Rilke on Black

I’m not a criminal.

I’ve done my share of dodgy things but they managed to slide under the legal line. Then I kidnapped a man, a black man. Even criminals despise this branch of the business. It smacked of cowardice and worse, stupidity.

To add insult to cliché, I did it for a woman. I don’t even think I liked her a whole lot but I sure adored her.

I was working as a bouncer. I didn’t wake up one morning and think “I must become a bouncer.” I didn’t think God whispered it. But I sure look the part. I’m six foot, four inches, weigh sixteen stone and I look mean. Shee, I’ve behaved mean in my time but it’s not part of my nature. It could have been as my father is a drunk. Always was. A very vicious drinker. Alcohol didn’t turn him that way, it just fuelled the process. My mother lit out for Bradford when I was seven. That’s where she probably still is and I reckon that’s penance enough.

Dad was a Hitler. At fourteen I was big and most of all, I was ready. He slapped me in the face for some infringement of his manic code and I grabbed his wrist.

“It’s over,” I said. “Do that again and I’ll kill you.”

And it was over. The final slide for him had begun. He’s a wino now. No frills or hard luck story, he lived bad and peaked. At the bottom of Shaftesbury Avenue, there’s a small island surrounded by theatres. A drinking school have their patch close to the traffic. Maybe they like to hear it roar. Some days I think I’ll have a stroll down that way. See what plays are on and see my old dad. As lead player on the island. No doubt he sings, dances and intimidates.

“The Old Connemara Shawl”.

That was his favourite. I don’t think I know another. So I visualise a visit there, surprise him mid-verse. Two solid fist blows to the side of his head will rattle some memories. It would not wipe out the years of waste but it certainly would feel fine.

I have a transit van. It looks like shit and I’m glad of that. Our local thieves have more taste. But wow, does it go. The engine is souped to an insane level and I’ve done a lot of work on it. I’d been doing “Moves and Removals” when I got the bouncer job. I met the owner in a Clapham pub. His club, Lights, was nearby. We’d fallen into one of those semi-friendly beer chats. He’d told me who he was and I’d told him precious little. He said, “My doorman got nicked today. Drops me right in it.”

“That’s a pisser.”

“You look as if you could handle yourself. Done any of that kind of work?”

“Does it require a shit? As I’ve never done anything that needed that. I’ve done work that might have needed jail if that’s any indication.”

He gave a hearty laugh. The sort they teach you on nightclub trainee courses. It means only “Watch your Wallet”.

“That’s a plus right enough, in fact it should be compulsory... if you don’t mind my saying so... and I mean this in the best possible way, you look like a thug... no offence.”

I gave the laugh a try... and said, “None taken.”

My nose looks broken, or as if it should have been. I keep my hair cut real close to the skull and a dose of acne left a riddled complexion. A nondescript mouth. That’s according to a woman I knew. I don’t smile much. Thing is, the true thugs I’ve run into smile all the time. I guess ’cos they know what’s coming next.

I got the job and even worse the suit, a dress one at that. A clip-on tie that comes off if grabbed. I was good. I kept trouble to a minimum and hardly hit people. Rarely hard at any rate.

I was polite and that in South-East London. That might be the best arsenal of all. I don’t have much schooling but I’d been trying to educate myself.

The Reader’s Digest... “Improve Your Word Power”.

I’d sweated over that, chewing the words... fighting the shame, clawing towards clarification. To my shame, I’d begun to slip my vocabulary into use. Blame the suit.

Until!

One evening a well-dressed couple tried to enter the club. They were very pissed. But their accents... ah... the BBC World Service. I was trying to explain it would be better for them to call it a night. And I chanced the description “inebriated”. He laughed and she roared.

“Oh Gawd Cecil, is there anything more contemptible than a chimpanzee in a suit trying to sound educated.”

I might have let it go. Deep shame might have seen to that. But he took a swing. I dropped him fast and took her arm, whispered, “No darlin’... that’s not contempt... contemptible is to kick a man when he’s down.”

Then I force kicked him in the bollocks.

Dex is a psychopath. I read about that type in the Reader’s Digest and he fits all the buttons. He lives across the road from me. Late one night after Lights I saved him from a beating. Outside his house two guys were raising welts on him. I stepped in and they took off. He said, “I owe you big guy, and Dexy always pays off.”

As he brushed himself off I got a closer look. He was short and wiry, sandy hair and the face of a teenager... he was thirty-eight then. Maybe boyish might apply but I don’t think he was ever a boy. His eyes were grey and though they looked right at you, you felt they saw something entirely different. Not anything you’d want to see. I asked if he’d like a drink and we crossed over to my home. A one up, one down basic house with a basement. I keep my gym equipment there. I poured some Scotch and he got comfortable in my armchair, said, “Chez toi.”

“Whatever.”

“I’m Dexy... after Dexy’s Midnight Runners... remember them?”

“Not off-hand.”

“Big numero uno with ‘C’mon Eileen’.”

“Missed that one. You were in the band, is that it?”

“Hey big buddy, I don’t reckon you miss much. Am I right... am I on the old money there. Fuck no, I wasn’t with the band, I used to take dexedrine, a lot of them evil suckers.”

I nodded. Seemed he was still taking something fairly lethal. My measure perhaps. He drained the Scotch, held up the glass.

“Yo’ partner. Hit me again with one of them piledrivers. So, have you got a handle, amigo?”

“Handle?”

“Yer name. Jeez... what’s this tight-mouthed act, fella? I ain’t going to quote you, you can risk more than a monosyllable. Go for it guy, try one of them full sentences.”

I didn’t even have a twinge of irritation. I thought he wasn’t firing on a full tank. I said, “Nick.”

“Now that’s a man’s name. No friggin’ frills. Just out and out plain label. How about I call you Nicky, how would that be?”

His accent was all over the shop. From American through plumminess to Irish. And always in the shadow of South-East London. I poured some more Scotch, said, “I’m too set in my ways to call a grown man ‘Dexy’... OK. So I’ll settle for Dex and how about you call me the name I told you I had.”

He gave a huge grin. Not a pretty sight.

“I like it... yeah Nick and Dex the deadly duo. Sharp... you’re a sharp dude... I can tell you’ll need watching.”

He leapt to his feet and patted his stomach.

“Not an ounce of fat... I’m in shape old buddy.”

I dunno if there’s an answer to this but he was looking round the room. The pile of Reader’s Digests were painfully visible.

“Not a dentist are you Nick?”

Next he moved to the music system. I’d always planned on laying in some classical albums for show. Just go down to the market and buy a shit-load of culture. Mikados and stuff, fluff in some Concertinas and Allegros. What I had was Country and Western. An awful lot, a mini Nashville. I was beginning to gauge Dex a little and he didn’t disappoint me. He gave a rebel yell and said, “I get it, you’re a Rod-eoo star. Not the best town for it but I guess you took a wrong turn somewhere. No worries pal, I’ve taken a few of those myself.”

He selected Reba M^cEntire and put her on... loud.

I said, “Why don’t you just make yourself right at home, how would that be. Don’t stand on ceremony.”

Reba was bemoaning yet another done-her-wrong-man number.

Dex was wearing a light cotton suit. He flicked his hand against the jacket, said, “Sh-ee-it... I should be wearing Levi’s... wow that bitch doesn’t half whine eh? Now me, I like a blast of Heavy Metal. Give the old Metal to that dog eh...”

This was no surprise.

We finished the bottle and he told me he was a businessman. All of it seemed shady and risky. I don’t imagine he’d have wanted it otherwise. That’s how I got to meet him. We didn’t ever become friends as Dex was incapable of that, but we saw each other a lot.

