Rilke on Black

“A man’s dress tells you what he does”

Ecclesiastics 19:27

How to tog out for a kidnapping. Dex was wearing a green combat jacket, black combat boots and dirty blue jeans. He asked, “Recognise the look?”

“Early evening wino?”

“Mickey Rourke in A Prayer for the Dying.”

“Missed that.”

“And a whole lot else besides.”

I was wearing trainers, grey sweat shirt and jeans. The urge to dress entirely in black I’d suppressed. It wasn’t a night for overstatement. Least not yet.

We were parked outside Baldwin’s club in Brixton. Lisa had already gone in. One o’clock in the morning and the streets were hopping. If Lisa was right, Baldwin left at the same time without fail. Dex had produced some animal tranquilliser which now rested in Lisa’s bag. She measured the dose and provided the syringe.

I’d worried. “Is it safe?”

“Well baby, the animals haven’t complained.”

Needless to say, Dex got a kick outa that.

I persisted. “We don’t want to kill him do we?”

Dex smiled, said, “Some of us don’t.”

Like so many things, I let it slide. A flurry of giggling girls passed. A batch of teasing innuendo. Youth and hope. I thought I couldn’t recall either. Dex said, “You can get a virgin to sit on your face for seven bucks.”

“What?”

“Jimmy Woods in Salvador. You’ve got to get past I Love Lucy re-runs. Hate to be Mr Deeds but you’re cinematically illiterate. Fuck, you’re bordering on ignoramus.”

I gave him the look. He tapped his watch.

“Crying-time.”

I didn’t wish him luck. As it wasn’t that kind of business. Plus, I didn’t want to. I watched him join the crowds. Thing was, he did look like Mickey Rourke. But late-night Brixton, most do, even the women. Then I could see Lisa. No sign of Baldwin. His boast was, according to Lisa, “In Brixton, I don’t need protection. I am the protection.”

Nice foolish ring to it. We were about to test the theory. Was hoping they’d fail. From there maybe I could begin to crawl back. A rap on the side of the van. I jumped out. Lisa and Dex were supporting what appeared to be a very drunk man.

“Wake up Nick, open the back doors for fucksake.”

I did.

They threw him in, I had a glimpse of an Armani suit and hand-tooled shoes. He seemed tiny. Lisa came up front with me. She was in high excitement and her breathing near choked with adrenaline.

“I bopped him that needle right in the club, he never felt it. I thought it wasn’t going to work. Then when he got outside, he just folded. His fuckin’ legs just buckled. Awesome... so watcha staring at... drive this fooker... let’s boogie.”

As I pulled out, I checked Dex in the mirror. He was going through Baldwin’s pockets and none too gently.

“Cut that out,” I shouted.

He didn’t and held up a black wallet. A confetti of plastic began to pour out. Dex said, “Friggin’ credit cards, wot happened to cash you black fuck?”

He turned to look at me. It was tight for space back there but he was near his full height. His tight work boot shot out and belted into Baldwin’s head.

I jammed on the brakes. Lisa grabbed my arm and I shook her off. Climbed over the seat. Dex had fallen off balance and as he rose I hit him with everything I had.

Dazed for a few minutes he then put his hand to stem the blood from his nose, he gave a weak snigger, asked, “The fuck you do that for?”

“No pain, no gain.”

“Wot?”

“Freddy Kreuger. Nightmare on Elm Street. Literate enough for you?”

I’d prepared the basement. How pleased Bonny would be at what her money provided.

A thick chain fixed to the wall to be attached to Baldwin’s ankle. The prisoner of Clapham. Christ it made me want to puke even to look at it. To chain a human being, something in you has to be extinguished. You douse a light that can never be re-lit.

An army cot I got on the Walworth Road for a tenner. I went to Oxfam for the lamp. It had a shade with small cute mice playing guitars. He was sure to love this. It had certainly been a hit with Dex who said, “What age exactly do you think he is... ten mebbe?”

I’d laid in ten cans of purdey. With the onslaught of designer waters, this had joined the range of healthy beverages.

Truth be told, I liked the can. It contained:

Vitamins.

Herbs.

Ginseng.

I thought it might keep him healthy.

I didn’t know if he was a reader or not... and if so... what. Some James Baldwin or Chester Himes... or Walter Mosley. What? I hadn’t the courage to leave my Reader’s Digests. All the abuse I was going to take for them I’d already taken. Some copies of Ebony.

A cheap walkman as music would pass the time for him. Then a new dilemma.

What tapes would he like? From the sublime to the ridiculous. I got Aretha and Whitney Houston. I drew the line at Stevie Wonder. Not even a hostage would endure that torture.

Then I thought...

“Whoa... hold the goddamn phones. What am I doing? This is some house guest. Who gives a toss what he likes? I mean... wot... he’s going to leave ’cos he doesn’t like Whitney Houston?”

Was I losing it big time or wot? Did I expect the good kidnapper of the year award or wot?

To get some background, I thought I’d read up on captivity. Nothing could get me to concentrate on Patty Hearst. I just didn’t possess that degree of masochism. Or the heavy-weights, like Waite, McCarthy. Too much dignity and nobility these. Was I going to rub my own nose in it. A gallop towards the classics was equally fruitless. Robert Louis Stevenson just didn’t seem to jell with the climate of Clapham.

“Fuck,” I said, “I’ll wing it. How difficult can it be?”

Chain a man, threaten him, intimidate his wife... collect the ransom... ride off into a Brixton sunset.

Piece of cake.

Dex had tried giving me instructions on dealing with Baldwin. At all times we’d be masked. None of these heavy balaclava yokes or the sweat-inducing ski jobs. Lisa had made light cotton ones. The sort of thing the Klan might have for those long balmy Southern evenings. Dex said, “We’ve got to give a lot of red herrings... use an accent Nick, can you do Irish?”

“This isn’t Vaudeville, for fucksake. Not even the Irish do it with any conviction any more. Do us a bleedin’ favour.”

Another theory was for me to have an obvious tattoo he’d remember.

“Tattoo yourself, Dex... OK...”

I did go along with leaving some envelopes in among the pages of the magazines. These were pinched at random from North London houses.

As we’d argued back and forth over these various diversions, Dex had thrown his hands in the air and shouted, “None of this would be necessary if we just put the bastard’s lights out.”

And Lisa had given me that look that said, “See!”

My street was quiet and we bundled him into the house. The four of us linked in drunken bonhomie apparently. The animal tranquilliser and Dex’s boot had done their work. Baldwin was out cold.

I laid him on the cot and fixed the chain to his ankle. Then I stood looking down. A quiet “sploosh” put my heart pounding. Dex had helped himself to a can of purdey. I said, “The fuck you doing, they’re for Baldwin.”

“He’s going to notice one’s missing. Take it outa my share... Slainte... that’s Irish for Cheers. Tell you wot though, the fuck doesn’t look much lying there. Not so high and mighty now.”

Sweat was cascading down me. God I needed a drink. Lisa turned to me. “Go get yourself a drink baby, I’ll stay here.”

I looked at Dex, said, “You come with me.”

He snapped his heels together, threw a Hitler salute, shouted, “Yaboob Herr Kommandanten.”

In the kitchen I cracked open a bottle of Scotch and drank it by the neck. It burned like desolation and I wanted that.

