Porter Nash grabbed his wrist, said:
‘The porter? I’m Porter, tell me the news. I’m a cop, did you know that and believe me, I can give you shit till Sunday if I want.’
The technician looked around, then whispered:
‘Do you smoke?’
Oh God, it was true. The dreaded messenger was banging on the gates. Porter felt the air go out of whatever remained of his black lungs and the guy said:
‘Reason I ask is, you can slide in the back there, grab a drag and I’ll keep the door closed.’
PorterNash wanted to giggle, he felt hysteria rising. Smoking his cigarette and trying to get his mind in gear, he focused on a poem by Jack Mulveen he’d memorised one quiet afternoon. How the hell did it go? The title was ‘The Coffin Maker’s House’.
He could recall the first verse.
A creaking dilapidated sign of carved wood
Swung where a rusted steel swivel stood
A sway of Gothic letters whispering
‘John Green, Coffin Maker, Est. 1919.’
The technician shouted:
‘Yo, Officer, they want you.’
Ask not for whom the bloody bell tolls. He finished the cig and prayed it hadn’t finished him. The porter wheeled him back upstairs and they got him a bed. He was reattached to all the tubes and the nurse asked:
‘Like a cup of tea, love?’
She was black with huge luminous eyes and he thought of Falls, wondering if she knew of his plight. No sign of Roberts or Brant or indeed any cop.
He answered:
‘I’d really appreciate that.’
She stared at him and he said:
‘What?’
‘You have lovely manners.’
What she thought was:
Fag.
When the painkillers kicked in, Porter couldn’t believe the ease. He remembered Arnie’s line in Predator:
You lose it here, you are in a world of hurt.
He began to feel sleepy, and when the tea arrived he was already dozing. A nurse came and said cheerfully:
‘Mr Nash, we need some more blood.’
‘You’re kidding. I like, gave pints already, what’s the deal?
‘We need to keep an eye on your blood sugar.’
He didn’t know what this meant but didn’t ask for fear she’d tell him, so he said:
‘My name is Porter Nash.’
She began to do shit to his arm and said:
‘Impressive name.’
As she drew the blood, she was humming. There are few things as annoying as that, except for Muzak, and the worst bit is you start to try and identify the goddamn tune. He couldn’t, said:
‘I give up.’
She was finished and asked:
‘You give up what, love?’
‘The song, the one you’re humming, what is it?’
She seemed lost for a moment then:
‘Oh… it’s “Feel”.’
The sleep had retreated and he near barked:
‘And that tells me what exactly?
She gave him a playful pat on the shoulder, said:
‘It’s Robbie Williams, he’s gorgeous. Don’t you listen to the radio?’
‘I listen to classical music. Like, for example, yesterday, when I got home, I had Avro Part and then Gorecki.’
Heard himself, realised he sounded like his father, like a complete prig. His dad was a highly successful businessman, had remarried the previous year. A memorable event to which Porter had taken Brant.
The father has asked Brant:
‘How come you’re hanging out with a fag?’
Or words to that effect.
Then he’d offered Brant a job. To Porter’s everlasting delight Brant, in typical form, had said:
‘I’d never work for an asshole like you.’
Brant had brought a hooker to the reception and told all her occupation. She’d done major trade in the afternoon: they weren’t called working girls for nothing.
Porter had listed his father as next of kin on the admission sheet. And here he came, striding up the ward, looking like he couldn’t believe people were actually taken to public wards. He was wearing a Burberry raincoat, open to reveal a blue blazer, grey slacks. A silk cravat was carelessly tied around his neck. This was his father’s casual gear.
He glared at Porter in the bed, near roared:
‘What’s all this nonsense?’
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘Is it one of them faggot diseases? I don’t want to catch anything.’
‘They think it’s my heart but they moved me out of Coronary Care, so that’s a good sign.’
His father turned his head, searching for someone to order. Then said:
‘You always were an idiot; only you would think there’s some good sign in being hooked up to monitors.’
Porter Nash was trying to remember the name of the new wife, but no, it wouldn’t yield. So he went with:
‘How’s the wife?’
Not a tactical plus. His father’s face clouded and he said:
‘Women! She thinks a credit card means free money. Your mother wasn’t much better.’
‘It’s going well then?’
His father raised his arm and Porter smiled. How would it look if his father beat him in the bed? Then his father changed tactics, smiled his evil smile, said:
‘Why am I talking to you about women? What would you know about them?’
Before Porter could answer, the doctor came and said he needed time with his patient. Falls was walking along the ward and Porter said:
‘Dad, there’s one of my colleagues, will you get her some coffee?’
He stared at her then said:
‘She’s a nigger. I’ll come tomorrow and have you transferred to a private clinic.’
Porter sighed, said:
‘Don’t bother.’
‘What? You don’t want the best care money can buy?’
‘No, I don’t want you to visit tomorrow or any other day.’
“At daylight I thumbed a ride with a gaunt gypsy trucker with shoulder-length hair and a death’s head earring. It was 6.30 and his eyes were wide open, and he was listening to a metal band sing about the highway to hell.
‘I know that highway pretty good,’ I told him.
He grinned and handed me some crystal.’
17
Roberts came to with the highway to hell pounding in his head. He’d had hangovers, he’d had bad hangovers but this was the motherfucker. This was the reference point, the level by which all future pain could be measured. He was in a bed, sorta. Hanging over the side, bile dribbling from his mouth, vomit congealed on the floor. And he was naked. He dragged himself to a sitting position and saw a woman… also naked, in the bed. He thought:
Oh God, did I?
He did.
She mumbled then suddenly sat up, opened her eyes, peered round then fixed her gaze on him, said (or rather, croaked):
‘Well hello, big boy.’
Oh, Christ.
She fumbled for her bag, got it opened, pulled out a pack of Superkings, said:
‘Where’s my fecking lighter?’
Touch of an Irish lilt there. Found the lighter, fired up, dragged deep — one of those skull ones, where your cheekbones disappear — and then the coughing began, ratching death-knell variety.
She said:
‘Shit, that tastes great.’
One felt that irony was not her forte but if it had been…
Roberts looked round for his clothes and the door crashed open. Brant appeared, dressed in an immaculate suit, his face shining, spit and polish oozing out of him. To coin a cliche, he looked like a million dollars…or Euros, if you wanted to lean on the Irish connection. He surveyed the damage, said:
‘Yah dirty dog, you sure went for it, me ol’ segotia.’
Segotia?
It’s an Irish word meaning… either mate or eejit.
The hooker coughed some more, then eyed Roberts with something resembling affection, asked:
‘Hon’, you married?’
Brant smiled, answered:
‘My guv’nor was recently widowed. Tragically, we lost her.’
This was true in more senses than one. Mrs Roberts had been cremated and the two of them had gone on an almighty skite. Somewhere along the way the urn was stolen. Wherever she rested she was certainly, if not at peace, then in pieces. Rumour had it that a well-known drug dealer out of Brixton had her on his mantelpiece and stashed coke in the urn. Roberts ignored the hooker and turned to Brant: