The Hackman Blues

12

We met at the warehouse. Reed looked round, said:

‘Yo’ went to trouble fo’ dis cow.’

‘A little.’

He produced a bag, said, Ts went to trouble too... see...’ And he flourished two of those rubber face masks.

1. Maggie Thatcher,

2. John Major.

‘Dos balaclavas... ain’t no style......dese be cool.’

I said, ‘Don’t tell me, I’m Major... right?’

Danny was well chuffed.

Reed added:

‘See bro’, I be comin at Leon, it be the black nightmare in de flesh, Maggie comin fo his black ass, like she said.’

‘I never heard her say that.’

‘Course, yo’ be white, why fo’ yo’ gonna hear it?’

Made sense.

‘Yo’ gonna be Major, cos yo’ comin up behind. Ain’t no blood ever see dat cat coming.’

‘What about Danny, doesn’t he get to play?’

‘Look at him, he bland and smug... a natural born Tory... dat dude be bred to rule.’

So the Tories went to Brixton, if not in triumph, at least in a van.

We were a little down from the club. Danny at the wheel, me in the death-seat and Reed sitting on the gear box. It was 1.30am. Lots of action on Electric Avenue, even for a Thursday. The radio was playing low, late-night golden oldies.

What is it, the radios getting off on constant reminders of my age? If you remember Woodstock, it’s time for the knacker’s yard.

Oh yeah.

Now they were playing Village People, four clowns in construction and Indian outfits. Hard hats and harder asses. Danny said:

‘Your crowd, yeah!’

‘Sure.’

Unconsciously, we joined in and not a bad little three-part-harmony, culminating correctly each time on:

Y

M

C

A

The Fun Boy Three, armed to the teeth. I was thinking, when I got home I’d watch Death in Venice. Salivate over the blonde guy.

You see some odd sights in Brixton. An old wino passed, with those sandwich-boards strapped on, front and back.

Front: Vengeance is Mine

Back: Jimmy’s Auto Repairs

You don’t see black winos.

Reed said, ‘There go de neighbourhood.’

I made my point about winos.

Danny said, ‘It’s like you don’t get yer black serial killers either, know why?’

We didn’t.

‘Cos they can’t count!’

Silence...

Then: ‘No offence, Reed... okay mate?’

‘Dat what yo’ mutha say when I give her one.’

Where this fandango might have gone, I dunno, because just then the club door opened and out came Leon, Roz and the minder.

I shouted:

‘GO, GO, GO!’

We let them pass the van and Reed went out the back. Pulling on the mask, I opened my door.

Danny said:

‘Make it Major.’

Reed walked right up to Leon, gave him a full CS blast then side-stepped and the same to Roz.

I swung the bat, connecting with the minder’s right knee, heard bone go. Then I stepped round, put a dose of CS in his face. He was roaring like a stuck pig.

I clapped the back of my hand on Roz’s neck and caught her as she fell. Losing the bat, I shouted:

‘Get her bloody legs!’

And we slung her in the van. Leon was fumbling blindly as I went back to get the bat. I up-ended and shot it into his stomach.

That’s all she wrote.

We were burning rubber and on to Camberwell New Road before I could exhale. Procol Harum were doing ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’.

Well, they would, wouldn’t they?

You know how an expression enters the public domain. The Sun shows it on the front page, a Royal is caught flaunting it and bingo, it’s everyday speech.

From Minder we got:

‘ ’Er indoors.’

Dick Emery gave us:

‘Oo, you are awful.’

Larry Grayson:

‘Shut that door.’

Liz the Biz:

‘Annus horribilis.’

Yeah. Like that.

Now Oasis gave us a truly awful one:

‘What’s the story?’

And the yobos answer:

‘Morning Glory.’

The Gallagher Brothers up on stage, giving it large, and finally you thank Christ you’re not young... and have to fake liking those fucks.

We decided to watch Roz in shifts. With three of us, we could break it up comfortably. Reed had the first and I was to relieve him. Masks to be worn. I stopped off at McDonalds, ordered breakfasts to go.

The windows of the warehouse were double sealed. No one was getting in or out. I banged on the door. Reed opened it and I said:

‘Where’s yer bloody mask?’

‘I no be wearing dat shee-hit.’

‘She’ll recognise you.’

‘She be up at de Cambridge... yeah...? How long ’fore she figure who we be?’

I didn’t wear mine either.

Roz was curled up on the bed, but facing forward now. Her eyes looked at me. They were hopping with anger. No signs of her being intimidated.

I said:

‘Sorry for the inconvenience but it’s only for a little while. Here’s breakfast.’ I put it down beside her, said, ‘What’s the story.’

And she slung the breakfast across the room.

It splattered against the cardboard boxes, bits of scrambled eggs beginning a yellow descent. I opened mine, popped a sausage in my mouth, then washed it down with scalding coffee.

Reed said:

‘Dese eggs be good, bro’.’

I had some bacon, nice and crispy and between chews, said:

‘Rosaleen, you probably think being a girl gives you some protection. Like a man won’t beat on a woman...’

I slapped her hard on the face, open-palmed and as her head jerked back, I back slapped her again.

‘You were wrong, lady. Now first thing you do is clean up that mess... then you shower and we start over. You refuse to shower and me and the black boy, we’ll wash you... okay?’

I’ll give her this, she didn’t cry. Then she moved off the bed and headed for the boxes.

I said to Reed:

‘You push off. I’ll catch you later.’

‘Yeah, git me some z-s. Yo’ want I call Leon?’

Roz said, ‘He’ll have your balls on a plate.’

I looked at her.

‘That what they teach you up at Cambridge?’

‘You’ll be sorry, Leon will tear you limb from limb.’

Reed said, ‘I be sorry already.’

After she’d cleaned up the mess, Reed added:

‘When dis be over, yo’ come over mo’ crib, do me some cleanin’... be good for de home-boys, see me got white help.’

And he left.

She took the shower and I left a tracksuit for her. I went to the other end of the warehouse to give an appearance of privacy. Turned on the radio and caught the news. No word on Brixton. Leon hadn’t reported it. Quiet surprise.

She emerged naked, posed... hand on hip, said, ‘What are you staring at?’

‘Fat thighs, you did right skipping breakfast.’

That got her into the tracksuit but she tried for a point, ‘You probably prefer boys.’

‘Moi?’

I made some fresh coffee and she took it, asked, ‘Got any ciggies?’

‘Funny you should ask.’

And took down a box marked ‘sponges.’ Opened it up, pulled out a carton of B&H.

She said, ‘Are they low tar?’

‘They’re hot is what they are.’

I found some matches and she was in business. Drew the smoke deep and exhaled with a satisfied, ‘Ah...’

‘You’re done this before, miss.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Oh hey, save us the coupon, I’m collecting for an electric kettle.’

She carefully extracted it then tore it into little pieces.

I said, ‘That comes outa your allowance.’

Thus we passed my shift in aggressive spirits. She’d sulk, then ask about how long we’d keep her and... like that, sometimes I answered, sometimes I sulked. Had to give her another few slaps but other than that, it was no worse than any other first date.

When Danny arrived, I said, ‘No masks.’

‘Just be myself, that it?’

He had a pile of glossy magazines.

Cosmopolitan

Vanity Fair peeking out.

I said:

‘What, no flowers?’

‘Does she want some?’

‘Get in, for fuck’s sake.’

Roz was doing exercises, stopped, said, ‘Another wanker.’

And continued her sit-ups.

Danny looked at me.

I said, ‘I think she likes you.’

He approached her, said, ‘Miss... I brought you some mags, I didn’t know your favourite, so I got a selection.’

She didn’t stop but called out, ‘Jes-us.’

He turned back to me: ‘Any trouble?’

‘Naw, she’s a sweetheart, plus... a slap gets her attention.’ He was indignant.

‘I don’t hit women.’

‘Naw, you hit on them.’

Then a superior grin, the male animal in preening glory.

‘Women wouldn’t be yer strong point, Tone... eh? Not yer field, so to speak.’

‘Gee that hurts. But do keep using my name, mebbe later you can give her my phone number.’

‘Shit... sorry... Tone... erm...’

Roz was up now, interested, said:

‘He’s gay... I knew it...’

Danny shrugged, ‘Sorry.’

I got ready to go, added:

‘Sorry? That helps. Maked it all better. Phew, I’m so happy.’

I looked at Roz, her face shining in triumph, said slowly to her, ‘Yeah... I go for men, but not wimps like Leon.’

‘Bye bye, Tone, keep it in yer pants, big boy.’

Outside, I considered and had to confess, she won that one. Maybe it was the Cambridge education, gave her the edge. I’d have to go back to beating her I supposed.

13

I got my head down and dreamt of Village People. Jeez, nightmares I have known.

One time I tried to kill myself, I needed a rope. Well, I’m English, what did you expect... imagination?

The big hit at the time was

‘Reasons to be Cheerful, Part II.’

Ian Dury and the Blockheads. There’s a name, eh? The arse end of punk. Hugh Cornwell and the Stranglers were on their uppers and Chrissie Hynde wrote for the NME.

Days of Puke.

I’m not saying these events are connected. It’s how it was. I’d watched Gone with the Wind. Of course the inference gets drawn. Vivien Leigh was manic depressive. I never got why Judy Garland is the gay icon, with Vivien there undawned.

And coming off a ferocious bout of euphoria, I had been fucking exalted! And ended exhausted. I bought and sold my car twice in one week.

After the Burning of Atlanta, I stood up and, in the great English tradition, went to the garden shed. Took the rope and coiled it over the beam. Put the noose around my neck and kicked away the chair.

The physical pain was like nothing I ever experienced. I hadn’t done the noose properly and I strangled for minutes, but my neck didn’t break. Got free finally, heavily bruised and mangled. I checked into the Maudsley.

A guy I was bopping one time, was into auto-eroticism. Strangulation to the point of orgasm and seemingly, orgasm like nothing ever before. It would frigging need to be. Course it frequently goes wrong and:

You come

and

You go

permanently.

No thanks.

So in this Village People dream, there was a noose round my neck and pulling on it, was Jack. What the Americans call ‘yanking my chain.’

Came awake, drenched in sweat.

Fuck.

Reached for a cigarette, but I’d quit... as Reed might say ‘Shee-hit.’

If you could put a soundtrack to manic depression, I’d have Jimi Hendrix with

‘All Along the Watchtower.’

See Richard E Grant in Withnail & I bombing up the Ml, all systems fucked, Hendrix blaring and him roaring at people to throw themselves under.

That’s close.

But if you want to get the full orchestration, the full phantom band going full-tilt-boogie, you could do worse than U2 with

‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.’

You have to get the version where the gospel singers are doing back-up. Yeah... and keep a rope ready... you’re in business.

I showered, put on a pair of 501s, scuffed tan work boots, Ben Sherman short sleeve and Adidas windbreaker. The working gay, ready to prowl, if not to rock ’n’ roll.

Did some spraying with Lynx deodorant. I like that Africa number. Picked up the phone and called Jack. Answered on first ring.

Probably sitting by it...

‘Brady?’

‘Yeah, hi Jack.’ (No pun intended.)

‘Is she there... there with you?’

‘Jack, there’s been a problem.’

‘Don’t tell me about problems, put her on the line, what do I pay you for?’

‘Jack, she’s not here.’

I was sweating... had I expected it to be easy?

Wiping my hand on my 501s, the receiver was wet with perspiration.

He said, ‘Spit it out, fellah.’

‘Leon has moved her... says you can have her for a price.’

‘How did he find out? That nigger of yours tell him?’

‘Jeez, course not. He obviously did some checking, knows you’re worth a few sov’s.’

Silence, but I could feel his fury, a palpable thing.

He said, ‘Ever see Mississippi Burning?’

‘Yeah... but...’

‘Don’t interrupt me son, don’t ever do that. I tell you... Brixton will be fucking burning.’

‘Don’t go crazy, Jack... you’ll never see her.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He says unless you pay, he’ll turn her out and...’

‘Turn her out?’

‘...Erm... as a hooker and... that you can collect what’s left offa Bedford Hill.’

Longer silence and I managed to get my damn jacket off. Jeez, bow’d it get so warm.

I had to ask, ‘Jack... Jack... you still there?’

‘How much does he want?’

‘Forty big ones.’

‘When?’

‘Five days.’

Big exhale of breath or rage then, ‘Okay.’

‘You’ll pay?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re doing the right thing, Jack. I’ll let you know the details in a few days... don’t worry.’

‘I’m not worried.’

‘Good... that’s good... and Jack... you won’t do anything... er, reckless... will you?’

‘Do your job.’

And he slammed down the phone.

I said aloud, ‘There, that wasn’t too bad, was it? Piece of cake really.’

I tore off the shirt. Christ, I’d have to go back in the shower. Even Lynx hadn’t the protection for this.

