Authors: Ken Bruen
“No argument.”
“The other was . . . how do I describe him? . . . In Hungarian, in dialect, there is a word—
Zeitfel
. It means ‘a corpse who still walks.’ ”
“Like a zombie.”
“Perhaps. It is fueled by evil, propelled on malice. The Americans have a term: stone killer.”
“Was he dressed in black?”
“Yes.”
While I digested this, Jordan said,
“As he left, he pointed to the elm.”
Jordan nodded to the huge tree to the left of the drive,
“And he said, ‘Beware of strange fruit.’ ”
“Billie Holiday.”
“Pardon?”
“She sang a song about a lynched man, called ‘Strange Fruit.’ ”
Jordan reached in his jacket, took out an envelope, said,
“You also got mail.”
The handwriting was Briony’s. I said,
“Thanks.”
I opened Briony’s letter. On the front was a sad-looking bear. He held a sign that read:
I’M SAD
Inside was the following:
Oh Mitch,
You want me to go away. Christopher Isherwood wrote:
“Every closet bides the poor little ghost of a stillborn reputation. Go away, it whispers, go back where you came from. There is no home here. I was vain and greedy. They flattered me. I failed. You will fail. Go away.”
Only my little dog loves me.
XXX
Bri
I guess it would have made more sense if I knew who Isher-wood was. Or what his game was.
I lay on the bed and thought about Aisling. I’d really have to call her. Then I replayed the robbery and the moment when the idiot grabbed me from behind. For one moment I had truly wanted to squeeze that trigger.
Had to admit, I’d been amped. I’d gotten off on the rush, and I just hoped I wouldn’t want another fix.
Sleep crept up on me and took me midthought.
I
T WAS LATE
evening when I woke. A vague sense of foreboding hung over me. I made some coffee, got on the other side of that. Rolled a cigarette and smoked it, sitting on the bed. It tasted as old as I was getting. Showered and put on a crisp white shirt, faded jeans. Checked myself in the mirror. Like George Michael’s father before the toilet incident.
The phone went, the actress said,
“I’ve missed you, Mitchell.”
“Well, I’m back.”
“I’ve a special surprise for you.”
“I’m dressed for it.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m on my way.”
“You won’t be disappointed.”
There was an inch of coffee left in my mug, so I searched out the bottle of Scotch, poured in a generous inch. Balance the books. Took it down fast. What it tasted like was more, but I decided to pace it.
Lillian was waiting in the drawing room. Someone had been
busy, all the furniture was piled at the back. The carpets rolled back. A high gloss on the wood floor. Centerpiece was a small stage, lit by a single spotlight. I thought, “Oh fuck.”
One single chair was placed in front of the stage. Beside it was a bureau with a rake of booze. I sat, checked the bottles and saw a Johnnie Walker. Poured a hefty belt. I was going to need it.
Classical music began to play, the lights went down.
Jordan appeared on the stage, dressed in a black suit, dicky bow. He intoned,
“It is my pleasure to herald the return of Lillian Palmer. This evening, she will recite a short piece from D. H. Lawrence. Her lament for an England already lost.”
I was feeling lost myself. Gulped down the Scotch. Jordan bowed and withdrew. If he was expecting applause, he’d be waiting.
No sound of one hand clapping.
Then she appeared. Dressed in some kind of flimsy sari. I could clearly see her boobs. Her head lowered. Slowly she began:
“It is England, my God, it breaks my soul. This England, these shafted windows, the elm trees, the past—the great past, crumbling down, not under the force of the coming birds but under the weight of exhausted leaves. No, I can’t bear it. For the winter stretches ahead, where all vision is lost and all memory dies out. I can’t bear it, the past, the falling, perishing, crumbling past, so great, so magnificent.”
I tuned out. I might even have dozed a bit. Ferocious damage was being done to the Johnnie Walker. Finally, she finished. I stood up unsteadily and shouted,
Bravo.
Magnifique
.
Come on, yah Reds.
NEXT THING
I know, I’m on the stage and tearing her clothes off. It was
sweaty
loud
ferocious.
