“My dream came true, I was to be an angel. The day before the play I heard the principal say to the drama teacher, ‘You can’t have a nigger angel, there aren’t any jungle bunnies in heaven.’
“They took away my halo. For a long time I was a sad little girl ’cos they had no rabbits in heaven. Later, of course, I learnt that they didn’t mean rabbits, not the cuddly type anyway.”
She looked up at me and smiled.
“So you see, Nicky, mon cherie, I don’t want to be a fuckin’ angel... OK?”
The toilet facilties for our guest were basic. That chemical job had cost me a fair bit though. Thing was, I got to lug it back and forth. Dex reckoned the humiliation alone should keep Baldwin docile. As I got to do the ferrying, I think the process somewhat backfired.
As I did this now, Baldwin smirked. I said, “Keep it up buddy, I’ll stick yer friggin’ head in it... tell you, Baldwin, if I might apply a little toilet metaphor here, you’re a royal pain in the arse.”
He laughed, said, “To quote Anthony Burgess, ‘The Royal Family do not help, they are philistines, they like horses.’ Your colleague paid me a visit. Showed me his cannon.”
“What?”
“Oh yes, he explained to me it was a Ruger Blackhawk.44 Magnum. He wished me to suck it... the gun that is. At least I think it was... one lives in quiet hope.”
“Jesus.”
“No damage done, it was a replica I understand. Not that it was any less dramatic. More worrying perhaps that a grown man buys toy guns. Is he the leader?”
I had no comment. I finished slopping out... badly. Baldwin roared, “Some Rilke I think:
‘My occupation, soon it will be my vocation, is to
have patience;
sometimes it is as with a pain
that one thinks one cannot
possibly endure a moment longer
and yet it slowly becomes part
of one’s everyday life
— human nature is tough.’”
I asked, “You think old Rilke would have done this poetically? Believe me... there is no poetry in shit.”
He seemed delighted, replied, “The barbarian thinks, how illuminating. A quote worthy of the TLS. How succinctly put.”
I took a step towards him.
“I warned you about the name-calling Mr Baldwin.”
“You needn’t call me Mister. You don’t work for me... at least not yet.”
And so he ranted, I didn’t know if it was the Rilke wanker or himself. Shite anyway. Here he was: “The fear that I could betray myself and say all the things I am afraid of, and the fear that I could not say anything at all because it is all unsayable.”
I didn’t analyse why I paid attention to that piece.
Threats only seemed to encourage him and I was weary hitting him so I said, “It’s goodnight fella. Anything you want as this is it till morning?”
“My cup overfloweth, I rest content... oh, by the way, whose is the woman... yours or Clint Eastwood’s?”
“What woman?”
“Don’t insult my nose... I smell ‘Poison’.”
“You’re a perfume connoisseur as well... is that it?”
“I ought to know that brand. It’s my kiss-off to... how shall I term them... my cast-offs...”
“You’re sure your missus is going to want you back. What does she use?”
“Her rather splendid mind.”
I flicked off the light. The bizarre thing is I think he was content. As I reached the top of the stairs he whispered, “Hey Attila... shut the door.”
Lisa was gone. To change her clothes or something, her attitude preferably. I rang Bonny, arranged to meet her at the Crown. Anything to get out of the flaming house. I felt I’d been kidnapped. In many ways I had.
I went upstairs to check Lisa’s cosmetics. Sitting among them, a bottle of Poison. I’d unscrewed the top and was sniffin’ it when for some reason I glanced at the window. A panda car... then the knock at the door... I bolted down, my heart fucked.
Two uniforms.
“Good evening, Sir, might we step in a moment.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Really Sir, best if we came inside.”
In they came.
“We’ve had a complaint about noise.”
“Just a few friends around. Won’t happen again.”
“You the owner, Sir?”
“Yes... I...”
One of the uniforms looked towards the basement...
“That lead somewhere, Sir?”
Before I could reply, if I could, the other let out a cry, “Merle Haggard... you a Country fan?”
He threw an appreciative eye over my collection. I said, “Feel free to borrow whatever you fancy.”
He selected an armful.
“If I might just...”
“Of course.”
Then he said to the other, “No need to trouble this gentleman further George... is there. Country music has got to be loud.”
As they got to the door, he too looked at the basement.
“Bit of a hooten-Annie down there... the old square dancing.”
“Something like that... yes.”
“Mebbe I’ll drop round, cut the rug with you. I don’t advise you to drink that, it’s poison...”
I looked down, in my left hand was Lisa’s open perfume bottle, the name clearly legible. I said in a weak voice, “Next time I’ll have Lone Star... OK?”
I shut the door, my knees went, I slid to the floor.
A while later, Dex came banging and I let him in.
“Jeez Nick, what happened to you, you’re pale as Michael Jackson.”
“The old Bill were here.”
“Yes, I know. I called them.”
“What?”
“Dual purpose really. Throw them off the scent and sharpen up our act here. We’re getting sloppy... need to get lean and mean. How’d it go, get the old juices flowing... give you back yer edge?”
I couldn’t answer.
I went to the fridge. Bingo, there was a can of Coca-Cola. Back to the living room, I front lobbed it and shouted, “Catch.”
He near fell over, but he got it. Before he could right himself, I kicked his legs from under him and planted a foot on his chest. I opened the Coke, it exploded from the can and I poured it into his face.
“Tell me Dex... does it taste like the real thing?”
“What?”
“Not a replicant, is it?”
“Ah...”
“Where is it?”
“I sold it to a drunk paddy.”
I bounced the can off his forehead.
“Go away,” I said, “before I get very fucking mean.”
My hands shook as I dressed but I realised I hadn’t done any dope all day. Behaved like one, sure. I felt the vague promise of a treacherous hope.
The pub was humming. Bonny was at the counter. A middle-aged guy was pulling chat on her. No wonder as she as wearing
a short black dress
black tights
black patent heels, killer high
the whole
“hey-wanna-fuck-me-stupid-fellah”
outfit.
“Nick... this is... sorry, what did you say your name is?”
“Brian.”
He was dressed in the ultra-faded denim. One more wash and it’s gone. The look caught between haute couture and oval panhandler. A delicate balance. His smile and hair colour accessorised exactly. And King’s Road workboots, the kind that yell he never did a day’s work in his life.
A sour look flashed at me. I smiled. The evening had promise. Bonny had ordered large Scotches, beer chasers, raised her glass.