London Boulevard

Jordan sent the severed finger to Gant,

Beautifully wrapped,

Gold box

Brittle tissue paper

Red velvet bow.

Said to me, ‘The moving finger having writ...’

I said, ‘You’re one sick fucker.’

I got back on line with Aisling. She demurred at first, made me sweat it, then agreed. We met at the Sun and Splendour on Portobello... I’d bought new shoes. JP Tods, the real thing. Those suckers are expensive but wow, are your feet very grateful.

Tan colour, I was wearing the Gap khaki with them, a cream sweatshirt and the Gucci jacket. Looked good enough to eat.

Aisling was wearing a killer black dress. I said,

‘Killer dress.’

She smiled. Things were looking hopeful. She said,

‘You’re not too bad yourself.’

‘Do you like the shoes?’

‘Bally?’

‘No.’

‘Imitation?’

‘Hardly.’

‘Oh sorry, I forgot you’re a man of discernment and taste.’

‘Isn’t that from “Sympathy for the Devil”?’

‘I dunno.’

‘Before your time, I guess.’

She ignored that, asked,

‘Where are we going?’

I said, ‘Fancy dinner?’

‘I fancy you, more’s the Irish’d pity.’

The thing with the Irish is, they sure can talk and boy, can they talk well. But what on earth are they talking about?

Fuck knows.

She said,

‘Here’s a thought, let’s rent a vid, order pizza and you can discover what’s under a killer dress.’

‘Won’t it look odd here on the street?’

We went to her place. The minute we got in, she was on me.

Hips grinding, mouth fastened like hope. After we’d done, I gasped,

‘What about the pizza?’

Later we watched ‘Three Colours Red’. I’m not sure I entirely got it. Aisling cried through most of it. I hate fuckin’ subtitles. She asked,

‘Did you like it?’

‘Loved it.’

‘Truly, you can say, I won’t mind.’

In the afterglow, I went way over the top, said,

‘I love French films, they have a certain... je ne sais quoi.’

She bought it

hook

line

and frenched sinker.

Said, ‘Oh, I am so happy Mitch, and you speak French.’

The one line I had was from the joint. A serial rapist used to scream it when the vigilantes came for him.

Which they did twice weekly. I said,

‘Sure.’

She sat up, the sheet falling away from her breasts. I’d have spoken bloody Russian. She said,

‘This is so cool, it’s part of a trilogy; we can watch “Blue” and “White”.’

I nodded, reached for my tobacco and began a roll up. She watched in fascination. I asked,

‘Want one?’

‘You’re my drug.’

Uh... uh.

Finally got to the pizza, blitzed in the microwave. As it dripped down my mouth, Aisling asked,

‘All appetites satisfied?’

I nodded.

The radio was playing quietly. They’d been good.

Gram Parsons

Cowboy Junkies

till

Phil Collins began massacring ‘True Colours’.

Aisling asked,

‘What are you thinking about?’

I know that answer, said,

‘You, dear.’

She laughed and I added,

‘We don’t need a light, your eyes would brighten any room.’

‘Shite talk.’

The radio kicked in with Iris de Ment — ‘My Father Died a Year Ago Today...’

Aisling began to cry. I moved to hold her and she waved me away. Was quiet as the song finished the last haunting melody. She said,

‘My dad was an alcoholic. My brother said I lived my childhood like a deer in the headlights of a speeding car. For years the only way I could cope was to move him from the drama to the light entertainment department. When he died roaring from drink, I was glad. At the hospital, they gave me his effects... know what they were?’

I had no idea, said,

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘A Boy Scout belt and rosary beads.’

She toyed with a pizza crust, then,

‘I threw the beads in the river.’

‘You kept the belt?’

‘It was his estate.’

‘Jeez, you have a mouth on you, know that?’

She smiled, said,

‘You want to hear a crock?’

‘A what?’

‘A crock of shit.’

‘Well...’

‘All you hear nowadays is the New Woman. Doesn’t want the traditional things. This woman wants a husband, a home, and children.’

I kept quiet. Reached for a drink. She said,

‘I want you.’

Then she leant over straddled me and began to make love.

I didn’t resist. After, she asked,

‘Wouldn’t I be crazy not to?’

‘You would.’

I didn’t feel crazy. I spend all of the next day with her. Went to Portobello Market, laughed at the junk they were pedalling. Drove to the West End and got our photo taken at The Trocadero. Oddly enough, it wasn’t a bad snap. Aisling looks young and shining, and me... I look like I’m glad she looks like that. I was.

When I got back to Holland Park, it was clocking midnight. The house was dark. I checked on the actress, touched her cheek, she muttered,

‘M... m...’

and continued sleeping.

No sign of Jordan.

Went to my room and cracked a brewski. I had that bone weariness that comes from feeling good. Didn’t analyse too closely lest I lose it. Did I love Aisling? Sure as shooting, she made me feel like a person I might once have hoped to be.

Drank the brew, it was cold and satisfying. Got my clothes off and climbed into bed. Jesus, I was beat. Stretched my legs. My toes touched something wet and instantly recoiled. Jumped out of the bed, horror building. Tore back the bedclothes. A ball of blood and gore lay there. My eyes could focus, but the mind wouldn’t kick. Had to look closer — it was a dog’s head. Briony’s dog... what the fuck was his name... Bartley? Bartley-Jack.

Ever hear Dolores Keane sing ‘Caledonian’?

I did then.

I dunno why.

As I recoiled from the bed of horror, the song pounded in my head.

Madness, I guess.

Then I felt my shoulders gripped and next a hard slap to my face. I said,

‘Hey, easy on the slapping.’

