London Boulevard

I had Lillian that same night.

Over

under

sideways

on the floor

over a table

on the bed.

Like that.

When we were through, I said,

‘I can’t understand how you’ve problems keeping staff.’

About eight that evening, I had been lying on my bed, reading one of the John Sandford ‘Prey’ series.

My mobile went.

It was her. She said,

‘I need company.’

So I went. Strolled over to the house, all the lights were on. No sign of Jordan. I climbed the stairs. Her bedroom door was ajar, I knocked, heard,

‘Enter.’

Did I ever.

She was standing by the windows, black silk nightgown.

I walked over and she asked,

‘What kept you?’

Let the frenzy begin. I had three years of prison to vent and she had her own history.

When finally we were sated, she asked,

‘Bucks fizz?’

‘I can only pray you’re saying “bucks”.’

She was. We got through two bottles of Möet and I finally got to look round the room. In contrast to the rest of the house, it was spartan. I’d expected hundreds of photos, but not even one. I said,

‘How come this room is so... empty?’

‘One needs an area of simplicity.’

‘You’d have liked prison.’

Then she looked at me, said,

‘How the mighty stumble.’

I knew this wasn’t praise. She asked,

‘Do you even know the name of this house?’

‘Sure... The Elms.’

‘Its significance?’

‘The trees are elms.’

‘ “Desire Under The Elms”... Eugene O’Neill.’

‘Irish, was he?’

She gave a snort of derision.

‘My finest role. But I shall yet play Electra.’

‘You’re planning a comeback?’

‘Oh yes, I’ve waited a long time for this. The West End shall hail my return.’

‘Why now, Lil?’

Her eyes raged and she tried to slap my face. I caught her wrist, she spat,

‘I’m Lillian Palmer, not some bar hussy.’

I sat up, said,

‘Thanks for the fuck.’

She loved that, said,

‘Don’t go, let me tell you my grand plan.’

‘I’m sure it’s fascinating but I’m shagged.’

She got up put on a robe, said,

‘They’ve called me back. Trevor Bailey’s office rang three times.’

‘You’ll no doubt tell me who he is.’

‘The Impresario. He’s producing two shows right now. I want you to drive me there tomorrow, we’ll arrive in style.’

She went to the bed and, from underneath, produced a huge volume of papers, said,

‘It’s my work. I’ve re-written Electra to make it more modern.’

‘Nice one.’

‘I’m giving you the honor of being the first to read it.’

Her expression was one of total seriousness. It was her life in those lousy papers. I said,

‘I’d be honoured.’

And she handed them over like a baby. She said,

‘We’ll do magnificent things, Michael.’

I was on the verge of saying Mitchell, but let it go.

On the way down the stairs, Jordan was gliding up. Not a sound.

We didn’t speak, nor did he even look at me.

Back in my room, I cracked a brewski, tried to read her work.

It was gibberish. I couldn’t follow one single sequence. I slung it on the bed, said,

‘Turkey.’

I must have been asleep a few hours when the mobile went.

Jeez, where was the bloody thing... found it, muttered,

‘Huh.’

‘Are you finished?’

‘What?’

‘Were you sleeping?’

‘Lillian. No, of course not, I was totally engrossed, lost in it.’

I was trying to see the bloody time... 3.15... fuck. She said,

‘Give me your verdict.’

‘A masterpiece.’

‘Isn’t it.’

‘Oh... beyond praise.’

‘Shall I come over, read some now?’

‘No... no... let me just wallow in the magic.’

‘Goodnight, mon cherie.’

‘Right.’

I’ve had lots of worry, fear, anxiety in my time. But that I’d ever get to see her perform filled me with outright dread.

Next morning I headed for the kitchen. Got some coffee and toast going. Already I had the run of the place. Jordan came in and said,

‘There are some suits you’ll need for driving.’

‘You have them already.’

Tight smile and,

‘We try to cover contingencies.’

I offered him some coffee. Nope... unbending, but he stayed so I asked,

‘Have you heard of Bailey?’

‘The theatre person?’

I was surprised and said,

‘So he does exist.’

‘Three times he has phoned for Madam.’

‘You spoke to him?’

‘I always answer the phone.’

I’m on the second toast when he says,

‘In regard to Madam’s script I do hope you haven’t become a critic.’

Steel in his voice, I said,

‘No way pal, I think it’s brilliant.’

‘Good, I wouldn’t like Madam to be upset.’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘Madam wonders if you’re free on Wednesday night.’

‘Free?’

‘For bridge.’

‘Jesus, I don’t play bloody bridge.’

He gave a long breath of patience,

‘We don’t expect you to play, merely to accompany Madam when her friends play.’

‘Sounds like a gas.’

The suits got left on my bed. Three of them in

Black

Grey

Blue

I checked the brand: Jermyn Street. Half a dozen white shirts.

I went to the garage and the Silver Ghost was shining, waxed and polished. Jordan was standing alongside. I whistled in true admiration, said,

‘You did some job, pal.’

‘Thank you.’

‘When did you get the time?’

‘Last night when you were reading Madam’s script.’

‘Oh.’

‘I checked with Mr Bailey’s office and they’ll expect you at noon at the Old Vic.’

I went upstairs to shower and get those exercises done. Gonna need to be fit for Madam. In the shower, I went,

‘What the hell?’

I noticed deep bite marks on my chest. The bloody bitch bit me. Bridge that, Jordan.

There were some old mags on top of the closet. No, not porn.

Titles like

GQ

Vanity Fair.

I came across this by Courtney Love:

Now if I could just work this into conversation.

In the nick, I came across an old guy who done fifteen hard in Peru. On release, he was deported and after one week in London he was arrested for robbery. Got seven years.

Said to me,

‘I like English prisons, they’re kinda cosy.’

‘Yeah, tell that to the queen who got strangled.’

He wasn’t listening, away again on his story. Like this:

‘First off they strip you and steal anything you have. Then they’d duck your head in a bucket of cold water, put electric wires on your balls. San Juan de Lurigancho, — isn’t that a lovely name? It was run by the inmates. Cells were sold by the prison mafia. Shit and mosquitos everywhere. But worst is the silence. Silence meant all-out gang warfare.’

I could see his point about cosy.

A knock on my door — Jordan.

‘Madam is ready.’

He’d brought the car round front. She emerged a few minutes later. Dressed in a white linen suit and a fedora. She looked... old. I held the door open for her then went round to the driver’s side.

Now I know why people who drive them are arrogant. The damn car makes you superior. As we cruised outta there, I said,

‘All right?’

She never spoke the whole way. I could care. The car had my total focus. Thing is too, how could you ever drive anything else? I mean, if I was to get behind the wheel of a banged up Volvo, was I going to think — ‘yup, this is good?’

It sure pulls attention. From admiration through amazement to contempt. A lot of young drivers try to cut you up but it would take more than a Japanese town car. I was beginning to believe you’d need someone riding shotgun.

We got to The Old Vic and I pulled in to the side. I said,

‘I’ll just go and announce you.’

‘I’ll be waiting.’

The doorman, a young kid, never heard of her, said,

‘Never heard of ’er, mate.’

We were arguing when an older man appeared, asked,

‘What’s going on?’

‘I’ve got Lillian Palmer outside, she’s expecting to see Mr Bailey.’

His face lit up,

‘Lillian Palmer, my God!’

He went to fetch Bailey. The young guy asked,

‘What, is she famous then?’

‘We’re about to find out.’

A man came striding out, a gaggle of assistants in tow. He looked like an ironed George C Scott. He had no riding boots or megaphone but it looked as if he did. He said,

‘I’m Bailey.’

I told him my story and he shouted,

‘This sounds like Philip’s work, get him. Meanwhile, let’s meet Miss Lillian Palmer.’

He sure knew how to work her. Escorted her by her arm into the theatre, led her up on to the stage, turned and said,

‘Ladies and gentlemen, fellow thespians, I give you the star.’

A spotlight was trained on her, and people flocked round her.

She was transformed, thirty years just vanished from her face. I was thinking,

‘Wow, she must have been something.’

