”

Danny found that a taste of psychosis brought manners to most shopkeepers. That it might also bring the police was a calculated risk.

The owner mellowed a bit.

“I have one that looks old, alright, needs a bit of polish. Could let you have it for thirty-five.”

He produced a very worn locket. Danny opened it. The left frame had a very faded picture. Too hazy to distinguish, even the sex wasn’t evident. It was perfect, he couldn’t have designed better.

“It’s not what I had in mind. I’ll give you twenty.”

“Twenty five and I’ll polish it.”

“Twenty two and I’ll polish it myself.”

The deal was made.

Outside, Danny took the two envelopes he’d lifted from the drug dealer and felt them. PILLS. He was about to sling them when an idea whispered to him, and he put them back in his pocket.

As he walked up Shaftsbury Avenue, the early edition of The Evening Standard was out. The billboards said,

On the train he read of a series of “events” all over the city. What they called, “copycat” acts. He hadn’t planned on this, but felt it could only be in his interest. A police spokesman described them as, “a dangerous and reckless trend.” The police were pursuing a definite line of enquiry.

“Yea’,” he muttered, “and pigs might fly.”

He stopped at the off-license and bought a bottle of Crème de Menthe and a bottle of brandy.

He rang Nora and got her answering machine. All over the country, no one was home anymore. If they could now arrange for the answering machines to make calls, people need never use the phone at all. The message he left said he’d like to take her to dinner and if she’d like that, he’d be waiting at The Oval cricket ground at 7.

His flat was so Spartan that it didn’t take much tidying. He put fresh sheets on the bed as he said,

“You never know, maybe I’ll get lucky.”

But he didn’t care a whole lot one way or the other.

That evening he put on a pale blue shirt and knitted tie. A dark wool suit, and resisted the impulse to put a hankie in the top pocket. As he inspected himself in the mirror, he said,

“As I live and breathe, it’s Chief Inspector Morse. Thames Valley CID.”

He’d have hummed the signature tune if classical music was hummable. A faint twinge of excitement was building in his stomach, and he called it “wind.”

He got to the Cricket Ground and saw her red car immediately. She opened the door and he got in.

“You look like Morse...”

“Whoa, hold the phones, doesn’t anyone say ‘hello’ anymore.”

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello, yourself.”

She was wearing a tight black mini dress with black tights. In the small confines of the car, it was hard not to stare.

“You can look,” she said, “my legs aren’t my worst feature.”

“You can leave the car here, the restaurant is only a few minutes walk.”

He walked on the outside and she gave a smile in radiance. He said,

“It’s how I was reared.”

“You don’t need to explain matters, and rudeness... well, it’s inexplicable.”

A white teenage boy on a skateboard zoomed past them, turned and prepared for a second run. Danny pointed his finger.

“I wouldn’t.”

The kid looked at Danny’s face and tore off in another direction. Nora had been startled and now looked into his eyes.

“Mother of God, you should have seen his face... and yours, you looked like you could kill him.”

“I don’t think I’d have gone that far... but still.”

“Are you serious, you wouldn’t have done anything surely?”

“I’d have broken his right leg.”

“What... oh, you’re smiling, I thought you meant it.”

“So did he.”

She linked his arm and it had a profound effect. If he knew of any gestures more endearing, he couldn’t think of any. A wave of emotion fought with the murderous impulse he’d just experienced. She said,

“You’re shaking.”

“Ah, it’s ah... brisk.”

“I’ll mind yah.”

The restaurant was an infrequent haunt of Danny and Ritchie. Guido, the owner, greeted them warmly.

“Danyello... Senorina. Welcome.”

He seated them at their table, lit the candle with a flourish.

“Ah,” he sighed, “Amore.” He produced a bottle and two glasses, poured out a pale liquid.

Nora was completely charmed and near taken away when Guido presented her with a rose, long-stemmed. He’d even managed a drop of water on the petals. He crooned, “Though not as fair as thee.”

Nora said,

“A bit of a chancer that fella, I’d say.”

“He’s got the moves.”

Guido brought a copy of the late Standard to the table. The front page was dominated by a photo fit of the Vigilante.

Guido exclaimed,

“See, Bellissimo, a true hero. I give him the freedom of my restaurant.”

Nora looked at the photo fit, said,

“This could be half the men in London, or absolutely nobody.”

Danny took a look.

“Bit like the Chancellor of the Exchequer who’s been mugging the country himself.”

“Guido reappeared, order pad in hand. Danny said,

“Let me order for us both.”

She smiled, said,

“I do so like mastery.”

He ordered thus:

   Clams Oreganata

   Linguini fruitti di mare

   Lasagne

   Meat dish pizziada

   Two bottles of Asti Spumanti

Guido was delighted and Nora was mystified.

“Will we be able to eat it, or is just to impress Guido... do you speak Italian?”

“Nora, there are days I can hardly speak English. No, I learnt that from the Godfather movies. Darcy used to love the names. You know how children love repetition. I’d say,

   Linguini

   Valpolicella

   Oreganata

and she’d squeal with delight. It got her to eat dinner, too.”

Nora watched him closely during his story. He was in another place. She said,

“I was thinking of you today, and the horrendous grief you’ve suffered. I haven’t read as much as you, but I do remember things. I once read,

I can’t remember who said that.”

Danny was about to say Mark Twain, but thought he’d let her have the moment. She continued,

“I dunno how you survived it.”

“What makes you think I have?”

“Good heavens, no, I don’t mean that, but you’re functional and here and... well, doing things... you know?”

“I’m doing things, that’s the truth.”

Guido came with battalions of food. He spread plates like a man with a winning streak... stood back and shouted,

“Eat... eat... enjoy.”

They did.

After, Guido brought zuppa. He’d laced them with lethal dollops of rum and Nora said,

“How can I drive after these?”

Danny said,

“You don’t have to, you can come home with me and drink coffee.”

“Oh, Danny, I don’t think it’s drinking coffee I’d be doing if I went.”

He didn’t know what to make of this, so he muttered,

“I don’t know what to make of that.”

“Pay the bill and let’s find out.”

They went to his flat. She looked round it and said,

“If a person’s home makes a statement about them, this says nothing.”

Before he could reply, she moved to him and kissed him ferociously. She said,

“Now, have me now on the floor before words spoil anything.”

He did.

Later in bed, they lay entwined as Carol King sang of gentler moments. They played it continuously and didn’t let their own words ruin the feeling. Before she slept, Nora said,

“A woman could pray for a man like you.”

