Rilke on Black

I stayed sitting, sipping the gin. Not sure what I thought. Eventually they’d come and I’d face:

Four murders.

Arson.

Kidnapping.

Criminal trespass.

Burglary.

As I was the only one left, they’d throw the whole shit and kaboodle at me. I’d be a mini-serial sensation. My photo in the Sun and caption, “Bring Back Hanging”. In prison the brothers would hurt me for offing two of theirs. The money would go back and I’d be full fucked.

                     OR

The whisper came about evening time...

“Dade County

    Big Apple

        Nashville

           Colorado

    Beeboopaloopbopwop.”

A litany of hope.

And I thought, “Why the hell not.” Go for it, I certainly had the cash... did I have the balls. Take the show on the road. If I’d come from the madness then I could certainly head for the final insanity... New York.

I got up and gathered the money. It was light for such an amount. Crossed the street and back into the killing zone. I stayed away from the kitchen and basement. Upstairs, I showered and packed one small case. Lisa and I had passports for our journey. Well, she wouldn’t be needing hers. I tossed it on the bed. The bottom drawer had various drugs and I left them. Enough mind alteration. It crossed my mind to go get the browning automatic

... and see Lisa.

Fuck — no. I was looking for the land of the Saturday-night special. Weapons were as common as burgers. I threw the duffel bag of money on my shoulder and walked out. I didn’t look back. When all this unravelled, they’d be hunting me with everything. Right now, I still had time. Made my getaway on the tube and checked into a small hotel in Notting Hill Gate. The owner was Indian and greedy. When I heard the price I said, “Jeez, bit steep is it mate, I’m not a tourist.”

“Ah, I hope to bring my family over from the village.”

“If I stay a few nights, you’ll be able to bring over the whole flaming village.”

The room was instant depression. I pushed the money under the bed and went out. He asked. “The room is to your liking, Mister?”

“Pure heaven. I may never leave it.”

Walked down Bayswater and everything was open. First off, I bought some body belts, they’re used to Arabs there and these belts would hold a lot of cash. Which I had. Next I bought a Sony walkman and then to select some tapes. A huge promotion for a Scottish rock outfit called “Gun”. I had to have that. Especially as the album was called, “Swagger”.

For Dex.

Then I loaded up on Lorenna McKennet and Iris de Ment. A bookshop next and I couldn’t find what I wanted. The assistant was in her twenties. A cross between a student and a wino. The arrogance was all her own and she clocked me as I approached.

But I could play. I’d had expert tuition. Start low.

“Excuse me, Ms.”

Without a breath she said, “Thrillers are next to the horror section, on your left.”

She didn’t add, “You moron,” but we both saw it hang there.

I said, “I was looking for something on Rilke.”

“You mean Roethke... or possibly Rimbaud.”

I caught her arm.

“Hey, I’ve had a day you wouldn’t believe, OK, now trust me on this. I know Rilke like you’ll never know fuckin’ manners. So, what y’say, want us to go look?”

We did and found. I bought two volumes. Then the off-licence and a bottle of bourbon. If that’s what they drank...

I turned into Paulbridge Gardens to open the tapes. Christ, they seal those cassettes like aspirations, light and useless. I’d got one out when a voice said, “Wotcher got there?”

I turned, two white youths dressed like blacks. That made me tired and sad. One glanced over his shoulder then back to me, said, “This is a hypodermic needle. Give us yer money fooker or you get AIDS.”

In his hand, I saw the syringe. There was a term for those white boys who wanted to be black.

“Whiggers.” That is, white niggers.

I thought arsehole did as well.

I said, “Are you familiar with Rainer Maria Rilke? Impressive first names, eh, I only just discovered them... here, catch.”

And he put his hand up to block. I smashed my fist in his face. Heard the nose go. The other made to run and I grabbed him by his ponytail. Swung him into the wall, said, “There you go.”

Bent and picked up the needle, hunkered beside the first.

“Old Rainer Maria used to talk about Quiet Lights. He said the big flashes come without warning and that a single experience of them should effect a full transformation of one’s entire life.”

He was groaning, trying to staunch the blood from his nose. I held the syringe up to the light, muttered, “AIDS... huh?”

And plunged it into his neck. Then I moved over to the other and rammed it in his arse. I picked up Rilke and began to walk away. A middle-aged woman was standing... transfixed. I said, “Not poetry lovers, but they’re safe now, they’ve had their shots.”

I brought my belongings back to the hotel. The money was still there. It crossed my mind to go and buy the place. I felt the owner would understand cash, he didn’t seem the cheque type. Mainly what I felt was like the old story of the drunk. He knows he dropped his key in the dark alley, but he searches under the street light ’cos there’s brightness there. Baldwin had said to me, “You’re like a blind man in a dark room searching for a black cat that isn’t there.”

I’d intellectually rallied with, “Bollocks.”

“Close, but we call it metaphysics.”

One minute I’d be numb from horror... from grief, loss, betrayal. Next, I’d be zooming on my plans for America. What I was... was fucked and part-ways knew it. A drink would help so I tore the seal from the bourbon, chugged it from the bottle. And burn like a bastard it did. More... burn further.

In a little while, I was lit and put the earphones on. “Gun” nearly deafened me and I wrenched it out. Not enough bourbon for that racket. Then Iris de Ment... better. Ball-breaking sad, but bearable, drank on.