He fascinated me... and I think I amused him. Not from my wit but from his ribbing me. He liked to see how far he could push it and he was prepared to go as far as he could. I think Dex rose in the morning, opened his wardrobe and took whatever personality was current. Sometimes it fitted. Other times he was just dangerous.

He spent a lot of time at my place. I was never surprised to find him there, day or night. A Dobermann might have been better security but I’m willing to argue the point. A late Sunday morning, I was bleary eyed from rowdy crowds at the club. Feeling touchy as I’d had to hit a yuppie. Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes a slap is the only reply but I didn’t ever get to feel good about it. I was spooning instant into a mug and contemplating a second spoon to get in gear. Cold metal pushed hard below my left ear and Dex whispered, “Freeze mother-fuckhah.”

I did.

Then he withdrew the pistol, laughed and said, “Had you going Nicky... you were shitting bricks... go on. Admit it.”

My hands were trembling and it was a few moments before I could lay down the cup and spoon. I turned slowly. He was holding an automatic pistol and pointing it at me. He said, “Cat got your tongue?”

“Put down the gun, Dex, OK”

“But you haven’t seen the best bit...” and he squeezed the trigger.

Banging on empty, six times and then it jammed. I swung with my left. The blow knocked him across the kitchen. The gun clattered across the floor and wedged beneath the fridge. I stood over him and a look, momentarily, of fear with rage filled his face... then it fled. For an instant the beast was exposed. I think I glimpsed the soul of hell itself.

My old man used to give me ferocious beatings. That’s what I had intended for Dex but that look took it all away. Instead I said, “If you ever point a gun at me again, be sure of two things. One, that the gun is loaded, two... that you fully plan to use it.”

He said, “Does this mean I have to make my own coffee?”

I left the pistol lying beneath the fridge. On ice so to speak.

A week later I was working when a cab pulled up outside the club. Three black women piled out and they were in hyper humour. Giggling, jostling, giving high fives. They were dressed for action with short skirts, sheer stockings and to me they appeared a jumble of desire. My mouth went dry.

All had pretty faces but the tallest of them was striking. As they approached I said, “It’s the Three Degrees.”

The tall one answered, “A white boy with a mouth. Yo’ white boy, y’all gonna let us in yo’ club?”

As I swept them in, she added in a posh voice, “Do pray tell us white boy, where you got your suit?”

I touched her arm lightly and said, “I’ll tell you if we can come to a small arrangement.”

Her accent reverted to sass.

“Wot arrangement that be white boy, wot can y’all do for little ol’ Lisa. How that be... huh...”

“How it would be Lisa is, if you don’t call me white boy, I won’t call you nigger... how would that suit y’all?”

It seemed as if she might lash out but her eyes changed to devilry instead. Skipped inside. I’ve heard all that shit about a touch being electric. Hell, I’ve got Ann Murray belting out, “Touch me and I’m weak.”

I believed none of it. What I learnt early was if you touch the wrong person, be prepared to lose the hand from the elbow. I lived on that preparation as second nature. Yet my fingers tingled where they’d held her arm. I shrugged and thought, “Time I got laid is all.”

Midway throughout the evening, one of the staff brought me a glass of Guinness and said a customer had sent it with a message,

“’Cos you like a touch of black.”

I got involved in a fracas at closing so I didn’t see the woman leave. You’ll have noticed my use of fracas there. The study wasn’t entirely wasted and it gives a hint of class to a punch up. When I’d changed, I got in my van and was revving the engine, just to feel the power. A tap at the window and there she was.

“What’s a girl got to do for a lift around here?”

I thought she could do with coming down a notch but said wittily, “Climb in.”

As she did, her skirt hiked up to her hips and I felt the stirrings. She smiled and said, “Gun it Bubba.”

I thought of Bruce Springsteen’s “Thunder Road”:

“Where to?” I asked.

“High Street Kensington. Y’all want to help me lick some fish and chips?”

She can’t have been more than twenty-five yet her eyes had the light of an old soul. Not a particularly compassionate one. But they drew me. Her body was lush. I dunno any other word. It made me think of words like ripe, but mainly ravishment. As the engine kicked into gear, so did the sound system. Merle Haggard and his lonesome blues.

She lit a joint, held it deep and exclaimed, “Shit-kicker, music... the ol‘ Red Rock Call to Arms... Where’s the white folk at... yahoo... let’s go lynch us a darkie.”

The gears ground in time to my teeth.

As we turned into High Street Ken, she said, “Ain’t ya got no respect?”

That was it. I jammed on the brakes.

“Respect... you friggin talk about that and you smoke dope in my van without so much as a by-your-leave. You have some motor mouth lady.”

She laughed.

“Whoa John-boy. I was meaning the music... don’t you have any Aretha?”

God forgive me, I said, “Aretha Franklin.”

“Oh no, Aretha O’Shea... get your head off yo’ dick boy... there’s a chip shop... my treat.”

She jumped out and ran off. I turned off Merle and as if on cue, a cop appeared. I saw the panda car in my rear-view mirror. One got out and sauntered towards me, adjusting his cap. No doubt about it, the cops see too many cop shows. I let him do his finger number for me to roll down the window. What the hell I thought, it’s his script.

“Would you like to alight from the vehicle, Sir.”

Then we did the dance. Where had I come from, was the van licensed, insured, dry cleaned? All the rigmarole of polite intimidation.

We both knew our roles. I was nearly forty years old then and like the cliché goes, he looked about seventeen. A spiteful nasty piece of work. Throw in the touch of power and you’ve got serious damage.

We’d come to the precipice part. Where he asks me to thin out my pockets and lets my property slip to the ground. I was just beginning to lose my place in the play when Lisa appeared. Her accent would have equalled Lady Di’s.

“What on earth is going on here officer? What’s your duty number? Does Chief Inspector Falls know you’re harassing my removal firm?”

To me she said, “Walter, get the mobile and I’ll phone the Chief Inspector at home, we’ll get to the bottom of this immediately.”

The old scalded-cat effect. Boy did the copper pull back, even removed his cap. I knew then why they sometimes call apologies “profuse”. He was back in the panda and outa there in jig time. I don’t even think he’d had time to notice that Lisa was black. She handed me a bundle of chips and vinegar. The smell you feel your childhood should have been.

As we got back in the van I said, “Chief Inspector Falls?”

“Oh, that was the first name that popped into my head... I nearly said Cloiseau.”

“You mean there isn’t such a person?”

“Oh, there’s always a Chief Inspector Falls... only the name changes.”

She held up a long chip and tilted her head back, let the vinegar drip into her mouth, then, slow, took the chip down, sucked and swallowed it. Turning to me she said, “I so like it slippery and wet, to tease a moment before I bite down.”

“Where to?” I asked and tried to hide my physical reaction. I didn’t know if her last description was a threat or an embellishment... I do know it sounded like heat.

She lived in Kensington Church Street and asked me in for a drink. The elevator was one of those narrow Gestapo jobs with a gate. It was a tight squeeze. How did I feel. I felt me all over her. She was smiling, said, “Remember that song ‘If you don’t know me by now’?”

Fairly heavy perspiration was rife on my forehead. She added, “You’re probably thinking of that elevator scene from Fatal Attraction.”

Why deny it?

As we fumbled from the horror chamber she said, “It proves one thing.”

I dreaded to know.

“What’s that?”

“You white boys is smaller.”

The apartment was like a shoot for Roots. I couldn’t resist a Meryl Streep line... which I mangled, “And I remember, Africa.”

She poured whiskies into heavy cut-glass tumblers and drank. She asked my name.

“Nick.”

