London Boulevard (6 page)

Mostly it worked.

The doorbell went. I opened it to Bri. She was dressed in a black trouser suit, pink sweatshirt. She handed me a huge bouquet of flowers. I said,

“Come in.”

When she saw the place, she went,

“Wow . . . this is great.”

I poured her some wine, and she sipped, asked,

“Does wine mix with ’ludes?”

“Ahm . . .”

“ ’Cos I wanted to be mellow, not to freak out.”

This sounded very promising, if unlikely. She sat down, said,

“I’ll move in with you.”

“What?”

She laughed out loud. Her laugh was one of the good ones, deep down and only the faintest hint of hysteria. She said,

“Lighten up, Mitch, these are jokes.”

“Right.”

I went to check on the food, it seemed under control. Bri shouted,

“Sure smells good, Mitch.”

I said,

“Should be set in about ten minutes, how’d that be?”

“Lovely.”

When I came back, she was arranging the flowers. I sat down, rolled a cig. Bri asked,

“Do I seem different?”

“Ah . . . no . . . you seem . . . fine.”

“I’ve been having therapy.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

She put her head down, said,

“I’m not to mention Frank anymore.”

I wanted to say, “Thank Christ for that,” but what I said was,

“OK.”

She did a tour of the apartment, went in the bedroom. I could hear the closet doors opening. When she came back she said,

“You sure landed on your feet, Mitch.”

“The crust on its uppers.”

“What?”

“It’s the title of a Derek Raymond book.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

She poured more wine and pointed to the books, said,

“Will you read all those?”

“I plan to.”

Then her face looked sad. I said,

“Bri, I want to read them, I like it.”

She was shaking her head, said,

“It’s a pity.”

“What?”

“You won’t have time.”

“What are you on about, Bri?”

“At the party, a man said you’d be lucky to last six months.”

I tried to lighten it.

“I’ll read them easy in six months.”

It didn’t work.

“I don’t want you to go back to prison.”

I went and put my arm round her, said,

“Hey, come on, I’m not going back.”

“Promise?”

“I promise. I have a regular job.”

“I don’t do so good without you, Mitch.”

“Let’s eat . . . what do you say?”

The food was good. I’d done garlic bread and garlic mushrooms. She liked them best. I opened more wine, and we chowed down. The stir-fry was limp, but it sneaked along. Bri asked,

“What’s your job?”

I told her. When I got to Lillian’s name, she said,

“I’ve heard of her. She was the best Blanche DuBois the West End’s ever seen.”

Every time I had Briony figured, she’d surprise me. I asked,

“How do you know that?”

“I love the theater. Will you sleep with her?”

“What? Jeez, Bri, she’s older than me.”

Bri looked right at me, asked,

“What does she look like?”

“Well, like Gena Rowlands, not bad at all.”

“So you will sleep with her?”

For dessert, there was

Greek yogurt

cheesecake

Black Forest gâteau.

I asked, “Which?”

“All of them.”

She wasn’t kidding.

After, I went to make coffee. Got that squared away and brought it out on a tray. The tray had Lady Di on the front, and I knew Bri would like that. She was curled up on the sofa, snoring lightly. I picked her up and carried her to my room, covered her with the comforter. I watched her for a bit, then said,

“Sleep precious well.”

I decided to leave the dishes. I settled on the couch and turned on the TV, keeping the sound low. It was
NYPD Blue
, and Dennis Franz was massacring a hot dog and a perp simultaneously. Turned it off. I wasn’t in the mood for cops. Not even Sipowicz.

About half an hour later, the whiskey came creeping along. Seeping and whispering on the edges of my consciousness. Start now, I’d kill a bottle . . . easy. Jumped up, got my jacket and figured I’d walk it off.

Yeah.

C
AMUS WROTE
,

“There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn.” Well, that and a baseball bat should help you on the route from Clapham to the Oval.

What I was thinking was, I’d go see Joe, the
Big Issue
vendor, and shoot the breeze.

At Stockwell, there was a guy holding a placard. He was wearing one of those ankle-length Oz duster coats. They’re fine if you’ve a horse to match. The placard read

DON’T TUMBLE DRY

As I passed, he gave me a huge, toothless grin. I said, “Good advice.”