And he knew he could take that either way. His mother used to say,

“The oul prayer is great.”

After Katie and Darcy were gone, he’d memorise whole passages of books and try to numb his mind. One passage he ran through now, the famous introduction by Professor Karl Averbach’s lecture on Freud’s “Future of an Illusion.”

Averbach believed in coincidence as a determining factor in the development of strategies for social survival.

   Coincidence begets mysticism

   Which begets religion

   Which begets sin and retribution

   Which beget

      Repression

      Guilt

      Psychosis

By giving significance to random events, we input a hidden logic which leads to the creation of a hidden power controlling our lives.

We then invent strategies to propitiate this hidden power. In other words... we pray.

Danny wondered how the police would react to this line of defense. He could hear their judgement,

“Whacko.”

There was one prayer he felt should accompany the “events.” It said,

“O Lord God of Abraham

keep me

alive and smart

The rest

I’ll figure out for myself.”

Carol King switched off and Danny tried his damnedest to follow suit; he was partially successful.

Danny rose early, prepared a breakfast tray. Tea, toast, two eggs, hard-boiled. He then got the locket he’d purchased in the West End and wrapped it in a napkin, which he placed beside the tea.

He woke her gently, her face lit in a smile.

“Is that tea... oh, thank God. I was afraid it would be coffee. I’d have to drink it and would be a walking bitch the rest of the day... and toast... I could eat a horse.”

“Aren’t you hung-over?”

“I’m a nurse, we get hungry, not hangovers.”

And she put her hand to his face, kissed him easily.

She lifted the napkin and the locket fell from the tray.

“What’s this?”

“It was my mother’s, and... well, I’d like you to have it.”

“But, Danny, I can’t... your mother.”

“She’d have wanted you to have it.”

“Is this her... the photo...”

“Or the Chancellor... it’s a bit faded.”

“No... no, I can see you in her.”

Danny thought that was fair enough. A sort of poetic justice.

“You’re a good man, Danny. I’ll take care of it... and you... if you’ll let me.”

He walked her to her car and promised to ring her for the weekend. The love making had done wonders for his body.

He felt as if he’d had an interior massage.

When he got back to the flat the phone was ringing. Richie.

“Yo, Dan-yell, what’s shaking?”

“The usual.”

“You got my package safe?”

“Where no one can reach it.”

“Yo’ the man, Danyell.”

“So they say.”

“I send Roy later to pick it up... that bro, he eat or drink anyfink... sorry ’bout the toast. I’ll catch up soon my friend.”

“O.K. Ritchie.”

Danny took the envelopes he’d liberated from the dope dealer and spilt the contents on the table... a feast of pills. Next, he got a razor blade and a plain sheet of paper. Each capsule he slit and let the contents gather on the paper. He thought about Nora, her expression as she examined the locket. He thought of the lines from Flaubert,

Boney M were having a revival, and he hummed “The Rivers of Babylon” as he worked. When he’d finished, he poured the powder in a large, plastic beaker and added a drop of Crème de Menthe. Next, he put a heaped spoon of coffee and then two sugars... and began to stir. STIRRED WELL,

“Like the Greeks make,” he said... and immediately came the “Beware of them bearing gifts.”

“Yea,” he said, “that too.”

Finally, he added two fingers of brandy and put the lot in the fridge.

“Allow to cool,” he whispered, “for a moment of resentment.” Then he settled down to wait.

Roy came late evening. What appeared to be a frenzied tea cosy sat on his head. A pink track suit proclaimed, “Boyz N’ Hood.” The prerequisite high tops with the laces undone.

Danny completely unnerved him with a huge show of welcome.

“Roy, great to see you, come in... sit down.”

He nearly said, “I missed you,” and thought he’d better get a grip.

“Yo’ got my package, man... I’m in a big hurry. Gots a man to see.”

“Hey, buddy, you’re Ritchie’s friend, then that makes you MY FRIEND. You’ve got time for a quick drink.”

A sly grin from Roy.

“Always got time to drink, man.”

“You’ve heard of a Rob-Roy. It’s a cocktail... well, lemme give you a dynamite drink they call F. Y. Roy.”

“FROY...?”

“Yea’, that’s near enough. Might taste a bit sweet to start.”

“Oh. I likes ’em sweet... young, too.”

Danny thought, “You’re a funny man, Roy, real class sense of humour.”

He handed Roy a mug, and with his own mug... toasted him.

“Cheery pip... down the hatch in one.”

Book III

As Danny helped Roy behind the wheel of his car, he had to actually turn the ignition for him. The package was full forgotten.

“Wot... wot de name of my drink, man?”

Before Danny could answer, the engine turned over and they took off. He’d rehearsed telling Roy the name all day... now he said it quietly after the departing car.

“An F. Y. Roy... gettit, a fuck you... yea’... you drive careful now, you hear.”

A weak spring sun was doing its best to break through. Danny thought he’d sit in the park and marvel that the sun would attempt to shine this late in the evening. He knew darkness could only be minutes away, and the dinner bell to sound for predators.

Barely had he sat than a young woman approached. She was dressed in what Time Out described as killer-bimbo power-gear. Micro-short mini, sheer stockings, and the vicious spike heels.

She smiled.

“Wanna get laid?”

Danny wondered anew why half of London was attempting to talk American.

“I’ve been laid.”

“Not like I do it, Honey.”

“No. You do it for money, right? I didn’t have to pay for it.”

She gave a loud laugh.

“Oh, you paid, Honey, in one way or another, you always pay.”

“You might be right. Gotta go, but thanks for your input.”

He considered ringing Nora, but felt he had had enough communication for one day.

Danny had overlooked an irony he would have relished.

The influx of American was something he constantly derided. Yet, he himself was an exponent of a uniquely American concept,

   The “Vigilante”

   and worse.

   as “folk hero.”

He slept late the next day. Rising, he felt still the afterglow of Nora. It sparked a small light in his soul where the darkness had so reigned. Selecting Roy Orbison, he showered and shaved in near buoyant mood. Roy O’ sang,

He joined in the chorus,

Opening the front door, he jumped back. Richie was standing there, silent and grim.

“Jesus Christ, Ritchie, you put the heart sideways in me. How long have you been standing there.”

“Long enough. I could hear you singing to your records, be a happy morning for you, I figger.”

“So, are you coming in or wot?”

“Yea’, I comes in.”

Agitation came in waves from Richie... and something else too... something Danny had never for from him, hostility.

“What’s up, Richie, you want some tea or coffee?”

