The Killing of the Tinkers

I had no idea how to get Ronald Bryson. Shooting him was the most attractive idea. Proof, some bloody proof. I could pray, of course, but held little store in that. Whatever else, I didn’t think faith would nail the bastard. So I did what I do when I’m stuck. I read. Call it escape, I call it calm. My most recent find was Robert Irwin. A joy to my heart, a Cambridge scholar and wild drug user. Him I’d have liked on a pub crawl. How could it miss? His brilliant crazy work, Satan Wants Me, had just been reissued. Set in swinging London in 1967, it’s beyond definition. So taken was I, I had got Vinny to track down An Exquisite Corpse, about surrealism in 1930. They don’t have to be read in the west of Ireland with a line of coke and a large tumbler of Black Bush, but Christ, it sure enriches the rush.

My strategy on finishing those was to revisit James Sallis. In particular, his Lew Griffin novels, and then I’d be in the perfect zone for embracing mayhem. The phone went. I gulped some Bush and picked it up.

“Jack!”

“Laura?”

She was weeping, gasping for breath. I said,

“Take it slow, hon, I’m here. Just tell me where you are.”

“In a phone booth on Eyre Square.”

“Don’t move, I’ll be right there.”

I found the kiosk and a near hysterical Laura. When I opened the door, she jumped. I said,

“It’s OK…shhss.”

I cradled her, and a woman passing glared at me, her eyes shooting venom. I said,

“I didn’t do it.”

“That’s what they all say.”

Laura pushed a crushed package to me. The Zhivago logo. She said,

“I got you a present, Jack.”

That nearly killed me. Put that feeling on top of rage and you’re holding high explosive. I got Laura to a bench. A wino was slumped at one end, humming softly. Sounded like a Britney Spears tune.

Go figure.

I asked,

“What happened, darling?”

“I was talking to Declan in Zhivago and I saw that man.”

“Which man?”

As if I couldn’t guess. She said,

“The English fellah who came to your house.”

“Bryson.”

“He followed me out of the shop.”

“You should have told Declan, he’d have put his shoe in his hole.”

“I didn’t want to make a fuss.”

And so evil flourishes and spreads because decent people don’t want to make a fuss. She continued,

“He spooked me. I’d got as far as Faller’s when he caught up. He said, ‘Don’t be in such a hurry. I’m not going to hurt you. I’d like you to deliver something to our Jack, could you do that?’

“I said I would and he spat in my face.”

I wiped her face as if the spittle was still there. I felt near blind from fury. Lifted her up, said,

“I’m going to bring you to some friends of mine, OK?”

She clung to me, pleaded,

“So you won’t let him hurt me, Jack?”

“I guarantee it, sweetheart.”

I got her to Nestor’s. Jeff was tending bar, the sentry in his usual slot. I put Laura in the hard chair, walked to the counter. The sentry asked,

“Have you another wife?”

I said to Jeff,

“This girl has had a shock; would you mind her for a bit?”

He raised an eyebrow but said,

“I’ll get Cathy.”

“How’s Serena May?”

“Doing good.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

The madness was burning. I’d have anybody.

Jeff said,

“Don’t do anything crazy.”

“What’s that mean?”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, said,

“Hey, back off, buddy. You should see your face.”

I left.

Tearing along Forster Street. I heard my name called. Ignored it, kept going. Felt my arm grabbed. Whirled round to face Keegan. He said,

“Slow down, boyo.”

“Fuck off.”

He didn’t let go of my arm, said,

“It’s been a long time since anyone said that to me, Jack.”

“You want to let go of my arm?”

“Tell me what you’re doing, Jack.”

I gave a long sigh, one my mother would have been proud of. Could feel some of the white heat dissipating. I wanted to hug it closer, said,

“I’m going to tear that fucker’s head off.”

“Not smart, Jack.”

“Screw smart. You said yourself you’d destroy anyone who touched your woman.”

He nodded.

“But not with witnesses. Let me go up there, see what the story is. You hang here, smoke a cig, get your act together.”

It made sense, so I said,

“It makes sense.”

“OK, see you anon.”

I watched him walk to the green, turn towards the Simon. Even from a distance, you could sense the balled up menace of his posture. I tried not to think about the damage I wanted to inflict. Sat on the small wall, favoured seat of many drinking schools. The meths passed round here didn’t come in a fancy bottle or get stocked in trendy pubs. No, it was true rot gut, what they called “Jack” or “White Lady” in south-east London, 100 proof methylated spirits. I’d sipped it on rare occasions.