I’d seen the billboards across town, “Fly Virgin Atlantic”. Would I get a pair of them red socks with the little white logo. Fancied the idea of that.

Then I jumped to my feet, felt I had the right level of booze and went out. In 7—11 I got a batch of bin liners and tape, hailed a passing cab, asked for Clapham. When I got to my house, it was quiet. No police or flashing lights. Turned the walkman up full volume and went in. I dunno how long it took me to bag and tie the bodies. Sweat saturated me and I hummed along to the tapes, keep playing, keep singing. A complete recklessness possessed me. I backed my van up to the front door and just slung them in...

“Here we go... whoopsy... d.”

Whoops.

Bit heavy there Dex, puttin’ on a few pounds, eh. “Cut out them burgers.”

In yah go Lisa.

Yeah... make room there Ronnie... my man... hey can you stop hugging all the room.

Tight fit guys... eh.

Right... all squared away.

Everybody happy.

...OK...

Dex, you’ll like this... wot Bette Davis said in All about Eve.

“FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

I kept up the lunatic stream of banter. Perspiration on me, my sweat was sweating. The earphones kept slipping off my head as my ears were drenched. Snatches of Iris de Ment in and out.

And I kept expecting a neighbour to call the police. But the street remained silent.

When I’d worked in the nightclubs, we always had a ton of rubbish. For a few extra quid I’d bring it in the van and take it to an illegal dump. I drove there now. As always, there was a line of vans from various Chinese restaurants and dodgy caffs. No one ever spoke. Dump yer load and get to fuck and gone. This is what I did now. Shouted, “Sayonara... and don’t wait up... Garbage ye were... and to garbage ye return.”

Got in the van and gunned outa there.

Reclaimed my home. Not that I believed I’d be able to actually sleep there. How much time before the bodies were found or for the Roozers to come calling was anybody’s guess. But I had a breathing space, didn’t have to fly the Atlantic right now. Time to prepare... for wot... anything. I tore off my clothes and spent forty minutes in the shower. All the soiled clothes, Baldwin’s stuff, Lisa’s gear, I put in the remaining bin liners and flung them in the van.

Put on a clean pair of jeans, sweatshirt and trainers. I found a batch of notes in Lisa’s handwriting and decided to look it over later. I was now sliding into exhaustion and a brutal hangover. Found a half bottle of gin and shoved it in my back pocket and grabbed some music tapes, slammed one in the walkman. Back to the van and eased towards the Elephant and Castle. There’s a large container there for unwanted items. I popped the bin liners through the chute. It occurred to me that I could have stuffed Baldwin in easily.

Jeez, how he’d loathe that. The ultimate charity case. Touched the play button and Elvis came blasting: “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.” Elvis took me all the way to Notting Hill. I had a key for the hotel door and went quietly in. The owner was fast asleep on the desk, dreaming of Samarkand perhaps. I dunno why, but I patted him gently on the head.

Slept for fifteen hours and the dreams, wow, a Vietnam Vet would have given his combat jacket to experience. A muddled concoction of:

Baldwin modelling bin liners.

Lisa riding the hotel owner.

Dex attacking me with a needle.

Hearing Elvis singing Rilke.

Coffee cups full of blood.

Garbage dumps peopled by snotty

Shop assistants.

Came to with a shout...

“Lisa.”

And felt awful. Such a benign word, as if you were a touch under par. If there is such a situation beyond despair, apart from death... that was it.

Next, I looked up to see where I was... then the money. How many times I’d heard the expression, “Felt like a million dollars.”

Don’t think that was it. Climbed off the bed and over to the mirror. Would I see a killer of men? No new facial lines. Looked like a ward case... an old hard case. Checked my watch, evening time. Pulled on the jeans and a shirt, went to reception.

Yup, the owner behind the desk. I said, “Am I a little late for breakfast?”

He smiled and I said, “What do they call you?”

“Jack.”

“Jack!”

He looked at my registration card, read, “Noel Murlers... so I’m Jack.”

“I can see where you might have a point, Jack. OK... how about this, rustle up a pot of coffee for us, I’ll see you right.”

“Most irregular but...”

I went back to my room. Five minutes later he came with the coffee and two buttered rolls. I handed him the “Gun” cassette wrapped in a ten-spot. We had clear and dried communication. The coffee gave me adrenaline if nowt else. I moved the rolls and spread Lisa’s papers on the bed.

The first sheet read,

Yeah, well, this wasn’t very enlightening.

Next up was a travel article on a Spanish town called Ronda. High in the Sierra Nevada. A luxurious hotel there named Hotel Riena Victoria. Looked right out over a stunning cliff top. Situated at the edge was a huge bronze statue of Rilke. Lisa either had... or was planning... to stay there. As poetic hommage. I don’t think she planned on taking me. She’d written,

I didn’t know what to make of that and said aloud, “Dunno what to make of that.”

Began to hum the Beach Boys, “Help me Rhonda”.

Damn tune would be lodged in my head all evening.

Marianne Faithful wrote in her sixties’ memoirs, “You would ask your date, do you know Genet, have you read a Retours? And if he said yes, you’d hop into bed.”

I wasn’t about to read Genet, and, course, that was then. Probably have to read one of those un-spell-able South Americans now and hint at magic realism. A guy I knew had wondered why his chat-up line always failed. He’d tell them he was an arse-shi-tec.

I’d met some of those too.

