I stayed sitting, sipping the gin. Not sure what I thought. Eventually they’d come and I’d face:
Four murders.
Arson.
Kidnapping.
Criminal trespass.
Burglary.
As I was the only one left, they’d throw the whole shit and kaboodle at me. I’d be a mini-serial sensation. My photo in the Sun and caption, “Bring Back Hanging”. In prison the brothers would hurt me for offing two of theirs. The money would go back and I’d be full fucked.
OR
The whisper came about evening time...
“Dade County
Big Apple
Nashville
Colorado
Beeboopaloopbopwop.”
A litany of hope.
And I thought, “Why the hell not.” Go for it, I certainly had the cash... did I have the balls. Take the show on the road. If I’d come from the madness then I could certainly head for the final insanity... New York.
I got up and gathered the money. It was light for such an amount. Crossed the street and back into the killing zone. I stayed away from the kitchen and basement. Upstairs, I showered and packed one small case. Lisa and I had passports for our journey. Well, she wouldn’t be needing hers. I tossed it on the bed. The bottom drawer had various drugs and I left them. Enough mind alteration. It crossed my mind to go get the browning automatic
... and see Lisa.
Fuck — no. I was looking for the land of the Saturday-night special. Weapons were as common as burgers. I threw the duffel bag of money on my shoulder and walked out. I didn’t look back. When all this unravelled, they’d be hunting me with everything. Right now, I still had time. Made my getaway on the tube and checked into a small hotel in Notting Hill Gate. The owner was Indian and greedy. When I heard the price I said, “Jeez, bit steep is it mate, I’m not a tourist.”
“Ah, I hope to bring my family over from the village.”
“If I stay a few nights, you’ll be able to bring over the whole flaming village.”
The room was instant depression. I pushed the money under the bed and went out. He asked. “The room is to your liking, Mister?”
“Pure heaven. I may never leave it.”
Walked down Bayswater and everything was open. First off, I bought some body belts, they’re used to Arabs there and these belts would hold a lot of cash. Which I had. Next I bought a Sony walkman and then to select some tapes. A huge promotion for a Scottish rock outfit called “Gun”. I had to have that. Especially as the album was called, “Swagger”.
For Dex.
Then I loaded up on Lorenna McKennet and Iris de Ment. A bookshop next and I couldn’t find what I wanted. The assistant was in her twenties. A cross between a student and a wino. The arrogance was all her own and she clocked me as I approached.
But I could play. I’d had expert tuition. Start low.
“Excuse me, Ms.”
Without a breath she said, “Thrillers are next to the horror section, on your left.”
She didn’t add, “You moron,” but we both saw it hang there.
I said, “I was looking for something on Rilke.”
“You mean Roethke... or possibly Rimbaud.”
I caught her arm.
“Hey, I’ve had a day you wouldn’t believe, OK, now trust me on this. I know Rilke like you’ll never know fuckin’ manners. So, what y’say, want us to go look?”
We did and found. I bought two volumes. Then the off-licence and a bottle of bourbon. If that’s what they drank...
I turned into Paulbridge Gardens to open the tapes. Christ, they seal those cassettes like aspirations, light and useless. I’d got one out when a voice said, “Wotcher got there?”
I turned, two white youths dressed like blacks. That made me tired and sad. One glanced over his shoulder then back to me, said, “This is a hypodermic needle. Give us yer money fooker or you get AIDS.”
In his hand, I saw the syringe. There was a term for those white boys who wanted to be black.
“Whiggers.” That is, white niggers.
I thought arsehole did as well.
I said, “Are you familiar with Rainer Maria Rilke? Impressive first names, eh, I only just discovered them... here, catch.”
And he put his hand up to block. I smashed my fist in his face. Heard the nose go. The other made to run and I grabbed him by his ponytail. Swung him into the wall, said, “There you go.”
Bent and picked up the needle, hunkered beside the first.
“Old Rainer Maria used to talk about Quiet Lights. He said the big flashes come without warning and that a single experience of them should effect a full transformation of one’s entire life.”
He was groaning, trying to staunch the blood from his nose. I held the syringe up to the light, muttered, “AIDS... huh?”
And plunged it into his neck. Then I moved over to the other and rammed it in his arse. I picked up Rilke and began to walk away. A middle-aged woman was standing... transfixed. I said, “Not poetry lovers, but they’re safe now, they’ve had their shots.”
I brought my belongings back to the hotel. The money was still there. It crossed my mind to go and buy the place. I felt the owner would understand cash, he didn’t seem the cheque type. Mainly what I felt was like the old story of the drunk. He knows he dropped his key in the dark alley, but he searches under the street light ’cos there’s brightness there. Baldwin had said to me, “You’re like a blind man in a dark room searching for a black cat that isn’t there.”
I’d intellectually rallied with, “Bollocks.”
“Close, but we call it metaphysics.”
One minute I’d be numb from horror... from grief, loss, betrayal. Next, I’d be zooming on my plans for America. What I was... was fucked and part-ways knew it. A drink would help so I tore the seal from the bourbon, chugged it from the bottle. And burn like a bastard it did. More... burn further.
In a little while, I was lit and put the earphones on. “Gun” nearly deafened me and I wrenched it out. Not enough bourbon for that racket. Then Iris de Ment... better. Ball-breaking sad, but bearable, drank on.
I’d seen the billboards across town, “Fly Virgin Atlantic”. Would I get a pair of them red socks with the little white logo. Fancied the idea of that.
Then I jumped to my feet, felt I had the right level of booze and went out. In 7—11 I got a batch of bin liners and tape, hailed a passing cab, asked for Clapham. When I got to my house, it was quiet. No police or flashing lights. Turned the walkman up full volume and went in. I dunno how long it took me to bag and tie the bodies. Sweat saturated me and I hummed along to the tapes, keep playing, keep singing. A complete recklessness possessed me. I backed my van up to the front door and just slung them in...
“Here we go... whoopsy... d.”
Whoops.
Bit heavy there Dex, puttin’ on a few pounds, eh. “Cut out them burgers.”
In yah go Lisa.
Yeah... make room there Ronnie... my man... hey can you stop hugging all the room.
Tight fit guys... eh.
Right... all squared away.
Everybody happy.
...OK...
Dex, you’ll like this... wot Bette Davis said in All about Eve.
“FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”
I kept up the lunatic stream of banter. Perspiration on me, my sweat was sweating. The earphones kept slipping off my head as my ears were drenched. Snatches of Iris de Ment in and out.
And I kept expecting a neighbour to call the police. But the street remained silent.
When I’d worked in the nightclubs, we always had a ton of rubbish. For a few extra quid I’d bring it in the van and take it to an illegal dump. I drove there now. As always, there was a line of vans from various Chinese restaurants and dodgy caffs. No one ever spoke. Dump yer load and get to fuck and gone. This is what I did now. Shouted, “Sayonara... and don’t wait up... Garbage ye were... and to garbage ye return.”