Bailey must have read my face, answered,

‘She was, and a damned fine actress. Is Jordan still around?’

‘Yes he is.’

‘He was married to her, you know. Hell, at some point, most of us were.’

He looked at me, asked,

‘Are you drilling there?’

‘What?’

‘Wouldn’t blame you, buddy, she’s a class act.’

‘Did you see her script?’

‘At least once a year. Hard to believe it gets worse.’

Bailey had champagne and canapés delivered and they had them on the stage... Philips was finally found and yes, he had rung three times. They wanted to rent the Ghost for promotion. Bailey said,

‘In the end, it’s all car commercials.’

Lillian wasn’t told. They followed us to the car, giving her a wonderful send off.

She was near delirious with joy, said,

‘Did you see... did you hear? They loved me! I’m going to regain my place. Pull over some place. I need you to love me.’

I pulled over near the north side of Hyde Park. Got in the back and did her as if I meant it. When I got out after, two park keepers gave me a round of applause.

It was a day of performances.

Thursday, back to the day job. Up on that roof, knocking down stray slates. I’d hear them land on the patio, break like glass. If I were fanciful, I’d say like dreams but they were only worn slates. Madam was on the phone all day, ordering new clothes, the hairdresser, cooing to her friends. I’d yet to meet any of those but figured ‘bridge night’ would answer that.

Come evening, I was showering and resolving I’d get take out fish and chips and read Edward Bunker. I was holding the new Pellicanos as a special treat. My phone had been installed and I was settled. Now it rang.

‘Mr Mitchell.’

‘Hi Doc.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Doc, have a guess at how many Indians are calling me.’

‘Oh.’

‘How’d you get the number?’

‘Briony did, she’s very resourceful.’

‘That too... so was there something?’

‘Yes, could I see you? Let me buy you dinner.’

‘Okay.’

‘Splendid. There’s a wonderful Italian place at Notting Hill, named De Vinci’s. Shall we say eight?’

‘Italian?’

‘You don’t like Italian.’

‘Well yeah, sure I do, okay. And call me Mitch.’

‘Right Mr Mitch.’

I’d been kinda banking on them fish and chips but what the hell. I wore the blue suit and a white shirt. Checked myself in the mirror, said,

‘Smokin’.’

Wouldn’t you know — everyone, including the doc, in casual gear.

The place was warm and friendly and they knew the doc. Good opening. We ordered clams and linguini then followed with spaghetti bolognese. The bread was crisp and fresh like an idealised childhood. I even liked the wine. I’m mopping up the sauce with that bread, the doc is ordering more wine and I go,

‘What’s up Doc?’

‘It’s Briony.’

‘Quelle surprise.’

‘You speak French.’

‘Nope, just that one bit so I got to ration it. You’d be amazed how often I get to use it with Briony around.’

‘Can I be honest, Mr Mitch?’

When you hear that, pay the bill and run. I said,

‘Go for it.’

‘I love her very much.’

‘But she’s a nutter, right?’

That took him aback but also gave him his cue, said,

‘When I was a medical student, I seriously considered a career as a psychologist. I learned about borders.’

‘You mean like perimeters.’

‘No.’

The waiter came and cleared the debris. It was considerable. They like that, like you to eat. Great people. The doc had pavlova for dessert. I settled for cappuccino, without the chocolate sprinkle. I hate that shit. The doc said,

‘Essentially they split their feelings from their behaviour. The tragedy is, borders never recover. The best you can do is help them coast.

‘In the beginning they appear normal, good jobs, but it’s a constant tightrope between madness and sanity. Unable to form relationships, never free of a deep rage that leads to self destruction.’

‘Her shoplifting?’

‘Correct. They live from one disaster to the next. They excel at role play and have overwhelming feelings of emptiness. They never change.’

‘Actresses.’

‘Yes, many borders do well on stage, but then...’

I was thinking of Lillian, asked,

‘Where’s the problem, Doc? Walk away.’

He looked down at his dessert then pushed it from him, said,

‘I am besotted with her.’

‘C’mon, Doc, I’ll bring you for a drink in an English pub, if we can find one.’

I took him to The Sun and Splendour off Portobello. At least it used to be an English pub. Ordered two best bitters and grabbed a table, said,

‘Drink up.’

He did. Then gave me a long analytical stare, asked,

‘How can you be so calm... about your sister?’

He meant ‘cold’.

That’s okay — I can do manners. I said,

‘Doc, I’ve been in prison. I didn’t like it at all. I have a strong instinct it’s going to require all my energies not to return. I have to play low-key just to survive. I start to burn and I’m a dead man.’

He was horrified.

‘But it’s a terrible existence, such tight control.’

I drained my glass, said,

‘Beats prison.’

After a bit, we had another round and midway through, he asked,

‘What am I to do?’

‘Doc, I don’t give advice, and I certainly never take it but lemme say this. Go for it, have a ball, live like fire, ’cause truth is, she’ll leave you, she always does. Then she’ll resurrect Frank and go back to coke and guns and madness.’

‘How will I live then?’

I touched his shoulder, said,

‘Like the rest of us, pal — the best you can.’

The next two weeks were calm. I did my work, read my books, serviced the actress.

I hoped when Gant came, I’d be ready. Else I was fucked.

Chris De Burgh song — ‘Waiting For The Hurricane’.

The bridge night proved the dead do return. Three men and a woman. All mummified. You only guessed at them being alive by the cigarettes they smoked.

I didn’t play and no one spoke to me. Except Lillian, who said two things repeatedly:

1) Another high ball darling

2) Clean the ashtrays darling

Oh yeah, she gave me a present. A silver cigarette case.

I gave it to a wino at Queensway who shouted,

‘The fuck is this?’

Exactly.

The change began with a call from the doc, who said,

‘She’s gone.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What will I do?’

‘Go back to your life.’

‘What life?’

Welcome to whinge city.

End of the fortnight, I was getting restless. That philosopher who said,

‘All of man’s problems stem from his inability to sit in a room and do nothing.’

He was right.

I went down to Finches on the Brompton Road. On a whim. I had on the Gucci jacket so I figure it wasn’t entirely haphazard. On the tube was a discarded copy of the South London Press. I read through as the District Line had its usual trauma. I nearly missed it. A small item at the bottom of the page. A man had been found dead outside a flat in Clapham. The victim of a mugging. I recognised the man’s name and the flat.

I was wearing his jacket, I had lived in his home.

In Finches, I ordered a pint of ordinary, took it to a quiet table. Did a roll up and wondered was it time for whiskey.

After the South London Press, after so much, I was sinking into a nine yard stare. Didn’t even realise, just slipped on back there. I learnt it in prison or rather, it learnt me. Gradually, I realised someone was talking to me. I refocused, noticed I’d neither touched the drink nor lit the cigarette. A woman at the next table was saying,

‘Thought we’d lost you there.’

I looked at her, like seriously. In her late thirties, she was wearing a suede tan jacket, black T-shirt, and faded to comfort jeans. Dark hair, pretty face and a heavy scar under her left eye. I said,

‘I was thinking.’

‘You were comatose.’

Irish accent. The soft vowels always distinguishable. Soothing. I took a hefty swallow of the beer, asked,

‘Are you trying to chat me up?’

‘I dunno, so far, you’ve had no chat at all.’

She was attractive, no doubt, but I hesitated. She said,

‘There’s a lovely word in Irish, it’s bronach... means sadness but a lot more. Anyway, that’s how you looked.’

And I still couldn’t get my mouth in gear. Here’s a fine woman, giving it large, and I’m locked in some awful lethargy.

She said, ‘Your face is a mess you know. That broken nose, those bruises, is it sore?’

Finally, I said,

‘Would you like a drink?’

‘No, I’m grand thanks.’

When in doubt, get ugly. It always worked in prison. I asked,

‘How come you’re on your own in a shitty pretentious pub north of the river?’

Got her like a slap in the face. She touched the scar, said,

‘It’s that noticeable?’

Relentless, I said,

‘Why don’t you get it fixed?’

Further slap. She sat back, said,

‘I’m sorry I bothered you.’

Now I could talk, said,

‘I’m Mitch, how you doing? Bear with me, I’ve had a bad day.’

