The Hackman Blues

16

I went straight home, got a large hold-all and piled in the essentials:

1. Lithium

2. Baseball bat

3. Cash, a lotta that.

Also clothes, toiletries and Walkman.

Ready to boogie, called a cab and, moving fast, checked into a hotel off Clapham Common. Not a bad little place. Cypriot-owned, my room was large, bright with a shower. I could see the Common from my window. Spring or Autumn, I find it’s vastness beautiful. If I opened my window, I could hear the ducks and it sounded like normality. I guess this would explain me best, that I’d gauge normality by the quacking of a duck.

Perhaps the best metaphor of all for a mind, wounded at it’s centre.

Along the wall were the two basics for urban survival, coffee-making facilities and a phone.

Made an elephant black caffeine and chugged it, fast... too bitter, too raw... just how I loved it. Made another, getting mobile.

Originally, I’d had an elaborate plan to collect the ransoms involving Danny, Reed, Drop-bird; now I thought,

Fuck it!

And I’d go for the simple hit. It would work or not, but it would certainly be rapid.

Called Jeff, said, ‘How you doin’?’

‘Good... I enjoyed our evening so much.’

‘I may be able to help you get to America sooner than you think.’

‘Pray tell.’

I laid out the scenario and waited for his response. Damp... way down the enthusiasm scale.

I asked, ‘Jeff, you’re an actor, right?’

‘Erm... yes...’

‘Then act grateful. I’m helping you out here.’

‘Sorry Tony, it sounds iffy.’

‘Iffy... what’s that, an Equity word, is it?’

‘Don’t be horrible.’

‘Just be on time, son.’

And rung off.

I was crazy for him but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t put the wrath of be-jaysus his way. Keeps them focussed.

As I headed out, the guy at reception asked, ‘For how long you be staying... Mr...?’

‘Hackman.’

‘Like the film person?’

‘Acrivos.’ (exactly).

He was delighted, near orgasmic. One Greek word and you’re family. I learnt it at the Oval Kebab joint. I had some more but I figured I’d ration them.

He said, ‘You speak Greek. I am Spiro, welcome to my home. This evening you will take a little ouzo with me.’

Shows my simmering paranoia but I thought he said ‘Uzi.’

And took a moment to re-focus. Could have said, Oops, beware of a Greek bearing gifts.

What I actually said was, ‘Thank you.’

And I was outa there. Needed to find Ben, the Big Issue vendor and while he was still sober. That wouldn’t be much longer, if I knew Ben. I was, as the Americans say ‘pushing the envelope.’

When times got very tight, Ben would drink surgical spirit. He called it ‘An urge for the surge.’

Who was I to argue the toss?

On remand one time, in the psycho-wing of Brixton Avenue, they’d pumped me full of L. For days I did ‘the largaktyl shuffle.’

That’s like Frankenstein with DTs.

I found Ben sitting outside Kennington Park. On the bench reserved for winos. He had on the Big Issue uniform — warm coat, mittens, layers of sweaters, three scarfs and a blasted face. His hair was matted and thick. Like African com-rows, save it was a result of sleeping rough. He was attempting a roll-up.

I said shrewdly, ‘Ben...’

‘Aw, jaysus... Brady... here, will you roll this whoring thing? I’m shakier than a Tory promise.

His brogue was thick as Sally Army soup. But the eyes were alert, blue and bright with a sadness of infinity. I did the cigarette, rather a neat job. Time in prison is not entirely misspent. Ben, like most Irish I knew, had an encyclopedic knowledge of startling information. Most of it useless and thus prized the more. I handed him the rollie.

He said, The blessings of God and His Holy Mother on you and yours.’

Roughly translated this means, ‘Gis a tenner.’

I’d come prepared and produced a flat half-bottle of Paddy. I wanted him oiled but aware, said, ‘Some uisce bheata?’

‘Jaysus, you re a miracle on feet and you have the gaelic too.’

‘My mother was Irish.’

‘I knew her well.’

Ben was twenty-five. The chances of him knowing her were slim to none. But, I know how to play and answered, ‘She always spoke highly of you.’

‘And me of her — Leitrim woman was she?’

‘Galway.’

‘Ah... Nora Barnacle country.’

‘Who?’

‘James Joyce’s missus.’

He probably knew her too. Every one in Galway did. The Paddy was reverentially uncorked and he drank deep and open... waited... then a thunderous shudder racked him and he croaked, That’s better now.

I watched as his eyes bulged and sweat torrented down his face. Then the eyes peaked and fell back to melancholy. He took a chaser and drew mercilessly on the cig’. We waited as the various poisons queued in his system.

Then he said, ‘You know Brady, there’s a theory that most of the world goes around asleep. Completely unaware of what’s happening. Imagine that!’

I pondered then said, ‘I’ve just come from Stockwell and can endorse it.’

He laughed.

‘Jaysus, it’s so dangerous there, the muggers travel in pairs.’

‘I know them both.’

The bottle was finished and he said, ‘Anyway, there’s maybe five hundred people in the whole world who are awake and know what?’

‘Erm... they don’t pay their TV licence?’

‘They’re gay!’

I had no reply to this. So I figured I’d best get down to business.

I asked:

‘How’d you like one hundred pounds? Buy the homeless a bit of time, if nowt else.’

‘Who’d I have to kill?’

I laid out the details.

He listened then gave me a look of total concentration, asked, ‘Is this dodgy?’

‘Course it is, that’s why you’ll be getting a wedge.’

‘Two hundred, so.’

‘Hey, Ben... I thought we were friends.’

‘Sure what’s that got to do with the price of onions?’

‘Okay.’

‘I won’t get hurt, will I? I wouldn’t want to be beaten.’

‘I give you my word, Ben.’