“Which rhymes with...? Let’s see now.”

I looked around the room at all the tribal artefacts and said, “Touching base with yer origins... is it?”

She leapt up.

“Yo’ white boy, don’t sass me, wot chew know about colour.”

I finished my drink, said, “Listen lady. I’ve put up with your jive-arse shit all evening... yer street-cred rap and the knowing-hooker attitude. Wot do I know, you probably grew up in Milton Keynes. I grew up in Brixton, it’s where I know and it’s what I know. OK... you fucking got that soul sister?”

She moved right up to me, dropped to her knees and put her hand on my crotch.

“I’m going to blow you right back there baby.”

I pushed her away, said, “I don’t on a first date... can I use the bathroom?”

She recovered fast and said in a husky voice, “But of course, you run along and powder your tush.”

The bathroom had every medication known to man. I checked my wallet and extracted a condom. Took ages to fit and I near did serious damage. I took a deep breath, said, “Let’s rock and roll.”

Outside the bathroom, I wrote down my address and phone number, handed them to her.

She said, “You think I wouldn’t last spit time in Brixton?”

And she turned to walk away from me. I asked, “Remember that scene from Basic Instinct?”

And slammed her against the wall. I tore her tights and knickers down and pushed right into her. It didn’t take long. As I zipped up she said, “Thanks for coming.”

Outside I forego the lift and was heading for the stairs. A neighbour’s door opened and an elderly lady looked out. The face of the perennial eavesdropper, the pinched eyes of the nosy-fuckin’-fucker. She said, “Nobody’s in.”

I said, “Oh, I’ve been in. I’ve definitely been that.”

I wanted to leave Bonny out of this telling. But if I’m going to tell it all, then I can’t omit her. She’s the only person of warmth I’ve ever known. To have met even one might be bonus enough. I use a simple question about people, how do I feel after I’ve left their company. With Bonny it was always a warm feeling. She made me feel like the person I would have wanted to be.

I know who I am and, most vital, I know what I’m capable of. Bonny just shed light on other possibilities. I used to be a heavy gambler and a time there I hit a golden streak. I was following Pat Eddery and he was following the sun. I had wads, literal wedges of cash I didn’t know what to do with. I gave up washing my shirts, I’d buy new ones. And not even look at the price. I bought a suit in Jermyn Street. So... I’m talking serious crazy money. Then it began to go wrong. And me and Pat lost our edge. Before I faded, I managed to get hold of my house in Clapham... and I hung Pat’s picture in the toilet. I was going to print “Almost” beneath it but it smacked of melodrama and sourgrapes.

I was a little bitter though.

So so close.

There’s a transport caff near by and I took to having late breakfast there. The owner was what they used to call a blousy woman.

  Blonde.

  Buxom.

  Plump.

  Near fifty.

But she had a wonderful laugh. Like Dyan Cannon.

The place was always packed. But my appearance usually gathered a space for me. Eventually it kinda got to be my seat. I always ordered the same.

  Double egg over easy.

  Black pudding.

  2 sausages.

  Bacon.

  Tomatoes.

  Thick white bread.

  And lashings of tea.

The cholesterol nightmare... in neon.

Boy I enjoyed it.

One morning the owner pulled up a chair and said, “You eat as if you mean it.”

“I do.”

“I’m Bonny.”

“What, by nature?”

A slow smile from her.

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Well, Bonny. I couldn’t give a toss if you mainline heroin but I’d prefer you not to smoke across my food.”

She held a cigarette mid air then tucked it behind her ear, said, “That’s what they call clear and direct communication.”

“Funny thing. They used to call it manners.”

And we went from there. Got together twice a week and sometimes slept together. The sex was comfortable. I didn’t have to try and prove anything and she liked it enough not to analyse it.

She could drink and not get silly or is that vice versa. What I’m trying to say is, we had fun.

Then along came Lisa.

The day after our frisson in Kensington Church Street, I was in the bath when the doorbell rang. Throwing on an old robe, I stormed to the door. There she was in black leather pants and a red cotton jacket. A white T-shirt boasted her breasts. She was half pissed and looked at my robe.

“Fetching.”

She told me to finish my bath and she’d make coffee. I’d just climbed in when she opened the door... and began to take her clothes off...

She had me in the bath

then on the floor

in the kitchen

and finally she had me exhausted.

I was lying on the floor reckoning I was going to die, just peg out there and then. At least I had washed for it.

She said, “Is that it?”

As I said, I’m near forty, I’m not able for these marathon sessions. I’m grateful for a shag and a sleep. But I was feeling smug... I felt I’d done brilliantly and oh mortification, I went looking for flattery.

“So how was it Lisa?”

“As I expected.”

I sat up.

“What the fuck’s that mean?”

She began to purr...

“Ah, baby, don’t be sore, it’s just you do it like a white boy.”

I had to know. What white boy wouldn’t?

“You want to explain that honey?”

“Mmmm... it’s that you work at it baby, you try too hard... it’s to be enjoyed, ravaged, celebrated. You make love with your head.”

I got up and was too angry to reply. I was fumbling in the closet when I heard her say, “You must be the only man in London going into the closet.”

Dex had left a six-pack of Budweiser in the fridge. He lived more in my house than I did. As long as he kept weapons to a minimum, I didn’t worry. I noticed the pistol was no longer on ice.

I broke open a few Buds and wondered if I’d ever get it up again. Lisa had six months’ worth in an afternoon. She emerged from the shower wet, said, “See I’m dripping.”

The Bud I crushed in that manly fashion and grunted. Picture of macho bliss. She dropped herself on the couch, rummaged in her bag.

“Oh Nicky, I need you again. I’m weak fo’ yo’ sugar.”

It would need more than a beer to get me going. I gave a playful shrug, not one of my better moments. She curled up close to me and held her fist under my nose. A soft sound like a bubble bursting plink and she jammed her hand under my nostrils.

“Amphy Nitrate baby, inhale deep.”

And I did.

That was the beginning of all sorts of garbage. I didn’t slide gradually into usage and abuse, I plunged right in. She had her whole multi-coloured range.

Uppers.

Downers.

Sidewinders.

Ludes.

Speed.

Mellowers.

Jetters.

Black Kidders.

White Angels.

Shit, she had pills for when you didn’t know how you felt. And even ones for when you most wanted to feel nothing.

She could get you:

Asleep.

High.

Awake.

Jittery.

Manic.

Giggly.

But what they mostly did, they got you:

Bad fucked.

And none came cheap. The reserves I had were hitting on panic. Worse, I was losing my edge. The one sure thing a bouncer needs to be is alert. I took a swipe at a customer and missed. He didn’t. That was the end of my job. Lisa was delighted.

“You too good to be a doorman, yo’ should be ninning yo’ own place.”

Jeez, I couldn’t run a lighter.

“Lisa... I hate to kill the party but cash is running awful low, this shit’s got to stop.”

She pouted. I guess that can be sexy on some women. Me, I always found it irritating. She used her baby voice, “We going to have some serious money, Nicky.”

“We’re going to need it.”

“I have a plan Nicky.”

“And legal is it?”

She took my hands, gave me the earnest look.

“Baby, ain’t nothing legal gonna give us fast and dirty money... you know that.”

I could have stopped there. Before I heard a word. Kick her out. Clean up and get back on track. But I wanted her more than I wanted sanity or safety. So I said, “We’re going to pedal dope, is that it?”

She ignored this, released my hands and began, “There’s a black businessman, Ronald Baldwin. He started a club in Brixton called Rap. He’s smart and ruthless. There are a chain of clubs now and he’s into property and all sorts of shit. Then he got uppity, married some white bitch and got respectable. Are you getting the picture baby?”