Only later did Danny realize that as Richie spoke, he’d dropped all the accents, not a hint of patois nor a flavour of Irish. Even the clipped British inflexion was absent. His voice was plain and cold.

“What time was Roy here?”

“In the evening, it was still bright, in fact, the weirdest thing... the sun tried to shine. Don’t you want coffee or something?”

Roy Orbison was now “Running Scared.”

“You want to turn that shit off Danny, I need you to hear me.”

Danny considered it, but decided to let it slide.

“O.K.”

“And Roy left here... with the package?”

“What the fuck is this, Richie... are you interrogating me... I turned off the music but don’t get ahead of yourself? Yea, he had a drink... he was very hyper... as if he was something... and, yea, he left... with the friggin’ parcel... wot you think, I flushed it down the toilet?”

They were facing each other, and violence hummed all round. Richie climbed down.

“Yea’... sorry, bro’. Roy hit the roundabout at the Elephant and Castle at over 90 miles an hour. The car was totaled and him too. I’ve been telling him, don’t mess with that stuff. Thing is... that package, it been bought and paid for. I was like... a courier. You heard of The Yardies?”

“No.”

“North London gangs, use shooters and no messing round. Scotland Yard was so concerned they set up a special task force just to deal with them.”

“And did they... deal with them?”

“Shit, no, those fuckah’s are beyond crazy. You see ’em, you run.”

“What’s this to do with you?”

“Their package, man, and they be wanting it soon... jeez.”

Danny got two mugs and made coffee; he placed the brandy bottle on the table too. They sat down.

Richie took a large gulp of coffee, grimaced and grabbed the brandy bottle. He dolloped generous shares into both mugs. They drank in silence and let the brandy work its therapy of chemistry.

It kicked in. Danny began,

“You remember when Darcy and my Katie were killed?”

“Jeez, Danny, yea’... man, I never forget that... never.”

“Well, I was thinking, the kid who was driving, he was probably on drugs.”

“I dunno, Danny, mebbe... yeah, who know. Why?”

“Oh, I was just thinking that.”

Richie got another major hit of the brandy. He shuddered.

“You know, Danny, I’m a big man... yea’, ain’t nothing I been scared of. But one thing, one thing does. You know what that is?”

“Those Yardies?”

“No, Danny. You. You scare me, man. Ain’t no human being, alive or dead, I care mo’ for, but I gotta tells you, man, you give off a chill. I dunno for sure wot you doing, man, but it’s not righteous. I was always to you, ‘take care’, but I been thinking, it’s me... me was gotta take care.”

He stood up. Danny didn’t. When he opened the door, he looked back, and Danny said,

“Take care, Richie.”

During the night, Danny woke suddenly. Sweat was teaming down his body, the nightmares of his childhood. He cried out loud, and tears mingled with the perspiration.

Malcolm, his dad’s name. All through his early years, the pleas of his mother,

“Malcolm, please.”

But there was no pleasing Malcolm. During the last year of her illness, his mother could hardly speak, and her beloved singing was out of the question. Danny had bought her a songbird, he’d gone all the way to Knightsbridge to get a guaranteed songster.

It sang for her.

Ole Malcolm refused to acknowledge her illness. He expected business as usual. Laundry, meals and homage. Returning one evening, no meal was prepared.

“Danny will make you a sandwich,” she said.

“Sandwich, wot poor people eat. I’ll show you a fuckin’ sandwich.”

He’d grabbed the songbird from its cage and slapped two slices of bread round it.

The songbird, being of such a delicate nature, was dead when he put it back in the cage. Danny’s mother had a year to endure still. Malcolm had whined,

“Ah, lass, I was only joking... eh, can’t have been much of a canary if it can’t take a bit o’ handlin’... No mind, lass, we’ll get you a dog soon... keep the boy company, too.”

As Danny tried to settle back in bed, he muttered some lines of Edna St. Vincent Millay, followed by his father’s words.

The following evening, Nora came to his flat. She looked tired and said it was a long shift.

Danny said,

“I’ve cooked Irish Stew. I dunno how authentic it will be, but I piled in the meat and potatoes, so... ready to eat?”

“O.K.”

“Hey. Lady, liven up. I don’t think you’ve know me long enough to pull moody. You’ve had a bad day, everybody gets a bad day. Trick is, don’t prolong it.” Nora came to life, eyes blazing.

“Bad day, is it, how dare you presume to know my life. We had a woman in the hospital today, you know what she had... in this era of central heating and technical brilliance — hypothermia.”

“Well, that’s rough, I grant you.”

“Oh, you do, do you, Mister, let me tell you how hypothermia is. The body tries fiercely to compensate for the drop below the normal 98.6 degrees.”

“Nora, I don’t think I want to hear this. O.K., lemme get the stew and...”

“You will hear it, the body starts to speed breathe and then to shiver and to try to make heat. Blood vessels in the arms and legs start to shut down. The brain can’t get blood and the mind goes. This is the good bit, Danny, you’re a coffee drinker, you’ll appreciate this. Palpitations begin and the heart gets walloped with a massive assault... so don’t tell me I’ve had a bad fuckin’ day... O.K.?”

Then she began to cry, large tears rolled down her face and a quiet whimper started.

“I just want to be held. I don’t want stew, just a hug, can you give that to me.”

He could.

From that to the bedroom. After that, she asked him,

“What age are you?”

“42.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Well, thank heaven for that.”

“No, I mean you look older, I thought you were 50.”

“Jesus, maybe I am.”

In the kitchen, the stew sat cold and forgotten.

In Brixton, they began to break Richie’s legs.

In the morning Danny made love to her in what he reckoned was a fairly impressive manner.

“See who’s 50, now,” he thought.

Well pleased, he settled back to await her flattery. But, apart from various little sighs, she didn’t say anything.

“So, Sweetheart,” he asked, “was that good for you, or what?”

“Hmm, let’s just say it was English.”

“Excuse me?”

“Now, don’t go all offended, it was adequate, but you know, English.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

He was out of the bed now.

“Ah, Danny, lighten up. The English do it as if they read the instructions, but with no passion.”

“I don’t believe this, I don’t flaming believe this, you’re some sort of global expert, are you... fucked most of the world, have you... God, you’re incredible. That’s the most bigoted remark I’ve ever heard.”

“True though, and more’s the pity.”

To his utter amazement, she turned over and slept. He stormed to the kitchen, but no amount of banging drawers of slamming cutlery woke her. A thousand things raced through his mind, and aloud, he said,

“Go figger.”