He said, “Fuck off.”

When I got to the Oval, no Joe. A kid of about twenty was in his spot and selling the paper. I asked,

“What’s happened to Joe?”

“Something should happen,” he said.

I grabbed him by his shirt, heard the buttons pop.

I said,

“Don’t give me friggin’ lip.”

“He got hurt.”

“What?”

“Straight up, guv, two kids from the Kennington projects done him over.”

“Where’s he now?”

“St. Thomas’s. He’s poorly.”

I let the kid go, said,

“Don’t get comfortable, this is Joe’s spot.”

The kid was looking at his torn shirt, said,

“Yah tore me shirt, yah didn’t have to do that.”

“Blame Camus.”

“Who’s he?”

I flagged a cab and had him take me to the hospital. At reception, I had all sorts of grief before I could locate him. He was on Ward 10. That didn’t omen well.

When I got up there, a matron barred my way, saying,

“He’s not in any condition for visitors.”

A passing doctor stopped, asked,

“What’s the problem?”

His name tag read dr. s. patel.

The matron told him, and he said,

“Oh yes, the
Big Issue
man. All right, Matron, I’ll take care of this.”

He turned to me, said,

“Of course, if you’re a relative . . .”

“A relative?”

“His brother, say.”

I looked into his eyes. I almost never see eyes of kindness.

I did now. I said,

“Sure, I’m his brother.”

“Joe is not in good shape.”

“You mean . . . he might die?”

“I estimate twenty-four hours.”

I put out my hand, said,

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“You’re welcome.”

THE WARD
was quiet. Joe’s bed was next to the door. So when they take the remains, it doesn’t cause a disturbance. I moved to the side of the bed. He looked bad. Both his eyes were blackened, bruises lined his face and his lips were torn. An IV drip was attached to his left arm. I took his right hand in mine.

His eyes opened, he said,

“Mitch.”

He tried to smile, said,

“You should see the other guy.”

“Did you know them?”

“Yeah, two kids from the projects. They’re about fifteen . . . one of them looks like Beckham. Kicks like ’im too. The other one, he’s black.”

He closed his eyes, said,

“Jeez, this morphine is a rush.”

“Good gear, eh?”

“If I’d that at the Oval, I’d get vendor of the month.”

“You will, buddy.”

He opened his eyes again, said,

“I don’t want to die, Mitch.”

“Hey, come on.”

“Can I ask you something, Mitch?”

“Anything.”

“Don’t let ’em cremate me. I don’t like fire.”

He dozed for a bit.

I pulled over a chair but didn’t let go of his hand. My mouth was parched, figured it was the wine.

A nurse came by, asked,

“Can I get you something?”

“A tea, please.”

When she came back, she said,

“There’s only coffee.”

“That’s fine, thank you.”

It tasted like tea with a hint of castor oil. I’d have killed for a cigarette, but I didn’t want to leave. The hours dragged by. He’d wake, see I was there and close his eyes.

About five in the morning, he said,

“Mitch?”

“I’m here, buddy.”

“I was dreaming of a red rose . . . what’s it mean?”

The fuck I knew. I said,

“That spring’s coming.”

“I like spring.”

Later, he said,

“My feet are so cold.”

I moved to the end of the bed, put my hands under the blanket.

His feet were like ice.

I began to massage them and said,

“I’ll get yah thermal socks, Joe; be just the job for the Oval.”

I dunno how long I was doing the massage when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the doctor. He said,

“He’s gone.”

I stopped rubbing his feet.

Thing is, now they felt warm.

The doctor said, “Come to my office.”

I did.

He shut the door, said,

“Smoke if you wish.”

“Thanks, I will.”

He fumbled papers, said,

“The council will take care of the burial.”

“You mean cremation.”

“That’s the usual.”

“I don’t think so. I’ll make the arrangements.”

The doctor shook his head, said,

“Is that wise? I mean, a plot in London is as expensive as a parking space and twice as scarce.”

“He’s from southeast London, that’s where he’s going to stay.”

“Very well. I’ll need you to sign some papers.”