Hunger came calling and I checked my provisions. Had...

dead cabbage

Two sus’ eggs

Wilted sausages

Kellogg’s Frosties

My cup overfloweth.

Time for a greasy caff. Heading for the Oval end of the Brixton Road. A girl smiled at me. Precious little use at the best of times but she was insistent with it. I figured, a hooker or lunatic, said testily, ‘Was there something?’

‘Mr Brady, it’s me... Crystal... Danny’s wife.’

‘Oh shit, I mean... hello.’

She laughed.

Like I said, I liked this girl and on impulse I asked, ‘Want to join me for a spot o’ nosh?’

‘Could I?’

‘Course you could.’

The café specialises in lethal carbohydrates. The do-you-in grub.

Lovely.

Half of the clientele said:

‘Hello, Tone.’

‘Tone.’

‘Yo, Tone.’

They knew me.

The other half were sorry they did and said nowt. We sat by the window, she said, ‘Me ankles are freezing.’

‘You don’t have socks.’

‘I thought it would be warm.’

The owner came over, said, ‘Usual, Tone?’

‘Yeah. Crystal, wotcha want?’

‘Oh just a tea.’

‘Go on, have a feed.’

‘Do you think I could?’

I said to the guy, ‘Two of the usual, bread and butter, large teas.’

Then I said to Crystal, ‘Hang on here a sec...’

And I took off... got to the corner and yeah, the little market was there... made my purchase and got back, as the food arrived.

Talking big fry-ups...

...Sausages, two eggs, tomatoes, fried bread, bacon, hint of mushroom.

‘Jesus,’ she said.

‘Tuck in, girl.’

We did.

She took a sip of tea, said, ‘Hot as Protestants.’

‘Aren’t they supposed to be cold?’

‘Not on a Saturday night, not on the Ormeau Road.’

I didn’t quite follow the logic, but decided not to ask. I was afraid she’d explain. She buttered some bread, popped a wedge of sausage in there, ate heartily. Grease leaked down her chin but she didn’t mind.

Me neither.

Between bites she said, ‘It’s like being a kid again.’

I enjoyed eating but mebbe more, I relished watching her eat. Without any self consciousness or dainty moves, she got to the grub in the shortest, least fussy way. She ate with and for pleasure. How often do you see that? I eat like a convict. With total alertness, aware of all around me.

When she was finished, she let a loud belch, then giggled, putting her hand to her mouth, went, ‘Oops!’

‘Same again.’

She laughed out loud. The best sound in the whole world. She sounded like Dyan Cannon:

earthy

alive

passionate.

I reached into my pocket, took out my purchase, handed it across, said, ‘For you.’

Her face was alight with joy.

‘But... how...? why...? Oh, when you just went out. Can I open it now?’

‘I insist.’

Two pairs of socks tumbled out, pink and red. Mickey Mouse on one set, Minnie on the other.

She leant ever and kissed me, exclaimed, ‘You lovely man, can I wear them now?’

‘Absolutely.’

She did, then presented her leg for inspection. Minnie smiled at me.

I said, ‘Class Act.’

Then her face clouded — she’d have been a lousy poker-player — asked, ‘Can I talk to you about Danny?’

‘Erm... okay.’

‘We’ve been together a long time, people would probably say we’re co-dependant.’

Jeez, I thought, Everyone’s therapy-literate. If you couldn’t label it, it didn’t exist.

I said, ‘When I was young, we called it a good marriage... nor did we know anorexia, that we called poverty.’

She laughed, if not convincingly, said:

‘And I love him. I’d die if anything happened. I know he’s on some job with you and with Reed. I have such a bad feeling.’

‘No need, nothing to worry about.’

‘Will you mind him?’

‘Crystal, he’s a big boy, he doesn’t need minding.’

‘For me... please... without him knowing?’

‘Okay.’

‘Promise me.’

‘Okay... I promise... on Mickey and Minnie’s head... how would that be?’

‘Thank you. I feel relieved now.’

Get me, eh? Giving my word out like a drunken sailor, with about as much control of consequence.

We stood outside the caff and she touched my cheek with her finger, like Barbara Streisand in The Way We Were.

She said:

‘I don’t know why Danny doesn’t like you.’

‘Yes you do.’

‘He’s so intolerant, he used to love Steve McQueen.’

‘I’m sorry, did I miss something?’

‘You know the rumours about him... with the motorbikes ’n’ all.’

I laughed, said:

‘Jeez, the bikes! Give you away every time.’