I wanted the sixties, all that free love passed me by. Even then I was paying. But I liked the nostalgia for it, as women love being in love. As I thought this, I thought I knew what I meant, but I wouldn’t have liked to defend, much less define, it.

As I passed reception, I heard a deafening racket... and it took a few moments to recognise, “Gun”. They hadn’t improved in the daylight. Jack was reading, Reader’s Digest. And said to me, “I study English here. Do you think is good?”

“Got me where I am today. I’ll be staying a few extra days.”

“You are most welcome.”

“See, Jack, you’ve mastered sarcasm already.”

I bought a newspaper as I walked down along Hyde Park. No screaming headlines on me yet: on page four, a report said there’d been 46 murders in the first six months of the year. Unlike the cricketers, I managed to bring up half a century. It felt good to walk, the lengthy sleep had helped, and I kept going to Marble Arch. A large pub called The Arch loomed ahead. Now how did they arrive at that name? Music poured out on the path. Marianne Faithful doing her version of “Madame George”.

Reckoning this was a stretched example of serendipity, I went in. The place was hopping and I was lucky to grab a stool by the bar. Two tenders. One, a six-foot black with the moves of an athlete. His face resembled Hawk, the sidekick of the Boston P. I. Spenser. If you don’t know him, you’re not hurting. I’d like to describe his face as being touched with acne but... it was riddled. What my old man called “pock-marked”. The other tender was a black woman round about thirty, in there. Black Rules... OK... ish.

She’d a lush body that summoned up jail sentences. Caught me looking or, to be Reader Digested, I was “ogling”. And she smiled. Jesus, how long now since I’d had that. A no-frills, no-percentage slice of human warmth. I’d been in the basement too long.

The guy saw it too and that was less OK. Especially as he moved to serve me, asked, “See something you like?”

South-London inflection, lots of hard. I could go with it, said, “Yeah, but guess I’ll settle for a drink. A large Scotch.”

“A particular type?”

“Yeah, a wet one.”

He let it slide. I could care. The drink came and with it an appraising look, missing nothing. I wittily said, “And do you see something you like?”

My eye caught a can with the letters TNT. He picked one up, said, “Wanna try one, my treat?”

“Pour the sucker.”

I took a long swallow. He waited and what else could I say, so I said it.

“Explosive.”

But his eyes were now set over my right shoulder, hard and concentrated. He said, “Two dudes followed you in here and they be shootin’ glances your way. Now one’s coming over.”

“Filth?”

“Naw, the gear is wrong. Those dudes got taste, bad taste but an effect.”

I turned and the guy looked familiar. It took a few moments. He said, “Hiya Nick, remember me... Danny... from the club.”

Yeah, I remembered. Last time I’d met him he’d been calling women “chicks”.

“Something I can do for you Danny?”

“Me and George... that’s George, he took over your job when you left. We’ve been looking for you. Lo and behold, we’re cruising round, there you are out for a constitutional. Small world, eh.”

He looked at the barman, said, “You wanna park it someplace else nigger.”

The barman gave a low whistle and moved down the bar. I said, “So why would you be wanting me Danny?”

“That spade got lifted, Baldwin. He used to know that black piece you’ve been shafting and, that hard-case Dexy, he knew him. Now it seems the missis paid a mill plus for his return. Me ’n’ George, we figger you could help with inquiries, know wot I mean Nick. But hey, we’re not greedy, fifty big ones each, we’re outa here.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Danny sighed. “Not going to happen Nick. George said you’d be difficult. Tell you what, I’ll give you a week, say next Friday at your place. How would that suit? Otherwise, as the Yanks say, I’ll have to drop a dime on you.”

I watched them leave, they waved cheerily. Course my luck was bound to change. I’d hit all the green lights and, when I eased up, luck came and bit me in the arse.

The barman ambled towards me, asked, “Frens of yours?”

“No, I’m real sorry about that crack.”

“Wha’ dat?”

“Am, you know... about you being black.”

“Oh, calling me a nigger, dat wot you all want to say.”

“I’m sorry. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Yeah, I’ll have me a club soda.”

“Nothing stronger?”

“That’s it. Used to be I was a juicer.”

“Excuse me?”

“A dipso, alky, like that. Now I ain’t.”

“You miss it?”

He passed me another large Scotch, held it up to the light. The gold aura rocked gently and he put it in front of me, asked, “Would you?”

Nursed the drink for a while and thought how I’d miss everything. Then finished it and headed off, shouted, “See you.”

He gave a slight nod, nothing elaborate, no fancy show.

As I got outside, Danny appeared right in front, pushed a blade into my groin, said, “Do anything stoopid, you’ll be a soprano. Now let’s all move down the alley for a wee chat, a business conference, if you like.”

We did, if somewhat awkwardly. George was waiting and swigging from a beer bottle. The fucker was big and very little of it was fat. A boxer’s ruint face with eyes that never saw the light. What they used to call a nasty piece of work and they were right. As we frog-walked behind him, he gave a huge grin. Yellow uneven teeth, he seemed proud of them. Go figure.

I said, “You’re the Colgate nightmare.”

And he kicked me in the balls. I’m no different from any other bloke, I dropped and vomited. All thoughts of Rilke, America, life vanished. Howling was the sole ambition.

George said, “Hey Danny, he ain’t so tough but I better fix his mouth, wotcha fink?”