Dex moved in close. “Tell you big guy, we should have gone for them with a tattoo. Truman Capote knew a lot of the heavy killers on Death Row. Their common characteristic was a tattoo.”

I didn’t answer. Trying to keep the Scotch down. It settles poorly on bile. He continued, “How much notice can you take of a faggot eh?”

“Baldwin’s a homosexual?”

“Jeez, pay attention. Truman Capote. When he was in Russia he flounced out of a hotel in high camp. Swishing it up in front of the comrades. An American official tried to apologise to the Russkies. And the Russkie smiled, said ‘Oh we’ve got them here but we keep them chained.’”

“You like that Dex, don’t you. How long have you had to hold it until the suitable moment arose?”

What I really wanted to ask but I heard horrible echoes of that punk in Stockwell, was, “Truman who...”

I had half the Scotch gone and couldn’t feel it. What I could feel was the sensation of locking the chain on Baldwin. He had a small skinny ankle and I doubt I ever saw anything as vulnerable. One more image to add to the shit heap. I didn’t catch what Dex was saying.

“I didn’t catch that Dex, run it by me again.”

“I asked if I could have a drink too. That purdey is vile shit, must be good for you.”

I handed him the bottle. He took out his hankie. Being Dex, it was more yer red bandanna, from his country personality no doubt. Slowly he made a big production of wiping, holding up to the light and closely inspecting the neck of the bottle, said, “No offence buddy.”

“Keep it yer nasty fuck, just keep putting it in my face.”

“Lighten up, amigo, we’re all under a lotta pressure. Lose it here and you’re in a world of hurt... ‘Predator’... I’m just joshing you, nothing meant.”

I snapped the bottle off him.

“Get yer own fuckin’ drink and get the fuck outa my way.”

He danced nimbly to the side. I headed back to the dungeon. Baldwin was naked on the cot, like a wizened golliwog. I stormed to Lisa, “What on earth are you doing... are you planning to mount him or something?”

“Baby... baby, cool it... I had to get his underpants.”

“What... what kind of shit are you and Dex taking... and can I plu-eez have some soon?”

“Sh-ss-ish darlin’, it’s to send to his wife... unless you want me to sent an actual part of him... do you... do you want to slice him... is that it? Like to carve some dark meat?”

“Course I don’t want it... hey back off alright. Gimme some fuckin’ room. I just want to know what’s happening BEFOREHAND. Enough with the surprises, alright?”

“Whatever you say, baby... yo’ the man.”

“Hey, could you stop with that baby shit. I can’t tell you how fuckin’ irritating it is.”

She didn’t like it and I could give a flying fuck. I was on the verge of walloping the be-japers out of her... and Dex.

She held up the underpants. I could see the brand. Calvin Klein. Another guy who’d had a kick in the head.

She said, “We’ve a call to make.”

Upstairs, Dex was stretched on the sofa. He’d changed his outfit. Unbelievably for him he was wearing a garishcoloured kimono but worse, he’d brought the cowboy boots. Very elaborate black jobs with the high stitching, I could see his bare legs, white and absolutely hairless. Like sick alabaster, like a corpse. I felt a chill. The boots were plonked on the arm of the sofa. Apparently engrossed in a copy of Ebony, he didn’t look up. I slapped them off.

“Get ’em off the furniture.”

“Testy,” he sighed.

Lisa produced a large padded envelope and put the underpants inside. Dex gave a huge chuckle, said, “You’re going to have to stop writing to Tom Jones.”

She ignored him, wrote an address. Then she moved to the phone.

“You know what you’re going to say?” I asked.

Dumb right but I was puke nervous.

“No Nick, I’m going to chat about the weather.”

Like I said, dumb.

She sighed for quiet. Dex mimicked pulling a zip across his mouth. He looked like an evil child.

Lisa was talking.

“Mrs Baldwin... Mrs Ronald Baldwin, so sorry to trouble you at this latish hour but glad I caught you home... We took your hubby tonight... no this is not a poor idea of a joke... yes, I am aware of the time. Time for you to listen up... kidnapped... yes... ugly work but fitting... you hang up and his balls are in the next post... put you right off your grapefruit segments... That’s better... Don’t swear at me you white bitch... you get him back for one and a half million. I perfectly serious... so sell the family jewellery... I could give a fuck, sell yisself... Be home at eight tomorrow evening... you’ll have proof... as they say ‘The cheque’s in the mail’... a little Calvin Klein reminder... no, he’s not hurt, not yet. Y’all have a good night now... Bye now, tootle pip.”

I’d never seen Lisa sweat, not even in the wildest lovemaking... she was sweating now, and speeding. She gasped, “Christ, wot a rush. Better than sex. What’s with the look Nicky... you could hear? She sassed me, tried to be uppity.”

“Nice going Lisa... especially the bit where you called her a white bitch. How hard it’s gonna be to figure your tint.”

“So wot... as long as she pays.”

“It’s careless is what it is.”

Dex watched back and forth, like Wimbledon. Hard to say who was winning. Lisa shrugged and went upstairs. He raised an eyebrow. I wanted to go to pieces as fatigue washed over me. Dex said, “Night John-boy.”

I had some brilliant wipe-out remark in preparation but sleep got me first.

“One too many mornings, and a thousand miles behind...”

Which is about where I felt when I woke. First thing I noticed were Dex’s boots. Standing alone and evenly lined up, like a tiny forlorn salute.

I thought he was watching me as his eyes were open. But it wasn’t me. A look of nothingness... not blankness, just nothing. A face that had never retained the mark of a single experience or emotion. The eyes frozen.

I’d tried to figure what lay behind the multi personas. As I realised Lisa was right, I felt the chill along my back. I didn’t want to be the first thing those eyes looked on as the face began its routine of movement, adapting to whatever personality the mind seized. Slipping past him I went to the kitchen. Made me an elephant coffee. I didn’t want a hit of caffeine. It was blitzkrieg.

When it makes you want to throw up, you’ve got the combo. I knew there’d be a lot more unpalatable things these next few days. The coffee didn’t make me feel better. Hell-no, it just woke me enough.

I was heading for the basement when I remembered the flaming mask. I pulled it on and checked in the mirror. I looked like a terrorist with a hangover. Aloud I said, “Horse’s arse.”

Baldwin was sitting on the cot, supping from a can of purdey. He watched me approach. I knew he was in his sixties and he certainly looked it. If a black person can have a black pallor, he’d achieved it. Naked except for a blanket... and the chain... he looked pathetic. I know now what woesome means. Till you saw his eyes. Jumping with intelligence, you knew this one was a sharp cookie. He said, “Dr Livingstone, I presume.”

Then he rattled his chain and added, “By the rattling of my chains, something foul this way comes.”

The BBC must have loved his accent.

Neutral.

Clear.

Concise.

Polished.

Modulated.

All the friggin’ things mine wasn’t. I was south of the river, always would be. An accent like his could convey effortless intimidation. In my corner I had size on my side and it was time to flex it.

Baldwin was about five foot, five inches and looked shorter. A black gnome with bright eyes, looked on me. I hunkered down beside him and began, “You know what this is... what’s going down here.”

“It’s downright stupid, I know that.”

I gave him a slap to the side of the head. The eyes burned.

“Whoa... little guy, lose the attitude... OK. Let’s get that squared away from the off. See my size... and you just learned I’m a mean fuck. You do what you’re told, button yer lip... we get paid... you’re outa here. Simple.”

“How much will you demand?”