Jordan said,

‘You were shouting, we don’t want to wake Madam.’

‘God forbid that should happen.’

He stepped over to the bed, muttered something in Hungarian.

Something the equivalent of ‘fuck me’. I said,

‘It’s my sister’s dog.’

‘Why are we still here? Let’s go.’

We got the rain slickers and the guns, took my car. Traffic was light and we got across town in about thirty minutes.

Briony lived in a house on the Peckham Road. On a quiet street, just a riot away from the lights.

The house was ablaze with lights. Jordan asked,

‘You want front or back?’

‘Front.’

I kept the Glock in my right hand pocket. The door was ajar.

I pushed it slowly back. Tiptoed down the hall. Briony was sitting in an armchair, covered in blood. I gasped till I realised it was from the dog, whom she was holding in her lap.

Her eyes were staring, I said,

‘Bri?’

‘Oh hello.’

I moved into the room, moved near her, asked,

‘You okay, hon?’

‘Look what they did to my baby.’

‘Who did?’

‘I don’t know. When I came home, I found him in my bed. Where is his head, Mitch?’

Jordan stepped into the room. I said,

‘Bri, this is my friend Jordan.’

‘Oh... hello Jordan, would you like tea?’

He shook his head. I said,

‘Bri, will you let me hold Bartley-Jack?’

‘Okay.’

I took the mess from her lap. The little dog’s body was still warm. That freaked the fuck outta me. Jordan said,

‘I’ll clean up your sister.’

He helped her from the chair and took her by the hand. The phone rang. I picked it up and heard a high-pitched giggle.

I started for the door and Jordan caught me up, asked,

‘Where are you going?’

‘It’s Gant.’

‘And?’

‘I’m going to kill the fucker.’

He turned me round, said,

‘Think it through, you want to catch him at a vulnerable time. Has he family?’

‘A daughter, school age.’

‘So, we hit at breakfast.’

‘After, the girl goes to school.’

‘As you wish.’

‘How’s Briony?’

‘She’s sleeping, I gave her a sedative.’

‘What the fuck are you, a mobile pharmacy?’

He smiled. ‘Among other things.’

Jordan went out for about half an hour, returned with a carrier bag, said,

‘To help us make it through the night.’

‘Put a tune to that, you’re talking number one with a bullet.’

He grimaced. Took a six pack of Bud, French bread, ham, tomatoes, pickles, jar of mayo. I asked,

‘Where’d you get that shit?’

‘This is Peckham.’

Argue that.

A few brewskis later, I said,

‘Lawrence Block’s Matt Scudder said:

Mid French roll, he asked,

‘Which means what?’

‘I dunno, seems appropriate.’

We formed a plan for hitting Gants. Rather, we tried various options.

Discarded

modified

arrived at.

Jordan said, ‘Okay. That’s good. Now, let’s make it look like a drug deal gone sour.’

‘How?’

He reached in the bag, tossed a

hypo

heroin

and

the works

on the table.

I said, ‘That’s my kit!’

‘I know.’

I stood up, said,

‘You search my room?’

‘Daily.’

‘You fuck, what are you playing at?’

He asked,

‘Ever heard of Anthony de Mello? Course not. You’ve read a handful of mediocre crime books and believe you know life.’

He didn’t say — ‘You moron!’

But it hung there.

Oh yeah.

He continued,

‘De Mello said ninety per cent of people are asleep. They never wake up. When was the Hungarian Uprising?’

‘What is this, a quiz? What do I give a fuck about the Hungarian Uprising?’

‘Voila. You don’t even know the basic premise of crime writing. Cherchez la femme. I grew up watching men who were decent, compassionate people. They had to hunt down and exterminate the child murderers. In so doing, they had to become the beast, turn to stone. They never smiled.’

I had no idea where this was going, said,

‘I’ve no idea where this is going.’

He produced some pills from the bag, laid them on the arm of the chair, said,

‘De Mello tells the story of the Spanish chicken.

‘An eagle’s egg falls into a chicken coop. It hatches and the chickens raise it as their own. The chick learns to pick at the ground, develops like them. One day, he sees a majestic bird fly over. He’s told it is the most superb of all creatures. He returns to pecking at the ground, grows old and dies, believing he’s a chicken.’

I shrugged, said,

‘Very deep.’

He didn’t answer so I said,

‘Lemme tell you about one of the mediocre crime books I’ve read. Harry Crews! He wrote “Comic Southern Gothic”—’

He held up his hand, said,

‘You’ve evidently never heard of the pig.’

‘What... what fuckin pig?’

‘As in... don’t try to teach a pig to sing. It’s a waste of your time, and it only irritates the pig. I apologise for believing you might sing.’

Briony cried out, distracting us from where that story might have led us.

She was asleep, but whimpering. I cradled her in my arms and she quietened down. I dozed myself, dreaming of

headless pigs

flying chickens

and

wordless corpses.

Came to as Jordan touched my arm, saying,

‘We better go.’

He handed me coffee and the pill. I took them. Briony was in a deep sleep and I kissed her forehead. Jordan was watching us, his expression unreadable.

I said, ‘Only the dead know Brooklyn.’

It was a title by Thomas Boyle. Jordan may not have wanted to know about crime novels but it didn’t mean he wasn’t going to hear it.

We put on the rain slickers, talked quietly about our plan.

The tops of my toes and fingers were tingling. My adrenaline was cranking up a notch. I asked,

‘What the fuck’s happening to me?’

‘You’re about to fly.’

‘What?’

‘Let’s just say I’m bringing you up to speed.’

‘Amphetamines?’

‘Something like that.’

Dawn was breaking. Jordan said,

‘I didn’t know your sister had a baby.’