She didn’t get it, so went back to the beginning. I wish I could.

She said, ‘I like you.’

And off she went. I watched her down the Brixton Road. The flash of pink as she moved and said, ‘Great walking.’

Bemused, I stepped into the road and WALLOP! a courier cyclist piled into me. It felt like a bad voltage of ECT.

All the crap they mouth about suddenly being struck by love, they might have a point. As I sat upright, the cyclist bent down, all concern.

‘You okay, buddy?’

Saw these light lycra shorts and a scrotum that Nick Nolte would kill for... Met a pair of brown gentle eyes that mule-kicked my heart. He helped me up and I gauged him... about twenty-five... with Hugh Grant hair and the lean, sinewy body of a natural athlete. This guy would exercise cos he liked it. I said:

‘I think I love you.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing... I’m okay... you okay?’

‘Yeah... but the bike...’

We looked at it, the front wheel, buckled.

I said, ‘Fucked is what it is.’

And he laughed. Jeez, what a morning! Apart from Jack, I was Mr Congeniality to the world. That and heavily bruised. My 501s were ripped and I could feel the beginning of a massive pain down my left side. He touched my shoulder and I know that touches can be deceptive. They can mean all or nothing.

He said, ‘Can I do anything for you...?’ The eyes locked on mine.

‘Yeah, give me your telephone number.’

As he wrote it down, I added, ‘Jill Clayburgh said in Silver Streak, I give good phone.’

He handed me the slip of paper, our fingers touched. Sing the body electric... Oh Dios Mio. Beyond chemistry, a red hot blend of splendour. I looked at the name...

Jeff.

Said, ‘Well, Jeff, glad you ran into me.’

He lugged the bike on to his shoulder, said, ‘I hope you’ll be all right.’

‘Jeff, I am fuckin A.’

As I limped off, I sure felt it.

Sometimes the movies seem more real than reality. Would it were so. They definitely have the better lines and can soft focus the best moments. Most things, I relate to them; whatever happens, I can pick a parallel scene to emphasise if not downright embellish the reality.

Could I but write the script and slot in a happy ending.

Yeah, I’d like that.

I watch a huge range, from Sebastien to Devil in a Blue Dress. I draw the line at Peter Greenaway, I’m a buff, not a masochist.

14

Reed said, ‘Maan, I got de blues.’

Well, I was edging the jackpot, nobody was going to rain on my parade.

I said breezily, ‘What’s going down?’

‘I dun spoke to Leon, he shoutin’ bout dee vengeance of de Lord.’

‘Ah, he’s pissing in the wind. Just remember, it’s got Jimmy’s Autos on the reverse. How much did you ask for?’

‘Fifty large.’

‘Sweet.’

‘How we gonna collect, tell me dat, bro’?’

‘We’ll have him deliver.’

‘I gots me a bad feelin’, bro’.’

‘You leave it to me, it’s going as we planned.’

‘Yeah... din’ tell me bro’, yo’ plan fo’ Dan-yell to be makin’ moon eyes.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, he be takin’ wit de bitch... he think she be foxy.’

‘I don’t believe this shit, is he riding her?’

‘Other way’s round, bro’.’

‘He’s giving it to her Greek?’

‘Naw, why fo’ yo’ no listen up, she be doin’ him.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yo’ all think they let me watch? I can smell it an’ he looks like de cat got dee cream.’

‘The dumb fuck.’

‘What yo’ gonna do now?’

‘Think, I’m going to think... Okay?’

But I didn’t. Leastways, not about that, not then. I was thinking about the Jeff-ster... about two tickets to Frisco... about... Screw Maupin... who needed him, anyhow?

I called Danny on the mobile.

Yeah, there was a spring in his voice, said, ‘That you, Tone?’

‘Yeah, how’s everything there, any problems?’

‘Naw, sweet as a nut, she’s a good kid, I’m finding I’ve a flair for this.’

‘What... babysittin’?’

‘Good one, Tone.’

This is where I should have given him a bollocking, told him to get his act in gear. Like that.

What I did was:

‘Danny, could I ask you a big favour?’

‘Sure.’

‘Would you do a double shift? Cover for me...? I...’

‘Hey, no need to explain, Tone. Glad to.’

‘I really appreciate it, Danny. I owe you, okay?’

‘My pleasure. You’d think this kid would be toffee-nosed what with Cambridge ’n’ all but she’s down to earth, a real ordinary person.’