Moved my mind to books. Tommy Kennedy had said,

“There’ll be times when the only refuge is books. Then you’ll read as if you meant it, as if your life depended on it.”

My life and certainly my sanity had fled to reading through a thousand dark days. Resolved to get hold of James Sallis and his bio of Chester Himes. I’d reread all of David Gates. His Jernigan was my life if I’d had a formal education. Heard,

“Jack!”

Snapped out of it, looked at Keegan. He asked,

“Jeez, Jack, where did you go?”

“I was here.”

“Not if your eyes are any guide. Tell you, boyo, you’re going to have to quit the nose candy; it’s frying your brain.”

“I was thinking of books.”

“I rest my case.”

I stood up, asked,

“What went down?”

“He’s legged it, gave his notice.”

“Fuck.”

Connections were screaming in my head, couldn’t match them. Keegan said,

“My govenor came through from London.”

“Who?”

“My chief inspector.”

“What did he find out?”

“Our boy comes from money, like major bucks. Did public school, all that good shit. He’s a bona fide social worker all right. Now here’s the thing, he was attached to at least ten centres. The ones who had either street alcoholics or what the do-gooders call ‘the Marginalised’. He always left each place under a cloud. No specific charges, but a definite cloud of disturbance. So, people could disappear, who the fuck would notice? Then he did what the smart sickos do; he emigrated.”

The connection hit. I said,

“He follows Laura, deliberately, assaults her, knowing what she’ll do. That she’ll call me. I’ll come charging and my house is empty.”

Keegan nodded, said,

“Let’s get down there.”

“He’ll have been and gone.”

“But let’s see what he’s gone and left you.”

On our way there, he said,

“You think, Jack, that I don’t get the Irish. That I’m some sort of plastic paddy.”

I started to protest but he ploughed on.

“Just because I love the blarney shit doesn’t mean I’m blind. My mother was Irish, and when they’re rearing kids in England, they’re more Irish than you’ll ever know. She used to say, ‘Rear? I didn’t rear ye, ye were kept at room temperature like Fruitfield jam.’ You might have lived here, laddie, but I was fucking marinated in it. I knew what a hurley was before I could walk. When she used it, I definitely couldn’t walk. So do me a favour, pal, don’t pull Celtic rank on me.”

I was saved from a reply as we’d arrived at the house. The door was open. Keegan went,

“Uh-oh.”

And went first. The smell hit straight away. A huge crap in the kitchen. All the crockery was smashed and excrement smeared on the walls. In the front room, the new books were in tatters, the remains piled on the slashed sofa and reeking of urine. Keegan said,

“I’ll get cleaning.”

I went upstairs. My new clothes in bits and stuffed in the toilet, a note left on my pillow.

“Wanna play, Jack?”

Keegan shouted,

“Bad?”

The coke was gone, but more worrying, so was the 9mm. I was debating whether to tell Keegan when the phone rang. He said,

“I’ll get it.”

Obviously I only got Keegan’s side, which went like this.

“Jack’s not available. Oh, I know who you are, Ronald. Who am I? I’m Detective Sergeant Keegan from the Met, and I’ve a full report on you, son. Quite a work record. Oh dear, that’s very foul language. Yes, I’ve seen your actions here. Very impressive. I do hope you wiped your arse. Don’t shout, Ron, that’s a good lad. You’re leaving the country! Think about this, boyo; some day soon, you’ll get a tap on the shoulder and guess who? We have something in common…Oh, yes, I have a very dodgy past. I’m the animal you Guardian readers get orgasms about. No, no, Ronald, don’t worry about jurisdiction, because I certainly won’t. You’ll get to shit your pants again, and I’ll make you eat it. Okey-dokey, cheerio…lovely to chat with you.”

I was standing next to Keegan as he hung up, asked,

“He’s leaving?”

“So he says.”

“I had a gun here; it’s gone.”

“No sweat, I’ll make him eat that, too.”

“I don’t think he’ll go yet.”

“Me neither.”

Keegan said he’d yellow-page it and have the house cleaned, told me,

“Go see your girl.”

“Thanks, Keegan.”

“It’s no big deal. It’s what I do, clean up shite.”

“I feel odd calling you Keegan all the time. What’s your first name?”

“You feel odd! Gee, that’s a pity, get over it.”