I sighed.

“Old Ronnie’s going to give us the cash, is that it? He’s pissed off having too much.”

She got excited.

“That’s it baby, he sho’ is going to give us the money. ’Cos we’re gonna grab his black arse...”

“You’re outa yer mind.”

“No... no... no, he’s a dumb fuck, he don’t even have minders. We can take him easy.”

“Dream on Lisa. You’re way out there. This is never going to happen.”

From then on, she never let up. A mixture of sex, dope and irritation eventually wore me down. My capitulation surprised neither of us.

“We’re going to need a third man,” I said.

She didn’t like it. I could have cared less.

“But Nicky, that means less money.”

“Money won’t be the motivator for this guy.”

“You have someone in mind?”

“Almost house trained. Certainly raring to go in some orbit.”

I sure dialled the wrong number. Within five minutes they were matched. Dex’s mix of accents and bile just blended right in with her rap and antics. I took off for the kitchen as they mixed street credits. A while on, Dex joined me, said, “You sly dog you.”

“Am I to take it you approve?”

“Approve, jeez, I near came in my jockey shorts.”

“Tone it down Dex.”

“Whoops... sorry amigo. Your amour and all that. I got carried away. That is one foxy lady. What full-blooded male wouldn’t put the pedal to the metal there, eh... Geez, the gazooms on her...”

“Hey!”

“Mea culpa... yeah... what is she... twenty... even that?”

“She’s twenty-three.”

“And you’re... like forty... six... in there... am I in the ballpark?”

“You’ll be on yer friggin’ arse... I’m forty thereabouts.”

“Like I figured, watch the old ticker my man. That babe’s made for speed.”

“You want to drop this Dex?”

I was close to dropping him... especially as it was true. I pushed a coffee at him and drank from mine. It set the adrenaline and I tried to ignore my heart beat. Dex made a whooshing noise with his. A fun guy all told. He produced a silver hip flask, said, “See the ornamentation on there.”

It looked like Arabic, very finely detailed. Old and too full.

“Nice.”

“That’s what you call it... Nice... it’s a flamin’ work of art. You need to get out them Digests again, you’re pussy-drunk. Know what that inscription means?”

“No.”

“Me neither... fuck cares, eh. Am I right partner? It’s got brandy, what else can us dudes ask? Say when.”

He made as if to lace my coffee. I could have done with a healthy dollop but with Dex, who knew what else he’d added. I covered my coffee.

“Not just now Dex, it gives me a headache.”

“Me too. That’s why I do it.”

Go figure, I thought. He drained his, belched and said in a husky voice, “Don’t get up in a heap on me buddy but you’re looking at bit peaky. Overdoing it just a tad I think... are you eating right... I mean, apart from the obvious?”

I wondered if a Dobermann mightn’t be easier. At least I’d have some chance of seeing him coming. I said, “Let’s get back to Lisa, she’s got a proposition for you.”

Good news for him as he said, “I do like me one of them.”

Dex listened in silence as Lisa laid out the plan. From time to time he caught my eye and winked. This was indication of nothing. I’d bet he’d have behaved the same when told his parents were dead.

Lisa was convincing. Even I thought it might work. Concluding she asked, “What do you think?”

“I think I know him.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I laid out a sweet deal for him once and he threw me out on my arse. Oh yeah, he called me a name I’d prefer not to have to say with a lady present. I can tell you later Nick but really, I’d rather not.”

Lisa was on her feet.

“You’re in then... you like the plan?”

Dex stretched back, deep concentration writ large, said, “Only one tiny quibble. One minor coddlywinkle... just the only thing I’d change, call me pernickety.”

“What, what don’t you like?”

“The part about keeping him in Nick’s basement.”

“What’s the matter Dex. Want him to come stay at your house, is that it, that your problem?”

“Hell no, I say let’s whack the fucker.”

I gave Bonny a call. All I’d seen were Dex and Lisa and I needed out. I met her in the Rose and Crown on Clapham Common. A pub that still merits the name. The requirement was only to be a drinker.

You didn’t have to play pool.

Munch Hawaiian crisps.

Play lotteries.

Be yuppified.

Flaunt on sexual prowess.

A pub. Bonny was behind a large gin on my arrival.

“Got off to a flyer,” I said.

“It’s the finish us ladies prefer.”

I was drinking Scotch. Nice and easy. A vague mention was made of the new woman.

Bonny talked about the caff and the hassles, asked, “Do I smell of chips?”

“You smell good Bonny, and you know what? You look great.”

“Not terrific?”

“Not yet.”

But the night was young and I half believed I once was. Who knows how the mellowness might have progressed. Lisa’s voice cut across this.

“So this is where you arse-skunk off to. A rendezvous with your old mum.”

Lisa looked sixteen and I swear that was deliberate. Fresh scrubbed skin, extra-large baseball shirt and matching shorts. White knee-length socks.

The essence of jail bait. It had the desired effect. Bonny looked old and no one was more aware than her. I said shakily, “Lisa, this is my friend Bonny...”

“Oh my Gawd, I’m sorry... for thinking you were his mother. Oh please forgive me... let me get you a milk stout dear, I feel just terrible...”

Bonny got up.

“I was just leaving but I kept it warm for you. When you get to my age honey, you’ll appreciate a bit of kindness.”

As she got to the door, Lisa called out, “So sorry, but our babysitter will be waiting.”

Without turning, Bonny shouted, “Ducks, I thought you were the babysitter!”

Lisa moved to finish Benny’s drink.

“Leave it,” I said.

She did.

I could have pulled the plug. Perfect time to call it quits. But even then, fuming as I was, I wanted her. The more she riled me the more the physical attraction grew.

She glanced down at my lap, said, “I hope that’s for me baby, not yer old mum’s perogative.”

Before I could answer, she put her hand on me, coo-ed, “Come for me sweetness, let that old tension go.”

“Jeez,” I said, “not here. This is my local.”

“Come in your local,” she whispered.

She stood up, said, “I’m going to run a bath, full of bubbles. I hope you’ll join me, we can just blow them ole bubbles together... don’t be long baby.”

I ordered a large Scotch. Such times I wished you could order a bath of booze. Climb in, open yer mouth and see fuckin’ Katmandu. Escapism, jeez...

I should hope so. A guy moved up beside me. One of the staff from the nightclub, the glory days. I thought he might be called Jack. Not that I gave a tuppenny fuck either way.

“Yo’ Nick! How you doing?”

“Hello Jack.”

“It’s Danny actually.”

“Whatever.”

“Man, I been watching you. What are you doing, interviewing the chicks now?”

“Hey, Jack. Let me give you a little tip. Nobody calls them chicks any more. It’s not a great tip but you’ll find it smooths areas of your life.”

He thought about it. At least he gave the appearance of thought, said, “The old club just isn’t the same since you left.”

“I’ll bet.”

“So, are you working?”

“Yeah, on my tan.” It was November.

“Where are you living now, Nick?”

I put down my drink, took a good long look. He didn’t seem drunk. I gave a dramatic sigh, said, “What’s with all the questions? You gave a flying fuck before? I don’t think we ever even spoke. So how would this be, you fuck off back to where you were. If I need a reference I’ll give you a call. Can you do that for me?”

It was time to haul arse. The bubbles would be cascading.

Two days later I went through the racing papers. I’m not superstitious, omens and the like I’ve never taken stock in. But a horse called “Lovely Lisa” was too much to ignore. Study made it even better, a horse on the make. Last time out, it seemed like it had been given a tug. The money hadn’t been down I reckoned.

