I didn’t know the rage was there till I tapped into it. The old ‘kill the messenger syndrome’. He said,
‘We pumped her out, she’d ingested seventy-nine paracetemol.’
‘Counted them, did ya?’
Spittle from me landed on his white coat, my fists were balled. Two seconds and I’d be battering him. He began to back off, asked, ‘Would you like to see her?’
‘Take a wild fuckin’ guess.’
I had to suit up for ICU:
gown
mask
booties
I felt like an un-needed extra on ‘ER’.
Briony looked dead. Pale as the very colour of despair. A respirator was aiding her breathing.
I held her hand and a nurse got me a chair. The nurse said,
‘You can talk to her.’
‘Can she hear me?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘It would be a first.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘She never heard me before.’
She died after six. Never made it to the dawn. Later, Patel took me to his office said,
‘Feel free to smoke.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I am so very sorry.’
‘Whatever.’
‘I had... feelings for her... I...’
‘Yo... Doc, I don’t wanna hear it... okay?’
‘Of course.’
The paperwork done, the doc said,
‘You’ll want her in the family plot.’
I gave a laugh steeped in malice, said,
‘The family plot is a shoebox.’
‘Oh.’
He hung his head. I reached in my pocket, took out a heavy wedge dropped it on the table, said,
‘Burn her. Isn’t that what you Indians do? Then plonk her ashes on your mantlepiece and you finally get to have her.’
I was walking away when he asked,
‘What about her little dog?’
‘He lost the head, it’s a family trait.’
At reception a nurse called,
‘Mr Mitchell?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I am so sorry.’
‘Sure.’
‘Will you want her raincoat?’
‘What?’
‘She was wrapped in a coat... would you like to take it?’
I gave her a long look, said,
‘She was about your build, you keep it.’
I turned to go when she said,
‘It’s Gant.’
‘What?’
‘The coat, it’s a Gant, American label — a very expensive brand.’
I couldn’t get to grips with that, waved her away. Outside, I tried to light a cigarette. My hands were doing a fandango. I threw it away, headed for my car.
Blame the events of the previous days, jeez, the previous weeks, or the dope, the booze, or the shock of Briony’s death, or I’m just a dumb motherfucker.
Whatever, I failed to ask two vital questions.
1) Who found Briony?
2) Who brought her to the hospital?
No, I was intent on small damage. To lash out at the nearest.
The uniform came striding out. I focused on his shiny pants.
It mirrored the spit in his soul. The miracle of dry cleaning hadn’t filtered down to him yet. He folded his arms, didn’t speak. Fine, I thought. Fuck you, Jack.
I reached the BMW. Alongside the front fender, gouged in huge letters was
I spun round, shouted,
‘Call yourself a security guard?’
‘Why not, you call yourself a doctor.’
Pure white rage coursed through me. What especially galled me was the gouger couldn’t spell. I asked,
‘And you’ll have no idea who did it.’
He gave me a toothy smile, said,
‘Nope.’
Then the anger evaporated. I couldn’t be bothered. Got in the car, pulled outta there. I can still see his face, writ in dismay that I just let it go. Felt dismayed myself.
Rest of the day, I drifted like a ghost through pubs in south-east London. I was there
I drank
but never touched base.
Later, at Holland Park, I fell asleep in my clothes. Woke to find the actress giving me a blow job. She stopped, said,
‘Don’t worry darling, we’re nearly there.’
Then, I thought she meant bringing me to climax. As with most everything else, I was hopelessly wrong.
Next morning, I shaved, showered and put on fresh clothes.
Felt fresher if not better. Working through a double hit of nicotine and caffeine, the phone went. I said,
‘Yeah?’
‘Mitch.’
‘That you, Jeff?’
‘Yeah, listen mate, I’m gutted about Bri.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Listen mate, I need to talk with you.’
‘’Kay.’
‘Eight this evening, the Charlie Chaplin.’
‘I’ll be there.’
Put the phone down, thought — ‘Was there an edge there?’
Then I shrugged it away, not Jeff, no... he was my mate. Fuck, he and I went way back.
Outside the house, Jordan was doing the garden. I said,
‘No end to your talents, eh.’
He looked up, didn’t answer. I walked over to the BMW. The gouge was gone. Jordan said,
‘I couldn’t allow it.’
‘You did the repairs yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fuck it, that’s brill.’
‘As always, Mr Mitchell, you overstate the obvious.’
My marriage plans required a birth certificate and balls. I got one, hoped I had the other. For the meet with Jeff, I put on the Gucci jacket, considered packing heat but decided against. I didn’t take the BMW. In south-east London, it would be snapped in a mo. Hailed a cab and told the cabby,
‘Charlie Chaplin at the Elephant.’
He didn’t say anything for a bit, then,
‘You know why it’s called that?’
‘I’ve a feeling you’re going to tell me.’
‘’Cause Charlie was born up the road in Kennington.’
I didn’t answer lest I encouraged him. Then, undaunted, he asked,
‘Know who else lives there?’
‘No.’
‘Greta Scacchi!’
‘Gee.’
We got there, I paid him, said,
‘You ought to be on Mastermind.’
‘Want me to wait?’
‘I’ll pass.’
He handed me a card, said,
‘Gimme a bell anytime.’
I’d torn it in ribbons before I got to the pub.
Jeff was sitting at the bar, a pint of Guinness in his hand.
I said, ‘Waiting long?’
‘No.’
‘What’s on your mind, Jeff?’
He took a long breath, said,
‘That guy, Kerrkovian, he’s disappeared.’
‘Good riddance.’
‘No argument there, but the kid has gone too.’
‘Kid?’
‘The punk kid, the one you’d a hard-on for.’
‘So?’
‘So, he was hanging with Kerrkovian.’
I took a drink, rolled a cig, asked,
‘Spit it out.’
‘Had you anything to do with it?’
‘No.’
He drained his pint, stood up, said,
‘People liked that kid, word is you offed him.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘Thing is Mitch, once you’ve buried your sister, you’d be advised to stay away from south-east London.’
It took a moment to sink in, then I said,
‘You’re threatening me?’
‘I’m delivering a message.’
Seemed to me I’d been taking shit from people all day. I said, ‘Here’s a message back.’
I swung fast, caught him under the chin. He crashed back against the bar. I turned on my heel, walked straight out.
Not a sign of a cab. I half considered trying to fit the scattered card back together.
Next morning, my right hand hurt like a bastard. The knuckles were bruised and swollen. I bathed it and then poured TCP over it.