London Boulevard

I learnt this in prison. Compulsive is when you do something repetitively. Obsessive is when you think about something repetitively.

Course, I learnt some other stuff too. Not as clear cut.

Not as defined.

The day of my release, the Governor had me up for a talk.

Bent over his desk, he kept me waiting. His head over papers, a model of industry. He had a bald patch, like Prince Charles. That made me feel good. I concentrated on it. Finally, he looks up, says:

‘Mitchell?’

‘Yes, Sir?’

I could play the game. I was but a cigarette away from freedom. I wasn’t going to get reckless. His accent was from up north somewhere. Polished now but still leaking Yorkshire pud and all that decent shit. Asked,

‘You’ve been with us now for?’

Like he didn’t know. I said,

‘Three years, Sir.’

He hmmp’d as if he didn’t quite believe me. Riffled through my papers, said,

‘You turned down early parole.’

‘I wanted to pay me debt in full, Sir.’

The screw standing behind me gave a snort. For the first time, the Governor looked directly at me. Locked eyes. Then,

‘Are you familiar with recidivism?’

‘Sir?’

‘Repeat offenders, it’s like they’re obsessed with jail.’

I gave a tiny smile, said,

‘I think you’re confusing obsession with compulsion,’ and then I explained the difference.

He stamped my papers said,

‘You’ll be back.’

I was going to say,

‘Only in the repeats,’

but felt Arnie in Total Recall would be lost on him. At the gate, the screw said,

‘Not a bright idea to give him lip.’

I held up my right hand, said,

‘What else did I have to offer?’

Missed my ride.

What the Yanks say. I stood outside the prison, waiting on my lift. I didn’t look back. If that’s superstition, then so be it. As I stood on the Caledonian Road, I wondered if I looked like a con, ex-con.

Shifty.

Yeah, and furtive. That too.

I was forty-five years old. Near 5' 11" in height, weighed in at 180 pounds. In shape, though. I’d hammered in at the gym and could press-bench my share. Broken through the barrier to free up those endorphins. Natural high. Shit, do you ever need that inside. Sweat till you peak and beyond. My hair was white but still plentiful. I had dark eyes, and not just on the outside. A badly broken nose near redeemed by a generous mouth.

Generous!

I love that description. A woman told me so in my twenties. I’d lost her but hung on to the adjective. Salvage what you can.

A transit van pulled up, sounded the horn. The door opened and Norton got out. We stood for a moment. Is he my friend?

I dunno, but he was there. He showed up, friend enough. I said,

‘Hey.’

He grinned, walked over, gave me a hug. Just two guys hugging outside Her Majesty’s jail. I hoped the Governor was watching.

Norton is Irish and unreadable. Aren’t they all? Behind all the talk is a whole other agenda. He had red hair, pasty complexion, the build of a sly greyhound. He said,

‘Jaysus Mitch, how are you?’

‘Out.’

He took that on board, then slapped my arm, said,

‘Out... that’s a good one. I like that... Let’s go. Prison makes me nervous.’

We got in the van and he handed me a bottle of Black Bush. It had a green bow. I said,

‘Thanks, Billy.’

He looked almost shy, said, ‘Aw, it’s nuttin... for your release... the big celebration is tonight... and here...’ He produced a pack of Dunhill. The lush red luxury blend. Said,

‘I thought you’d be gasping for a tailor-made.’

I had the brown paper parcel they give you on release. As Norton started the engine, I said,

‘Hold on a sec.’ And I slung the parcel.

‘What was that?’

‘My past.’ I opened the Bush, took a long holy swallow. It burned. Wow, did it ever. Offered the bottle to him. He shook his head.

‘Naw, not when I’m driving.’

Which was rich, him being half in the bag already. He was always this side of special brews. As we headed south he was rabbiting on about the party. I switched off.

Truth is, I was tired of him already.

Norton said, ‘I’ll give you the scenic tour.’

‘Whatever.’

I could feel the whiskey kicking in. It does all sorts of weird shit to me but mainly it makes me unpredictable. Even I can’t forecast how it will break.

We were turning from Marble Arch and, of course, got caught at the lights. A guy appeared at the windscreen and began to wipe it with a dirty cloth. Norton yelled,

‘These fuckin’ squeegees, they’re everywhere!’

This guy didn’t even make an effort. Two fast wipes that left skid marks on the screen. Then he appeared at my window, said,

‘Four quid matey.’

I laughed, rolled the window down and said,

‘You need another line of work, pal.’

He had long greasy hair down to his shoulders. His face was thin, and he had the eyes I’d seen a hundred times on the yards. The eyes of the bottom rung predator. He leant his head back and spat. Norton went,

‘Aw Jaysus.’

I didn’t move, asked,

‘You got a tyre iron?’

Norton shook his head,

‘Mitch, Jesus no.’

I said, ‘Okay.’

And got out.

The guy was surprised but didn’t back off. I grabbed his arm and broke it over my knee. Got back in the van and the lights changed. Norton revved fast, crying,

‘Oh God Mitch, you crazy bastard. You’re out... what? Ten minutes... and you’re at it already. You can’t be losing it.’

‘I didn’t lose it, Billy.’

‘What, you smash the guy’s arm, that’s not losing it?’

‘If I’d lost it, I’d have broken his neck.’

Norton gave me an anxious look, said,

‘You’re kidding... right?’

‘What do you think?’

Norton said, ‘I think you’ll be surprised at the place I found for you.’

‘As long as it’s near Brixton.’

‘It’s Clapham Common. Since you’ve been... away... it’s become trendy.’

‘Oh shit.’

‘Naw, it’s Okay... Anyway, a writer guy got into heavy schtook to some money lenders, had to do a runner. Left everything: clothes, books... you’re set.’

‘Is Joe still at the Oval?’

‘Who?’

‘Big Issue seller.’

‘I don’t know him.’

We were coming up to the Oval. I said,

‘He’s there. Pull over.’

‘Mitch... you want to buy the Big Issue now?’

I got out, walked over. Joe hadn’t changed. He was dishevelled, dirty, cheerful.

I said, ‘Hi Joe.’

‘Mitchell... Good Lord, I heard you was doing a stretch.’

I handed over a fiver, said,

‘Give us a copy.’

We didn’t mention the change. He asked,

‘Did they hurt you in there, Mitch?’

‘Not so’s you’d notice.’

‘Good man. Got a smoke?’

I gave him the pack of Dunhill. He examined them, said,

‘Flash.’

‘Only the best for you, Joe.’

‘You’ll have missed the World Cup.’

And a whole lot more besides. I asked,

‘How was it?’

‘We didn’t win it.’

‘Oh.’

‘There’s always the cricket.’

‘Yeah, there’s always that.’

Three years in prison, you lose

 time

 compassion

 and the ability to be surprised.

I was nigh amazed when I saw the apartment. The whole ground floor of a two-story house. And it was beautifully furnished, all soft pastels and wall-to-wall books. Norton stood behind to gauge my reaction.

I said, ‘Christ.’

‘Yeah, isn’t it something? Come and see more.’

He led me into the bedroom. Brass double bed. He threw open the wardrobes, packed full with clothes. Like a sales clerk, Norton said,

‘You’ve got your

Gucci

Armani

Calvin Klein

and other bastards I can’t pronounce. Get this, the sizes are medium to large.’

‘I can do medium.’

Back into the living room, Norton opened a drinks cabinet. Full too. Asked,

‘Whatcha fancy?’

‘A beer.’

He opened two bottles, handed me one. I asked,

‘No glass?’

‘No one drinks outta glasses anymore.’

‘Oh.’

‘Slàinte Mitch and welcome home.’

We drank. The beer tasted great. I indicated the flat with my bottle, asked,

‘Just what kind of a hurry was the guy in to leave all this?’

‘A big hurry.’

‘Won’t the loan shark want some of it?’

Norton smiled, said, ‘I’ve already had the choice bits.’

It took me a minute. Blame the beer. I said,

‘You’re the money lender?’ Big smile. He was proud, been waiting, said,

‘Part of a firm — and we’d like you aboard.’

‘I don’t think so, Billy.’

He was expansive.

‘Hey, I didn’t mean right away. Take some time, chill out.’

Chill out.

I let it go, said,

‘I dunno how to thank you, Billy. It’s incredible.’

‘No worries. We’re mates... right?’

‘Right.’

‘Okay, I gotta go. The party’s in The Greyhound ght. Don’t be late.’

‘I’ll be there. Thanks again.’

Briony’s a basket case. A true out and out nutter. I’ve known some seriously disturbed women. Shit, I’ve dated them, but up against Bri they were models of sanity. Bri’s husband died five years ago. Not a huge tragedy, as the guy was an asshole. The tragedy is that she doesn’t believe he’s gone. She keeps seeing him on the street and, worse, chats to him on the phone. Like the genuine crazies, she has moments of lucidity. Times when she appears

rational

coherent

functional

...then wallop. She’ll blindside you with an act of breathtaking insanity.

Add to this, she has a beguiling charm, sucks you in. She looks like Judy Davis, and especially how Judy Davis appeared with Liam Neeson in the Woody Allen movie. Her hobby is shoplifting. I dunno why she’s never been caught as she does it with a recklessness beyond belief. Bri is my sister. I rang her. She answered on the first ring, asked,

‘Frank?’

I sighed. Frank was her husband. I said,

‘It’s Mitchell.’

‘Mitch... oh Mitch... you’re out.’

‘Just today.’

‘Oh, I’m so happy. I’ve so much to tell you. Can I make you dinner? Are you hungry? Did they starve you?’

I wanted to laugh or cry.

‘No... no, I’m fine... listen, maybe we could meet tomorrow.’

Silence.

‘Bri... are you still there?’

‘You don’t want to see me on your first night. Do you hate me?’

Against all my better judgement, I told her about the party. She instantly brightened, said,

‘I’ll bring Frank.’

I wanted to shout, ‘Yah crazy bitch, get a grip!’ I said, ‘Okay.’

‘Oh Mitch, I’m so excited. I’ll bring you a present.’

Oh God.

‘Whatever.’

‘Mitch... can I ask you something?’

‘Ahm... sure.’

‘Did they gang rape you? Did they?’

‘Bri, I gotta go, I’ll see you later.’

‘Bye baby.’

I put the phone down. Wow, I felt drained.

I had a sort through the wardrobe. When you’ve worn denim and a striped shirt for three years, it was like Aladdin’s Cave.

First off I got a stack of Tommy Hilfiger out. Put that in a trash bag. All that baggy shit, maybe Oxfam could off-load it. There was a Gucci leather jacket, nicely beat up. I’d be having that. Lots of Hennes white T-shirts. The type Brando immortalised in On The Waterfront. The guys in prison would kill for muscular American T-shirts.

No jeans.

No problem.

Gap khaki pants, a half dozen. A blazer from French Connection and sweatshirts from Benetton.

I dunno if that guy had taste but he sure had money.

Well, loan shark money.

There was a Barbour jacket and a raincoat from London Fog. No shit, but I’d be a con for all seasons. Odd thing was, not a shoe in sight. But was I complaining? Was I fuck. I had a pair of shoes.

Took a hot shower and used three towels to dry off. They’d been nicked from the Holiday Inn, so were soft and friendly. What I most wanted was another beer but I knew I better cool it. The evening ahead would be liquid and perhaps lethal. I needed to at least arrive soberish. Took a quick scan of the books, one whole wall devoted to crime writers. Spotted

Elmore Leonard

James Sallis

Charles Willeford

John Harvey

Jim Thompson

Andrew Vachss.

And that was only the first sweep. Phew! I might never go out. Just bury myself in crime.

I put on a T-shirt, khaki pants and the leather jacket.

Checked it out in the mirror. No doubt I could pass for a Phil Collins roadie. Thought — ‘If I’d money, I’d be downright dangerous.’

Walking down Clapham Common, a woman smiled at me. I knew it was the jacket. There’s a transport café in Old Town that used to be the business. It was still there. The type of place if it’s not on the table, it’s not on the menu.

For an ex-con there can be few greater pleasures than to eat alone. Grabbing a booth I luxuriated in just having it to myself. Knew exactly what I’d order.

The carbohydrate nightmare, neon-lit in medical overload. Like this:

Two Sausages

Mess of Bacon

Fried Tomatoes

Eggs

Black Pudding

Toast

Pot of Stewed Tea

Oh yeah.

In the booth next to me was an old codger. Eyeing me. He had the face and manner of a ‘character.’ His name would be Alfred.

Course, everyone would love him. Alfred would have his own corner in the pub and his own pewter tankard.

He’d be a holy terror to a new barman.

My food arrived and he said,

‘That food, son... you know where it comes from?’

Without lifting my head, I said,

‘I’ve a feeling you’re going to enlighten me.’

That startled him, but not enough to stop him. He said,

‘Big fellah like you, you should have a feed of potatoes.’

I raised my head, looked at him, said,

‘Old fellah like you, you should mind your own business.’

Shut him down.

I tried not to wolf the food. Now that I was out, I was going to have to re-adapt. When I finished, I went and paid. On my way out, I stopped by Alfred, said,

‘Nice chatting with you.’

Walked down to Streatham and into the bank. I wasn’t sure how much money I had as they don’t send statements to prison.

What they should do is send bankers there.

I filled out a withdrawal slip and got in line. It was slow but I knew how to kill time.

The cashier was friendly in that vacant money way. I handed her the slip, she ran it by the computer, said,

‘Oh.’

I said nothing. She said,

‘This is a dormant account.’

‘Not any more.’

She gave me the look. The leather jacket wasn’t cutting any ice, said,

‘I’ll have to check.’

‘You do that.’

A man behind me sighed, asked,

‘Is this going to take long?’

Gave him a bank smile, answered,

‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’

The cashier returned with a suit. He was Mr Efficiency, said,

‘Mr Mitchell, if you could step over to my desk.’

I could. I sat and looked at his desk. A sign proclaimed

He did bank stuff for a bit, then,

‘Mr Mitchell, your account has been dormant for three years.’

‘Is that against the law?’

Ruffled him.

Recovered,

‘Oh no... it’s am... let’s see... with interest you have twelve hundred pounds.’

