About half an hour later, the whiskey came creeping along. Seeping and whispering on the edges of my consciousness. Start now, I’d kill a bottle... easy. Jumped up got my jacket and figured I’d walk it off.
Yeah.
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.’
The ward was quiet. Joe’s bed was next to the door. So when they take the remains, it doesn’t cause disturbance. I moved to the side of the bed. He looked bad. Both his eyes were blackened, bruises lined his face and his lips were torn. An IV drip was attached to his left arm. I took his right hand in mine.
His eyes opened, he said,
‘Mitch.’
He tried to smile, said,
‘You should see the other guy.’
‘Did you know them?’
‘Yeah, two kids from the estates. They’re about fifteen... one of them looks like Beckham. Kicks like ’im too. The other one, he’s black.’
He closed his eyes, said,
‘Jeez, this morphine is a rush.’
‘Good gear, eh?’
‘If I’d that at the Oval, I’d get vendor of the month.’
‘You will, buddy.’
He opened his eyes again, said,
‘I don’t want to die, Mitch.’
‘Hey, come on.’
‘Can I ask you something, Mitch?’
‘Anything.’
‘Don’t let ’em cremate me. I don’t like fire.’
He dozed for a bit.
I pulled over a chair but didn’t let go of his hand. My mouth was parched, figured it was the wine.
A nurse came by, asked,
‘Can I get you something?’
‘A tea, please.’
When she came back, she said,
‘There’s only coffee.’
‘That’s fine, thank you.’
It tasted like tea with a hint of castor oil. I’d have killed for a cigarette but I didn’t want to leave. The hours dragged by. He’d wake, see I was there and close his eyes.
About five in the morning, he said,
‘Mitch?’
‘I’m here, buddy.’
‘I was dreaming of a red rose... what’s it mean?’
The fuck I knew. I said,
‘That spring’s coming.’
‘I like spring.’
Later, he said,
‘My feet are so cold.’
I moved to the end of the bed, put my hands under the blanket.
His feet were like ice.
I began to massage them and said,
‘I’ll get yah thermal socks Joe, be just the job for the Oval.’
I dunno how long I was doing the massage, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the doctor, he said,
‘He’s gone.’
I stopped rubbing his feet.
Thing is, now they felt warm.
The doctor said, ‘Come to my office.’
I did.
He shut the door, said,
‘Smoke if you wish.’
‘Thanks, I will.’
He fumbled papers, said,
‘The council will take care of the burial.’
‘You mean cremation.’
‘That’s the usual.’
‘I don’t think so. I’ll make the arrangements.’
The doctor shook his head, said,
‘Is that wise? I mean a plot in London is as expensive as a parking space and twice as scarce.’
‘He’s from south-east London, that’s where he’s going to stay.’
‘Very well. I’ll need you to sign some papers.’
I finished my cigarette, said,
‘I appreciate all your help.’
‘You’re welcome.’
We shook hands. When I got outside, I felt bone weary. Hailed a taxi and had him take me to Clapham. The driver checked me in the mirror, said,
‘Rough night, mate?’
‘You got that right.’
A long time later, I came across a poem by Anne Kennedy, titled ‘Burial Instructions’. Among the lines were: ‘I don’t want to be cremated my clothes sent home in a bag.’
The closing lines read:
They say it’s Joe
Provides the perpetual rose
But no one knows for certain.
Be sure you put me in the ground
There I will have a chance to rise.’
As I opened my front door, I smelled home baking. Bri was busy in the kitchen. She shouted,
‘Brekky in a moment.’
I sank into a chair, beat. I could smell coffee and it smelt good. Did it ever. Bri brought in a tray. There was
OJ
Coffee
Toast
Brownies.
Brownies?
She pointed at them, asked,
‘Know what those are?’
‘Ahm...’
‘Space cookies. Hash cakes. I learnt how to make them in Amsterdam. Eat slow — they tend to blow your mind.’
I had some toast, coffee, and considered if I needed my mind blown. I asked,
‘Aren’t you having some?’
‘Oh no, Mitch, they’d mess with my medication.’
I thought, ‘What the hell.’
Took a tentative bite. Sweet. Figured, if nowt else, I’d get a sugar rush. Bri asked,
‘Were you out robbing?’
‘What?’
‘Well I know criminals work at night.’
‘Jeez Bri, I’m not a villain... I have a straight job.’