I was set to go when he said, more to himself:

‘Joyce was always poring through dictionaries and Nora B asked him, “Aren’t there enough words in the English language for you?” She’d a mouth on her, comes with being from Galway and he said, “Course there are, they just aren’t the right ones”.’

‘You’ve read Joyce, have you?’

‘Don’t be coddin’ me.’

17

I thought I’d swing by my home, see if anyone was keeping tabs. On foot, I cautiously approached the top of the road. An Audi swung in beside me, the window rolled down and Jack said, ‘Get in.’

He was in the driver’s seat and I slid in beside him. I said, ‘Vorst sprung dorch technic.’

It wasn’t even noon and already I was into my third language. Then I noticed two huge men in the back. As fine a pair of thugs as you’re ever likely to see. The type who run Bouncer Academe. Identical in their suits, silence and animosity.

I said, ‘Lads.’

They said nothing.

Jack kept the engine running, it made a hum of real comfort. He was wearing a mohair top coat. An ugly garment and he had leather driving gloves. You have to be some pretentious fuck to carry that off.

He said:

‘I hear you’re a poof.’

Follow that.

I asked, ‘Seen any Hackman films recently?’

Surprised him.

‘No... I watched The French Connection last Wednesday, or was it Tuesday? Why?’

‘The Birdcage, with Robin Williams... ol’ Gene gets to drag-up.’

Jack coughed and then I felt an almighty wallop on the back of my skull. It bounced my face off the dashboard and it hurt, it hurt like hell. As my vision cleared some, I turned round to eyeball Thug Number one. His expression hadn’t changed.

Jack asked, ‘When is it I get my daughter?’

‘Two days, it’s in hand.’

He tapped his teeth with a gloved finger, said, ‘I was reading up on kidnapping. The FBI’s behavioural unit have been studying the relations of victims.’

‘Quantico.’

I got another ferocious bang to the side of my head.

Jack said, ‘I told you once, don’t interrupt me. They found that once a person agrees to pay a ransom, that person has learnt something he didn’t know. That he has a price, that he can be bought. Once he realises that, he becomes a very dangerous individual. I’d like you to consider this theory. You can now speak.’

‘Why are you playing hardball. Aren’t we on the same team?’

‘Well, let’s see... Firstly because you re a queer and I don’t like queers. They’re an abomination. Secondly, I want you to know where you rate on the food chain. Do you know?’

‘I do now.’

‘Good, that’s very good. Give him the brief case.’

Thug Number Two shoved a slim attache case over the seat. I took it and Jack said:

‘Word to the wise, old son. If you’re contemplating any independent action, I’ll cut yer balls off and put them in yer mouth.’

I had a macho response to that but I kept it to myself. Two digs in the head are more than adequate. As they drove off I felt a flood of sweat cascade down my back. I wondered if Joyce had found words for that. I settled for, ‘Shite crossways.’

Back to the hotel, avoided Spiro and into my room. Threw the case on the bed and shouted, ‘I can see fucking India.’ Opened it slow, row on neat row of new crisp bills. Was there forty large?

I’d say so. Did I count it?

No. Did I ring Danny and Reed?

No. Did it make me happy

It helped.

18

You’d think that knowing lithium solved my manic depression, I’d just take it and be grateful. But it’s a constant struggle to do so. Part of me rebels against the daily task, against the idea of being medicated. There are some drawbacks too. It can play havoc with my concentration. Until the level settles, I can’t read for any length. Shakes, it brings ferocious tremors and out of the blue. You learn never to use saucers or spoons and especially not to allow anyone to hand them to you. Else you see the horror on their face as the spoon does an Irish jig. Vomiting and nausea are part of the deal. You never get used to that shit.

How many times I’d been told that changes in diet, exercise, temperature and the level went toxic? The appearance is similar to drunkenness:

slurred speech,

no co-ordination,

throwing-up

and it requires immediate medical treatment.

Most of all, I missed the high. There was an ad for the dope movie Rush a time back. It went, ‘Between the high and the buy’. No matter that the mania was frightening and lethal, I longed for its seductive beginnings. When my whole being glowed and I was smarter, sexier and supremely uplifted.

For a time I knew everything and felt everything, wanted to nail and be nailed by the world. Despite how that sonic track led only to hell and beyond, I yearned for it.

Being relatively okay and like most people is so fucking boring. There’s the trap in all its alluring madness.

I’d set the clock for six and rose with it. Showered and coffeed and ran the plan again in my head. Full of loopholes and improbables, it leaked danger. That’s why I felt it was a go. A basic simplicity can’t be beat. Leastways, I was gonna find out.

My head hurt where the thug had hammered me. The length of my body was sore from the collision with the bike. Truth to ask, was I the right material for a derring-do caper? Part of me burned with vengeance. I wanted now to stalk Jack and do horrendous things to the thug.

A few years back the black mayor of Chicago was a strutting high flyer. His enemies bided their time and bile. Sure enough, he got caught doing coke and hookers. Disgraced, he went to prison for three years. On release, he clawed his way back up to re-election. When asked if he’d a message for his enemies, he said, ‘GET OVER IT’.

I recited this now as a mantra. As I headed out, a sleepy eyed Spiro lifted his head at reception, said:

‘Mr Hackman, you go early.’ A trained observer obviously.

‘Yeah, it’s busy, busy, busy.’

‘I give you breakfast?’

‘No, catch you later.’

‘You take caution Mr H.’

‘Oh I surely will... epharisto poli.’ Made his day.

At 7.55am, Leon’s Minder arrived at The Oval tube station. He was carrying a black Reebok sports bag. Not best pleased, he glared around. People were milling about, traffic was bumper-to-bumper, the area was hopping. At eight, Ben came out of the café beside the newspaper stand. A bunch of Big Issues before him, like a shield. Walked straight up to the Minder, said:

‘You’ve something for me?’

The Minder pushed the bag at him and Ben said, ‘Sell a few o’ these mate while you’re standing there.’