I waited. He asked,

‘I take it you wish to re-activate the account?’

‘No.’

‘Mr Mitchell, might I suggest a prudent reserve? We have some very attractive offers for the small saver.’

‘Give me my money.’

‘Ahm... of course... you wish to terminate your account?’

‘Leave a pound in it... cos you guys care so much.’

I got my cash but no warm hand-shake or cheerful goodbye.

You have to ask yourself how much it is they really care.

Party time. I’d had a nap and woke with a start. My heart was pounding and sweat cascading down my back. Not because I thought I was still in prison but because I knew I was out. The guys in the joint had cautioned me:

‘Nothing’s scarier than being out there.’

Which I guess is why so many go back.

Aloud I vowed — ‘the fuck I’m going back’.

Did a hundred sits, a hundred presses, and felt the panic ebb.

The kitchen was stocked with provisions.

No porridge, thank Christ.

Had some OJ and bad burnt toast. There was a microwave and I zapped some coffee. It tasted like shit which was exactly what I was accustomed to. Did the shower stuff and skipped shaving. Let that three day beard kick in.

What’s the worst could happen?

I’d look like George Michael’s father.

Slapped on a Calvin Klein deodorant. It said on the label, ‘NO ALCOHOL’. Gee, no point in having a slug then.

Sat for a moment and rolled a smoke. Had the craft down. Could do it with one hand. Now, if I could strike a match off my teeth I’d be a total success.

Took a cruise through the music collection. Oddly, for such a state-of-the-art place, the guy hadn’t joined the CD revolution. It was your actual albums or cassettes. Okay by me.

Put on Trisha Yearwood. A track called ‘Love Wouldn’t Lie To Me’.

Listened twice.

I’m from south-east London. We don’t use words like beauty unless it’s cars or football. Even then you better know your company real good.

This song was beautiful. It stirred in me such feeling of

yearning

loss

regret.

Shit, next I’d be missing women I’d never met. Maybe it’s a being in your mid-forties thing.

I shook myself, time to rock ’n’ roll. Put on the Gap khaki pants — very tight in the waist, but hey, if I didn’t breath, I’d be fine. A white T-shirt and the blazer.

Looking sharp.

Like a magnet for every trainee mugger.

The album was still running and Trisha was doing a magic duet with Garth Brooks.

Had to turn it off.

No two ways, music will fuck your head nine ways to Sunday.

What you regard as a small isolated incident sets off a chain of events you could never have anticipated. You believe you’re making choices and all you’re doing is slotting in the pieces of a foreordained conclusion.

Deep, huh!

I took the tube to the Oval. The Northern Line was at its usual irritating best. Two bedraggled buskers were massacring The Streets Of London’. I gave them a contribution in the hope they might stop.

They didn’t.

As soon as they finished, they began it anew. Coming out at the Oval, Joe was there with the Big Issue. I said,

‘Wanna go to a party, Joe?’

This is my party, Mitch.’

Argue that.

Across the road an Aston Martin pulled in at St Mark’s Cathedral. A young woman got out. From the trees at the church, two predators materialised. These are not the homeless, they’re what Andrew Vachss calls ‘skels’. Bottom feeders, began to hassle her. I debated getting involved. I didn’t want to spoil the blazer. Joe said,

‘Go on, Mitch.’

I crossed the road. They’d the urban ambush going. One in front doing the verbals, the other behind about to strike.

I shouted,

‘Yo, guys.’

All three turned. These preds were early twenties, white and nasty.

The first said,

‘Whatcha want, wanker?’

The other:

‘Yeah, fock off bollocks.’

Close up I saw one was a woman. I said,

‘Leave the lady be.’

The first pred read the blazer, read me wrong, moved up, said,

‘Whatcha gonna do about it, cunt?’

I said,

‘This.’

And jammed my index finger in his right eye. It’s a common manoeuvre in the yard. When it’s serious you pop the eyeball.

This wasn’t. It hurts like a bastard, though. I moved to the second pred, said,

‘I’m going to break your nose.’

She ran.

The woman, the would-be victim, just stared at me. I said,

‘Not a smart place to park.’

I re-crossed the road and could hear music from The Greyhound.

Prayed it wasn’t ‘The Streets Of London’.

The pub was packed. A banner over the bar proclaimed,

Norton, in an Armani suit, greeted me warmly, said,

‘Here’s a Revolver.’

‘What?’

‘It’s a cocktail.’

‘What’s in it?’

‘What else but Black Bush, two jiggers of Contreau and ginger ale?’

‘Thanks Billy, but I’ll have a pint o’ bitter.’

Various Grade B villains approached and shook my hand. The A List were seated and expected me to approach them.

I did.

The party was what Dominic Dunne calls ‘a rat fuck’. Too many people. Promises of sundry jobs were made and lotsa ‘call me’ expressions. I spotted Tommy Logan, an up and coming drug lord, asked,

‘Tommy, can I have a word?’

‘Sure, son.’

He was half my age. He said,

‘You’re looking fit.’

‘But for what, eh?’

We laughed politely at this. I asked,

‘I need a favour, Tommy.’

He moved me to the end of the bar. Out of earshot if not out of reach. I took a deep breath, said,

‘I need some gear.’

It was Tommy’s business not to show what he felt or thought.

He registered near amazement, said,

‘I never had you down for the needle.’

‘It’s a one-off, for a friend.’

‘Jeez Mitch, that’s the hook... just once.’

Next he’d be giving me a lecture. I cut to the chase, asked,

‘Can you do it? I’d need the works too. A hypo... like that.’

‘Sure, I’ll have it for you by close of business.’

He shook his head then.

‘I like you Mitch, so all I’m gonna say is take it easy.’

‘Iris De Ment has a song called “Easy”.’

‘Who?’

Briony arrived looking like a radiant bag lady. She was dressed in some kind of designer bin liner. She gave me a huge hug, asked,

‘Do you like my dress?’

‘Ahm...’

‘I stole it from Vivienne Westwood’s shop.’

Before I could reply, she asked,

‘Mitch, would you like a Glock?’

‘I’ve already turned down a revolver.’

She looked disappointed, said,

‘It’s a 9mm.’

‘Jesus Bri, you’re serious.’

She reached in her handbag saying,

‘I’ll show you.’

I grabbed her hand, pleaded,

‘Christsake, don’t pull a gun in this crowd... I’ll get it later, okay?’

‘Okay Mitch.’

Norton shouted,

‘Bri, whatcha drinking?’

‘Harvey Wallbanger.’

A woman came into the pub. It was the Aston Martin lady. I said to Bri,

‘Excuse me.’

‘Frank will be here later, Mitch.’

The late Frank. I approached the woman, said,

‘Hello again.’ She nearly jumped, then got composure, said,

‘I never got to thank you.’

‘Glad to help... did you follow me in here?’

‘What? Good Lord no... I’m here on a story.’

My heart sank.

‘You’re a journalist?’

‘Yes, any gathering of South East villains is news.’

She looked towards the bar. A group of grim men were deep in conversation. They exuded menace. She said,

‘That looks like a nasty bunch.’

‘You’re right. They’re the police.’

She laughed, asked,

‘Are you serious?’

‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Some mineral water... I’m Sarah.’

‘Mitch.’

I considered spiking the mineral water, loosen her up a bit. Then decided to just let it play. As she took a sip, she said,

‘I believe the party’s for a villain who’s just out of prison.’

‘That’s me.’

‘Oh.’

I drank some beer, said,

‘I’m not a criminal. I’m simply unemployed.’

She digested this, then,

‘What type of work do you do besides rescuing women?’

‘You name it, I can do it.’

‘Handyman?’

She considered, then asked,

‘I’d have to check, are you on the phone?’

I gave her the number and asked,

‘Aren’t you wary of recommending an ex-con?’

‘If you get the job, it’s you who’d need to be careful.’

I laughed, not taking her seriously.

The first in a line of very bad judgements.

Sarah moved away, to do research I guess. Later, Tommy Logan approached, slipped me a package. I said,

‘I owe you one, Tommy.’

Bri grabbed me, said,

‘Mitch, I’ve just met a divine young man.’

‘Uh-uh.’

She was holding the hand of a punk. Nineteen or twenty years old. He looked like a sick David Beckham. But he had the essential smirk of the wannabe gangster. He said,

‘Yo bro.’

Unless you’re black, there is truly no answer to this. Except a slap up the side of the head but I wasn’t in the mood. Bri gushed,

‘Mitch, I told him you’ll take him under your wing.’

‘I don’t think so.’

She seemed genuinely surprised.

‘You don’t like him?’

‘Bri, I don’t know him and I don’t want to know him, now give it a rest.’

She disappeared into the crowd. I mingled for a while more, then figured I’d enough. Saw Norton and said,

‘Billy, I’m gonna split.’

‘What... already?’

‘I’m used to early nights.’

‘Oh right... listen, about the job...’

‘The money lending?’

‘It’s not like you think. You’d only need to come with me once or twice a week.’

‘Billy...’

‘No listen... the pad you’re in, the clothes — I don’t need to tell you there’s no free lunches.’

So much for any feeble principles. I wanted the flat, the clothes, the life. I asked,

‘When?’

‘Is Friday good? I’ll collect you round noon.’

‘Noon?’

‘Yeah, our clients aren’t early risers. That’s why the dumb fucks are always skint.’

As Jack Nicholson said in Terms of Endearment:

‘Nearly a clean getaway.’

I’d got to the door when Tommy Logan called me, said,

‘There’s a ruckus out back.’

‘Like I give a shit.’

‘You should: it’s your sister.’

I briefly thought of leaving her to it, then spat,

‘Fuck.’

Headed back there. Past stacked beer crates, empty barrels, into the yard. The punk was against the wall, a deep gash down his cheek. Bri had the Glock in his face. I said,

‘Bri... Bri, it’s Mitch.’

She didn’t move, said,

‘He wanted to put his thing in my mouth.’

I moved closer, said,

‘I thought the gun was my present.’

‘It is.’

‘Well, let’s have it then, eh?’

She stared hard at the punk, then said,

‘Okay,’ and handed it to me.

He appeared on the verge of passing out. Sank down to a sitting position, blood streaming from the gash. I bent to him, began to go through his pockets. Bri asked,

‘You’re robbing him?’

Not that she cared, she was just curious. I said,

‘I’m looking for his stash, he’s a coke head, I saw his sniffles earlier.’

‘You’re going to do a line?’

I found the packet, ripped it open. I spread the coke along the gash and it stemmed the blood.

Bri asked,

‘What are you doing?’

‘It’s an anaesthetic.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I celled with a doper.’

I stood up, took her arm, said,

‘Let’s go.’

When I got her outside, she asked,

‘Wanna go clubbing?’

I hailed a cab, got her in it, said,

‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

‘Mitch, I hope you don’t mind that Frank didn’t make it.’

‘No no, I don’t mind.’

Heading for the tube, I had heroin, a gun, and half a sachet of coke. Jesus, what more could you ask of a night on London town?

Back at the flat, I kicked off my shoes, opened a beer and collapsed on the sofa. Sat up after a bit and laid down a line of coke, snorted it fast. In no time, I was numb.

Fucking A.

I’d told Bri the truth about celling with a doper. He’d told me about smack, about kissing God. To hit the very stars.

I’d resolved to try it one time on my first night of freedom.

Night after night, he’d relive his first spike. As if all your life you’re living in darkness and suddenly you step into the light. You laugh out loud. Your nerves feel like velvet and your skin glows. And the energy, like you’re fucking bionic.

Too, he told me about the downside. I figured I could hack it.

But not tonight. It didn’t feel right. I went into the bedroom and stashed the gear under the sweatshirts. I put the Glock under my mattress. With the coke, I was up, pacing. Went to the bookshelf and picked out James Sallis.

Poetry

Loss

Addiction.

Perfect.

About halfway through my stretch, I got a visit from the Chaplain. I was lying on my bunk, reading. My cell mate was at an AA meeting. The Chaplain had manners, asked,

‘Might I come in?’

‘Sure.’

Any diversion. He sat on the opposite bunk, scanned my line of books. There was

Philosophy

Literature

Thrillers

Poetry.

He said, ‘Your reading is eclectic.’

I thought he said electric, answered,

‘Whatever gets you wired.’

He gave a religious smile, all front, no warmth, said,

‘No — eclectic, it means random.’

I liked it, said,

‘I like it.’

He picked up a volume of poetry, said,

‘Rilke, now that’s surprising.’

I tried to remember the line, tried:

‘Everything terrible is something that needs our love.’

It worked. He was stunned. I pushed, asked,

‘The cons here, do you think they need love?’

He went evangelical, said,

‘Most of the men here aren’t terrible, just...’

But he couldn’t find an appropriate adjective. I said,

‘You obviously haven’t chowed down with us. Yesterday a guy got knifed in the face for his creme caramel.’

‘How unfortunate.’

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

I sat up, rolled a cig, offered the Chaplain.

‘No, but thank you.’

I was half interested in him, asked,

‘Do you drive?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘A car. I just like to hear about motors.’

‘No, I ride a bike.’

Of course.

He folded his hands on his knees, adapted his face to empathy mode, asked,

‘Is anything troubling you?’

I laughed out loud, indicated the world outside the cell, answered,

‘Take a wild guess.’

‘It’s good to share.’

‘Keep your voice down Padre, that talk could spark a riot.’

He stood up, his duty done, said,

‘You’re an interesting man, might I visit on another day?’

I lay back on the bunk, said,

‘My door is always open.’

Course, he never did visit again.

Next morning I was listening to Capitol when the phone went. Picked it up, said,

‘Yeah.’

‘Mitch? This is Sarah.’

‘Right. Did you get a story?’

‘No, but I might have got you a job.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t thank me yet. I have an aunt in Holland Park. She lives in a huge house and it’s in dire need of repairs. The snag is she’s a difficult woman and no other workmen will go there anymore. Believe me, she’s had an army of them.’

‘Why will I be different?’

Long pause, then,

‘Well, she’ll forgive a man anything if he’s handsome.’

‘Oh.’

‘Do you want to give it a whirl? She’ll pay awfully well.’

‘Sure, why not.’

‘She lives at The Elms, you can’t miss it, just after the beginning of Holland Park, it has an impressive driveway.’