“One and a half million.”

He gave a huge laugh so I slapped him again. A degree harder.

“What’s the joke?”

“You haven’t a prayer.”

“You best pray, fella. The rest of the team, they make me look like the good guy.”

I raised my hand and he ducked.

“See, you’re getting the picture already.”

I prepared a fry-up for his breakfast. Heavy on the eggs. By the time I switched them from the pan to the plate, they were a mess. The toast was black. A sort of pathetic fallacy according to the Digest. Was he a tea drinker? Not any more. What we stocked was coffee, all the current residents being wired. Lisa had laid in one carton of fresh juice. I had a glass and only then realised how adrenaline had dehydrated me. Jeez, it tasted good, walloped in another. Ah... there was a quarter of a glass finally for him. Captives can’t be choosers.

Back on with the mask again and serious irritation. I found an old track suit and brought it along.

As I set the tray before him, I asked, “You’re name’s Ronald, right... so I guess I’ll call you Ronnie.”

“No one calls me that... ever.”

“They do now... here’s something for you to wear and your breakfast. Hope you like eggs.”

I had to unchain him to get the tracksuit on but he didn’t struggle. With a disgusted sound he stirred the food.

“I don’t eat cholesterol.”

“Then you don’t eat.”

“No tea.”

“Right.”

“Too much to hope for decaffeinated, I suppose. Tad tight with the juice. Budget a shade low perhaps?”

I pointed with my hand.

“You got music, stuff to read. Could be worse.”

He gave me a withering look.

“Get me something I can read... anything on or by Rilke, Lowell, Baudelaire.”

He paused, then added, “You want me to spell those for you?”

“Ronnie, lose the attitude, or you’ll lose the fuckin’ lip. Can you spell that?”

He picked up James Baldwin, asked, “What were his deathbed words?”

“Fuck should I know.”

“Not that... he said ‘I’m bored.’”

“I thought that was George Sanders.”

“You thought wrong, he shot himself because he was bored. My namesake died of somewhat normal circumstances. However, your answers reveal a muddled tabloid intelligence. Suitable for donkey work.”

I was leaving when he shouted, “Yo’... Gorilla, this music! Surely you jest... Whitney Houston.”

He dropped the cassettes on the floor, continued, “I shall require some Elgar... Bach... or even Beethoven. But only as a last resort. How am I supposed to wash, pray tell?”

He was a spunky little fucker, I’ll give him that... or he was nuts. I asked, “Your verbals reveal a bit too much mate. You’re obviously a man of culture, of refined tastes. Am I correct?”

“One tries.”

“No doubt you’ll be familiar with a French whore’s bath?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What it is, I bring a basin of water and you use that.”

“I most certainly will not.”

“Ronnie... Ronnie, this is getting like a bad song. Then... you don’t wash. As for toilet facilities, that complicated job at the foot of the cot is a chemical toilet... state of the art. Let me promise you one thing, however. You call me names again... any names, washing won’t be a problem... Esso es claro.”

Apart from his muttering “A kidnapping linguist” the message got through. At least for then.

Dex had gone but he’d left a note: “Some greedy-guts left us juiceless, the inhumanity of man.”

No doubt he was already before his wardrobe selecting a persona. Clothes indeed make the man.

Breakfast for me was more coffee. No eggs. As I sipped, I glanced through a magazine Lisa had left on the table.

She’d red-marked lines from a feature on Kathy Galloway’s “Love Burning Deep”.

The poem, “Going Over” had many red lines. It looked like this:

Now, the very last few lines were under red ink gone riot, as if the continuous re-emphasising would drive home the message. Certainly drove it home to me.

So rapt was I by the last line, I didn’t hear her. She snatched the magazine from me, clutched it to her bosom, flared, “Ain’t yo got no decency white boy, no sense of privacy?”

“Hey, back off... I didn’t know it was sacred.”

She rummaged in the fridge.

“Where de juice at?”

“Dex took it.”

“Muthah-fuckhah.”

To ease her down, I asked, “What will you do with the money?”

She mellowed. “Armistead Maupin’s character, Anna Madrigal, said she’d like to buy a small Greek island... but on reflection, she settle for a small Greek.”

I wondered if I had wandered into her “A” Level English class. This morning I had culture coming out of my arsehole.

Did I share this? Hell no. I told her of Dex’s plans. He was going to open a pet cemetery. She didn’t laugh, but asked, “Like Stephen King... is there a demand?”

“Well, there’s already an existing one. At Silvermere in South-West London. Seems there’s three horses buried there. I think, in fact, I used to back them. Oh yeah, they’ve got a goldfish, a family of rats, a terrapin, a monkey and a parrot. He showed me a price list for the deceased... and should I say pet-ceased?”

“It’s what you’d expect from South-West London. Whole place is a fuckin’ graveyard. How much to bury a dog?”

“About £500. But for your five big ones, you get a small burial service and a headstone. Course you could just cremate for £40.”

She gave a small smile.

“Or better yet, leave it outside a Chinese restaurant.”

We were almost close then. An intimacy tugged above us and I felt such a wave of tenderness. She looked vulnerable when she laughed, as if the world hadn’t yet attacked. The moment was lost as a loud crash came from the basement. She said, “Money can’t be everything if God gave it to Madonna and Julio Iglesias.”

Below, Baldwin had smashed the cot against the wall, but the chain held. As I approached him, he dropped to the ground and began a series of furious push-ups. I watched. He was a fit little bugger. After he ceased, he said, “You’re a bouncer, right?”

Got me.

“Why do you say that?”

“Could be your scintillating conversation. Clubs are my business and you have the stance of a bouncer.”

“Well, Ronnie, my man. Let me tell you something. If you want to keep breathing, keep your observations to yourself. There’s no cookie for clever dicks, just a hole in the ground.”

He gave me a studied look. What he saw, he didn’t relish if his expression was any indicator.

“How very B-feature, dare one say. London Noir. Do you prepare these muscle replies in advance?”

“Ronnie... is this yer normal disposition? The constant arsehole. Christ, who’s going to pay for your return? I mean, how keen could they possibly be for your company? What I’d like to know is how on earth you ever survived till now.”

“Tell me,” he said, “was my drink spiked last night... what?”

“You were bumped, animal tranquilliser.”

“No irony meant, I’m sure... and the bump on my head... an actual animal?”

“My colleague, you don’t want to meet him. Not a man of letters, alas.”

“Where’s my books?”

“Easy with that demanding tone, Ronnie, lest you want twin lumps. Anyway, who the fuck is Rilke?”

“One fears the Duino Elegeies would be somewhat lost on you... however

  ‘Who, if I cried out, would ever hear me among

  the angelic orders and

  even if one of them took me suddenly to his heart,

  I would lose identity

  in his strange being.

  For beauty’s only the dawning of terror, we’re

  hardly able to bear and

  adore

  because it serenely disdains to destroy us.

  Each angel is terrible.’”

Reciting this at the top of his voice.

I had to roar, “You wanna keep it down Ronnie — they’ll hear you in Brixton.”

“Close... are we?”

“Nice try Sherlock.”

He bowed.

“I think even you’ll agree these opening lines have a certain relevance.”

“Well Ronnie, I think I’ll leave you and Rilke to it.”

“For solitude is really an inner matter,” he boomed.

Turning up the stairs again, I felt something in my back pocket. The mask. I’d never put it on. I didn’t think I’d share this with my chums. Ronnie was unlikely to tell.