‘She doesn’t.’

‘There’s a wardrobe full of baby clothes.’

‘What? You tossed her room too?’

‘Force of habit.’

The speed was nipping at my eyes, pushing them wide. Jordan checked his gun, the Sig Sauer. I said,

‘You like that number.’

‘Nine millimetre, what’s not to like?’

We got outside. A street cleaner was leaning against the wall.

Smoke break.

A radio was perched on his cart, ABBA doing ‘I Believe In Angels’.

He said, ‘How-ye men.’ Irish.

I said, ‘Nice bit o’ weather.’

‘Least Sky don’t own it yet.’

Jordan put the car in gear and we were outta there. I thought about Harry Crews and an interview he’d done with Charlie Bronson. Bronson said,

Got to Gant’s home in under twenty minutes. Dare I say, I was speeding. It was just on eight. My system was moving into overdrive. Feet and hands twitching, a flood of fuelled ideas toss-tumbling in my head. The street was lined with trees. Jordan said,

‘It’s a boulevard.’

‘London’s a fuckin boulevard.’

A school bus came slowly down the street. Jordan asked,

‘Ever read “Meetings with Remarkable Men”?’

‘Desperate men... yeah.’

He ignored this, eyeing the bus, continued,

‘To devour the writings of

Gursjieff

Ouspensky

Sivanda

Yoganda

Blavatsky

Bailey

...Ah... and then, to abandon enlightenment, to walk back into darkness.’

I was sore tempted to name the Liverpool squad but feared he might shoot me. Gant’s front door opened and a woman emerged holding a young girl’s hand. She fussed with the child’s schoolbag, fixed her coat then gave her a hug. The child boarded the bus. The woman watched the bus leave with an expression of loss. Then she went back inside. Jordan said,

‘Let’s go.’

As we walked, he asked,

‘Front or back?’ I gave a grim smile, bit down and swallowed hard.

What’s a soundtrack for murder? In my head was Leonard Cohen’s ‘Famous Blue Raincoat’. As I reached the front door, I muttered about music on Clinton Street. I love that line.

Rang the doorbell.

Chimes!

Worse, it played a tune... ‘Una Paloma Blanca’! I swear to God. Just how long had it been since they’d had a holiday?

She opened the door.

I punched her straight in the face. She went back like a sack of potatoes. I looked round. Half expecting the milkman who’d say — ‘She didn’t pay you either, eh?’

Took hold of her hair, dragged her inside, shut the door. She was out cold. A figure appeared in the hallway. Panicked, I fumbled for my gun. Jordan... he shook his head. Then, putting a finger to his lips, he pointed upstairs.

Gant was sitting up in bed, a breakfast tray on his lap. He looked stunned. I said,

‘Mornin’ all.’

He had a coffee cup en route to his mouth. It was frozen mid-air. I walked over, slapped it away. Bounced off the wall.

Jordan was standing by the door. I backhanded Gant and said,

‘You wanted to see me, eh? Well here the fuck I am.’

He still hadn’t spoken. I grabbed him by the pyjamas, pulled him from the bed. Jordan took a hammer from his coat and began to smash mirrors. Gant said,

‘Aw c’mon.’

I took the Glock out, held it loose, asked,

‘When you beheaded the dog, did it make you hot?’

‘What?’

I lost it and pistol-whipped him till Jordan caught my arm, said,

‘He’ll lose consciousness.’

Coming out of the speed jag, I saw my arms were splattered in blood. Not mine.

Jordan said,

‘Time to go.’

Gant managed to focus his good eye, said,

‘Let’s talk a deal.’

I shot him in the mouth. Jordan dumped the drugs paraphernalia on the bed, then put a bullet in Gant’s head. We did a ransack of the house, turned up

20 grand

A horde of Kruggerands

Three handguns

A stash of coke.

Took it all.

As we prepared to leave, the wife began to come round. Jordan kicked her in the head, asked,

‘Want to torch it?’

‘No, I hate fires.’

As we pulled into Peckham, I said,

‘Drop me off here, I want to see a friend.’

‘Are you sure? I mean you’re flying.’

‘It’s a dead friend.’

If he had a reply to this, he didn’t voice it. He said,

‘All this paraphernalia...’ He indicated the loot... ‘is yours.’

‘What?’

‘It’s yours.’

‘You’re kidding, shit... there’s a small budget for a small country there.’

‘I don’t need money.’

‘If you insist.’

Blame the speed but I blurted out,

‘I think I’m going to get married.’

For the first time I saw Jordan give a look of joy. He took my hand, pumped it warmly, said,

‘Wonderful, you’re thinking right... but I’m not sure if Lillian is actually single.’

It took me a moment, then I asked,

‘Lillian! Who the fuck’s talking about Lillian?’

He dropped my hand, his face clouding, asked,

‘Somebody else?’

‘Sure.’

Then I laughed into a blitz of shite talk about Aisling.

Winding down, I said,

‘I’ll want you at the wedding... okay?’

He opened the car door, said,

‘Go see your dead friend.’

At a florist near the bus depot, I bought a shitpile of flowers. I so overdid, that the florist began to get nervous. Till I flashed the cash. I was that demented I wanted to tip the guy. Spin a Kruger in the air, say,

‘Have yourself a time.’

Having home invaded a man’s house, punched out his wife, dragged him from his bed, then shot him in the mouth, how was I to set the limits?

Thus, I staggered down to the cemetery with the flowers.

A guy leaning against the bingo hall said,

‘Me oul flower.’

At the cemetery, the caretaker had placed a white cross on Joe’s grave. I said,

‘Hey Joe.’