‘I’ll find it.’

‘I’m sure you will. Do you know anything about the theatre?’

‘No.’

‘You won’t have come across Lillian Palmer then.’

‘Never heard of her.’

‘I don’t suppose it matters. Anyway, that’s her, my aunt.’

‘I look forward to meeting her.’

‘Don’t be so sure. Well, good luck.’

I decided to chance it, felt I might be on a roll, asked,

‘Listen Sarah, do you fancy a drink sometime?’

‘I don’t think so. I’m not part of the package.’

And she hung up.

So much for the roll.

I had no equipment for work but figured I’d make it up as I went along. I know enough cowboys to borrow almost anything.

First off, I’d go and see the place, see what I’d need. If I was to be a handyman, I thought casual clothes would be best. Sweatshirt and jeans should be fine.

As I headed for the tube, I thought, ‘I’ve a home, clothes, job offers, and I’d only been out twenty-four hours’.

Those cons had got it wrong, life on the outside was a breeze.

In Alcoholics Anonymous, they refer to HP. It means Higher Power. On the street they also refer to HP... for Homeless Person. The connection between both is booze. Alcoholics have to abstain to survive. The homeless depend on it to survive.

I dunno what set off this in my head. A legacy of jail is this travelling on a tangent of thought.

Whatever, by the time I snapped out of it, I was nearing Holland Park. I got off the tube at Notting Hill and walked up. Found The Elms, no problem. Like Sarah said, there was a huge driveway. Strolled up, looking at the trees that lined the way.

Then the house and I muttered — ‘Wow’.

It was a mansion, no other description would apply.

It shouted:

WEALTH.

I moved to the door, made of solid oak. Up close the house looked rundown, shabby even. Lots of work here. I lifted the heavy knocker, gave it a wallop.

The door opened. A butler stood there in full regalia. I couldn’t believe it. I thought all the butlers had gone to California or sit-coms or both. He was small and sturdy. In truth, like Oddjob from the Bond movie. I was too taken aback to speak. He asked,

‘Yes?’

I gave my name, mentioned Sarah and expected the bum’s rush.

He said, ‘Madam is expecting you, come this way.’

I did.

Into a large hall. He’d have taken my coat if I had one. Led me to a drawing room and said,

‘Madam will appear presently.’

Then he fucked off.

The room was vast with regency furniture. I know that cos it looked like no one ever sat on it. Hundreds of framed photographs with a blonde woman in them all. She looked like a laid back Lauren Bacall with the ferocity. A massive portrait above the fireplace. The blonde again. On the walls were framed posters with ‘LILLIAN PALMER IN STREETCAR’, ‘MOURNING BECOMES ELECTRA’, ‘SWEET BIRD OF YOUTH’.

Like that.

Despite the expensive frame they looked old. Heavy drapes covered the windows and I figured I’d let a little light in.

Pulled them back to reveal bay windows. An overgrown garden stretched all the way back. Without thinking I began to roll a cig. Lit up. I was staring out the window when a shout near put me through it.

‘PUT OUT THAT CIGARETTE!’

I turned round to face whoever. A woman brushed past me, screaming,

‘How dare you open those drapes? The light will ruin the posters!’

As she covered the windows I got a look. She was dressed in a long black gown. Blonde hair down her back. Then she turned.

Not at all like Bacall. More like John Cassavettes’ wife who I’d seen in Gloria

I’m bad at ages but I reckoned she was an expensive sixty.

Money and care had helped keep the face intact. She had startling blue eyes and used them to scrutinise me, then:

‘I presume you’re here for an interview. Well? Speak up. What have you to say?’

Her voice was deep, almost coarse. The timbre that cigarettes and whiskey add. Course, arrogance helps too. I said,

‘I need an ashtray.’

She indicated a large crystal dish. I stubbed out the cig.

It’s hard to credit but the butt threw the room off. In that dish, the lone stub seemed like an affront. I wanted to put it in my pocket. She said,

‘You expect to make a good impression by dressing like a runner?’

I said, ‘You don’t have to be nice to me. I want the job.’

She stepped forward, and I thought she was going to hit me, then she laughed. A deep down and dirty one. The best kind.

Then she said,

‘Sarah mentioned you’d been in jail. What are you, a thief?’

With more edge than I intended, I said,

‘I’m not a thief.’

‘Oh dear, have I hit a nerve? Have I violated some convict code of ethics?’

This was delivered in a dramatic voice. As if she was on stage.

I’d learn that she was never off it. I said,

‘I was in a fight, it got out of hand.’

Closing the topic, she said,

‘There’ll be no fighting here.’

From out of left field, I felt a flash of desire. I couldn’t believe it. My body was responding to her. She gave a knowing smile and I didn’t want to analyse that. No way. She said,

‘We’ll give you a week’s trial. Jordan will set your duties.’

She went to the door, stopped, said,

‘If you absolutely must steal an item, take that disgusting ashtray.’

And she was gone.

I followed Jordan outside to the garage. More like an airplane hanger. The first thing I noticed was a car, up on blocks. I gave a low whistle, asked,

‘Is that what I think it is?’

‘Yes, it is.’

I tried to place his accent, ventured,

‘Are you German?’

‘Hungarian.’

He swept his arm round the garage, said,

‘Everything you could possibly need is here.’

Tools

Overalls

Ladders

Paint.

I thought that was good, said,

‘Good.’

He indicated a chart on the wall, said,

‘This is your timetable.’

‘What?’

‘Madam likes everything compartmentalised.’

It took him a while to get that last word but I stayed on it and got his drift, said,

‘Piecemeal.’

He pointed to the chart, said,

‘Please examine it.’

I did.

 Monday — Painting

 Tuesday — Gutters

 Wednesday — Roof

 Thursday — Windows

 Friday — Patio

I pretended to be interested, as if it made any sense. I said,

‘And Saturday party down.’

He ignored that, said,

‘You will arrive promptly at seven-thirty. You’ll partake of a light breakfast. Work will commence at eight sharp. At eleven you will have a tea break, twenty minutes. At one, you’ll have lunch for one hour. You will cease work at four sharp.’

I wanted to snap off a Hitler salute, shout,

‘Jawohl, Herr Kommandant.’

Instead I asked,

‘Does she work now?’

‘Madam is resting.’

‘Jeez, from those posters, she’s been resting for thirty years.’

‘She is awaiting the right vehicle.’

I nodded at the Rolls Royce, said,

‘That should do the job.’

Any reply he might have made was lost as a van drove up. On the side was

An overweight man climbed out. Took him a while due to the weight he was carrying. He was wearing overalls and a baseball cap. A dirty baseball cap with ‘LEE’ barely decipherable.

He ambled over, nodded to Jordan, looked at me, asked,

‘Who’s the gobshite?’

Jordan said, ‘Mr Lee, you are no longer employed here. I thought I made that clear.’

Lee waved his hand in dismissal, said,

‘Lighten up, Jord. The old bat in there doesn’t know who’s here. I’m not about to let a good thing go.’

Jordan sighed, said,

‘You have already been replaced, Mr Lee. I must ask that you leave.’

Lee laughed, said,

‘You run along Jord... git us a cup o’ tea, two sugars, I’ll sort out this geezer.’

Then he moved towards me. Jordan moved faster and delivered two lightning jabs to Lee’s stomach. I’d barely time to register it wasn’t his fist, open palmed. Lee sank to his eyes, groaning, whined,

‘Whatcha do that for?’

Jordan stood over him and, with both hands, slammed Lee’s ears.

I said,

‘That’s gotta hurt.’

Then Jordan helped Lee to the van, bundled him in. After a few minutes, the engine turned and he drove slowly away. Jordan turned back to me, asked,

‘Is Monday suitable to begin?’

‘You bet.’

I lit a roll-up as I walked down the drive. Got to the gate and looked back. The house seemed dead. I began to head for Notting Hill. Halfway down was Lee’s van. He was leaning against it, massaging his stomach. As I drew alongside he said,

‘I want a word with you, pal.’

‘Okay.’

‘I didn’t get your name.’

‘No.’

He squared up. I noticed his ears were scarlet. He said,

‘You don’t want to fuck with me, pal.’

‘Why not?’

‘What are you, a smart ass?’

‘A smart ass with a job — sorry — with your job.’

He couldn’t decide which way to go, settled for verbal, said,

‘If you know what’s good for you, pal, you’ll stay away.’

I made a playful feint to his stomach but didn’t actually touch him, said,

‘You’re gonna have to cut down on them burgers, Lee.’

I walked away. I could hear him muttering the length of Ladbroke Grove. All in all, I kinda liked old Lee. In the nick, they’d have turned him out in a week.

When I got back to Clapham I could feel the effect Lillian Palmer had on me. I figured it was time I got laid. Went into a phone booth and scanned the cards on display. Every sexual need was catered for. I decided on the following:

Yeah.

I rang and set a time. Yup, she could see me now. The address was in Streatham. As I headed there, I swear I felt nervous.

After three years, you wonder how it’s gonna be.

Found the building and rang the top bell. Got buzzed in, walked up two flights of stairs. Knocked on the door. A guy in his thirties came out. I said,

‘Jeez, I hope you’re not Tanya.’

‘Fifty quid in advance.’

I paid and he asked,

‘Need anything else — weed, uppers, downers?’

I shook my head. He stepped aside, and I went in. A woman was sitting down dressed in a slip, stockings and suspenders. She wasn’t in her twenties, or busty or beautiful.

She said,

‘Would you like a drink?’

Not South American either. I said,

‘Sure.’

‘Scotch?’

‘Lovely.’

I watched her as she got the drink. A nice bod — I could feel desire returning. Not wild excitement but getting there.

I took the drink, said,

‘Cheers.’

She stood in front of me, said,

‘No kinky stuff, no kissing, no bondage.’

What could I say, I said,

‘No kidding.’

I followed her into the bedroom. The radio was playing The Eagles with ‘Desperado’. If ‘My Way’ is the anthem of chauvinists, then ‘Desperado’ is the rationalisation of convicts. She handed me a condom as she lay back on the bed.

It was quick.

She indicated the bathroom, said,

‘You can clean up in there.’

I did.

When I came out she said,

‘For another twenty, we could go again.’

I said, ‘I think I’ve had as much fun as I can handle.’

As I left, she said,

‘Call again.’

Back in Clapham, I went to the Rose and Crown, took a stool at the bar, ordered a pint of bitter. Working on that I rolled a cigarette. A man in his sixties came in and took the stool beside me. I hoped to fuck he wasn’t going to be friendly. I fixed my face in the ‘don’t put chat on me’ mode. He ordered a large navy rum, said,

‘None of that Kiskadee rubbish.’

I tuned out. Wanted to engage in some post-coital melancholy.

Then I realised he was talking to me, I said,

‘What?’

‘Would you believe I was in the middle of an angiogram two months ago?’

‘You what?’

‘Should have been routine but an artery the cardio didn’t know about got jammed. Just when he’s roto-rootering an other one and—’

I said, ‘Shut up. I don’t wanna hear about it.’

He looked wiped, asked,

‘Like a drink?’

‘I’d like you to bore the arse off someone else.’

‘Just trying to be friendly.’

‘I don’t do friendly.’

Finished my drink and got outta there. When I got outside, a man was standing directly across the road, staring at me. In his thirties, blond hair, a decrepit suit. He looked like he was going to say something then turned and walked away.

If the traffic hadn’t been so heavy I might have gone after him. I thought — ‘They’re coming outta the woodwork today.’

The phone was ringing as I got home. Picked it up,

‘Mitch?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s Billy Norton, where’ve you been — I’ve been ringing you all morning.’

‘At a job interview.’

‘What? You’ve already got a job.’

‘Money lending? That’s not a job, it’s a virus.’

He took a deep breath, said,

‘We go tomorrow, like you agreed.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Mitch, it’s easy, no problem — all you have to do is be my back-up.’

‘Easy? First I heard that taking money was easy.’

He was seriously irritated, tried to rein it, said,

‘I’ll bring some Red Bull.’

‘Some what?’

‘It’s an energy drink. You wash down some amphetamines with it, you’re seriously cranked.’

‘Seriously deranged too.’

‘I’ll pick you up at noon, okay?’

‘I can hardly wait.’

Later on, I phoned for a pizza and was waiting for delivery. I was reading Charles Willeford’s ‘Sideswipe’ and lamenting there’d be no more of this brilliant series. In Prison I’d read one, two books a day. I intended to maintain the habit.

The doorbell went. Opened it. Not the pizza. A well built man steel grey hair, in a dark suit. He asked,

‘Mr Mitchell?’

‘Yeah.’

He produced a warrant card, said,

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Bailey — might I have a word?’

‘Okay.’

He followed me in, examining the room as he did, said,

‘Nice place.’

I nodded. He sat down, said,

‘We get a daily bulletin on ex-prisoners returning to our manor.’

If he expected an answer I didn’t have one.

He took out a packet of weights, didn’t offer, lit up, continued.

‘I recognised your name, but hey, no address.’

‘I’m not on parole, I’m a free man.’

‘Course you are. I gave your friend Norton a bell and he was most helpful. So I thought I’d drop by, see how you’re settling in.’

The doorbell again. This time it was the pizza. Took it and brought the box in, put it on the table. Bailey said,

‘Pizza, great. May I?’

‘Sure.’

He opened the box, went,

‘Mmm, and thank Christ, no anchovies... how about a nice pot o’ tea?’

I went and got it going. He shouted in, his mouth full,

‘This is good. Best to eat it while it’s hot.’

When I got back with the tea, he’d gotten through half, said,

‘God, I needed that, missed lunch.’

He sat back, belched. I asked,

‘Was there a particular reason for this visit?’

He poured tea, said,

‘I had a look at your file. You did three years for GBH.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I was wondering what your plans were now.’

‘I’ve got a job.’

‘By jove. That was quick. Legal, is it?’

‘Of course.’

He stood up, brushed crumbs off his jacket, said,

‘Your friend Norton is sailing close to the wind. You’d be wise to avoid him.’

I’d had enough of the bonhomie, asked,

‘Is that a threat, Sergeant?’