She smiled. God, a smile of such radiance even the scar folded its tent and went away. She said,

‘Go on then, I’ll have a half of Guinness.’

‘Screw that, have a solid drink.’

‘What’s wicked?’

‘Whiskey is always wicked.’

I ordered two large. Hot so they’d seem tamer. She said,

‘God, that’s a lovely drink.’

I looked at her, asked,

‘Do you always say what you feel?’

‘Course, don’t you?’

‘Practically never.’

Her name was Aisling and once I loosened up, we got on great. I couldn’t believe it, I was having me a time. We got out of there and I had a taxi take us to a club where they play cajun and serve barbecued ribs to die for. Big buckets of ’em and pitchers of beer. There’s no way you can eat them delicately. You get in there, get good and greasy.

She did.

God bless her.

There’s a tiny dance floor and she dragged me on out. The band had a demonic fiddler and we were possessed. Covered in sweat, we retreated to our table and consumed a pitcher, ate more ribs and were in hog heaven.

She grabbed my hand, said, ‘Kiss me.’

I did and the menu was complete. Then a guest soloist came on and did a down-home slow rendition of ‘The Night They Drove Ol’ Dixie Down.’ We danced slow to that, and I came so close to feeling happy.

I nearly got faint. She said,

‘You know Mitch, you’re a lovely kisser.’

Jesus wept.

She was brushing her hand along the back of my neck, singing along to the song and my body was electric. She was feeding me the most treacherous poison of all: hope. She said,

‘Tell me Mitch, tell me this place never closes.’

‘Would it were so.’

Then she opened her eyes, said,

‘Tell me something lovely, it doesn’t have to be true, just some grand thing I’ll always remember.’

For then, for the moment, I felt she deserved it, I said,

‘You’re the loveliest person I ever met.’

She hugged me real tight, said,

‘That’s gorgeous and perfect.’

It was also true.

Sometimes the Gods relent, even they think — ‘Enough already, let’s let the fucker see what it could have been like. As it is for the blessed.’

When the band finished she said,

‘Come back, Mitch, to my awful bedsitter in south-east Kensington and I’ll make you Irish coffee.’

I did.

We didn’t have the coffee but we did have sweet, gentle lovemaking like I never believed existed. When I was leaving, she asked,

‘Won’t I see you again?’

‘I hope so, I truly do.’

Walked home on air. Cajun tunes, her lilting voice, the sheer softness of her body, bedazzling my mind. Walking up the drive on Holland Park, I muttered,

‘Enough of this, I’m outta here.’

On my pillow was what seemed to be a spider. Black and crushed. I approached slowly and then recognised it for what it was. The misshapen remains of the miniature Rolls Royce I’d sent to Gant.

I finally bought a car. Yup, it was time. An old Volvo, worth another six months and no warranty. It was beat up but who wasn’t? Putting her in gear, I banished all thoughts of Royces from my mind.

Took me three nights of cruising to nail Norton. Eventually, outside Biddy Malone’s on the Harrow Road. Off his patch.

I waited, as I’d waited the previous nights. Come closing, out he came. High-fiving with the good-nighters.

All the lagered energy of pissed nothing. He was fumbling with the keys to his car, still laughing when I eased the Glock behind his ear, said,

‘Who’s down in the zero now, shithead?’

Pushed him into the back seat, put the barrel between his eyebrows, said,

‘Threaten me now, asshole.’

Took him a while to recover, then,

‘Mitch... we can work it out... yeah?’

‘Leaving tokens on my pillow...’

‘Look Mitch, can I sit up, please, get us straight?’

I let him and asked,

‘Why didn’t you toss the room? Among other goodies you’d have found this.’

I pushed the barrel against his nose, continued,

‘And I’d now be holding my finger up my ass.’

Norton shook his head, said,

‘He told me to go in quick, not to touch owt. Especially not to let that fuckin’ butler see me. He didn’t want the surprise ruined.’

‘What happened to the previous tenant?’

Norton looked at me, asked,

‘Heard about that did ya?’

‘Read about it.’

‘Gant couldn’t believe you’d gone. We had the place staked and then that stupid bastard tries to break in. So Gant lost it, you know what he’s like, how he did the nigger.’

‘Then he’s still got a hard-on for me?’

Norton gave a harsh laugh, said,

‘More than ever. He’s in business sometimes with the Columbians and he’s in awe of their ruthlessness. They kill everybody belong to you.’

It took a moment to sink in, then I asked,

‘My sister?’

He nodded, said,

‘Don’t make any new friends.’

‘What about you, Billy?’

‘I’m outta it, soon as I can liquefy my assets, I’m gone.’

‘Aren’t you overlooking your present predicament?’

He looked at the gun, at me, said,

‘You’re not going to shoot me, Mitch.’

I considered it. The bastard of it all was I still kinda liked him. He was garbage but we had history, most of it bad but it was there. I said,

‘You’re right, Billy.’

I put the gun away and got out of the car. It was just starting to rain. I turned up the collar of my jacket and Norton got out of the car. We stood for a moment then he put out his hand, said,

‘Let’s shake on it, mate.’

‘Don’t push it.’

And I walked away.

I was reading Fred Willard’s ‘Down On Ponce’. Right up my street, hard-boiled and hilarious. You’ve got like a guy who describes Atlanta, Georgia, as a city that may be too busy to hate but isn’t above taking a little time off to steal.

The phone went. Picked it up, said, ‘Yeah.’

‘Mitch, it’s Briony.’

‘Thank Christ, I need to see you.’

‘I’d like that, Mitch.’

‘Tomorrow evening, how about I buy you dinner, say that Italian place you like in Camberwell at eight?’

‘I’ll be on my own, Mitch.’

‘That’s fine.’

‘I always end up on my own.’

‘We’ll talk about that.’

‘So you won’t bring the old actress.’

‘No, just you and me.’

I rang off, said — ‘Jesus, she’s hard work.’

I didn’t think I’d be telling her I met someone new. I certainly wouldn’t be telling ‘the old actress’. While I’d been reading, my mind was double tracking. On the book but also on Gant.

I figured I’d try a temporary solution, rang his number. He answered and I said,

‘Rob, my man.’

Silence, then, ‘Mitchell.’

‘None other, how are you bro?’

‘Well Mitchell, I shall be coming to pay you a visit.’

‘That’s why I rang. I want to let you know how I’ve been spending my various salaries. It cost me a few grand, but I’ve “engaged” a hitter.

‘Here’s how it works: you harm me or my sister, he shoots your daughter — what is she now, eleven and doing well at that school in Dulwich, eh? No, there’s more. I still had some cash, I could only get a basement deal on your wife. I think it’s splendid how she volunteers for Oxfam those three afternoons. What I got was the ‘acid sandwich’ for her. See, I took your advice, did my research, like you said... information is power.’

‘You’re bluffing.’

‘That’s the beauty of it, you have to decide whether I am or not. Our little variation on “Call My Bluff”. Whatcha think?’

‘I think, Mitchell, you have no idea who you’re threat-ening.’

‘All part of the rush.’

‘Believe me Mitchell, we’ll be meeting.’

‘Gotta go... oh, one last item. The Nation of Islam are keen to chat with you. About the chap you dropped in Brixton... in the chair...’

I rang off. It would buy me time. He’d check it out and, sooner or later, he’d come after me. By then, I hoped I’d have come up with a plan. Or at least some more ammunition.

Driving to meet Briony the next evening, I decided to park at the Oval. Did that and walked over to see how the new Big Issue vendor was doing. The kid was there all right and recognised me right off. I bought a copy and felt him eyeing me. I asked,

‘How’s it going?’

‘You did ’em, didn’t yah?’

‘What?’

‘Them young blokes that done Joe — you done ’em.’

‘The footballer?’

‘Yeah, him who used to wear the Beckham shirt.’

‘Was he any good?’

‘Gifted.’

‘Well, I’d better be off.’

I’d reached my car when the kid shouted,

‘You know what I think?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Fuck ’em.’

‘Will you keep an eye on the motor?’

‘Guaranteed.’