Alas, Pat Eddery was currently suspended. A relief perhaps as I didn’t want to hold him responsible if... shit... I knew horses, this horse was due, this was a live one.

Deals with the devil. I’d already done that. Now I made my own deal. If this horse won, I was clear, Mr Baldwin wouldn’t be in my basement. The old maxim, only bet what you can afford to lose.

“Bollocks,” I said and upped the ante.

Part of it too, I dearly love to put the shite crossways in a bookie. It’s a moment, close to sex.

The horse lost.

No long fandango of nearly or should have. Wasn’t even close. Course I could have interpreted that as an omen all by itself. Now it was out of choices time: I tried telling myself I’d had the bookie going for a bit and that, sometimes, is as good as it gets.

I put the racing papers in the bin and wondered if they brought out any on kidnapping. Thing was, all the experts were in jail or highgate. The form figures weren’t encouraging.

I got home, no cash to do a whole lot else. What I wanted was some quiet time. Just crawl into my room, close the door and howl.

Most of all, I didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. As I opened the door, music nigh deafened me.

A figure in the middle of the room dressed in a ten-gallon hat, red-and-black shirt, black jeans, cowboy boots. Dex roared with the music: “I’ve got friends, in, low places.”

He asked, “Guess who.”

“Roy Rogers.”

“It’s Garth Brooks, the king of the shit-kickers, the biggest name in Country.”

“That’s new Country. I dunno that.”

“Fuck’s to know. They just added rock’n’roll to the old stuff. I thought you’d get a rise to this. You been a little down lately partner.”

“Now I’m risin’... you wanna turn down the music?”

“But you and Garth, I thought he was a role model. The guy was a bouncer and get this, he met his wife through chucking her outa the club. Now is that not a Country song or wot.”

“Thanks Dex, mebbe a little later... OK... now’s not a real good time.”

He flicked the hat across the room, said, “It’s outa here. There’s a big hit you should have a listen to sometime. Right up your street.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that then?”

As he stomped to the door, said, “Here’s a quarter, call someone who cares.”

Nice.

Once I read some lines from a guy who wrote them in the seventeenth century,

Got to tell you, he wrote it bang to rights. That’s exactly how I felt and not just by night.

Silence. I couldn’t even hear my breathing. Then the doorbell. Dex with one more adage. But he didn’t stand on ceremony. Muttering, I threw it open.

Two young men in young suits. Hair as close cut as mine. They looked like the FBI or what they tell us these guys resemble. But in Clapham? One, or both said, “Sir, we are from the Church of Latter Day Saints. Might we have a moment of your time?”

Big Yank accents and attitudes to match.

I said, “Might I get a couple of bucks from you guys?”

“Sir, I’m not sure you understand.”

“Sure I do but time is money and I’m a bit strapped. Caught me on a bad day.”

“Sir, this is not our policy to...”

I cut him off. I was weary of the accent already.

“You guys really are untouchable. But so as you don’t go away empty handed, we’ve got our very own Latter Day Saint and he lives right across the road. He’ll be chuffed to see you guys. Tell him Garth sent you. Have a nice day now... here’s a quarter...”

I felt better already. God works in mysterious ways OK.

If I knew Dex at all I’d be only mildly surprised to have him turn up late, wearing one of the suits. He already had their accent.

The kidnap strategy. Dex and I were going through it. I felt him eyeing me so I asked, “What?”

“How’s it to be big?”

“Excuse me?”

“To be a large guy, built like a brick shit house.”

Before I could answer, if such a thing were, he continued, “If I were built... I’d spend the time cracking skulls.”

“Jeez, what a thought. Don’t you think you might tire of it?”

“Never, I’d never get tired of kickin’ fuck outa them.”

“Them?”

“You, the others. When you’ve got my shape, you’ve got to be quick and very very unexpected.”

I laughed out loud.

“Rest easy Dex, you are both of those, in spadefuls.”

“Speaking of spades. I see Miz Lisa has a whole new sparkle... not knocked up is she?”

“Back off Dex. I don’t need a taste of the qualities you work at.”

He moved over to the sofa, stretched out and said in a quiet voice, “I’m going to tell you a story Nick.”

“Don’t feel you have to Dex.”

“Just listen up, alright. I’ve always had a mouth. No, don’t protest, I shout it off sometimes.”

Then he stopped. I waited and he said, “Shit, wish I smoked, this is a story that needs an aura of nicotine. Well, we’ll plough on. I was in a nightclub a few years back. I got into a beef with two guys... two black guys. Words were spoken. Are you with me Nick?”

“I’ve got the drift.”

But as James Joyce lamented, they weren’t the right words.

“Fuck, I did my best but they didn’t seem riled. Worse, I don’t think they took me seriously. So I threw some money down in front of them and said, ‘Hey, sorry about the hassle, have a bunch of bananas on me.’”

“Then I hope you left.”

“I scored. Fuck-knows eh. A Chinese-American lady... or was she from Hackney? It’s not relevant. I forgot about the apes.”

“They didn’t?”

“Wot, I told you this story already? I came out of the club, the lady on my arm, heavy sex on my mind, and this guy puts a knife in my heart. Now all I felt when I went down was ‘Watcha wanna do that for?’ The doctors said that you don’t live if your heart gets touched. But here I am. Is that a Country song or wot?”

“And the moral?”

“Hey Nick, it’s a story. Not a lesson. Your turn, amigo.”

“For what?”

“For a story. Here’s how it works. I’ll tell one, your turn then. Thus we bond and grow to love each other over the camp-fire. Gottit?”

“I don’t have stories.”

“Sure you do, any yarn will do. Even a bouncing one.”

“Nope, no story.”

He hopped up and seemed genuinely disappointed. I knew I’d failed some bizarre test. He said, “You’re a hard fucking trip man. But I promise you one thing. I downright guarantee it. Before this whole deal is done, you’ll have a story. Whether you fucking want it or not.”

Lisa didn’t show for two days. Then arrived, her eyes puffy. She’d been crying or getting high or both.

“Gimme a hug,” she asked.

I’m a bit awkward at that spontaneity but I gave it a shot. She wasn’t impressed.

“Call that a hug. Put yer pecker in it boy.”

It didn’t lead to sex. My fault. She got that look a women gets when they’re going to put the rough questions.

“Why did you never marry, Nick?”

“I didn’t plan not to, but one day I woke up to discover I was forty-two. It just got away from me. My career came first.”

“What career?”

“Exactly.”

“You could marry me baby.”

“I could, but I won’t.”

She flared.

“You’re such a sweet-talker Nicky. The old honeyed words. You could lie to me.”

“Why?”

“It’s called communication, to ease social interaction.”

“No Lisa, it’s called lying.”

“Didn’t you ever want to have children?”

“Nope.”

“Never?”

“No.”

That more or less put an end to that chat. I hadn’t felt like explaining. How I was afraid I’d be my father if I had a child. With my luck, a boy would grow and give me beatings. A little girl, that was the worst scenario. I knew I’d love her more than safety and she’d expose a vulnerability I couldn’t bear.

Most times I barely took care of myself. Lisa crashed early and I put her to bed. She looked almost innocent as she slept. A time later she thrashed and shouted. Most of what she said was incomprehensible but I thought she called a name a few times.

It wasn’t mine.

It sounded like Don... but I couldn’t be sure. What was certain, she was far from pleased with him. Was it “Donny”... hardly Donny Osmond though that would explain the nightmare.

Come morning, I thought I’d lay on a treat. Set the table real nice, had coffee perked, toast heating and the smell of down-home bacon. Centre of the table one red rose. Water on its petals.

Just kidding about the rose. At seven in the morning, one flower is hard to come by in Clapham.