He smiled, said,

‘Whoa, watch that temper, boyo. Wouldn’t want to have you in trouble again.’

I climbed back, said,

‘I’m touched by your concern.’

‘You will be. Call it intuition.’

I went back inside, bundled up the pizza and dumped it in the bin. He’d put the butt of the cigarette in the dregs of the tea. I said aloud,

‘Fucking pig.’

Next morning I was trying to decide what to wear for extortion.

Do you dress up or dress down? Figured I’d play it simple. Jeans and sweatshirt.

Bang on noon, Norton arrived. I got in the van and said,

‘Nice day for it.’

He was wired to the moon, his foot tapping, fingers drumming on the wheel. As we pulled away, I caught a glimpse of the blond guy in the dead suit, shouted,

‘Billy, hold on a mo.’

He stopped and I jumped out. The man was gone. I got back in, and Norton asked,

‘What?’

I shook my head, said,

‘It’s crazy but I think I’m being stalked.’

‘You? Jeez, must be a real nutter to stalk you. Here — have a brewski.’

There were stacks of cans of Red Bull, I said,

‘Naw, I want to do this cold.’

He popped a can, drank deep, went,

‘Ah... r... gh.’

I asked,

‘Did you drop some speed too?’

‘Just a half tab, nothing major.’

We were roaring down the Clapham Road, I said,

‘You’re sailing close to the wind.’

‘What?’

‘So a policeman told me.’

He stared at me. I said,

‘Watch the friggin road.’

He shouted, ‘You spoke to a copper... about me?’

‘Yeah, the same fuck who got my address from you.’

‘Oh.’

That shut him down for a bit, then,

‘Bailey’s a wanker, you don’t need to worry about him.’

‘He’s a wanker who knows where I live. That’s always worrying.’

As we turned into Ashmole Estate, Norton said,

‘You’ve got to lighten up Mitch, you take things too seriously.’

‘Right.’

I hate fuckin’ nuns.’

Norton spat this as a nun scuttled along the footpath.

There’s a convent in Ashmole Estate.’

I said, ‘I thought you Irish had religion.’

He grunted, answered,

‘What we’ve got is long memories.’

‘If you don’t have religion, you better have a saving grace.’

He gave me the look, said,

‘Jeez Mitch, that’s bloody deep.’

‘But not original. The poet Donald Rawley wrote it.’

As we pulled up outside a high-rise, he said,

‘I hate fuckin poets.’

We got out and Norton slung a sports bag over his shoulder, asked,

‘You want somefin’?’

‘Naw, like I said, I’ll go clean.’

‘I meant protection... like a baseball bat. Poems won’t cut it where we’re going.’

‘No... what’s in the sports bag?’

He gave an evil smile, answered,

‘Incentives.’

The building had eighteen stories. An intercom system on the front door. But that had been busted to hell. We pushed through and went to the elevator.

Norton said, ‘Keep your fingers crossed.’

‘What?’

‘The lift... that it works.’

It did.

Covered in graffiti, it smelt of urine and despair. A smell I was familiar with. You don’t ever become accustomed.

On the eighteenth, we got out, and Norton said,

‘Think of it as golf.’

‘Golf?’

‘Yeah, eighteen holes.’

We approached a flat and Norton banged on the door. He took out a small red book. The door opened and a child peered out. Norton said,

‘Get your mother.’

The mother was Indian and nervous. Norton said,

‘Dues time.’

She went back inside and found a bundle of notes, handed them over. Norton checked his book, counted the notes, said,

‘You’re a little short.’

‘It’s been a terrible week.’

He shushed her, said,

‘Hey, I could give a rat’s-ass but tell you what, you can double up next week.’

She agreed far too readily. The three of us knew she’d never have it.

We went down to the seventeenth and I asked,

‘So how’s it work? I mean it seems to me they just get deeper in the hole.’

Norton gave a big smile: all speed and no humor, said,

‘See, you’re a natural — already you’ve got the gist. Time comes, they hand over the lease.’

‘And then?’

‘Well, don’t you worry none. We have removal specialists.’

‘So lemme guess. You re-rent.’

‘Bingo. To yuppies who want a view of the cricket ground. We have six units here already.’

The next three floors, it was the same sad story. Pathetic women of all nationalities promising their lives away. On the twelfth, Norton said,

‘I’ve had nothing but grief from these Spanish gits.’

When the door opened, he barged inside. A woman was screaming,

‘Nada, nada, nada!’

Norton looked round, asked,

‘Where is he, where’s your husband?’

The bedroom door burst open and a man in nothing but bright blue boxer shorts came running. Brushed by me into the corridor.

Norton was after him like a greyhound, manic smile all over his face.

He was getting off.

He caught the guy at the stairs and jerked the boxer shorts off. With his open hand, he slapped him half a dozen times on the arse.

Then ran him back into the flat. The man was crying, said,

‘Take the television.’

Norton rooted in his sports bag, took out a claw hammer.

Walked over to the TV and smashed the screen to smithereens.

He said,

‘Get me the rent agreement.’

They did.

Next floor, he said,

‘Time out for a break.’

Sweat was pouring off him. He was hyped to heaven, said,

‘Don’t wait to be asked, Mitch, you can jump in at any stage, help me out.’

He popped a can of Bull and a tab of speed, asked,

‘Do you wanna get laid?’

‘Now?’

‘Sure, some of them, they’ll do you in lieu of the payment.’

‘I don’t think so. Doesn’t anyone call the cops?’

‘Get real, you think the cops would come to here?’

I rolled a ciggy, lit up, asked,

‘The kids... doesn’t it bother you?’

‘So they get to learn early. Toughen ’em up.’

He looked with disdain at my roll-up, said,

‘You don’t have to smoke that shit, you’re in a different league now.’

I shrugged, said,

‘I like ’em.’

He took out a pack of Dunhill, luxury blend, got one going, said,

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Sure.’

He looked round, as if we’d be overheard. The noise in the building was ferocious.

Doors banging

People shouting

Kids wailing and

Rap music underwrit.

‘Prison, what was it like?’

I could have said, ‘Just like this.’

But I was thinking of Tom Kakonis, an American crime writer who understood jail perfectly. He wrote:

I didn’t tell Norton this, instead I said,

‘Mostly, it was boring.’

‘Yeah.’

‘No big deal.’

He squashed the can when he’d finished drinking, slung it down the stairs. It hit each step. I could hear it rattling down like a scream on B Wing, that lasts until the dawn.

On the ninth floor, we hit turbulence. Norton was doing his number on a black woman when her man came striding out. He swung his fist and caught Norton on the side of the head.

Then he came for me. He was big, strong, but that’s all he had.

He wasn’t dirty.

I was.

I sidestepped his swing and drop-kicked him in the balls. As he went down, I elbowed him to the back of the head.

Got Norton to his feet, and he wanted to kick the black man till he bled. I pulled him away, said,

‘Maybe we’ll call it a day.’

He agreed, said,

‘Nearly through anyway — from eight down it’s a bust.’

Took the lift the rest of the way. Norton was massaging his head, said,

‘I was wrong what I said about poems.’

‘Eh?’

‘That they’re useless. The way you took down that guy, it was fucking poetry.’

I headed for the van and Norton said,

‘Come on, there’s a pub round the corner, I’ll buy you a drink.’

At the bar, Norton said,

‘We’re working guys, lets have a couple of boilermakers.’

‘Whatever.’

The barmaid had to be told it was pints with scotch chasers.

It was lunch time and the special was bangers and mash. It smelled good, almost like comfort.

We grabbed a table at the rear and Norton said,

‘Slàinte.’

‘That too.’

On the other side of the scotch we mellowed out. Norton was counting the cash, writing tallies in his red book. He mouthed the figures as he wrote. Next he put a wedge together and snapped a rubber band on it. Pushed it across the table, said,

‘Your end.’

‘Jeez Billy, I didn’t do all that much.’

‘You will Mitch, trust me.’

We were coming round by the Oval when I spotted the blond haired man. He was going into The Cricketers. I asked Norton to pull up. He said,

‘What’s happening?’

‘I’m going to stalk a stalker.’

‘That’s supposed to make sense?’

‘Course not.’

I got out and crossed the road. Then into the pub. The man was at the counter, his back to me. I walked up, gave him a hearty slap on the back, said,

‘Guess who.’

He nearly passed out. I noticed he’d a small lager. I gave him a moment to re-group. He said,

‘I knew it was a mistake to return.’

I took a sip of his drink, said,

‘Pure piss.’

He looked at the door and I smiled. He said,

‘I’m Anthony Trent.’

‘You say that like it’s supposed to mean something.’

‘It don’t mean shit to me.’

‘Oh sorry, of course... I lived in the flat before your flat.’

‘And now you want... what?’

‘If I might just collect some things.’

I drank some more of his lager, asked,

‘Why’d you leave in such a hurry?’

‘I got in over my head to Mr Norton.’

‘How much is over your head?’

‘Ten large.’

‘So you skipped.’

‘Mr Norton has some heavy friends.’

He was staring intently at me and I said,

‘What?’

‘I believe you’re wearing one of my sweatshirts. Don’t tumble dry it.’

‘Well Anthony, that’s a sad story but it will get sadder if you follow me again.’

‘Yes... of course, I understand. So might I grab some items from the flat?’

I took a moment, then said,

‘No chance.’

The hooker hadn’t helped. I couldn’t get Lillian Palmer outta my head. I mean... what? I fancied an old bird? Get real.

But deny as I tried that knowing smile kept returning. She knew I’d been aroused. Each time I blew it off, the wanting to ravish her came pounding back.

I rang Briony, asked if she’d like to come over for dinner. She asked,

‘You’re cooking?’

‘Sure. How does stir-fry sound?’

‘Oh Mitch, I’m vegetarian.’

Naturally. ‘How does vegetarian stir-fry sound?’

‘Wonderful Mitch. Shall I bring wine?’

I thought she said ‘whine’. I gave her the address and she said,

‘Poor Mitch, is it a grotty bedsit?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I’ll bring flowers, brighten it up.’

A thought hit me and I asked,

‘You won’t be stealing this stuff... will you?’

Silence.

‘Bri?’

‘I’ll be good, Mitch.’

‘Okay.’

‘Frank likes me to be good.’

‘Yeah... right... see you at eight.’

By the time eight rolled round, the flat seemed downright cosy. Pots on the cooker, kitchen smells permeating, the table set. I opened a bottle of wine, poured a glass. It tasted bitter, which was fine. With booze, I had to keep a tight rein. My jail time was a direct result of booze.

When I drink whiskey, I get black-outs. I remember the day clearly. Norton and I had pulled off a caper that netted us three large.

Each.

I was drinking lights out. Even Norton had said,

‘Jeez Mitch, take it easy.’

I didn’t.

Come that evening, I remember nothing. The story goes that I got into a barney with some guy. We took it outside.

Norton followed.

He managed to stop me from killing the guy, but only just.

I got three years.

I’m not arguing the toss. Thing is, my hands were clean.

Not even a grazed knuckle. I mentioned it to my lawyer, who said,

‘You used your feet.’

Oh.

Men find all sorts of ways to get through the nights in jail. Be it

hooch

a cissy

glue.

Me, I worked out all day till my body was exhausted. Some men prayed, if quietly. I took a mantra from Bruce Chatwin’s ‘The Songlines’.

Like this:

‘I will see the Buddhist Temples of Java. I will sit with Saddhus on the Ghats of Benares. I will smoke hashish in Kabul and work on a kibbutz.’

Mostly it worked.

The doorbell went. I opened it to Bri. She was dressed in a black trouser suit, pink sweatshirt. She handed me a huge bouquet of flowers. I said,

‘Come in.’

When she saw the flat, she went,

‘Wow... this is great.’

I poured her some wine and she sipped, asked,

‘Does wine mix with ’ludes?’

‘Ahm...’

‘Cos I wanted to be mellow, not to freak out.’

This sounded very promising, if unlikely. She sat down, said,

‘I’ll move in with you.’

‘What?’

She laughed out loud. Her laugh was one of the good ones, deep down and only the faintest hint of hysteria. She said,

‘Lighten up Mitch, these are the jokes.’

‘Right.’

I went to check on the food, it seemed under control.

Bri shouted,

‘Sure smells good, Mitch.’

I said,

‘Should be set in about ten minutes, how’d that be?’

‘Lovely.’

When I came back, she was arranging the flowers. I sat down, rolled a cig. Bri asked,

‘Do I seem different?’

‘Ah... no... you seem... fine.’

‘I’ve been having therapy.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

She put her head down, said,

‘I’m not to mention Frank anymore.’

I wanted to say, ‘Thank Christ for that,’ but what I said was,

‘Okay.’

She did a tour of the flat, went in the bedroom. I could hear the closet doors opening. When she came back she said,

‘You sure landed on your feet, Mitch.’

‘The crust on its uppers.’

‘What?’

‘It’s the title of a Derek Raymond book.’

‘Who?’

‘Never mind.’

She poured more wine and pointed to the books, said,

‘Will you read all those?’

‘I plan to.’

Then her face looked sad. I said,

‘Bri, I want to read them, I like it.’

She was shaking her head, said,

‘It’s a pity.’

‘What?’

‘You won’t have time.’

‘What are you on about, Bri?’

‘At the party, a man said you’d be lucky to last six months.’

I tried to lighten it.

‘I’ll easy read them in six months.’

It didn’t work.

‘I don’t want you to go back to prison.’

I went and put my arm round her, said,

‘Hey, come on, I’m not going back.’

‘Promise.’

‘I promise. I have a regular job.’

‘I don’t do so good without you, Mitch.’

‘Let’s eat... what do you say?’

The food was good. I’d done garlic bread and garlic mushrooms. She liked them best. I opened more wine and we chowed down. The stir-fry was limp but it sneaked along. Bri asked,

‘What’s your job?’

I told her. When I got to Lillian’s name, she said,

‘I’ve heard of her, she was the best Blanche Du Bois the West End’s ever seen.’

Every time I had Briony figured, she’d surprise me. I asked,

‘How do you know that?’

‘I love the theatre. Will you sleep with her?’

‘What? Jeez Bri, she’s older than me.’

Bri looked right at me, asked,

‘What does she look like?’