Then Ben turned, went round the comer to find Jeff waiting at the phone kiosk, handed the bag over. Jeff tied it to his satchels and manoeuvred the bike across the traffic. Into the alleyway by the Community Centre and through the flats. Then out on the Kennington Road, he shifted the bike into top gear and moved like Meatloaf’s bat. Ben had carried on walking and as he reached The Cricketers pub, a van pulled up, two blacks hustled him into the back. Nobody paid any attention. At 8.10am Jeff arrived at Lambeth North Station. I was waiting outside. I asked, ‘Okay?’

He was sweating and smiling, ‘No prob.’

I took the bag and said, ‘Later, sweet meat.’

Into the station, I took the Bakerloo line to the Elephant and Castle. There I caught the Morden train, moving fast. The rhythm in my body urging go, go, go, and my mind scoffing, Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.

8.55am, I was back in my room, money strewn across the bed and sweat teeming down my body, said:

‘Piece o’ cake really.’

I was into adrenaline overpeak and that shot my lithium level perilously close to toxic. Had to climb on down. I lay on the bed and began a slow backward count 100... 99... 98...

Knock on the door.

Jesus, my heart shot through the roof of my mouth. On to me already.

Asked, ‘Who is it?’

Thinking, Where’s the bloody bat? and wishing I had something With pump action.

‘You wish for me to make the bed?’

Near hysterical, I answered, ‘No... no, I’ve already made my bed.’

Jeez, did I ever! As I heard her move away, I felt a gurgle of suppressed laughter rush through my system and had to bury my face in a towel to hide the sound. Kept thinking, Now all I have to do is lie in it. While I was having a high old time in Clapham, Leon’s men were extracting the last of Ben’s teeth with a pair of pliers. Without meaning to, I fell asleep and had me a humdinger of a chaucon. What the French call a dream. See, them languages just drip offa me.

I was on a bike and trying to out-pedal some hound of heaven in malevolent pursuit. Lithium was strapped to the handlebars but I couldn’t stop to take it. Jeff was ahead with a bundle of Big Issues screaming, ‘I can’t sell this!’

Alongside was Jack waving those driving gloves at me and singing, ‘Bye-Bye, Brady.’ Roz featured too and kept calling me ‘QUEER.’ If I could get off the bike, I’d kill her, I knew I would. But, the hound was right up close. My own shout woke me, I said, ‘Jesus.’

Disorientated, I couldn’t understand what I was lying on. Crawled off the bed and bundles of money came with me, I said, ‘What the fuck...?’

Then I realised and instead of celebration, I got a real bad feeling, muttered, ‘The Hackman blues.’

Got into the shower and scalded the skin right into my bones. I felt so old and said, ‘Yo’ buddy, you are old.’

As I shaved, I noticed the lines in my face were etched deep. You could plant spuds in them. Some people, their faces... so lined and you hear the expression — ‘lived-in face.’

Mine had been squatted in and for too long. Eviction was way overdue. Some rents can’t be paid. I knew that.

It was evening, I’d slept the whole day. A tap on the door and Spiro entered carrying a tray. It had a bottle of ouzo and little cheese snacks, he said, ‘The mountain come to you my friend.’

I’d tidied the money away, otherwise one of us would have had a coronary. He indicated the snacks, said, ‘This is meze, adds bite to the ouzo.’

He poured, then added water. The liquid clouded over, like Pernod or a bad date. He raised his glass, clinked mine, said, ‘Yassue.’

‘Whatever.’

He slid a snack towards me.

‘Sit, eat, Mr Hackman... what a great name but I must confess to liking Mr David Navan.’

‘Niven, you mean?’

‘Yes, that’s who I said.’

‘Okay.’

I took a sip of the ouzo... jeez, sheep dip. Farmers sometimes dose sheep with lithium. If a dog kills one of these sheep, he recoils and never again goes near them. Was that the reason dogs gave me a wide berth? Not that I hadn’t been with some real dogs in my time.

Oh yeah.

Intuition of the worst kind told me Spiro’s story would be long. He looked like a wizened gnome that had been abandoned in an overgrown garden. He was still in the Niven drone, I rejoined the monotone.

‘John Mortimer, ah, a true Englishman. I study him, is why I speak so fine.’

He say about Mr Navan’s favourite joke. To roar down a ski slope with his manhood bare to the elements. After, he’d push them in brandy to defrost.

I knew the kicker to this. How in one of life’s vicious ironies, he’d had to spend the end of his life sitting in a bath of ice hoping it would cure motor neurone disease. Spiro obviously hadn’t heard this, so I let it lie. Even Greeks need illusions.

He ate some meze, not a sign of him leaving, then motioned me to drink.

What the hell...

As we feasted, a van pulled up to a make-shift tip at Kennington. Ben’s battered body was unceremoniously thrown on to the rubbish. The van accelerated away, then the Minder said, ‘Hold on a mo’.’ And he jumped out, pushed a copy of the Big Issue into Ben’s ruined mouth, said, ‘You move some copies.’

And they sped off.

Spiro said, ‘I think you are a man with some worries.’

Me... I’d ninety-two thousand reasons to be cheerful.

He took a set of beads from his pocket, said, These are worry beads. You let them rest in your hand, thread with your fingers and, we say, the beads do the worrying.’

They were black, on a silver chain with a small bright blue stone at the top. He said, ‘That is to ward off the evil eye.’

‘Could be useful.’

He gave me a direct look, asked, ‘How much do you win?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘From your work.’

‘Oh earn.’

‘Is not the same?’

I gave a tight smile. ‘You might have a point, some jobs yes... you could win a stack.’

The Greeks have a directness bordering on bluntness. I’d like to say it’s refreshing but it ain’t. Now he changed tack.

‘You are a married man?’

‘Absolutely. Roz, my missus, is — alas — detained at the moment.’

