I learnt this in prison. Compulsive is when you do something repetitively. Obsessive is when you think about something repetitively.

Course, I learnt some other stuff too. Not as clear cut.

Not as defined.

The day of my release, the Governor had me up for a talk.

Bent over his desk, he kept me waiting. His head over papers, a model of industry. He had a bald patch, like Prince Charles. That made me feel good. I concentrated on it. Finally, he looks up, says:

‘Mitchell?’

‘Yes, Sir?’

I could play the game. I was but a cigarette away from freedom. I wasn’t going to get reckless. His accent was from up north somewhere. Polished now but still leaking Yorkshire pud and all that decent shit. Asked,

‘You’ve been with us now for?’

Like he didn’t know. I said,

‘Three years, Sir.’

He hmmp’d as if he didn’t quite believe me. Riffled through my papers, said,

‘You turned down early parole.’

‘I wanted to pay me debt in full, Sir.’

The screw standing behind me gave a snort. For the first time, the Governor looked directly at me. Locked eyes. Then,

‘Are you familiar with recidivism?’

‘Sir?’

‘Repeat offenders, it’s like they’re obsessed with jail.’

I gave a tiny smile, said,

‘I think you’re confusing obsession with compulsion,’ and then I explained the difference.

He stamped my papers said,

‘You’ll be back.’

I was going to say,

‘Only in the repeats,’

but felt Arnie in Total Recall would be lost on him. At the gate, the screw said,

‘Not a bright idea to give him lip.’

I held up my right hand, said,

‘What else did I have to offer?’

Missed my ride.

What the Yanks say. I stood outside the prison, waiting on my lift. I didn’t look back. If that’s superstition, then so be it. As I stood on the Caledonian Road, I wondered if I looked like a con, ex-con.

Shifty.

Yeah, and furtive. That too.

I was forty-five years old. Near 5' 11" in height, weighed in at 180 pounds. In shape, though. I’d hammered in at the gym and could press-bench my share. Broken through the barrier to free up those endorphins. Natural high. Shit, do you ever need that inside. Sweat till you peak and beyond. My hair was white but still plentiful. I had dark eyes, and not just on the outside. A badly broken nose near redeemed by a generous mouth.

Generous!

I love that description. A woman told me so in my twenties. I’d lost her but hung on to the adjective. Salvage what you can.

A transit van pulled up, sounded the horn. The door opened and Norton got out. We stood for a moment. Is he my friend?

I dunno, but he was there. He showed up, friend enough. I said,

‘Hey.’

He grinned, walked over, gave me a hug. Just two guys hugging outside Her Majesty’s jail. I hoped the Governor was watching.

Norton is Irish and unreadable. Aren’t they all? Behind all the talk is a whole other agenda. He had red hair, pasty complexion, the build of a sly greyhound. He said,

‘Jaysus Mitch, how are you?’

‘Out.’

He took that on board, then slapped my arm, said,

‘Out... that’s a good one. I like that... Let’s go. Prison makes me nervous.’

We got in the van and he handed me a bottle of Black Bush. It had a green bow. I said,

‘Thanks, Billy.’

He looked almost shy, said, ‘Aw, it’s nuttin... for your release... the big celebration is tonight... and here...’ He produced a pack of Dunhill. The lush red luxury blend. Said,

‘I thought you’d be gasping for a tailor-made.’

I had the brown paper parcel they give you on release. As Norton started the engine, I said,

‘Hold on a sec.’ And I slung the parcel.

‘What was that?’

‘My past.’ I opened the Bush, took a long holy swallow. It burned. Wow, did it ever. Offered the bottle to him. He shook his head.

‘Naw, not when I’m driving.’

Which was rich, him being half in the bag already. He was always this side of special brews. As we headed south he was rabbiting on about the party. I switched off.

Truth is, I was tired of him already.

Norton said, ‘I’ll give you the scenic tour.’

‘Whatever.’

I could feel the whiskey kicking in. It does all sorts of weird shit to me but mainly it makes me unpredictable. Even I can’t forecast how it will break.

We were turning from Marble Arch and, of course, got caught at the lights. A guy appeared at the windscreen and began to wipe it with a dirty cloth. Norton yelled,

‘These fuckin’ squeegees, they’re everywhere!’

This guy didn’t even make an effort. Two fast wipes that left skid marks on the screen. Then he appeared at my window, said,

‘Four quid matey.’

I laughed, rolled the window down and said,

‘You need another line of work, pal.’

He had long greasy hair down to his shoulders. His face was thin, and he had the eyes I’d seen a hundred times on the yards. The eyes of the bottom rung predator. He leant his head back and spat. Norton went,

‘Aw Jaysus.’

I didn’t move, asked,

‘You got a tyre iron?’

Norton shook his head,

‘Mitch, Jesus no.’

I said, ‘Okay.’

And got out.

The guy was surprised but didn’t back off. I grabbed his arm and broke it over my knee. Got back in the van and the lights changed. Norton revved fast, crying,

‘Oh God Mitch, you crazy bastard. You’re out... what? Ten minutes... and you’re at it already. You can’t be losing it.’

‘I didn’t lose it, Billy.’

‘What, you smash the guy’s arm, that’s not losing it?’

‘If I’d lost it, I’d have broken his neck.’

Norton gave me an anxious look, said,

‘You’re kidding... right?’

‘What do you think?’

Norton said, ‘I think you’ll be surprised at the place I found for you.’

‘As long as it’s near Brixton.’

‘It’s Clapham Common. Since you’ve been... away... it’s become trendy.’

‘Oh shit.’

‘Naw, it’s Okay... Anyway, a writer guy got into heavy schtook to some money lenders, had to do a runner. Left everything: clothes, books... you’re set.’

‘Is Joe still at the Oval?’

‘Who?’

‘Big Issue seller.’

‘I don’t know him.’

We were coming up to the Oval. I said,

‘He’s there. Pull over.’

‘Mitch... you want to buy the Big Issue now?’

I got out, walked over. Joe hadn’t changed. He was dishevelled, dirty, cheerful.

I said, ‘Hi Joe.’

‘Mitchell... Good Lord, I heard you was doing a stretch.’

I handed over a fiver, said,

‘Give us a copy.’

We didn’t mention the change. He asked,

‘Did they hurt you in there, Mitch?’

‘Not so’s you’d notice.’

‘Good man. Got a smoke?’

I gave him the pack of Dunhill. He examined them, said,

‘Flash.’

‘Only the best for you, Joe.’

‘You’ll have missed the World Cup.’

And a whole lot more besides. I asked,

‘How was it?’

‘We didn’t win it.’

‘Oh.’

‘There’s always the cricket.’

‘Yeah, there’s always that.’

Briony’s a basket case. A true out and out nutter. I’ve known some seriously disturbed women. Shit, I’ve dated them, but up against Bri they were models of sanity. Bri’s husband died five years ago. Not a huge tragedy, as the guy was an asshole. The tragedy is that she doesn’t believe he’s gone. She keeps seeing him on the street and, worse, chats to him on the phone. Like the genuine crazies, she has moments of lucidity. Times when she appears

rational

coherent

functional

...then wallop. She’ll blindside you with an act of breathtaking insanity.

Add to this, she has a beguiling charm, sucks you in. She looks like Judy Davis, and especially how Judy Davis appeared with Liam Neeson in the Woody Allen movie. Her hobby is shoplifting. I dunno why she’s never been caught as she does it with a recklessness beyond belief. Bri is my sister. I rang her. She answered on the first ring, asked,

‘Frank?’

I sighed. Frank was her husband. I said,

‘It’s Mitchell.’

‘Mitch... oh Mitch... you’re out.’

‘Just today.’

‘Oh, I’m so happy. I’ve so much to tell you. Can I make you dinner? Are you hungry? Did they starve you?’

I wanted to laugh or cry.

‘No... no, I’m fine... listen, maybe we could meet tomorrow.’

Silence.

‘Bri... are you still there?’

‘You don’t want to see me on your first night. Do you hate me?’

Against all my better judgement, I told her about the party. She instantly brightened, said,

‘I’ll bring Frank.’

I wanted to shout, ‘Yah crazy bitch, get a grip!’ I said, ‘Okay.’

‘Oh Mitch, I’m so excited. I’ll bring you a present.’

Oh God.

‘Whatever.’

‘Mitch... can I ask you something?’

‘Ahm... sure.’

‘Did they gang rape you? Did they?’

‘Bri, I gotta go, I’ll see you later.’

‘Bye baby.’

I put the phone down. Wow, I felt drained.

Walking down Clapham Common, a woman smiled at me. I knew it was the jacket. There’s a transport café in Old Town that used to be the business. It was still there. The type of place if it’s not on the table, it’s not on the menu.

For an ex-con there can be few greater pleasures than to eat alone. Grabbing a booth I luxuriated in just having it to myself. Knew exactly what I’d order.

The carbohydrate nightmare, neon-lit in medical overload. Like this:

Two Sausages

Mess of Bacon

Fried Tomatoes

Eggs

Black Pudding

Toast

Pot of Stewed Tea

Oh yeah.

In the booth next to me was an old codger. Eyeing me. He had the face and manner of a ‘character.’ His name would be Alfred.

Course, everyone would love him. Alfred would have his own corner in the pub and his own pewter tankard.

He’d be a holy terror to a new barman.

My food arrived and he said,

‘That food, son... you know where it comes from?’

Without lifting my head, I said,

‘I’ve a feeling you’re going to enlighten me.’

That startled him, but not enough to stop him. He said,

‘Big fellah like you, you should have a feed of potatoes.’

I raised my head, looked at him, said,

‘Old fellah like you, you should mind your own business.’

Shut him down.

I tried not to wolf the food. Now that I was out, I was going to have to re-adapt. When I finished, I went and paid. On my way out, I stopped by Alfred, said,

‘Nice chatting with you.’

Walked down to Streatham and into the bank. I wasn’t sure how much money I had as they don’t send statements to prison.

What they should do is send bankers there.

I filled out a withdrawal slip and got in line. It was slow but I knew how to kill time.