I walked down Camberwell New Road. What a shithole. Bad pubs and worse vibes. Young guys in those hooded track-suits cruised continuously. The air was hopping with menace. Like the yard after twelve-hour lockup. Used to be a time, a homeless guy would ask you for a few bob. Now it’s demanded. Like this.

A guy clocked me, went by on a first sweep, then back, said,

‘Gimme a cigarette.’

You’ve got to give it hard and stay on it. Any shit or apology like — ‘I don’t smoke’ — and they’d carve your tongue out.

I said, ‘Fuck off.’

He did.

Course, if they’re cranked, it’s a different ball game. There’s no rules with a doper. Hurt them fast and keep going. I was deep regretting not driving but all the same, the adrenalin keeps it sharp.

At Camberwell Green, I let out a sigh of relief and went into the restaurant. Briony was already there, working on a glass of wine. She was doing her gothic trip. Dressed in black, white make up, I said,

‘What’s this, the banshee look?’

‘Do you like it?’

‘Awesome.’

The owner was an old friend and gave me a high five. Not an easy gesture for an Italian reared in Peckham. I said,

‘Good to see you, Alfons.’

‘And you, my friend, shall I order for you both?’

‘Great.’

Briony poured me some wine, we did the ‘cheers’ bit, drank and I asked, ‘So?’

‘I had to leave my doctor.’

‘I heard.’

‘He gave me his pin number.’

‘That’s why you left?’

She laughed. Thank Christ. The evening wouldn’t be total gloom. She said,

‘I bought a pup.’

I thought she said ‘pub’ and went,

‘Jeez, how much money had he?’

‘A King Charles Cavalier.’

‘Oh, a pup.’

She looked like a little girl — well, a gothic little girl — said,

‘He’s a King Charles Cavalier.’

‘Nice.’

‘They’re very docile, like they’re on heavy tranquillisers.’

‘Lucky dog.’

Alfons brought the food.

Like this.

The starters: Fritti Misti Vegetable. A selection of courgettes, aubergines, broccoli. Done in a crispy batter.

Crostino al Proscutto with thinly sliced ham covered in melting parmesan cheese.

It was good to watch Bri eat. She did it with delicacy and concentration. She said,

‘I called the dog Bartley-Jack.’

‘Why?’

She looked like she didn’t know, said,

‘I dunno.’

For the main course, Bri had Cotoletta Alla Milanese. A beef dish fried with spice in a breadcrumb batter. Melt-in-the-mouth stuff.

I had Gnocchi. Small flour dumplings, flavoured with Porcini.

That’s a wild rare Italian mushroom.

I described all of the above to Bri. She was impressed, said,

‘How’d you know all this stuff? You hardly speak English most days.’

‘My first two weeks in prison, before I learnt anything, all I had to read was an Italian menu. It was pinned on the wall of my cell. I must have read it a thousand times. Then someone nicked it.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s jail, it’s what they do. Doesn’t matter what it is.’

We had espresso to finish, the burn the roof of your mouth bitter real thing. I said,

‘Bri, I need you to listen seriously to me.’

‘Sure.’

‘Is there some place you can go for a while?’

‘Why?’

‘I have some business to take care of and I have to not worry about you.’

‘No.’

‘What?’

‘I have a pup now, I can’t just go.’

‘Jeez, bring the bloody pup with you.’

‘Not unless you tell me why.’

I lit a roll up, exhaled with a sigh, said,

‘There’s some people putting pressure on me. They might try to hurt you.’

‘Hah... fuck ’em.’

‘C’mon Bri, I’ll give you the cash.’

‘I have tons of money.’

‘Please Bri, as a favour to me.’

‘I might. Why don’t you want to know about the doctor?’

‘I do really. What happened?’

‘He’s veggie. A vegan.’

‘So? Aren’t you sometimes that too?’

‘I don’t like to be told. Anyway, I like villains best, like you.’

I gave up. Ordered the bill and paid that. I asked,

‘Bri can I call you a cab?’

‘No, I have a bus pass.’

‘Since when?’

‘Like yesterday.’

‘Take care, hon.’

She gave me that smile, promising nothing.

I’d just started back down New Road when a car beeped me.

The window goes down, it’s Jeff.

‘Mitch, I been looking for you mate.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Hop in, I’ll give you a lift.’

‘Just to the Oval, I’m parked there.’

I get in and he accelerates. The skels outside just a blur in the speed. He says,

‘I need a favour, mate.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Two days time we go north.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Two of the crew are down. Gerry’s gone and broken his leg, Jack’s missus is in the hospital.’

‘Can’t you postpone?’

‘Last two excursions had to be shelved. It’s tough being a villain and a family man.’

‘And you’re asking me what, Jeff?’

‘To fill out the crew.’

Thing with mates is, you don’t make them sweat it.

Yes or no.

I said,

‘Yes.’

‘Oh cheers mate. Monday morning at my place... eight-thirty.’

As I got outta the car, he said,

‘Be good to have you along, Mitch.’

‘It’s no big thing.’

That’s what I thought.

As I walked up the Holland Park drive, I noticed the lights were off. Thank Christ, I thought. Having to hop on the actress was about as appealing as a prison breakfast.

I was about to go to my room when I noticed a light in the kitchen. Thought — ‘why not?’

Jordan was sitting at the kitchen table in his shirt-sleeves, a stone bottle before him. I said,

‘Yo.’

He looked up, said, ‘Join me.’

‘ ’Kay.’

I’d never seen him without a jacket. I could see his arms were brown, heavily muscled. He motioned for me to get a glass.

I did. He tilted the bottle, poured me a full one, said,

‘It’s Jenever, Dutch gin.’

We clinked glasses, muttered something that sounded like ‘skol’ and drank them off in one toss. By Jesus, did that kick. A moment of grace, then wallop, your stomach was blitzkreiged. My eyes watered. I gasped,

‘Phew.’

He nodded, said, ‘Again?’

‘Of course.’

After I recovered from the double shammy, I began to roll a cig. He said,

‘May I have one?’

‘Whoa... what about the rules?’

‘Fuck them.’

I handed him one, lit it, said,

‘Now you’re talking.’

He drew deep, not his first time. Here was a guy reared on smoke. I asked,

‘How’s Madam?’

‘Expecting her call to the theatre.’

‘Jeez! I mean, that ain’t going to go down. What then?’

He looked pained. Drunk too, but mainly pained. Said,

‘I’ll think of something, I always do.’

I was feeling the booze, enough to ask,

‘What’s the deal, why do you stay?’

He seemed amazed, said,

‘It’s my life.’

Didn’t elaborate, so I tried more.

‘Didn’t you used to be her husband?’

My knowing didn’t faze him, said,

‘I still am.’

Then he spread his hands on the table, focused on me.

‘Before her I was nothing. She is the beat of my heart.’

I figured we were two guys well pissed, so go for it. I asked,

‘But... doesn’t she, you know... like see other guys?’

He spat on the floor, made a sound that went,

‘Ph... tt... h.’

Then,

‘They are nothing — playthings she discards like rubbish. I am constant.’

There was a trace of spittle on his lips and his eyes were fevered. I considered he might not be playing with a full deck. I eased down, said,

‘You sure take care of her.’

He waved his hands in dismissal. I downed more gin, asked,

‘Ever hear a duet from Garth Brooks and Trisha Yearwood called “In Another’s Eyes”?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t listen to music much, eh?’

‘There is only Wagner.’

I don’t think there’s a sane reply to this. Leastways, I didn’t have it.

Then he did the oddest thing. Stood up, bowed, said,

‘I enjoyed our talk but now I must secure the house.’

I got up, not sure should I shake his hand or not. I said,

‘Thanks for the drink.’

I’d just got to the door when he said,

‘Mr Mitchell, if you are ever in trouble, I will be available.’

‘Oh.’

‘I am a valuable ally.’

As I headed for bed, I didn’t doubt that for a minute.

I tried to watch TV for a bit; I was having double vision.

I must have been very drunk as I thought Ally McBeal wasn’t bad.

Friday, I figured if I was bank-robbing on Monday, then I better get some R & R.