Laid the flowers carefully down. I stood there, up to my eyes in death. I told Joe what had been happening. Then I said,

‘I miss you man.’

Back at Holland Park, the speed had evaporated and I was having a killer downer. I sat on the bed, drank some scotch, tried to ease the blues. On the bed were the spoils. I said aloud,

‘I’m rich then... aren’t I... fuckin rich.’

The phone went.

Lillian.

She purred, ‘How are you, darling?’

‘I’m beat is what I am.’

‘You rest lover, we’ll love later.’

‘Sure.’

‘Everything’s taken care of now, darling.’

‘Is it?’

‘Oh yes, sleep my sweet.’

I lay on the bed and thought — ‘What am I missing here?’

I rode the actress as if I meant it. She was surprised at my energy, said,

‘Who’s been taking their vitamins?’

Sickening myself, I said,

‘There’s more where that came from.’

She hugged me close. I felt post-coital repulsion. I’d made up my mind, one week and I’d walk. Set up home with Aisling and chill. Lillian said,

‘Did you see a set of keys on the table?’

‘No.’

‘Go see.’

‘Now?’

‘Please darling.’

I got up, walked naked to the table. A set of shiny keys, picked them up. I could feel Lillian’s eyes burn along my body. Went back to the bed, asked,

‘These them?’

Her face was glowing, she said,

‘They’re for a BMW.’

‘Nice.’

‘Your BMW.’

‘What?’

‘Took delivery today. I hope you like red.’

I hate fucking red, said,

‘My favourite.’

‘Oh darling, it’s just the beginning, I’m going to spoil you silly.’

‘You don’t need to do that.’

‘I want to.’

She lay back and I knew I’d those keys to earn.

I was coming down the stairs as Jordan was coming up. He was holding a silver tray, piled high with letters. I said,

‘Bills, eh?’

‘Fan mail.’

‘What?’

‘Every day, she hears from her public.’

‘What makes you so sure they’re fan letters.’

‘I write them.’

The following evening, I was to call at Aisling’s place. She’d promised me ‘an Oirish night’.

‘What’s that?’

‘Well, you get to

drink Black Velvet

eat Irish Stew

listen to Clannad

and

bed a colleen.’

‘Sounds great.’

‘It is.’

In the afternoon, I went shopping. Time to burn some of the cash. First off to the city. There’s a jewellers tucked right in the centre. Chris Brady, the proprietor and I go way back. He has an Errol Flynn look. Buckets of charm and graceful movement. He recommends books I should read. When I was almost a citizen, Chris had helped my education. Then I got sidetracked. At first he didn’t recognise me, then,

‘Mitch?’

‘None other.’

He came round the counter, gave me a huge hug. Of all the things I am, huggable I ain’t. Where I grew up, you touch another man, you lost your arm. He said,

‘I’m delighted to see you.’

I believed him.

Told him about Aisling and my wedding plan. He said,

‘I know exactly what you need.’

He disappeared into the back. The radio was playing Midnight Oil and ‘Beds are Burning’. Catchy tune.

The Evening Standard was lying on a chair, early edition. Gant’s photo on the front page. I edged the paper round, scanned the story. It was being treated as a drug related deal.

Chris came back said,

‘This is an Irish wedding ring, known as a heart-in-hand, or Claddagh ring.’

I liked it. Caught a glimpse of the price and went,

‘Uh-uh.’

Chris said,

‘Don’t worry about that,’

and gave me fifty per cent reduction.

Time to go, he said,

‘Hang on a mo, I have a book for you.’

Produced a slim volume. I read the title,

I asked,

‘Any good?’

‘Magnificent.’

We shook hands, and Chris said,

‘Listen, come over for a meal some evening. Sandra would love to see you.’

I assured him I would. We both smiled at the blatant untruth. Some friends, they don’t judge you on the lies you tell.

As I headed out of the city, the ring snug in my pocket,

I had a song in my head, Trisha Yearwood with ‘Hearts in Armour’.

It made me sad, but not in any way that worried me.

Next up, I went to Regents Street. I’d promised myself if I ever got flush, I’d buy shoes. Not any shoes but Weejun. The assistant was better dressed than my bank manager. Same sneer though. He said,

‘How may I help you, Sir?’

‘You could talk right for a start.’

Where do they learn that shit? Is there a school where they grind them in sarcasm and arrogance? I said,

‘Pair of Weejun, size ten, tan... got it?’

He did.

Put them on and went to shoe heaven.

‘Does Sir find them satisfactory?’

‘Beaut. I’ll have two more pairs in black and brown.’

The bill was gulp stuff. I gulped. Sneer asked,

‘Cash or charge?’

I laid down a wedge, said,

‘Take a wild guess.’

Then he did the shoe con of:

‘Those shoes require careful cleaning.’

He began to pile tubes on the counter I said,

‘Naw.’

‘Sir?’

‘You can’t beat a spit and a cloth.’

‘As Sir wishes.’

I took my packages, said,

‘I’ll miss you, pal.’

He didn’t reply.

You gonna shop, you have to take a pit stop. Do the mandatory designer coffee trip. I could do that.

The Seattle Coffee Company. They had coffee nine different ways to Sunday. I ordered a latte. Saying it, you have an instant lisp. The counter assistant was an in-your-face fake friendly. Her name tag read Debi. She asked,

‘Like a shot of something in that, Sir?’

‘Sure; nut a large scotch in there.’

She gave the tolerant smile, said,

‘We have

Vanilla

Blackcurrant

Maple.’

‘Whoo Debi, just the caffeine.’