‘Ti krima.’ (What a pity.)

Then: ‘I like the cinema, I read Hollywood magazines so much. I know many things.’

A Greek Barry Norman and almost as modest. Maybe time to get his attention, like Mr Magoo, to get him focused.

I said, ‘I have a story you might not know.’

He popped an olive in his mouth, its black skin taut against his teeth as he gave a superior smile, a downright smirk, said:

‘I believe I know all the stories.’

‘Yes, I am sure.’

‘Try this: Foreman, the film director took Romy Schneider’s son to a tennis match. But, he left the boy to make his own way home. The boy was only ten. At his grandmother’s house he tried to climb through a window but he slipped...’

I paused for a touch of ouzo. Spiro looked suitably sick.

‘...And was impaled on a spike. A passer-by removed it in an attempt to help and the boy bled to death. A year later Romy Schneider committed suicide.’

Spiro seemed like he’d gone into a trance. I touched my glass to his...

Clink!

... and said, ‘But I guess you already heard it... yeah?’

He looked at his watch, said:

‘Christos! I must to the desk.’

‘Drop us in the paper, would you?’

A few moments later, the Standard was pushed under the door. I reckoned that would fix Spiro’s visits. That story comes from my post mania periods, when the depression locks on images and thoughts of death like a vice. I was glad to have shared. How often do you get to drop a nugget like that into everyday conversation? It’s a show-stopper.

Settled back to read the paper. It had Barbara Cartland on Oasis. She said:

‘A splendid example of young people using talent in a creative way.’

Jaysus, the old bitch was seriously unhinged. I mean, how out of touch can she be?

As immediate response, Liam Gallagher was also quoted. He gallantly said:

‘Women have had me over. After I’ve bopped them, they’ve gone and sold it to the papers. Fair play. But I’ve just come in their gob and gone off, so therefore I’ve had them over. Tied one-all baby.’

The hetero in all his strutting glory. I threw the paper aside, said, ‘Enough of this shit.’

Bundled all the money into the hold-all, had to push it hard. The ouzo was coursing through me, I felt almost like I do at the onset of mania. To add folly to recklessness, I double chugged hefty shots of caffeine, belched and said, ‘Wow.’

I walked to Victoria in near record time. An energy burning in me couldn’t wait for a bus or even a cab. Down at the Oval I passed a wino, renowned for his foul tongue. He regularly chants a stream of invective at passers-by and makes damn sure it’s personal. A while back he’d launched a tirade at me. Most people, most times, ignore him. Not me.

I walked straight over and gave him two large whacks to the side of his head. He cried:

‘I’m sorry... I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry!’

‘Yeah, you’re sorry now all right.’

He was appropriately silent as I cruised by.

At the time I was doing 600 mgs of lithium daily.

When I got to Victoria railway station, the levels were indeed rising. I felt a sense of disorientation descend but managed to get a left-luggage locker and bung the holdall in. I could barely extract the key as my whole body began to tremble.

As I turned, I walked into the row of lockers opposite. For all appearances, I looked like the wino I’d silenced.

A cop approached...

‘Are you all right sir?’

I collapsed and an ambulance was called. In my wallet there’s a note describing my condition, so they could tell how perilously toxic I was. An intravenous drip was applied and I was effectively off the board. For the next two days I remained at the hospital. A vital time with the various players. The day of my discharge I was sitting in a wheelchair, almost dozing. Not that I needed either the chair or the sleep but they like to see you off the premises in a submissive state.

I heard, ‘Evening all,’ and snapped awake.

Chief Inspector Nolan, without his sidekick. He was wearing a spectacular blue suit, one that would make even John Travolta pause. He asked, ‘Like the suit?’

‘I’m dazzled, truly am.’

‘The missus picked it out... it was remaindered at John Lewis.’

‘Can’t think why.’

He had a brown paper bag in his hands, clutched tight. Now he looked up and down the corridor, asked, ‘Any chance of a cuppa? I’m gasping.’

‘No., they’ve been.

‘Shite... but how remiss of me. Here I am, prattling away about me and I never asked about you. I was flipping through the log when I came across your name... Hello, I said, what’s this then?... Taken poorly, were we?’

Little did he realise just how poorly. If it had been a few minutes earlier, I wouldn’t have made that locker and... yeah, that would have been all she wrote.

I said:

‘I’m okay now.’

‘But I, alas, have not received my stipend... am I being dropped? The missus and I have come to rely, nay cherish the little things, those foolish luxuries... like meat!’

‘An oversight, I’ll get right on it.’

‘Would you? How kind, how downright spiffing. For an arse-bandit, you have such consideration.’

The doctor came and Nolan moved. Not far but out of earshot.

The doctor said, ‘I’d like you to come back in for some blood tests and there are a few other items I’d like to screen. I’m a tad concerned about some marks...’

‘I was run over by a bike and a thug.’

‘... As soon as possible.’

‘I’ll do that.’

Thinking... In yer dreams pal. I’m Stateside.

He repeated his admonitions and left.

Nolan strolled back, said, ‘What’s up doc?’

‘Jeez, how original!’

He offered the brown bag, saying ‘The missus sent these. Notice my affection for her. None of that bar-room boy shit about ’er indoors.’

I opened the bag. There were six black grapes.

I said, ‘Jeez, you’re a prince! Sure ye can afford it, I don’t want to leave the household short?’

He gave a spectacular grin that lit up the suit and maybe even the corridor, said:

‘Fair cop guv, I put up my mitt, I nibbled.’

I slung them in the litter basket, said:

‘You shouldn’t have gone to any trouble.’

‘Trouble? Oh, it wasn’t any trouble. If it had been that, I’d have sent my sergeant... then you’d know what the fucking word means.’

He spun on his heel and left. A porter wheeled me to the door and I asked, ‘Can you call me a cab?’

‘Naw, sorry mate, not in my contract.’