I rang Aisling, she said,

‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s a guy thing. When they say “I’ll call”, you don’t hold your breath.’

‘Okay... so, can I take you out?’

‘Oh yes, I have a plan.’

‘Nothing better than a plan.’

‘Can you pick me up at the Angel tube at eight-thirty?’

‘Islington?’

‘Is that bad?’

‘It’s north.’

‘So?’

‘No... I can do north.’

‘See you later.’

I did a full day’s work:

repaired a door

cleaned the windows

whistled some tunes.

Come evening, Jordan laid a wedge of cash on me. He said,

‘Madam would like a word.’

‘Sure, listen... I need Monday free.’

‘Don’t make a habit of it.’

All the camaraderie of the night before seemed to have evaporated.

But I noticed his eyes were bloodshot. Teach him to guzzle gin.

Madam was waiting in the dining room. She was looking good. The battalion of

hairdressers

beauticians

physiotherapists

had done their work. Her skin and eyes glowed. She was wearing a cream low cut dress, her skin lightly tanned. Great logo.

I felt stirrings. The body is a bastard, it just does its own thing. Lillian gave the knowing smile, said,

‘You must be all hot and sweaty after your toil.’

I gave a noncommittal shrug. She said,

‘We’re going out this evening, I’ve booked a table at the Savoy.’

‘Not me, babe.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I’ve got other plans.’

‘Well cancel them. It’s time I was seen in public.’

‘Have fun but I won’t be with you.’

‘How do you expect me to appear unaccompanied? I must have an escort.’

‘Try the Yellow Pages.’

She just couldn’t believe I was refusing her, she shouted,

‘I will not be denied.’

I gave her the hard look, said,

‘Jeez, get real lady.’

and walked out. I could hear her screaming,

‘I didn’t dismiss you, come back here!’

Jordan, of course, appeared and before he could speak, I said,

‘She’s rehearsing, don’t disturb her.’

As I showered I thought — ‘She is one royal pain in the ass.’

Little did I know.

After I showered, I cracked a brewski and got dressed. Kept it casual. Sweatshirt and jeans. My nose was still aching but I could live with it. Gant was hovering on the outskirts of my mind. The mental threads one makes are tenuous and treacherous. Of all the things, I dredged up a line from ‘101 Dalmations’.

What?

The gems you learn from children’s literature. Ready to go, I picked up the mobile and shoved it in my jeans. The car started on the first turn and I’d got to the end of the drive when the mobile went. I said,

‘Yeah.’

It was Lillian, said,

‘You are so much more than I had expected but so much less than I have hoped.’

And rang off.

It was ten after eight by the time I got to the Angel tube. Islington is a bastard in a car. Aisling was waiting. She was dressed in a duffel coat, faded blue jeans. Looked like a radiant student. I opened the door, she jumped in. Leant over and kissed me on the mouth. I said,

‘I’m sorry I’m late.’

‘We’ll be sorry if I’m late.’

Let that slide and asked,

‘Where to?’

She gave me a complicated set of directions and I got lost twice. Finally, she shouted,

‘Stop!’

I did.

We were parked outside a pub. She said,

‘This is Filthy McNasty’s.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

‘No, that’s the name.’

‘Sounds like it should be in the Bronx.’

‘I remembered you said you love crime writers. Here they have a crime writer read and they play tracks relevant to his work. Guess who’s on this evening?’

I had no idea, said,

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘James Ellroy.’

‘No shit... that’s brilliant!’

Already the place was jammed but we managed to grab two stools at the corner of the bar. Aisling’s face was shining, excitement writ huge. She said,

‘I’m buying, what would you like?’

‘Pint of Guinness.’

She ordered that and a Malibu. The drinks came and we did the ‘cheers’ bit. I asked,

‘What’s a Malibu?’

‘Rum with coconut.’

‘Good God.’

‘Try it.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Ah go on.’

I did, went,

‘Jesus, paint off a gate, tastes like cough syrup.’

She laughed, squeezed my thigh, said,

‘I’m delighted to see you.’

I felt great. Jeez, when had I ever felt that? She was gorgeous, funny, smart, and liked me. I had money in my wallet and a promising hard-on. Hog heaven.

Then James Ellroy came on. Big guy and wired. He didn’t so much read as give a total performance.

Mesmerizing.

When he took a break, he was mobbed. Aisling said,

‘Why don’t you have a word?’

‘Maybe I’ll catch him later.’

She gave a wicked smile, said,

‘Let me tell you about later. I’m going to lure you to my home, fill a bath with

scents

oil

and

you.

‘Open a bottle of wine and soak. Then I’ll order a huge pizza and eat you while it’s hot. Then while you sleep I’ll watch over you.’

My mobile went.

I had to squeeze through the crowd to find a quiet spot. A guy muttered,

‘Fuckin’ yuppie.’

Me?

Holding the phone close, I said,

‘Yeah.’

‘Mr Mitchell, it’s Jordan.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Miss Palmer has attempted suicide.’

Oh shit.

‘Is she bad?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘What can I do?’

‘I believe you should come.’

‘Aw shit.’

‘As you wish.’

And he rang off. I said,

fuck

fuck

fuck.

A man said, ‘He reads better after the break.’

I fought my way back, said to Aisling,

‘I gotta go.’

‘Aw no.’

‘Listen, I’ll drop you off.’

‘No, you better get moving.’

‘Will you be okay?’

‘Perhaps I’ll have a word with James Ellroy.’

‘I’ll make it up to you.’

She gave me a sad smile, said,

‘We’ll see.’

As I left, the soundtrack was doing U2 with ‘Sweetest Thing’.

Now if that isn’t sticking it to you, I dunno what is.

‘Drained of all but memories of you.’

‘Jeez,’ I thought, ‘where did that come from?’

Manoeuvring through the Islington traffic I felt bone weary. Took me near two hours to get back to Holland Park.

Into the kitchen and Jordan was there, I asked,

‘How is she?’

‘The doctor’s given her a sedative but she’s awake.’

‘Should I go up?’

‘Please do.’

He had nothing further to add so I went. Up those stairs like a condemned man. Her bedroom was lit by one bedside lamp. In bed, her arms were lying outside the quilt. I could see the bandages on her wrists. No fuckin chance she’d cover them.

I said, ‘Lillian.’

‘Mitch... Mitch, that you, darling?’

‘Yes.’

She made a grand effort to sit up but then sagged back, whispered,

‘I’m sorry Mitch, I didn’t want to be any trouble to you.’

I wanted to wallop her, said,

‘It’s okay, you rest now, everything’s fine.’

‘Is she pretty Mitch, is she young?’

‘What?’

‘The girl you’re seeing.’

‘There’s nobody... I was on a boys’ night out.’

‘Promise me Mitch, promise you’ll never leave me.’

My mind was shouting — ‘how the hell did we get to here?’ I said,

‘I promise.’

‘Hold my hand, darling.’

I did. She gave a deep sigh, said,

‘I feel so safe now.’

I felt exactly like I did when the judge said,

‘Three years.’

The way to dress for a robbery is comfortable. It’s not the occasion to break in a new pair of shoes. Or to have a pair of Y-fronts mangling your balls.

I arrived at Jeff’s place early. Two of the old crew were already there. Bert and Mike, as reliable as concrete. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the aroma of coffee.

The atmosphere was cranked. These guys were pros, but each time, the stakes were rising.

A sofa was littered with weapons. Jeff said,

‘We’ve got a new guy.’

I didn’t like that, said,

‘I don’t like that.’

Jeff put up his hands, said,

‘Me neither, but he’s got a rep as a wheels man. We don’t got a choice.’

Jeff’s system was simple. Three car. One for the robbery, then two changes. These motors had been positioned over the weekend. An expert driver was vital. Jeff asked,

‘Want some breakfast Mitch?’

A huge fry-up was simmering alongside a mountain of toast.

There are two schools of thought on a meal before a caper.

1) Pig out for the energy level.

2) Nowt...to hike the adrenalin.

I was with the second, said,

‘Coffee’d be good.’

I moved over to the couch, selected a 9mm, put in the waistband of my jeans Took too, a pump shotgun.

