The McDead

Benediction moon

‘I’m a spiritual person,’ the man said to Porter Nash. It was a rite of passage at any new station, you got the loopy cases. This was certainly that.

The man had been attacked by a pimp and a hooker. They’d given him a sound thrashing. Nash asked, ‘How did you happen to ah … meet these people?’

The man sighed, he didn’t suffer fools gladly.

‘I go to professional ladies and to demonstrate their baseness to them, I pay them in a similar coinage.’

‘You’re not a priest, are you?’

Tolerant smile, ‘I’m a deacon of the flesh.’

Nash read the charge sheet again. He was getting a migraine. He said, ‘You gave the lady two forged fifties.’

‘It’s debauchery, paid for by deceit.’

Nash asked, ‘Where do you get the funny money?’

‘A chap in an ale house had a bag of them, a British Homes Store brand … yes, I’m sure of that.’

Nash said, ‘You’ll go down for … something.’

The man stood up, ‘I’ll embrace the penitentiary.’

‘Believe me, they’ll help you.’

As they took him away, he shouted, ‘I see auras.’

‘Course you do.’

‘And yours, sir, is blue.’

Nash had to ask, ‘That good?’

‘’Ish.’

He went to the canteen and the tea lady was delighted anew with his manners. Ordered tea and got two slices of toast he hadn’t ordered, said, ‘I didn’t order toast.’

She gave a full silver toothed smile, ‘It’s my little treat.’

‘Gosh … how wonderful.’

Thinking, if he got five minutes with a novel, he’d better meet the day. Had a round of toast drenched and dripping in butter, then opened his book.

‘Can I join you?’

Falls.

He thought, Ah, shag off, is it too much to ask for a few minutes?

He said, ‘Please do.’

She asked, ‘Wotcha reading?’

‘It’s Jane Smiley’s A Thousand Acres.’

‘I dunno her.’

He wanted to roar, ‘Quelle surprise!’, but said, ‘She won the Pulitzer.’

‘That’s good?’

‘It’s not bad.’

‘Is it good?’

‘Well, I’m only on the third acre but it’s boring the pants off me.’

She laughed, said, ‘Thanks for not treating me like an ignoramus.’

He offered the toast, saying, ‘It’s heaven.’

She took it, asked, ‘How’d you get toast like this?’

He only smiled, so she said, ‘I think we’re mates.’

Nod.

‘So, can I ask your opinion.’

He gave her the final slice, a true sacrifice and said, ‘I’m a good choice cos I tell people what they want to hear.’

‘Oh God, don’t do that.’

‘OK.’

‘There’s a man…

‘I hear you.’

She glanced around, she sure as hell didn’t want anyone to hear, asked, ‘How do I know if it’s … you know … love?’

This Nash could do. He smiled said, ‘A few questions will answer that.’

‘Oh.’

‘Do you wanna go for it?’

‘Ahm…OK, I think.’

‘Do you think of him [here Nash did an American accent] like all the time?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you got the runs?’

She laughed and nodded. ‘Is your appetite screwed? Do songs seem to be directed specifically at you? Do you want to do nothing but stare out the window?’

‘Yes, yes, yes.’

‘Now for the biggie, the litmus test.’

Falls felt nervous, said, ‘I feel nervous.’

‘So you should, here goes.’

He went American again.

‘Would you, like, just die if you saw him with somebody else?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Then I must inform you, WPC Falls, that you are completely and irrevocably in love, and may God have mercy on your soul.’

Later, rearranging his CDs, he pulled out ‘Benediction Moon’. Its mix of keening loss, awareness, and wonder were the articulation of a heart on fire.