‘Nice chatting with you.’
Walked down to Streatham and into the bank. I wasn’t sure how much money I had as they don’t send statements to prison.
What they should do is send bankers there.
I filled out a withdrawal slip and got in line. It was slow but I knew how to kill time.
The cashier was friendly in that vacant money way. I handed her the slip, she ran it by the computer, said,
‘Oh.’
I said nothing. She said,
‘This is a dormant account.’
‘Not any more.’
She gave me the look. The leather jacket wasn’t cutting any ice, said,
‘I’ll have to check.’
‘You do that.’
A man behind me sighed, asked,
‘Is this going to take long?’
Gave him a bank smile, answered,
‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’
The cashier returned with a suit. He was Mr Efficiency, said,
‘Mr Mitchell, if you could step over to my desk.’
I could. I sat and looked at his desk. A sign proclaimed
He did bank stuff for a bit, then,
‘Mr Mitchell, your account has been dormant for three years.’
‘Is that against the law?’
Ruffled him.
Recovered,
‘Oh no... it’s am... let’s see... with interest you have twelve hundred pounds.’
I waited. He asked,
‘I take it you wish to re-activate the account?’
‘No.’
‘Mr Mitchell, might I suggest a prudent reserve? We have some very attractive offers for the small saver.’
‘Give me my money.’
‘Ahm... of course... you wish to terminate your account?’
‘Leave a pound in it... cos you guys care so much.’
I got my cash but no warm hand-shake or cheerful goodbye.
You have to ask yourself how much it is they really care.
Party time. I’d had a nap and woke with a start. My heart was pounding and sweat cascading down my back. Not because I thought I was still in prison but because I knew I was out. The guys in the joint had cautioned me:
‘Nothing’s scarier than being out there.’
Which I guess is why so many go back.
Aloud I vowed — ‘the fuck I’m going back’.
Did a hundred sits, a hundred presses, and felt the panic ebb.
The kitchen was stocked with provisions.
No porridge, thank Christ.
Had some OJ and bad burnt toast. There was a microwave and I zapped some coffee. It tasted like shit which was exactly what I was accustomed to. Did the shower stuff and skipped shaving. Let that three day beard kick in.
What’s the worst could happen?
I’d look like George Michael’s father.
Slapped on a Calvin Klein deodorant. It said on the label, ‘NO ALCOHOL’. Gee, no point in having a slug then.
Sat for a moment and rolled a smoke. Had the craft down. Could do it with one hand. Now, if I could strike a match off my teeth I’d be a total success.
Took a cruise through the music collection. Oddly, for such a state-of-the-art place, the guy hadn’t joined the CD revolution. It was your actual albums or cassettes. Okay by me.
Put on Trisha Yearwood. A track called ‘Love Wouldn’t Lie To Me’.
Listened twice.
I’m from south-east London. We don’t use words like beauty unless it’s cars or football. Even then you better know your company real good.
This song was beautiful. It stirred in me such feeling of
yearning
loss
regret.
Shit, next I’d be missing women I’d never met. Maybe it’s a being in your mid-forties thing.
I shook myself, time to rock ’n’ roll. Put on the Gap khaki pants — very tight in the waist, but hey, if I didn’t breath, I’d be fine. A white T-shirt and the blazer.
Looking sharp.
Like a magnet for every trainee mugger.
The album was still running and Trisha was doing a magic duet with Garth Brooks.
Had to turn it off.
No two ways, music will fuck your head nine ways to Sunday.
What you regard as a small isolated incident sets off a chain of events you could never have anticipated. You believe you’re making choices and all you’re doing is slotting in the pieces of a foreordained conclusion.
Deep, huh!
I took the tube to the Oval. The Northern Line was at its usual irritating best. Two bedraggled buskers were massacring The Streets Of London’. I gave them a contribution in the hope they might stop.
They didn’t.
As soon as they finished, they began it anew. Coming out at the Oval, Joe was there with the Big Issue. I said,
‘Wanna go to a party, Joe?’
This is my party, Mitch.’
Argue that.
Across the road an Aston Martin pulled in at St Mark’s Cathedral. A young woman got out. From the trees at the church, two predators materialised. These are not the homeless, they’re what Andrew Vachss calls ‘skels’. Bottom feeders, began to hassle her. I debated getting involved. I didn’t want to spoil the blazer. Joe said,
‘Go on, Mitch.’
I crossed the road. They’d the urban ambush going. One in front doing the verbals, the other behind about to strike.
I shouted,
‘Yo, guys.’
All three turned. These preds were early twenties, white and nasty.
The first said,
‘Whatcha want, wanker?’
The other:
‘Yeah, fock off bollocks.’
Close up I saw one was a woman. I said,
‘Leave the lady be.’
The first pred read the blazer, read me wrong, moved up, said,
‘Whatcha gonna do about it, cunt?’
I said,
‘This.’
And jammed my index finger in his right eye. It’s a common manoeuvre in the yard. When it’s serious you pop the eyeball.
This wasn’t. It hurts like a bastard, though. I moved to the second pred, said,
‘I’m going to break your nose.’
She ran.
The woman, the would-be victim, just stared at me. I said,
‘Not a smart place to park.’
I re-crossed the road and could hear music from The Greyhound.
Prayed it wasn’t ‘The Streets Of London’.
The pub was packed. A banner over the bar proclaimed,
Norton, in an Armani suit, greeted me warmly, said,
‘Here’s a Revolver.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a cocktail.’
‘What’s in it?’
‘What else but Black Bush, two jiggers of Contreau and ginger ale?’
‘Thanks Billy, but I’ll have a pint o’ bitter.’
Various Grade B villains approached and shook my hand. The A List were seated and expected me to approach them.
I did.
The party was what Dominic Dunne calls ‘a rat fuck’. Too many people. Promises of sundry jobs were made and lotsa ‘call me’ expressions. I spotted Tommy Logan, an up and coming drug lord, asked,
‘Tommy, can I have a word?’
‘Sure, son.’
He was half my age. He said,
‘You’re looking fit.’
‘But for what, eh?’
We laughed politely at this. I asked,
‘I need a favour, Tommy.’
He moved me to the end of the bar. Out of earshot if not out of reach. I took a deep breath, said,
‘I need some gear.’
It was Tommy’s business not to show what he felt or thought.
He registered near amazement, said,
‘I never had you down for the needle.’
‘It’s a one-off, for a friend.’