The cashier was friendly in that vacant money way. I handed her the slip, she ran it by the computer, said,

‘Oh.’

I said nothing. She said,

‘This is a dormant account.’

‘Not any more.’

She gave me the look. The leather jacket wasn’t cutting any ice, said,

‘I’ll have to check.’

‘You do that.’

A man behind me sighed, asked,

‘Is this going to take long?’

Gave him a bank smile, answered,

‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’

The cashier returned with a suit. He was Mr Efficiency, said,

‘Mr Mitchell, if you could step over to my desk.’

I could. I sat and looked at his desk. A sign proclaimed

He did bank stuff for a bit, then,

‘Mr Mitchell, your account has been dormant for three years.’

‘Is that against the law?’

Ruffled him.

Recovered,

‘Oh no... it’s am... let’s see... with interest you have twelve hundred pounds.’

I waited. He asked,

‘I take it you wish to re-activate the account?’

‘No.’

‘Mr Mitchell, might I suggest a prudent reserve? We have some very attractive offers for the small saver.’

‘Give me my money.’

‘Ahm... of course... you wish to terminate your account?’

‘Leave a pound in it... cos you guys care so much.’

I got my cash but no warm hand-shake or cheerful goodbye.

You have to ask yourself how much it is they really care.

What you regard as a small isolated incident sets off a chain of events you could never have anticipated. You believe you’re making choices and all you’re doing is slotting in the pieces of a foreordained conclusion.

Deep, huh!

I took the tube to the Oval. The Northern Line was at its usual irritating best. Two bedraggled buskers were massacring The Streets Of London’. I gave them a contribution in the hope they might stop.

They didn’t.

As soon as they finished, they began it anew. Coming out at the Oval, Joe was there with the Big Issue. I said,

‘Wanna go to a party, Joe?’

This is my party, Mitch.’

Argue that.

Across the road an Aston Martin pulled in at St Mark’s Cathedral. A young woman got out. From the trees at the church, two predators materialised. These are not the homeless, they’re what Andrew Vachss calls ‘skels’. Bottom feeders, began to hassle her. I debated getting involved. I didn’t want to spoil the blazer. Joe said,

‘Go on, Mitch.’

I crossed the road. They’d the urban ambush going. One in front doing the verbals, the other behind about to strike.

I shouted,

‘Yo, guys.’

All three turned. These preds were early twenties, white and nasty.

The first said,

‘Whatcha want, wanker?’

The other:

‘Yeah, fock off bollocks.’

Close up I saw one was a woman. I said,

‘Leave the lady be.’

The first pred read the blazer, read me wrong, moved up, said,

‘Whatcha gonna do about it, cunt?’

I said,

‘This.’

And jammed my index finger in his right eye. It’s a common manoeuvre in the yard. When it’s serious you pop the eyeball.

This wasn’t. It hurts like a bastard, though. I moved to the second pred, said,

‘I’m going to break your nose.’

She ran.

The woman, the would-be victim, just stared at me. I said,

‘Not a smart place to park.’

I re-crossed the road and could hear music from The Greyhound.

Prayed it wasn’t ‘The Streets Of London’.

The pub was packed. A banner over the bar proclaimed,

Norton, in an Armani suit, greeted me warmly, said,

‘Here’s a Revolver.’

‘What?’

‘It’s a cocktail.’

‘What’s in it?’

‘What else but Black Bush, two jiggers of Contreau and ginger ale?’

‘Thanks Billy, but I’ll have a pint o’ bitter.’

Various Grade B villains approached and shook my hand. The A List were seated and expected me to approach them.

I did.

The party was what Dominic Dunne calls ‘a rat fuck’. Too many people. Promises of sundry jobs were made and lotsa ‘call me’ expressions. I spotted Tommy Logan, an up and coming drug lord, asked,

‘Tommy, can I have a word?’

‘Sure, son.’

He was half my age. He said,

‘You’re looking fit.’

‘But for what, eh?’

We laughed politely at this. I asked,

‘I need a favour, Tommy.’

He moved me to the end of the bar. Out of earshot if not out of reach. I took a deep breath, said,

‘I need some gear.’

It was Tommy’s business not to show what he felt or thought.

He registered near amazement, said,

‘I never had you down for the needle.’

‘It’s a one-off, for a friend.’

‘Jeez Mitch, that’s the hook... just once.’

Next he’d be giving me a lecture. I cut to the chase, asked,

‘Can you do it? I’d need the works too. A hypo... like that.’

‘Sure, I’ll have it for you by close of business.’

He shook his head then.

‘I like you Mitch, so all I’m gonna say is take it easy.’

‘Iris De Ment has a song called “Easy”.’

‘Who?’

Briony arrived looking like a radiant bag lady. She was dressed in some kind of designer bin liner. She gave me a huge hug, asked,

‘Do you like my dress?’

‘Ahm...’

‘I stole it from Vivienne Westwood’s shop.’

Before I could reply, she asked,

‘Mitch, would you like a Glock?’

‘I’ve already turned down a revolver.’

She looked disappointed, said,

‘It’s a 9mm.’

‘Jesus Bri, you’re serious.’

She reached in her handbag saying,

‘I’ll show you.’

I grabbed her hand, pleaded,

‘Christsake, don’t pull a gun in this crowd... I’ll get it later, okay?’

‘Okay Mitch.’

Norton shouted,

‘Bri, whatcha drinking?’

‘Harvey Wallbanger.’

A woman came into the pub. It was the Aston Martin lady. I said to Bri,

‘Excuse me.’

‘Frank will be here later, Mitch.’

The late Frank. I approached the woman, said,

‘Hello again.’ She nearly jumped, then got composure, said,

‘I never got to thank you.’

‘Glad to help... did you follow me in here?’

‘What? Good Lord no... I’m here on a story.’

My heart sank.

‘You’re a journalist?’

‘Yes, any gathering of South East villains is news.’

She looked towards the bar. A group of grim men were deep in conversation. They exuded menace. She said,

‘That looks like a nasty bunch.’

‘You’re right. They’re the police.’

She laughed, asked,

‘Are you serious?’

‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Some mineral water... I’m Sarah.’

‘Mitch.’

I considered spiking the mineral water, loosen her up a bit. Then decided to just let it play. As she took a sip, she said,

‘I believe the party’s for a villain who’s just out of prison.’

‘That’s me.’

‘Oh.’

I drank some beer, said,

‘I’m not a criminal. I’m simply unemployed.’

She digested this, then,

‘What type of work do you do besides rescuing women?’

‘You name it, I can do it.’

‘Handyman?’

She considered, then asked,

‘I’d have to check, are you on the phone?’

I gave her the number and asked,

‘Aren’t you wary of recommending an ex-con?’

‘If you get the job, it’s you who’d need to be careful.’

I laughed, not taking her seriously.

The first in a line of very bad judgements.

Next morning I was listening to Capitol when the phone went. Picked it up, said,

‘Yeah.’

‘Mitch? This is Sarah.’

‘Right. Did you get a story?’

‘No, but I might have got you a job.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t thank me yet. I have an aunt in Holland Park. She lives in a huge house and it’s in dire need of repairs. The snag is she’s a difficult woman and no other workmen will go there anymore. Believe me, she’s had an army of them.’

‘Why will I be different?’

Long pause, then,

‘Well, she’ll forgive a man anything if he’s handsome.’

‘Oh.’

‘Do you want to give it a whirl? She’ll pay awfully well.’

‘Sure, why not.’

‘She lives at The Elms, you can’t miss it, just after the beginning of Holland Park, it has an impressive driveway.’

‘I’ll find it.’

‘I’m sure you will. Do you know anything about the theatre?’

‘No.’

‘You won’t have come across Lillian Palmer then.’

‘Never heard of her.’

‘I don’t suppose it matters. Anyway, that’s her, my aunt.’

‘I look forward to meeting her.’

‘Don’t be so sure. Well, good luck.’

I decided to chance it, felt I might be on a roll, asked,

‘Listen Sarah, do you fancy a drink sometime?’

‘I don’t think so. I’m not part of the package.’

And she hung up.

So much for the roll.

I had no equipment for work but figured I’d make it up as I went along. I know enough cowboys to borrow almost anything.

First off, I’d go and see the place, see what I’d need. If I was to be a handyman, I thought casual clothes would be best. Sweatshirt and jeans should be fine.

As I headed for the tube, I thought, ‘I’ve a home, clothes, job offers, and I’d only been out twenty-four hours’.

Those cons had got it wrong, life on the outside was a breeze.

When I got back to Clapham I could feel the effect Lillian Palmer had on me. I figured it was time I got laid. Went into a phone booth and scanned the cards on display. Every sexual need was catered for. I decided on the following:

Yeah.

I rang and set a time. Yup, she could see me now. The address was in Streatham. As I headed there, I swear I felt nervous.

After three years, you wonder how it’s gonna be.

Found the building and rang the top bell. Got buzzed in, walked up two flights of stairs. Knocked on the door. A guy in his thirties came out. I said,

‘Jeez, I hope you’re not Tanya.’

‘Fifty quid in advance.’

I paid and he asked,

‘Need anything else — weed, uppers, downers?’

I shook my head. He stepped aside, and I went in. A woman was sitting down dressed in a slip, stockings and suspenders. She wasn’t in her twenties, or busty or beautiful.

She said,

‘Would you like a drink?’

Not South American either. I said,

‘Sure.’

‘Scotch?’

‘Lovely.’

I watched her as she got the drink. A nice bod — I could feel desire returning. Not wild excitement but getting there.

I took the drink, said,

‘Cheers.’

She stood in front of me, said,

‘No kinky stuff, no kissing, no bondage.’

What could I say, I said,

‘No kidding.’

I followed her into the bedroom. The radio was playing The Eagles with ‘Desperado’. If ‘My Way’ is the anthem of chauvinists, then ‘Desperado’ is the rationalisation of convicts. She handed me a condom as she lay back on the bed.

It was quick.

She indicated the bathroom, said,

‘You can clean up in there.’

I did.

When I came out she said,

‘For another twenty, we could go again.’