I thought, Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner... and hummed the rest as I eased into the real world. I’d have sung the ‘Lambeth Walk’ but I can never remember the words.

19

The headline:

With a sick heart, I bought the paper. It detailed the discovery of Ben’s body and its condition. The police were treating it as a squabble over gang territory. The thought occurred that Ben would never get to read Jimmy J now.

Took the tube to Clapham and eyeballed everybody. I didn’t know if my two day hiatus had helped or hindered me. I do know I was flaming paranoid.

When I got to the hotel, Spiro was in a high old state.

‘Mr Hackman, Mr Hackman, I am so concerned.’

‘What? thought I’d skipped it did you... done a runner eh?’

He was offended.

‘Of course no — ohi.. I was worried.’

‘You have beads for that sort of thing, don’t you?’

And left him to it.

In the room, I showered and tried to ease my thundering heart. Dressed in old cords, sweatshirt, trainers and Levi jacket. Battle fatigues. Took the bat and put it in a Gap socks bag. Then on to the phone... No answer from Balham... Jesus... then Jeff. He answered on first ring.

I said shrewdly, ‘Jeff.’

‘Oh Tony... oh God Almighty... did you see the papers? That bloke from the Oval... and then I thought they’d killed you... I...’

He launched into a frenzied babble and I had to roar:

‘JEFF!’

No doubt they heard me in Balham. ‘Calm the fuck down, it’s okay...’

‘But Tony... black men have been asking at the courier office... I...’

‘SHUT UP!’

He did and I said quietly, ‘Take some things and get out. Check into The Coburg Hotel in Bayswater.’

‘Why there?’

‘Cos it’s outa south-east London, cos I can reach you there... cos I SAY SO!’

‘All right Tony, I will... I’ll do that... that’s what I’ll do. Should I take my scripts?’

‘Jesus... yeah... take them.. I’ll talk to you later.’

‘What’s happening Tony?’

‘Fucked if I know.’

And I rung off. Had to sit for a moment, I was still fragile from the hospital. I needed a holiday not a war.

Called a cab and passed a silent Spiro on the way. I had this effect on people. The cabbie was a Rasta and the smell of weed was pungent.

He asked, ‘Wanna tote, mon?’

‘No Balham, actually.’

‘Dat cool, I like Balham.’

His radio was on and... no, not Bob Marley... that golden oldie again. Long John Baldry with ‘Let The Heartache Begin.’

Could he sing or what? Like Simon and Garfunkel in ‘The Boxer’, I took some comfort there.

We took the slow scenic route, managed to miss every green light and aggravated every motorist en route. He was oblivious to it all. When we got there, I paid and asked, ‘Wanna tip?’

‘Sure, mon.’

‘Mellow out, you’re too uptight.’

At the door to the warehouse I took a deep breath and pushed it open. Reed was sitting in the middle of the room, a sawn-off resting on his knees. No sign of anybody else. He said

‘Dee man.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘I look okay?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Then I be okay’.

The shotgun didn’t change position, aimed at my groin.

I said, ‘You wanna move that, Reed?’

‘Yo’ tink I shoots yo’?’

‘Jeez, I hope not. Where’s Danny and the girl?’

‘They run off, yo’ run off... it contagious.’

‘I was sick.’

‘Dat disease bro’, I gots it too.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, yo’ be a maniac an’ it depresses me.’

I pulled up a chair, said, ‘Fuck, what a shambles.’

‘I don’ told you... but yo’ don listen.’

‘Where could they have gone?’

‘You gets dee money?’

‘Yeah, I...’

‘Gimme my cut.’

‘If that’s what you want but on an educational note, it’s not called “manic depression” anymore.’

‘What yo’ say?’

‘It’s now termed Bipolar Disorder — bi as in both... geddit? A person suffers from both mania and depression, not just depression on its tod.’

Reed gave me the look, said:

‘Yeah, as in bi-zarre and dat you, dude!’

I explained that the money was in a locker at Victoria and he said:

‘So, git goin’, what cha all be standing here fo’.’

‘What will you do, with the money, I mean?’

‘I goes back to mah roots.’

‘To Brixton?’

He gave the old familiar sigh, ‘To Ethiopia, where Haile Selassie be.’

‘Oh.’

If he’d volunteered to come with me, maybe I’d have given him half the contents of the lot, half of the ninety-two. But seeing as he didn’t know Jack had paid up... tough titty. I made a final effort, asked,

‘Shouldn’t we try and find Danny? Maybe roll the dice one more time, grab the girl again?’

He laughed out loud.

‘Make it a weekly thang, go grab de bitch every Friday... yo’ mo’ than crazy bro’, yo’ all a sick person and I’s got to git de hell away.’

So I legged it off to Victoria, took the bag into the public toilets at the station and carefully counted out his cut. Skimmed a few large off his end to account for attitude. Then put the bag back in the locker.

When I returned, it didn’t seem as if he’d moved from the chair, but at least the sawn-off was pointed downward, like our plans.

I said:

‘Wanna count it?’

‘No.’

‘You trust me?’

‘No... but if yo’ be cheating me, what I gonna do... shoot yo?’

I put out my hand said, ‘I guess it’s sayonara.’

‘Say what?’

‘Goodbye, Reed.’

He stood up and there was a moment. As if we’d hug maybe. It hung there like severity, then leaked away.

He moved to the door, said, ‘It don’ mean nuttin’, drive on.’

I dunno what I felt when I was alone. No man had ever been closer to me or helped me more and what did it come down to? At the end it meant a sawn-off measuring the distance between us. I said aloud to the emptiness, ‘I’ll miss you bro’.’

Like so many other things, the timing was just a little off.

Funeral: Of the Wino

Blame it on

an intuition

I hadn’t heard

and certainly

would nigh

on absolutely know,

a life upon the streets

at least for long

I’d not survive

the sabotage in hope.