Danny thought so too.

He smashed the neck of the bottle against the wall and grabbed my hair, pushed the jagged piece in close to my lips, said, “Time to eat shit hard boy.”

I put up my hand and Danny said, “Hold a mo’ George.”

Near gaggin’ on the taste of puke, I managed to say, “Cut me and no cash.”

George would have gone for it regardless but Danny knew my form, considered, then said, “Let ’im go George.”

“The fuck I will.”

Danny grabbed his arm, said, “Don’t play silly buggers, you want the readies or not?”

With a disgusted sigh, George pushed me away. I rolled on my side and cupped my groin. Christ, the pain! George spat and said, “Thought you said he was tough, look at ’im, wanking is he?”

Danny bent down, said in a friendly voice, mate to mate, “Nick, watcha say, no harm done, just a misunderstanding, alrite mate. We’ll see you Friday, do our bit o’ business and yer on yer way. Alrighty, your place, early. Got it?”

I nodded.

George half turned then as if a thought struck him. He lashed out with his foot catching me at the base of my spine, said, “Watch yer back chummy.”

Their laughter sounded all the way up the alley.

When I got back to the hotel, I was weak as a kitten. Showered first and examined my torso, bruises and cuts all over, said aloud, “Shit.”

Then climbed into the sack and slept or passed out instantly. I didn’t dream, leastways nothing I could recall. Not that I wanted to, my mind was set on horror full.

Woke late evening and my spine was on fire. Eased gingerly out of bed and risked a look in the mirror. Old, a face about to crumble into late middle age, checked my eyes to see if they’d changed. After what I had to do with the bodies, surely it would take its toll. But no difference. I felt randy though. A surge of lust that blocked out the aches. Couldn’t believe it, said, “You wanna get laid, is that it. I thought you were all through with women. After Bonny and Lisa, how could you ever bother again.”

But my groin said, “Oh yeah, do bother and soon.”

Mebbe the action with the needle and the wiggers had unhinged me. A compulsion to talk to myself and out loud was becoming more frequent. Jesus, I’d be one of those sorry bastards who trudge the high street muttering. Well, least ways I’d be a rich one. I’d need to have a plan to deal with Danny and George. I could of course give them the money and pray for a quiet life. Yeah, dream on sucker.

The radio was blaring in the hall of the hotel:

I think that’s what I heard. Remember it, one of those songs you heard all the time, you’d no idea what it meant. In fact, if pressed, you couldn’t even say if you liked it. But you knew it and, worse, it clung. One of those songs that hung out with, “me and you/and a dog named boo”.

I thought of all those half-baked hippies in California smug on soft drugs and sunshine and maybe I’d swing by, hum a mellow tune meself. After Nashville of course. Shit, I had to pay my country dues first.

Checked in the directory for Bill’s number. He was the guy who’d given the day’s work to Dex and me. The time we moved the furniture and Dex had dealt with the skate-board kid.

Bill was yer London-ed wideboy. The likely lad from the East End. When one of the Krays died, Bill walked behind the hearse. Very few were afforded that privilege. A top CID bloke in step behind. When they showed it on the telly, the huge crowds, you could see Bill as among the lost elite.

I’d known him a long time and once I might even have joined his crew. But, like I said at the outset, I’m not a criminal. Not the obvious sort anyroad. The mix of family and pompous legend was a tad too rich. How many Kray stories can you stomach and then, the exploits of the Richardsons as dessert. No thanks.

Bottom line was, my old man would have shit himself for such a position. I didn’t want nuffink he admired. Bill got himself in a bit of stuk a few years back and I helped out. No big deal, no strenuous effort on my part. It appeared more than it was and he believed he owed me. That I played it down only added to its value. How grateful he might still be, well, I was going to find out.

Got him on the line and arranged to meet. In a pub, of course. I needed air, to walk, so headed down Kensington Church Street. The memories began to pound. Then my heart lurched. Here was Lisa walking towards me. Like a physical blow, my heart goose jumped and I staggered back against a railing. Instant sweat stinging my eyes. As she came closer, it was just a young black girl. She gave me a contemptuous look, said, “Sober up mon.” I wanted to shout “Why?” But the scare had left me too shaken. Fuck, I hoped I wasn’t going to start losing it. Physically, I was strong, always had been but, how do you put muscles on the mind? If it goes soft, how to repump it? Was there a gym for it? As if in answer, I looked up and saw the small Carmelite Church on the corner. I knew that ’cos a sign outside read “Carmelite Church”.

Remember the old black’n’white movies. The hero is full fucked, all is lost then he looks up and... big music score... a church steeple. He nips in and an Audrey Hepburn’d nun bathes his face and redemption is found. Nowadays, Demi Moore would have him in the aisle. What’s wrong with the picture? Yeah, Audrey Hepburn wasn’t in black’n’white films. But, I was confused and cinema vérité wasn’t my top priority. I went in and literally took a pew. Jeez, it was so quiet and, yeah, peaceful.

In my old reliable, the maligned Reader’s Digest, I’d like to read the little items on the bottom of a page called “Points to Ponder”. One of them had said: “Never assign more tenderness to a thing than God intended.”

Felt someone behind me and whirled round. A tall priest watching me.

I said, “Jesus, don’t creep up on a person like that.”

“I’m so sorry. I’ll work on that if you try not to take the Lord’s name in vain.”