Danny dressed and went to the local shop. It amused him that above the door it read, “local shop.” It didn’t amuse him now. The rarity about it was, it was owned by an Englishman. A nation of shopkeepers were now multi-national.

“Morning, Bill.”

“Morning, Dan.”

In ten years, they’d never gone beyond this. Danny took the paper, milk, bread. Paid. As he was leaving he turned.

“Bill.”

“Yes, Dan.”

“Do I look old to you?”

“None of us getting any younger, Dan.”

“Right, right, but would you describe me as old... say if you were talking to another customer?”

“I mind my own business, Dan, best way.”

“Yea, but hypothetically speaking. I mean, I’m not going to quote you for Chrissakes.”

“Can’t says I’d rightly know, Dan, can’t say I do. Leave the tittle tattle to the little woman, know what I mean.”

“Well, would she... oh, forget it, eh... Nice talking to you, Bill. I may well go home and build a novel on this.”

He’d shop somewhere else in the future he resolved, and thought.

“What a wanker.”

There’s a makeshift rubbish dump off the main road into Brixton. It’s not official, but always busy. Most of Richie was thrown there, amid 7-Eleven and Diet Coke cans.

Danny was making toast and still ruminating on England and its citizens. He reckoned the reason he analysed it so much was the Irish blood in him that prevented full acceptance. No one he knew had even heard of Philip Larkin, the most English of poets.

But Larkin’s father...

“Another one,” muttered Danny.

Sydney Larkin, fascist. He kept a statue of Hilter on his mantelpiece. When you touched it, it gave the famous salute. Philip Larkin said of his family life that it filled him with

   Black

   surging

   twitching

   boiling

   HATE.

Danny knew all about that. He thought that yet again he might use as his won defense, the dictum of Marx,

“Yea’... let them chew on that, the bastards,” he said.

He chewed on the toast and washed it down with scalding tea.

“Hits the spot right enough,” he’d said when Nora appeared.

“Who are you talking to?”

“England.”

“Ary, you’re not all in it, is that toast for me?”

She leant over, kissed him on the neck, and helped herself to a slice. Danny turned the radio on, he felt fairly turned on himself.

The DJ was talking about RAGGA, the music of the angry black underclass. It began in Kingston, Jamaica, in the violence of the dance halls. White urban America was apprehensive about some of the lyrics, which appeared to glorify guns, gangs, homophobia, and a hatred of women.

Danny switched it off.

“You can’t beat the old songs,” he said. Nora looked concerned.

“I’m afraid of black people.”

“Why?”

“I don’t even know why... ’cos I’m white, I suppose.”

“Believe you me honey, there’s white folk out there you should be afraid of.”

She picked up the paper and read the police were confident of an early arrest in the vigilante case.

“This poor devil, this vigilante, he needs help so he does.”

Danny smiled.

“He seems to be doing all right on his own.”

“Silly! I meant medical help, he’s obviously off his head.”

Danny got up and made fresh tea. He needed a moment before he could trust himself to reply.

“You’re a psychologist now are you, or have you been reading Cosmopolitan?”

He heard her cup clatter on the table.

“You condescending little bastard, Danny, how dare you insult me like that. You sound as if you approve of this lunatic.”

Danny sat.

“Look, ordinary people live in fear. Every time they go out on the streets they have to wonder if they’ll be mugged, raped or attacked. While they’re out there, they also worry that their homes are being ransacked. There’s no let up.”

“But it’s the times we live in... all the unemployment.”

“Ah, don’t give me that. I’m talking to you about the way it is, not why it is... No, no, let me finish. Now imagine if it were possible to reverse things a little. If it were dangerous out there for them,

   the muggers

   thugs

   the predators.

When yer average thug is combing his hair with his knife one evening... what if he was to worry about being attacked... eh, how would that be?”

“Ary, that’s nonsense, Danny. Can I have a shower? I’m free today, would you like to spend it together?”

He wouldn’t.

“Sorry, Nora, today’s the day I go to the cemetery... to see... well, to visit Darcy and her Mum.”

Nora had a lost expression for a moment, then took the risk.

“I could come with you, if you liked... that is, if you wanted me to... for the company, you know... am.”

“I don’t need company there, in fact, that’s why I go there, for their company.”

“Yes, well... O.K.... I’ll just have a shower and get out of your hair. I won’t be two seconds.”

After she’d done that, she seemed not to quite know how to leave. She said,

“I’m not sure how to leave.”

“That’s no problem, Nora, I’ll walk you to your car.”

He did.

They didn’t kiss, and he said he’d ring later. She had an expression of full sadness, and said,

“I better not hold my breath.”

Danny resolved he’d think about it later. Right now he had to get ready. The Morse suit was trotted out again. En route to the cemetery, he bought six red roses and an ALF doll. Darcy was dead before ALF made it big on the children’s favourites. But, for a long time, he had watched TV to gauge what she’d like. He didn’t want her to miss anything, she’d already missed everything. The ALF was a small fortune and he’d have paid that twice over if he could once again see her smile.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

As he entered the gates, it was one of those cold, brisk April days. Earlier rain had washed over the headstones, they gleamed and shimmered. A drinking school was gathered under a tree, bottles of V.P. and Jack being passed round. Danny wondered what he’d have done if they’d perched on his family’s plot. He knew exactly what he’d have done, and tried to get a hold of his temper.

Looked at his Citizen watch... minutes before noon. The two headstones were midway in the place.

“Hello, Katie,” he said, and laid the roses before her.

Then he placed ALF down and said,

“Honeybunch, this is ALF, he’s a bit crazy like yer old Dad.”

Time passed. He felt somebody behind him and he whirled around.

A priest in his early 30s was standing there. Tall, with a huge head of black hair. Some broken veins in his face told of his fondness for the bottle.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, but you’ve been standing there so long.”

Danny checked the time, 3.30, and felt aches in his legs. He shook his head to end the trance he’d been under.

The priest moved a step closer.

“Loss is a hard burden.”

“Yea... tell me about it.”

“Well, God’s hand seems heavy at times, but we mustn’t lose hope.”

Danny gave a tight smile.

“Well... how many of you exactly am I talking too.”

The priest lost it momentarily, then rallied and tried anew.

“I’m Father Riordan, but most people call me Joe. A new era in the church, less formal.”

Danny didn’t call him Joe. He didn’t say anything.

“Well, then, if I can be of any help, if you feel you need to talk.”

“I’ve just talked to the ones I needed to talk to.”

“Yes, there it is, they’re in a better place.”

“Hey, Padre, do us a bleeding favour, eh, give it a rest.”