For far too long

I’d lived

a lithium above despair

a hearse before

I watched the homeless

place their hand

above their heart and knew

if they had hats

would slow and very slow remove

the trembling notwithstanding

a silence in respect.

The cortege press

his hand the crowds across

this moment new

passed nigh beyond

the oldest explanation

a hand towards

expectations

not renewed

The coffin doesn’t pass

the rich hotels

that cater to

the very rich... exclusively

their hands

towards the exhortations

aren’t shaped

as if they ever were.

— Grace B

20

There were violent clashes in Brixton the nights before Ben’s funeral. The second night a huge police presence lost it and lobbed CS canisters. The crowd surged back and the front page of the papers showed a Rasta astride a police horse, dreadlocks streaming, a fist in the air, to the caption:

Does it ever.

Leon, as a leading figure in the community, had appealed for calm and he had volunteered to walk behind the hearse.

A nod’s as good as a wink... if he was doing that... who was minding the club?

Course, I know. I know I should have said, ‘To hell with it all,’ taken the money and run. But I’d liked Ben and I’d given him my word and not kept it. If nothing else, I owed, if not to the bigger picture, at least to the Big Issue.

The day of Reed’s departure, I headed to Bayswater. Jeez, what a calm place. Nobody speaks English and maybe that helps. I checked into The Coburg and ordered a bottle of Old Tennessee. I’d some calls to make.

Jack first... he came on the line in Hackman mould, full of fire and ferocity, demanded:

‘Where the hell have you been, mister?’

‘No hello?’

‘Don’t be impertinent, you know what that brings.’

‘Gee, I’m nervous now. Anyway, I gave the cash to Leon.’

‘So where’s my girl.’

‘Leon said... hold on a sec Jacko, I had to write it down, no wonder help is at such a premium... oh yeah, here it is...’

And I waited. I was remembering how I felt when the thug bounced me off the dashboard.

He shouted, ‘Well, get on with it.’

‘Oh, you want me to read it... okay, so... he said: “Go fuck your white ass.” ’

More silence, so I added, ‘Anyway, he’s busy with the funeral for Benjamin, he’ll be walking behind the hearse. I think Roz will stay home, service the other blacks.’

The hate channelled down the wire and I actually held the receiver at arm’s length. You can get too close.

He said: ‘You better run, boyo, run fast and far.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ll be talking to you, Mr Brady, right up close.’

‘Promise?’

And he slammed the phone down.

Next I got the desk to connect me to Jeff’s room.

‘Tony, is it you?’

‘Alive and shaking.’

‘Oh God, I’m running up a bill here Tony.’

‘Let it run sweetcakes, my mate Reed’s picking up the tab.’

‘Who?’

‘Nobody, not no more, he’s gone to the mountain seeking the prophet.’

‘When will I see you?’

‘How would five minutes be? I’m on the top floor.’

‘I’m on my way.’

I had intended getting a pair of those Calvin Klein briefs, be on the bed with them on and a rose between my teeth.

Room Service came and I tipped freely. Opened the bottle and smelt it... ah, poured and sipped. Tasted like the good times that hadn’t yet rolled. A tap on the door and there was Jeff.

I said, ‘Wotcha waiting for? Drop them jeans.’

He did.

I wish I could say it was sublime. That when emotion got added to sex, you got Nirvana.

Naw.

What it was, was energetic and sweaty and brief. He was disappointed. I suppose if you’ve been cooped up in a room, terrified and bewildered, a wham-bam is somewhat less than enchanting.

He said, ‘You’re not big on foreplay.’

‘No, I like to get to the main event, punch in, hit the canvas.’

I poured the Old Number 7, clinked his glass, he knocked it back like a fish hand.

I said, ‘Aw shit, it’s sipping whiskey... you got to smell and savour, let it tease yer tastebuds.’

He rounded on me, ‘I don’t believe it... you want foreplay with a bottle but not with a person. That’s very sad.’

‘Jeez Jeff, don’t get deep on me... c’mon.’

Can a man pout? Jeff sure tried and being an actor, it came easily.

He said: ‘I’ve been so worried.’

I got off the bed, rummaged in my clothes, said, ‘I’m glad you said that, I’ve got just the thing for you.’

And handed him the worry beads. I then gave the Spiro spiel and embellished a bit. The bottom line emphasising the trouble I’d gone to procure it. His face wasn’t lit up and I figured I’d told it badly, asked, ‘You don’t like it?’

‘I got one on Mikonos last year.’

I snapped it back, growled, ‘Fuck, sorry to be predictable.’

He moved over to me, asked, ‘What happens from here, can I return to my flat?’

‘How’d you like to go to San Francisco, like tomorrow, how’d that be?’

‘I have an audition in a few days, a part in Eastenders.’

My plans were sliding down the toilet.

I said, ‘Jeff, you can’t go back to yer life yet. Gimme a couple of days to sort out things, wait for me in America and we’ll have a ball, hell we’ll even have foreplay.’

He stood up, said in a prissy voice, ‘I don’t think so. We do have a police force to deal with this sort of stuff. I can’t jeopardise my career and — loathe though I am to say it — I don’t think we’re compatible.’

I grabbed him by the back of the neck, whispering, ‘This is real life, son. There’s people out there who’ll do untold damage to you and they like doing it. I’m trying to help you, for fuck’s sake.’ And I let him go.

He was white with fear and/or anger... bi-agitated, in fact.

Drew his body up in that English way. You kick the living crap outa them but they’ll have the last bloody word. Always sound as if they’re terminating an interview and you didn’t get the job. He said:

‘I see. Well Tony, I’ll be leaving now. I won’t say I’m not disappointed, I had hoped that...’

‘Can it buddy, okay?’

‘I beg your pardon, I’m not finished.’