What is it they call it... Black Irish? Dark eyes, dark hair, and swarthy complexion, almost Spanish. And the voice, quiet but, wow, contained and powerful. As if he had to rein it in. He smiled and the warmth was astounding. Some people have that. You get to witness it and you think “Hey, everything’s gonna be OK.” Would go a treat in the DHSS.

He said, “I’m Father Lee but, we’re trying to catch up so, please call me Tom.”

“Tom.”

“Yes, well it’s a bit transparent. I think that the powers that be would like to present us as ecclesiastical game show hosts.”

“Big prizes?”

“The biggest. Are you a believer?”

“In game shows?”

“Touché! No, I meant the Catholic faith.”

“No. I don’t believe in a whole lot.”

“Quelle douleur.”

“You wot?”

“Nothing. I like to show off. I’d have guessed you weren’t a Catholic. You lack a certain servility that gets bestowed early.”

He sat in beside me and I said, “You’re not a very good promotions man, are you. I mean, is this a sort of inverted sell? Down playing the product to whet my appetite.”

The smile again. Jeez, I’d buy that.

“You’re a perceptive man. I also think you’re a troubled one. Might I be of comfort.”

And I wanted to tell him. For fuck sake, I knew him five minutes and was ready to blurt out the whole sheebang. But got a grip, partially. Said, “I don’t think it’s really what you’ve trained for; not in yer curriculum.”

“You might be surprised... try me.”

“Let me ask you this. If a man cares for a person and then causes her death, in a horrible way, does a piece of him die too?”

“You want forgiveness?”

“I want to understand it.”

“Go to God.”

I stood up and the spell was broken. I gave him a close look and thought... “What was I thinking, he’s just a bloke in a black suit and a fairly shabby one.” I said, “Got to go... not to God but Nashville.”

He touched my arm and near whispered, “Don’t do what you’re contemplating, I beg of you.”

“Hey, I’m not going to top myself.”

“I didn’t mean that... the other business.”

“I’ll see you Tom, I’ve got to leg it. You mind how you go... keep the faith, see you again.”

Outside I drew some deep breaths; thought he’d said, “I’m afraid not.”

I forgot to light the bloody candle and decided I’d burn a whole batch of ’em next time. Shove a tenner in the box, cook up a flaming frenzy. Yeah, I could do that.

The hour was getting on. I had to haul arse to make the pub. Hailed a cab and liked the easy way to travel. I got one in a million. On the glass partition was a large sign, “PLEASE DO SMOKE”. I smiled and couldn’t miss that the cabbie was certainly setting an example. He was scarcely visible through smoke. True to the taxi code, he was a talker, couldn’t shut it. I wonder do the verbals just continue even after the passengers are gone. No mystery to me if they did. Shit, was beginning to enjoy my own rap and I didn’t need professional help to figure out where that led.

He was saying, “Yer smoker now, he’s the new leper. Know wot I mean John. You got yer politician, yeah, most of ’em got ’er head up their arse, or someone else’s more like. They get fat on the tax from tobacco, am I right? And treat the smoker like dirt. I’d a non-smoker get in the cab the other day, started to give me a lecture on passive smoking. Know wot I done?”

I realised he expected an answer, so: “I’ve no idea.”

“Stopped the bleeding cab I did. Told him to hop it, wotcha think of that then.”

“Am... well done?”

“Too bloody right! Here we are then, Oval tube, right?”

As I paid him, I said, “Keep up the good work.”

“Too right I will, the sanctimonious bastards.”

And he burned rubber.

The pub was The Greyhound on the corner there, opposite St Mark’s. Best grub in South-East London and generous with it. I suppose I better describe Bill. Like Ed Asner with a jig, a hairpiece... or how he was in his Lou Grant days. The grouchy-bear effect, the look that says “I’ll help you out but don’t get fucking notions either.” Few did. Most everybody liked him, including me. Dex had said, “He’s a wanker.”

Perhaps the best endorsement. One end of the pub had the Irish fraternity doing serious damage to rivers of Guinness. Midway was a hockey team, a male one and they were doing... I dunno... hockey-ish stuff. The end alcove had Bill on his tod, such is his rep. I’d heard he had a baby girl with something wrong. I said, “On yer lonesome.”

“Yeah, makes a change. How are ya Nick?”

“Doing OK.”

“Wotcha drinking.”

“Scotch.”

“Yo’ Jimmy... couple large Teachers, one for yerself.”

We waited till the drinks came, said, “Cheers.”

And meant it. Drank deep. Bill wiped his mouth, said, “I bin hearing about you Nicky. That toe-rag you run with, Dexy, him and some black bit... Mebbe involved in major bad doing.”

“Just talk Bill, no substance.”

“Yeah, well, you mind how you go.”

“That’s why I asked to see you. Do you know two nasty pieces of work named Danny and George.”

He finished his drink and I called for refills, he answered, “Steer clear of ’em, bad news.”

“Not that simple. I need to ask you a biggie.”

“You want cash... how much and how soon?”

“No, no jeez, I appreciate that.”

Then I told him. He was surprised, near shocked but went with it, said, “That’s heavy merchandise, it’s gonna cost.”

“I’m good for it.”

“When?”

“As soon as.”

“OK, gimme two days, then come round my gaff. I’m not going to stick my oar in but this is serious business.”

“It’s only for demonstration purposes.”