‘Well, like Gina Rowlands, not bad at all.’

‘So you will sleep with her?’

For dessert there was

Greek yogurt

cheesecake

black forest gateau.

I asked, ‘Which?’

‘All of them.’

She wasn’t kidding.

After, I went to make coffee. Got that squared away and brought it out on a tray. The tray had Lady Di on the front and I knew Bri would like that. She was curled up on the sofa, snoring lightly. I picked her up and carried her to my room. Covered her with the duvet, I watched her for a bit, then said,

‘Sleep precious well.’

I decided to leave the dishes. I settled on the couch and turned on the TV, keeping the sound low. It was NYPD Blue and Denis Franz was massacring a hotdog and a perp simultaneously. Turned it off. I wasn’t in the mood for cops. Not even Sipovitz.

About half an hour later, the whiskey came creeping along. Seeping and whispering on the edges of my consciousness. Start now, I’d kill a bottle... easy. Jumped up got my jacket and figured I’d walk it off.

Yeah.

Camus wrote,

‘There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn.’

Well, that and a baseball bat should help you on the route from Clapham to the Oval.

What I was thinking was, I’d go see Joe, the Big Issue vendor and shoot the breeze.

At Stockwell, there was a guy holding a placard. He was wearing one of those ankle-length Oz. duster coats. They’re fine if you’ve a horse to match. The placard read

As I passed, he gave me a huge, toothless grin. I said,

‘Good advice.’

He said, ‘Fuck off.’

When I got to the Oval, no Joe. A kid about twenty was in his spot and selling the paper. I asked,

‘What’s happened to Joe?’

‘Something should happen,’ he said.

I grabbed him by his shirt, heard the buttons pop.

I said,

‘Don’t give me friggin lip.’

‘He got hurt.’

‘What?’

‘Straight up, guv, two kids from the Kennington estates done him over.’

‘Where’s he now?’

‘St Thomas’. He’s poorly.’

I let the kid go, said,

‘Don’t get comfortable, this is Joe’s spot.’

The kid was looking at his torn shirt, said,

‘Yah tore me shirt, yah didn’t have to do that.’

‘Blame Camus.’

‘Who’s he?’

I flagged a cab and had him take me to the hospital. At reception, I had all sorts of grief before I could locate him. He was on Ward 10. That didn’t omen well.

When I got up there, a matron barred my way, saying,

‘He’s not in any condition for visitors.’

A passing doctor stopped, asked,

‘What’s the problem?’

His name tag read ‘Dr R Patel’.

The matron told him and he said,

‘Oh yes, the Big Issue man. All right Matron, I’ll take care of this.’

He turned to me, said,

‘Of course, if you’re a relative...’

‘A relative?’

‘His brother, say.’

I looked into his eyes. I almost never see eyes of kindness.

I did now. I said,

‘Sure, I’m his brother.’

‘Joe is not in good shape.’

‘You mean... he might die?’

‘I estimate twenty-four hours.’

I put out my hand, said,

‘Thank you, Doctor.’

‘You’re welcome.’

The ward was quiet. Joe’s bed was next to the door. So when they take the remains, it doesn’t cause disturbance. I moved to the side of the bed. He looked bad. Both his eyes were blackened, bruises lined his face and his lips were torn. An IV drip was attached to his left arm. I took his right hand in mine.

His eyes opened, he said,

‘Mitch.’

He tried to smile, said,

‘You should see the other guy.’

‘Did you know them?’

‘Yeah, two kids from the estates. They’re about fifteen... one of them looks like Beckham. Kicks like ’im too. The other one, he’s black.’

He closed his eyes, said,

‘Jeez, this morphine is a rush.’

‘Good gear, eh?’

‘If I’d that at the Oval, I’d get vendor of the month.’

‘You will, buddy.’

He opened his eyes again, said,

‘I don’t want to die, Mitch.’

‘Hey, come on.’

‘Can I ask you something, Mitch?’

‘Anything.’

‘Don’t let ’em cremate me. I don’t like fire.’

He dozed for a bit.

I pulled over a chair but didn’t let go of his hand. My mouth was parched, figured it was the wine.

A nurse came by, asked,

‘Can I get you something?’

‘A tea, please.’

When she came back, she said,

‘There’s only coffee.’

‘That’s fine, thank you.’

It tasted like tea with a hint of castor oil. I’d have killed for a cigarette but I didn’t want to leave. The hours dragged by. He’d wake, see I was there and close his eyes.

About five in the morning, he said,

‘Mitch?’

‘I’m here, buddy.’

‘I was dreaming of a red rose... what’s it mean?’

The fuck I knew. I said,

‘That spring’s coming.’

‘I like spring.’

Later, he said,

‘My feet are so cold.’

I moved to the end of the bed, put my hands under the blanket.

His feet were like ice.

I began to massage them and said,

‘I’ll get yah thermal socks Joe, be just the job for the Oval.’

I dunno how long I was doing the massage, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the doctor, he said,

‘He’s gone.’

I stopped rubbing his feet.

Thing is, now they felt warm.

The doctor said, ‘Come to my office.’

I did.

He shut the door, said,

‘Smoke if you wish.’

‘Thanks, I will.’

He fumbled papers, said,

‘The council will take care of the burial.’

‘You mean cremation.’

‘That’s the usual.’

‘I don’t think so. I’ll make the arrangements.’

The doctor shook his head, said,

‘Is that wise? I mean a plot in London is as expensive as a parking space and twice as scarce.’

‘He’s from south-east London, that’s where he’s going to stay.’

‘Very well. I’ll need you to sign some papers.’

I finished my cigarette, said,

‘I appreciate all your help.’

‘You’re welcome.’

We shook hands. When I got outside, I felt bone weary. Hailed a taxi and had him take me to Clapham. The driver checked me in the mirror, said,

‘Rough night, mate?’

‘You got that right.’

A long time later, I came across a poem by Anne Kennedy, titled ‘Burial Instructions’. Among the lines were: ‘I don’t want to be cremated my clothes sent home in a bag.’

The closing lines read:

As I opened my front door, I smelled home baking. Bri was busy in the kitchen. She shouted,

‘Brekky in a moment.’

I sank into a chair, beat. I could smell coffee and it smelt good. Did it ever. Bri brought in a tray. There was

OJ

Coffee

Toast

Brownies.

Brownies?

She pointed at them, asked,

‘Know what those are?’

‘Ahm...’

‘Space cookies. Hash cakes. I learnt how to make them in Amsterdam. Eat slow — they tend to blow your mind.’

I had some toast, coffee, and considered if I needed my mind blown. I asked,

‘Aren’t you having some?’

‘Oh no, Mitch, they’d mess with my medication.’

I thought, ‘What the hell.’

Took a tentative bite. Sweet. Figured, if nowt else, I’d get a sugar rush. Bri asked,

‘Were you out robbing?’

‘What?’

‘Well I know criminals work at night.’

‘Jeez Bri, I’m not a villain... I have a straight job.’

She wasn’t buying this, said,

‘I don’t mind you being a robber as long as you don’t get caught.’

I had some more space cake. Bri said,

‘Didn’t you do villain things before prison?’

No denying that.

As distraction I told her about Joe, even mentioned the rose.

She asked, ‘Was he a robber too?’

I near lost it, said,

‘What’s with this robber shit. Could you please stop using that word.’

‘Will I come to the funeral with you?’

‘Oh... sure. That would be good.’

‘What will I wear, Mitch?’

‘Ahm... something black I guess.’

She clapped her hands, said,

‘Great, I took a Chanel from Selfridges but I never got to wear it.’

Trying to blunt the sarcasm, I said,

‘Took!’

‘You told me not to use the word robbed.’

I wolfed the cake.

The bottom dropped out of my mind.

Jazz.

I could hear jazz. Duke Ellington Orchestra with ‘Satin Doll’.

Shit, where did that come from? I knew I wasn’t asleep but wasn’t conscious either. I tried to move but felt too languid. Vaguely, I was aware of Briony on the edge of my vision, but blurred. Definitely not important. What was vital was I identify the next tune. Yes, Billie Holiday with ‘Our Love Is Here To Stay’. Then the soundtrack veered and I was Bruce Springsteen with ‘Darkness On The Edge Of Town’. Then I was the amp, blowing fit to bust. I felt everything shutting down. I tried to curl into a ball and then I slept.

Least I think it was sleep.

Early morning. Norton rang. I asked him to find me a burial plot. In reply he said,

‘It will cost. Not just money. I need your help.’

‘Tell me.’

‘The Brixton run, none of the lads are keen.’

‘Gee, collecting money there should be a piece of cake.’

‘Tomorrow evening, Mitch, I’ll pick you up.’

When Norton picked me up the following evening, he was nervous.

I got in the van and he said,

‘I got the grave, here’s who you contact.’

Gave me a piece of paper, address on it.

‘Thanks Billy, I appreciate it.’

I looked around the van, asked,

‘No Red Bull?’

‘It’s not that kind of gig.’

‘How so?’

‘It can get hairy, there’s no buzz in it. We go in, get the cash, split.’

Brixton was hopping. The streets thronged with people. Seemed almost carnival. I asked,

‘Jeez, will anybody be home?’

He nodded grimly.

‘Yeah — the women... Saturday evening, the men are strutting and the women are glued to the game shows.’

We parked near a high rise off Coldharbour Lane. Norton handed me a sports bag, said,

‘Baseball bat. Now if it gets heavy, run like fuck. Got it?’

‘Sure.’

We got out, passed a dumpster and went into the building. The first few flats went okay. Norton collected at two of them, got rent books in the others. Worked down to the second floor. Norton was as jumpy as a cat. I asked,

‘What? It’s going good, ain’t it?’

He kept looking round, said,

‘We’re not outta here yet.’

Coming out of a second floor flat, Norton in the lead, me walking rear. Standing outside were six black men, dressed in black suits, white shirts, spit shine black shoes. One stood to the front, the others in military line to his rear.

Norton said,

‘Fuck.’

I asked, ‘Not good?’

He shouted,

‘Run.’

And took off like a bat outta hell. I didn’t move. Not from bravado but from the look of these guys, they’d have caught me easy.

I let the bat fall, said,

‘I’m not going to need it, right guys?’ The leader gave a small smile. I asked,

‘Who are you? Nation of Islam?’

I knew the Nation from prison and, more importantly, I knew don’t fuck with them.

My final question was,

‘It’s gonna hurt, yeah?’

The first blow broke my nose. I could describe the beating as

vicious

thorough

brutal.

What it was, was silent. Not a word as they worked me over. Real pros. After they’d finished, they trooped off without a sound. I wanted to shout,

‘Is that the best you got?’

But my mouth didn’t work. Two of them returned and picked me up, carried me out and threw me in the dumpster. I lost consciousness for a time. Eventually, I managed to crawl out and fall to the ground. I limped as far as the police station and passed out again. Someone stole my watch before the ambulance came.

I came to in St Thomas’ with Dr Patel standing over me.

Shaking his head, he said,

‘What an exciting life you people lead.’

God I felt rough. All my body ached. I asked,

‘How bad is it?’

‘Your nose is broken but I think you know that.’

I nodded. Big mistake, it hurt like a bastard. He continued,

‘Nothing else is broken but you are covered in bruises. It’s almost like whoever did it knew what they were doing. Maximum hurt with minimum breakage.’

I asked him to go through my clothes, find the address for Joe’s grave. He did. I asked,

‘Can you take care of it?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘When can I get out?’

‘You should rest up.’

We agreed I could leave in the morning; he’d fit me up with painkillers to get me through the next few days. As I lay there, I realised that Joe was probably still here. At least I was keeping him company. Though not in any fashion I’d have planned.

Sunday evening, on my way home, I had the cab swing by the off-licence. I asked,

‘Could you get me a bottle of Irish whiskey?’ I figured I could get out of the cab. I wasn’t sure I could get back in. He nodded. As I passed over the cash, he said,

‘A bus hit you?’

‘A black bus.’

‘Worst kind. Any particular brand of whiskey?’

‘Black Bush.’

‘Good choice.’

He was back in jig time, handed over the bottle, said,

‘Get some Epsom salts and a steaming bath.’

‘I will, thanks.’

Back home, I moved like an invalid, dropped some painkillers.

Dr Patel had warned, ‘Don’t take alcohol with these.’

Yeah, right. I unscrewed the bottle, chugged hard. Whoa-hey, it kicked like a mule. A very bad-tempered mule. I turned on the radio. Tracy Chapman with ‘Sorry.’ Fitting. Ran the bath, got it scalding. Had some more Bush.

An hour later, glowing from the bath and drink. I wasn’t hurting at all. Found a wool bathrobe and wrapped up in that. It had a monogram but I couldn’t focus. The doorbell went. I shuffled over to open it.

Norton, a sheepish face. He went,

‘Jesus, what did they do to you?’

‘Their worst.’

He looked at the bathrobe but didn’t comment, asked,

‘Can I come in?’

‘Why not.’

He glanced at the half empty bottle, said,

‘Partying?’

I ignored that, went in and flopped in the sofa. I said,

‘There’s beer in the fridge.’

‘Right, think I will.’

He popped a can, sat opposite me, said,

‘I’m sorry, Mitch. I thought you were behind me.’

‘I wasn’t.’

Now he tried indignation.

‘What did I tell you? Didn’t I say... if it gets hairy, run.’

‘I musta forgot.’

He drank long, said,

‘Don’t worry. Mitch, we’ll get them, eh?’

I was too mellow to be angry. Leave it to a later date. He dropped a chunk of change on the table, said,

‘Least you get paid, okay buddy?’

‘Okay.’

Trying for friendly, he asked,

‘So what’s this other job you’ve got?’

I told him the lot, even down to the fast moves of the butler. He said,

‘The old dame, sounds like you got the hots for her.’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘Tell me again about the Silver Ghost.’

Blame the booze but I did, told him far too much. Should have seen the glint in his eyes. But like I said, my focus was shot to hell. He said,

‘Sounds like loot.’

‘What?’

‘Be worth knocking over.’

‘Hey.’

‘No, c’mon Mitch, like the old days. Bound to be a ton of

cash

jewellery

paintings.

