The Hackman Blues

And final dream — on

sacred fear itself

I’ve feared

You are

but what we dreamt

from aspirations

basked in urgency

My mania

it is

my words out race

their meaning

every wasted time

and time

I never seem to get

to line the illness

clear.

6

In my early twenties, I challenged a shrink on the theory that mania and depressive ‘episodes’ are not frequent. In a voice laced with patience, he said:

‘You don’t fit the classic model.’

‘Jeez, I’m sorry... If only I’d known!’

‘You reveal, or rather exhibit, traits of the cyclothymic personality. That is a swinging mood from mild states of depression to mild states of elation. Alas, such traits can mean a person is more likely to be predisposed to manic depression.’

‘So, it’s like I’m serving an apprenticeship?’

He gave a tolerant smile, the type they develop from messing with lunatics. I never fit the bloody mould. Even my illness has to be of the renegade variety.

Before any diagnosis was ever applied, they categorised me as a delinquent. I did hard time in state schools all through my teens. The medics will tell you that stress leads to all kinds of mental breakdown.

The dormitories in those places, you’d hear the kids whimpering after lights out and the wetting of beds was commonplace. Come two in the mornings, you’d be dragged down to the bathrooms, the wet sheets wrapped round you, like early teenage shrouds. Bundled into cold showers, you then got to wash the piss from the sheets. I dunno if stress quite covers the feeling but it’s in the ball-park. Yeah, it was definitely something you didn’t get peace of mind about. Dysfunctional! How they managed before that showed up, I dunno. Can blame it all on dysfunctional. Jeez, what a word: the Prozac of the dictionary. Before it, we were plain fucked-up. Even the Americans were tired of the blame factor and have coined a counter measure — EXCUSE ABUSE.

My mother wasn’t the full shilling and I guess being Irish didn’t help. The predisposition to melancholia. She’d tell you in all seriousness that the rain in Ireland, ‘Didn’t mean it.’

Yeah.

She was the proverbial CIA — Catholic, Irish, Alcoholic — and vicious with it.

I read her spit in Daniel Woodrell. In the novel the son is asking his mother why she’d lied. The mother raised her chin to a belligerent angle, blew smoke at him and said: ‘Why it should be obvious... I wanted to fuck with your head... pure and simple.’

The first time they strapped me down to administer shock treatment, I’d screamed before they forced the rubber dog between my teeth — Top Of The World Ma!’ After I read the Woodrell, I figured you had an edge if you knew it. Not a big one but a start. My old man had a vaguely related idea. He said:

‘Tells you in the good book son, you got to forgive them cos they don’t know what they do. Well, the bastards I’ve met, they not only knew... they bloody planned it.’

7

The days after finding Roz, I went cottaging. If you don’t know the term, you’ve not been reading your Joe Orton. It’s cruising the public toilets — meet ’em and drop ’em. The original anonymous sex. Course it’s risky, dangerous, dirty, and that’s part of the thrill.

I took the show to north London, spread a little gravy over their potatoes. True, it has to be said, they do a better class of urinal — all Delft and institutional tile. You know you’re in a shithouse. Condoms we have known. Leastways, I was hoping so.

Came out of the ‘episode’ to see what I’d scrawled on my bedroom in the yellow day-glo marker. I didn’t need to read the writing on the wall, I knew I was hurting. Enough lucidity to call a mini-cab and get to the Maudsley. If they don’t exactly know me, they are at least familiar with my history.

Two, three days... like that and they’d patched me back a bit and let me go. On the medication again, I began to stabilise. Time to call Jack. He was not a happy bunny.

‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’

‘Finding your daughter.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Erm.. you found her?’

‘That’s what you paid for.’

‘Good man, I knew you were the right choice. Don’t tell me over the phone... Copy down this address. I’ll expect you at seven... alrighty?’

I copied down his directions — Dulwich, of course. The Kensington of south-east London, at least that’s the way they tell it. I flicked on the radio, stabilising by the moment and caught the end of The Cranberries’ ‘No Need to Argue.’ Hummed a bit with that. If I believed in omens, I’d have paid attention. It was followed hot by Bob Marley with ‘No Woman No Cry.’

Enough!

I called Reed, told him to get his ass in gear, we’d to report to the boss.

He asked, ‘Yo’ all goin’ to wear a suit?’

‘Hadn’t planned on it but hey, why not? I like a joke as much as the next guy and... I’m stable.’

‘Sure bro’.’

‘I’m serious Reed. I got a bit bent outa shape, but it’s fixed — I’m on my medication.’

‘Take mo’... a lot mo’.’

‘I’m cool, I swear.’

‘Yo’ baby, yo’ white... yo’ ain’t never gonna be cool.’

I hung up.