You rack that fucker, you get everybody’s attention. Put on a worn combat jacket, packed the pockets with shells. Tasted my coffee, double-loaded, it hit like a fist.

Knock on the door, Jeff opened it carefully. Turned to us, said,

‘It’s the new guy.’

A punk came in. Something very familiar about him. He was dressed like Liam Gallagher before he discovered what a gold credit card implied. He had a long gash down the side of his face. I remembered.

At the party, he’d been out the back with Briony and she’d torn his face before putting the gun in his mouth. He said,

‘I know you.’

I nodded. He smirked, asked,

‘How’s that crazy bitch sister of yours?’

Jeff intervened, said,

‘Whoa, let’s all settle down.’

I said to Jeff,

‘You’ll vouch for him.’

‘Guaranteed.’

I didn’t like it but it was too late to back out. We got organised and headed off. A transit van was the first leg.

I sat up front with Jeff, the boyos in the back. The punk was mouthing large but Bert and Mike just ignored him.

Jeff said,

‘The target is Newcastle-Under-Lyme. The motors are parked at Keele University.’

‘What’s the word?’

‘The bank is holding heavy. Maybe twelve thou.’

‘Nice.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

I settled back in my seat, let my mind free fall.

One night, having serviced the actress, I’d begun to tell her of the range of my reading. I dunno what prompted me to do so, but I was in full flight, listing the different fields I’d read.

When I was done, she said,

‘The books of a self taught man, a working man. We all know how they are,

distressing

egotistic

insistent

raw

striking and ultimately,

nauseating.’

‘You snooty bitch.’

She laughed, said,

‘Alas, don’t blame me, it was Virginia Woolf’s analysis of James Joyce. Are you familiar with Virginia?’

‘Take a wild guess.’

The van lurched and Jeff said,

‘We’re at Keele.’

We loaded the gear into the waiting car, got into cover-alls.

Bert would remain with the second car and Mike with the third.

It was vital each car be

manned

safe

primed.

The punk got behind the wheel. Jeff beside him and me in back.

As the punk ran through the gears, he said,

‘This is a piece of shit.’

Jeff said,

‘Shut your mouth and drive.’

He did.

Twenty minutes later, we rolled into Newcastle. My adrenalin was pumping. Jeff directed the punk to park about twenty yards from the back entrance.

We were out and moving, pulled on balaclavas as we hit the entrance. Some firms, they take down a bank, they believe in verbal terror. Go in roaring, screaming obscenities.

Put the fear of God into the citizen; I can see the merits.

But Jeff has his own method. He believes a demonstration is worth a thousand words.

So he shot the first customer we encountered.

Shot him in the knees. The guy went down. Jeff loaded his gauge with pellets. Without causing major damage,

they hurt like fuck

look the biz

and scare the bejaysus.

Two minutes, I had staff and customers herded. Jeff went through the bank like a virus, filled two black bags. Then we were outta there.

Running for the car, the great British tradition came into play. Yup, the ‘have-a-go’ spirit. A guy grabbed me from behind, clamped his arms round me. The punk was gunning the engine. I let my body go slack, then with one move, stamped my shoe down on the guy’s instep. He let a roar you’d have heard in Brixton. Mainly, he let me go. I spun round stuck the shooter in his face, shouted,

‘Yah stupid bastard, yah want to get killed, is that it?’

Jeff pulled me off, gritted,

‘Let’s go, c’mon.’

Already I could hear sirens. I backed off and ran to the car.

We tore outta there. Jeff said,

‘Jeez Mitch, I thought you were going to waste him.’

‘So did I.’

The punk was laughing like a hysteric, said,

‘You should ’ave you, should ’ave blown him away!’

If he wasn’t driving, I’d have given him a fist up the side of his head.

Got to Keele and switched cars. Then a more sedate pace to the third motor. Changed again and in jig time we were on the motorway, lost in a ton of traffic. Once we got to the van, I let out a long breath. Didn’t realise I’d been holding it.

In the back Mike, Bert and the punk were whooping it up, Jeff was driving and reached under his seat. Pulled out a fifth of Cutty Sark, handed it to me. I drank deep, let it burn. He glanced at me, a grin building. I said,

‘Piece of cake, eh?’

Back at Jeff’s, we began to party. I was drinking Bud and nipping at the Cutty. The punk was doing major damage to a bottle of gin. Jeff and Bert were doing the count.

Mike asked,

‘Another Bud, Mitch?’

‘Sure.’

I was sitting on a kitchen chair and Mike leant against the table, said,

‘You’ve a hard-on for that kid.’

‘He’s trouble.’

‘Well, he did okay today.’

‘See his arms, tracks.’

Mike gave a good look, said,

‘Doesn’t seem like he’s using now, his arms aren’t swollen.’

‘Preparation H.’

‘What?’

‘Takes down the swelling.’

Mike was truly surprised, said,

‘Jeez Mitch, how do you know that shit?’

‘ “New Hope For The Dead”.’

‘What?’

‘By Charles Willeford.’

‘You’ve lost me.’

‘Lost Charles Willeford too, he’s dead and more’s the Irish pity.’

Jeff raised his hand, said,

‘Yo, people, we’ve got a tally.’

We waited. Then,

‘Fifteen large.’

Loud yahoo-ing. After Jeff took expenses, we got two-seven each. The punk said,

‘Party on.’

After a time, the guys began to drift away. Jeff said,

‘Got a sec, Mitch?’

‘Sure.’

When they’d gone, he cracked a beer, said,

‘Ever heard of a guy named Kerrkovian?’

‘Naw.’

‘Tall, thin fucker, likes to dress in black. Got eyes like marbles, nothing alive there. I think he’s one of those Eastern European gangsters.’

‘Interesting as it is, Jeff, what’s it got to do with me?’

‘He’s been asking about you.’

‘Oh.’

‘Watch your back.’

‘Yeah. Thanks a lot, Jeff.’

‘You musta pissed someone off big time.’

‘I seem to have a talent for it.’

I headed for a florist. Ordered up a batch of roses, orchids, tulips. The florist said,

‘A mix like that, it’s gonna cost.’

‘Did you hear me bicker?’

‘No, but...’

Put them in the car boot and headed for Peckham.

Joe’s grave was well tended and a current copy of the Big Issue, wrapped in cellophane rested there. Made me sad.

A man was moving around the cemetery, tidying up. I went over to him, said,

‘Hey.’

‘Hey yourself.’

‘Did you take care of that grave over there?’

‘And what if I did?’

‘I just wanted to say thanks.’

I peeled off a few notes and he took them fast. Did wonders for his attitude, said,

‘A headstone would make all the difference.’

‘How would one arrange that?’

He took a flask out of his pocket, offered. I shook my head and he took a swig, said,

‘Keeps the chill off.’

‘I believe you.’

Put the flask away, said,

‘If you were to go to your regular stonemason, he’d charge you large. I could get it done for half that.’

I peeled off more notes, asked,

‘Would you?’

‘My pleasure. Want an inscription?’

I thought for a bit, said,

‘ “He was the issue”.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t want a poem or anything? I’ve some hot verses in my shed.’

‘He didn’t do poetry.’

‘Right, I’ll get on it.’

He counted the money, said,

‘There’s too much here.’

‘No... keep the extra.’

As I headed off he asked,

‘How come you trust me?’

‘If you can’t trust a guy in a graveyard...’

He gave a low chuckle, said,

‘The biggest rogues are under your feet.’

‘Words to live by,’ I said.

Back at Holland Park I felt the adrenalin leak away and I longed for a kip. Jordan came out to meet me, said,

‘Madam’s been asking for you.’

‘’Kay.’

‘She’s not the only one.’

‘Oh.’

‘You had two visitors.’

‘Together.’

‘No, one was a policeman.’

‘Bailey.’

‘A bad mannered individual.’

‘No argument.’

‘The other was... how do I describe him?... In Hungarian, in dialect, there is a word — Zeitfel. It means “a corpse who still walks”.’

‘Like a zombie.’

‘Perhaps. It is fuelled by evil, propelled on malice. The Americans have a term: Stone-killer.’