I said, ‘I think I’ve had as much fun as I can handle.’

As I left, she said,

‘Call again.’

Back in Clapham, I went to the Rose and Crown, took a stool at the bar, ordered a pint of bitter. Working on that I rolled a cigarette. A man in his sixties came in and took the stool beside me. I hoped to fuck he wasn’t going to be friendly. I fixed my face in the ‘don’t put chat on me’ mode. He ordered a large navy rum, said,

‘None of that Kiskadee rubbish.’

I tuned out. Wanted to engage in some post-coital melancholy.

Then I realised he was talking to me, I said,

‘What?’

‘Would you believe I was in the middle of an angiogram two months ago?’

‘You what?’

‘Should have been routine but an artery the cardio didn’t know about got jammed. Just when he’s roto-rootering an other one and—’

I said, ‘Shut up. I don’t wanna hear about it.’

He looked wiped, asked,

‘Like a drink?’

‘I’d like you to bore the arse off someone else.’

‘Just trying to be friendly.’

‘I don’t do friendly.’

Finished my drink and got outta there. When I got outside, a man was standing directly across the road, staring at me. In his thirties, blond hair, a decrepit suit. He looked like he was going to say something then turned and walked away.

If the traffic hadn’t been so heavy I might have gone after him. I thought — ‘They’re coming outta the woodwork today.’

I hate fuckin’ nuns.’

Norton spat this as a nun scuttled along the footpath.

There’s a convent in Ashmole Estate.’

I said, ‘I thought you Irish had religion.’

He grunted, answered,

‘What we’ve got is long memories.’

‘If you don’t have religion, you better have a saving grace.’

He gave me the look, said,

‘Jeez Mitch, that’s bloody deep.’

‘But not original. The poet Donald Rawley wrote it.’

As we pulled up outside a high-rise, he said,

‘I hate fuckin poets.’

We got out and Norton slung a sports bag over his shoulder, asked,

‘You want somefin’?’

‘Naw, like I said, I’ll go clean.’

‘I meant protection... like a baseball bat. Poems won’t cut it where we’re going.’

‘No... what’s in the sports bag?’

He gave an evil smile, answered,

‘Incentives.’

Camus wrote,

‘There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn.’

Well, that and a baseball bat should help you on the route from Clapham to the Oval.

What I was thinking was, I’d go see Joe, the Big Issue vendor and shoot the breeze.

At Stockwell, there was a guy holding a placard. He was wearing one of those ankle-length Oz. duster coats. They’re fine if you’ve a horse to match. The placard read

As I passed, he gave me a huge, toothless grin. I said,

‘Good advice.’

He said, ‘Fuck off.’

When I got to the Oval, no Joe. A kid about twenty was in his spot and selling the paper. I asked,

‘What’s happened to Joe?’

‘Something should happen,’ he said.

I grabbed him by his shirt, heard the buttons pop.

I said,

‘Don’t give me friggin lip.’

‘He got hurt.’

‘What?’

‘Straight up, guv, two kids from the Kennington estates done him over.’

‘Where’s he now?’

‘St Thomas’. He’s poorly.’

I let the kid go, said,

‘Don’t get comfortable, this is Joe’s spot.’

The kid was looking at his torn shirt, said,

‘Yah tore me shirt, yah didn’t have to do that.’

‘Blame Camus.’

‘Who’s he?’

I flagged a cab and had him take me to the hospital. At reception, I had all sorts of grief before I could locate him. He was on Ward 10. That didn’t omen well.

When I got up there, a matron barred my way, saying,

‘He’s not in any condition for visitors.’

A passing doctor stopped, asked,

‘What’s the problem?’

His name tag read ‘Dr R Patel’.

The matron told him and he said,

‘Oh yes, the Big Issue man. All right Matron, I’ll take care of this.’

He turned to me, said,

‘Of course, if you’re a relative...’

‘A relative?’

‘His brother, say.’

I looked into his eyes. I almost never see eyes of kindness.

I did now. I said,

‘Sure, I’m his brother.’

‘Joe is not in good shape.’

‘You mean... he might die?’

‘I estimate twenty-four hours.’

I put out my hand, said,

‘Thank you, Doctor.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Early morning. Norton rang. I asked him to find me a burial plot. In reply he said,

‘It will cost. Not just money. I need your help.’

‘Tell me.’

‘The Brixton run, none of the lads are keen.’

‘Gee, collecting money there should be a piece of cake.’

‘Tomorrow evening, Mitch, I’ll pick you up.’

Sunday evening, on my way home, I had the cab swing by the off-licence. I asked,

‘Could you get me a bottle of Irish whiskey?’ I figured I could get out of the cab. I wasn’t sure I could get back in. He nodded. As I passed over the cash, he said,

‘A bus hit you?’

‘A black bus.’

‘Worst kind. Any particular brand of whiskey?’

‘Black Bush.’

‘Good choice.’

He was back in jig time, handed over the bottle, said,

‘Get some Epsom salts and a steaming bath.’

‘I will, thanks.’

Back home, I moved like an invalid, dropped some painkillers.

Dr Patel had warned, ‘Don’t take alcohol with these.’

Yeah, right. I unscrewed the bottle, chugged hard. Whoa-hey, it kicked like a mule. A very bad-tempered mule. I turned on the radio. Tracy Chapman with ‘Sorry.’ Fitting. Ran the bath, got it scalding. Had some more Bush.

An hour later, glowing from the bath and drink. I wasn’t hurting at all. Found a wool bathrobe and wrapped up in that. It had a monogram but I couldn’t focus. The doorbell went. I shuffled over to open it.

Norton, a sheepish face. He went,

‘Jesus, what did they do to you?’

‘Their worst.’

He looked at the bathrobe but didn’t comment, asked,

‘Can I come in?’

‘Why not.’

He glanced at the half empty bottle, said,

‘Partying?’

I ignored that, went in and flopped in the sofa. I said,

‘There’s beer in the fridge.’

‘Right, think I will.’

He popped a can, sat opposite me, said,

‘I’m sorry, Mitch. I thought you were behind me.’

‘I wasn’t.’

Now he tried indignation.

‘What did I tell you? Didn’t I say... if it gets hairy, run.’

‘I musta forgot.’

He drank long, said,

‘Don’t worry. Mitch, we’ll get them, eh?’

I was too mellow to be angry. Leave it to a later date. He dropped a chunk of change on the table, said,

‘Least you get paid, okay buddy?’

‘Okay.’

Trying for friendly, he asked,

‘So what’s this other job you’ve got?’

I told him the lot, even down to the fast moves of the butler. He said,

‘The old dame, sounds like you got the hots for her.’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘Tell me again about the Silver Ghost.’

Blame the booze but I did, told him far too much. Should have seen the glint in his eyes. But like I said, my focus was shot to hell. He said,

‘Sounds like loot.’

‘What?’

‘Be worth knocking over.’

‘Hey.’

‘No, c’mon Mitch, like the old days. Bound to be a ton of

cash

jewellery

paintings.

I got to my feet. Not very imposing in the dressing gown, said,

‘Billy forget it. Who’d you think the cops pull first?’

‘Just a thought. I better get going.’

At the door I said,

‘I meant what I said, Billy, stay away from it.’

‘Sure, Mitch, cross my heart and hope to die.’

Back to the couch. I eyed the remainder of the Bush. Sleep took me before I reached for the bottle. I was glad of that when I woke on Monday morning. I felt battered and bedraggled but figured I’d at least show up for work.

The phone rang. Dr Patel. He’d made the funeral arrangements and wondered about a service. I said no. Joe would be buried on Tuesday evening. I thanked him and he rang off.

Wednesday was rained out. I went to work anyway. Jordan was in the kitchen, gave me a critical look, said,

‘Your injuries are healing.’

‘Think so?’

‘They appear so.’

Zen or what.

Some drains were blocked and he asked if I could do anything.

I said, ‘Sure.’

What a bastard. Took me all day to unclog them. Near four, I was spread out, working on an eave-shoot, dirty water dribbling in my face when she appeared. Dressed in a red jersey-knit outfit, it was stuck to her curves. She said,

‘Now, that’s what I like to see, a man on his back.’

I finished the bloody job and got to my feet. She came up to about my shoulder. Again with the knowing smirk. I dunno, was it Joe’s funeral, my beating, chemistry, or plain lunacy?

But I grabbed her, pulled her against me and kissed her. First she struggled but then she blended into me. I got my tongue in her mouth and my hands on her ass, was gone. The rain came bucketing down and she pulled away, said,

‘I hope you can finish what you started.’

And she was gone.

I stood in the rain, me and a hard-on, and remembered Wednesday night... Mr Gant’s surprise. Back in the garage, I was peeling off the drenched overalls when Jordan appeared. He said,

‘We’ve gone ahead with the flat over the garage. It’s all prepared.’

‘Shit, I dunno.’

‘There is a shower there, a fresh tracksuit... please avail.’

I did.

It was a studio-type place:

bed

shower

kitchenette.

And man, bundles of fresh luxurious towels. As a convict you get a towel per week.

I scalded myself in the shower and, coming out, I noticed a small fridge under the TV packed with beer. I opened a Grolsch and chugged deep.

The bed was freshly made up and I was sorely tempted. But I had Gant’s surprise to come.

The tracksuit was new, black, large size with the logo

Way to go.

On my way out I met Jordan, who said,

‘Miss Palmer has expressed a certain... liking for your... work.’

‘I aim to please.’

Blame the Grolsch. He gave a sad smile, said,

‘Do aim wisely.’

I spent Friday on the roof; it needed major repair, and I decided to tell Jordan. He said,

‘We trust it to see us through another winter.’

‘Shall I not bother, then?’

He gave me a languid smile, said,

‘Fix the most glaring damage, we don’t want Madam leaked upon.’

I figured I could take that anyway I liked. After a day of cosmetic work, I was feeling vertigo. Decided to grab a shower and a brewski. There was no new tracksuit waiting. Thing is, I was a tiny bit disappointed.

My first full week of, if not honest, at least regular work.

Jordan appeared, handed me an envelope, said,

‘We presumed you’d prefer cash.’

