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.’
Time was when London was shut on a Sunday. Even the bookies are open now. I headed into Bayswater and joined the Arab world. If anyone was speaking English, I didn’t hear them.
To Whiteleys and found what I wanted on the third floor. In the window was a Silver Ghost, flanked by a Lamborghini and a Ferrari. The salesman approached. I said I’d like the Ghost and he handed it to me. Perfect in every miniature detail. Not cheap either. While the guy was wrapping it, I spotted a de Lorean. The salesman spotted my interest but I shook my head. I thought — ‘And they still can’t flog one’.
Got a small padded envelope and some stamps. Then I addressed the envelope:
and his home.
I put one stamp on and wrote in glaring capitals:
Posted it.
Took a walk in Hyde Park and spent an hour being zoomed by roller-bladers. Next time I’d take the Glock. Slow on down the speed.
I’d no idea what I planned for Norton, figured I’d let it unfold. Knowing him, he’d make it happen. Gant too, he’d be coming. I could have left London but where could I go?
Plus, I didn’t want to go.
Also, I’d a fix on Lillian Palmer and I definitely wanted to see where that went. Where else would I get the shot at driving a Ghost?
I went into a café and ordered eggs and bacon. The staff were Thai and friendly to the verge of annoyance. The food was good but tasted slightly of peppers. Shit, what did I know? Maybe they were onto something.
Part Two
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,