‘Was he dressed in black?’

‘Yes.’

While I digested this, Jordan said,

‘As he left, he pointed to the elm.’

Jordan nodded to the huge tree to the left of the drive,

‘And he said, “beware of strange fruit”.’

‘Billie Holiday.’

‘Pardon.’

‘She sang a song about a lynched man, called “Strange Fruit”.’

Jordan reached in his jacket, took out an envelope, said,

‘You also got post.’

The handwriting was Briony’s. I said,

‘Thanks.’

I opened Briony’s letter. On the front was a sad looking bear. He held a sign that read:

Inside was the following:

I guess it would have made more sense if I knew who Isherwood was. Or what his game was.

I lay on the bed and thought about Aisling. I’d really have to call her. Then I replayed the robbery and the moment when the idiot grabbed me from behind. For one moment I had truly wanted to squeeze that trigger.

Had to admit, I’d been amped. I’d gotten off on the rush and I just hoped I wouldn’t want another fix.

Sleep crept up on me and took me mid-thought.

It was late evening when I woke. A vague sense of foreboding hung over me. I made some coffee, got on the other side of that. Rolled a cigarette and smoked it, sitting on the bed. It tasted as old as I was getting. Showered and put on a crisp white shirt, faded jeans. Checked myself in the mirror. Like George Michael’s father before the toilet incident.

The phone went, the actress said,

‘I’ve missed you, Mitchell.’

‘Well I’m back.’

‘I’ve a special surprise for you.’

‘I’m dressed for it.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I’m on my way.’

‘You won’t be disappointed.’

There was an inch of coffee left in my mug so I searched out the bottle of scotch, poured in a generous inch. Balance the books. Took it down fast. What it tasted like was more but I decided to pace it.

Lillian was waiting in the drawing room. Someone had been busy, all the furniture was piled at the back. The carpets rolled back. A high gloss on the wood floor. Centrepiece was a small stage, lit by a single spotlight. I thought, ‘Oh fuck.’

One single chair was placed in front of the stage. Beside it was a bureau with a rake of booze. I sat, checked the bottles and saw a Johnnie Walker. Poured a hefty belt. I was going to need it.

Classical music began to play, the lights went down.

Jordan appeared on the stage, dressed in a black suit, dicky bow. He intoned,

‘It is my pleasure to herald the return of Lillian Palmer. This evening, she will recite a short piece from DH Lawrence. Her lament for an England already lost.’

I was feeling lost myself. Gulped down the Scotch. Jordan bowed and withdrew. If he was expecting applause, he’d be waiting.

No sound of one hand clapping.

Then she appeared. Dressed in some kind of flimsy sari. I could clearly see her boobs. Her head lowered. Slowly she began:

I tuned out. I might even have dozed a bit. Ferocious damage was being done to the Johnnie Walker. Finally, she finished. I stood up, unsteadily and shouted,

Bravo

Magnifique.

Come on, yah Reds.

Next thing I know, I’m on the stage and tearing her clothes off. It was

sweaty

loud

ferocious

I vaguely recall her sinking her teeth deep in my neck and me roaring,

‘Yah fuckin’ vampire!’

After, I lay on my back gasping for breath. She said,

‘Am I to believe you appreciated my performance?’

Which one?

I curled up, passed out.

Someone was pulling at me and I was trying to push them away.

Eventually, I sat up. Jordan was standing over me, said,

‘There is something you have to see.’

‘Now?’

I tried to focus on my watch. Took an effort.

3.45

‘Christ,’ I groaned, ‘can’t it wait?’

‘It’s of grave urgency. I’ll wait for you in the kitchen.’

I shook my head. Big mistake. A mother of a headache. Not to mention a churning stomach. As Jordan reached the door, he said,

‘It might be an idea to put your clothes on.’

Aching, I pulled on my jeans and the balled up white shirt. Then I threw up.

Jordan was holding a flashlight and looked at me. He nodded and headed out. The night was pitch dark. Jordan headed across the lawn and stopped at the elm tree. Waited for me to catch up. He said,

‘Are you prepared?’

‘For what?’

He shone a powerful beam up into the branches. Billy Norton was hanging from a thick stem. A black gaping hole where his groin should have been. I muttered,

‘Jesus,’

and was on my knees, retching. Jordan switched off the torch.

He asked quietly,

‘A friend?’

‘Yes.’

Then he produced a small flask and a pack of cigarettes. Lit one and handed it to me. Then he took the top off the flask and offered it. I drank full and he said,

‘Brandy and port.’

When it hit my stomach it thought about regurgitating but opted the other way, settled. I was able to smoke the cigarette.

I avoided looking at Billy. Jordan asked,

‘Did you notice his hand?’

‘What?... No.’

‘The fingers on the right are gone, it’s a signature.’

‘A what?’

‘Vosnok. East European death squad. Since the gates opened, they’re unemployed. London attracts the vermin.’

‘Kerrkovian!’

Jordan nodded, said,

‘I trust this is not a police matter?’

‘I’d appreciate that.’

We buried him behind the house. It was hard work, least it was for me. A hangover doesn’t handle well a shovel. Sweat cascaded down my body. Too, I was in my bare feet, and the soil felt like sludge. Jordan dug with an easy rhythm. I said,

‘Looks like you’ve done this before.’

‘Many times.’

I didn’t have the bottle to ask if he meant ‘in this place’. Some things you best let slide. When we’d finished, Jordan asked,

‘Will you say words for him?’

Part of me wanted to shout — ‘Good riddance!’ I nodded and said,

‘Goodbye... Billy.’

It seemed enough for Jordan. He headed to the house. I followed. In the kitchen I trailed muddy prints and said,

‘Sorry.’

He produced some of his sachets of powder and began to mix that healing elixir. My mind went into free fall.

In the joint, you never gave or received favours. It was fraught with peril. I broke that rule only once. For a guy named Craig. I covered his back when he’d lost focus. After, most days he’d chow down with me. Even offered me his dessert.

His brother was a cop. Not just any filth but a renowned detective who’d nicked more child abusers than Andrew Vachss. But finally, the abyss looked back into him. Drunk one night, he’d found himself cruising for a child. Snapping out of it, he’d gone immediately home and shot himself. Only Craig knew the reason for the suicide. To the cops, he remained a hero and had simply ‘eaten his gun.’ Then Craig had looked up from his grub and made full eye contact. Convicts never did that unless they’d a knife or pipe to back it up. He said,

‘The point of this story is I avoid zeal. When the gangs go after a chicken-hawk here, I abstain.’

I got the point. A frenzy had been building in the prison for some days. It usually culminated in a hunt for a sex offender.

I said,

‘I hadn’t planned on joining the party.’

Holding my gaze, he said,

‘Self-righteousness is very infectious. People get swept along.’

I didn’t argue. He was repaying his debt.

Jordan nudged me, handed over a mug, said,

‘Drink.’

I did.

Jeez, was that the business. Everything near sang, my system felt almost young. He said,

‘What will you do about this Kerrkovian?’

‘Find him.’

‘Yes.’

I hesitated, but he was prepared to wait. I said,

‘Then I’ll kill him.’

‘You’ll require assistance.’

‘It’s not your fight.’

He folded his arms, said,

‘A man comes onto my land, puts a corpse outside my window and you think I’ll turn the other cheek?’

‘Who’ll mind the actress if we’re both gone?’

‘I’ll make provisions.’

I stood up, said,

‘Okay... we’ll go hunting.’

‘Have you a weapon?’

‘I do... do you?’

He gave me a smile. Humour never entered into it.

I put on the radio to ease me into sleep. Dire Straits were doing their riff, the line about Dixie, laden with threat. I hoped Kerr-fuckin-kovian was tuned.

The next day, Jordan ran a test. Using my car. He said,

‘I want you to approach the car with suspicion, the back seat you check carefully.’

I did. Tried the door but it wouldn’t open. Looked in the window. All I could see was a crumpled blanket on the floor and empty seats. I tapped on the window, the blanket moved and Jordan unfolded, emerged. I asked,

‘How can you make yourself so small?’