Danny strode past him and heard the Priest rush after him.

“Those things... am, the flowers and the... toy, they’ll be lifted, you know! I mean, it’s terrible, but it happens all the time.”

Danny said without turning,

“Not while I’m here, they won’t. When I’m gone, it doesn’t matter.”

He was glad of the ache in his legs, it kept him from dwelling on the devastation in his heart. Searching his mind for an old song, he couldn’t find one and said,

“Sometimes, you just can’t sing ’em.”

Danny rang the newspaper when he got home. First he was put on hold, then a young voice,

“Can I help you?”

“No, I want to talk to Mr. Baker.”

“Yea, you and the rest of the world. Ring back on Friday.”

Danny smiled.

“Do you have a pen?”

“What, oh right.”

“Write this carefully, as it will probably be your final piece for the paper.

Have you got that or do you need time to spell vigilante.”

“Don’t hang up... O.K.... I’m putting you through right away.”

A sound of muffled voices, banging receivers and vicious obscenities, then,

“This is Baker... hello.”

“Mr. Baker, I wanted to give you major advance notice of a big event.”

“And when might that be? I gotta tell you, pal, the story’s near finished already.”

“In three weeks, on May 1st.”

“Not some sort of lost commie, are you? Look, why don’t you meet me, give me an exclusive. We’ll put some jizz back in this... people are bored already.”

“Not of Royal fascination... eh, Baker?”

“Any chance of your being ‘Squidgy’... I mean you don’t have to be, just claim you are. We could work up a front page there. Di and the Vigilantes, now she moves papers.”

“You’ve been told.”

Danny went through his records, found Buddy Holly and turned him to full volume.

He sang along with Buddy. It was an old recording, but Danny reckoned those Crickets sounded fine, yea’... just fine.

That night a bone-exhausted Danny fell into bed. His father shot briefly into his head. He knew where the grave was, but he’d never been to visit, and, if there was an afterlife, where was his father now?

Aloud, Danny said,

“If there’s any justice, and I fear there isn’t any, he’s, I hope, where he deserves to be.”

And just before he slept, he muttered,

“Hot enough for you, is it?”

The Brandon Estate is notorious, even by South East London standards. Coming up the Kennington Park Road, it’s merely obscured by the park, but you turn it, and it seems to jump in your face.

The police refuse to accept there is any area in London that’s a “no-go” for them.

“This, after all, is not Northern Ireland.”

Not yet.

Thus as they deny their refusal to enter any district, they add quietly,

“Except for Brandon, of course.”

It’s already huge reputation was solidified when poll tax collectors were literally strung up. They didn’t die but they never returned either. Social workers refer to it as a “black hole” in the field of community care. Others simply call it, the black hole. Almost anything illegal is available there, and legend has it that even the hardened villains are apprehensive about using it as a hide-out.

The whole of the ground floors are a bazaar of drug dealing. The basements are a shooting gallery, for junkies and shooters. A tight-knit band of dealers move merchandise to and from the ground floor.

Richie was accepted there, though on a tentative basis. He’d brought Danny there on two occasions. Whether as protection or education, Danny hadn’t asked. Colour is not an issue, as to your intentions, they better be vouched for.

Danny’s years on the building sites had given him an eye for planning and lay-out.

All of the next morning, he laid out charts and designs of the estate. The detail of the concept was soothing to him, He almost felt like he was working again. What would have helped most was Richie’s collaboration, but Richie knew he couldn’t ask him. Richie’s help would have been invaluable on every level (of the operation) but he’d have had to tell him what the “event” was.

“No,” he said, “no, Richie’s out.”

He sang quietly as he worked,

The risks would be enormous. He had no illusions on that. But he was determined on a simple plan, and, if he didn’t pull it off, then he’d be a permanent resident on Brandon. Once, in his reading, he’d found a proposition in Part 4 of Spinoza’s ethics. He’d copied it down. It had found its significance now, he thought.

Standing, he stretched, and ran the lines over again.

“Time to chill out, Richie... eh?”

The Buddhists believe you can measure “a man’s wealth by what he can do without.”

They’d have had an interesting concept in Frank Norton. He was a “getter.” Not a go-getter as his parents might have wished. Whatever you could want that wasn’t available legally, then, provided you had the cash, Frank would get it. He didn’t ask questions save one,

“How much are you willing to pay?”

Years ago, he, Danny and Richie had had a few drinks together. Then they’d gone to see Wall Street. A scene in the movie has Marty Sheen say,

“I never judge a man by the size of his wallet.” Frank had laughed out loud, and said,

“Fuckin’ Hollywood, what do they know.”

They’d gotten curry take aways and walked along by Waterloo.

Before they parted, Frank had touched Danny’s arm, whispered,

“You ever want anything on the QT, you give Frank a bell, you know what I mean... nod to the wise, eh.”

Danny knew alright.

Now he certainly needed some items and decided to test just how good Frank was. He phoned, and a cautious Frank agreed to meet him in the pub in a few hours.

En route, Danny decided to sit in the park and get his yarn ready for Frank. Another fine April day, and all the park benches were taken by winos or pensioners. A young woman in a grey track suit had a bench to herself. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her. He decided to go for it.

“Is this seat taken?”

“Well, what do you think?”

“What do I think, I think it’s impossible to elicit a civil answer in this town.”

“Solicit... is that what you said?”

He sat and remembered her. The hooker from the other evening, she of the killer-bimbo outfit.

“Mislaid the American accent, did ya?” She laughed and said,

“I know you, the guy who never pays for it, right?” Danny stretched out his legs and took a good look at her. Without her working gear, he estimated her age to be early 20’s. Blonde, streaky hair, button nose, blue eyes, and a cupid mouth. Not pretty, but in there.

She returned his look.

“You’re in fairly good shape for an older guy.”

“Yea, but in shape for what. Have you a name?”

“Nikki... spelt NIKKI.”

“Hey, I don’t want it tattooed on my arm, just to throw it into the odd sentence. Aren’t you a bit wary of strange men?”

“Honey, I can’t afford that luxury.”

“No, I mean... you should be more careful.”

“You’ve got nice eyes.”

“Ever see a photo of Ted Bundy?”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Look Nikki, I’ve got to go.”

“Wanna have a drink with me, tonight?”

Danny was amazed. Whole blocks of time went by and it seemed as if he was invisible to women. Now they were all over him.

Before he could answer, she said in a world-weary tone,

“Forget it, wouldn’t want to socialize with a working girl... right?”

“I’ll have a drink with you.”