She liked it and after she said, “I want to tell you something.”

I wanted to ask why everyone was suddenly telling me stories but decided to let it go. She began, “My mother was a lady of the night... well of any time. A hooker, or should I say prostitute. Ugly word isn’t it?”

I thought so.

Lisa played around with a crust. Moved it back and forth on her greasy plate. Her voice lost all accent, inflexion... as if she was reading a script.

“Have you noticed all these syndromes recently? Everything’s syndromised now. Perhaps I have PPSS. Wanna hazard a guess at that one?”

I could have made a reasonable shot but instinct said to keep it locked down. This wasn’t a scene for two players. I shook my head.

“Post Prostitution Stress Syndrome. Makes it sound almost respectable, yeah you could put it in a CV. Emma, that was my momma’s name. She didn’t know sheet about syndromes but she sure knew the book on stress. She used to say, ‘If I have to see one more jonny fish, I’ll vomit.’ Cute name eh Nick... what she called a prick.”

I definitely had nothing to say now. She continued, “‘I’ve seen hundreds of them and I’ve never seen one that looked nice’... that’s what Emma said. Don’t you think that’s kinda sad, Nicky? Not one pretty prick in all her years.”

I got up, made some fresh coffee. She wasn’t finished though.

“She was a nice-looking woman, but by the time I was a teenager, she’d gone down the toilet and her clients got rough. They became more interested in me. You know what I’m saying Nick?”

I poured the coffee and knew too well. She caught my wrist.

“I got good at it Nick. Is this making you hot? Want me to be a little girl for you?”

I sat down and she released my wrist. I asked, “Where’s your mother now?”

“Fuck knows. End of lesson.”

I said, “It’s my turn now, is that it?”

“For what? Rotating the chores?”

“I know how this works Lisa, you tell me a story... then I reciprocate and...”

“The fuck you talking about mister? You think I want to trade pieces of my momma for some of your memories?”

To my astonishment, tears were rolling down her face and she muttered, “You bastard, you jonny fish...”

They kept changing the rules. No sooner had I got a handle on the game, they moved the flaming goal posts.

Thing is, I did have a story: I wish now I’d told it to one of them. I dunno which would have understood the best... but I ought to have gone for it. Here’s the story, less heralded now alas.

As a child in the beginning, I couldn’t understand what they were saying to me. Then, I could understand but I didn’t know how to respond. Finally, I could understand and reply and wanted to do neither.

Autograph books had a short burst of popularity in our neighbourhood, like hula hoops. Course, you could never get within spit of anyone famous so the book got full of bus conductors, milkmen, anyone who could write. My mother’s sister had been good to me. Prevented my dad from thrashing me on more than a few occasions. She wrote in my book, “The cause of many a silent tear.”

And broke my heart.

I grew up believing I’d hurt the only person ever to show me kindness. That weighed heavily on my soul and undoubtedly affected my behaviour. Only very recently, I’d found the book among old things. The pages were mildewed but legible. Who the fuck was Reg the Milkie or Tim the Postie. Christ they were nobodies then and not even remembered now. The Tab Hunters of Brixton I guess.

... and then.

My aunt’s entry.

God in Heaven, I felt the blush of anguish, of early shame. Then I noticed the very corner of the page was turned in. I straightened it and there was written:

... onions.

It took a moment for the penny to drop. She’d been joking, it was only a piece of humorous whimsy. So I had lived a large portion of my life on misunderstanding.

Well... yes.

Have I thus learnt to look more carefully. Probably the result is that I check the corners first, long before I get to read the message. I know the Waltons would have liked this story which is verdict enough.

Lisa asked, “Can you trust Dex?”

“What?... I thought you liked him.”

“Jeez, wake up boy, I like Big Bird, you think I want him along on a kidnapping?”

“You get along like soul mates.”

“Dex feeds me what I want... myself. He’s a mirror, reflects back the best of me.”

She took her hand mirror from her bag, checked her face, said, “Dex is a type. Huge ego. Other people’s feelings, thoughts don’t touch him. He’s not capable of love or remorse. His existence is based on other’s weaknesses. The perfect urban predator.”

“You’ve been reading my Digest.”

“No Nick. Just surviving in London. See this mirror, turn it over and what is there? Just a black space. That’s the very essence of Dex, it’s a place where light has never reached and never will. The total absence.”

“You’re describing pure evil.”

“No honey-chil’. You ain’t listening. I just got dun telling you wot BLACK is. With your Dex, his tone, his voice, gesture, look like they change but it ain’t nothing, it’s empty. He be the hollow man Mr Tom Eliot look for.”

“Or like in Apocalypse Now?”

“Yo’, Nicky, don’t try to mix references with me. Y’all pit cinema agin my readin’. When yo’ gonna learn boy?”

Before I could reply to this attack she was off again.

“You watch TV Nick. You’ve heard of Armed Response. Bear it in mind baby.”

“OK Lisa, I’ve listened to the lecture. Compelling it may be but it has one big flaw.”

“What dat flaw?”

“Me. You said he reflects the other person. When he’s with me, all he does it give me lip.” She laughed out loud.

“Yo’ Nicky. Planet Earth calling. Dat dee whole beauty of it. He give yo’ back wot yo’ most admire. Sass and savvy and right up to dee line he bring you. Sheet Nicky, dat where you live.”

I replied pathetically, “That’s not true.”

“Oh, it’s true baby, yo’ know dat. In yo’ heart, yo’ know. When the time comes with dat Dex and dat time is surely coming. Yo’ all distract that boy first. Get him go make coffee. Then yo’ come up behind him quick and yo’ cut dat mother-fuckhah’s throat. Cut it full. Y’all hear what I’m saying?”

“Enough Lisa, you’re losing it... I won’t listen to any more of this garbage.”

“Y’all heard me, I said — ‘Full’... do it proper and do it proud.”

That morning the phone rang early. Did I still have my van? Yup... wanna do a moving job... definitely. Would need two men. I told Lisa, she turned her head away, asked, “What colour are my eyes?”

“You’re kidding me. It’s seven in the morning and you’re bringing me this.”

I didn’t know and she said, “You don’t know.”

“They’re brown.”

“Blue, with green flecks. Very striking.”

“C’mon Lisa, what significance has it?”

“Oh nothing... if nothing’s what you feel for a person.”

“Gimme a break, OK.”

“You won’t know then what colour eyes Dex has got.”

“I don’t.”

“Neither does he... have any colour. They are dead eyes.”

“Lay off the poor hoor. I have to work with him today.”

She concluded with, “The Sudi seek a joining of the mind and intuition which illuminates. This brings love.”

“Yeah that too,” I said.

Dex was pleased to join me in the day’s work. He quickly changed into old jeans, work boots, plaid shirt and... I dunno where he got it... a white hard hat.

As he climbed into the van he was whistling “YMCA”.

The job was in Camberwell and as I drove, he punched my arm... in a friendly gesture. His accent sounded like Jimmy Stewart.

“Gee Nick, this is great, us driving off to work, brothers-in-arms. Buddies in the moving racket. Already Nick, I feel very moved.”

Another playful punch, a little harder.

“Gosh, ain’t this swell. Dos honchos heading out there... ARRIBA ZAPATA.”

“Don’t punch me again Dex, OK?”

“Gotcha. No punching... OK... how about heavy petting. Whoa, sorry big fella. Thing is, I love ya big guy, that’s the holy of it all.”

He was silent a moment then, “Remember all those buddy movies... two guys on the road. Scarecrow... remember that, bet you like ol’ Gene Hackman. No frills, no shit kinda guy, yeah. You and me, we’re like Kerouac and Cassady. With Lisa as Maggie... whatcha fink partner?”