As I came into the living room, my heart jumped sideways.

A completely bald man was sitting on the sofa.

“Whatcha think?’ asked Dex. “Radical or wot?”

He ran a hand over his naked dome, smiled.

Radical was one way of terming it. The transformation was extraordinary. He now looked the total psycho... which he was.

“There’s more,” he said.

He buried his head in his hands, there was a loud pssish and he had a full head of hair again. The bald cover he threw at me.

“Try it on Kojak.”

I didn’t catch it and let it fall at my feet. Whatever rubberised material was in it, it jerked and shuddered. For all the world, I thought, like my old dad’s liver. I asked him, “Ever heard of Rilke?”

“One of the Baader Meinhof.”

Lisa’s voice cut off any reply I might have fronted.

“He was the poet of solitude. A constant traveller. He ended as a recluse in a château at Muzot. The Duino Elegies took him twelve years to complete. In his life he won a huge following of female admirers. Sonnets to Orpheus and Elegies are highly regarded.”

She suddenly stopped. Dex said, “Bit of a ladies’ man, was he, liked to roger the old fräuleins eh?”

I asked, “Jeez, how do you know this stuff?”

Dex answered, “ ’Cos her old mum’s a teacher.”

Lisa glanced at me like a stranger, went into the kitchen. The sound of banging cups drew me after her. I said, “And hello to you, darlin’.”

“Fuck off.”

I grabbed her arm.

“Don’t you ever dismiss me like that. I’m not some hired help. You want to throw a moody, I’ll throw you out so fucking fast you won’t touch ground. Am I getting through to you Lisa?”

She jumped at me, ground her hips into mine and her tongue deep in my mouth. Her hand unzipped me and a few seconds later she dropped to her knees.

“What about Dex?” I gasped.

“I ain’t blowing him.”

I told myself I didn’t want to, my body screamed, “Oh yeah.”

A few moments later it was over.

She stood, went to the sink, rinsed her mouth. She said, “You were saying...”

That evening, she was curled on the couch rolling a joint. I said, “Time to make the call.”

“Not making any call.”

“Lisa, you want this thing to go down? Come on, you’ve got to call her.”

“Or wot Nico, you gonna beat on de woman? Oh lawdy, oh puleez mistah, don’t go hitting on de woman.”

God, I was tempted. Highly tempted. So I made the call. Baldwin’s wife answered on the first ring. I said, “You’ve had a day. Are you going to pay?”

“Yes.”

I told her the amount, the arrangements I’d give her tomorrow. To everything she replied simply “Yes”. Nothing else, just a line of yesses. Then she put the phone down.

I roared, “She hung up.”

Lisa said, “What, you were hoping for a date, that it?”

“Don’t mouth me Lisa.”

“I thought I did already. In the kitchen when you were making all those noises... uh... uh... oh... all... as if you were dying or somefink.”

She emphasised the “fink” in a perfect parody of my accent.

I’d about had it with my “team”.

“You’re bored with our little enterprise, Lisa? The excitement palling already? That’s fine with me. I’ll just go down and cut our captive loose — ‘No hard feelings Mr Baldwin, we’ve changed our minds... sorry for the inconvenience.’ — mebbe you could call a cab for him. Say the word, I’ll do it. Try me.”

She stretched, stubbed out the joint on the floor... my floor... gave an exaggerated yawn, said, “Oh, I don’t think Dex would like that.”

“Fuck Dex.”

“I wonder if you’d be able.”

Before I could hammer out a suitably macho reply, she said in a very quiet voice, “Did I ever tell you my angel story. I don’t think anyone’s heard it.”

Baldwin’s line from Rilke “Each angel is terrible” briefly flickered. I thought maybe the dope had kicked in and drawn her headlong on to mellowness. I was glad of anything that took the hard edge off. She continued, “When I was a little girl, the best thing to happen was to be selected as an angel for the school nativity play. Only white girls ever played Mary. Sounds like a title for a Mary Gordon novel, doesn’t it?

“My dream came true, I was to be an angel. The day before the play I heard the principal say to the drama teacher, ‘You can’t have a nigger angel, there aren’t any jungle bunnies in heaven.’

“They took away my halo. For a long time I was a sad little girl ’cos they had no rabbits in heaven. Later, of course, I learnt that they didn’t mean rabbits, not the cuddly type anyway.”

She looked up at me and smiled.

“So you see, Nicky, mon cherie, I don’t want to be a fuckin’ angel... OK?”

The toilet facilties for our guest were basic. That chemical job had cost me a fair bit though. Thing was, I got to lug it back and forth. Dex reckoned the humiliation alone should keep Baldwin docile. As I got to do the ferrying, I think the process somewhat backfired.

As I did this now, Baldwin smirked. I said, “Keep it up buddy, I’ll stick yer friggin’ head in it... tell you, Baldwin, if I might apply a little toilet metaphor here, you’re a royal pain in the arse.”

He laughed, said, “To quote Anthony Burgess, ‘The Royal Family do not help, they are philistines, they like horses.’ Your colleague paid me a visit. Showed me his cannon.”

“What?”

“Oh yes, he explained to me it was a Ruger Blackhawk.44 Magnum. He wished me to suck it... the gun that is. At least I think it was... one lives in quiet hope.”

“Jesus.”

“No damage done, it was a replica I understand. Not that it was any less dramatic. More worrying perhaps that a grown man buys toy guns. Is he the leader?”

I had no comment. I finished slopping out... badly. Baldwin roared, “Some Rilke I think:

  ‘My occupation, soon it will be my vocation, is to

  have patience;

  sometimes it is as with a pain

  that one thinks one cannot

  possibly endure a moment longer

  and yet it slowly becomes part

  of one’s everyday life

  — human nature is tough.’”

I asked, “You think old Rilke would have done this poetically? Believe me... there is no poetry in shit.”

He seemed delighted, replied, “The barbarian thinks, how illuminating. A quote worthy of the TLS. How succinctly put.”

I took a step towards him.

“I warned you about the name-calling Mr Baldwin.”

“You needn’t call me Mister. You don’t work for me... at least not yet.”

And so he ranted, I didn’t know if it was the Rilke wanker or himself. Shite anyway. Here he was: “The fear that I could betray myself and say all the things I am afraid of, and the fear that I could not say anything at all because it is all unsayable.”

I didn’t analyse why I paid attention to that piece.

Threats only seemed to encourage him and I was weary hitting him so I said, “It’s goodnight fella. Anything you want as this is it till morning?”

“My cup overfloweth, I rest content... oh, by the way, whose is the woman... yours or Clint Eastwood’s?”

“What woman?”

“Don’t insult my nose... I smell ‘Poison’.”

“You’re a perfume connoisseur as well... is that it?”

“I ought to know that brand. It’s my kiss-off to... how shall I term them... my cast-offs...”

“You’re sure your missus is going to want you back. What does she use?”

“Her rather splendid mind.”

I flicked off the light. The bizarre thing is I think he was content. As I reached the top of the stairs he whispered, “Hey Attila... shut the door.”

Lisa was gone. To change her clothes or something, her attitude preferably. I rang Bonny, arranged to meet her at the Crown. Anything to get out of the flaming house. I felt I’d been kidnapped. In many ways I had.