‘Good move, Jord.’

He didn’t go, and I was tempted to say — ‘dismissed’. What I said was,

‘What?’

‘Aren’t you going to count it?’

‘I trust you, pal.’

He flicked at a hair on his lapel, said,

‘Then you would be making a serious error.’

I counted it, went,

‘Shit... is this for a week or a month?’

He smiled. I wasn’t exhilarated but I was one contented ex-con, said,

‘Whatcha say, Jordy, I buy you a large one down your local.’

A beat, then, ‘I don’t fraternise with the help.’

Saturday morning, I woke with a slight curried hangover. Nothing too serious, just hold on the red peppers. I thought about Browns.

My kind of place.

Normally, they wouldn’t let me in, and I wouldn’t blame them. We understood our ratings. To them I was a bottom feeder. But it’s a rush sometimes, riding on the clout of a Gant, you get to stray.

Meanwhile, I had business. I knew Joe’s assailants were teenagers. One wore a Beckham shirt, one was black. So, Saturday afternoon, they’d be kicking ball.

Dress down.

I wore the faded jeans, unwashed sweatshirt — I was cooking. Got the Glock and dry fired it. No problem. Loaded it fast. Caught a 36 all the way to Oval tube. If I had to describe how I felt, I’d say,

certain

and

cold.

Checked out the Kennington estate, quiet yet. Okay. I took a walk up to the Walworth Road and did high-fives with a gang I once ran with. They lured me into the pub and asked what I’d fancy. I said,

‘Bottle of Becks,’

and jig-time, four or five bottles at my hand. They knew I was but recent out, asked,

‘How was it — stir and all?’

‘Better here.’

And got the laudatory salutations.

It was a safe pub. Meaning, the Guv’nor had done hard time.

Like eighteen and no remission. So, you could talk.

Jeff, the organiser of the team, asked,

‘Need any readies?’

‘Naw, I’m in regular employment.’

Huge laugh and four more bottles of Beck. The team did post offices, usually west or north. They weren’t greedy and pulled down a nice earner. I’d served my time with them in my early twenties. Jeff asked,

‘We’re up north next week Mitch, wanna tag along?’

I was tempted. It would be two large, no frills but alas, I was on a different time frame, said,

‘Maybe later.’

I hadn’t touched one beer. It was getting on to 2.30. I said I had to go and we did the south-east London trip of truly-felt goodbyes. Outside, for a moment, I wished I could go back.

At the Kennington estate, a furious football game was in progress. I sat on the wall, bided my time. Five a side, it was deadly serious. I spotted the black kid right off... he was a substitute.

A couple of local residents sat alongside me. I passed along cans of lager, get them talking.

Then I saw him, the Beckham shirt and wild ferocious talent.

Scored a goal from midfield that was beyond description.

Beside me, a man said,

‘Aye, he’s been scouted.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Yon kid, he goes up to Bero at the beginning of the season.’

I said with absolute belief,

‘He’s very talented.’

‘Aye, lives to play, take away his football and he’s nowt.’

The game wound down after that. I waited. Eventually, the spectators drifted away. But not Beckham. He continued to play, dribble, drive, locked in his football dream. The black kid waited, boredom sat large.

Time to rock ’n’ roll.

I stood up, stretched, looked round. Deserted. Walking slowly, I approached the Beckham wannabe. He never even saw me. I had the Glock out and pumped both his knees from behind.

Four shots.

Moved straight over to the black kid, whose jaw had literally dropped, stuck the barrel in his mouth, said,

‘Not this time, but soon.’

Then I walked away. Caught a 3 bus at the arse end of Kennington Park and was over Lambeth Bridge in two minutes.

As we came up to the Embankment, up into Westminster, I let the Hendrix song play in my head, my body drenched in sweat.

‘Hey Joe.’

I moved out of Clapham next day. Packed the essentials:

Gun

Money

Dope.

I took the Gucci jacket — well, you’d be mad not to. Some sweatshirts and jeans. Left the blazer and dark suit. I didn’t plan on any more funerals. A half-dozen crime novels. Was able to fit all that in one bag. Travelling light. Then I just eased on away.

As I walked up the drive in Holland Park, I hoped they’d be home. Went round the tradesman entrance. Jordan was at the kitchen table, reading the business section of The Sunday Times. If he was surprised to see me, he hid it well, asked,

‘You’re doing some overtime?’

‘Actually, I’ve come to live with you.’

He folded the paper neatly, said,

‘Madam was right.’

‘Yeah?’

‘She said you’d move in within a week.’

He stood up, said,

‘Have some coffee, I’ll prepare your room.’

I sat down, thinking — ‘Shit, that was easy.’

I was rolling a cig when I remembered the no smoking rule. Lit up anyway. I lived here. When Jordan returned he looked at the smoke but let it go. He said,

‘I believe all you need is there: shower, hot plate, fridge. There isn’t a phone so I’ve lent you a mobile till we get a line in.’

I asked, ‘What’s the ground rules?’

‘Pardon?’

‘C’mon on, pal, the do’s and don’ts.’

He smiled — this guy liked plans — said,

‘Very simple. You stay out of the main house unless summoned.’

‘Summoned. I look forward to that.’

The summons came quicker than either of us expected. A bell rang and he said,

‘Excuse me.’

Ten minutes later he was back, said,

‘Madam welcomes you to The Elms and wishes to know if you’d be prepared to drive as part of your duties.’

‘Sure, do I get to wear a uniform?’

‘We don’t do uniforms.’

I hauled my bag to the garage and went to unpack. The room smelt of air freshener. The mobile was on the table. A Rolls Royce in the garage, a mobile in my hand — welcome to the pleasure dome.

Rang Jeff first, said,

‘Jeff, it’s Mitch.’

‘Hi Mitch, it was good to see you on Saturday. Change your mind about the job?’

‘No mate, thanks. What do you know about a villain named Gant?’

‘Woo... bad news, a header to boot, your total fuckin’ shacko.’

‘Oh.’

‘Your mate Billy Norton runs with ’im.’

My mate!

‘It’s a long shot Jeff but would you know where he lives?’

‘Yeah, I did a piece of work with him, but never again. Trust me, you don’t wanna go there mate.’

‘All the same, Jeff?’

‘Sure, hang on a mo...’

Then, ‘19 Regal Gardens, Dulwich. He owns the house and most of the street.’

‘Thanks, Jeff.’

‘Give ’im a wide berth, mate.’

‘I’ll try.’

Next up I rang Bri gave her my new address and the mobile number. She didn’t say anything. I had to ask,

‘Bri... you there?’

‘It’s that old girl’s address, isn’t it?’

‘Not like you think, it’s work.’

‘At her age, I’m sure it’s very hard work.’

And she hung up on me.

Jeez, if Bri wasn’t careful, she’d develop a sense of humour.

I was cooking on this mobile. Rang Norton. Sounded like I woke him. I asked,

‘Billy did I wake you?’

‘No... I... was... am... wanking. That you, Mitch?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re fucked, man.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Gant has a hard-on for you. Oh... and you’re fired.’

‘Gee, Billy, you sound broke up about it.’

Deep sigh.

‘What’s with you, man? I get you the sweetest deal, and you shit all over it.’

‘You’re my mate Billy... right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So lemme tell you, Gant ain’t so hot on you either.’

‘You see... you see, Mitch, there you go again, your head’s all fucked up.’

‘Billy, the guy’s bad news.’

‘Mitch... you’re the bad news. He said you owe him something.’

‘I owe him Jack.’

‘You better pay it Mitch, he gets crazy over stuff like that.’

‘One last thing, Billy. After I did that guy three years ago, how did your hands look?’

Long silence, then,

‘You’re gone, man, I’m talking to a zero.’

And he hung up.

Now I knew it was true. The dirty bastard.

My first year in prison, there was a black queen on the tier above. He’d been turned out his first week and had gone into it wholesale. He was just eighteen and so the legal age for grown up jail.

He worked at it, trading blow jobs for cosmetics, full anal for lingerie. Every night about eleven-thirty he’d begin to sing ‘Fernando’. A slow, crystal pure version. All blues, all loss.

‘Can you hear the drums Fernando...’

For the few minutes of the song, the whole shitty institution went deathly quiet. Not a sound. Just this lone achingly raw lyric.

One evening on chow line, he was ahead of me. I said,

‘You have a wonderful voice.’

He turned, rouge on his cheeks, eye liner courtesy of boot polish, said,

‘Oh, thank you so much. Do you want a blow job?’

‘Naw... I just wanted to say you’ve got real talent.’

I was already sorry I’d bothered. Any longer with him and I’d be prey again. I went to move off, he said,

‘No... you can do me for free.’

Jesus.

I dunno why but I gave it a final shot, said,

‘Why do you do... that stuff?’

‘It’s my only protection.’

Who was I to argue. I moved off and the next time he greeted me, I said,

‘The fuck you talking to?’

A few months later, he was strangled with a pair of tights.

I told myself ignoring him was my protection. Sometimes, I half believed it.

I stood up, threw the mobile on the bed, said aloud,

‘Billy-boy you get to pay for Fernando.’

I had Lillian that same night.

Over

under

sideways

on the floor

over a table

on the bed.

Like that.

When we were through, I said,

‘I can’t understand how you’ve problems keeping staff.’

About eight that evening, I had been lying on my bed, reading one of the John Sandford ‘Prey’ series.

My mobile went.

It was her. She said,

‘I need company.’

So I went. Strolled over to the house, all the lights were on. No sign of Jordan. I climbed the stairs. Her bedroom door was ajar, I knocked, heard,

‘Enter.’

Did I ever.

She was standing by the windows, black silk nightgown.

I walked over and she asked,

‘What kept you?’

Let the frenzy begin. I had three years of prison to vent and she had her own history.

When finally we were sated, she asked,

‘Bucks fizz?’

‘I can only pray you’re saying “bucks”.’

She was. We got through two bottles of Möet and I finally got to look round the room. In contrast to the rest of the house, it was spartan. I’d expected hundreds of photos, but not even one. I said,

‘How come this room is so... empty?’