Being cool was over-rated, yeah... I could aim for style... now that’s stable.

I have one suit. A timeless classic. Well, almost. Hand-tailored in Jermyn Street, it don’t get finer than that. I got it in Oxfam on Kensington High Street, where the nobs and Arabs dump their shopping. The assistant said: ‘Oh, how lucky... bespoke.’

‘Be quiet!’

And shocked the bejaysus outa him. I had it fixed to fit in a booth on Clapham High Street, beside Wordsworth, the decent bookshop.

When I tried it on — hey, I was Tony Blair: same shit-eating smile. You get to wear a suit like that, you get a hint of why the rich are so smug.

One evening on Bedford Hill, a hooker said, ‘Suit like that, you wanna play circus.’

‘Play what?’

‘I sit on yer face and you guess my weight.’

Like I said, a winner.

My father had five suits. It was the one extravagance in his northern frugality. I dunno if my mother’s drinking was contagious but he began to drink too. The suits were identical and the object of my mother’s wrath, her most vindictive scorn.

He always treated me fair. When I was nine, he lost his job as a hospital porter. My mother ordered him out. He was a better person drunk than most people are sober.

With the five suits, he went to live under Waterloo Bridge. In the tunnels there, he’d put on a fresh suit, then, when it was dirty, he threw it away. When he reached the last one, he stepped under the 9.05 from Southampton, the express.

I hated him cos my mother did. Then, when I understood who she was, I began to comprehend him. I read once that Hemingway’s mother sent him the gun his father used to kill himself with. Cute. My mother would never have gone in for such studied viciousness. When she died, I had to clear out her things, dump all the empty bottles. I found a train timetable for arrivals at Waterloo. Maybe she thought he’d finally come up to speed.

I had a good look in the mirror, said, You’re too handsome to let out, and began to read the satellite section in Time Out. They had a piece about sci-fi:

‘Why anyone would actually want to watch men with no testicles in spandex outfits utter lines like, “The flux transponders nearly run out of euronium, captain” remains unexplained.’

I was with them — beat the shit outa me, too. Spandex!

If Nick Nolte can get his scrotum tightened in case he gets to do a naked love scene, then I’m way outa answers. The doorbell went.

An apparition in blinding white.

I said: ‘Jeez!’

Reed in a cotton white suit, red shirt and red kickers. He said ‘Sharp or what?’

‘There’s been a Saturday Night Fever revival?’

‘Yo’ be jealous bro’, is all.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Yo’ see, dee man is impressed.’

‘He’ll certainly notice, I can guarantee that.’

Reed has a battered Cortina. What Leon would have called de rigueur for Brixton. It had a souped-up engine and we burned rubber to Dulwich.

Reed asked, ‘De man, he know I be coming?’

‘M... m... m?’

‘He dunno?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Well, be nice surprise for him.’

‘Yeah, he’ll be surprised, sure enough.’

He was — big time. The house was on its own grounds, well back from the road. Trees in an immaculately trim garden. TREES. The house said, You’re talking big bucks here, none of your rent allowance shite in this neighbourhood. If you wanted to be obscene, try saying GIRO. Never heard of UB40, the group or the form. Did the house have a pool...? It sure had the attitude. Reed let out his breath, said, ‘Home.’

Heavy iron gates blocked the entrance.

I said, ‘They ain’t going to open of themselves.’

‘Yo’ all try whistling? Why do I think yo’ expects me to git out.’

‘Helps the tone of the neighbourhood, Reed, if a nigrah opens them.’

‘No shee-hit. See how it works — already yo’ the white mastah.’

‘Open the bloody things.’

We rang the doorbell and Jack actually stepped back on sight of Reed. Maybe he thought it was one of those home invasions.

Reed said, ‘We be in the hood, mon.’

I added, ‘Jack, this is my partner.’

‘Oh... okay... erm... right... you better come in.’

The hallway was full of light. The last time I saw that much illumination was after ECT.

Jack paused, offered, ‘You want to leave your jackets here?’

And the inference hung — Want to park the black too?

The combination of the lights and the whiteness of Reed’s suit was dazzling. Into a sitting room choc-a-block with Antique Roadshow props. Plush armchairs that whispered, ‘Flop in me.’ We did.

Jack went to the bar and it was the full begonia, even had authentic wooden stools.

He said, ‘Alas, I don’t have your favourite tipple but, most everything else.’

Then he lapsed into a brogue, ‘What will ye have, min?’

‘A beer is good’

And Reed, awkward bastard, ‘A Guinness.’

Jack made little trips back and forth, laying down coasters, bowls of peanuts, crisps, napkins. Reed raised an eyebrow, gave me the look. Finally, we were all squared away and Jack raised his glass, ‘Slainte.’

‘Whatever.’