I went upstairs to check Lisa’s cosmetics. Sitting among them, a bottle of Poison. I’d unscrewed the top and was sniffin’ it when for some reason I glanced at the window. A panda car... then the knock at the door... I bolted down, my heart fucked.

Two uniforms.

“Good evening, Sir, might we step in a moment.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Really Sir, best if we came inside.”

In they came.

“We’ve had a complaint about noise.”

“Just a few friends around. Won’t happen again.”

“You the owner, Sir?”

“Yes... I...”

One of the uniforms looked towards the basement...

“That lead somewhere, Sir?”

Before I could reply, if I could, the other let out a cry, “Merle Haggard... you a Country fan?”

He threw an appreciative eye over my collection. I said, “Feel free to borrow whatever you fancy.”

He selected an armful.

“If I might just...”

“Of course.”

Then he said to the other, “No need to trouble this gentleman further George... is there. Country music has got to be loud.”

As they got to the door, he too looked at the basement.

“Bit of a hooten-Annie down there... the old square dancing.”

“Something like that... yes.”

“Mebbe I’ll drop round, cut the rug with you. I don’t advise you to drink that, it’s poison...”

I looked down, in my left hand was Lisa’s open perfume bottle, the name clearly legible. I said in a weak voice, “Next time I’ll have Lone Star... OK?”

I shut the door, my knees went, I slid to the floor.

A while later, Dex came banging and I let him in.

“Jeez Nick, what happened to you, you’re pale as Michael Jackson.”

“The old Bill were here.”

“Yes, I know. I called them.”

“What?”

“Dual purpose really. Throw them off the scent and sharpen up our act here. We’re getting sloppy... need to get lean and mean. How’d it go, get the old juices flowing... give you back yer edge?”

I couldn’t answer.

I went to the fridge. Bingo, there was a can of Coca-Cola. Back to the living room, I front lobbed it and shouted, “Catch.”

He near fell over, but he got it. Before he could right himself, I kicked his legs from under him and planted a foot on his chest. I opened the Coke, it exploded from the can and I poured it into his face.

“Tell me Dex... does it taste like the real thing?”

“What?”

“Not a replicant, is it?”

“Ah...”

“Where is it?”

“I sold it to a drunk paddy.”

I bounced the can off his forehead.

“Go away,” I said, “before I get very fucking mean.”

My hands shook as I dressed but I realised I hadn’t done any dope all day. Behaved like one, sure. I felt the vague promise of a treacherous hope.

The pub was humming. Bonny was at the counter. A middle-aged guy was pulling chat on her. No wonder as she as wearing

a short black dress

black tights

black patent heels, killer high

the whole

“hey-wanna-fuck-me-stupid-fellah”

outfit.

“Nick... this is... sorry, what did you say your name is?”

“Brian.”

He was dressed in the ultra-faded denim. One more wash and it’s gone. The look caught between haute couture and oval panhandler. A delicate balance. His smile and hair colour accessorised exactly. And King’s Road workboots, the kind that yell he never did a day’s work in his life.

A sour look flashed at me. I smiled. The evening had promise. Bonny had ordered large Scotches, beer chasers, raised her glass.

“Tiddley pip.”

“That too,” I said.

Brian was something in electronics, or was that the other way round. Who gave a rat’s arse?

He was desperate to suss out our relationship and figured he was already halfway to first base with Bonny.

... figured wrong.

He was chewing nuts. Bonny said, “You want a definition of hell?”

“Sure.”

“Englishmen in shorts.”

Brian turned quickly to me.

“And your field is?”

“Thuggery.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m a thug. I beat up people... for money. But sometimes I just do it for the hell of it... you know how it is Bri, when you love your work, you just can’t leave it alone.”

All the time I was smiling. Good ole boy version, like Merle Haggard on the album cover. Felt good too. The thought skittled across my mind that I was more like Dex than I wanted to admit.

Brian turned to Bonny. “He’s pulling my leg... isn’t he Bon?”

She gave him her most sincere look.

“No... that’s what he does. But tonight is his night off. Isn’t it darlin’... or was that yesterday... oh and Bri, don’t call me Bon... OK?”

Her lipstick had snagged on her top tooth. Nothing makes a woman look more vulnerable than that. I could have loved her then.

“Well,” I said, “tonight I don’t expect to be paid... but who’s counting... eh?”

Brian suddenly remembered the car parked on the old double yellow and had to rush. Most used getaway line in the business but effective.

“Hurry back,” I said.

Bonny rested her hand on my knee.

“You’re in mighty form.”

“And the night is young, let’s get some serious Scotch flowing. Yo’, bar-keep!”

Rilke never crossed my mind.

Bonny said, “See when you lighten up, you’re almost a fun guy.”

“Not so dark eh... less black in fact. Thing is Bonny, you’re a woman and an attractive one. If you live to be a hundred, you’ll never know what it’s like not to be a good-looking guy. Fun ain’t it. I placed an ad in those personal columns once. The end result was I was to meet this woman outside Burger King in Leicester Square. She never showed up. But I think she did, had a look from a safe distance and then fucked off. I pinned her letter to the glass, all her details. Who knows, mebbe she got lucky.”

Later we hit a new club in the West End called the Deep South. They play some mean low-down Cajun and play it live. A fiddle player, he was bewitched in his artistry. Dance to that the devil said. We did and for as long as they dished it out.

All the while I was hammerin’ down these boiler makers. I can’t dance... need I say more about the state I was in. With a woman who made me feel I could dance. That’s the rarest kind. The awful thing is... you get the knowledge after you let ’em go and you’re not ever going to dance again.

Not like that anyway.

She looks at you with shining eyes and you’re the guy you always wanted to be. You feel almost tanned! Then, you get to thinking, she’s just the music, the accompaniment... not the creator. The magic’s gone. Once... mebbe once, you get that lucky and let it skip away. The first time it’s a free gift... ever after, you have to earn it... and it isn’t ever worth it. Elvis has left the building and you weren’t looking.

There’s a huge Boots in Piccadilly Circus. With plate-glass windows. Before going to the club, I stood at the end of the window and raised my arm and leg. Bonny was treated to the optical illusion of me with multi limbs. Harry Worth used to open his show with this. Back when I was a kid.

“Who’s Harry fucking Worth?” the kids ask.

My old man would have been in their corner. As soon as the show began, he’d roar, “Not that four-eyed wanker.”

Which, if you were to take his words literally, would indeed have been some optician effect. I think old Harry was held in such affection by others, as he reflected a safe cosy England when Morris Minors ruled the road. The only drugs were aspirin and smoking was a social requirement.

No one had learnt of calories, carbohydrates, polyunsaturates or ozone. You could eat what you liked. Dex said they called anorexia poverty then. Harry was a hybrid of Frank Spencer and yer dotty uncle. The Krays loved their old mum and there was no breakfast TV.

Bonny and I ate tacos under Eros and I told her the rules of behaviour as outlined by James Crumley.

He says there are rules of conduct in America that can change your luck in a country based on the rules of luck. After forty, never go any place you’ve never been before. Except on somebody else’s cash. Never go out at night unless you’re wearing black. And never go anywhere without a gun.

I dunno where we’d got the thunderbird but it was washing down the food a treat. Also, alas, seriously affecting my judgement. I took Bonny back to the house in Clapham.