He gave a rueful smile, said,

‘Years of servitude.’

I asked the obvious.

‘How come the door won’t open?’

‘It’s an old car, only the front doors open.’

‘He’ll believe that?’

‘He better.’

It took us three nights to track him. We’d trawled Clapham, Streatham, Stockwell, Kennington and finally got him at a club in Brixton. I’d brought the Glock. I didn’t know what Jordan was packing but I hoped it was heavy. We parked a ways up the road from the club Kerrkovian had entered.

Jordan said,

‘Give me the gun.’

‘What?’

‘He’ll frisk you.’

‘Oh.’

‘I won’t wish you luck as these matters require only timing and nerve.’

‘I’ll settle for luck.’

As I got out, I said,

‘See you.’

‘No, you won’t.’

The bouncer at the door was a grief merchant and intended to give me large, said,

‘Members only.’

‘How much?’

He gave me the calculating look, went with it, said,

‘Twenty-five.’

I peeled off the notes, asked,

‘Don’t I get a card or nuttin?’

‘I’ll remember you.’

‘Gee, that’s reassuring.’

I went in. The place was jammed. A Brixton brew of

Dreads

Goths

Transvestites

Paddies

Minor villains

Bent cops

I spotted Kerrkovian sitting at a corner table with the punk. I thought — ‘Shit.’

Moved to them, said,

‘Lads.’

The punk gave a smirk, said,

‘Mitchell.’

Kerrkovian was wearing a black suit and looked like a badly fucked Bryan Ferry. He said,

‘I hear many things about you.’

His accent was pseudo-American. Like he’d watched all the very worst B movies. He had rotten teeth — Eastern Europe not having the best dental plan. He stood up, asked,

‘I buy you a brewski.’

‘Not right now. I hear you’ve been looking for me.’

‘You got it buddy.’

’Well my car is outside, let’s take a ride.’

The punk said,

‘Get real.’

I looked at Kerrkovian, said,

‘You wouldn’t be afraid to travel with me, would you?’

He smiled, the full frontal of gangrenous molars. I said,

‘I’m not packing, you can frisk me.’

He did. This was a Brixton club, nobody batted an eye.

The punk said,

‘What a wanker.’

I asked, ‘So, are you coming?’

‘As long as my new friend comes too.’

I shrugged. I went first. As we approached the car, I said,

‘The back doors don’t work.’

The punk moved forward, peered in the back windows, said,

‘Nothing there.’

I got behind the wheel, the punk beside me and Kerrkovian riding shotgun. The punk said,

‘Where did you get this heap of shit?’

As I moved to turn the ignition, Jordan was up, had a wire round Kerrkovian’s neck. I smashed my elbow into the punk’s face, then crashed his head onto the dash. Kerrkovian thrashed and flailed but Jordan’s knee was pivoted against the seat. What seemed like an hour, Kerrkovian went limp, eyes out of their sockets. I said,

‘Jordan... Jordan, you can let go.’

‘You can never be too careful with this filth.’

‘Jesus, he’s near decapitated.’

Jordan let go. I started up the car and got to fuck outta there. Jordan said,

‘Go back to Holland Park.’

The front seat was awash in blood. Jordan threw the blanket over them. I asked,

‘What about this kid?’

‘He can help us dig.’

Heavy rain began and helped obscure the bundle on the front seat. Blood was leaking over my shoes and across the brake.

By the time we got to Holland Park, the rain was near torrential. I asked,

‘What about the actress?’

‘She’ll sleep till noon.’

‘You sure?’

‘I made sure. Drive up to the garage.’

I did.

We got out and inside, Jordan produced rain slickers and said,

‘Get the wheelbarrow.’

Then we hauled Kerrkovian and the punk into the garage.

The punk was starting to come round. Jordan said,

‘Remove everything from their pockets.’

From Kerrkovian, I took

A Sig Sauer .45

Wallet

Cigarettes

Stiletto blade and

A piece of paper with a phone number.

It was Gant’s.

From the punk, I got

A Browning

Thick wad of money

Polo mints

Condoms

Cocaine.

Jordan filled a bucket of water and threw it over the punk.

He spluttered, choked, then slowly opened his eyes. It must have been nightmarish. Two figures in long wax coats, the storm and a corpse. He said,

‘You broke me nose.’

Jordan said, ‘Stand up, you’ve work to do.’

He got shakily to his feet, whined,

‘What’s going on?’

Jordan said, ‘Shut up and you might live.’

He shut up.

I asked, ‘Where are we going to put Kerrkovian?’

‘The elm tree, where he placed your friend.’

Jordan reached onto a back shelf, produced a bottle of brandy, handed it to me. I drank deep and offered it to the punk.

He was shaking so bad he could hardly hold it. Brandy ran down his front. I said,

‘Use both hands.’

It made him gag but he got it down. I passed the bottle to Jordan, who took a small sip. The punk looked to me, said,

‘Don’t let him kill me, Mr Mitchell.’

Mister!

I said, ‘Course not.’

Jordan said, ‘Help me get the wire out of his throat.’

We turned Kerrkovian over, his head was rolling, the teeth had bit clean through his lower lip. The punk went,

‘Arg... h... h,’

and threw up.

The wire had two wooden handles. They looked well worn. I didn’t want to think about that. We took a handle each and pulled. It came clear but far from clean. Jordan cleaned it on the dead man’s suit. Then he straightened up, cleared his throat and spat on him. He said,

‘Lift.’

And we threw the body in the barrow. Jordan took the Sig Sauer, hefted it. I said,

‘That’s the closest thing to a non-jam automatic you’ll get.’

He pointed it loosely at the punk, said,

‘Push that barrow.’

The storm had increased. I could feel the rain even through the slicker. The punk had a tough task pushing the barrow but eventually we got to the elm tree. Jordan threw a shovel on the ground, said,

‘Get digging.’

The punk was wiping blood and mucus from his ruined nose, asked,

‘By myself?’

‘Do it.’

The mud made his job a little easier, save he kept slipping.

Jordan handed me a flask, I drank like a demented thing.

Finally, the grave was dug. Jordan leant over the barrow, took a pair of pliers from his coat, cut off Kerrkovian’s little finger.

The punk whimpered and I said,

‘Jesus Christ!’

The crack of the bone was like a pistol shot. Then he tilted the barrow and the body tumbled in. The sound of it hitting was like a splash in hell. Jordan handed me the Sig Sauer.

I said,

‘What?’

Jordan looked right into my eyes, said,

‘I’ve noticed your speech is polluted with Americanisms so... it’s your call.’

The punk realised what was going down, pleaded,

‘Aw God, Mr Mitchell, I won’t say nuffink.’

I shot him in the forehead. He wavered for a moment then fell into the hole. Jordan picked up the shovel, began to fill the grave. I didn’t move, just stood there, rain teaming down, the Sig hanging loose at my side.

Jordan straightened up, said,

‘Let’s get a cup of tea.’

At the kitchen table, as Jordan made tea, I said,

‘Mickey Spillane always had his characters drink whiskey as he couldn’t spell cognac.’

He didn’t answer.

I didn’t care.

He put two steaming mugs of tea down and asked,

‘A biscuit?’

‘Are they Rich Tea?’

‘Only Mikado.’

‘I’ll pass then.’

He got a bottle of Glenlivet from under the sink and I asked,

‘What, you have bottles stashed everywhere?’

‘Not just bottles.’

‘Oh.’

He unscrewed the cap and dolloped the booze into the tea.

I supped mine. It tasted like tea with whisky added.

I rolled a cig and offered it to him. He took it and I got to work on another. Lit up and we’d a cloud of smoke in jig time. I said,

‘Jordan, how’d you get the name? It’s not anything to do with baseball... is it?’

He sneered, said,

‘My father was born on the bank of the Jordan.’

‘I thought you were Hungarian.’

‘We moved.’

‘Did you ever hear the quotation:

  “I am filled with coffins

  like an old cemetery”?’

He stubbed out the butt, said,

‘It’s not over yet.’

‘I’m afraid you’re right.’

I stood up, said,

‘I have to get some kip.’

‘You’ll need it.’