Silence then for a minute and Reed chewed peanuts, sipped the Guinness.

Jack broke, asked:

‘Where is she?’

‘In Brixton, she’s working in a night club.’

‘Is she coming home?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Reed suddenly interrupted. ‘Hey mon, yo’ be de twin fo’ dat actor... dat Hackman dude.’

Jack suspected a rat, looked at me but Reed went on, ‘Man, yo’ do dat thin wit’ yo’ mouth... yeah... der, yo’ dun do it again...’

And Jack beamed. Bought it full, said: ‘Well, you’re not the first actually...’

‘I’m a believer bro’.’

I said, ‘Yo’... Guys, can we get back to business?’

Jack composed himself, asked, ‘Did she mention me?’

‘Erm... yeah... sure.’

‘Is she okay?’

‘She’s fine... truly...’

Jack took a large swallow of his drink, considered... then plunged:

‘Can you bring her home?’

Before we could answer, he got up, walked over to a large painting. It had one of those little lights suspended above it. He shoved the frame aside and... yup, a wall safe. The middle-class aspiration realised. He did combination things, then pulled it open, took out fat envelopes.

Threw one on the glass table, ‘That’s a bonus for a good job... now this...’ He held up a thick parcel, ‘is heavy cash. It’s yours if you bring her home.’

I hadn’t touched the beer and my mouth was dry, probably the medication.

Reed said, There be a problem.’

‘What kind of problem?’

I drank some beer... ah... cold and bitter, said:

‘Leon... he’s a black guy with juice who’s protecting her.’

Jack lost it.

‘You’re afraid of some jumped-up nigger!’ And realised... He looked at Reed, said, ‘No offence. I mean, normally I’m not a racialist but...’

Reed indicated his drink, said, ‘I’s could go one mo’ of dese black drinks, boss.’

Jack waved to the bar... ‘Please, help yourself... okay...? So Brady, you’re telling me you can’t do it?’

‘No, I’m not telling you that. I’m telling you it won’t be easy.’

‘What I just offered you... I’ll double it. Now, is there still a problem?’

‘No, sir.’

And then it struck me about the room. Mr Family Man, right? Not a single photograph, no family frame whatsoever. Nowt, nada.

You ever see those movies about the missing person, the hero always asks to see the girl’s room, for clues.

I asked, ‘Can I use the bathroom?’

Jack was seething, said, ‘What! NOW you need to go, now?’

‘If you don’t mind.’

‘Upstairs, second on the right.’

He didn’t say stay out of the bedrooms but it was there. Oh yeah.

As I left, Reed was saying, ‘I liked Gene in dem Batman movies.’

I checked the other rooms but they were locked. I was going to be clueless in Dulwich. In the bathroom I had a good wash, tried on some Joop aftershave. Nice. Then I opened the medicine cabinet. The usual crap at the front but I reached in behind and bingo... a thick bottle. Took it out and read the label — Temazepam. Uh-uh. The new name of oblivion for the housewives of London. No wonder his missus wasn’t in attendance. I put the bottle back. All the towels bore Jack’s initials and you have to be a special breed of asshole for that.

As I walked back into the room, Jack’s voice was raised, ‘I’m telling you it was the bloody Superman movies. Plus, it’s not a period of his career I dwell on... okay?’

I gathered up the envelopes, stuffed them in my suit pockets, said, We’ll be off then.’

‘How soon can I expect a result?’

As Jack was closing the door, Reed leant back, asked, ‘Yo’ sure it was Superman?’

I drove, as Reed had laid into the Guinness. I counted six empties on the bar alone. Like I said before, I count. The shrinks say it’s an outward sign of internal conflict. And I’d thought it solely an observation.

Reed said, ‘We gonna need another dude.’

‘Danny?’

‘Mo’ mon... Danny be good. What cho’ wearing... yo’ smell fine?’

I hit the radio for the country station. What a slice of luck, Iris DeMent but Reed moved the band, said, ‘Sorry mon but I gots to hear de blues.’

‘I thought you liked that rap shit?’

‘No’ me bro’, I am de blues.’

Danny. The villain’s villain. If there was a poll, he’d top it. Me, I didn’t much like the bastard and he detested ‘shirt-lifters.’ But... if you had to pick a guy, you’d be smart to go for Danny. Him and Reed went way back, so there was that. Danny was a burglar and a good one. He had only been caught once and that was down to a mate grassing him.

I fucking hate burglars. My own activities are far from legal but I hang on to the old dictum, An Englishman’s home is his castle — or at least it’s the building society’s. I ever catch a guy doing my gaff over, I’ll do him.