I surfaced around eight the next morning. A manic thirst chanting

  Water

  Water

  Water

I got out of bed quickly and wow was that ever a mistake. A roaring headache nigh split me and the sickness in my stomach was biblical. A hazy series of memories bounced around. The remembrance of tacos past drove me to my knees. Then I looked for Bonny. Her black dress was crumpled at the end of the bed, plus my clothes. Twisted round each other like a weak petition.

In the bathroom, I spewed up a few times, checked my face in the mirror. God-on-a-tandem, it looked like something died a horrible death. Dragged myself downstairs. Bonny was sitting at the kitchen table, in one of my old shirts. Dex was seated opposite, his arms folded. Seeing me he said, The dead arose and appeared to... two. What news from Jerusalem?”

I put my hand on Sonny’s head, asked, “Alright honey?”

She didn’t answer. Dex answered benignly...

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Dex said, “I thought I’d look in on our guest early. Make sure he hadn’t croaked. See if he’d specific newspaper preference. Have him down as the Daily Telegraph type. Know what I mean, he leaks notions. But I digress. Bejapered Seamus, who do I meet coming up the stairs... but the bold Bonny. She looked at me as if I were Fred West or something.”

He waited for my comment. I had none so he continued, “Well Nico old pal, you could have blown me down with the proverbial feather. Did somebody... somehow neglect to tell the Dexter we’d a new player. So what I thought we’d do, Bonny and I, was wait quietly here. Grab a little quality time and then see what Nick would suggest.”

I laid my hand on Benny’s shoulder, said, “Go upstairs, get dressed.”

She looked to Dex who said, “Thank you for attending the interview. Naturally I can’t tell if you’ve been successful as there are others for me to see. However, I do like the cut of your jib, by jove I do. Send in the next applicant.”

He waved his hand in a gesture of busy dismissal.

I eased myself into her chair.

“So what have we got Dex?”

“What we’ve got is a problem.”

“She won’t talk.”

“Tut-tut Nicky, lesson one. All women talk, it’s their nature.”

“You’re going to have to trust me on this one.”

A wave of nausea walloped me. I got shakily to my feet and went to the front room. I located some brandy and, with shaking hands, took a hefty belt. Like petrol with a vicious side. It hit my stomach hard, hard as truth. But stayed. Dex had naturally followed, he said, “Nice going, Nick. Bad sign is the old morning pick-me-up. Hair of the dog I guess. Thing is, you’ll want the whole animal before noon. Maybe later, you could introduce Baldwin to the rest of the neighbourhood. Let’s see, we could have a car boot sale instead of the ransom.”

I began to feel better. Artificial sure, but didn’t care where the recovery came from. You couldn’t say things were so much slipping away from me as in a full gallop. I tried to focus, said, “What had you in mind?”

“You won’t like it.”

“Jeez, wouldn’t that be a novelty... What?”

“Whack her.”

“Whack her... like terminate with extreme prejudice. What kind of a movie do you think this is? An English version of Wise Guys... and you’re who... Joe Pesci?”

He gave a disappointed shrug.

“Aw, I kinda saw myself in the De Niro role... but OK... Joe Pesci is good.”

I stood up, steadier... getting there.

“Go home Dex, leave this to me.”

“No can do ole buddy-mio. The Dexter’s got roots.”

He sauntered into the kitchen and began to set the breakfast table, shouted, “Settings for three I presume?”

The brandy kicked in and I landed in the twilight zone between health and death. It’s like living behind glass or I guess what the Catholics call Purgatory. They usually have a word for pain.

I went upstairs. Bonny was dressed, the black outfit looked sad. Is there owt as pathetic as last night’s glad rags, like a disco in the morning light. I pulled out a raincoat, said, “An old raincoat will never let you down.”

“What?”

“Rod Stewart! Don’t worry love, you’re going home. I’ll call you a cab... no, no... don’t say anything. I’ll call you tonight.”

I was rummaging in the cupboard when she whispered, “How could you?”

No reply to that, then or now. I found my old black hold-all and tested it’s weight. Yeah, holding heavy. Back downstairs I rang a cab and heard the toast pop. I would see Dex flip the toast like a pizza. He was whistling... sounded like “Fernando.”

I brought the bag into the kitchen, asked, “Are you familiar with Ecclesiastics: ‘A man’s dress tells you what he does... and: A man’s work tells you what he is.’”

Dex, unsure of where this was going, quipped, “Intimately... words to live by.”

But always a game participant, he added, “Shoot the men in suits.”

I unzipped the bag and he ventured, “A run before brekkie. How wise, help distil the quart of brandy you had. They’ll smell you coming, eh?”

God, I was glad he was enjoying it.

“Dex, you know what I work at, hell, you even know where I used to work. But you’ve never actually seen me work. Let’s remedy that right now.”

I pulled out a baseball bat.

“This beauty here is the Louisville slugger and if you listen carefully, you’ll hear a whoosh.”

I put everything behind my swing, all the brandied ferocity and swept the breakfast things across the kitchen.

“Did you hear it, did you catch the whoosh... no, pay attention, you can’t miss it.”

He’d backed up against the wall...

I took another swing and crushed the toaster.

“I think you heard it that time. Breakfast is cancelled... OK? Now let’s all stop fucking around. We’ll collect the money and that’s an end to it... esso es claro.”

He nodded.

When the cab came, I paid him in advance. Bonny never spoke, just staring dead-eyed ahead. Not that I expected gratitude for covering the tab. I was still operating on her money as it was. Dex took off soon after and he hadn’t a whole lot of repartee either.

Back inside I lay on the sofa and wondered what had become of Harry Worth.

S.O.S. claro... my old man used to shout. Esso es claro. Is it clear?

“Yeah, loud and fuckin’.”

He’d been a merchant seaman and that was the sole thing he’d learnt. Not about drinkin’, he’d picked that up before he left. I smile to think he finally got to school, a drinking one. They’re a movable feast but mainly the school has a West End location. Sometimes he’s leader of the pack, other times he is the pack. The very last time I saw him he was shouting that he’d never stop drinking until the last hostage was free. But just in case, he added a rider, “Or as long as there’s even a hint of a hostage being taken.”

Dex came by a few hours later with a lemon, a bottle of tequila, a pack of Marlboro.

“Peace offering,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I was going to bring bagels and styrofoams of coffee... have us an American time, especially as you tend to be armed and dangerous in the kitchen. No need to go in there again.”

He had a Brooklyn accent to match.

“So why the tequila?”

“I thought fuck Plan A for a game of soldiers, let’s get loaded.”

At long last I could slip in a wee anecdote. I said, “John Wayne said that tequila hurt his back.”

“His back!”

“Yeah, every time he drank it, he fell off the stool.”

He didn’t seem too impressed. But fuck, I’d been sitting on it for years. How often does the chance to slide that into a conversation occur?

We sucked the lemons, knocked back the tequila and even had the hit of salt. We were almost cordial. Dex even had a worn zippo to complement the Marlboro. He said, “I went to see Alex la Igliesia’s debut, Acción Mutante.”

I couldn’t fix a connection so said unsteadily, “He’s a Mexican?”

“Never heard of him, did you? Not a name bandied around much in the Clint Eastwood fan club. Even you’ll have heard of the Spanish film maker Pedro Almodóvar.”

I hadn’t.

“Christ, just how thick are you... only kidding buddy. Have some more tequila. Well Almodóvar financed this pic as he believed in it... now the raison d’être for this cinematic excursion. There’s a spoof TV bulletin in it about a kidnapping. The ransom demand appears like figures on a scoreboard.”

