‘Did you like it?’
‘Loved it.’
‘Truly, you can say, I won’t mind.’
In the afterglow, I went way over the top, said,
‘I love French films, they have a certain... je ne sais quoi.’
She bought it
hook
line
and frenched sinker.
Said, ‘Oh, I am so happy Mitch, and you speak French.’
The one line I had was from the joint. A serial rapist used to scream it when the vigilantes came for him.
Which they did twice weekly. I said,
‘Sure.’
She sat up, the sheet falling away from her breasts. I’d have spoken bloody Russian. She said,
‘This is so cool, it’s part of a trilogy; we can watch “Blue” and “White”.’
I nodded, reached for my tobacco and began a roll up. She watched in fascination. I asked,
‘Want one?’
‘You’re my drug.’
Uh... uh.
Finally got to the pizza, blitzed in the microwave. As it dripped down my mouth, Aisling asked,
‘All appetites satisfied?’
I nodded.
The radio was playing quietly. They’d been good.
Gram Parsons
Cowboy Junkies
till
Phil Collins began massacring ‘True Colours’.
Aisling asked,
‘What are you thinking about?’
I know that answer, said,
‘You, dear.’
She laughed and I added,
‘We don’t need a light, your eyes would brighten any room.’
‘Shite talk.’
The radio kicked in with Iris de Ment — ‘My Father Died a Year Ago Today...’
Aisling began to cry. I moved to hold her and she waved me away. Was quiet as the song finished the last haunting melody. She said,
‘My dad was an alcoholic. My brother said I lived my childhood like a deer in the headlights of a speeding car. For years the only way I could cope was to move him from the drama to the light entertainment department. When he died roaring from drink, I was glad. At the hospital, they gave me his effects... know what they were?’
I had no idea, said,
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘A Boy Scout belt and rosary beads.’
She toyed with a pizza crust, then,
‘I threw the beads in the river.’
‘You kept the belt?’
‘It was his estate.’
‘Jeez, you have a mouth on you, know that?’
She smiled, said,
‘You want to hear a crock?’
‘A what?’
‘A crock of shit.’
‘Well...’
‘All you hear nowadays is the New Woman. Doesn’t want the traditional things. This woman wants a husband, a home, and children.’
I kept quiet. Reached for a drink. She said,
‘I want you.’
Then she leant over straddled me and began to make love.
I didn’t resist. After, she asked,
‘Wouldn’t I be crazy not to?’
‘You would.’
I didn’t feel crazy. I spend all of the next day with her. Went to Portobello Market, laughed at the junk they were pedalling. Drove to the West End and got our photo taken at The Trocadero. Oddly enough, it wasn’t a bad snap. Aisling looks young and shining, and me... I look like I’m glad she looks like that. I was.
When I got back to Holland Park, it was clocking midnight. The house was dark. I checked on the actress, touched her cheek, she muttered,
‘M... m...’
and continued sleeping.
No sign of Jordan.
Went to my room and cracked a brewski. I had that bone weariness that comes from feeling good. Didn’t analyse too closely lest I lose it. Did I love Aisling? Sure as shooting, she made me feel like a person I might once have hoped to be.
Drank the brew, it was cold and satisfying. Got my clothes off and climbed into bed. Jesus, I was beat. Stretched my legs. My toes touched something wet and instantly recoiled. Jumped out of the bed, horror building. Tore back the bedclothes. A ball of blood and gore lay there. My eyes could focus, but the mind wouldn’t kick. Had to look closer — it was a dog’s head. Briony’s dog... what the fuck was his name... Bartley? Bartley-Jack.
Ever hear Dolores Keane sing ‘Caledonian’?
I did then.
I dunno why.
As I recoiled from the bed of horror, the song pounded in my head.
Madness, I guess.
Then I felt my shoulders gripped and next a hard slap to my face. I said,
‘Hey, easy on the slapping.’
Jordan said,
‘You were shouting, we don’t want to wake Madam.’
‘God forbid that should happen.’
He stepped over to the bed, muttered something in Hungarian.
Something the equivalent of ‘fuck me’. I said,
‘It’s my sister’s dog.’
‘Why are we still here? Let’s go.’
We got the rain slickers and the guns, took my car. Traffic was light and we got across town in about thirty minutes.
Briony lived in a house on the Peckham Road. On a quiet street, just a riot away from the lights.
The house was ablaze with lights. Jordan asked,
‘You want front or back?’
‘Front.’
I kept the Glock in my right hand pocket. The door was ajar.
I pushed it slowly back. Tiptoed down the hall. Briony was sitting in an armchair, covered in blood. I gasped till I realised it was from the dog, whom she was holding in her lap.
Her eyes were staring, I said,
‘Bri?’
‘Oh hello.’
I moved into the room, moved near her, asked,
‘You okay, hon?’
‘Look what they did to my baby.’
‘Who did?’
‘I don’t know. When I came home, I found him in my bed. Where is his head, Mitch?’
Jordan stepped into the room. I said,
‘Bri, this is my friend Jordan.’
‘Oh... hello Jordan, would you like tea?’
He shook his head. I said,
‘Bri, will you let me hold Bartley-Jack?’
‘Okay.’
I took the mess from her lap. The little dog’s body was still warm. That freaked the fuck outta me. Jordan said,
‘I’ll clean up your sister.’
He helped her from the chair and took her by the hand. The phone rang. I picked it up and heard a high-pitched giggle.
I started for the door and Jordan caught me up, asked,
‘Where are you going?’
‘It’s Gant.’
‘And?’
‘I’m going to kill the fucker.’
He turned me round, said,
‘Think it through, you want to catch him at a vulnerable time. Has he family?’
‘A daughter, school age.’
‘So, we hit at breakfast.’
‘After, the girl goes to school.’
‘As you wish.’
‘How’s Briony?’
‘She’s sleeping, I gave her a sedative.’
‘What the fuck are you, a mobile pharmacy?’
He smiled. ‘Among other things.’
Jordan went out for about half an hour, returned with a carrier bag, said,
‘To help us make it through the night.’
‘Put a tune to that, you’re talking number one with a bullet.’
He grimaced. Took a six pack of Bud, French bread, ham, tomatoes, pickles, jar of mayo. I asked,
‘Where’d you get that shit?’
‘This is Peckham.’
Argue that.
A few brewskis later, I said,
‘Lawrence Block’s Matt Scudder said:
Winter’s no big deal,
dress warm,
walk through it.’
Mid French roll, he asked,
‘Which means what?’
‘I dunno, seems appropriate.’