“Do us a favour Nick, alright... leave it out.”

He got up, said, “So come round in two days, meet my missis and our little girl.”

“Yeah, sure I’d love to. Yer little girl, can I bring her something?”

“Sure... Alf videos.”

“Wot?”

“A cartoon character, she adores him.”

“Sure, I’ll do that.”

He considered a moment, then leant back, said, “We called her Chelsea, give ’er a bit o’ class.”

“I like it.”

“She has Down’s Syndrome. Near fuckin’ killed me at the time.”

I didn’t know wot to say, so I said nowt and he continued, more to himself, “Couldn’t ask for a spunkier kid. She has more spirit than anyone I ever met. Ain’t nuffink she won’t try, and a wicked sense of humour. I think I’m the one with the handicap. Anyway, sorry for ranting on. I’ll be showing you bleedin’ photos next like those sorry fucks you meet on trains. Okey-dokey, I hope you know wot yer playing at.”

“Sure I do. Can you locate Danny’s home too... thanks.”

I sat on for another half hour nursing the Scotch. The story about Chelsea really got to me. I dunno why and I sure as hell couldn’t afford any extra emotion.

There wasn’t music in the pub but these days I was tuned to a continuous internal soundtrack. Iris de Ment lyrics. A song of such loss as most times I skipped it on the album. It’s called “Easy” and, of all the things it might be, easy sure wasn’t one of them. As I left, I mouthed the hook line... “and easy’s getting harder every day.”

Amen to that.

Next day, I was wound tighter than a Tory, fit to detonate. Had to do something, get laid mebbe. Decided it might help and took a wedge from the ransom. Fuck, it seemed a mountain of cash. No matter how many times I dipped, it didn’t care. I wasn’t complaining.

Headed for Covent Garden. You’re surprised, right! You figured I’d be a Kings Cross punter and sure, I’d been there, been there lots. But, what’s the point of heavy cash if you ain’t going to get heavy action. Same system though. Go in a phone box and select a card. I was just off Long Acre and selected this one:

Rang the number, got the address and walked round. The building was flash and I guess I’d be helping with the rates. An intercom buzzed me through and then I met the bouncer or pimp or wotever. He was, as Daniel Woodrell put it, sixty stitches past good looking. I was going to share my bouncing credentials but then thought, mebbe not. There isn’t really a brotherhood of bouncers. Most aspire to be wrestlers on Sky Sports. He said, “Not the filth, are you pal.”

“No.”

“Yer big enough.”

“But not in the places it matters.”

Gave him the money. Enough to fly to Hollywood and collect Alf. Then in to meet Trina. A luxurious pad and “Vienna” playing. She was a beauty and jailbait. Oh yeah, looked about sixteen if you didn’t look close. I asked, “You like Ultravox?”

“Excuse please?”

“The group, them singing ‘Vienna’.”

“Oh I don’t know, is spool tape, plays all day. Come in please... a drink?”

“Cup of tea, two sugars.”

“I don’t know.”

“Just kidding, any watered concoction will do.”

“Whisky.”

“Sure.”

Handed me that and I took a sip. Yeah... tea.

“How can I please you?”

For all the punters, just once to roll it, I said, “No kissing on the mouth, no touching of the hair.”

She was lost, so I added, “Look, I’m leaving Old Blighty soon. I’d like one truly memorable fuck before I go.”

It was memorable. She put a condom on with her mouth and led me to almost roar YAHOO! But, I’d save that for the States.

Came out into Covent Garden and I was full and proper shagged. The nearest thing to contentment I’d get. A wino asked me for a pound and I gave him a tenner. He shouted after me, “What’s the catch?”

Indeed.

Put the house on the market. Told the estate agent I was going abroad and would take a low, low price for rapid sale. I met him at Clapham, showed him over and gave him a spare set of keys. If I could just hold it together, I might make a clean sweep.

The doorbell went. I was wearing the blue suit to blind the estate agent. Opened the door to a near identical one, except the body language shouted COP. He was in his fifties, what they called grizzled. Tufts of steel brillo hair, hard grey eyes. About six foot, he was running to fat but not there yet. Flashed the card.

“Good morning Sir, I’m Detective Brant from the Met, might I have a word?”

“Sure, care to step in.”

He did and gave the house a more thorough scan than the property guy.

“Tea, coffee?”

“Coffee — I shouldn’t but, my gut is hell and gone anyway. Black with two sugars please.”

I got the coffee and motioned him to sit. He glanced round again, said, “Comfortable! And they say Clapham’s on the way back.”

I often wondered where those areas went in the mean-time. The same place as Brant’s gut, presumably. Kept these observations mute and waited.

“You are familiar with one Dexter Cole and, lemme check my notebook here — Elizabeth Reed and, yes, Bonny Mellor.”

“Did I know them you mean — yes, of course I did. Dex is my neighbour — right opposite in fact, Lisa was his girlfriend and Bonny was my friend.”

He gave the procedural puzzled look. I didn’t help.

“See, that’s my dilemma. Both Cole and Reed have disappeared. Ms Mellor alas was killed in a tragic fire. Your friend you said — but you didn’t go to her funeral?”

“I couldn’t — too stressful.”

“Yes, yes, it would be. In fact, we thought you’d vanished yourself. Bit of a holiday perhaps?”

“Not exactly. I stayed with a friend — a lady.”