I got to my feet. Not very imposing in the dressing gown, said,

‘Billy forget it. Who’d you think the cops pull first?’

‘Just a thought. I better get going.’

At the door I said,

‘I meant what I said, Billy, stay away from it.’

‘Sure, Mitch, cross my heart and hope to die.’

Back to the couch. I eyed the remainder of the Bush. Sleep took me before I reached for the bottle. I was glad of that when I woke on Monday morning. I felt battered and bedraggled but figured I’d at least show up for work.

The phone rang. Dr Patel. He’d made the funeral arrangements and wondered about a service. I said no. Joe would be buried on Tuesday evening. I thanked him and he rang off.

Wouldn’t you know, the tube’s on the blink and eventually I had to take the bus. Yet again, Holland Park seemed another world.

As I got to the front door, Jordan opened it. He eyed me with disapproval, asked,

‘Accident?’

‘Strenuous workout.’

‘You can’t come in here.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Tradesman entrance is round the back.’

A look passed between us, we filed it for later.

I went round the back into a kitchen. It looked like the one from ‘The Servant’. I didn’t expect, alas, to find Sarah Miles on the kitchen table. Jordan came in, asked,

‘Tea... coffee?’

‘Coffee’s good.’

He started to arrange filters and I asked,

‘Like real coffee?’

He gave a tight smile, waved to the sideboard, said,

‘There’s muesli, cornflakes, toast. As you wish.’

I nodded. He turned to face me, said,

‘Or perhaps you are more accustomed to porridge.’

My turn with the tight smile. I asked,

‘You’re all the staff then?’

‘Madam requires no one else.’

The coffee perked. Sure smelled good. One of the disappointments of life, that coffee never tasted as good as the aroma. Took the cup, tasted it, said,

‘Shit, that is good.’

He held up a finger, said,

‘Madam does not allow swearing in the house.’

‘She can hear us, can she?’

No answer. I took out two painkillers, swallowed them with the coffee. He asked,

‘Are you hurt?’

‘Like you care.’

He left the kitchen. Returned with some sachets, said,

‘Dissolve one of these in water, they are quite miraculous.’

I had nothing to lose, got a glass, tore open one, added water.

The powder turned pink. I said,

‘Pretty colour.’

‘Madam receives them from Switzerland.’

I drank it, tasted sweet but not unpleasant. I said,

‘Much as I’d love to chat, I better go to work.’

He said, ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

In the garage, I admired the Rolls Royce again. I’d have given a lot for a spin. Took me a while to put on the overalls. My nose was aching like a bitch. I checked the work chart:

Okey-dokey.

The front of the house windows and the shutters sure could do with a coat. Got the ladders out and began mixing paint.

Half an hour in there, I felt relief. The pain that had been continually battering my body ebbed away. I said aloud,

‘God bless Switzerland.’

One of the most valuable items in prison is a walkman. That and a bodyguard. You put those headphones on and slip away, It’s not a wise thing to do on the yard. You can’t afford to be less than a hundred per cent vigilant.

As I leant the ladder against the wall I put on the walkman.

The tape was Mary Black. Kicked off with ‘Still Believing’, strange prayers in strange places.

Believe it.

Getting into a rhythm of work, I didn’t realise I was at a bedroom window. I could see a four-poster bed. Then she walked into view, wearing a silk dressing gown. I thought,

‘Whoops, I better get outta here.’

I didn’t move.

She was taking off the robe. Naked as a jay. Her body was in great shape. I was getting hard. Then she began to dress slowly. Black stockings and silk underwear. She looked up, a tiny smile at the corners of her mouth. I moved down the ladder, my mind on fire. Mary Black was doing ‘Bright Blue Rose’ but I couldn’t concentrate. Moved the ladder to another window, got going on that.

I didn’t see her for the rest of the day. But she was lodged in my mind like a burning coal. Come lunch time, I headed for the kitchen. Sandwiches were neatly laid on the table. A bowl of fruit left beside them. There wasn’t a sound in the house. So, I ate silently and then went outside for a smoke.

Jordan appeared from the front of the house. I said,

‘You don’t make a lot of noise.’

‘No, it’s not necessary.’

Argue that. I didn’t.

I thought, fuck him, and concentrated on my cig. He was standing watching me. Then,

‘You do good work.’

‘Glad you’re pleased.’

More silence. I figured I’d let him do the digging. He asked,

‘Do you like it here?’

‘What?... Oh... it’s different.’

‘Would you like to move in?’

‘Come again?’

‘Not in the main house but there’s a room above the garage, a little spartan but comfortable. TV and shower, of course.’

I stood up, asked,

‘Are you serious?’

‘It would save you commuting.’

I didn’t want to close any doors. If the Clapham deal went sour, I’d be glad of an alternative. I said,

‘Lemme think about it.’

As if he read my mind, he said,

‘Perhaps too you might get to drive the Silver Ghost.’

When I got back to Clapham, the Swiss effect had worn off and I was beat. A BMW was parked outside my place. Tinted windows. The door opened and Norton got out, said,

‘Somebody to meet you.’

‘Now?’

I couldn’t keep the irritation outta my voice. Norton hushed me. I fuckin’ love being hushed. He said,

‘It’s the boss, come to meet you in person.’

‘Gee whiz.’

A large man got out. Wearing a cashmere coat, he had jet black hair, pock-marked face and in his late sixties. An air of casual power. An even larger man got out from the driver’s side. Muscle.

Norton said, ‘Mr Gant, this is Mitch.’

He put out his hand, we shook. He said,

‘I’ve heard a lot about you... Mitch.’

‘Mr Gant... I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you.’

He looked at Norton, then gave a huge laugh. One of those throw-your-head-back efforts, putting lots of teeth in it. Norton said,

‘Shall we go inside?’

I opened my door, led them in. Gant took a measured look round, then said,

‘You have no answer phone.’

‘No.’

Gant clicked his fingers at Norton, said,

‘Take care of it.’

I said, ‘I’m gonna have a brewski, get you anything?’

Norton and the minder declined. Gant said he’d join me in a beer. I went and got those, took some painkillers. Gant asked,

‘May I sit down?’

‘Sure.’

He took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves. Royal Navy tattoo. Drank the beer from the bottle. Just a working stiff.

I started to roll a cig. He asked,

‘Could I have one of those?’

I handed him a rolled one, lit him up. He pulled hard on it, said,

‘I don’t smoke much, but I tell you, that’s the biz.’

I nodded, figuring we’d get to the point soon. He asked,

‘What tobacco you got there?’

‘Golden Virginia, what else?’

Again the fingers snapped at Norton,

‘Order up a batch for Mitch.’

I realised who Gant reminded me of. In Lawrence Block’s ‘Matt Scudder’ series, there’s a character called Mick Ballou. A butcher, he disposes of his enemies without mercy. At the same time, he’s a working man who likes nothing better than a drink with the boys.

The mistake is to think he’s ever one of them.

Gant leant forward, man to man stuff, said,

‘You did magnificent at Brixton.’

I resisted the impulse to touch my broken nose. He continued,

‘It takes some balls to stand up to half a dozen guys.’

I tried to look modest. Which is difficult with a beat up face. He said,

‘A man like you sends a message. So, I’m going to put a high-rise in Peckham under your control.’

I looked at Norton, he was impassive. I said,

‘I’m very honoured but I’m still learning the ropes. I’d like to tag along with Billy for a bit, learn some more.’

He gave a huge smile, said,

‘Capital. But I do like to reward industry. I have a special surprise lined up for you, my boy.’

‘Oh?’

‘Free on Wednesday?’

‘Sure.’

‘Splendid. Billy will pick you up around seven. You won’t be disappointed.’

He stood up, business concluded. At the door, I asked,

‘Ever hear of Mick Ballou?’

‘Who?’

‘A character in a novel.’

‘I don’t do fiction.’

And they were gone.

Tuesday, I was healing gradually. Went to work. I saw neither Jordan nor Lillian. The tradesman entrance was open and my meals left on the table. I did a good day’s work. It was eerie not seeing anybody.

Come lunchtime, I took a stroll down to Notting Hill Gate. I just wanted to see people. Went into the Devonshire and had a half of bitter with a ploughman’s lunch. Took a window seat, watching the world. A hippie sat opposite me, wearing a T-shirt that said

He was the Portobello Road variety. Long stringy hair, bad teeth. His brain fried in the ’60s, he hadn’t touched solid ground since. He had a very battered copy of ‘Beowulf’.

Gave me the peace sign. Leastways, I took it as such. A pint of Guinness in front of him. He said,

‘You’re a labourer.’

‘Shows, huh?’

‘The hands man, good honest toil.’

I figured he’d be a good judge. I nodded. He said,

‘Working-class hero, man.’

‘You think so.’

‘Man, John said it all... got a smoke?’

Gave him a roll-up, he said,

‘Cool.’

Time for me to split. I said,

‘Stay loose.’

‘Yo bro, wanna buy a watch?’

‘Naw.’

‘It’s a Rolex, man, the real business.’

‘I’m not into status.’

‘Me neither, man, but ya gotta try, right?’

I had a lot of replies to that but what I said was,

‘Just... imagine.’

Made his day.

I finished work at four, still not a soul about. I figured

a) They trusted me

b) They were testing me

Either way, I stole nowt.

Truth to tell, I sat in The Silver Ghost a bit. Dreamed some crazy dreams. The car smelt of

polished upholstery

oak

old leather

wealth.

As I was walking down the driveway, I turned fast to look at the house. Saw a curtain move in the bedroom window.

That made me smile.

At the Gate I went into Oxfam and found a dark suit. It nearly fit. The volunteer at the till said,

‘Oh, that was a lovely find.’

‘Not really, I was looking for it.’

What was lucky was an old Penguin copy of Laurie Lee’s ‘As I Walked Out One Morning’.

A guy was selling the Big Issue outside Burger King. I got that and said,

‘A Big Issue vendor is being buried this evening.’

‘Yeah... where?’

‘Peckham.’

‘No can do mate, too bloody dangerous.’

‘I think he’d appreciate the effort.’

‘He’s dead, his days of appreciation are over.’

I’d been home about twenty minutes, had

a shower

a beer

a painkiller.

Not hurting.

Put on the Oxfam suit. The sleeves were short, the legs too long, but otherwise it fit me like a glove. I got a crisp, white BOSS shirt from the wardrobe. It fit like a prayer.

Doorbell went.

Briony. She was stunning in a black suit, I said,

‘You’re stunning.’

‘I know.’

Came in and examined me critically, said,

‘You look like an undertaker.’

‘Thanks, Bri.’

She rummaged in her bag, produced a fresh rose, asked,

‘Will it do?’

‘Perfect.’

‘Can I have a drink?’

‘Sure, whatcha want?’

‘Anything lethal, I’ve only done two ’ludes.’

‘Black Bush?’

‘Lovely.’

She clinked her glass against my beer, said,

‘To Michael.’

‘Who?’

‘Your friend.’

‘Joe.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Trust me, I’m positive.’

‘Okay, to Joe.’

We drank. I called a cab, and he came in jig time. A Rasta, the smell of weed in the car was powerful. When I said, ‘Peckham,’

he said, ‘Righteous.’

The graveyard is at the back of the bus station. Across the road is the bingo hall. I thought Joe would be pleased to hear the call of

The undertaker was waiting. The grave ready, two men standing beside it. No vicar. A man arrived a few minutes later.

‘Dr Patel,’ I said, ‘good of you to come,’ and introduced him to Bri. She held his hand longer than expedient. The undertaker asked,

‘Any last words?’

I shook my head. He signalled to the men and they lowered the coffin. I threw the Big Issue in and Bri dropped the rose. Suddenly, at the gates, a man in full kilt and Scottish regalia appeared. With bagpipes and began to play ‘The Lonesome Boatman’.

I dunno from beauty, but the piper was beautiful. Bri said,

‘A last minute surprise.’

‘How did you find him?’

‘Outside Selfridges, he does a regular gig.’

‘Thanks, Bri.’

She gave me an enigmatic smile, said,

‘Thanks for the doctor.’

Uh-oh.

I palmed some money to the diggers. One of them said,

‘Did you know Rod Stewart used to be a gravedigger?’

How do you reply to that? I asked,

‘Do you sing?’

‘Not a word, mate.’

They had a full and familiar laugh. Then I paid the piper, so to speak.

Dr Patel was deep in conversation with Bri. I said,

‘As is usual with a funeral, there’s refreshments after. Might I treat you?’

‘Yes.’

From both.

To get the fuck outta Peckham, we went to The Charlie Chaplin at The Elephant. The best that can be said is... it’s big.

Bri and the doc took a table and I went to order.

The barman was a dance short on his card, gushed,

‘I love the suit.’

‘It’s been in the family for years.’

His eyes lit up, thinking, ‘A player.’ He said,

‘Don’t let it go.’

‘Never happen.’

My wit exhausted, I ordered

Toasted sandwiches

Hot toddies

Beer chasers

Crisps

Nuts.

When he finally brought it all to the table, he exclaimed,

‘Voila!’

We got stuck into that. No bullshit from the doc. He downed the hot one, chased it with the beer, bit deep into the toasted. Bri went to feed the jukebox and we were blasted with,

‘Hey, if you happen to see the most beautiful girl...’

Even I can sing that. I said,

‘Doc, you were great to come.’

‘Please call me Sanji.’

‘I’ll try.’

He laughed, then asked,

‘Is it terrible to say I’m enjoying myself?’

‘It’s essential you enjoy yourself.’

Bri returned, said,

‘That is a happening jukebox.’ Then she turned to Sanji, asked,

‘Were you born in India?’

‘Yes. I’m from Goa. Apart from the raves and the hippies we have the mummified remains of St Frances Xavier.’

Bri and I must have looked blank. He asked,

‘You’re not Catholics?’

‘Not even decent atheists.’

He chomped on some peanuts, said,

‘His body has been preserved, it’s regarded as a miracle.’

Having no reply I made none. He continued,

‘Someone stole his toe.’

‘What?’

‘Truly. Someone in the world is a devout believer with the toe of St Francis.’

I couldn’t resist, blame the hot toddy, said,

‘Isn’t that very Catholic, toeing the line?’