Now it’s my turn to get English, said, ‘You didn’t by any chance write a letter for Danny’s dad, did you? Don’t beg any frigging pardons with me. I HATE THAT SHIT! See, I’m shouting now. You actors are all the same, one shag and you’re history. Go on then, fuck off.’

He did. I stood for a few moments, deep breathing and struggling for control, muttering, ‘I’m okay... yeah... loosen them muscles... yeah... I’m creator of my own life... I have a right to be here!’

Stood a second, let the serenity settle — then I punched a hole in the wall.

Outside The Coburg a guy asked me for change. I gave him the worry beads, he asked, ‘What’s this shite?’

‘My question exactly.’

I was going to need a gun. Only one place I knew was stocking them and that was Danny’s place. But it meant I’d have to see Crystal.

What was I going to tell her? That Danny was in lust and had buggered off with a young woman with a degree. Yeah, she was going to love that.

But I couldn’t go to Brixton with just a bus pass. The bat wouldn’t be quite the speed when I actually went ballistic. I thought of my derailed plans for Jeff. How I’d wanted to reenact the part of Maupin’s ‘Tales’ where the guy raves about weejuns. If there’s a more comfortable pair of shoes, I hadn’t heard of them.

Took a cab to Danny’s place and I was nervous. Stood outside and willed myself to ring the door. Did... and no reply. The relief was enormous. I put on that bemused look, so beloved of Neighbourhood Watch watchers everywhere. I didn’t scratch my head but gave the impression. Started the dance of looking up at the windows the — ‘Gee, someone should be home.’ Then the slide round the side of the house. Again, the looking round and whacked my elbow into a window. No alarms unless it was one of those silent jobs, in which case I was fucked. Put my hand through and opened the frame wide. How fast would the cops come to a burglar’s home... yeah, he’d not be top priority. The smell hit me straight away. In my very worst moments of depression, it had lived in my nostrils...

The smell of death.

She was hanging from the light-chord in the bedroom. From the bruises on her face she’d been beaten first. Dressed in an old nightie, there was a sock on one foot... Mickey Mouse. I wanted to throw up but kept control.

I whispered, ‘Oh Crystal... oh God, I’m so sorry.’

I didn’t cut her down. I didn’t want my prints there and resolved to wipe what I’d already touched. Took me twenty minutes to find the weapons in a cubby hole in the airing-cupboard. Selected a mess of stuff, all lethal. Lifted up the bottom of the hidey-hole and found nearly three grand. Took that too. On my way out I deliberately didn’t look at her. An overwhelming desire to touch her hand came over me but I fought it. Wiped down everything I’d touched and got the hell outa there.

At a brisk pace I headed for The Roebuck and ordered a large scotch. The weapons and money in a laundry bag at my feet. I felt hollow. A barmaid said, ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ ‘Me? no... no, I haven’t seen a thing.’ Like the Neighbourhood Watch in fact.

21

Rented a car from the outfit ‘who care more’. They didn’t seem to give much of a toss to me but hey, I wasn’t in a responsive mood. I’d wanted an Audi but going into Brixton...? And if things went well, coming out I’d need a tank, Settled on a VW Golf, cos it accelerates on suspense and you can park it anywhere, space isn’t a problem. When I said I’d pay cash, her look said:

Drug Dealer.

I said:

‘Sorry to insult you with money. Blame my upbringing. We were taught you had to pay for things... stupid eh?’

Next up was Cohen’s off the Charing Cross Road. Any outfit you want, they’ll fit you up. Even Village People would be pleased. When I said what I wanted, the guy never blinked an eye, so I added, ‘Will you be offended by cash?’

‘I like being offended.’

My kind of people.

Drove carefully back to Clapham, as Kevin Kline said in The Untouchables: ‘Careful as mice at a crossroad.’

I’d soon see who was touchable.

Next morning, the day of Ben’s funeral, I get my gear together and drove over to Balham. I half-expected, half-hoped to find Reed there. But it was deserted. I brewed some coffee and selected my hardware. There was a twelve gauge pump, the barrel sawn down. Yeah, I could bring that. I’d put the Glock in my waist-band. So light it could have been a toy. Made of shiny black plastic, it fits designer-tight. The terrorists’ weapon of choice as it goes, undetectable by metal scanners. Thirdly, I’d put a Browning automatic in the pocket of my jacket.

As I had a second coffee, I loaded all three and accustomed myself to the feel. They felt like bad news. A thick coating of black tape was wrapped round the handle of the Browning. It fit like a glove. Now here was an item that had seen active service and it was gonna see more.

I turned on the radio, got the local bulletins. The police were asking that people stay away from Brixton unless they had legitimate business. Church leaders appealed for calm. The Left asked for support, to show solidarity with the homeless.

It was shaping up. I’d taken my lithium and now I was just taking my time. At the end of the warehouse, under boxes of pottery, Reed kept a stash. Checked and it was still there. I did some lines of coke and smoked a little weed. Blending me a mental cocktail that was already getting a fizz. A rush from the coke that could have been clarity but was too fleeting to analyse.

Roy Orbison came on with that Elvis Costello song and I nodded... Yeah, comedians was bloody right... have I got a joke today, guys?

Then, time to get dressed. Put the costume on and thought, Okay baby.

Distributed the weapons around my body and put the pump in a Tesco bag. I was the American Dream, sort of:

I. White,

2. Rich-ish,

3. Armed.

Stood on Balham High Road a moment and I swear you could hear the beat of Brixton, Roy Orbison’s sound of drums. I considered for a minute what it was the sound carried, then said softly, ‘It’s the blues.’

Put the Golf in gear, pulled out carefully, heading for home. The Golf had a tape-deck and I punched in one of my favourites. Snatches and pieces I’d recorded over the years. Works for me. Lindisfarne with ‘Run For Home’, but I fast forwarded. Forever ruined by Gazza. If you want to hear hell on vinyl, hear that. Ideally he should duet with Imelda Marcos on ‘Feelings’ and you’d understand the term, Desert Storm.