Danny was into a new caper. Literally an off-the-rails venture. Derailment. Once, twice a month a heavy goods train was knobbled. He got the call and as the looters went for the surface stuff, he’d select choice items with high street return. The month before, there’d been three derailments. One hit the front pages, because the cargo was wine. Bottles of plonk littered all over the tracks. There wasn’t a home in south-east London without a nice Riesling to go with the fish fingers. As a burglar, Danny had access to the good things in life. You want passports, credit cards, driving licences, weapons... Give him a bell.

We’d need weapons. It wasn’t as if Leon was going to hand over Roz if all I had was attitude. Yeah...

I said to Reed, ‘No frills, no major strategy. We go in, we grab the girl, and we’re outa there.’

‘Leon’s gonna know it be us.’

‘Sure.’

‘He gonna come after my black ass first.’

‘I hope so.’

I had a plan for after. To fly to San Francisco and meet Armistead Maupin.

‘Tales of The City’ was my literary lithium. Calmed me down when the meter was pumping overload. Madrigal says in these: ‘When I retire I’m going to buy a small Greek island.’ Then she thinks a bit and adds: ‘Well, maybe a small Greek.’

I had it all down in my head. I’d be sitting in Fisherman’s Wharf, my face lightly sun burnt after the day trip to Alcatraz. A margarita in my hand and weejuns on my feet. Very soft battered ones. Armistead would stroll in and I’d take off my aviator sun-glasses, give a lazy smile and say, ‘My Man!’ Now... there’s cool.

The phone crashed into my reverie.

I was not best pleased, snapped into the receiver, This better be good.’

‘Tone... that you... it’s Jack?’

Fuck.

‘Wotcha want, Jack?’

‘An explanation, very possibly an apology.’

‘For what?’

‘You bring a nigger into my home, you want to comment on that fella?’

‘Yeah, I can comment, he’s my friend, how would that be?’

‘You couldn’t find any white friends.’

‘Nah, they were all like you.’

Silence, then...

‘Look... Tone, I’ve got off on the wrong foot here. Let me make it up to you.’

‘How would you do that, Jack?’

‘You like Cliff Richard?’

‘What?’

‘I thought you might, well... when this is all over, I’m treating you to the best seats at the Hammersmith Odeon. A one-off reunion of Cliff and the Shadows, what do you say now, Mister... eh?’

‘The Shadows!’

‘We’ll make a night of it, have a late supper at The Savoy.’

‘Wow.’

‘The sooner this is over, the sooner we start partying.’ He said that in the American way.

‘I’m humming “Summer Holiday” already.’

‘You like that? Me, I love “Miss You Nights”.’

‘Well Jack, much as I’d love to stay swappin’ classics from Cliff...’

‘Of course... no hard feelings on the nigger then?’

‘Jeez... bye Jack.’

8

Reed left a message.

‘We be toolin’ up, bro’. Danny’s at Seven. Yo’ all gonna need mo’ than a bat and an attitude.’

I was going to wear the suit but you can have too much of a good thing. Plus, I didn’t want to piss Danny off from the out. I resolved not to needle him.

Took my medication. My past was littered with the baggage of manic-depression. See the highlights...

hospitals

insanity

psychotic irritationality

the compulsive spending

and the part I dwell on least,

the suicide attempts

and yet...

When the elation hits, Jesus, it’s like nothing on earth. Fireworks not only go off, you are the bloody fuse. A doctor reprimanded me on lust one time. It doesn’t seem that it’s a sensuality of white intensity razor cut to the soul of sex itself. Junkies say heroin is like kissing God. When elated, I am God and want to kiss the world.

You feel so fucking marvellous. You think you’ll explode...

... and you do.

Cos there’s no slowing down. That song...

‘Fly me to the Moon’

Well, all the way over to Pink Floyd’s dark side there.

Course, no one can keep apace. It’s like a cobra on speed. Get outa the road, fast.

Then, the crash... oh shit, it’s not the bottom of the pit. It’s below that, scraping further down. A bleak nothing landscape of pure desolate emptiness. That’s the destination, to dwell there in all yer days.

So I took the lithium and headed for Danny’s.

He lives in Meadow Road, not far from the Oval. You can hear the crowd roars during the Test series. A one-up, one-down terrace house, as re-converted by yuppie values. Brass knocker in the shape of a mermaid.

I like that.

Gave it a fine wallop. A girl of sixteen... or maybe thirty-two... slim, dark hair, black Levi’s and one of those... (halter-tops, are they?)... nice smile... opens the door.

‘Mr Brady?’ she asks.

Jeez, how old is that?

‘How d’ya know I’m not a Mormon.’

‘Bad teeth.’

‘What? I frigging pride myself on those pearlies. Brush ’til I bleed with that tooth-whitener. The paint off a gate job. My face obviously showed all the shock.’

She laughed, said, ‘I’m winding ya’ up, you have nice teeth, come on in, I’m Crystal.’

