We formed a plan for hitting Gants. Rather, we tried various options.
Discarded
modified
arrived at.
Jordan said, ‘Okay. That’s good. Now, let’s make it look like a drug deal gone sour.’
‘How?’
He reached in the bag, tossed a
hypo
heroin
and
the works
on the table.
I said, ‘That’s my kit!’
‘I know.’
I stood up, said,
‘You search my room?’
‘Daily.’
‘You fuck, what are you playing at?’
He asked,
‘Ever heard of Anthony de Mello? Course not. You’ve read a handful of mediocre crime books and believe you know life.’
He didn’t say — ‘You moron!’
But it hung there.
Oh yeah.
He continued,
‘De Mello said ninety per cent of people are asleep. They never wake up. When was the Hungarian Uprising?’
‘What is this, a quiz? What do I give a fuck about the Hungarian Uprising?’
‘Voila. You don’t even know the basic premise of crime writing. Cherchez la femme. I grew up watching men who were decent, compassionate people. They had to hunt down and exterminate the child murderers. In so doing, they had to become the beast, turn to stone. They never smiled.’
I had no idea where this was going, said,
‘I’ve no idea where this is going.’
He produced some pills from the bag, laid them on the arm of the chair, said,
‘De Mello tells the story of the Spanish chicken.
‘An eagle’s egg falls into a chicken coop. It hatches and the chickens raise it as their own. The chick learns to pick at the ground, develops like them. One day, he sees a majestic bird fly over. He’s told it is the most superb of all creatures. He returns to pecking at the ground, grows old and dies, believing he’s a chicken.’
I shrugged, said,
‘Very deep.’
He didn’t answer so I said,
‘Lemme tell you about one of the mediocre crime books I’ve read. Harry Crews! He wrote “Comic Southern Gothic”—’
He held up his hand, said,
‘You’ve evidently never heard of the pig.’
‘What... what fuckin pig?’
‘As in... don’t try to teach a pig to sing. It’s a waste of your time, and it only irritates the pig. I apologise for believing you might sing.’
Briony cried out, distracting us from where that story might have led us.
She was asleep, but whimpering. I cradled her in my arms and she quietened down. I dozed myself, dreaming of
headless pigs
flying chickens
and
wordless corpses.
Came to as Jordan touched my arm, saying,
‘We better go.’
He handed me coffee and the pill. I took them. Briony was in a deep sleep and I kissed her forehead. Jordan was watching us, his expression unreadable.
I said, ‘Only the dead know Brooklyn.’
It was a title by Thomas Boyle. Jordan may not have wanted to know about crime novels but it didn’t mean he wasn’t going to hear it.
We put on the rain slickers, talked quietly about our plan.
The tops of my toes and fingers were tingling. My adrenaline was cranking up a notch. I asked,
‘What the fuck’s happening to me?’
‘You’re about to fly.’
‘What?’
‘Let’s just say I’m bringing you up to speed.’
‘Amphetamines?’
‘Something like that.’
Dawn was breaking. Jordan said,
‘I didn’t know your sister had a baby.’
‘She doesn’t.’
‘There’s a wardrobe full of baby clothes.’
‘What? You tossed her room too?’
‘Force of habit.’
The speed was nipping at my eyes, pushing them wide. Jordan checked his gun, the Sig Sauer. I said,
‘You like that number.’
‘Nine millimetre, what’s not to like?’
We got outside. A street cleaner was leaning against the wall.
Smoke break.
A radio was perched on his cart, ABBA doing ‘I Believe In Angels’.
He said, ‘How-ye men.’ Irish.
I said, ‘Nice bit o’ weather.’
‘Least Sky don’t own it yet.’
Jordan put the car in gear and we were outta there. I thought about Harry Crews and an interview he’d done with Charlie Bronson. Bronson said,
There’s no reason not to ’ave friends.
Just the opposite is true. But I don’t think you ought to have friends unless you’re willing to give them time.
I give time to nobody.
Got to Gant’s home in under twenty minutes. Dare I say, I was speeding. It was just on eight. My system was moving into overdrive. Feet and hands twitching, a flood of fuelled ideas toss-tumbling in my head. The street was lined with trees. Jordan said,
‘It’s a boulevard.’
‘London’s a fuckin boulevard.’
A school bus came slowly down the street. Jordan asked,
‘Ever read “Meetings with Remarkable Men”?’
‘Desperate men... yeah.’
He ignored this, eyeing the bus, continued,
‘To devour the writings of
Gursjieff
Ouspensky
Sivanda
Yoganda
Blavatsky
Bailey
...Ah... and then, to abandon enlightenment, to walk back into darkness.’
I was sore tempted to name the Liverpool squad but feared he might shoot me. Gant’s front door opened and a woman emerged holding a young girl’s hand. She fussed with the child’s schoolbag, fixed her coat then gave her a hug. The child boarded the bus. The woman watched the bus leave with an expression of loss. Then she went back inside. Jordan said,
‘Let’s go.’
As we walked, he asked,
‘Front or back?’ I gave a grim smile, bit down and swallowed hard.
What’s a soundtrack for murder? In my head was Leonard Cohen’s ‘Famous Blue Raincoat’. As I reached the front door, I muttered about music on Clinton Street. I love that line.
Rang the doorbell.
Chimes!
Worse, it played a tune... ‘Una Paloma Blanca’! I swear to God. Just how long had it been since they’d had a holiday?
She opened the door.
I punched her straight in the face. She went back like a sack of potatoes. I looked round. Half expecting the milkman who’d say — ‘She didn’t pay you either, eh?’
Took hold of her hair, dragged her inside, shut the door. She was out cold. A figure appeared in the hallway. Panicked, I fumbled for my gun. Jordan... he shook his head. Then, putting a finger to his lips, he pointed upstairs.
Gant was sitting up in bed, a breakfast tray on his lap. He looked stunned. I said,
‘Mornin’ all.’
He had a coffee cup en route to his mouth. It was frozen mid-air. I walked over, slapped it away. Bounced off the wall.
Jordan was standing by the door. I backhanded Gant and said,
‘You wanted to see me, eh? Well here the fuck I am.’
He still hadn’t spoken. I grabbed him by the pyjamas, pulled him from the bed. Jordan took a hammer from his coat and began to smash mirrors. Gant said,
‘Aw c’mon.’
I took the Glock out, held it loose, asked,
‘When you beheaded the dog, did it make you hot?’
‘What?’
I lost it and pistol-whipped him till Jordan caught my arm, said,
‘He’ll lose consciousness.’
Coming out of the speed jag, I saw my arms were splattered in blood. Not mine.
Jordan said,
‘Time to go.’
Gant managed to focus his good eye, said,