Plonked myself on the sofa and grabbed a paper. The latte tasted like foam and air. I read about ‘Heshers’ — thirteen-year-olds into heavy metal and ‘Tweakers’ — fifteen-year-olds addicted to crystal meth, known as crank or speed. At weekends, they went out with the gang:

‘Endlessly cruising the same shopping centers and ghost slot machine arcades.’

Getting stoned

drunk

partying

fighting.

Anything to kill the boredom.

The only punctuation was

jail

abortion

suicide.

I put down the paper. The assistant came over, said,

‘Would you like a loyalty card?’

‘What?’

‘Each time you come in, we punch your card and then, after your tenth visit, you get a free coffee.’

‘I don’t do loyalty.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘No offence Debi, but you’re far too young to punch my card.’

Outside a guy asked me if I wanted to score some dope. I looked round, no one seemed concerned he was plying his trade in blatant and broad daylight. I asked,

‘Do you do loyalty cards?’

Arriving at Aisling’s, my heart, was pounding. When she opened the door, I went,

‘Wow!’

She was wearing one of those sheath dresses. Looked like a slip that shrank. My eyes fell to her cleavage. She said,

‘The miracle of Wonderbra.’

How could I not say,

‘Wunderbar.’

Inside, we kissed till she pushed me away, saying,

‘Phew... I have dinner cooking.’

‘Me too.’

She produced Jameson, said,

‘Let us begin, Oirish, would you like a hot one?’

‘I’m not even going to pretend I have the obvious reply.’

I gave her the book Chris had given me, said,

‘I had to search London to get you a Galway author.’

She squealed,

‘Kevin Whelan! I love him!’

I said, ‘And...’

Produced the box. She took it slowly, opened it carefully, went,

‘Oh My God!’

It fit.

The smell of good food cooking wafted from the kitchen. I had a look at a framed poem on the wall. It was by Jeff O’Connell.

It read:

It gave me an eerie feeling. Like I’d just had my palm read. Aisling asked,

‘What do you think?’

‘Phew.’

‘Which means?’

I meant or think I meant, someone walked on my grave. I asked,

‘Where’s he from?’

I heard her laugh then say,

‘That’s so Irish.’

‘What?’

‘Answer a question with a question.’

‘Oh.’

‘He’s from Galway, the home of the Claddagh ring. Isn’t that odd?’

I thought it was downright spooky.

Keeping the Irish theme, the Fureys were doing ‘Leaving Nancy’ and we’d made hot international love. She asked,

‘Do you love me?’

‘I’m getting there.’

‘And will you marry me?’

‘I’d say so.’

‘When?’

‘Soon as.’

She sat up,

‘Oh my God, are you serious?’

‘I am.’

She ran from the bed and returned with the champagne, said,

‘You know, we were to have black velvet.’

‘Yeah.’

In a perfect mimicry of me, she said,

‘Screw the Guinness.’

I was as near to happy as I’d ever get. That’s pretty close.

I tried to do a bad brogue, asked,

‘Will you be wanting the wedding to be big?’

‘I’ll be wanting it to be soon.’

Love or its neighbour must have made me selfish or heedless or simply a bollocks. I’m reaching... trying to lay off the fact that I didn’t check on Briony. Not even a phone call.

Two nights later, I was deep in sleep at Holland Park. Took the phone some ringing to pull me awake. Finally, I grabbed for the phone, muttered,

‘What?’

‘Mr Mitchell?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s Dr Patel.’

‘Who?... Oh yeah... Jeez, what time is it?’

‘Two thirty... there’s an emergency... it’s Briony.’

I sat up.

‘Is she okay?’

‘She’s apparently taken an overdose.’

‘Apparently? What are you doing... guessing?’

‘I’m trying my best, Mr Mitchell.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m on my way.’

I thought — ‘No better time to give my new BMW a run.’ I also thought that no way could it really be red. Not even Lillian Palmer could pull off a red BMW.

It was. Bright fucking red.

Well leastways, it was night. How much could it show? Glided up towards the lights in Notting Hill Gate. It was a dream drive. As I waited for the light to change, a blue Mazda cruised up beside me. Packed with brothers, rap streaming. My window was down and the driver clocked me, said,

‘Bro, dat be a righteous colour.’ I nodded. He reached over, handed me a jay, said, ‘Rig like dat, yo gots to git down.’

I took it, inhaled deep. The light went green and the driver gunned his engine, said,

‘Y’all be cool.’

The dope kicked and my vision blurred. I nearly did for a cyclist at the Elephant and Castle roundabout. He shouted obscenities and I answered,

‘Be cool, bro.’

When I got to St Thomas’, I parked in their doctors’ allotted area. A uniform came bundling out, crying,

‘Oi!’

‘Yes.’

‘This is reserved for doctors.’

‘I’m a doctor.’

‘Eh?’

‘How much are you smoking. Good Lord man, look at your pallor, when did you have an ECG?’

‘I...’

‘And cut out those burgers, you won’t last six months.’

I strode past him. Though with the dope, it was more of a mellow sweep.

I met Patel outside the ICU He didn’t shake hands, accused:

‘You’re stoned!’

‘So?’

‘Well, it seems inappropriate.’

‘Is Briony conscious?’

‘No.’

‘So what does it matter a fuck then.’

I didn’t know the rage was there till I tapped into it. The old ‘kill the messenger syndrome’. He said,

‘We pumped her out, she’d ingested seventy-nine paracetemol.’

‘Counted them, did ya?’

Spittle from me landed on his white coat, my fists were balled. Two seconds and I’d be battering him. He began to back off, asked, ‘Would you like to see her?’

‘Take a wild fuckin’ guess.’