He smiled but I don’t think he was amused. Bri excused herself for the ladies. Sanji gave me an appraising look, asked,

‘Might I see... your sister?’

Shit.

‘I’d advise against it.’

‘Nevertheless...’

‘You will anyway. Sanji, you’re a good bloke, I like you a lot, but she’s not for you.’

‘Will you let me try?’

‘Can I stop you?’

‘No.’

Bri came back, and Sanji said he’d order another, asked,

‘Same of everything?’

‘Why not.’

Bri leant over to me, said,

‘I love him.’

‘Jesus.’

‘No... really Mitch, he’s like my soul twin.’

Out of anger, trying to get her attention, I said,

‘What about Frank?’

And got a look of withering scorn. She said,

‘Frank’s dead Mitch. The sooner you face up to it, the better for all of us.’

Sanji returned and I felt this was my exit line. I shook his hand and said,

‘No doubt I’ll be seeing you.’

He gave me a concerned look, half medical, half Indian, said,

‘I will treat her like a gentleman.’

‘That’s what you think.’

As I got to the door, the barman said,

‘Yo, party pooper, you can’t be leaving already.’

‘I’m all partied out.’

He put his hand on his hip, rolled his eyes, said,

‘Mmmm... tough guy.’

Outside, I hailed a cab and resolved next week I’d buy a car.

When I got back to the flat, I wanted to just crash down and out.

Flicked on the TV. Wouldn’t you know, just starting was ‘Point Blank’.

As Lee Marvin appeared in a suit not unlike my own I said,

‘Now, that’s a tough guy.’

Wednesday was rained out. I went to work anyway. Jordan was in the kitchen, gave me a critical look, said,

‘Your injuries are healing.’

‘Think so?’

‘They appear so.’

Zen or what.

Some drains were blocked and he asked if I could do anything.

I said, ‘Sure.’

What a bastard. Took me all day to unclog them. Near four, I was spread out, working on an eave-shoot, dirty water dribbling in my face when she appeared. Dressed in a red jersey-knit outfit, it was stuck to her curves. She said,

‘Now, that’s what I like to see, a man on his back.’

I finished the bloody job and got to my feet. She came up to about my shoulder. Again with the knowing smirk. I dunno, was it Joe’s funeral, my beating, chemistry, or plain lunacy?

But I grabbed her, pulled her against me and kissed her. First she struggled but then she blended into me. I got my tongue in her mouth and my hands on her ass, was gone. The rain came bucketing down and she pulled away, said,

‘I hope you can finish what you started.’

And she was gone.

I stood in the rain, me and a hard-on, and remembered Wednesday night... Mr Gant’s surprise. Back in the garage, I was peeling off the drenched overalls when Jordan appeared. He said,

‘We’ve gone ahead with the flat over the garage. It’s all prepared.’

‘Shit, I dunno.’

‘There is a shower there, a fresh tracksuit... please avail.’

I did.

It was a studio-type place:

bed

shower

kitchenette.

And man, bundles of fresh luxurious towels. As a convict you get a towel per week.

I scalded myself in the shower and, coming out, I noticed a small fridge under the TV packed with beer. I opened a Grolsch and chugged deep.

The bed was freshly made up and I was sorely tempted. But I had Gant’s surprise to come.

The tracksuit was new, black, large size with the logo

Way to go.

On my way out I met Jordan, who said,

‘Miss Palmer has expressed a certain... liking for your... work.’

‘I aim to please.’

Blame the Grolsch. He gave a sad smile, said,

‘Do aim wisely.’

The Northern Line was up to its usual shenanigans and I didn’t get home till seven. Gant’s car was parked outside. The door opened and Norton said,

‘We’re late, get in.’

The muscle was driving so it was me and Billy in the back. He asked,

‘Where the fuck were you?’

‘Hey... Billy... lighten up. I was at work.’

He looked at the tracksuit, said,

‘You’re with Claridges.’

‘Only in an advisory position.’

He was very agitated, a light sheen of perspiration on his forehead. He was lighting one cig from another. I asked,

‘What’s the surprise?’

He muttered, then said grimly,

‘You’ll fuckin see.’

We drove to New Cross and stopped outside an old warehouse.

I asked, ‘Didn’t this used to be the meat rack?’

Norton gave me the look. We got out and went inside. Norton said,

‘We’re in the basement.’

‘I didn’t know it went below ground.’

‘There’s a lot you fuckin’ dunno, mate.’

Down he went.

It smelt of rot, piss, and desolation. I knew the odour. Below was Gant and two other men. They were standing round a man tied to a chair. A black man. A band of silver tape was round his mouth. Blood leaked from it so I knew they’d broken his teeth. The south-east London signature.

The black man was wearing a Nike sweatshirt, shot through with sweat. He had Gap khakis which were deep stained from where he’d wet himself. Gant was dressed in a Barbour coat, tan cords. The browning automatic held loosely at his side was almost incidental. He said,

‘Ah Mitch, glad you could join us.’

The black man’s eyes were huge in his head, locked on mine, they were pleading. Gant said,

‘As I mentioned, I do appreciate your lone stand against the... protectors. So now, I give you one of them as a mark of my gratitude.’

I took a deep breath, said,

‘He’s not one of them.’

Gant near exploded, looked to Norton, to the black man, then slowly back to me. His eyes were black stones. He asked,

‘How can you tell, surely they all look the same?’

‘Mr Gant, when they beat you with total precision, you remember.’

He lashed out with his foot and smashed the black man’s knee.

Turned to Norton, said,

‘You moron, what did you do — grab the first nigger you saw?’

Norton said nothing.

Gant struggled for control, then shrugged, said,

‘Oh well.’

And shot the black man in the head.

The shot reverberated in the warehouse and I swear I heard pigeons in startled flight. Gant said,

‘So sorry, Mitch, to have wasted your time.’

A thousand thoughts were driving in my skull but I decided to play poker, said,

‘All is not lost, Mr Gant.’

He tried to rein in the sarcasm, said,

‘Oh really?’

‘How would this be? You leave the man in the chair, deliver him as is to the building in Brixton, put a sign on him, let it be.’

‘A sign?’

‘Sure... how about,

You borrowed...

You pay...

back.’

A slow smile began on Gant’s lips, building to an outright grin. He said,

‘Brilliant, I love it. Norton, deliver the goods.’

Norton looked extremely pissed off, said,

‘Mr Gant, it could be tricky.’

And got the look from Gant.

Gant came over, put his arm round my shoulder, said,

‘Mr Mitchell, I may have under-estimated you.’

I gave my modest look. Then he stood back, said,

‘Good Lord, I love the tracksuit.’

Thursday morning, I’m heading for work, my nose hurts like a dead horse. I bang refuse to analyse the events of last night.

Joe De Vecchio, ‘The Thirteenth Valley’ — ‘It don’t mean nothing, drive on.’

Pretend as is.

Naturally, there’s a queue and everybody’s paying with cheque or card. I don’t have a weekly pass cos I’m getting a car soon and soonest.

There’s an elderly man in front of me and he’s bewildered by the delay. Finally, we get our tickets and head for the tolls. As we go through, the old man’s wallet slips from his pocket.

A fat wallet.

Seen by me and the ticket collector.

There’s the moment, hanging for one glorious suspended second as your instincts ride your beliefs. I bend, pick it up, say,

‘Sir, I think you dropped this.’

The ticket collector and I lock eyes then he tips his index finger to his cap. The old man is amazed and delighted.

I brush off his gratitude with a shrug. I know myself pretty good. You lie in a bunk bed, twelve hours of lock-down, you see the depths. If the ticket collector hadn’t seen it, I’d have kept it, no danger.

I get on the train, settle into a corner seat, am about to hit my walkman. I’ve got Leonard Cohen’s ‘Dance Me To The End Of Love’ and ‘Old Blue Raincoat’. Ready to roll.

The old man sits beside me, says,

‘I do so awfully hate to intrude but I am so terribly grateful.’

His accent is even plummier than Margaret Thatcher’s when she imposed the poll tax. I nod. Encouraged, he says,

‘I must tell you a most remarkable story. Apropos what just happened, it has a certain resonance.’

Every chancer in London has a story. I just wish they didn’t have to tell them on the tube. But here he goes.

‘I was required to give a urinary sample!’

Here he paused, to check I understood what urine was, then,

‘As I had trouble producing at the hospital, they said I might bring it home.’

I tried to look like I was hanging on his every word.

‘But dear boy, what does one bring it in?’

I could give a fuck, said,

‘How complex.’

‘So I used a naggin’ bottle of Johnnie Walker.’

If he was expecting praise, I hadn’t got it. He continued,

‘En route I stopped at the PO to collect my pension.’

‘Hmmmhh.’

‘When I emerged, the bottle was gone, what a hoot, eh?’

We’d come to the Embankment and I had to change for the Circle Line. I said,

‘Keep it in your pants, eh?’

He gave a smile, if dubious in its downswing.

I spent Friday on the roof; it needed major repair, and I decided to tell Jordan. He said,

‘We trust it to see us through another winter.’

‘Shall I not bother, then?’

He gave me a languid smile, said,

‘Fix the most glaring damage, we don’t want Madam leaked upon.’

I figured I could take that anyway I liked. After a day of cosmetic work, I was feeling vertigo. Decided to grab a shower and a brewski. There was no new tracksuit waiting. Thing is, I was a tiny bit disappointed.

My first full week of, if not honest, at least regular work.

Jordan appeared, handed me an envelope, said,

‘We presumed you’d prefer cash.’

‘Good move, Jord.’

He didn’t go, and I was tempted to say — ‘dismissed’. What I said was,

‘What?’

‘Aren’t you going to count it?’

‘I trust you, pal.’

He flicked at a hair on his lapel, said,

‘Then you would be making a serious error.’

I counted it, went,

‘Shit... is this for a week or a month?’

He smiled. I wasn’t exhilarated but I was one contented ex-con, said,

‘Whatcha say, Jordy, I buy you a large one down your local.’

A beat, then, ‘I don’t fraternise with the help.’

I’d hoped for a glimpse of Lillian but it wasn’t to be. On the train, I considered my plan for the weekend. Nice and simple, find the two fucks who’d kicked Joe to death. Eight that evening, I’d finished a curry and was working my way down a six pack.

The phone rang.

‘Yeah?’

‘Mr Mitchell... it’s R Gant — not disturbing you am I?’

‘No, sir, just relaxing.’

‘Good man, Mitch... might I call you that?’

‘Sure.’

‘No ill feelings about last night?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Might I pose you a question?’

I wondered why he was talking like a gobshite but it was his dime. I said,

‘Shoot.’

A pause, then,

‘Jolly good, very timely. My question is this, what do you consider to be the most valuable asset?’

‘Jeez, I dunno. Probably money... sex... digital TV.’

‘It’s power, Mitch, and the most powerful tool is information.’

‘You’re on to something, Sir.’

Like boring the bejaysus outta me. He said,

‘I’d like to share some information with you.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Not over the phone. I’ve reserved a table for eight at Browns tomorrow evening.’

‘Browns?’

‘In Covent Garden.’

‘Okay.’

And he rang off. All the sir-ing had left a bitter taste in my mouth and I went to rinse it out. For the life of me, I couldn’t think of a single thing he could tell me that I would have the slightest interest in.

Saturday morning, I woke with a slight curried hangover. Nothing too serious, just hold on the red peppers. I thought about Browns.

My kind of place.

Normally, they wouldn’t let me in, and I wouldn’t blame them. We understood our ratings. To them I was a bottom feeder. But it’s a rush sometimes, riding on the clout of a Gant, you get to stray.

Meanwhile, I had business. I knew Joe’s assailants were teenagers. One wore a Beckham shirt, one was black. So, Saturday afternoon, they’d be kicking ball.

Dress down.

I wore the faded jeans, unwashed sweatshirt — I was cooking. Got the Glock and dry fired it. No problem. Loaded it fast. Caught a 36 all the way to Oval tube. If I had to describe how I felt, I’d say,

certain

and

cold.

Checked out the Kennington estate, quiet yet. Okay. I took a walk up to the Walworth Road and did high-fives with a gang I once ran with. They lured me into the pub and asked what I’d fancy. I said,

‘Bottle of Becks,’

and jig-time, four or five bottles at my hand. They knew I was but recent out, asked,

‘How was it — stir and all?’

‘Better here.’

And got the laudatory salutations.

It was a safe pub. Meaning, the Guv’nor had done hard time.

Like eighteen and no remission. So, you could talk.

Jeff, the organiser of the team, asked,

‘Need any readies?’

‘Naw, I’m in regular employment.’

Huge laugh and four more bottles of Beck. The team did post offices, usually west or north. They weren’t greedy and pulled down a nice earner. I’d served my time with them in my early twenties. Jeff asked,

‘We’re up north next week Mitch, wanna tag along?’

I was tempted. It would be two large, no frills but alas, I was on a different time frame, said,

‘Maybe later.’

I hadn’t touched one beer. It was getting on to 2.30. I said I had to go and we did the south-east London trip of truly-felt goodbyes. Outside, for a moment, I wished I could go back.

At the Kennington estate, a furious football game was in progress. I sat on the wall, bided my time. Five a side, it was deadly serious. I spotted the black kid right off... he was a substitute.

A couple of local residents sat alongside me. I passed along cans of lager, get them talking.

Then I saw him, the Beckham shirt and wild ferocious talent.

Scored a goal from midfield that was beyond description.

Beside me, a man said,

‘Aye, he’s been scouted.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Yon kid, he goes up to Bero at the beginning of the season.’

I said with absolute belief,

‘He’s very talented.’

‘Aye, lives to play, take away his football and he’s nowt.’

The game wound down after that. I waited. Eventually, the spectators drifted away. But not Beckham. He continued to play, dribble, drive, locked in his football dream. The black kid waited, boredom sat large.

Time to rock ’n’ roll.

I stood up, stretched, looked round. Deserted. Walking slowly, I approached the Beckham wannabe. He never even saw me. I had the Glock out and pumped both his knees from behind.

Four shots.

Moved straight over to the black kid, whose jaw had literally dropped, stuck the barrel in his mouth, said,

‘Not this time, but soon.’