‘Hello Crystal.’

I liked her. Mouth without malice, a rare humour. Danny was in the garden with Reed. Both in track suits... team players, eh? The fruits of derailment.

I said:

‘Yer daughter let me in.’

Danny’s face tightened and Reed laughed.

‘That be his old lady bro’.’

‘Oh... and there was me thinking I’d interrupted her homework.’

Danny dropped in a deckchair, said, ‘Least ways she’s female, eh Brady?’

‘Or will be when she grows up.’

Reed threw his hands in the air.

‘Yo’, guys — nuff of dis shee-hit.’

Danny shrugged, then:

‘Crystal, bring a cold one for Tone...’ He looked at me, asked, ‘Yeah?’

‘What the hell,’ I said.

‘Yeah.’

After I got that, I sat and Reed said, ‘I dun told Danny what we be planning.’

I nodded, asked Danny, ‘You in?’

‘Sure, but we can expect deep shit from that guy, he’s a serious operator.’

‘You leave Leon to us.’

‘Didn’t mean him, it’s the Paddy, he’s no fool.’

‘Naw, no worries.’

I was wrong of course.

Danny asked how I planned on it going down.

I launched forth:

‘We’ll need CS gas, a van and luck. All you need is to make sure the engines running and stop for nothing... Okay?’

‘Sure.’

‘That’s about it. Once we got here, we deliver her to Dulwich, collect the cash and avoid Brixton for a bit.’

Reed said, ‘I gots me a thought.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Let’s keep the bitch.’

Danny laughed.

I didn’t, asked, ‘Keep her?’

‘Sho’, we tell de man she be kidnapped, he pay to git her back, she his daughter.’

‘Jesus.’

‘An... we’s offer her back to Leon. Gits him to pay too.’

‘That’s crazy.’

Danny said, ‘I like it, get ’em both to cough up.’

‘Okay, Reed, say I’m daft enough to agree. Who gets her... Leon or Jack?’

‘I dunno bro’, I be making dis up as I go’s along.’

Already I was thinking, it was just manic enough to work. We had a warehouse for storing videos. Reed and I had sometimes crashed there and it had the essentials...

Electricity

Shower

Bed

Small cooker

Yeah, I could get to like this.

Reed smiled, said, ‘Yo’, like it... yeah, yo’ like it a lot.’

I repeated, ‘Make both the bastards pay.’

‘It’s evil bro’, real fuckin’ wicked.’

Danny thought so too, shouted, ‘Crystal, bring a rake of cold ones, honey.’

9

Danny had the burglar’s pre-requisite: invisibility, or as near as matters. Unless he spoke, you didn’t notice him. Every time I saw a police photo-fit, I thought, ‘Danny.’

Yeah, he looked like everybody and nobody. He was about five-ten. I say ‘about’ cos there were times when he seemed to have shrunk. His hair was light brown, his features even and he weighed in about 160lbs. But I wouldn’t swear to any of that.

The only distinctive feature was a cross he wore. He had all the necessary south-east London gear:

bent Rolex

Sovereign rings

gold ID bracelet

— the mandatory villain’s outfit.

The cross was plastic and looked like it had been chewed. He wore it on a thin string of leather.

I’d said to Reed, ‘What’s with the Woolworth’s plastic?’

‘Man, dat be the third cross.’

This was supposed to enlighten me?

I asked ‘This supposed to enlighten me?’

And got the story.

When Danny got grassed, he received two years and with the overcrowding, he was shuffled to the Isle of Wight.

Some guys, prison is a natural habitat, they adapt fast and even thrive. Others, it’s the very last place they ought to be. Danny was the latter. Being banged-up completely freaked him.

Suicide was his desperate decision. One December morning, he’d wandered into the Chapel in search of heat... and down there, in winter, it is real fucking cold. Shivering, his eyes fell on a makeshift model of Calvary. The three crosses and little figures huddled at the base. The central cross had a figure and also the one to the right. The left was empty.

From Sunday School he knew one thief had taunted Christ. The other guy had been Mr Nice.

But could he find out the name of the rebel... could he fuck? He asked the chaplain who said, ‘Concentrate on God and the Good Thief.’

Danny went back to the model and slapped the empty cross off it’s base, thinking ‘I’ll get you outa this prison for starters.’

Shortly after, he got early release and believed the cross changed his luck.

I’d said, ‘Not the full shilling, our Danny, is he?’

Reed was angry.

‘Man needs something to believe in... to hold on to...’

‘C’mon, a broken piece of plastic.’

‘Yo’ no be mockin’ bro’.’

357 Magnum or the Colt Python. Bloody cannons they are. Feel the weight of those suckers, you’d like two guys to hoist it. You stroll into yer nearest Nat West...