I wanted to say ‘Like Crystal’, but I needed the favour more, said, ‘Thanks again, Danny.’

‘What are friends for... eh?’

And he rung off.

Then I called Jeff, arranged to meet him at eight. Jeez, I even loved his voice.

Splendid evening, the Gods smiled huge. Jeff had dressed for the occasion, white button-down shirt, dark chinos, imitation Gucci slip ons. Those I know cos we do a brisk business with Taiwan via Deptford. I didn’t look too bad, either. Farrah slacks (c’mon, I’m over fifty) light polo neck, sports jacket. It was leather patches on the sleeve, to give the studied — if not studious — look. Yeah, I was a comer.

We had a drink at the Cricketers first. Probationary conversation, checking each other out. Couple of drinks and then off to an Italian joint at the Elephant. They do a mozzarella to die for. Ordered some Asti Spimanti and got behind that. I knew what he did for a living, he asked:

‘What do you do? Good Lord, I don’t even know what to call you.’

‘Tony’s good. Not that I am... least not if I can help it.’

The depth of my humour.

I was in the mild horror-zone of wanting to impress. A completely new take for me. My brain was delivering some impressive conversation but bright nuggets of repartee were mutilated into banality. Worse. I knew but couldn’t stop.

‘I’m in the people business.’

‘PR, you mean?’

‘Sort of, I get people what they need. Now can I get you another drink?’ Scintillating.

He asked:

‘Have you always been out.’

‘More or less, it wasn’t so acceptable in my day.’

‘C’mon Tony, you’re not that old.’

Loved him all right.

‘What about you, Jeff?’

‘Oh, I went to a very minor public school, buggery was compulsory.’ I laughed out loud. Too loud. I didn’t even find it funny, said, ‘All that education to become a messenger.’

‘Did you ever hear of Saki?’

‘The Japanese drink?’

He laughed politely. Hell, we were having a high old time.

‘Saki was a short story writer. An early Roald Dahl... he said, If you truly want a boy to become vicious, you have to send him to a good school.’

‘And did you... become vicious?’

‘I became an actor, is that the same?’

‘I think so.’

We had a clever chuckle, just two guys chuckling away. He told me of bit parts in The Bill, Eastenders, and piece de résistance, the lead in a building society ad. He asked if I’d seen it, I gushed, ‘Jeez, is that you? I love that ad.’

‘Well, it got me noticed.’

‘I’d never laid an eye on it but to be fair, it was probably terrific.’

‘So now you are — what’s the term? — resting on a bike... or you were?’

‘Keeps the pecs in shape, I have to be ready for the call. I’m saving for America... if I could get to Los Angeles, I know I’d be big.’

I was fairly big myself. Had to hold back from saying about us going to San Francisco. Didn’t want to scare him off.

When we came out of the restaurant, I asked, ‘You wanna swing by my place? I’ll show you my video collection.’

He looked like he might but then:

‘Not tonight Tony, I’ve an early start, have to go and see if my bike’s ready, it’s in emergency repair.’

‘Plus, you don’t kiss on a first date, am I right?’

‘It’s not like that.’

‘Sorry, just kidding... I’m nervous here... Okay, cut me a little slack.’ He leant over, kissed me full on the mouth. Risky business at the Elephant Roundabout. The gay basheen prowl that area like the worst dose of disease. It got me hot again, the danger feeding the libido. Jeff hailed a taxi and as he got in, said, ‘See, you were wrong.’

‘Moi... wrong! You jest... surely?’

‘I do kiss on a first date, call me.’

And he was gone.

I muttered, ‘Call you...? I call you divine.’

15

Next day, I relieved Danny. He was full of bonhomie, if that’s the word. Full of crap.

Talk about a warm welcome:

‘Tone, good to see you, son.’

Like that.

Roz was sulking and jeez, I do love it when they do. She was wearing a fresh tracksuit and appeared... ready. Yeah, that’s how she looked.

She said, ‘Here’s the local queer.’

I said, ‘You’re educated... right? Well, if you knew yer Derek Jarman, you’d realise that the word is not as offensive as you hope.’

Her lip curled, said, ‘You’re offensive.’

Danny was reluctant to leave.

I said, ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to hit her.’

He said, ‘Okay, then... bye, Rosaleen.’

Rosaleen!