“What... oh, great. I’ll be in the Cricketers at eight... Is that good?”

“Remains to be seen... you be careful, Nikki.”

She gave a look of pure devilment.

“Isn’t that what condoms are for?”

Danny had arranged the meeting in The Mitre, a pub favoured by the building trade. He had to push his way through to the small booths at the back. Frank Norton was already there. A thin man, nearing sixty, he exuded a mix of energy and furtiveness. A sharp, thin face had pit lines, but the eyes showed deep intelligence when they smiled. His clothes suggested he’d just walked off the site. In fact, he hadn’t worked on one for years. But he liked the image.

Two pints of bitter were already before him.

“So, Danny, bitter right?”

“Yea’, that’s fine.”

They took sips, did the “Ah” business and exhaled. Frank said,

“Tastes like piss, eh?”

“Does a bit.”

“Hear you did alright from your fall.”

“I did.”

“O.K., then, what can I get you?”

Danny looked round, nodded and began,

“I need two things,

   Merchandise

   and

   Information.”

“The second one’s likely to be expensive.”

“I can pay; I need explosives and timers, five if possible, the smaller and more compact the better. Second, who runs Brandon Estate? Who’s the man?”

“A Lebanese named Yusif, nasty piece of work. The five items will be costly. When do you need them?”

“As soon as.”

“State of the art?”

“If possible.”

Danny took a fat envelope from his pocket.

“Down payment.”

Frank didn’t open it, but quickly put it away and asked,

“‘Nother pint?”

“No thanks.”

Father drained his glass, leant over and said,

“They had me in the hospital a while back... no, not any-fink serious. A loony bin. It’s a long story and not relevant now, but I learnt about psychopaths. Know about those?”

“London’s full of them.”

“They have no interest in other people’s suffering, no conscience, no morals. You can’t deal or reason with them. Once they get fixed on something, they follow it, regardless of anything or anyone.”

“Well, Frank, fascinating as this is... is there a point to it?”

Frank stood up and said,

“You and me, Danny. They’ve a name for us now. I’ll be in touch.”

Danny wasn’t offended, even surprised. He put it down to Frank’s flair for the dramatic. If he got the items, he could name call till Doomsday. A builder recognized Danny and hand-signalled a drink. Danny shook his head. The man approached.

“Jesus, Dan, sorry to hear about yer mate. Can’t says I liked him, but no man deserves that.”

“What... who?”

“Yer mate, the big black ’un, someone butchered ’im, threw bits of ’im all over a Brixton tip. Didn’t you know?”

Danny jumped up. Without a word, he elbowed his way to the street. Outside, he threw up and leant trembling against the side of the pub. Two women passed, tut-tutted, and said loudly,

“Should be ashamed of himself, arseholed before tea time.”

Danny forced himself upright and muttered,

“O.K.... I’m O.K.... I’ve got them before, I won’t think about this, I’ll blank it... fuckit, I can do that... yea, I’ll be O.K.”

As he turned towards home, he whispered,

“Only the dead know Brixton, eh, Richie?”

He threw up again in his bathroom and force struggled for control.

“Toast,” he said, “dry toast.”

And it helped. Not a lot, but in the general direction.

Then he lay down and sleep or shock took him. It was six in the evening when he came to. Came to, and remembered.

“Read, come on Danny, you’ve read mountains... think on that, let the lines come for this.”

The lines that returned were,

He forced himself up and roared,

“Never fuckin happen... not yet.”

As he prepared for his date, he played the Stones, loud and pounding,

Checked himself in the mirror, navy polo neck, faded to white jeans and well-worn brown midi leather coat. He looked sick, but thought,

“Can’t be helped, and, any road, she’s a hooker, she’s used to sick people.” He couldn’t really decide on whether he looked like a refugee from the set of The Avengers or an off-duty dentist. Or both.

The Walker Brothers’ were belting out “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling” with those big voices.

All along the bar counter, people were joining in, it’s one of those bigger songs you can’t resist. Even the barman was adding,

Nikki was dressed in a light powder-blue track suit. Her blond hair was falling on the collar, she looked nineteen.

“My mum used to have those guys on her wall.”

“The Walker Brothers?”

“Yea’, they’re like the Chippendales with clothes.” Danny was glad to see her, and realized he’d have been glad to see almost anybody, even Roy. He was bone tired of himself. He said, and couldn’t disguise the disappointment,

“You didn’t dress up.”

“I dunno, to tell you the truth, I thought you’d know. They used to say, ‘Wranglers and wrinkles don’t match.’”

There were drinks in short glasses on the table. She indicated them.

“I bought you brandy, scotch and gin. I felt one was sure to be the business.”

Book IV

Danny smiled, picked up the first glass, and said,

“Guess what, tonight they’re all the biz.”

After he’d lowered them, he continued,

“Times like this I wish I smoked.”

“It’s not too late.”

“Darlin’, it’s too late for a whole batch of stuff.”

Nikki seemed at a loss how to continue, so she asked,

“Didn’t all your generation smoke?”

“My Dad did, and I’ve tried never to do a single thing like him. Not one bloody thing.”

Nikki brightened.

“My Mum and Dad, they were crazy for each other, always smooching and cuddling. My Mum said they held hands in bed every night he was alive.”

Danny was going to ask a question, but changed his mind. She caught it.

“You’re thinking, so how come I’m a hooker? No big reason. I’m just a bit fucked in the head, always have been. What’s your name?”

“Danny.”

“Oh, I thought it might be Barry, I’d have liked a Barry... or Cliff even.”

Danny wasn’t sure he could apologise for his name. So he decided to try out the old chestnut.

“Well, it’s like the song.”

“Wot song?”

“Ol’ Danny Boy.”

“Never heard that... can you sing it?”

“Not just now, eh... same again... of everythin’?”

Nikki looked at the empty glasses and shook her head.

“Something sweet, do you think they have that green stuff... It’s sticky.”

“No, they don’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me on this, Nikki, I won’t be getting you that.”

What he did get her was a snowball, and she liked that. A lot. She chewed the cherry they’d popped on the head.

He could have told her how his father, for the only time, was afraid as he died. Afraid, because it was one thing that wasn’t his idea. Instead, he asked,

“Do you have any brothers, sisters?”

“One brother, Keif. He said to me,

“Sounds like a real prince, does old Keif. I’d like to meet him.”

“He’s in the army.”

“Now why is that no surprise?”

“I said to him, ‘Keif, if you were a man you would.’”

Danny liked it. He found he liked her. Not sexually, not yet. She leant closer and said,

“Will you be fuckin’ me after?”