‘This is a hold up. Hang on a mo’ while I heft this bloody thing up to threaten you.’

Sure.

Guys like to throw the names of them about. When it comes to show time, you want some fire you can handle... unlike grief.

Crystal headed off to bingo shouting, ‘Tar-a... see ya later.’

Like that.

Danny produced the hardware:

Browning automatics,

Glocks,

Revolvers,

22s,

Sawn-offs

Reed asked, ‘No Uzi?’

Danny grunted, not amused and Reed added, ‘Dee homies likes de UZI.’

I said:

‘They jam.’

Both of them were impressed. Danny said ‘I didn’t know you knew hardware.’

‘I don’t. I winged it, it’s a macho line and see... you two went right along.’

‘You’re a real funny guy, Tone, hope you’ll be more than winging it when you go up against Leon.’

‘Yeah bro’, dat Leon love to see yo’ comin’ wit a sense o’ humour.’

I said:

‘Fuck’s sake, lighten up... all these weapons are making you ape shit.’

We divided up the preparations.

Danny to get the van, CS gas and balaclavas.

Reed to watch Leon’s club, get a handle on the time they usually left.

Me to prepare the warehouse for our guest, get whatever might be needed.

We juggled round with this and Reed clapped Danny on the shoulder, said, ‘Yo’ Daddy be surprised to see his boy now, see what he be planning.’

Danny was feeling the drink, a pile of empty cans lay at his feet. I said nothing, kept my eyes on the weapons. A drunk is annoying, a drunk with guns is downright scary.

He had that tilt to his eyes, caught somewhere between maudlin and rage. I knew it, I’d been there if by a different route.

He said:

‘Lemme tell you about my old man. Remember Rawhide? That fuckin’ whip, jeez! He never missed it and every week as the credits rolled, they’d show that shot of the bloody ranch, he’d say, “Where do they get all them cows?” Every floggin’ week, same daft question.’

He closed his eyes and you had to figure he was back at the ranch. We didn’t know whether to laugh or just shut it.

So we shut it.

Then he jumped up, shouting, ‘That’s the gospel truth. Wait here, don’t move, I’ll show you exactly who he was...’

And off he went.

Reed said:

‘Do you think he’ll come back.’

‘Oh yeah.’

He did.

Carrying a letter, a battered worn, faded page, pushed it at me, said, ‘Go on then, see if I’m right.’

This is what it said:

What could I say? I said, ‘Bummer.’

Gave it to Reed who read it, then asked, ‘Wha’ cho do with dee ring?’

‘Sold it.’

‘Ah!’

He opened a fresh brewski, had a mega swallow. One of those where you see the Adams Apple pump into overdrive. Quite ’orrible. The thirst he had, it wasn’t for booze, but was I going to be the one to tell him? Was I fuck!

He said:

‘Sundays! Everyone came round our house, uncles, aunts, neighbours and they’d all pitch in for the dinner. A chop, two veg, and roast spuds. Then they’d have a few drinks. Come evening, everyone would gather round the piano... wishing somebody could play it...’

I laughed out loud...

Then Reed said, ‘Fuck it, it don’t mean nothing... drive on.’

Danny smiled, said, ‘You’re my mates, my best best mates... let’s get a curry, watch a vid’.’

Reed was excited:

‘Yo’ bro’, let’s git The Domino Killings.’

‘What?’

‘Gene Hackman, he wastes on all.’

I said nothing and Reed asked, ‘Whatcha say my man, curry?’

‘And... a box of Dairy Milk.’

If it was good enough for Inspector Nolan, then who was I to argue? As the scene with Mickey Rooney was rewound, Danny said, ‘Yo’ Tone, how would it be if I give you a present of the Glock? It’s mostly plastic... lightest gun you can get.’

‘Naw... I’ll stick with what I know.’

Reed punched my shoulder.

‘Git with de ’90s bro, what’s de deal with de bat?’

‘It doesn’t jam... know what I mean?’

They didn’t.

If I were a man who appreciated irony, and most times I don’t, I’d have to note that both Danny’s cross and his weapon of choice were plastic. The moral being wasted on me. It’s like Madonna wears forty-seven crosses and Mother Theresa wears one. A person could draw deep significance here. Me, I reckon, Go figure.

Time was when I was fascinated by coincidence and psych’ books. A lethal combination. Ever come across Professor Karl Averbach? Not yer run of the mill TV pundit.

No.

He wrote an introduction to Freud’s ‘Future of an Illusion.’

‘Coincidence begets mysticism, which begets religion, which begets sin and retribution, which begets repression...

guilt

psychosis.’

See, I could figure this shit out.

Shrinks have their war stories too. They’re never happier than trotting out one of the standard yams about manic depres-sives.