I vaguely recall her sinking her teeth deep in my neck and me roaring,
“Yah fuckin’ vampire!”
After, I lay on my back gasping for breath. She said,
“Am I to believe you appreciated my performance?”
Which one?
I curled up, passed out.
SOMEONE WAS
pulling at me, and I was trying to push them away.
Eventually, I sat up. Jordan was standing over me, said,
“There is something you have to see.”
“Now?”
I tried to focus on my watch. Took an effort.
Three forty-five.
“Christ,” I groaned, “can’t it wait?”
“It’s of grave urgency. I’ll wait for you in the kitchen.”
I shook my head. Big mistake. A mother of a headache. Not
to mention a churning stomach. As Jordan reached the door, he said,
“It might be an idea to put your clothes on.”
Aching, I pulled on my jeans and the balled-up white shirt. Then I threw up.
Jordan was holding a flashlight and looked at me. He nodded and headed out. The night was pitch dark. Jordan headed across the lawn and stopped at the elm tree. Waited for me to catch up. He said,
“Are you prepared?”
“For what?”
He shone a powerful beam up into the branches. Billy Norton was hanging from a thick stem. A black, gaping hole where his groin should have been. I muttered,
“Jesus,”
and was on my knees, retching. Jordan switched off the flashlight.
He asked quietly,
“A friend?”
“Yes.”
Then he produced a small flask and a pack of cigarettes. Lit one and handed it to me. Then he took the top off the flask and offered it. I drank full, and he said,
“Brandy and port.”
When it hit my stomach it thought about regurgitating but opted the other way, settled. I was able to smoke the cigarette.
I avoided looking at Billy. Jordan asked,
“Did you notice his hand?”
“What? . . . No.”
“The fingers on the right are gone, it’s a signature.”
“A what?”
“Vosnok. East European death squad. Since the gates opened, they’re unemployed. London attracts the vermin.”
“Kerrkovian!”
Jordan nodded, said,
“I trust this is not a police matter?”
“I’d appreciate that.”
WE BURIED
him behind the house. It was hard work, least it was for me. A hangover doesn’t handle well a shovel. Sweat cascaded down my body. Too, I was in my bare feet, and the soil felt like sludge. Jordan dug with an easy rhythm. I said,
“Looks like you’ve done this before.”
“Many times.”
I didn’t have the nerve to ask if he meant “in this place.” Some things you best let slide. When we’d finished, Jordan asked,
“Will you say words for him?”
Part of me wanted to shout—“Good riddance!” I nodded and said,
“Good-bye . . . Billy.”
It seemed enough for Jordan. He headed to the house. I followed. In the kitchen I trailed muddy prints and said,
“Sorry.”
He produced some of his swiss packets of powder and began to mix that healing elixir. My mind went into free fall.
IN THE
joint, you never gave or received favors. It was fraught with peril. I broke that rule only once. For a guy named Craig. I covered his back when he’d lost focus. After, most days he’d chow down with me. Even offered me his dessert.
HIS BROTHER
was a cop. Not just any filth but a renowned detective who’d put away more child abusers than Andrew Vachss. But finally, the abyss looked back into him. Drunk one night, he’d found himself cruising for a child. Snapping out of it, he’d gone immediately home and shot himself. Only Craig knew the reason for the suicide. To the cops, he remained a hero and had simply “eaten his gun.” Then Craig had looked up from his grub and made full eye contact. Convicts never did that unless they’d a knife or pipe to back it up. He said,
“The point of this story is I avoid zeal. When the gangs go after a chicken hawk here, I abstain.”
I got the point. A frenzy had been building in the prison for some days. It usually culminated in a hunt for a sex offender.
I said,
“I hadn’t planned on joining the party.”
Holding my gaze, he said,
“Self-righteousness is very infectious. People get swept along.”
I didn’t argue. He was repaying his debt.
J
ORDAN NUDGED ME
, handed over a mug, said,
“Drink.”
I did.
Jeez, was that the business. Everything near sang, my system felt almost young. He said,
“What will you do about this Kerrkovian?”
“Find him.”
“Yes.”
I hesitated, but he was prepared to wait. I said,
“Then I’ll kill him.”
