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.’
Three years in prison, you lose
time
compassion
and the ability to be surprised.
I was nigh amazed when I saw the apartment. The whole ground floor of a two-story house. And it was beautifully furnished, all soft pastels and wall-to-wall books. Norton stood behind to gauge my reaction.
I said, ‘Christ.’
‘Yeah, isn’t it something? Come and see more.’
He led me into the bedroom. Brass double bed. He threw open the wardrobes, packed full with clothes. Like a sales clerk, Norton said,
‘You’ve got your
Gucci
Armani
Calvin Klein
and other bastards I can’t pronounce. Get this, the sizes are medium to large.’
‘I can do medium.’
Back into the living room, Norton opened a drinks cabinet. Full too. Asked,
‘Whatcha fancy?’
‘A beer.’
He opened two bottles, handed me one. I asked,
‘No glass?’
‘No one drinks outta glasses anymore.’
‘Oh.’
‘Slàinte Mitch and welcome home.’
We drank. The beer tasted great. I indicated the flat with my bottle, asked,
‘Just what kind of a hurry was the guy in to leave all this?’
‘A big hurry.’
‘Won’t the loan shark want some of it?’
Norton smiled, said, ‘I’ve already had the choice bits.’
It took me a minute. Blame the beer. I said,
‘You’re the money lender?’ Big smile. He was proud, been waiting, said,
‘Part of a firm — and we’d like you aboard.’
‘I don’t think so, Billy.’
He was expansive.
‘Hey, I didn’t mean right away. Take some time, chill out.’
Chill out.
I let it go, said,
‘I dunno how to thank you, Billy. It’s incredible.’
‘No worries. We’re mates... right?’
‘Right.’
‘Okay, I gotta go. The party’s in The Greyhound ght. Don’t be late.’
‘I’ll be there. Thanks again.’
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.
I had a sort through the wardrobe. When you’ve worn denim and a striped shirt for three years, it was like Aladdin’s Cave.
First off I got a stack of Tommy Hilfiger out. Put that in a trash bag. All that baggy shit, maybe Oxfam could off-load it. There was a Gucci leather jacket, nicely beat up. I’d be having that. Lots of Hennes white T-shirts. The type Brando immortalised in On The Waterfront. The guys in prison would kill for muscular American T-shirts.
No jeans.
No problem.
Gap khaki pants, a half dozen. A blazer from French Connection and sweatshirts from Benetton.
I dunno if that guy had taste but he sure had money.
Well, loan shark money.
There was a Barbour jacket and a raincoat from London Fog. No shit, but I’d be a con for all seasons. Odd thing was, not a shoe in sight. But was I complaining? Was I fuck. I had a pair of shoes.
Took a hot shower and used three towels to dry off. They’d been nicked from the Holiday Inn, so were soft and friendly. What I most wanted was another beer but I knew I better cool it. The evening ahead would be liquid and perhaps lethal. I needed to at least arrive soberish. Took a quick scan of the books, one whole wall devoted to crime writers. Spotted
Elmore Leonard
James Sallis
Charles Willeford
John Harvey
Jim Thompson
Andrew Vachss.
And that was only the first sweep. Phew! I might never go out. Just bury myself in crime.
I put on a T-shirt, khaki pants and the leather jacket.
Checked it out in the mirror. No doubt I could pass for a Phil Collins roadie. Thought — ‘If I’d money, I’d be downright dangerous.’
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,