It gets them hot.

Usually they go like this:

A man believes he is the second most intelligent person in the world. He doesn’t know the first.

Or the guy goes into a department store, charms the sales girl and buys every tie they have. Course he comes back later claiming he’s been conned. He has, but not by the shop.

The best book has gotta be ‘An Unquiet Mind’ by Kay Jamison. Not only is she professor of psychiatry at the John Hopkins Medical Centre in Baltimore, she is also manic depressive. This lady writes from inside the barrel of the gun. In her own words, she was ‘a raving psychotic.’

On one London spree she spent a small fortune on books because she liked the covers and magically, ‘Twenty Penguin books because I thought it would be nice if the penguins could form a colony.’

I understand that completely.

Recovering alcoholics call it identification. Me, I figure she was reading my mail. ‘Lithium,’ she said, ‘prevents my seductive but disastrous highs, diminished my depressions clears out the wool and webbing from my disordered thinking, slows me down, gentles me out.’

Oh shit, how I love the concept ‘Gentles me out.’

Fuck knows, I been all kinds of heavy duty attitude all my born life but I’ve never been gentle.

And yes... I do miss what I never had.

Ever get your cod ’n’ chips in newspaper? Cover them suckers in salt ’n’ vinegar like there was no such thing as nutrition, put yer face down in ’em and breath that scent... like the scores of childhoods you wish you had, like a love you’ve never experienced.’

But hey, I’m getting manic here. End of the day, they’re just chips and when you’re done, you ball the pops and sling it in a wide hook shot. Sometimes it hits the bin.

A Jewish sailor... trolling on New York’s Upper East Side said it best:

‘Oh Lord God of Abraham

Keep me Alive and smart—

the rest I’ll figure out for myself.’

10

Next day, I treated myself — had me a rent boy. Done him to the music of M-People. So what if I’m fifty plus? I still listen to what’s happening.

I didn’t get him off the street. I went through the classifieds in Gay Times, got one who was available on a mobile, for fuck’s sake and made house calls. He arrived at 4.30pm. All blond scraggy hair, torn jeans, ripped T-shirt and Armani leather jacket. Designer rough trade.

I offered him a drink, he said, ‘Got any mineral water, sparkling... with a hint of lemon.’

‘Sure.’

I poured it from the tap, added a shot of fairy liquid and figured he could imagine a lemon. Course he never touched it, they never do. Then he read the riot act.

‘No anal. No bondage...’

And I interrupted, said, ‘Hey, no talking.’

Had him quick, paid and we were all through by 4.55pm. I said, ‘Don’t call us, we’ll get in touch.’

Can’t help wondering if that’s where the term ‘bum’s rush’ derived from. I don’t regret too much. But I wished I’d told Jack the old story about Bonanza. How Lome Green, as a fifty-year-old had four sons who were all forty-five, each born to him by a different wife and worse, who had all died giving birth.

...And no one noticed. A more innocent era or just plain stupid? Bit of both, I guess.

Time to prepare for Roz. I went into Boots, looking for a likely candidate. Got her, a middle-aged assistant... okay, my age. A Rasta was ahead of me, so I stood patiently. It had to be her. He had dread-locks all down his back and kept bursting into giggles, near convulsed with hilarity. Eventually, he shuffled away without a purchase. But she was good, didn’t lose it.

I got right to her, said, ‘I’ll have whatever he’s taking.’

And she hesitated, then smiled, said, ‘I don’t think that’s on prescription.’

Okay, I began: ‘I wonder if you could help me. My daughter, she’s twenty and due to come outa hospital. She’s coming to recuperate at my home and I’ll obviously need all sorts of things for her... you know, like women’s stuff.’

A moment...

‘And her mother?’

Coup de Grace time.

I lowered my eyes, said, ‘Her mum was taken from us... I...’

Then she took over:

‘I understand. Shall I presume she needs a little of everything?’

I looked at her name tag, said:

‘Thank you, Betty.’

It took some time so I tested the men’s aftershaves. By the time she was ready, I was smelling good enough to eat. She handed me a huge carry bag, said, ‘I think that’ll do the job.’

‘You’re so kind Betty, you put the B back into Boots.’

‘B?’

‘Beautiful.’

Awful shit I know, especially as I had to run the same gambit in British Home Stores for the clothes. Then I hailed a cab, took it to Balham.

Our warehouse is situated near the rear of the Argosy store. They do mail-order and so do we. It’s roomy with boxes piled high to the ceiling. An Arthur Daley wet dream. Best of all, you could scream your head off, no-one’s going to hear.

I fixed up the camp-bed, laid out the parcels, then looked round. If I swept the floor, put up some chintz or, even better, gingham curtains, it would be downright cosy. Instead I thought, Fuck it, and got out of there.