“You’re thinking of the ransom?”

“Flunked out again Nick. I was thinking about lezzies.”

“Lassies?”

“What... now you’re hard of hearing... lemme spell it out for you... l-e-s-b-i-a-n-s. Last night I read Ann Bannon’s I’m a Woman.”

I couldn’t fly with his rapid-fire-changes of topic. Mostly I wanted to ask him why but I was afraid he’d tell me. I said nothing and he began to quote from the story: “I know most of the girls in here, I’ve probably slept with half of them. I’ve lived with half of the half I’ve slept with.

“I’ve loved half of the half I’ve slept with.”

He waited for my response.

“You lost me at the very first half.”

It was like he hadn’t heard me, either way... he could care less.

“The best bit, Nicky, this chick who’s talking... she turns to her mate and says, ‘What does it all come to? You know something baby? It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. You don’t like me and that doesn’t matter. Someday maybe you’ll love me and that won’t matter either.’”

I noticed he was wearing cowboy boots. They were stiff in newness. Welcome to Marlboro country. He lit a cigarette, the only sound being the heavy clunk as he shut down the zippo.

“So Nico, you’re a bit of a cowboy... yeah, give me yer Western verdict.”

“Well, Dex, there’s a point to all of it.”

“Naturellement, you heard the end line.”

“Run it by me again.”

“Nothing matters... not a cussed thing... that way you can’t lose. It’s all just a Spanish movie... not main-stream.”

“Yeah,” I said.

After he’d left, the tequila in my system called out for music. I no longer had Hank Williams as the cop had “borrowed” those. I thought he had taste as well as cheek.

Lisa has said to me, “Doesn’t cost anything to be gentle now and then. It’s not a weakness.”

Oh yeah.

“Look Lisa, I don’t know any gentle types. It’s not a quality there’s much percentage in. Gentle people cost.”

She gave a mild sneer.

“Cost... the white man’s price on everything.”

“Hey, you think I’m kidding here Lisa. You get to know these people, you get to like them but they’re casualties. No matter how you watch for them, they go down. One way or another. Then you hurt. No, stay clear.”

She’d begun to roll a joint and then took a small phial from her bag.

“Seasoning?” I asked.

“Liquid demorol, they give it to cancer patients.”

“And you flavour your dope with it... very fucking gentle.”

The booze had mellowed me and I cleared the debris from the kitchen. Fixed some food for the guest. He was in a yoga position, the picture of tranquillity. He said, “Do I remind you of the panther?”

“What, ’cos you’re black?”

“Rilke’s panther... listen... can you hear him... see

  ‘As he paces in cramped circles

  over and over, the monument of

  his powerful soft strides

  is like a ritual dance

  around a centre in which

  a mighty will

  stands paralysed.’”

“Give it a rest, eh.”

He considered, then nodded his head, said, “I made Benny’s acquaintance.”

“I heard.”

“Her age is indeterminable. I’ll kindly venture forty. Martin Amis tells us that by that age, we have the face we deserve.”

“He’d know. I told her I didn’t think she looked that. She said it’s what forty looks like nowadays.”

“There is a fact of nature I’m going to share with you.”

“Don’t bother.”

“I must insist. It is possible to sneak up on a fox. But a vixen, never. No matter what direction you come from, she’ll always have her eyes on you.”

He was well pleased with this little nomily. I asked, “What am I to make of that?”

“Perhaps that he who hunts with the hounds might yet run with the hare.”

“You want this food or not, age isn’t improving it.”

“What culinary delight have you devised to whet my gastronomic juices?”

“That means ‘Wot’s to eat?’... Right? It’s yer favourite... eggs. No toast due to an industrial accident.”

Then I left him to it. I rang his wife and read her the Riot Act. “Don’t contact the police... Type of bills, denominations... Be ready in twenty-four hours for the drop.”

Kidnapping kind of stuff.

To all she replied “Yes.”

I figured she was a) in deep shock b) on drugs c) couldn’t care less.

Only a) could be in our interest.

I heard shouting from the basement... I didn’t go down, just roared.

“What, what is it now?”

He bellowed, “‘Only at times/the curtain of the pupil lifts/ — quietly.’

“That’s the part of the poem you should remember my bouncing Lothario.”

I thought he’d finished but no.

“One more thing.”

“Jesus, wot?”

“You might try to remember one little item.”

“Oh yeah, and what might that be?”

“The mask, try and wear it the odd time, just for the appearance of the thing... OK.”

I didn’t even know where it was any more or for that matter, the position of anything else either. I went back to bed, I wanted to go back to the brandy but some sanity ruled. The phone jerked me awake. Late evening.

Bonny.

In a cold voice she said, “I’m going to leave London in a few days. Perhaps on my return I’ll read about you in the papers.”

I struggled to wake.

“Lisa... Lisa... oh shit... sorry, I’m half asleep Bonny... I meant Bonny, it’s that I’m still groggy here.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from her. I felt it like a razor then.

“That says it all.”

“Don’t worry about Dex... I’ll make sure he stays away.”

“It’s not Dex I’m afraid of.”

Then she hung up.

I told myself, “This is good... she’s safer away... till I get things sorted... it’s good... definitely I’m well pleased... things couldn’t be better.”

I was wrong.

Bonny was wrong.

All dreadfully so.

I went downstairs. Dex and Lisa were rolling a joint. I said, “We do it tomorrow.”

Dex answered, “Oh yippee, I’ve got my little bag with ‘swag’ printed on it all prepared.”

“The plan is the same, no variation. Now get the nick out of my house.”

The remainder of the evening is lost to me. I guess I fed Baldwin, and no doubt he fed me the usual poetic bullshit. It’s a given that I fed my neuroses. Fighting the urge to get drunk all over again. A quiet voice promising if I started, I might never stop. I wasn’t sure I’d want to.

Was it torment?

Dex had said you couldn’t truly understand torture till you heard William Shatner’s version of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”

Maybe I hummed a few bars.

Next morning I asked Baldwin if his wife would pay.

“She’ll pay.”

“You’re very sure.”

“It’s my business... certainty.”

“I dunno Baldwin, she doesn’t say a whole lot. I gave her instructions, to have old unmarked bills. No consecutive serial numbers. All the usual stuff. She only ever says ‘yes’... nowt else... just that friggin’ ‘yes’.”

“She doesn’t talk to garbage. It’s why I married her.”

This said without even bothering to look at me. A tap on the head might have got his attention but I wasn’t up to it. As I turned to go he said, “Goliath... ponder this as an epilogue, if not a conclusion. My Rilke was fascinated with contained energy. Ah, if I had but the time or inclination to recite. ‘The Gazelle’, or ‘The Flamingos’.

“Living creatures confined by restriction.”

He shook the leg chain and gave a grim smile. One that never touched his eyes.

“There is much I should like to say, but as time goes by, I become more distrustful of myself — monster that I am, having never been so deeply, painfully and unceasingly concerned about any creature as about myself.”

I didn’t reply. The word was so crucial to him.

Lisa and Dex arrived early. We ran through the plan again. She was wearing a formal black two-piece suit and looked like a highly successful businesswoman.

Or, a dominatrix.

Dex and I wore sports jackets, slacks, open shirts. A Marks and Spencer’s mildly comfortable look. Not rich, but not hurtin’.

At noon, I made the call.