Next up was Tori Amos with ‘Me and a Gun’. Serendipity or what? Eat yer rain forest, Sting. Tori sure catches the essence of mania in full flight. I didn’t sing along but gave intermittent shouts of, ‘Yeah’ and, ‘Too bloody right.’

I wondered how Ben would have felt now that he’d become the Big Issue — from vendor to essence.

A police check-point at the very entrance to Brixton. Time to test the costume. A young copper holding a clipboard motioned me to roll down the window, his eyes locked on my neck and he said, ‘Sorry Vicar, we have to ensure the legitimacy of each vehicle.’

‘You do great work my son, my flock will sorely need me this day.’

‘Go right on through. I’ll put the PASS sticker on your windscreen.’

‘God bless you, son.’

And drove on. In fact, I felt a little holy. Drugs will do that to you every time.

The funeral was already halted and a stand-off had begun. Riot police fingered their batons and the crowd taunted. I knew it wouldn’t be too long ’til they got down and played the Brixton boogie. I parked near the top of Electric Avenue. Brixton has all sorts of moods but of all the guises it wears, dullness ain’t among them.

Dirty

Dangerous

Vibrant

Degenerate

Exciting

Unexpected.

Yeah! And now it was actually humming. The TV stations already hustling for strategic position, they’d smelt the blood in the water. Morley’s had a pre-riot sale as they knew that everything would definitely go — including the windows.

A Rasta with a tea-cosy on his head was flogging T-shirts with the logo:

The scent of joss sticks, weed, incense, danced on the air as militants of every colour set up stalls.

A middle-aged black woman bumped me and asked, ‘Reverend, ye gonna bless a po’ sinner?’

‘You bet sister, go tell it on the mountain.’

It seemed to do her and she pressed a pound coin into my palm. Maybe I’d been in the wrong racket. I held the Tesco bag tightly to my chest and turned away from the crowd. Sweat was running down my spine as I get to the door of the club.

A sign said DELIVERIES ROUND BACK.

That meant me.

As I moved, a huge roar erupted. The hearse was trying to enter the centre and the cops were having none of it. The cup final of civil disturbance had kicked off. All the sides were ready to roll.

The back door was locked and bolted, so I banged heavily. What I’d planned was just getting in there and waiting for Leon, the Minder and whoever. Then we’d see. Like Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones, I’d make it up as I went along. Failing all else, I’d torch it, just one more fire on the Brixton sky-line.

I heard the bolts being drawn back and an irritated muttering. A black man in a string vest threw open the door, saying:

‘Dis better be good, bro’.’

‘How’s this?’

And I clubbed him in the face with the stock of the pump. He went over backwards with a grunt. I moved in and re-bolted the door, then paused... listened. I could hear music and to my astonishment... ABBA!

I was rooted to the spot. In all the scenarios I’d visualised, hearing ‘Dancing Queen’ never featured. It threw me completely and I’d to do some deep breathing to get in gear. Silence... then the opening bars of ‘Fernando’. Jeez, we could all hear the drums.

A staircase led to the source of the music and I began to climb. I had the pump in both hands and could feel it slick with sweat. Jeez, I thought, what if there’s an Abba convention. I could take them all back to Balham.

At the top, I was confronted by an open door, the den, obviously. Leather recliners along the wall, bean bags on the wooden floor. In the middle, dancing, was... Roz, giving it large. She was dressed in a leotard and for such an ugly bitch, she sure moved with pure grace. I pulled the breech to slide a shell into the barrel, squeezed the trigger. The hi-fi exploded and Roz screamed.

I said, ‘Thank you for the music.’

She whirled round, spat and said, ‘It’s the moron again.’

I moved down into the room and picked up the remote. A massive TV was perched near the ruined music centre. I switched on. The rioting was in full hop, so close you could touch it and with the lingering smell of cordite, it was like having it in the room.

I motioned with the gun, said, ‘Sit down.’

She didn’t, so I added, ‘Or I’ll knock you down.’

She sat.

If she was scared or even all that surprised, she hid it well. A smirk danced twixt her eyes and her mouth.

She said, ‘I can’t believe even a cretin like you would be so stupid.’

‘Well, there you have it... where’s Danny?’

Now she was truly amused, said, ‘Why, with his wife of course, save her hanging about.’

She wanted me to know. To know they’d done Crystal. Then the TV commentary got hugely excited.

‘A man... a black man behind the hearse has been shot...’

Now I smiled, said, ‘Daddy’s gone a hunting.’

Her face changed, rage through alarm as she looked at me then back to the screen, shouted, ‘What have you done!’

‘Me... nothing... but at a guess I’d say sniper.’

‘You told my father... Oh, Leon.’

And she leapt at me, nails and teeth clawing. I side-stepped and lashed the side of her head with one of them thug specialties. She flayed across the floor.

I said, ‘The second one hurts even more, can you believe that?’

She rolled on to her side then half sat up, a bruise already forming on her cheek.

Her accent now was pure south-east London, no college control here. All bile.

‘Yer friend Danny, he was a poof... yeah, he wanted to try it doggy style... I slit him as he came.’

And pulling open her leotard, she held the plastic cross round her neck, continued...

‘To remind me of his pig squealing... and the courier... yer little toy-boy, we lit him up last night.’

I double-actioned the pump and it blew her across the room. I walked over and put two more in. Now the TV was babbling news but I was deafened from the gunfire. I blew the screen apart and pumped the remainder into the couches. Put the gun in the Tesco bag and legged it outa there.

Out on Electric Avenue the riot hadn’t over-spilled.

Yet.

I went across the road and stood in the doorway. I sunk down on my knees and was thus, when a black limo screeched down the road. It stopped at the club and a bunch of black men poured out. I distinctly saw Leon, live as hate.