Reed did his surveillance; Leon normally left round two in the morning. A minder walked with him and Roz to their car, which was parked a little down from the entrance.

Okay.

Danny got the CS canisters, the van and the balaclavas. The van was a transit, beat up and dirty.

I asked, ‘Does the engine stall?’

‘Nope, it’s in good condition.’

Reed tried on the balaclava and said, ‘Shee-hit, dis mutha be hot.’

Amazing, you put one of those on anyone, they immediately turn sinister.

He asked, ‘How I look?’

‘Evil.’

I wondered how Betty from Boots would fit one. Give a whole new agenda to the business.

11

We decided on a Thursday, not too busy, but not slow either. In there was a safe mix and we hoped this was

I gave Jack a bell.

‘We’re about ready to roll, you’ll have her back by Friday.’

‘Oh, thank God.’

‘You want us to bring her straight to Dulwich.’

‘That would be best, I sure appreciate this fellah. You’ll find Jack Dunphy is a good man to be on the right side of.’

‘So I hear.’

‘She won’t be hurt, will she, I couldn’t bear that?’

‘You have my word, Jack.’

‘I’ll remember you said that. Good luck then.’

Bit of bad luck the moment I put down the phone. The door bell rang and I figured Reed.

Figured wrong.

Nolan and his Sergeant. They barged straight in and Nolan said, ‘Put the kettle on, there’s a good boy.’

I didn’t need the aggravation, so I went to the kitchen. I could hear the bastards poking round. The CS and gear were in Balham. I brought two mugs of scalding tea into the sitting room.

Nolan said, ‘What, no bikkies?’

‘All out, I’m afraid.’

He gave the big smile.

‘Hey, don’t be afraid, Tone, least not of that.’

I thought about San Francisco. Maybe before I left, I could pay Nolan a visit. The Sergeant didn’t bother me, just one more asshole but Nolan got off on the game.

I said:

‘You’ll get yer money, what’s the problem?’

‘Problem, there’s no problem... this is a social call. Cultivate good community relations.’

‘Oh, is that what this is?’

Nolan stretched out on the sofa, his size nines up on the cushions, said, ‘Not sure I care for that tone... eh, there’s a good one. Tone’s tone!’

The Sergeant gave a laugh. Like I said, asshole.

‘You don’t want to play cheeky buggers with me, son... oops... oh dear. What have I said? He’ll have me up before the Gay Rights Board, eh...?’

I said nothing.

Then he swung his legs off the sofa, stretched and stood up, said, ‘I hear you’re tight with Jack Dunphy. Now there’s an interesting friendship. One thing puzzles me though, mebbe you can evalidate for me...?’

‘What?’

‘Oh Jack, bit o’ work he is, but he’s noted for his homophobia. Lemme translate that: Nancy boys, pooftas, they get right on his tit.’

‘So?’

‘Good answer boyo, front it out. Thing is, how’d he be if he got a call, heard his new mate is light on his feet, eh?’

‘Go ahead, see if I give a toss.’

Nolan prepared to leave, said:

‘Word to the wise, me old china: you get some biscuits cos I’ll be round and I do hate tea on it’s tod.’

After they’d left, I took their mugs out to the yard. Beat the be-jaysus outa them with the bat. Childish...? Sure, but it felt good. I debated telling Reed about their visit and decided not to. We’d enough players as it was. He’d worry and I needed him focussed.

Back inside, I turned on the radio, Golden Hits Show. Here were the Tremeloes with ‘Silence is Golden.’

Now there was yer omen right there. So it was in falsetto and real hard on the ears but you took what you got...

My old Mum, she’s talked some shite in her time but everybody has a moment, except for Mark Thatcher of course.

Before she died, I heard her lament into her bottle of milk stout, ‘Once, just once, I’d like to have a blessing that’s not in disguise.’

Cri de coeur.

I have no problem collating information. I can retain it but I have an uncanny knack for misusing it. ‘The Bell Jar’ by Sylvia Plath. Not exactly light reading but she lived on the same block of desolation as me. In the novel, she describes the concrete tunnels leading to the room where they strapped you down for ECT. Her descriptions were truly horrific. But, she warned, on the morning you were due, you didn’t get breakfast.

So I was forewarned. The first time they put me away on a section, I knew what to watch for. A Tuesday morning, no breakfast today. For hours, I shat and shivered... waiting. Come lunchtime, no show. Steeling myself, I asked a nurse and she laughed out loud.

‘Good Lord, no, dear. We just forgot to feed you.’

Course later, they came and often, breakfast or not. True too that I got to appreciate, if not relish, the voltage. After, you’re nobody... you remember nothing; it’s like being mentally stripped. There is a comfort to be had thus.