Jesus.
I did and she held my hand as I did so, I swear, I had a tremor in me fingers and she said, “Christ fellah, calm down, I’m not going to bite yah…yet.”
An hour later, I was buried to the hilt in her, sweating and groaning and howling like a lunatic and she goaded, “Ride me like yah loved me.”
After, her head on my chest, I asked, “What about Richy?”
She was pulling at the hairs on my chest, said, “Tis a bit late to remember him now.”
I sat up, that hair-pulling, the sucker hurt, said, “So you’ll finish with him?”
She laughed, asked, “Are ye mad entirely, he’s loaded and I love money.”
I tried for some decency, not that I know much about it, said, “He’s my buddy.”
She began to massage my dick, asked, “And how do you treat yer enemies?”
Another month of me fucking her twice a week, Richy buying her more and more shit, getting deeper in the hole and one evening, over a few brews, his face a riot of agony, he said, “Joe, I’m in trouble.”
I thought, “You’ve no fucking idea, pal.”
I said, “Spill.”
Deep, huh?
He drained his fourth bottle, now, he hit the Jameson, hard, said,
“I owe some guys and I can’t meet the vig, never mind the freaking principal and Nora B, she’s wanting more and more.”
I echoed, “Nora B…what’s with the B?”
He was puzzled, said, “Jeez, I never asked…beautiful, I guess.”
Bitch, I thought
I said I’d see if I could maybe help him out.
Right.
The following Monday, Richy had his kids, and against my better judgment, I went back to Nora’s place, always, we’d used my pad, we were deep in it when the door opened and there was Richy, his face a mask of stunned bewilderment. Nora, cool as an Irish breeze, slipped out of bed, naked, said, “How ‘as your day dear?”
He was reaching for his piece when she shot him in the head, twice, said, “I just wouldn’t have been able for all that whining he’d have done…you?”
I was too shocked to speak and she said, “Let’s make it look like his shady friends got fed up with him, you can fix it to look like that, can you sweetheart?”
I could and I did.
And worse, I was part of the team that went after the wiseguys.
Nora disappeared, taking every cent Richy had stashed under the bed, she left me a note,
Joe a gra
I’m tired of policeman, ye are too serious.
I was thinking of getting some sunshine,
so if you’re ever in Florida, look me up.
Tons of kisses,
Nora B.
‘Course, she wasn’t in Florida or anywhere else I could find her.
She just seemed to vanish.
The years went by, and I managed to retire with most of my pension, and a cloud over my whole career.
Most nights, I sit and listen to that Irish wailing music, they give free razor blades with it, and I see Richy in my dreams, always with that lost look.
A few days ago, I heard from an old cop buddy, there was a hot joint up on the west side, run by a hot Irish broad, she had the most stunning red hair he said…and get this, green eyes.
I got the knife from a guy in a bar, and soon as I finish the next Jameson, I’m gonna take a stroll up there, after I chop off that red hair, and before I sever the jugular, she’s gonna tell me what the fucking B stands for
It’s like, been… bugging me.
THE END OF LITTLE NELL by Robert Barnard
They were all poor country people in the church, for the castle in which the old family had died, was an empty ruin, and there were none but humble folks for seven miles around. They would gather round her in the porch, before and after the service; young children would cluster at her skirts; and aged men and women forsake their gossips, to give her a kindly greeting. None of them, young or old, thought of passing the child without a friendly word; the humblest and rudest had good wishes to bestow.
Right! That’s enough of that garbage. Though I’ve a lot more of it up my sleeve before “Little Nell” can be allowed to die. The great British public can’t get enough of such sentimental twaddle, and they shall get it a-plenty. When the book is finished I shall offer it to Mrs Norton, or Mrs Gore, and if it’s not in their line I’ll load it off on to Charles Dickens, who is certainly a low fellow, but he does a nice line in weepies himself. He’ll take it on, put his name to it, earn a tidy sum.
I have to say I sometimes enjoy writing about Nell myself, but that’s probably because I enjoy re-creating myself in a totally false image. I think the image assumed its final perfect form for the pervy schoolmaster we met early in our travels -though I’d done the sweet ingenue quite often while serving in the Shop. Oh! that schoolmaster! What a twerp! All one ever got out of him was solicitude, tears and references to his favourite pupil who died back in the old village. You’d think people would have got suspicious of a schoolteacher who built his emotional life around a bright pupil who was dead. Particularly a bright boy pupil. But not everyone has my sophistication in these matters.
My re-creation of myself in the syrupy-sweet image of “Little Nell” began when the gaming houses and casinos of London started to get wise to grandad’s and my little scam. That scam involving my taking three or four years off my age and being always taken to gambling dens by Kit Nubble – a dim spark if ever I saw one. Grandfather always went on his own, so no one ever associated us, and I could wander round the tables where he was playing and then sign him the details of what was in their hands. When they did get wise to us every establishment in London was circularized with our details, which was mighty unfair, and meant we had to take to the road and find out-of-town establishments where we could ply our trade without detection. We kept moving, because if one person keeps winning the big boys soon get suspicious. Sometimes we tried a bit of begging, but that was mainly for laughs. My grandfather has a great sense of humour.
Mind you, I don’t like the road, not as I like London, where I always feel at home. You see some really odd types on the road. Take Mrs (a courtesy title, I wouldn’t mind betting) Jarley, her of the waxworks – musty mummies trailed around the country in a procession of carts and caravans, and presenting a very cut-price version of Mme Tussaud’s classy show in Baker Street. Mrs Jarley really took a shine to me, and it didn’t take me long to guess that she was of the Sapphic persuasion.
“Such a sweet child,” she would say, patting me on the thighs, the arms, and any joint that took her fancy. “She reminds me of the dear young queen.”
The dear young queen strikes me as having a mental age of about twelve, and looks like the chinless wonders who inflict their feebleness on the Household Cavalry and any regiment with colourful gear to camp around in. I did not take kindly to the comparison.
“Her Majesty seems very neglectful of her duties as head of the Church of England,” I said. “Sad that one so young shuns the proper Sunday observance.”
“I had no idea,” said Mrs Jarley, stopping her patting.
“Ah – London knows,” I said. “And London keeps it to itself.”
There’s nothing like a bit of Metropolitan insider knowledge to make provincials feel inferior. And if you haven’t got any insider knowledge, make it up.