“We’re here. This is it.”

An elderly lady was being moved into sheltered accommodation. A lot of her furniture was old and awkward. As we manoeuvred items to the van, a teenager on a skateboard whizzed right up to us... flip

turn

till his next run.

Dex said in a high cheerful voice, “Doesn’t bother me... bother you Nick?”

“No, we’re nearly finished anyway.”

“No one’s bothered. Not even the old biddy who’s losing her home. It’s a wonderful life.”

We got the gear all locked down and I got back into the van. Dex said, “Haif a mo’.”

He walked over to the kid. Threw up his right arm. The kid’s eyes followed. Dex gave him an almighty kick between the legs. Then he picked up the skateboard and flung it back into the van.

I was too surprised to comment.

I put the van into gear and Dex said, “Weren’t you just the teeniest... weeniest bit bothered?”

Dex launched into a quiet version of “I’m so lonesome I could cry.”

Despite what I’d been thinking, I had to admit it was a very touching interpretation. Could have touched me if I let it.

I wouldn’t.

I’d been thinking of the skateboard kid. I’d noticed he wore a grubby white T-shirt, with the inevitable logo and Americanese,

“Life SUCKS”.

Well, now he had the experience to prove it. Without the skateboard, he’d be thrown back on the habitual frame of activity:

Phone kiosk destruction.

Glue sniffing.

And the nigh obligatory mugging.

Fourteen, or whatever he was. Already too old for crack dealing. I could give a fuck either way.

Dex said, “Lisa’s mother’s a teacher, right?”

“Wot?”

“Yeah, over in some posh school in Kensington.”

“Near Kensington Church Street?”

“I think so... don’t you know?”

Fuck on a bicycle.

We stopped at the Rose and Crown for the money.

Bill Shaw was waiting. He’s so much a Londoner, it’s near caricature.

He said, “You did a good job, mebbe we’ll do more, eh Nick?”

“Sure Bill, anytime.”

“OK, I better pay you. Take a cheque?”

Even Dex laughed at this.

I took the cash as Bill whispered, “No skin off my nose Nick and no offence meant... but I didn’t know Dexy the Midnight Runner was yer mate.”

I sighed. “There you go, what can I tell you.”

“You keep yer glissy on that one Nick, there’s a few dots off his dice.”

“I’ll bear it in mind.”

“OK then, see you later. Say hello to the little woman.”

“You betcha.”

Dex and I moved to a table. He was loud grinding crisps, said, “Mmm... yum yum. Want some?”

“Can’t you eat quieter?”

He gave a huge smile. Bits of crisp showed in his teeth.

“No can do. It’s like sex, gotta be loud and dirty. But you’re probably right to abstain.”

I stopped sorting the money, said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Did you ever contemplate a diet? The old spare tyre’s now suitable for a four-wheel drive... just skip a few dinners eh... say a big no to them burgers.”

“Dex, you mentioned contemplation... yeah? Try contemplating this, how you’ll manoeuvre a size fourteen shoe from yer arse. Here’s your money.”

He threw up his hands in mock horror, said, “No way effendi. I was honoured to be asked to share your toil. Let’s not sully a noble enterprise with schetzkels. A bit of a drink on it for me is ample. Your company is my true wages.”

“Well OK... but if you’re sure.”

“Aw fuckit, I’ll take it.”

And he did.

Then countered and said, “I think you’re a little light here fella. Skimmed a wee tad too much from your fellow toiler.”

“Fuck you.”

He sat back, flicked a peanut in the air, threw back his head and

plonk,

right in his bloody mouth.

I’d prayed he’d miss. His reply as he straightened: “Now Nick-o, I’d dearly love to see you try.”

Which endeavour he meant, we didn’t specify.

I didn’t ask Lisa about her mother. I had to button it down. I came close when out of nowhere she said, “If I had a baby, I’d call her Maria-Elena.”

“Why?”

“After my mother.”

“Didn’t you say your mother...”

“What Nick... what about my mother?”

“I could have sworn you said she was a... an Emma.”

“I never said that, you think I don’t know my own mother’s name. What is this?”

“Nothing... nothing at all.”

And I hoped we’d leave it thus. But no. She asked, “The very worst thing a man can say to a woman, do you know what it is?”

I gave it some thought, then, “I’ve met someone else... and younger.”

“Very good Nick, there’s hope there. The worst thing is ‘I understand how your ex felt.’”

“But I don’t know your ex...”

“Woody Allen said he cheated on his metaphysics exam. He looked into the soul of the person next to him.”

“Jeez, Lisa, is any of this connected? What’s the point?”

“Poor dumb Nicky has to have it spelt out.”

And she went, not quietly but hammerin’ the door behind her. I shouted, “I’ll miss you hon.”

I resolved that come what may, no matter how I got round it, I was going to insert Woody Allen in my repartee. Nothing heavy, no big launch, just slip the sucker on in there, as if I’d only thought of it.

Annie Hall had been on TV recently and I’d identified with one particular line. Thus armed, I headed for a drink and some intellectual challenge.

As I closed my front door, Dex emerged from his house. He did what could only be called a pirouette and said, “Watcha think?”

“About metaphysics is it?”

“Eh? No, how do I look. I used our money from today. Barely made it ’cos of a certain shylock’s shortchanging but quelle difference.”

He pointed to his left ear. A single gold earring.

“You want the truth?”

“Naturellement.”

“You look like an arsehole... no, an arsehole with an earring.”

“Hey Nicky, is that nice... now come on.”

“What can I tell you Dex. Only today I read it... Life SUCKS.”

I walked towards the Oval. Just pick any pub. I did, on the Stockwell side. This is where they mug Rottweilers. The place was having an identity crisis, twixt regular villains, motley yuppies and sundry. I guess I fit the third. A clean floor and dirty barman, but friendly.

I ordered a pint of Guinness and he gave it to me fast. So he wasn’t Irish. No respect for the black.

Two stools down was a young punk girl. She had the leather, chains, mohawk hair and gave me the fuck-everything look. I nodded.

Next thing, she moved behind me saying, “Can I sit next to you mistah?”

“Sure... yeah... OK”

She had a riot of make-up but beneath, barely sixteen. She said, “Do you ever wonder where all the stars went?”

“Wot, like Elvis?”

“No, real stars... my mum says the sky used to be full of ’em.”

“She had a point, yer mum.”

“Me fella’s fooked off with Tracy.”

“Tracy?”

“Yeah, she’s like me best mate.”

“Not any more I daresay.”

“Not any more wot?”

“Oh just a touch of irony.”

“Touch o’ wot?”

I took a long swallow of the pint. Not bad. I wished she’d go away but here she was again.

“Wot are you mistah... fifty?”

“Not quite.”

“Go on then, you look older than my dad, he’s legged it ’n’ all.”

I wanted to say, “Surely it can’t be yer personality the whole male population’s fleeing from.”

She nudged me.

“Wanna ride me mistah?”

“Wot?”

“You can... yer not so old...”

I got off my stool and gave her a direct look, said, “I’m due back on Planet Earth as Woody Allen told Chris Walken.”

I could hear her even alter I got outside, “Woody who?”

I’d say she’s still there, the drone from hell in Stockwell.

Jeez.

I’m dropping Woody.

I was soaking in the bath. At the stage where you think, “If I could only hold this moment I’d never ask for out again.”

The phone went. It had that insistent whine that promises “Better answer me.”

No Dex when you need him.

Muttering, “This better be damn fucking good,” I dripped to answer it, said, “This better be good.”