‘One needs an area of simplicity.’

‘You’d have liked prison.’

Then she looked at me, said,

‘How the mighty stumble.’

I knew this wasn’t praise. She asked,

‘Do you even know the name of this house?’

‘Sure... The Elms.’

‘Its significance?’

‘The trees are elms.’

‘ “Desire Under The Elms”... Eugene O’Neill.’

‘Irish, was he?’

She gave a snort of derision.

‘My finest role. But I shall yet play Electra.’

‘You’re planning a comeback?’

‘Oh yes, I’ve waited a long time for this. The West End shall hail my return.’

‘Why now, Lil?’

Her eyes raged and she tried to slap my face. I caught her wrist, she spat,

‘I’m Lillian Palmer, not some bar hussy.’

I sat up, said,

‘Thanks for the fuck.’

She loved that, said,

‘Don’t go, let me tell you my grand plan.’

‘I’m sure it’s fascinating but I’m shagged.’

She got up put on a robe, said,

‘They’ve called me back. Trevor Bailey’s office rang three times.’

‘You’ll no doubt tell me who he is.’

‘The Impresario. He’s producing two shows right now. I want you to drive me there tomorrow, we’ll arrive in style.’

She went to the bed and, from underneath, produced a huge volume of papers, said,

‘It’s my work. I’ve re-written Electra to make it more modern.’

‘Nice one.’

‘I’m giving you the honor of being the first to read it.’

Her expression was one of total seriousness. It was her life in those lousy papers. I said,

‘I’d be honoured.’

And she handed them over like a baby. She said,

‘We’ll do magnificent things, Michael.’

I was on the verge of saying Mitchell, but let it go.

On the way down the stairs, Jordan was gliding up. Not a sound.

We didn’t speak, nor did he even look at me.

Back in my room, I cracked a brewski, tried to read her work.

It was gibberish. I couldn’t follow one single sequence. I slung it on the bed, said,

‘Turkey.’

I must have been asleep a few hours when the mobile went.

Jeez, where was the bloody thing... found it, muttered,

‘Huh.’

‘Are you finished?’

‘What?’

‘Were you sleeping?’

‘Lillian. No, of course not, I was totally engrossed, lost in it.’

I was trying to see the bloody time... 3.15... fuck. She said,

‘Give me your verdict.’

‘A masterpiece.’

‘Isn’t it.’

‘Oh... beyond praise.’

‘Shall I come over, read some now?’

‘No... no... let me just wallow in the magic.’

‘Goodnight, mon cherie.’

‘Right.’

I’ve had lots of worry, fear, anxiety in my time. But that I’d ever get to see her perform filled me with outright dread.

Thursday, back to the day job. Up on that roof, knocking down stray slates. I’d hear them land on the patio, break like glass. If I were fanciful, I’d say like dreams but they were only worn slates. Madam was on the phone all day, ordering new clothes, the hairdresser, cooing to her friends. I’d yet to meet any of those but figured ‘bridge night’ would answer that.

Come evening, I was showering and resolving I’d get take out fish and chips and read Edward Bunker. I was holding the new Pellicanos as a special treat. My phone had been installed and I was settled. Now it rang.

‘Mr Mitchell.’

‘Hi Doc.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Doc, have a guess at how many Indians are calling me.’

‘Oh.’

‘How’d you get the number?’

‘Briony did, she’s very resourceful.’

‘That too... so was there something?’

‘Yes, could I see you? Let me buy you dinner.’

‘Okay.’

‘Splendid. There’s a wonderful Italian place at Notting Hill, named De Vinci’s. Shall we say eight?’

‘Italian?’

‘You don’t like Italian.’

‘Well yeah, sure I do, okay. And call me Mitch.’

‘Right Mr Mitch.’

I’d been kinda banking on them fish and chips but what the hell. I wore the blue suit and a white shirt. Checked myself in the mirror, said,

‘Smokin’.’

Wouldn’t you know — everyone, including the doc, in casual gear.

The place was warm and friendly and they knew the doc. Good opening. We ordered clams and linguini then followed with spaghetti bolognese. The bread was crisp and fresh like an idealised childhood. I even liked the wine. I’m mopping up the sauce with that bread, the doc is ordering more wine and I go,

‘What’s up Doc?’

‘It’s Briony.’

‘Quelle surprise.’

‘You speak French.’

‘Nope, just that one bit so I got to ration it. You’d be amazed how often I get to use it with Briony around.’

‘Can I be honest, Mr Mitch?’

When you hear that, pay the bill and run. I said,

‘Go for it.’

‘I love her very much.’

‘But she’s a nutter, right?’

That took him aback but also gave him his cue, said,

‘When I was a medical student, I seriously considered a career as a psychologist. I learned about borders.’

‘You mean like perimeters.’

‘No.’

The waiter came and cleared the debris. It was considerable. They like that, like you to eat. Great people. The doc had pavlova for dessert. I settled for cappuccino, without the chocolate sprinkle. I hate that shit. The doc said,

‘Essentially they split their feelings from their behaviour. The tragedy is, borders never recover. The best you can do is help them coast.

‘In the beginning they appear normal, good jobs, but it’s a constant tightrope between madness and sanity. Unable to form relationships, never free of a deep rage that leads to self destruction.’

‘Her shoplifting?’

‘Correct. They live from one disaster to the next. They excel at role play and have overwhelming feelings of emptiness. They never change.’

‘Actresses.’

‘Yes, many borders do well on stage, but then...’

I was thinking of Lillian, asked,

‘Where’s the problem, Doc? Walk away.’

He looked down at his dessert then pushed it from him, said,

‘I am besotted with her.’

‘C’mon, Doc, I’ll bring you for a drink in an English pub, if we can find one.’

I took him to The Sun and Splendour off Portobello. At least it used to be an English pub. Ordered two best bitters and grabbed a table, said,

‘Drink up.’

He did. Then gave me a long analytical stare, asked,

‘How can you be so calm... about your sister?’

He meant ‘cold’.

That’s okay — I can do manners. I said,

‘Doc, I’ve been in prison. I didn’t like it at all. I have a strong instinct it’s going to require all my energies not to return. I have to play low-key just to survive. I start to burn and I’m a dead man.’

He was horrified.

‘But it’s a terrible existence, such tight control.’

I drained my glass, said,

‘Beats prison.’

After a bit, we had another round and midway through, he asked,

‘What am I to do?’

‘Doc, I don’t give advice, and I certainly never take it but lemme say this. Go for it, have a ball, live like fire, ’cause truth is, she’ll leave you, she always does. Then she’ll resurrect Frank and go back to coke and guns and madness.’

‘How will I live then?’

I touched his shoulder, said,

‘Like the rest of us, pal — the best you can.’

The next two weeks were calm. I did my work, read my books, serviced the actress.

I hoped when Gant came, I’d be ready. Else I was fucked.

Chris De Burgh song — ‘Waiting For The Hurricane’.

The bridge night proved the dead do return. Three men and a woman. All mummified. You only guessed at them being alive by the cigarettes they smoked.

I didn’t play and no one spoke to me. Except Lillian, who said two things repeatedly:

1) Another high ball darling

2) Clean the ashtrays darling

Oh yeah, she gave me a present. A silver cigarette case.

I gave it to a wino at Queensway who shouted,

‘The fuck is this?’

Exactly.

The change began with a call from the doc, who said,

‘She’s gone.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What will I do?’

‘Go back to your life.’

‘What life?’

Welcome to whinge city.

I finally bought a car. Yup, it was time. An old Volvo, worth another six months and no warranty. It was beat up but who wasn’t? Putting her in gear, I banished all thoughts of Royces from my mind.

Took me three nights of cruising to nail Norton. Eventually, outside Biddy Malone’s on the Harrow Road. Off his patch.

I waited, as I’d waited the previous nights. Come closing, out he came. High-fiving with the good-nighters.

All the lagered energy of pissed nothing. He was fumbling with the keys to his car, still laughing when I eased the Glock behind his ear, said,

‘Who’s down in the zero now, shithead?’

Pushed him into the back seat, put the barrel between his eyebrows, said,

‘Threaten me now, asshole.’

Took him a while to recover, then,

‘Mitch... we can work it out... yeah?’

‘Leaving tokens on my pillow...’

‘Look Mitch, can I sit up, please, get us straight?’

I let him and asked,

‘Why didn’t you toss the room? Among other goodies you’d have found this.’

I pushed the barrel against his nose, continued,

‘And I’d now be holding my finger up my ass.’

Norton shook his head, said,

‘He told me to go in quick, not to touch owt. Especially not to let that fuckin’ butler see me. He didn’t want the surprise ruined.’

‘What happened to the previous tenant?’

Norton looked at me, asked,

‘Heard about that did ya?’

‘Read about it.’

‘Gant couldn’t believe you’d gone. We had the place staked and then that stupid bastard tries to break in. So Gant lost it, you know what he’s like, how he did the nigger.’

‘Then he’s still got a hard-on for me?’

Norton gave a harsh laugh, said,

‘More than ever. He’s in business sometimes with the Columbians and he’s in awe of their ruthlessness. They kill everybody belong to you.’

It took a moment to sink in, then I asked,

‘My sister?’

He nodded, said,

‘Don’t make any new friends.’

‘What about you, Billy?’

‘I’m outta it, soon as I can liquefy my assets, I’m gone.’

‘Aren’t you overlooking your present predicament?’

He looked at the gun, at me, said,

‘You’re not going to shoot me, Mitch.’

I considered it. The bastard of it all was I still kinda liked him. He was garbage but we had history, most of it bad but it was there. I said,

‘You’re right, Billy.’

I put the gun away and got out of the car. It was just starting to rain. I turned up the collar of my jacket and Norton got out of the car. We stood for a moment then he put out his hand, said,

‘Let’s shake on it, mate.’

‘Don’t push it.’

And I walked away.

I was reading Fred Willard’s ‘Down On Ponce’. Right up my street, hard-boiled and hilarious. You’ve got like a guy who describes Atlanta, Georgia, as a city that may be too busy to hate but isn’t above taking a little time off to steal.

