Got in the van and gunned outa there.
Reclaimed my home. Not that I believed I’d be able to actually sleep there. How much time before the bodies were found or for the Roozers to come calling was anybody’s guess. But I had a breathing space, didn’t have to fly the Atlantic right now. Time to prepare... for wot... anything. I tore off my clothes and spent forty minutes in the shower. All the soiled clothes, Baldwin’s stuff, Lisa’s gear, I put in the remaining bin liners and flung them in the van.
Put on a clean pair of jeans, sweatshirt and trainers. I found a batch of notes in Lisa’s handwriting and decided to look it over later. I was now sliding into exhaustion and a brutal hangover. Found a half bottle of gin and shoved it in my back pocket and grabbed some music tapes, slammed one in the walkman. Back to the van and eased towards the Elephant and Castle. There’s a large container there for unwanted items. I popped the bin liners through the chute. It occurred to me that I could have stuffed Baldwin in easily.
Jeez, how he’d loathe that. The ultimate charity case. Touched the play button and Elvis came blasting: “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.” Elvis took me all the way to Notting Hill. I had a key for the hotel door and went quietly in. The owner was fast asleep on the desk, dreaming of Samarkand perhaps. I dunno why, but I patted him gently on the head.
Slept for fifteen hours and the dreams, wow, a Vietnam Vet would have given his combat jacket to experience. A muddled concoction of:
Baldwin modelling bin liners.
Lisa riding the hotel owner.
Dex attacking me with a needle.
Hearing Elvis singing Rilke.
Coffee cups full of blood.
Garbage dumps peopled by snotty
Shop assistants.
Came to with a shout...
“Lisa.”
And felt awful. Such a benign word, as if you were a touch under par. If there is such a situation beyond despair, apart from death... that was it.
Next, I looked up to see where I was... then the money. How many times I’d heard the expression, “Felt like a million dollars.”
Don’t think that was it. Climbed off the bed and over to the mirror. Would I see a killer of men? No new facial lines. Looked like a ward case... an old hard case. Checked my watch, evening time. Pulled on the jeans and a shirt, went to reception.
Yup, the owner behind the desk. I said, “Am I a little late for breakfast?”
He smiled and I said, “What do they call you?”
“Jack.”
“Jack!”
He looked at my registration card, read, “Noel Murlers... so I’m Jack.”
“I can see where you might have a point, Jack. OK... how about this, rustle up a pot of coffee for us, I’ll see you right.”
“Most irregular but...”
I went back to my room. Five minutes later he came with the coffee and two buttered rolls. I handed him the “Gun” cassette wrapped in a ten-spot. We had clear and dried communication. The coffee gave me adrenaline if nowt else. I moved the rolls and spread Lisa’s papers on the bed.
The first sheet read,
Und dann sinkt ein Leid aug mich, so trube
wie das gra glanzarmer sommernachte due ein
stern durchfummert — dann und wann—
Yeah, well, this wasn’t very enlightening.
Next up was a travel article on a Spanish town called Ronda. High in the Sierra Nevada. A luxurious hotel there named Hotel Riena Victoria. Looked right out over a stunning cliff top. Situated at the edge was a huge bronze statue of Rilke. Lisa either had... or was planning... to stay there. As poetic hommage. I don’t think she planned on taking me. She’d written,
Ronda
[— then,]
As in my dreams
was grey so dark
the people never saw
The sun
over plains, the tarantula stalked
and over
endless games of dice.
The stranger
always lost
in Ronda.
Bandits
grey with rain
who never smiled but
looked annoyed
as nervous
I always paid
and always joked
a foreigner,
who’s quickly Spanish,
only provoked
you held your drinks
and drank
another score of gut-red wine.
I think
but held your feet
ignored the barman’s coffee
black
mirthless grin
til you got home, sat down
and rocked
your head explode.
Oh, Ronda
in my dreams
I hear your vultures
sweep
below the friendless cliffs
and know I lost
a love insane
beneath your awful cliffs
felt in my mouth
an acid waste
for lovegone lovedied,
all was empty waste
I didn’t know what to make of that and said aloud, “Dunno what to make of that.”
Began to hum the Beach Boys, “Help me Rhonda”.
Damn tune would be lodged in my head all evening.
Marianne Faithful wrote in her sixties’ memoirs, “You would ask your date, do you know Genet, have you read a Retours? And if he said yes, you’d hop into bed.”
I wasn’t about to read Genet, and, course, that was then. Probably have to read one of those un-spell-able South Americans now and hint at magic realism. A guy I knew had wondered why his chat-up line always failed. He’d tell them he was an arse-shi-tec.
I’d met some of those too.
I wanted the sixties, all that free love passed me by. Even then I was paying. But I liked the nostalgia for it, as women love being in love. As I thought this, I thought I knew what I meant, but I wouldn’t have liked to defend, much less define, it.
As I passed reception, I heard a deafening racket... and it took a few moments to recognise, “Gun”. They hadn’t improved in the daylight. Jack was reading, Reader’s Digest. And said to me, “I study English here. Do you think is good?”
“Got me where I am today. I’ll be staying a few extra days.”
“You are most welcome.”
“See, Jack, you’ve mastered sarcasm already.”
I bought a newspaper as I walked down along Hyde Park. No screaming headlines on me yet: on page four, a report said there’d been 46 murders in the first six months of the year. Unlike the cricketers, I managed to bring up half a century. It felt good to walk, the lengthy sleep had helped, and I kept going to Marble Arch. A large pub called The Arch loomed ahead. Now how did they arrive at that name? Music poured out on the path. Marianne Faithful doing her version of “Madame George”.
Reckoning this was a stretched example of serendipity, I went in. The place was hopping and I was lucky to grab a stool by the bar. Two tenders. One, a six-foot black with the moves of an athlete. His face resembled Hawk, the sidekick of the Boston P. I. Spenser. If you don’t know him, you’re not hurting. I’d like to describe his face as being touched with acne but... it was riddled. What my old man called “pock-marked”. The other tender was a black woman round about thirty, in there. Black Rules... OK... ish.
She’d a lush body that summoned up jail sentences. Caught me looking or, to be Reader Digested, I was “ogling”. And she smiled. Jesus, how long now since I’d had that. A no-frills, no-percentage slice of human warmth. I’d been in the basement too long.