Then I walked away. Caught a 3 bus at the arse end of Kennington Park and was over Lambeth Bridge in two minutes.

As we came up to the Embankment, up into Westminster, I let the Hendrix song play in my head, my body drenched in sweat.

‘Hey Joe.’

I got home. I was adrenaline-city. Alternating twixt a high and cold sweats. Kept thinking — ‘So, to kill someone, you just aim higher.’

Jesus. The rush as I replayed shooting Beckham. So fuckin’ easy.

The struggle it had been to stop at four shots. I was only gettin started. Man, I began to understand the seduction of guns.

Talk about pump city.

Checked my watch, two hours to meeting Gant. I’d have to get a grip, mellow down. Rolled a joint, a big one, muttering ‘Camberwell Carrot’. Cracked a beer and slowed the whole show.

Couple of deep blows, I was chilling.

Went in the shower and took it as cold as I could, shouted,

‘Fuck... I’m deep frozen here!’

Remembered the first week in prison, when I got the ‘train’. Eight or nine guys putting it in you, blood everywhere and thinking... ‘I’ll learn.’

As I did.

Came out of the shower, shaking water, shaking memories.

Dress to impress. Yeah.

Put on the Gap khakis, a bass navy sweater and that blazer.

Thought — ‘Phil Collins lives’.

Ready to roll, I finished the joint when the phone went.

Picked it up, said,

‘Yeah?’

‘Mitch, it’s Briony.’

‘Hi Sis.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘What?’

‘You sound odd.’

Shit, you spent your day shooting young footballers, you get to sound odd. I said,

‘Was there something?’

I couldn’t keep the testiness at bay.

‘I’m in love, Mitch.’

‘Good for you.’

‘You sound angry, Mitch.’

‘I’m happy for you, Bri, okay?’

‘He gave me three orgasms.’

Which was triple the information I needed. I said,

‘Oh.’

‘Are you angry, Mitch? Angry I’ve betrayed our race?’

‘What?’

‘I’d have preferred a Caucasian but it’s karma.’

I thought of a thousand put-downs but settled for:

‘Be happy, Bri.’

‘We’ll name our first boy after you.’

‘Thanks, Bri.’

‘Love yah.’

‘Like that.’

And she rang off.

In all seriousness, after a call like that, how can you possibly believe life has a purpose?

Got to Covent Garden for eight. Browns had a doorman. Before he could start the Nazi spiel I said,

‘Mr Gant is expecting me.’

‘Go right in, Sir.’

Inside, it was plush and regency. At reception, I did the Gant bit again and was told to proceed to the dining room.

Only a few guests and at the window table the man himself.

He stood up to greet me. Dressed in a grey wool suit, he looked like success. Shook my hand warmly, said,

‘Glad you could make it. Tell me, there are two Browns in Covent Garden, how did you know which one?’

‘The other has no bouncer.’

He gave a quiet laugh, asked,

‘A drink before dinner?’

Dennis Lehane has a novel titled ‘A Drink Before The War’.

I said, ‘Vodka martini.’

Figuring I’d get in the swing of things. The waiter came and Gant ordered two martinis. In his early forties, the waiter’s eyes briefly met mine. It was enough. He had arrogance and contempt finely mixed. Plus, he was an ugly bastard. Prison has its share of them... they’re the wardens.

Drinks came and we sipped. Gant said,

‘I’d like you to organise the collections in

Brixton

Clapham

Streatham

and Kennington.

‘I dunno, Mr Gant.’

‘Call me Rob, eh?’

‘Okay. Rob.’

‘You won’t have to do door to door anymore. You supervise the teams, make sure they don’t skim too much. We all like a little off the top but no one likes a greedy bugger. Your Mr Norton now, he’s got way too ambitious.’

‘Rob, he’s my mate.’

The waiter brought the menus. Rob said,

‘I recommend the lemon sole.’

‘I think I’ll have steak.’

‘Oh.’

We ordered that and Rob asked for two bottles of wine I couldn’t pronounce. The waiter repeated them flawlessly so I’d get the point. The food came and we piled on veg and potatoes. Rob attacked his with relish, said,

‘Really, you should have had the fish.’

‘In jail, you see a lot of fish.’

The waiter was pouring the wine as I said it. Let him get the point. Rob asked,

‘Hear about the shooting in Kennington today?’

‘No. Missed the news.’

‘Young footballer shot.’

‘If you watched Sky Sports, you’d believe they’re not shooting half enough of them.’

‘Get down that way do you?’

‘Kennington?... No... not my manor really.’

He’d finished his grub and was eyeing mine, said,

‘You don’t eat like a convict.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Protectively.’

‘Not since I read ‘Miami Blues’.’

He ordered dessert: apple tart with two dollops of ice cream.

I passed. Finally we got to the coffee, and he lit a cigar, said,

‘Feel free to smoke.’

I wanted the waiter to see me do a roll-up. Made his miserable evening. Rob said,

‘Some habits not covered in that book, eh?’

I didn’t feel it needed an answer. He said,

‘You’ll recall I said information was power.’

‘Yes.’

‘In return, I’d like something from you... interested?’

‘Sure.’

He stubbed out the cigar, said,

‘You did three years for GBH.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You were in a blackout.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You didn’t do it.’

‘What?’

‘Your friend Norton did the beating.’

‘That’s impossible.’

‘Were your hands marked?’

‘No... but.’

‘Norton’s were shredded. The barman followed you out, saw the whole thing. You were too out of it to stand up. Norton legged it and the cops found you — more coffee?’

‘Jesus... I... no.’

‘A brandy for the shock.’

The waiter brought one of those big bubble glasses. You could wash a shirt in them. He left a bottle of Armagnac on the table.

Rob poured generously.

My mind was spinning. I gulped down the brandy. It burned like pain, gave a solid kick to my heart.

Rob said,

‘You’ll need time to... digest the information.’

‘Why are you telling me?’

Rob considered this, then,

‘I could say it’s because I like you but I don’t think you’d buy that. Norton has become a major problem. Now he’s your problem.’

‘What if I do nothing?’

He spread his hands on the tablecloth, said,

‘Then I’d truly be surprised.’

I lit another cig and tried to digest all of this. I asked,

‘You said you wanted something from me?’

‘Yes. Do you feel my revelation was valuable?’

‘That’s one word for it. So, whatcha want?’

‘A Silver Ghost Rolls Royce.’

I laughed out loud.

‘You’re kidding. I use the bus, mate.’

‘But you have access to one.’

The penny dropped. I said,

‘Norton, the fuck, he told you.’

Rob smiled. I asked,

‘Why don’t you steal it yourself? Shit, you know where it is.’

He shook an index finger. I fuckin loved that. He said,

‘You’re missing the whole point, Mitch. I want you to steal it for me.’

‘Why on earth?’

‘Let’s call it a gesture of good faith.’

Rob excused himself to go to the gents. The waiter was over like a shot, sneered,

‘Shall I bring the bill, Sir?’

‘Yeah, and be fucking quick about it.’

Rob came back and insisted the meal was on him. I didn’t argue.

As we were leaving, he touched my arm, said,

‘There’s no hurry... but shall we say delivery in one month?’

Outside, his car was waiting, he said,

‘I’d offer you a lift, but like you said, you’re a bus person.’

‘Rob, I don’t think I’ll be taking up your job offer.’

‘Well then, the rent on your flat is five hundred a week.’

‘C’mon, Rob.’

‘Oh, and the other thing, now that we’re outside — it’s Mr Gant to you.’

With that, he got in the car and was off.

I was going to walk down by Drury Lane but decided I’d had enough theatre for one night.

I moved out of Clapham next day. Packed the essentials:

Gun

Money

Dope.

I took the Gucci jacket — well, you’d be mad not to. Some sweatshirts and jeans. Left the blazer and dark suit. I didn’t plan on any more funerals. A half-dozen crime novels. Was able to fit all that in one bag. Travelling light. Then I just eased on away.

As I walked up the drive in Holland Park, I hoped they’d be home. Went round the tradesman entrance. Jordan was at the kitchen table, reading the business section of The Sunday Times. If he was surprised to see me, he hid it well, asked,

‘You’re doing some overtime?’

‘Actually, I’ve come to live with you.’

He folded the paper neatly, said,

‘Madam was right.’

‘Yeah?’

‘She said you’d move in within a week.’

He stood up, said,

‘Have some coffee, I’ll prepare your room.’

I sat down, thinking — ‘Shit, that was easy.’

I was rolling a cig when I remembered the no smoking rule. Lit up anyway. I lived here. When Jordan returned he looked at the smoke but let it go. He said,

‘I believe all you need is there: shower, hot plate, fridge. There isn’t a phone so I’ve lent you a mobile till we get a line in.’

I asked, ‘What’s the ground rules?’

‘Pardon?’

‘C’mon on, pal, the do’s and don’ts.’

He smiled — this guy liked plans — said,

‘Very simple. You stay out of the main house unless summoned.’

‘Summoned. I look forward to that.’

The summons came quicker than either of us expected. A bell rang and he said,

‘Excuse me.’

Ten minutes later he was back, said,

‘Madam welcomes you to The Elms and wishes to know if you’d be prepared to drive as part of your duties.’

‘Sure, do I get to wear a uniform?’

‘We don’t do uniforms.’

I hauled my bag to the garage and went to unpack. The room smelt of air freshener. The mobile was on the table. A Rolls Royce in the garage, a mobile in my hand — welcome to the pleasure dome.

Rang Jeff first, said,

‘Jeff, it’s Mitch.’

‘Hi Mitch, it was good to see you on Saturday. Change your mind about the job?’

‘No mate, thanks. What do you know about a villain named Gant?’

‘Woo... bad news, a header to boot, your total fuckin’ shacko.’

‘Oh.’

‘Your mate Billy Norton runs with ’im.’

My mate!

‘It’s a long shot Jeff but would you know where he lives?’

‘Yeah, I did a piece of work with him, but never again. Trust me, you don’t wanna go there mate.’

‘All the same, Jeff?’

‘Sure, hang on a mo...’

Then, ‘19 Regal Gardens, Dulwich. He owns the house and most of the street.’

‘Thanks, Jeff.’

‘Give ’im a wide berth, mate.’

‘I’ll try.’

Next up I rang Bri gave her my new address and the mobile number. She didn’t say anything. I had to ask,

‘Bri... you there?’

‘It’s that old girl’s address, isn’t it?’

‘Not like you think, it’s work.’

‘At her age, I’m sure it’s very hard work.’

And she hung up on me.

Jeez, if Bri wasn’t careful, she’d develop a sense of humour.

I was cooking on this mobile. Rang Norton. Sounded like I woke him. I asked,

‘Billy did I wake you?’

‘No... I... was... am... wanking. That you, Mitch?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re fucked, man.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Gant has a hard-on for you. Oh... and you’re fired.’

‘Gee, Billy, you sound broke up about it.’

Deep sigh.

‘What’s with you, man? I get you the sweetest deal, and you shit all over it.’

‘You’re my mate Billy... right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So lemme tell you, Gant ain’t so hot on you either.’

‘You see... you see, Mitch, there you go again, your head’s all fucked up.’

‘Billy, the guy’s bad news.’

‘Mitch... you’re the bad news. He said you owe him something.’

‘I owe him Jack.’

‘You better pay it Mitch, he gets crazy over stuff like that.’

‘One last thing, Billy. After I did that guy three years ago, how did your hands look?’

Long silence, then,

‘You’re gone, man, I’m talking to a zero.’

And he hung up.

Now I knew it was true. The dirty bastard.

My first year in prison, there was a black queen on the tier above. He’d been turned out his first week and had gone into it wholesale. He was just eighteen and so the legal age for grown up jail.

He worked at it, trading blow jobs for cosmetics, full anal for lingerie. Every night about eleven-thirty he’d begin to sing ‘Fernando’. A slow, crystal pure version. All blues, all loss.

‘Can you hear the drums Fernando...’

For the few minutes of the song, the whole shitty institution went deathly quiet. Not a sound. Just this lone achingly raw lyric.

One evening on chow line, he was ahead of me. I said,

‘You have a wonderful voice.’

He turned, rouge on his cheeks, eye liner courtesy of boot polish, said,

‘Oh, thank you so much. Do you want a blow job?’

‘Naw... I just wanted to say you’ve got real talent.’

I was already sorry I’d bothered. Any longer with him and I’d be prey again. I went to move off, he said,

‘No... you can do me for free.’

Jesus.

I dunno why but I gave it a final shot, said,

‘Why do you do... that stuff?’

‘It’s my only protection.’

Who was I to argue. I moved off and the next time he greeted me, I said,

‘The fuck you talking to?’

A few months later, he was strangled with a pair of tights.

I told myself ignoring him was my protection. Sometimes, I half believed it.

I stood up, threw the mobile on the bed, said aloud,

‘Billy-boy you get to pay for Fernando.’

Time was when London was shut on a Sunday. Even the bookies are open now. I headed into Bayswater and joined the Arab world. If anyone was speaking English, I didn’t hear them.

To Whiteleys and found what I wanted on the third floor. In the window was a Silver Ghost, flanked by a Lamborghini and a Ferrari. The salesman approached. I said I’d like the Ghost and he handed it to me. Perfect in every miniature detail. Not cheap either. While the guy was wrapping it, I spotted a de Lorean. The salesman spotted my interest but I shook my head. I thought — ‘And they still can’t flog one’.

Got a small padded envelope and some stamps. Then I addressed the envelope:

and his home.

I put one stamp on and wrote in glaring capitals:

Posted it.

Took a walk in Hyde Park and spent an hour being zoomed by roller-bladers. Next time I’d take the Glock. Slow on down the speed.

I’d no idea what I planned for Norton, figured I’d let it unfold. Knowing him, he’d make it happen. Gant too, he’d be coming. I could have left London but where could I go?

Plus, I didn’t want to go.

Also, I’d a fix on Lillian Palmer and I definitely wanted to see where that went. Where else would I get the shot at driving a Ghost?

I went into a café and ordered eggs and bacon. The staff were Thai and friendly to the verge of annoyance. The food was good but tasted slightly of peppers. Shit, what did I know? Maybe they were onto something.