I had to suit up for ICU:

gown

mask

booties

I felt like an un-needed extra on ‘ER’.

Briony looked dead. Pale as the very colour of despair. A respirator was aiding her breathing.

I held her hand and a nurse got me a chair. The nurse said,

‘You can talk to her.’

‘Can she hear me?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘It would be a first.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘She never heard me before.’

She died after six. Never made it to the dawn. Later, Patel took me to his office said,

‘Feel free to smoke.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I am so very sorry.’

‘Whatever.’

‘I had... feelings for her... I...’

‘Yo... Doc, I don’t wanna hear it... okay?’

‘Of course.’

The paperwork done, the doc said,

‘You’ll want her in the family plot.’

I gave a laugh steeped in malice, said,

‘The family plot is a shoebox.’

‘Oh.’

He hung his head. I reached in my pocket, took out a heavy wedge dropped it on the table, said,

‘Burn her. Isn’t that what you Indians do? Then plonk her ashes on your mantlepiece and you finally get to have her.’

I was walking away when he asked,

‘What about her little dog?’

‘He lost the head, it’s a family trait.’

At reception a nurse called,

‘Mr Mitchell?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I am so sorry.’

‘Sure.’

‘Will you want her raincoat?’

‘What?’

‘She was wrapped in a coat... would you like to take it?’

I gave her a long look, said,

‘She was about your build, you keep it.’

I turned to go when she said,

‘It’s Gant.’

‘What?’

‘The coat, it’s a Gant, American label — a very expensive brand.’

I couldn’t get to grips with that, waved her away. Outside, I tried to light a cigarette. My hands were doing a fandango. I threw it away, headed for my car.

Blame the events of the previous days, jeez, the previous weeks, or the dope, the booze, or the shock of Briony’s death, or I’m just a dumb motherfucker.

Whatever, I failed to ask two vital questions.

1) Who found Briony?

2) Who brought her to the hospital?

No, I was intent on small damage. To lash out at the nearest.

The uniform came striding out. I focused on his shiny pants.

It mirrored the spit in his soul. The miracle of dry cleaning hadn’t filtered down to him yet. He folded his arms, didn’t speak. Fine, I thought. Fuck you, Jack.

I reached the BMW. Alongside the front fender, gouged in huge letters was

I spun round, shouted,

‘Call yourself a security guard?’

‘Why not, you call yourself a doctor.’

Pure white rage coursed through me. What especially galled me was the gouger couldn’t spell. I asked,

‘And you’ll have no idea who did it.’

He gave me a toothy smile, said,

‘Nope.’

Then the anger evaporated. I couldn’t be bothered. Got in the car, pulled outta there. I can still see his face, writ in dismay that I just let it go. Felt dismayed myself.

Rest of the day, I drifted like a ghost through pubs in south-east London. I was there

I drank

but never touched base.

Later, at Holland Park, I fell asleep in my clothes. Woke to find the actress giving me a blow job. She stopped, said,

‘Don’t worry darling, we’re nearly there.’

Then, I thought she meant bringing me to climax. As with most everything else, I was hopelessly wrong.

Next morning, I shaved, showered and put on fresh clothes.

Felt fresher if not better. Working through a double hit of nicotine and caffeine, the phone went. I said,

‘Yeah?’

‘Mitch.’

‘That you, Jeff?’

‘Yeah, listen mate, I’m gutted about Bri.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Listen mate, I need to talk with you.’

‘’Kay.’

‘Eight this evening, the Charlie Chaplin.’

‘I’ll be there.’

Put the phone down, thought — ‘Was there an edge there?’

Then I shrugged it away, not Jeff, no... he was my mate. Fuck, he and I went way back.

Outside the house, Jordan was doing the garden. I said,

‘No end to your talents, eh.’

He looked up, didn’t answer. I walked over to the BMW. The gouge was gone. Jordan said,

‘I couldn’t allow it.’

‘You did the repairs yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fuck it, that’s brill.’

‘As always, Mr Mitchell, you overstate the obvious.’

My marriage plans required a birth certificate and balls. I got one, hoped I had the other. For the meet with Jeff, I put on the Gucci jacket, considered packing heat but decided against. I didn’t take the BMW. In south-east London, it would be snapped in a mo. Hailed a cab and told the cabby,

‘Charlie Chaplin at the Elephant.’

He didn’t say anything for a bit, then,

‘You know why it’s called that?’

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

‘’Cause Charlie was born up the road in Kennington.’

I didn’t answer lest I encouraged him. Then, undaunted, he asked,

‘Know who else lives there?’

‘No.’

‘Greta Scacchi!’

‘Gee.’

We got there, I paid him, said,

‘You ought to be on Mastermind.’

‘Want me to wait?’

‘I’ll pass.’

He handed me a card, said,

‘Gimme a bell anytime.’

I’d torn it in ribbons before I got to the pub.

Jeff was sitting at the bar, a pint of Guinness in his hand.

I said, ‘Waiting long?’

‘No.’

‘What’s on your mind, Jeff?’

He took a long breath, said,

‘That guy, Kerrkovian, he’s disappeared.’

‘Good riddance.’

‘No argument there, but the kid has gone too.’

‘Kid?’

‘The punk kid, the one you’d a hard-on for.’

‘So?’

‘So, he was hanging with Kerrkovian.’

I took a drink, rolled a cig, asked,

‘Spit it out.’

‘Had you anything to do with it?’

‘No.’

He drained his pint, stood up, said,

‘People liked that kid, word is you offed him.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘Thing is Mitch, once you’ve buried your sister, you’d be advised to stay away from south-east London.’

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

‘You’re threatening me?’

‘I’m delivering a message.’