“And she is? — her address, just for my records you understand. I was led to believe you and the Reed woman were close.”

“Naw, she was Dex’s piece of skirt. Me, I’m not into black — know wot I mean?”

“I see.”

He pondered, then held up his cup. “Might I?”

I was boiling the water when I heard him behind me. Gave me a turn — shades of Dex — but I looked down. He said, “I’m going to level with you Nick.”

As no name had been given by me, I was to shake in my boots here. Police psychology one.

“I shouldn’t really be divulging this but, perhaps you can help me.”

“I’ll try.”

“A black businessman was kidnapped and we have reason to believe a ransom of over two million has been paid.”

The bitch! Upping the ante for the insurance. She’d be lucky.

I gave a low whistle. He said, “Yes, quite a tidy figure, but the man hasn’t been released. Our inquiries lead us to believe Cole and Reed might be implicated.”

Now I adopted the pondering face, then said, “Might this businessman not have staged it — you know, fake kidnap?”

“Mmm, a possibility, yes — maybe.”

“But you don’t think so.”

He drained the coffee. I was feeling that drained too. He made to leave and said, “If you hear anything about either of those two individuals, please call me. Here’s my card. We’ve reason to believe this Dex character is volatile and unpredictable.”

Not any more!

I took the card, made noises of agreement. At the door he thanked me for my co-operation then, looking at my suit, asked, “You’re not currently employed Nick, are you?”

Up close our suits were twins. I said, “If I were, would I be wearing this rubbish?”

Next morning I rented a safe deposit box. Not an easy thing to do but persisted. Plonked most of the cash in that and paid for one more week at the hotel. I was getting accustomed to it. Then I got hold of a motor trade magazine and arranged to sell the van. Short of myself, I had near everything up for sale. Whether I’d get to collect any or all of it was the toss of the black dice. Sure beat horse racing though. A whole new slant on the gamblers old cry of — “to make a killing”.

Friday was D-Day The initial could be Danny or worse. Then the last act. I booked a flight to New York for Sunday — ready to rock and roll.

All day Wednesday I willed myself to relax. Ate three solid meals, exercised, and tried not to project. A huge surge of adrenaline was building and I kept rein on it. Restrain and temper the flow till the hour of confrontation.

On a whim I stopped at a coffee shop and found an empty table. Ordered cappuccino and eased back. The coffee came, frothy and hopping but alas, with company. A couple in their twenties. She asked politely if they could share the table. The guy, in mandatory pigtail, gave me a look. “Not today pal,” I thought, “it’s my armistice for London time. No way can you piss on my parade.”

The guy began a torrent of abuse to his partner. Foul, ferocious, and relentless. I said, “Hey fella, you wanna give it a rest for a bit.”

He sneered, something to witness. He was built to maybe burst a balloon — all of the fashionable one-thirty pounds. He said, “This any of your business? You think your bulk intimidates me?”

The girl gave me the pleading stare, the “please don’t rile him further” number. So I leant over the table, clamped my hand on his wrist, said, “You want to know what I think? OK — I think you should be very fuckin’ intimidated. Now — if you answer me, I’m going to make you eat the ponytail, elastic band and all. See, it is my business ’cos you sat at my table. So, not a word — shush!”

I drank my coffee and after a few minutes he hepped up and stamped away. She said, “He doesn’t mean it.”

“But he does — he most certainly does. What I do know is you’ll follow him and I dearly wish you wouldn’t.”

She did.

A new tenant would have been pleased with the bag beneath the bed. They used to say, if you wanted to find a hooker’s number, look inside the provided Gideon Bible. Provided you had one. I didn’t. Lay on the bed, put on the headphones and let Neil Young sooth me.

 I was wondering what to do,

 and the closer they got, the more those feelings

 grew.

 Daddy’s rifle in my hands felt reassuring,

 he told me RED means RUN son, numbers

 add up to nothing.

 But when that first shot hit the door,

 I saw it coming,

 raised the rifle to my eye, never stopped

 to wonder why.

 Then I saw BLACK and my face flash in the sky.

Hard to figure old Neil had been opening my mail.

As I’d put Lisa into the bin liner, she’d opened her eyes and grabbed my wrist. That terrible rattle was coming from her throat. I’d broken her grip and pounded her down into the bag, a stream of terror pouring from me. Somehow I’d tied the bag but still there was movement. I’d used a shovel to beat down and begged — “for pity’s sake, die you bitch” — and came awake.

Drenched in sweat, the headphones still on and ripped them off. It took me a few moments to realise I was whimpering. Crawled from the bed and tore off my clothes, they were sodden with perspiration. Naked, I found the half bottle of gin and gulped at it — my hands could hardly hold the bottle. Even the room was shaking, the death rattle loud in my head. The gin calmed me, it sickened me but my heart slowed down. As did the room. Staggered to the shower and tried to soak away the heebie-jeebies. Said aloud — “thing like that, put a man off sleeping.”

Going round to Bill’s, I’d

3 Videos of Alf

An Alf doll

Alf T-Shirts

Alf Cutlery

Alf Posters.

Should do it!

To my bitter disappointment, the little girl was out with her mum. I couldn’t believe how let down I was. I said, “Ah well, next time.”

Bill gave me a look, said, “I don’t fink so.”

“Wot?”

He handed me an Adidas bag, said, “It’s all in there. Danny’s address is also innit.”