And he spluttered his drink.

“For crying out loud, girl, what a thing to ask.”

“Well, isn’t that wot men do to women?”

He wanted to say that sometimes they make love. But figured he had little right on this day to lecture on the human condition. Not this day when he’d fucked Richie permanently.

Nikki drank another snowball and then Danny said he’d walk her home. She lived in Cottington Lane, near Kennington Tube. Her flat was in a modern building complete with intercom and grilled windows.

“If you come up, I’ll cook you something.”

He did.

The flat was small, spotless, and decorated as if a studious teenager lived there. Fluffy cushions everywhere, Snoopy dolls and posters of European cities. Danny thought of how Darcy might have turned out.

“You look sad.”

“I was thinking of a little girl.”

“I can be that for you, of any fantasy you like. I know them all.”

“You mentioned food?”

She made omelettes and placed two glasses of milk with them.

“We can have ice cream after. I got that American one that nobody can say.”

They ate. Danny even drank the milk. It was surprisingly tasty and he cleaned his plate. She said,

“I read once, that around 1840, one in every 25 Londoners was a prostitute. They worked it out it was one for every 12 men.”

What Danny thought was “so what?” but he said, “How interesting?”

She got up and came over beside him, sat and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Do you feel bad because I’m a prossy?”

“No, because I’m twice yer age darlin’, and, believe me, I feel it.”

“Come on,” she said, and took his hand, “you don’t have to do anything,” and she led him to the bedroom.

They slept holding hands. A Snoopy duvet over them. Before she slept, Nikki said as she squeezed his hand.

“Like my Mum and Dad, I’m glad you’re here, Barry.”

And in all sorts of ways, Danny was glad too.

For the next four days, it was like a holiday for Danny. He returned to his flat to change, shower, and nothing else. The old songs were left unplayed. He spent the days with Nikki and they went to:

   1. Kew Gardens

   2. The Zoo

   3. The Cinema (Twice)

   4. Madame Tussauds

And in the evening they shared the bed. Sex didn’t take place. He knew he was treating her like a daughter, to have the brief time with her he knew he’d never have with Darcy. Glad he was, too, to have the rest and healing. Some sort of restoration was vital if he was to attempt the Brandon event. But, most of all, he just enjoyed it. On the fifth morning he slipped out of bed early and wrote her a note. He propped it against a glass of orange juice. He put a thick wedge of bank notes in an envelope. He went to the sofa and from underneath, where he’d hidden it, he pulled an ALF doll. Under ALF’s arm he lodged the envelope. The note read,

Back at the flat, there was a note from Frank.

“So it begins,” said Danny, and selected Led Zeppelin, “Stairway to Heaven.” As the familiar rock began, he started to do his exercises.

Frank was dressed again in the building gear. If you touched him, clouds of white dust would rise. Danny wondered if he’d bags of it he applied at home. A somewhat pleasant scent emanated from him, so perhaps he used talc.

Danny bought the pints. A snot-nosed barman bounced his change on the counter. Frank smiled, said,

“You’d eat the likes of him for breakfast.”

“Yea’, but would I want to?”

“He’s what my ol’ fellah used to call a pup, a sort of apprentice thug. They manage somehow to have a swagger in their face. Not any easy accomplishment.”

They moved to a table. Next to it, a young man in a tee shirt and jeans was playing a Nintendo game. A ferocious amount of noise came from both. The back of his tee shirt read,

Frank raised an eyebrow, asked Danny,

“Do you want me to get him to hop it?”

“Naw, the noise will benefit us.”

Frank had a large blue sports bag. He moved it near Danny’s foot.

Then he took out a very ornate fountain pen and a scrap of paper. He scribbled a figure on it and pushed it over.

Danny looked and let out a low whistle.

“Steep.”

“But Japanese. Pure simplicity. You attach the main, make sure you’re well away and flick... it’s good-night, Irene. The bag is thrown in free.”

“Right, just give me a minute.”

And Danny went to the toilet, locked himself in a booth. He took out three large envelopes and piled wads from two into the third. In the bank en route, he caused apoplexy in the bank manager. Danny considered for a moment, then put another batch into the third envelope.

Back at the table, he slid the huge envelope to Frank, said,

“There’s a bit over the top, what you might call a sweetener.”

Frank looked offended.

“I know how to keep my bin shut.”

“I know you do, Frank, but let’s say it’s appreciation.”

Frank sulked and Danny let him simmer. Then he shrugged, said,

“Fuckit, Danny, you’re alright. I’m a bit touchy. O.K.?”

Frank went to the bar and got a couple of short ones.

“Guess I can afford to buy you a drink... eh, Dan?”

“Sure, cheers.”

“About that guy at Brandon, the Yusif character? He’s extremely valuable.”

“I’ll handle him.”

“Word to the wise, me old son... he lost a hand... some say they chopped it in one of those sand nigger customs. Hand in the till, so to speak. Any road, act as if you haven’t noticed it... O.K.?”

“Thanks for the tip, Frank.”

Danny tried to pin down what he was getting from Frank, apart from the merchandise. Then he clicked and bent close to Frank.

“What’s got the wind up you, Frank, eh... what are you afraid of?”

“Nothing, Danny... jez... honest... when you throw the switches, be sure you’re well away... eh?”

Danny considered a moment then decided to ride a major bluff.

“Frank, I hope you’re not contemplating playing both sides of the street. There’s plenty of motivation in that envelope to keep stump, but I noticed you never mentioned Richie. No, no, don’t start now. Let me give you a word to the wise. If I can do that to my best mate, think of what I might have in mind for a blabber-mouth. You catch my drift?”

Danny stood up and said,

“See yah, scouser.”

Frank said nothing at all.

The next week, Danny increased his exercises, checked and re-checked the merchandise, and psyched himself for the next event.

Twice he left messages on Nora’s machine, saying he’d get back to her. Then a letter arrived from her. He didn’t read it for two days, nor did he read anything else except from “The Hound of Heaven” by Frank Thompson.

And aloud,

Nora’s letter:

He put the letter down, then checked again. Yea’, she’d put the phone number down. The radio had been playing, but only now did he let it filter through.

Nanci Griffith was singing, “Speed of The Sound of Loneliness.”

For the first time he allowed himself to hear a new song. It touched him. When a pilgrim had traveled halfway cross the world to ask a wise man for the answer, he’d simply said,

Danny stretched and said,

“You got that right, fella.”

Brandon. May 1st.