Seemed to me I’d been taking shit from people all day. I said, ‘Here’s a message back.’

I swung fast, caught him under the chin. He crashed back against the bar. I turned on my heel, walked straight out.

Not a sign of a cab. I half considered trying to fit the scattered card back together.

Next morning, my right hand hurt like a bastard. The knuckles were bruised and swollen. I bathed it and then poured TCP over it.

Stung?

Oh fuck. I dropped the bottle, let my head back and howled like a son of a bitch.

Put on my suit and checked my reflection. Looked like a minor league mob-guy. Bottom feeder and not connected.

Went down to the kitchen, smelt good aromas. Jordan was at the stove, asked,

‘Hungry?’

‘Like a wolf.’

I pulled up a chair and he poured me a scalding hot coffee.

The aroma was so wonderful. I was afraid to taste it. How could it measure up? He put a plate before me. It was eggs over-easy, with crispy bacon interwoven. Got a wedge of that with heavily buttered toast, bit down. Ah man, like a childhood you never had. Jordan sat down, dug into his. He ate like a demon, as if he’d a fire that couldn’t be fed. He finished fast. I said,

‘Jeez, you needed that.’

He gave a cold nod. I added,

‘You’re not a morning type, right?’

‘I have a busy schedule.’

Stood up, went to a drawer, took out a thick envelope, said,

‘You haven’t been collecting your wages.’

‘What?’

‘You are still on the payroll.’

Then he looked at me, slow, asked,

‘Unless you are considering resignation.’

It crossed my mind to tell him I was outta there, in jig time. I said,

‘Course not.’

As he cleared the plates, he said,

‘Madam and I will be out all day next Friday, can I rely on you to care for the house?’

‘That’s what you guys pay me for. What is it, a hot date?’

‘Madam is being interviewed by HELLO, in preparation for her return.’

‘It’s supposed to be unlucky.’

‘I don’t believe in luck.’

‘Course not... do you believe in anything?’

He was surprised, said,

‘Madam, I believe only in Madam.’

As before, he was telling me exactly how it was. As usual, I wasn’t listening properly.

I drove to Kensington High Street. Despite the BMW’s colour, I loved that motor. Went and got the registry office squared away. In ten days we’d be married.

To celebrate, I went into Waterstone’s and bought Derek Raymond’s ‘The Devil’s Home On Leave’.

It fit.

Then to a coffee shop and ordered a large cappuccino, no sprinkle. Got a comfortable seat next to the window and settled in to read. Nodded in full agreement at:

Fuck, I loved that.

Or a dream he had, like this. His dead Father speaks:

‘Take the rain out of the names on our graves up at the church,’ he said gently, ‘with your forefinger: you’ll be sure to son, won’t you?’

Other people watched us from chairs high up on a terrace, they too were dead.

I put the book down, sipped at the coffee, thought of Briony. As a little girl, she used to say,

‘Won’t you mind me, Mitch?’

I’d promise with all the empty power and earnestness of a seven-year-old boy.

Got up quickly and left, drove to Aisling.

Derek Raymond said when you dream of rain it’s a sign of death. It was raining now. Briony, at twelve years old, crying,

‘I’d stand in the snow, with no clothes on, to look at you.’

Phew.

Only later, did I realise I’d left Derek Raymond in the window on High St Ken. Maybe he would have liked that, listening to the rain, the rich aroma of fresh brew all round.

I spent the afternoon in bed with Aisling. Later, I asked,

‘Was it good?’

‘Ish.’

‘What?’

‘Just kidding, it was magic. I just want to lie here, feeling like the cat who got the cream.’

The rain lashed down on the roof. I said,

‘Good thing we’re in.’

‘Better that we’re in each other.’

Argue that.

Aisling held her left hand up to the light, said,

‘See my ring, how the light bounces off it?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Notice the very top of the heart?’

I looked. Seemed like a small golden heart. So? I said,

‘So?’

‘It’s chipped.’

I sat up.

‘You’re kidding. I’ll have Chris’s ass.’

‘No... no, I love it like that. It’s perfect that it has a tiny blemish.’

‘What?’

‘The flaw makes it ideal.’

I didn’t get this, said,

‘Is this an Irish thing?’

She laughed out loud, said,

‘It’s a girl thing.’

‘Right!’

I took her in my arms, could feel her heart beating against my chest. I was about to say — ‘I love you.’

It was right there, my brain and tongue in sync to deliver the words I had never used, when she said,

‘Will you do something for me?’

‘I’ll give it my best shot.’

‘Peter Gabriel has a song called “I Grieve”.’

‘And?’

‘Will you listen to it with me?’

‘Like... now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay... but... are you unhappy?’

‘This is the best moment of my life.’

‘Phew! Let’s give Pete a turn then.’

As we listened, she held my hand in both of hers, her face in rapt concentration. I’ve no beef with Peter Gabriel, in fact I love ‘Biko’, but this just didn’t fit. The sadness and pain of his voice and the lyrics made you reach for a lethal scotch. Finally, it was done and she turned her face to me, eagerness electric. I said,

‘Now, that is an Irish thing’

I GOT BACK to Holland Park late on Tuesday night. Watched ‘South Park’ and wouldn’t have balked at adopting Kenny.

The actress appeared at my door, asked,

‘Can I visit?’

‘I’m a little beat, Lillian.’

‘As in beating your meat?’

Closer than she could imagine. In her left hand was a bottle and two glasses. Held by the neck as they do in the movies.

Scratch that, as they do in old movies. She asked,

‘Can a girl buy her fellah a drink?’

Jesus!

I said, ‘Maybe a nightcap.’