It was Lisa but I could barely hear her from deafening music in the background. She kept repeating “... what? What?”

So I lost it, roared, “Turn down the fuckin’ racket!”

She did then.

“No need to scream Nick, that’s why we have phones.”

“What was that awful music?”

“Awful!... he used to be with Bob Marley’s band.”

“Bob couldn’t take it either, huh?”

“Don’t be Redneck Nick, we can’t all appreciate the nuances of Country music.”

“We could try,” I said. “All of us. Why are you calling me.”

“To say I loved you.”

“You’re kidding, like the bloody Stevie Wonder song... I don’t believe this.”

“Nickolas, it’s a spontaneous action to warm your heart.”

“But not my bath I guess.”

She sighed, said, “Elmore Leonard, you’d like him Nick, he wrote of Country music that if you play it backwards,

  ‘You get your girl and truck back

  You’re not drunk anymore

  and your hound dog’s alive again.’”

“Cute,” I said. She’d hung up.

I turned on the radio. What my old mum used to call the wireless. Kris Kristofferson was doing, “Sunday Morning Coming Down”.

Is there a lonelier song, not that anyone could accuse him of singing. “And nothing short of dying/Quiet as lonesome as the sound.”

I hummed along.

An ache nigh convulsed me. I knew it was bullshit and was missing something I’d never experienced.

It was like crying over a woman you’d never met. But crazy doesn’t mean any less painful. I figured some dope would ease it... and did a few lines of coke. Let them good times roll, fuck-yeah.

I flicked the radio off and looked through Lisa’s records.

Bo Diddley? Yeah... my man.

The phone went. Dex.

“Amigo, I think it’s time to wake up, smell some coffee. Know where I’m heading?”

“What happened to hello?”

“Hey Nicky, leave the humour to us better able, the strong silent shit suits you better.”

“Was there something you wanted to tell me.”

“Testy! Yeah, there’s something... strap yer legs round this dance. Your chick knows Baldwin.”

“What?”

“You heard. Guess she didn’t tell you eh. Do I hear the soft sound of dee shit hitting the fan. Catch you later big guy.”

My first impulse was to go direct to High Street Kensington. As soon as she’d opened the door, I’d bounce her across the hall. Used to be my job... But I phoned instead.

She was in the bath and half in the bag as her speech was very precise. Modulated, as if she knew slurring was but a word away. She asked, “Yo’ baby, do I hear Bo in the background?”

“Fuck Bo.”

“You wish... and me too I guess. I wish you were here in the bath with me. I’m all sudsy... and you’re so hard baby.”

Which was definitely a factor. But the coke was giving me an icy concentration that would evaporate in seconds. I had to cut through the smoke screen.

“You know Baldwin.”

“Who?”

“For fucksake Lisa, the guy we’re going to snatch.”

I expected denial. What I got was purring. I dunno if you can slur that but she was close.

“Don’t be mean to me baby... y’all come on over and let me stroke yah.”

The coke moved into overdrive. The kill before the burnout.

“How many of us were you planning to service, is Baldwin invited too?”

The line went dead and my high and my dick. A depression moved right in to fill the vacant lot. I wanted to hurt somebody, anybody. The idea of crossing over to Dex and kicking the shit outa him was powerful.

The phone rang. Sliced across my fried brain. She launched right into it.

“I worked for him at his first club. A long time ago. How do you think I know so much about the dude? What, ’cos he’s coloured, you think I found him in the yallah pages. Listed under kidnap possibilities. Don’t be jealous baby... don’t be jealous honey-chile... I’ll come over and lick it better.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, eh?”

“I was afraid darlin’, you so big, yo’ so well hung.”

“Cut the crap sister. Put yer act together by this evening.”

“I’ll be there baby. I’ll be there for you.”

I could have walked then. Pull a righteous indignation act and split. For one glorious brief moment I thought and roared... “FUCKEMALL.”

I went rummaging in the cupboard to see if Lisa had left any other chemicals. Found some white powder and hoping to hell and gone it wasn’t talc, I snorted deep. Nothing for a few moments.

“Bummer,” I said.

Then a massive rush. What a coronary must be like. My nose was corroded as if red hot peppers were running riot.

Not coke.

  Not talc

but friggin methedrine.

A cold sweat leaped all over my body. I was leaking chills. I had a ferocious compulsion to smoke about nine cigarettes. Why that number I dunno but it seemed to make perfect sense. A cascade of noise in my head. Strung out thus, hours went by.

At one stage I tried to read, thinking words would calm me. I had collected a diverse collection of articles culled from my Digests on every subject. All in that quest for vocabulary. Among these were some letters William Burroughs had written to Allen Ginsberg.

Thinking the literature of drugs was appropriate or should that be vice versa?

Never no mind. This is what I read: “I was first arrested when I beached, a balsa raft suspect to have floated up from Peru with a young boy and a toothbrush. (I travel light, only the essentials.)”

This wasn’t doing me a whole lot of good but it’s hardly fair to blame Burroughs.

More: “One night, after shooting six ampoules of dolophine, the ex-captain found me sitting stark naked in the hall on the toilet seat (which I had wrenched from its moorings) playing in a bucket of water and singing ‘Deep in the Heart of Texas’.

“At the same time complaining, in clearly enunciated tones, of the high cost of living.”

Two things I realised I didn’t know after I read this. What the hell were dolophines and, maybe more important, what were the words of “Heart of Texas”?

Food... yeah, I could eat. Perhaps that would ease me on down. I wanted warmth too... the Bonny brand. Some sort of sanity was essential, nigh vital.

“You look like shit,” Bonny said.

“This is hello?”

The rush-hour manic food crowd had gone. Grease hung in the air and a breath-gasping pung of vinegar ruled. She was drinking tea. A pack of Marlboro lights before her. I leant over and took one.

“What are you doing?”

“Borrowing one of your cigarettes. Why you won’t buy mule kickers and be honest is beyond me. Marlboro lights for fucksakes. Why... you mind?”

She looked as if she minded a lot. A cigarette?

Deep sigh from her. Worse, it had a horrible lilt of understanding in there. True sickener. She said, “You’ll walk in here tomorrow and say — ‘Here’s that cigarette I owe you’ — is that how it’ll work? I thought you quit.”

“What’s this, you’re my mother now... what do you care?... here, keep the bloody thing.”

And I crumpled it, threw it on the table. It curled there like a sad dream. Stood up and went to the vending machine, praying I had change.

I did.

Bought a pack with health warnings so heavy on it that it throbbed in my fist. Sitting back down I felt like a horse’s arse. Made a childish display of “borrowing” her lighter and lighting up.

All the time she just watched me. Vintage Bonny. Let you jump in with both feet. I drew heavy on the cigarette and it tasted like stale manure. But I had to stay with it. I dunno what flavour I was expecting... not hope anyway!

Bonny reached over, took my hand. She had green eyes but I didn’t think I’d tell Lisa. A faint aroma of chips around her. A comforting aroma of false childhood was mixed in there somehow.

“Nick, what’s going on? You’re going to hell in a bucket. Is it money? I do know it’s the woman but there’s nothing I can do about that. You’ll take it all the way to burn out. But I can help financially.”

“Yeah, it’s cash.”

“What do you need?”

“How does five hundred sound?”

Sounded harsh is what it did. Her face gave only a tiny moment of hesitancy, then she said, “OK... give me a few seconds.”

What the fuck I thought. In a short while, I’ll be getting half a million and I’ll treat her proper. She returned and gave me a soiled envelope, felt solid. The voltage that money gives. I whispered, “Pat Eddery.”

“What?”

“Nothing, just an old memory.”