He’d been gone maybe five minutes when I hit her. I said:

‘Surprised? After what I told yer paramour? The thing is, I lied. You ever call me names again, I’ll remove yer top teeth. Am I getting through to you, Rosaleen?’

I was.

Towards the end of my shift, I said, ‘See how time flies when you’re having fun?’

She’d spent her time reading and listening to a Walkman Danny had provided. Oh, and smoking, serial fashion. I could hardly see her through the smoke. Each time she hit a fresh pack, she’d carefully extract the coupon and meticulously shred it. Little piles of free offers surrounded her camp bed like sad heaps of confetti.

I suddenly jumped to my feet, slapped my forehead and went, ‘Oh no!’

I like a touch of theatricality as much as the next thespian.

She flinched back, so I added:

‘There was us, having a quiet day at home, having quality time together, and I clean forgot I got you a pressie.’

She said, ‘I don’t want a present.’

‘Course you do.’

And lobbed a parcel. It landed beside her and she moved away.

I said, ‘Go on open it... won’t bite.’

Curiosity impelled her to cautiously approach the parcel and touch it, one eye on me all the while. A T-shirt tumbled out and she said, ‘What...?’

‘It’s a large, I couldn’t help noticing you’re packing some cellulite, but if it doesn’t bother Lady Di...’

She held it up. On the front was 667.

Triumphantly she turned, spat, ‘You fuckin’ moron, it’s 666!’

I smiled, said, ‘That there, that’s the neighbour of the beast.’

Reed came storming in, agitation writ large.

‘Bro’, we’s got to talk.’

‘Sure... excuse us a mo’, you play with yer T-shirt.’

I moved up to the door, asked, ‘What’s shakin’?’

‘Me bro’, de bloods dun come to my crib... wit’ machetes, dun slashed it to shee-hit an’ gone.’

‘Leon’s goons?’

‘What cho think, they be lookin fo’ mo’ TV license? They be Leon’s.’

‘Jeez, lucky you weren’t there.’

‘Yah. I be born lucky.’

‘Time to get serious, he’s going to cough up now.’ I moved over beside Ros, said:

‘Let someone you love know you care.’

Me and Bob Hoskins both.

Asked Reed for Leon’s number and punched it in on the mobile. Answered, said, ‘Leon?’

‘It is I.’

‘Get this, you fuck.’

And tore a lump from Roz’s hair. She screamed like a banshee.

I asked, ‘Hear that?’

‘I hear it, please... no further demonstration is necessary.’

‘Hey, fuck-hole? don’t tell me what’s necessary. I’m holding a clump of her hair in my hand. You ready to rock ’n’ roll, else I send you her wrist... the tattooed one... in a bag.’

‘I’ll do what you ask.’

‘That minder you’ve got... have him at The Oval Tube Station at eight in the morning... with the money. He’s to hand it to a Big Issue seller. Got that?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s fifty-two large.’

‘I beg your pardon, fifty two?’

‘Yeah, the extra is for re-decoration, know what I mean?’

‘I follow you.’

‘Yo’... bollocks, that’s exactly what you don’t do. Otherwise, I’ll put the white meat to Roz here... how would that be... go where the black has been and boldly.’

‘Afterwards, where is it you believe you can hide from me?’

‘Gee, that’s scary. Gotta go now, give yer bitch her bath.’

Reed was sweating, said:

‘Yo’ be losing it, mon.’

Roz was whimpering, said:

‘You didn’t have to do that.’

I shouted, ‘People!... You... enough with the negative waves. If I have seen further than most, it’s because I have stood on the shoulders of giants.’

I took Reed by the arm, said:

‘Step outside with me a moment.’

‘Yo’ all gonna kick me black ass?’

‘What? I’m not a violent man... I’m just another Ghandi with edge.’

Outside, I gulped in the Balham air, said:

‘I have good news.’

‘Yo’ gonna shoot yo-self?’

‘I’ve found somebody.’

‘What cha be sayin’?’

‘I think I might be in love.’

He stepped back, his eyes wide as a Stockwell barrow boy, exclaimed:

‘Yo’ be courtin’... you be dancin’ and moonin’ while dee hood be chasin’ us with machetes?’

‘You’ll like him, he’s different.’

Reed moved to go back inside, said, ‘Dat medicine yo’ be takin’, it not be enough... we be fucked... dat what we be, how yo’ plan to collect de money?’

‘By courier.’

‘De Lord have mercy — we goin’ down.’