She handed me the booze, said,

‘It’s Dom Perignon.’

‘Whatever.’

I popped the cork pretty good. As is mandatory, most of the champagne went on the floor. People seem to regard that as part of the deal. Some deal.

Lillian was wearing a silver ball-gown. I’m not kidding — she told me. I asked,

‘Why?’

‘I thought a little ballroom dancing would be novel.’

‘And you hired a band?’

‘An orchestra.’

I looked at her face, said,

‘I can only hope you’re kidding.’

Sly smile, then: ‘I don’t do kidding.’

‘What, they’re huddled in the hall?’

I indicated my room, added,

‘Gonna be a tight squeeze for the guys.’

‘They’re in the ballroom.’

I didn’t even ask where it was, but thought, ‘How fuckin’ big is the house?’

I’d never explored it and come Friday, when they were hello-ing, I’d go through it like a dervish. Yeah, shake them branches, see what shook free.

We clinked glasses and I said,

‘Slàinte.’

She asked, ‘What is that?’

‘Irish.’

She shook herself in mock disgust, uttered,

‘A nation of buffoons and blarney.’

‘Gee, how English of you.’

She moved closer, said,

‘Allow me to French you.’

I did.

Her perfume was moth balls in chlorine. Blame the champagne but I came. Not in a spectacular way due to my exertions with Aisling, more a sad drizzle. Like rain they get in Crete.

Wiping her mouth, she said,

‘We need to get lead in that pencil.’

I said, ‘You’ve exhausted me, there’s no way I’ll get to the dance.’

She bought it, said,

‘We’ll dance our tomorrow, now sleep my sweet.’

When she’d gone, I took a scalding shower, couldn’t quite rid myself of her touch. In bed, I tried to think of Aisling, tried not to think of Briony.

Neither worked.

The call came at two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. I picked up the phone, identified myself as ‘Yes’ to

‘Mr Mitchell?’

It was the police.

‘Are you familiar with one Aisling Dwyer?’

‘Yes.’

‘I regret to inform you there’s been a tragic accident.’

‘What?’

‘A piece of paper in her purse listed your name and number.’

‘How is she,

   where,

      when,

        oh God.’

I got the address of the Islington hospital and drove over.

I don’t even remember the series of events. Only that she was dead, from a hit and run on the High Street. A man had leant over, held her hand until the ambulance came. Some time later, someone gave me a coffee. It tasted like the styrofoam cup. Then I was given the ‘brown envelope’. Her possessions.

It held

Money

Purse

Call card

Watch

No ring.

Must have left it at home. I was surprised she’d taken it off.

At an early hour of Thursday morning, I drove home. Drank lights out.

I surfaced around noon on Friday. Jesus, I was shook. My fingers fandangoed again as I tried to roll a smoke. Sweat cascaded down my forehead, stinging my eyes. I knew a shot of scotch would shut the works down, but would I stop?

Would I fuck.

Went to my mini fridge, got a brewski. Fosters.

When did I buy that or worse... why?

Never-no-mind.

Popped the ring, drank full. It poured down my chin, drenching my sodden T-shirt. Then, a la Richard Dreyfus in ‘Jaws’, I crushed the can, slung it.

Did its mini job and my system eased. Took a shower, shaved, changed into a white shirt, black fresh jeans. Risked a mirror glance.

Like any seedy waiter.

Okay, time to forage.

The house was silent, they really had gone. I avoided Lillian’s room. It was already too familiar. Took a time till I located Jordan’s. Knew it must be his as the door was locked. Braced myself against the far wall and took a flying kick. Near took it off the hinges.

I entered cautiously — booby traps were a definite possibility.

The room was spartan, with an army style cot, spit made.

I went through the wardrobes first. Half a dozen black suits, black shoes, and white shirts. On a top shelf was a shoe box which held a four-fifty-four Casull. It is one heavy mother. In every sense not too accurate, but the load it packs would blow a hole in an elephant. I put it gingerly in the waistband above my ass. Three drawers to go. First held spotlessly clean underwear. The second had a pile of old theatre bills, all Lillian of course. Finally a storm of socks, put my hand through them. Pulled out a dog collar, said,

‘What?’

It had dried blood and a name. Bartley-Jack.

Before I could react, my other hand touched a ring. Held it up to the light, the heart displaying the tiny flaw she so admired. I sank back on the bed, my mind reeling.

I think I must have made a sub-audible noise. It’s when people under total stress speak aloud without realising it. Everybody does it but some are more prone. I’d never be more prone than then. The sound is below normal hearing range. Years ago, it was called ‘thoughts in the throat’. Course, the higher the stress, the louder the sound. Mine was heard all right.

A voice said,

‘Ah, the penny droppeth!’

Jordan was leaning against the shattered door, his arms folded. It took me a bit to find some voice but eventually,

‘You killed them all...

Briony

the dog

Aisling?’

He nodded.

‘Christ Almighty... all of them?’

‘Obstacles.’

‘What!’

‘To Lillian.’

‘You’re a fuckin’ psycho.’

‘How trite, how utterly predictable.’

I gut-shot him.

They say it’s the most intense pain in the world. Slumped in the doorway, he wasn’t arguing it. I stepped over him, and he grabbed at my ankle, said,

‘Finish it.’

‘Get fucked—’ and I kicked him in the balls. Double his bet.

Lillian was sitting up in bed, a pink shawl on her shoulders.

She gave me a smile, asked,

‘What was that commotion, darling?’

‘The butler did it.’

I lazily raised the gun at her and she asked in a petulant voice,

‘Oh silly, really, how am I supposed to react?’

My turn to smile. I said:

‘You’re an actress. Try acting scared.’