The phone went. Picked it up, said, ‘Yeah.’

‘Mitch, it’s Briony.’

‘Thank Christ, I need to see you.’

‘I’d like that, Mitch.’

‘Tomorrow evening, how about I buy you dinner, say that Italian place you like in Camberwell at eight?’

‘I’ll be on my own, Mitch.’

‘That’s fine.’

‘I always end up on my own.’

‘We’ll talk about that.’

‘So you won’t bring the old actress.’

‘No, just you and me.’

I rang off, said — ‘Jesus, she’s hard work.’

I didn’t think I’d be telling her I met someone new. I certainly wouldn’t be telling ‘the old actress’. While I’d been reading, my mind was double tracking. On the book but also on Gant.

I figured I’d try a temporary solution, rang his number. He answered and I said,

‘Rob, my man.’

Silence, then, ‘Mitchell.’

‘None other, how are you bro?’

‘Well Mitchell, I shall be coming to pay you a visit.’

‘That’s why I rang. I want to let you know how I’ve been spending my various salaries. It cost me a few grand, but I’ve “engaged” a hitter.

‘Here’s how it works: you harm me or my sister, he shoots your daughter — what is she now, eleven and doing well at that school in Dulwich, eh? No, there’s more. I still had some cash, I could only get a basement deal on your wife. I think it’s splendid how she volunteers for Oxfam those three afternoons. What I got was the ‘acid sandwich’ for her. See, I took your advice, did my research, like you said... information is power.’

‘You’re bluffing.’

‘That’s the beauty of it, you have to decide whether I am or not. Our little variation on “Call My Bluff”. Whatcha think?’

‘I think, Mitchell, you have no idea who you’re threat-ening.’

‘All part of the rush.’

‘Believe me Mitchell, we’ll be meeting.’

‘Gotta go... oh, one last item. The Nation of Islam are keen to chat with you. About the chap you dropped in Brixton... in the chair...’

I rang off. It would buy me time. He’d check it out and, sooner or later, he’d come after me. By then, I hoped I’d have come up with a plan. Or at least some more ammunition.

Driving to meet Briony the next evening, I decided to park at the Oval. Did that and walked over to see how the new Big Issue vendor was doing. The kid was there all right and recognised me right off. I bought a copy and felt him eyeing me. I asked,

‘How’s it going?’

‘You did ’em, didn’t yah?’

‘What?’

‘Them young blokes that done Joe — you done ’em.’

‘The footballer?’

‘Yeah, him who used to wear the Beckham shirt.’

‘Was he any good?’

‘Gifted.’

‘Well, I’d better be off.’

I’d reached my car when the kid shouted,

‘You know what I think?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Fuck ’em.’

‘Will you keep an eye on the motor?’

‘Guaranteed.’

I walked down Camberwell New Road. What a shithole. Bad pubs and worse vibes. Young guys in those hooded track-suits cruised continuously. The air was hopping with menace. Like the yard after twelve-hour lockup. Used to be a time, a homeless guy would ask you for a few bob. Now it’s demanded. Like this.

A guy clocked me, went by on a first sweep, then back, said,

‘Gimme a cigarette.’

You’ve got to give it hard and stay on it. Any shit or apology like — ‘I don’t smoke’ — and they’d carve your tongue out.

I said, ‘Fuck off.’

He did.

Course, if they’re cranked, it’s a different ball game. There’s no rules with a doper. Hurt them fast and keep going. I was deep regretting not driving but all the same, the adrenalin keeps it sharp.

At Camberwell Green, I let out a sigh of relief and went into the restaurant. Briony was already there, working on a glass of wine. She was doing her gothic trip. Dressed in black, white make up, I said,

‘What’s this, the banshee look?’

‘Do you like it?’

‘Awesome.’

The owner was an old friend and gave me a high five. Not an easy gesture for an Italian reared in Peckham. I said,

‘Good to see you, Alfons.’

‘And you, my friend, shall I order for you both?’

‘Great.’

Briony poured me some wine, we did the ‘cheers’ bit, drank and I asked, ‘So?’

‘I had to leave my doctor.’

‘I heard.’

‘He gave me his pin number.’

‘That’s why you left?’

She laughed. Thank Christ. The evening wouldn’t be total gloom. She said,

‘I bought a pup.’

I thought she said ‘pub’ and went,

‘Jeez, how much money had he?’

‘A King Charles Cavalier.’

‘Oh, a pup.’

She looked like a little girl — well, a gothic little girl — said,

‘He’s a King Charles Cavalier.’

‘Nice.’

‘They’re very docile, like they’re on heavy tranquillisers.’

‘Lucky dog.’

Alfons brought the food.

Like this.

The starters: Fritti Misti Vegetable. A selection of courgettes, aubergines, broccoli. Done in a crispy batter.

Crostino al Proscutto with thinly sliced ham covered in melting parmesan cheese.

It was good to watch Bri eat. She did it with delicacy and concentration. She said,

‘I called the dog Bartley-Jack.’

‘Why?’

She looked like she didn’t know, said,

‘I dunno.’

For the main course, Bri had Cotoletta Alla Milanese. A beef dish fried with spice in a breadcrumb batter. Melt-in-the-mouth stuff.

I had Gnocchi. Small flour dumplings, flavoured with Porcini.

That’s a wild rare Italian mushroom.

I described all of the above to Bri. She was impressed, said,

‘How’d you know all this stuff? You hardly speak English most days.’

‘My first two weeks in prison, before I learnt anything, all I had to read was an Italian menu. It was pinned on the wall of my cell. I must have read it a thousand times. Then someone nicked it.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s jail, it’s what they do. Doesn’t matter what it is.’

We had espresso to finish, the burn the roof of your mouth bitter real thing. I said,

‘Bri, I need you to listen seriously to me.’

‘Sure.’

‘Is there some place you can go for a while?’

‘Why?’

‘I have some business to take care of and I have to not worry about you.’

‘No.’

‘What?’

‘I have a pup now, I can’t just go.’

‘Jeez, bring the bloody pup with you.’

‘Not unless you tell me why.’

I lit a roll up, exhaled with a sigh, said,

‘There’s some people putting pressure on me. They might try to hurt you.’

‘Hah... fuck ’em.’

‘C’mon Bri, I’ll give you the cash.’

‘I have tons of money.’

‘Please Bri, as a favour to me.’

‘I might. Why don’t you want to know about the doctor?’

‘I do really. What happened?’

‘He’s veggie. A vegan.’

‘So? Aren’t you sometimes that too?’

‘I don’t like to be told. Anyway, I like villains best, like you.’

I gave up. Ordered the bill and paid that. I asked,

‘Bri can I call you a cab?’

‘No, I have a bus pass.’

‘Since when?’

‘Like yesterday.’

‘Take care, hon.’

She gave me that smile, promising nothing.

I’d just started back down New Road when a car beeped me.

The window goes down, it’s Jeff.

‘Mitch, I been looking for you mate.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Hop in, I’ll give you a lift.’

‘Just to the Oval, I’m parked there.’

I get in and he accelerates. The skels outside just a blur in the speed. He says,

‘I need a favour, mate.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Two days time we go north.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Two of the crew are down. Gerry’s gone and broken his leg, Jack’s missus is in the hospital.’

‘Can’t you postpone?’

‘Last two excursions had to be shelved. It’s tough being a villain and a family man.’

‘And you’re asking me what, Jeff?’

‘To fill out the crew.’

Thing with mates is, you don’t make them sweat it.

Yes or no.

I said,

‘Yes.’

‘Oh cheers mate. Monday morning at my place... eight-thirty.’

As I got outta the car, he said,

‘Be good to have you along, Mitch.’

‘It’s no big thing.’

That’s what I thought.

I did a full day’s work:

repaired a door

cleaned the windows

whistled some tunes.

After I showered, I cracked a brewski and got dressed. Kept it casual. Sweatshirt and jeans. My nose was still aching but I could live with it. Gant was hovering on the outskirts of my mind. The mental threads one makes are tenuous and treacherous. Of all the things, I dredged up a line from ‘101 Dalmations’.

What?

The gems you learn from children’s literature. Ready to go, I picked up the mobile and shoved it in my jeans. The car started on the first turn and I’d got to the end of the drive when the mobile went. I said,

‘Yeah.’

It was Lillian, said,

‘You are so much more than I had expected but so much less than I have hoped.’

And rang off.

It was ten after eight by the time I got to the Angel tube. Islington is a bastard in a car. Aisling was waiting. She was dressed in a duffel coat, faded blue jeans. Looked like a radiant student. I opened the door, she jumped in. Leant over and kissed me on the mouth. I said,

‘I’m sorry I’m late.’

‘We’ll be sorry if I’m late.’

Let that slide and asked,

‘Where to?’

She gave me a complicated set of directions and I got lost twice. Finally, she shouted,

‘Stop!’

I did.

We were parked outside a pub. She said,

‘This is Filthy McNasty’s.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

‘No, that’s the name.’

‘Sounds like it should be in the Bronx.’

‘I remembered you said you love crime writers. Here they have a crime writer read and they play tracks relevant to his work. Guess who’s on this evening?’

I had no idea, said,

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘James Ellroy.’

‘No shit... that’s brilliant!’

Already the place was jammed but we managed to grab two stools at the corner of the bar. Aisling’s face was shining, excitement writ huge. She said,

‘I’m buying, what would you like?’

‘Pint of Guinness.’

She ordered that and a Malibu. The drinks came and we did the ‘cheers’ bit. I asked,

‘What’s a Malibu?’

‘Rum with coconut.’

‘Good God.’

‘Try it.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Ah go on.’

I did, went,

‘Jesus, paint off a gate, tastes like cough syrup.’

She laughed, squeezed my thigh, said,

‘I’m delighted to see you.’

I felt great. Jeez, when had I ever felt that? She was gorgeous, funny, smart, and liked me. I had money in my wallet and a promising hard-on. Hog heaven.

Then James Ellroy came on. Big guy and wired. He didn’t so much read as give a total performance.

Mesmerizing.

When he took a break, he was mobbed. Aisling said,

‘Why don’t you have a word?’

‘Maybe I’ll catch him later.’

She gave a wicked smile, said,

‘Let me tell you about later. I’m going to lure you to my home, fill a bath with

scents

oil

and

you.

‘Open a bottle of wine and soak. Then I’ll order a huge pizza and eat you while it’s hot. Then while you sleep I’ll watch over you.’

My mobile went.

I had to squeeze through the crowd to find a quiet spot. A guy muttered,

‘Fuckin’ yuppie.’

Me?

Holding the phone close, I said,

‘Yeah.’

‘Mr Mitchell, it’s Jordan.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Miss Palmer has attempted suicide.’

Oh shit.

‘Is she bad?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘What can I do?’

‘I believe you should come.’

‘Aw shit.’

‘As you wish.’

And he rang off. I said,

fuck

fuck

fuck.

A man said, ‘He reads better after the break.’

I fought my way back, said to Aisling,

‘I gotta go.’

‘Aw no.’

‘Listen, I’ll drop you off.’

‘No, you better get moving.’

‘Will you be okay?’

‘Perhaps I’ll have a word with James Ellroy.’

‘I’ll make it up to you.’

She gave me a sad smile, said,

‘We’ll see.’

As I left, the soundtrack was doing U2 with ‘Sweetest Thing’.

Now if that isn’t sticking it to you, I dunno what is.

‘Drained of all but memories of you.’

‘Jeez,’ I thought, ‘where did that come from?’

Manoeuvring through the Islington traffic I felt bone weary. Took me near two hours to get back to Holland Park.

Into the kitchen and Jordan was there, I asked,

‘How is she?’

‘The doctor’s given her a sedative but she’s awake.’

‘Should I go up?’

‘Please do.’

He had nothing further to add so I went. Up those stairs like a condemned man. Her bedroom was lit by one bedside lamp. In bed, her arms were lying outside the quilt. I could see the bandages on her wrists. No fuckin chance she’d cover them.

I said, ‘Lillian.’

‘Mitch... Mitch, that you, darling?’

‘Yes.’

She made a grand effort to sit up but then sagged back, whispered,

‘I’m sorry Mitch, I didn’t want to be any trouble to you.’

I wanted to wallop her, said,

‘It’s okay, you rest now, everything’s fine.’

‘Is she pretty Mitch, is she young?’

‘What?’

‘The girl you’re seeing.’

‘There’s nobody... I was on a boys’ night out.’

‘Promise me Mitch, promise you’ll never leave me.’

My mind was shouting — ‘how the hell did we get to here?’ I said,

‘I promise.’

‘Hold my hand, darling.’

I did. She gave a deep sigh, said,

‘I feel so safe now.’

I felt exactly like I did when the judge said,

‘Three years.’

The way to dress for a robbery is comfortable. It’s not the occasion to break in a new pair of shoes. Or to have a pair of Y-fronts mangling your balls.

I arrived at Jeff’s place early. Two of the old crew were already there. Bert and Mike, as reliable as concrete. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the aroma of coffee.

The atmosphere was cranked. These guys were pros, but each time, the stakes were rising.

A sofa was littered with weapons. Jeff said,

‘We’ve got a new guy.’

I didn’t like that, said,

‘I don’t like that.’

Jeff put up his hands, said,

‘Me neither, but he’s got a rep as a wheels man. We don’t got a choice.’

Jeff’s system was simple. Three car. One for the robbery, then two changes. These motors had been positioned over the weekend. An expert driver was vital. Jeff asked,

‘Want some breakfast Mitch?’

A huge fry-up was simmering alongside a mountain of toast.

There are two schools of thought on a meal before a caper.

1) Pig out for the energy level.

2) Nowt...to hike the adrenalin.

I was with the second, said,

‘Coffee’d be good.’

I moved over to the couch, selected a 9mm, put in the waistband of my jeans Took too, a pump shotgun.

You rack that fucker, you get everybody’s attention. Put on a worn combat jacket, packed the pockets with shells. Tasted my coffee, double-loaded, it hit like a fist.

One night, having serviced the actress, I’d begun to tell her of the range of my reading. I dunno what prompted me to do so, but I was in full flight, listing the different fields I’d read.

When I was done, she said,

‘The books of a self taught man, a working man. We all know how they are,

distressing

egotistic

insistent

raw

striking and ultimately,

nauseating.’

‘You snooty bitch.’

She laughed, said,

‘Alas, don’t blame me, it was Virginia Woolf’s analysis of James Joyce. Are you familiar with Virginia?’

‘Take a wild guess.’

Shot him in the knees. The guy went down. Jeff loaded his gauge with pellets. Without causing major damage,

they hurt like fuck

look the biz

and scare the bejaysus.

It was late evening when I woke. A vague sense of foreboding hung over me. I made some coffee, got on the other side of that. Rolled a cigarette and smoked it, sitting on the bed. It tasted as old as I was getting. Showered and put on a crisp white shirt, faded jeans. Checked myself in the mirror. Like George Michael’s father before the toilet incident.

The phone went, the actress said,

‘I’ve missed you, Mitchell.’

‘Well I’m back.’

‘I’ve a special surprise for you.’

‘I’m dressed for it.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I’m on my way.’

‘You won’t be disappointed.’

There was an inch of coffee left in my mug so I searched out the bottle of scotch, poured in a generous inch. Balance the books. Took it down fast. What it tasted like was more but I decided to pace it.

Lillian was waiting in the drawing room. Someone had been busy, all the furniture was piled at the back. The carpets rolled back. A high gloss on the wood floor. Centrepiece was a small stage, lit by a single spotlight. I thought, ‘Oh fuck.’

One single chair was placed in front of the stage. Beside it was a bureau with a rake of booze. I sat, checked the bottles and saw a Johnnie Walker. Poured a hefty belt. I was going to need it.

Classical music began to play, the lights went down.

Jordan appeared on the stage, dressed in a black suit, dicky bow. He intoned,

‘It is my pleasure to herald the return of Lillian Palmer. This evening, she will recite a short piece from DH Lawrence. Her lament for an England already lost.’

I was feeling lost myself. Gulped down the Scotch. Jordan bowed and withdrew. If he was expecting applause, he’d be waiting.

No sound of one hand clapping.

Then she appeared. Dressed in some kind of flimsy sari. I could clearly see her boobs. Her head lowered. Slowly she began:

I tuned out. I might even have dozed a bit. Ferocious damage was being done to the Johnnie Walker. Finally, she finished. I stood up, unsteadily and shouted,

Bravo

Magnifique.

Come on, yah Reds.

Jordan nudged me, handed over a mug, said,

‘Drink.’

I did.

Jeez, was that the business. Everything near sang, my system felt almost young. He said,

‘What will you do about this Kerrkovian?’

‘Find him.’

‘Yes.’

I hesitated, but he was prepared to wait. I said,

‘Then I’ll kill him.’

‘You’ll require assistance.’

‘It’s not your fight.’

He folded his arms, said,

‘A man comes onto my land, puts a corpse outside my window and you think I’ll turn the other cheek?’

‘Who’ll mind the actress if we’re both gone?’

‘I’ll make provisions.’

I stood up, said,

‘Okay... we’ll go hunting.’

‘Have you a weapon?’

‘I do... do you?’

He gave me a smile. Humour never entered into it.

Jordan sent the severed finger to Gant,

Beautifully wrapped,

Gold box

Brittle tissue paper

Red velvet bow.

Said to me, ‘The moving finger having writ...’

I said, ‘You’re one sick fucker.’

I got back on line with Aisling. She demurred at first, made me sweat it, then agreed. We met at the Sun and Splendour on Portobello... I’d bought new shoes. JP Tods, the real thing. Those suckers are expensive but wow, are your feet very grateful.

Tan colour, I was wearing the Gap khaki with them, a cream sweatshirt and the Gucci jacket. Looked good enough to eat.

Aisling was wearing a killer black dress. I said,

‘Killer dress.’

She smiled. Things were looking hopeful. She said,

‘You’re not too bad yourself.’

‘Do you like the shoes?’

‘Bally?’

‘No.’

‘Imitation?’

‘Hardly.’

‘Oh sorry, I forgot you’re a man of discernment and taste.’

‘Isn’t that from “Sympathy for the Devil”?’

‘I dunno.’

‘Before your time, I guess.’

She ignored that, asked,

‘Where are we going?’

I said, ‘Fancy dinner?’

‘I fancy you, more’s the Irish’d pity.’

The thing with the Irish is, they sure can talk and boy, can they talk well. But what on earth are they talking about?

Fuck knows.

She said,

‘Here’s a thought, let’s rent a vid, order pizza and you can discover what’s under a killer dress.’

‘Won’t it look odd here on the street?’

We went to her place. The minute we got in, she was on me.

Hips grinding, mouth fastened like hope. After we’d done, I gasped,

‘What about the pizza?’

What’s a soundtrack for murder? In my head was Leonard Cohen’s ‘Famous Blue Raincoat’. As I reached the front door, I muttered about music on Clinton Street. I love that line.

Rang the doorbell.

Chimes!

Worse, it played a tune... ‘Una Paloma Blanca’! I swear to God. Just how long had it been since they’d had a holiday?

She opened the door.

I punched her straight in the face. She went back like a sack of potatoes. I looked round. Half expecting the milkman who’d say — ‘She didn’t pay you either, eh?’

Took hold of her hair, dragged her inside, shut the door. She was out cold. A figure appeared in the hallway. Panicked, I fumbled for my gun. Jordan... he shook his head. Then, putting a finger to his lips, he pointed upstairs.

Gant was sitting up in bed, a breakfast tray on his lap. He looked stunned. I said,

‘Mornin’ all.’

He had a coffee cup en route to his mouth. It was frozen mid-air. I walked over, slapped it away. Bounced off the wall.

Jordan was standing by the door. I backhanded Gant and said,

‘You wanted to see me, eh? Well here the fuck I am.’

He still hadn’t spoken. I grabbed him by the pyjamas, pulled him from the bed. Jordan took a hammer from his coat and began to smash mirrors. Gant said,

‘Aw c’mon.’