I finished my cigarette, said,

“I appreciate all your help.”

“You’re welcome.”

We shook hands. When I got outside, I felt bone weary. Hailed a taxi and had him take me to Clapham. The driver checked me in the mirror, said,

“Rough night, mate?”

“You got that right.”

A long time later, I came across a poem by Anne Kennedy, titled “Burial Instructions.” Among the lines was “I don’t want to be cremated, my clothes sent home in a bag.”

As I opened my front door, I smelled home baking. Bri was busy in the kitchen. She shouted,

“Brekky in a moment.”

I sank into a chair, beat. I could smell coffee, and it smelt good. Did it ever. Bri brought in a tray. There was

OJ

coffee

toast

brownies.

Brownies?

She pointed at them, asked,

“Know what those are?”

“Ahm . . .”

“Space cookies. Hash cakes. I learnt how to make them in Amsterdam. Eat slow—they tend to blow your mind.”

I had some toast, coffee, and considered if I needed my mind blown. I asked,

“Aren’t you having some?”

“Oh no, Mitch, they’d mess with my medication.”

I thought, “What the hell.”

Took a tentative bite. Sweet. Figured, if nothing else, I’d get a sugar rush. Bri asked,

“Were you out robbing?”

“What?”

“Well, I know criminals work at night.”

“Jeez, Bri, I’m not a villain . . . I have a straight job.”

She wasn’t buying this, said,

“I don’t mind you being a robber as long as you don’t get caught.”

I had some more space cake. Bri said,

“Didn’t you do villain things before prison?”

No denying that.

As a distraction I told her about Joe, even mentioned the rose.

She asked, “Was he a robber too?”

I near lost it, said,

“What’s with this ‘robber’ shit? Could you please stop using that word?”

“Will I come to the funeral with you?”

“Oh . . . sure. That would be good.”

“What will I wear, Mitch?”

“Ahm . . . something black, I guess.”

She clapped her hands, said,

“Great, I took a Chanel from Selfridges, but I never got to wear it.”

Trying to blunt the sarcasm, I said,

“Took!”

“You told me not to use the word ‘robbed.’ ”

I wolfed the cake.

The bottom dropped out of my mind.

Jazz.

I could hear jazz. Duke Ellington Orchestra with “Satin Doll.”

Shit, where did that come from? I knew I wasn’t asleep but wasn’t conscious either. I tried to move but felt too languid. Vaguely, I was aware of Briony on the edge of my vision, but blurred. Definitely not important. What was vital was I identify the next tune. Yes, Billie Holiday with “Our Love Is Here to Stay.” Then the sound track veered and I was Bruce Springsteen with “Darkness on the Edge of Town.” Then I was the amp, blowing fit to bust. I felt everything shutting down. I tried to curl into a ball, and then I slept.

Least I think it was sleep.

E
ARLY MORNING
. Norton rang. I asked him to find me a burial plot. In reply he said,

“It will cost. Not just money. I need your help.”

“Tell me.”

“The Brixton run, none of the lads are keen.”

“Gee, collecting money there should be a piece of cake.”

“Tomorrow evening, Mitch, I’ll pick you up.”

WHEN NORTON
picked me up the following evening, he was nervous.

I got in the van, and he said,

“I got the grave, here’s who you contact.”

Gave me a piece of paper, address on it.

“Thanks, Billy, I appreciate it.”

I looked round the van, asked,

“No Red Bull?”

“It’s not that kind of gig.”

“How so?”

“It can get hairy, there’s no buzz in it. We go in, get the cash, split.”

Brixton was hopping. The streets thronged with people. Seemed almost carnival. I asked,

“Jeez, will anybody be home?”

He nodded grimly.

“Yeah—the women . . . Saturday evening, the men are strutting and the women are glued to the game shows.”

We parked near a high-rise off Coldharbour Lane. Norton handed me a sports bag, said,

“Baseball bat. Now, if it gets heavy, run like fuck. Got it?”

“Sure.”

We got out, passed a Dumpster and went into the building. The first few apartments went OK. Norton collected at two of them, got rent books in the others. Worked down to the second floor. Norton was as jumpy as a cat. I asked,