Danny had gone to the Edgware Road and in the Lebanese shops, he’d bought them a myriad of delicacies, sweetmeats, and candies. He’d have them gift-wrapped. Now he’d piled them into the sports bag. The explosives he’d also gift-wrapped, marking them by a red ribbon. They lay to the side of the bag. Next, he took wads of large, demonstrational notes and dispersed them through the packages.

“Keep it simple,” he whispered.

Out came the leather coat, he put in the control console and felt the switch,

   One

Two

   Three

      Four...

The fifth explosive he left at the flat.

He walked to the estate, took a deep breath, and turned in. No one was around as he entered. Then a shadow behind him, he turned to see a large white man, mid 30’s, with a blond crew cut. Dressed in a plum track suit he looked like he was rarely away from lifting iron.

“Got business here?”

“I’m looking for Yusif, I’m a friend of Richie’s.”

“Let’s see the bag.”

Danny handed it over.

“What’s this?”

“Lebanese delicacies and a down payment on some business.”

“Richie... the black guy who’s chop suey?”

“That’s right.”

The man handed the bag back.

“Wait here, don’t go wandrin’ off,” and he gave a tight smile, “it is not safe.”

Danny felt rivers of perspiration roll down his sides. The man returned.

“I’m Charley, follow me.”

There were five doors on the floor. All were shabby and looked like they’d been hit with everything from boots to heads.

Danny had thought for one frozen moment about Katie. The only person who’d ever made him feel he was more than he was. Not that he’d wanted to be more, but it was a good feeling then.

“What in the world am I doing standing in a grimy hall with a bag of chocolate and explosives, trying to meet a reptile?”

He banished the thought and followed Charley.

The flat was like a set from the Arabian Nights, as conceived by Channel Four. Huge silk draperies lined the walls. There were no chairs, just large cushions and low divans. Four men were playing cards at a small table, they looked like what Richie met. Even sitting down, they looked like what Richie would have called, ‘hard cases.’ All gave Danny ‘the look.’

A fifth man was stretched on a divan. No more than 5’6”, he had sallow skin, jet black hair and protruding eyes. Like a vicious Marty Feldman. He was missing his right hand, and an empty sleeve hung by his side. He summoned Danny with his left.

“You knew Richard?”

His voice was low and cultured. Only a very faint accent was detectable.

“We were partners, but he got greedy, and alas... his ‘retirement’ has left me without a supplier.”

“You bring gifts?”

Danny took out a pile of parcels, two red-ribboned among them.

“Perhaps, you’d be kind enough to open one or two, I am indisposed.”

Danny opened three and each one he passed over.

Yusif smiled.

“You are familiar with my people?”

“Naw, just the Edgware Road.”

“But resourceful, I like that, my friend. You planned ahead. This bodes well for any... joint venture. All these gifts... solely for me.”

“Well, I thought I’d leave one at each of the other flats, as an introduction. To let your people know you have a new customer.”

“You took a grave risk, my friend, it’s a dangerous thing you’ve done.”

“I’m a dangerous man.”

Yusif gave him a long look then laughed.

“I believe you may be right... yes... what is it you wish to purchase?”

“As much dope as I can safely carry.” Yusif held up his left hand.

“Wrong... you are in error my friend, I deal in dreams. I merely supply ‘merchandise’ to fuel the dreamers. Purely a service.”

The men laughed. Danny felt his patience ebbing. He wanted to say, ‘yer slimy little fuck.’ He wasn’t sure how long he could control his temper, so he took out a pile of notes.

“I brought this as a down payment... to demonstrate my sincerity and intent.”

Yusif didn’t take the money, but let it lie on the floor. “My friend, we’ll have to check you out. Come back in one week and I’ll let you know what I can supply... and the price. Take your money, it’s a pittance.”

Danny did so, and couldn’t resist a shot.

“Don’t touch the old cash yourself, eh... don’t blame you, really, seeing’s how you fared the last time you’d yer hand in the till.”

Yusif’s face froze as he did all activity in the room. Then he lifted his left hand and clicked his fingers.

Before Danny could react, two of the men grabbed him and pinned him to the floor.

Yusif said,

“I feel we’ll be able to do business, but you’ll have to learn some respect. My own ‘infirmity’ is a daily reminder to me. I’m going to share a little of that knowledge with you. In the hills of Lebanon, we learnt a refinement of what terrorists call ‘knee-capping.’ Nothing so permanent. Indeed, our way is quite artistic. We shatter the cartilage, but not the kneecap. You won’t be crippled, but you’ll be in a great deal of pain... but mobile. You’ll be able to... what’s the English word? Hobble... yes... out of here.”

One of the men put a small hammer in Yusif’s hand. Danny tried to kick free and roared,

“For fuck’s sake!”

And Yusif brought the hammer down with one ferocious swing. White hot agony ripped through Danny, and he let out a howl of pure dementia. Then he passed out.

He came to with Charley slapping his face.

“Time to move, Sunshine, can’t lie about here all day, eh?”

Danny gritted his teeth, bit down against the pain. Charley helped him to stand. He could... and found that ‘hobble’ was indeed the appropriate word.

Yusif said,

“Take your bag, my friend. I thank you for the gifts. Feel free to distribute the others on your way out. I shall expect you in one week.”

Danny said nothing. He managed to leave without falling. Charley watched as he left three red-ribboned parcels at three doors, and said,

“You’ll need more than friggin little bundles with that mob.”

Danny struggled to concentrate and said,

“Any chance you might help me to the main road so I can flag a cab?”

Charley behaved as Danny hoped.

“No friggin danger, mate, I got a game of cards to finish. You toddle off now. Come back and see us soon.”

Danny slowly made his way off Brandon. Waves of nausea tried to engulf him. A red mist seemed to shimmer before his eyes. He reached the main road... whispered,

“Now, you fucks, here’s an old song, ‘Let’s Dance’, eh?” and moved his finger to the first switch... said,

Epilogue

A train known as The Dart brings commuters into the center of Dublin. Early in June, the sun danced along the green, sleek carriages. The Irish revel in a bit of warmth.

Cries of,

   “Glorious weather.”

   “Mighty day.”

   “Isn’t it grand to be alive, and in yer health.”

rebounded through the train.

Save one.

Here, three youths in the advanced stages of yahoo-ism were tormenting passengers with shouts and obscenities. When the train reached the city center, the three horse-played on to the platform, drooling beer and insults.

A man approached and said in a pronounced English accent,

“I say... I say, you chaps, might I interest you in making some money?”

A slight limp as he neared was barely noticeable.