I took the Glock out, held it loose, asked,

‘When you beheaded the dog, did it make you hot?’

‘What?’

I lost it and pistol-whipped him till Jordan caught my arm, said,

‘He’ll lose consciousness.’

Coming out of the speed jag, I saw my arms were splattered in blood. Not mine.

Jordan said,

‘Time to go.’

Gant managed to focus his good eye, said,

‘Let’s talk a deal.’

I shot him in the mouth. Jordan dumped the drugs paraphernalia on the bed, then put a bullet in Gant’s head. We did a ransack of the house, turned up

20 grand

A horde of Kruggerands

Three handguns

A stash of coke.

Took it all.

As we prepared to leave, the wife began to come round. Jordan kicked her in the head, asked,

‘Want to torch it?’

‘No, I hate fires.’

As we pulled into Peckham, I said,

‘Drop me off here, I want to see a friend.’

‘Are you sure? I mean you’re flying.’

‘It’s a dead friend.’

If he had a reply to this, he didn’t voice it. He said,

‘All this paraphernalia...’ He indicated the loot... ‘is yours.’

‘What?’

‘It’s yours.’

‘You’re kidding, shit... there’s a small budget for a small country there.’

‘I don’t need money.’

‘If you insist.’

Blame the speed but I blurted out,

‘I think I’m going to get married.’

For the first time I saw Jordan give a look of joy. He took my hand, pumped it warmly, said,

‘Wonderful, you’re thinking right... but I’m not sure if Lillian is actually single.’

It took me a moment, then I asked,

‘Lillian! Who the fuck’s talking about Lillian?’

He dropped my hand, his face clouding, asked,

‘Somebody else?’

‘Sure.’

Then I laughed into a blitz of shite talk about Aisling.

Winding down, I said,

‘I’ll want you at the wedding... okay?’

He opened the car door, said,

‘Go see your dead friend.’

At a florist near the bus depot, I bought a shitpile of flowers. I so overdid, that the florist began to get nervous. Till I flashed the cash. I was that demented I wanted to tip the guy. Spin a Kruger in the air, say,

‘Have yourself a time.’

Having home invaded a man’s house, punched out his wife, dragged him from his bed, then shot him in the mouth, how was I to set the limits?

Thus, I staggered down to the cemetery with the flowers.

A guy leaning against the bingo hall said,

‘Me oul flower.’

At the cemetery, the caretaker had placed a white cross on Joe’s grave. I said,

‘Hey Joe.’

Laid the flowers carefully down. I stood there, up to my eyes in death. I told Joe what had been happening. Then I said,

‘I miss you man.’

Back at Holland Park, the speed had evaporated and I was having a killer downer. I sat on the bed, drank some scotch, tried to ease the blues. On the bed were the spoils. I said aloud,

‘I’m rich then... aren’t I... fuckin rich.’

The phone went.

Lillian.

She purred, ‘How are you, darling?’

‘I’m beat is what I am.’

‘You rest lover, we’ll love later.’

‘Sure.’

‘Everything’s taken care of now, darling.’

‘Is it?’

‘Oh yes, sleep my sweet.’

I lay on the bed and thought — ‘What am I missing here?’

Next up, I went to Regents Street. I’d promised myself if I ever got flush, I’d buy shoes. Not any shoes but Weejun. The assistant was better dressed than my bank manager. Same sneer though. He said,

‘How may I help you, Sir?’

‘You could talk right for a start.’

Where do they learn that shit? Is there a school where they grind them in sarcasm and arrogance? I said,

‘Pair of Weejun, size ten, tan... got it?’

He did.

Put them on and went to shoe heaven.

‘Does Sir find them satisfactory?’

‘Beaut. I’ll have two more pairs in black and brown.’

The bill was gulp stuff. I gulped. Sneer asked,

‘Cash or charge?’

I laid down a wedge, said,

‘Take a wild guess.’

Then he did the shoe con of:

‘Those shoes require careful cleaning.’

He began to pile tubes on the counter I said,

‘Naw.’

‘Sir?’

‘You can’t beat a spit and a cloth.’

‘As Sir wishes.’

I took my packages, said,

‘I’ll miss you, pal.’

He didn’t reply.

You gonna shop, you have to take a pit stop. Do the mandatory designer coffee trip. I could do that.

The Seattle Coffee Company. They had coffee nine different ways to Sunday. I ordered a latte. Saying it, you have an instant lisp. The counter assistant was an in-your-face fake friendly. Her name tag read Debi. She asked,

‘Like a shot of something in that, Sir?’

‘Sure; nut a large scotch in there.’

She gave the tolerant smile, said,

‘We have

Vanilla

Blackcurrant

Maple.’

‘Whoo Debi, just the caffeine.’

Plonked myself on the sofa and grabbed a paper. The latte tasted like foam and air. I read about ‘Heshers’ — thirteen-year-olds into heavy metal and ‘Tweakers’ — fifteen-year-olds addicted to crystal meth, known as crank or speed. At weekends, they went out with the gang:

‘Endlessly cruising the same shopping centers and ghost slot machine arcades.’

Getting stoned

drunk

partying

fighting.

Anything to kill the boredom.

The only punctuation was

jail

abortion

suicide.

I put down the paper. The assistant came over, said,

‘Would you like a loyalty card?’

‘What?’

‘Each time you come in, we punch your card and then, after your tenth visit, you get a free coffee.’

‘I don’t do loyalty.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘No offence Debi, but you’re far too young to punch my card.’

Outside a guy asked me if I wanted to score some dope. I looked round, no one seemed concerned he was plying his trade in blatant and broad daylight. I asked,

‘Do you do loyalty cards?’

She died after six. Never made it to the dawn. Later, Patel took me to his office said,

‘Feel free to smoke.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I am so very sorry.’

‘Whatever.’

‘I had... feelings for her... I...’

‘Yo... Doc, I don’t wanna hear it... okay?’

‘Of course.’

The paperwork done, the doc said,

‘You’ll want her in the family plot.’

I gave a laugh steeped in malice, said,

‘The family plot is a shoebox.’

‘Oh.’

He hung his head. I reached in my pocket, took out a heavy wedge dropped it on the table, said,

‘Burn her. Isn’t that what you Indians do? Then plonk her ashes on your mantlepiece and you finally get to have her.’

I was walking away when he asked,

‘What about her little dog?’

‘He lost the head, it’s a family trait.’

At reception a nurse called,

‘Mr Mitchell?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I am so sorry.’

‘Sure.’

‘Will you want her raincoat?’

‘What?’

‘She was wrapped in a coat... would you like to take it?’

I gave her a long look, said,

‘She was about your build, you keep it.’

I turned to go when she said,

‘It’s Gant.’

‘What?’

‘The coat, it’s a Gant, American label — a very expensive brand.’

I couldn’t get to grips with that, waved her away. Outside, I tried to light a cigarette. My hands were doing a fandango. I threw it away, headed for my car.

Blame the events of the previous days, jeez, the previous weeks, or the dope, the booze, or the shock of Briony’s death, or I’m just a dumb motherfucker.

Whatever, I failed to ask two vital questions.

1) Who found Briony?

2) Who brought her to the hospital?

No, I was intent on small damage. To lash out at the nearest.

The uniform came striding out. I focused on his shiny pants.

It mirrored the spit in his soul. The miracle of dry cleaning hadn’t filtered down to him yet. He folded his arms, didn’t speak. Fine, I thought. Fuck you, Jack.

I reached the BMW. Alongside the front fender, gouged in huge letters was

I spun round, shouted,

‘Call yourself a security guard?’

‘Why not, you call yourself a doctor.’

Pure white rage coursed through me. What especially galled me was the gouger couldn’t spell. I asked,

‘And you’ll have no idea who did it.’

He gave me a toothy smile, said,

‘Nope.’

Then the anger evaporated. I couldn’t be bothered. Got in the car, pulled outta there. I can still see his face, writ in dismay that I just let it go. Felt dismayed myself.

Rest of the day, I drifted like a ghost through pubs in south-east London. I was there

I drank

but never touched base.

Later, at Holland Park, I fell asleep in my clothes. Woke to find the actress giving me a blow job. She stopped, said,

‘Don’t worry darling, we’re nearly there.’

Then, I thought she meant bringing me to climax. As with most everything else, I was hopelessly wrong.

Next morning, I shaved, showered and put on fresh clothes.

Felt fresher if not better. Working through a double hit of nicotine and caffeine, the phone went. I said,

‘Yeah?’

‘Mitch.’

‘That you, Jeff?’

‘Yeah, listen mate, I’m gutted about Bri.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Listen mate, I need to talk with you.’

‘’Kay.’

‘Eight this evening, the Charlie Chaplin.’

‘I’ll be there.’

Put the phone down, thought — ‘Was there an edge there?’

Then I shrugged it away, not Jeff, no... he was my mate. Fuck, he and I went way back.

Outside the house, Jordan was doing the garden. I said,

‘No end to your talents, eh.’

He looked up, didn’t answer. I walked over to the BMW. The gouge was gone. Jordan said,

‘I couldn’t allow it.’

‘You did the repairs yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fuck it, that’s brill.’

‘As always, Mr Mitchell, you overstate the obvious.’

The call came at two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. I picked up the phone, identified myself as ‘Yes’ to

‘Mr Mitchell?’

It was the police.

‘Are you familiar with one Aisling Dwyer?’

‘Yes.’

‘I regret to inform you there’s been a tragic accident.’

‘What?’

‘A piece of paper in her purse listed your name and number.’

‘How is she,

   where,

      when,

        oh God.’

I got the address of the Islington hospital and drove over.

I don’t even remember the series of events. Only that she was dead, from a hit and run on the High Street. A man had leant over, held her hand until the ambulance came. Some time later, someone gave me a coffee. It tasted like the styrofoam cup. Then I was given the ‘brown envelope’. Her possessions.

It held

Money

Purse

Call card

Watch

No ring.

Must have left it at home. I was surprised she’d taken it off.

At an early hour of Thursday morning, I drove home. Drank lights out.