I asked him the price. It was fuckin’ steep. I said, “I have a package here which should cover it but lemme add a wedge for your end.”

“I don’t want your money. We’re even now and, if you’ll excuse me...”

“OK — oh yeah, here’s the Alf collection for Chelsea.”

He looked at me as if I’d offered him a shit sandwich, said, “I don’t think so.”

“Hey Bill, don’t be such a prick. Where’d you come off bin so high and mighty. You’re going to deprive the child ’cos you’re suddenly a man of principle — gimme a fuckin’ break.”

I stormed outa there and was halfway up the road before I realised I still had the bloody toys. I wanted to weep. Of all the things I regret, that might top the list. Passing a litter bin, I dropped them in, my heart in tatters.

Thursday morning I was up at daybreak. Danny’s house hadn’t been hard to locate, his car outside. Pulled the van alongside and got out, acting as if I’d a flat tyre — even put the wheel up on the jack. Twenty seconds it took. Five minutes later, I was outa there. Jeez, that easy. Now all I had to do was get Danny and George in the car and, as Lauren Bacall said, “Blow.” Call it a whim or defiance or plain bloody mindedness, I decided to drop in on the priest, see if he could tell what I’d been at. The church retained the air of quietness but no sign of the priest. I walked up to the altar then spotted an old priest doing church things. Went up to him, said, “Excuse me.”

If he was pleased to see me, he hid it well, near barked, “What is it?”

“Sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for Tom — Father Lee.”

“No Father Lee here.”

“That’s Tom Lee.”

And feeling foolish, I gave a full description. The old codger glared at me, said, “No priest like that here.”

“Mebbe he was a visitor.”

“If a priest visited, I’d know.”

“But...”

“I have a lot of work ahead of me — you must have the wrong church.”

“I sure as hell got the wrong priest — no wonder the bloody place is empty.”

And I left him to his religion.

Continuing in foolishness, I stopped at a jeweller’s and ransomed a gold bracelet. The engraving was included. I know it was a futile gesture but for a moment, it burned bright.

Friday morning I woke early. Did a hundred push-ups, fifty sit-ups, and felt ready. A new Reebok tracksuit and I looked set. Nodded to Jack and strolled down to McDonald’s. Ordered their touted breakfast, it had eggs, muffin, sausages, juice. It tasted like absence. And, what on earth do they do to their coffee! An American company, right. But their coffee — like someone had shit in it and never even stirred it. This is not my observation, Dex said it and I thought about him for a bit. When push came to shove, he was found wanting. As Clint Eastwood observed — “you talk too much.”

Went to an Italian cafe and got double cappuccino to go. The proprietor asked, “You want I should sprinkle chocolate on the top?”

“Shoot the works.”

“That is a fine tracksuit, how much you pay for it?”

“Too much. Can we get on with the coffee.”

Got in the van and sipped as I drove to Clapham. When I get there, found a note from the estate agent — he might have a buyer. So I rang him, told him to do whatever and bank the cheque for me. All in place.

They came at noon and I let them in. Danny was wearing jeans and sweatshirt but George had opted for a suit, imitation Armani. I knew enough to know a real one wouldn’t bag at the knees. Danny said, “Are we set?”

“Yes, I have the money.”

George looked sceptical, asked, “Well sport, where the fuck is it — don’t be shy.”

“How do I know you’ll be satisfied with this payment? Wot’s to stop you coming at me again?”

Danny smiled. “But Nick, I give you my word so c’mon, let’s see the dosh.”

Now I smiled. “What! You think I keep it here in the house. We have to go get it. I have my van, you follow me.”

George shook his head. “No, no, no, you come in our motor.”

“Then no deal. There’s the phone, drop the dime.”

Danny signalled to George and they had a heated consultation. Danny won out and my suggestion was accepted. As we went out the door Danny said, “One wrong move and you’re fuckin’ history arsehole. Am I getting through to you?”

“Perfectly.”

I got in the van and drove to Wimbledon Common, took a good hour. I knew they’d be pissed but they kept behind. When we got there I pulled up and watched them stop about five hundred yards from me. I rolled down my windows and signalled for Danny to do likewise. As he did, I banged the horn twice and shouted, “Now, you’re history arsehole.”

The explosion was quite muted but lifted the car about four foot off the ground. The force waves took a second to reach me and shook the van. For a moment I was transfixed then I turned the key and drove the fuck outa there.

I wondered what lines of Rilke would cover this.

The flight to New York left on time. I bought a pair of the red socks and slept through the in-flight movie. A huge amount of money nestled comfortably in the body belts.

After we touched down, it crossed my mind as to how Rilke would translate into American. I was wearing my blue suit and reckoned I looked the part.

They arrested me as I came down the staircase. A small army of uniforms and plain clothes all over. Cuffs were jammed on my wrists as my hands were pulled behind my back. A barrage of instructions roaring back and forth.

“Frisk him — read him his rights — multiple homicide — get his ass in gear.”

They took me to Rikers. I felt like an extra in Hill Street Blues, but on the wrong side. My pockets were turned out and a small bracelet was found in my top pocket. It had been engraved “CHELSEA”.

One of the cops said, “Hey buddy, we kept the Sid Vicious cell vacant for you — where he bought the farm, so you should be right at home.”

As I was pushed into a cell, the warden said, “Welcome to The Tombs.”

I sat on the bunk and wondered if America was all it was cracked up to be.