“Mrs Baldwin, you have the money?”

“Yes.”

“OK, it’s 12 now. At 1.30, you are to enter Marks and Spencer’s flagship shop at Marble Arch. You’ll have the money in one of their bags. Go to a changing room in the women’s department. Leave the money on the floor there. Walk out of the store and then right. Keep walking for exactly five minutes. Then you’ll be contacted. Any questions?”

A flood: “When do I get my husband back? How can I be sure he’s alright — have you hurt him?”

I considered my reply carefully and then I said “Yes”.

And hung up.

I turned to my merry band, said, “OK pranksters, let’s hit the bricks.”

At 1.30, Lisa and I had already purchased a dressing gown. It rested in the large bag. We were standing near to the escalator. Lisa moved suddenly.

“That’s her in the blonde hair, cheap leather coat.”

“Go,” I said and nodded to Dex.

The place was crowded as we’d anticipated. Lisa took a dress from the rail. Mrs Baldwin had selected a cardigan and she was carrying the distinctive green bag. They disappeared into the changing rooms. A few moments lapsed and Mrs Baldwin emerged carrying only the cardigan. Then Lisa, with her green bag, took the escalator to furnishings.

I went after her.

Dex was on the ground floor to follow Mrs Baldwin. We were on the street and going left in under five minutes. The green bag was now in a Selfridges hold-all.

At Bond Street tube station, I said to Lisa, “I’ll hang on to the money... then tonight... if it’s all clear... I’ll meet you at my place. About 7, like that.”

She gave me a long look, said, “You wouldn’t skip on us now, would you precious?”

“And leave me home in Clapham... an Englishman’s castle and all that shit.”

She touched my cheek with one finger.

“Now all dis near over baby, we go back to sweet loving like before.”

“I can hardly contain myself.”

“You all hurry home now. I be keeping it warm for mah daddy.”

I watched her go. I walked out of the station, hailed a cab.

I had the driver swing by Bonny’s cafe. What did I think... I’d see her at work... and then what? Shovel out a few wedges of cash... what?

I saw smoke from the top of Clapham Rise. Before I could think, the cabby said, “Torched the cafe last night. Had to bring in the fire engines from Streatham to fight the blaze. The owner was trapped in it.”

I choked down hard and as we actually passed, I locked my feet and tried to keep my eyes down. I could smell the smoke. I’ll fuckin’ always smell the smoke.

When we got to my street, I paid the cab, watched him drive off. Then I crossed to Dex’s house... broke a back window and climbed in. Went to the front window and dropped the money at my feet. Said aloud, “Now let’s see who shows up.”

Lisa showed within twenty minutes. A light skip in her walk.

“Looking good,” I thought.

Then ten minutes later, Dex. He stopped outside. A long look towards his house. I whispered, “Come on, come on in you twisted fuck.”

But he didn’t. Turned into my home. “Home is where the treachery is.” As I figured on giving them a little time, I had a wander through Dex’s home. Hotel rooms have more energy. It was: 1. Neat. 2. Antiseptic. 3. Vacant.

Anyone could have lived there or no one. I found a bottle of gin and poured some into a mug. This had a cat’s head on the side, underneath was the logo, “I love pussy.”

“Cute,” I said.

I had vaguely expected to find the browning automatic. Since it disappeared from under my fridge, I expected Dex had it. As was my quota now, I was absolutely wrong.

I checked the money, well I looked at it. Was it all there... probably. I counted a wad at random and it came to ten grand. These were an awful lot of wads. The money was old, near crumpled. I shouted aloud.

“I’m third of a millionaire. Wouldn’t my old dad be surprised.”

Hefting a thick wad, I lash-kicked it across the room. It hit the wall with a light thud and slithered to the floor. I said, “See Bonny, kicked a little your way... OK darling... OK sweetheart...”

A thought pondered into my head. This morning when I’d been running through my plan, Dex had been whistling quietly. One of those annoying things, you know you know it, but you’re fucked if you can put a name to it. As we’d left the house he’d given me a look of what I could now only identify as triumph.

Now I could name it. Elton John’s “Burn Down the Mission”.

And I was relieved I hadn’t found the gun. Oh yeah, I wanted to take him with my bare hands.

An hour passed. I left that money and went across the road. What I felt was “ready.” The house was quiet. I headed for the basement and heard low moans.

“Christ,” I thought, “they’re torturing the poor bastard.”

I’d waited too long.

Lisa was on her knees, giving Baldwin a blow job. His face had that rictus of torment that is total pleasure. His eyes looked on mine. I noticed for the first time his eyes were brown. Wouldn’t Lisa be proud, I’d caught up. He shoved Lisa back.

“What,” she said. “You didn’t come.”

She followed his look and her face twisted.

“Oh Nico... Nico... you weren’t meant to come.”

I said, “Someone’s got to come.”

Baldwin’s leg was still chained. Heat of passion I guess. No sign of Dex.

Baldwin said, “Believe it or not old chummy, I finished with this bitch six years ago. But she hasn’t given up... as you’ve just seen.”

I looked at her, said, “All this to get him back... jeez Lisa... no wonder you knew Rilke so well. Who’d have thought you could care so much... you poor pathetic cow.”

She put her hand out towards him.

“He’s mine, he belongs to me.”

And Baldwin laughed.

Lisa backed away. I swear she was whimpering. God, is there a more devastating sound in the whole world.

Baldwin said to me, “Oscar Wilde, I don’t think I covered him in our lectures. Well, old Oscar said, you’ll appreciate this: ‘A woman will do anything for the man she loves.’”

And paused here for full effect.

“‘Except stop loving him.’”

If he expected a reply, I didn’t have one. He gave an irritated shrug, said, “I haven’t seen the bitch for six years, already she’s on her knees.”

Lisa was walking rapidly towards him, I saw the automatic as she said, “Here’s six, you bastard.”

And put that number of shots into him. His body jerked all over the cot but was held in place by the chain. Then he was still.

She turned to me. Tears streaming down her face. I started towards her and she whispered, “I’m so sorry Nick... you weren’t the worst... just red-neck dumb.”

And she squeezed the trigger:

I said “It jams after six.”

And swung my right fist with all the power I had, added, “What... I could have been a contender!”

It caught her up under the chin and I thought I heard her neck break. She fell back on Baldwin. I moved over to her and she was murmuring, “No more ange...”

“Rabbits maybe,” I said, as gentle as I was able.

I found Dex in the kitchen. With his throat cut. A coffee cup still gripped in his hand. I turned him over to see if his face might tell me something. It told me nothing. At least nothing I wanted to hear. It took me a few moments but eventually my saliva returned and I spat full in his face.

Back at his house I found I hadn’t quite finished my gin. I moved to an armchair and put the money under my feet. Then I moved a bit and rested them on it.

Better.

I sat wondering how difficult it would be to find a Morris Minor. Tax and insurance, probably be sky high for an old car. One thing was certain, the colour: black.

They say you hear a sound in a person’s throat as they die. A death rattle. I didn’t hear Lisa’s, not then. But now, I hear it all the time. And keep looking round, trying to locate it. Fuck, I know what it is... I just don’t know where it’s coming from. I remember a thing Dex told me during our tequila session. It seemed particularly fitting now. He’d sat up till the early morning, glued to the television at the beginning of the Gulf War. As the ferocious bombardment of Baghdad began, he’d shouted, “Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”