“You’ll require assistance.”
“It’s not your fight.”
He folded his arms, said,
“A man comes onto my land, puts a corpse outside my window, and you think I’ll turn the other cheek?”
“Who’ll mind the actress if we’re both gone?”
“I’ll make provisions.”
I stood up, said,
“OK . . . we’ll go hunting.”
“Have you a weapon?”
“I do . . . do you?”
He gave me a smile. Humor never entered into it.
I PUT
on the radio to ease me into sleep. Dire Straits were doing their riff, the line about Dixie, laden with threat. I hoped Kerr-fuckin-kovian was tuned.
The next day, Jordan ran a test. Using my car. He said,
“I want you to approach the car with suspicion, the backseat you check carefully.”
I did. Tried the door, but it wouldn’t open. Looked in the window. All I could see was a crumpled blanket on the floor and empty seats. I tapped on the window, the blanket moved, and Jordan unfolded, emerged. I asked,
“How can you make yourself so small?”
He gave a rueful smile, said,
“Years of servitude.”
I asked the obvious.
“How come the door won’t open?”
“It’s an old car, only the front doors open.”
“He’ll believe that?”
“He better.”
It took us three nights to track him. We’d trawled Clapham, Streatham, Stockwell, Kennington and finally got him at a club in Brixton. I’d brought the Glock. I didn’t know what Jordan was packing, but I hoped it was heavy. We parked a ways up the road from the club Kerrkovian had entered.
Jordan said,
“Give me the gun.”
“What?”
“He’ll frisk you.”
“Oh.”
“I won’t wish you luck, as these matters require only timing and nerve.”
“I’ll settle for luck.”
As I got out, I said,
“See you.”
“No, you won’t.”
The bouncer at the door was a grief merchant and intended to give me large, said,
“Members only.”
“How much?”
He gave me the calculating look, went with it, said,
“Twenty-five.”
I peeled off the notes, asked,
“Don’t I get a card or nuttin?”
“I’ll remember you.”
“Gee, that’s reassuring.”
I went in. The place was jammed. A Brixton brew of dreads
goths
transvestites
paddies
minor villains
bent cops.
I spotted Kerrkovian sitting at a corner table with the punk. I thought—“Shit.”
Moved to them, said,
“Lads.”
The punk gave a smirk, said,
“Mitchell.”
Kerrkovian was wearing a black suit and looked like a badly fucked Bryan Ferry. He said,
“I hear many things about you.”
His accent was pseudo-American. Like he’d watched all the very worst B movies. He had rotten teeth—Eastern Europe not having the best dental plan. He stood up, asked,
“I buy you a brewski?”
“Not right now. I hear you’ve been looking for me.”
“You got it, buddy.”
“Well, my car is outside, let’s take a ride.”
The punk said,
“Get real.”
I looked at Kerrkovian, said,
“You wouldn’t be afraid to travel with me, would you?”
He smiled, the full frontal of gangrenous molars. I said,
“I’m not packing, you can frisk me.”
He did. This was a Brixton club, nobody batted an eye.
The punk said,
“What a jerk-off.”
I asked, “So, are you coming?”
“As long as my new friend comes too.”
I shrugged. I went first. As we approached the car, I said,
“The back doors don’t work.”
The punk moved forward, peered in the back windows, said,
“Nothing there.”
I got behind the wheel, the punk beside me and Kerrkovian riding shotgun. The punk said,
“Where did you get this heap of shit?”
As I moved to turn the ignition, Jordan was up, had a wire round Kerrkovian’s neck. I smashed my elbow into the punk’s face, then crashed his head onto the dash. Kerrkovian thrashed and flailed, but Jordan’s knee was pivoted against the seat. What seemed like an hour, Kerrkovian went limp, eyes out of their sockets. I said,
“Jordan . . .
Jordan
, you can let go.”
“You can never be too careful with this filth.”
“Jesus, he’s near decapitated.”
Jordan let go. I started up the car and got the fuck outta there. Jordan said,
“Go back to Holland Park.”
The front seat was awash in blood. Jordan threw the blanket over them. I asked,
“What about this kid?”