I opened my door, led them in. Gant took a measured look round, then said,
‘You have no answer phone.’
‘No.’
Gant clicked his fingers at Norton, said,
‘Take care of it.’
I said, ‘I’m gonna have a brewski, get you anything?’
Norton and the minder declined. Gant said he’d join me in a beer. I went and got those, took some painkillers. Gant asked,
‘May I sit down?’
‘Sure.’
He took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves. Royal Navy tattoo. Drank the beer from the bottle. Just a working stiff.
I started to roll a cig. He asked,
‘Could I have one of those?’
I handed him a rolled one, lit him up. He pulled hard on it, said,
‘I don’t smoke much, but I tell you, that’s the biz.’
I nodded, figuring we’d get to the point soon. He asked,
‘What tobacco you got there?’
‘Golden Virginia, what else?’
Again the fingers snapped at Norton,
‘Order up a batch for Mitch.’
I realised who Gant reminded me of. In Lawrence Block’s ‘Matt Scudder’ series, there’s a character called Mick Ballou. A butcher, he disposes of his enemies without mercy. At the same time, he’s a working man who likes nothing better than a drink with the boys.
The mistake is to think he’s ever one of them.
Gant leant forward, man to man stuff, said,
‘You did magnificent at Brixton.’
I resisted the impulse to touch my broken nose. He continued,
‘It takes some balls to stand up to half a dozen guys.’
I tried to look modest. Which is difficult with a beat up face. He said,
‘A man like you sends a message. So, I’m going to put a high-rise in Peckham under your control.’
I looked at Norton, he was impassive. I said,
‘I’m very honoured but I’m still learning the ropes. I’d like to tag along with Billy for a bit, learn some more.’
He gave a huge smile, said,
‘Capital. But I do like to reward industry. I have a special surprise lined up for you, my boy.’
‘Oh?’
‘Free on Wednesday?’
‘Sure.’
‘Splendid. Billy will pick you up around seven. You won’t be disappointed.’
He stood up, business concluded. At the door, I asked,
‘Ever hear of Mick Ballou?’
‘Who?’
‘A character in a novel.’
‘I don’t do fiction.’
And they were gone.
Tuesday, I was healing gradually. Went to work. I saw neither Jordan nor Lillian. The tradesman entrance was open and my meals left on the table. I did a good day’s work. It was eerie not seeing anybody.
Come lunchtime, I took a stroll down to Notting Hill Gate. I just wanted to see people. Went into the Devonshire and had a half of bitter with a ploughman’s lunch. Took a window seat, watching the world. A hippie sat opposite me, wearing a T-shirt that said
He was the Portobello Road variety. Long stringy hair, bad teeth. His brain fried in the ’60s, he hadn’t touched solid ground since. He had a very battered copy of ‘Beowulf’.
Gave me the peace sign. Leastways, I took it as such. A pint of Guinness in front of him. He said,
‘You’re a labourer.’
‘Shows, huh?’
‘The hands man, good honest toil.’
I figured he’d be a good judge. I nodded. He said,
‘Working-class hero, man.’
‘You think so.’
‘Man, John said it all... got a smoke?’
Gave him a roll-up, he said,
‘Cool.’
Time for me to split. I said,
‘Stay loose.’
‘Yo bro, wanna buy a watch?’
‘Naw.’
‘It’s a Rolex, man, the real business.’
‘I’m not into status.’
‘Me neither, man, but ya gotta try, right?’
I had a lot of replies to that but what I said was,
‘Just... imagine.’
Made his day.
I finished work at four, still not a soul about. I figured
a) They trusted me
b) They were testing me
Either way, I stole nowt.
Truth to tell, I sat in The Silver Ghost a bit. Dreamed some crazy dreams. The car smelt of
polished upholstery
oak
old leather
wealth.
As I was walking down the driveway, I turned fast to look at the house. Saw a curtain move in the bedroom window.
That made me smile.
At the Gate I went into Oxfam and found a dark suit. It nearly fit. The volunteer at the till said,
‘Oh, that was a lovely find.’
‘Not really, I was looking for it.’
What was lucky was an old Penguin copy of Laurie Lee’s ‘As I Walked Out One Morning’.
A guy was selling the Big Issue outside Burger King. I got that and said,
‘A Big Issue vendor is being buried this evening.’
‘Yeah... where?’
‘Peckham.’
‘No can do mate, too bloody dangerous.’
‘I think he’d appreciate the effort.’
‘He’s dead, his days of appreciation are over.’
I’d been home about twenty minutes, had
a shower
a beer
a painkiller.
Not hurting.
Put on the Oxfam suit. The sleeves were short, the legs too long, but otherwise it fit me like a glove. I got a crisp, white BOSS shirt from the wardrobe. It fit like a prayer.
Doorbell went.
Briony. She was stunning in a black suit, I said,
‘You’re stunning.’
‘I know.’
Came in and examined me critically, said,
‘You look like an undertaker.’
‘Thanks, Bri.’
She rummaged in her bag, produced a fresh rose, asked,
‘Will it do?’
‘Perfect.’
‘Can I have a drink?’
‘Sure, whatcha want?’
‘Anything lethal, I’ve only done two ’ludes.’
‘Black Bush?’
‘Lovely.’
She clinked her glass against my beer, said,
‘To Michael.’
‘Who?’
‘Your friend.’
‘Joe.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Trust me, I’m positive.’
‘Okay, to Joe.’
We drank. I called a cab, and he came in jig time. A Rasta, the smell of weed in the car was powerful. When I said, ‘Peckham,’
he said, ‘Righteous.’
The graveyard is at the back of the bus station. Across the road is the bingo hall. I thought Joe would be pleased to hear the call of
The undertaker was waiting. The grave ready, two men standing beside it. No vicar. A man arrived a few minutes later.
‘Dr Patel,’ I said, ‘good of you to come,’ and introduced him to Bri. She held his hand longer than expedient. The undertaker asked,
‘Any last words?’
I shook my head. He signalled to the men and they lowered the coffin. I threw the Big Issue in and Bri dropped the rose. Suddenly, at the gates, a man in full kilt and Scottish regalia appeared. With bagpipes and began to play ‘The Lonesome Boatman’.
I dunno from beauty, but the piper was beautiful. Bri said,
‘A last minute surprise.’
‘How did you find him?’
‘Outside Selfridges, he does a regular gig.’
‘Thanks, Bri.’
She gave me an enigmatic smile, said,
‘Thanks for the doctor.’
Uh-oh.
I palmed some money to the diggers. One of them said,