Authors: Ken Bruen
Outside the house, Jordan was doing the garden. I said,
“No end to your talents, eh.”
He looked up, didn’t answer. I walked over to the BMW. The gouge was gone. Jordan said,
“I couldn’t allow it.”
“You did the repairs yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck it, that’s brill.”
“As always, Mr. Mitchell, you overstate the obvious.”
MY MARRIAGE
plans required a birth certificate and balls. I’d got one, hoped I had the other. For the meet with Jeff, I put on the Gucci jacket, considered packing heat but decided against. I didn’t take the BMW. In southeast London, it would be snapped in a mo. Hailed a cab and told the cabby,
“Charlie Chaplin at the Elephant.”
He didn’t say anything for a bit, then,
“You know why it’s called that?”
“I’ve a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“ ’Cause Charlie was born up the road in Kennington.”
I didn’t answer lest I encouraged him. Then, undaunted, he asked,
“Know who else lives there?”
“No.”
“Greta Scacchi!”
“Gee.”
We got there, I paid him, said,
“You ought to be on
Mastermind.
”
“Want me to wait?”
“I’ll pass.”
He handed me a card, said,
“Gimme a bell anytime.”
I’d torn it in ribbons before I got to the pub.
Jeff was sitting at the bar, a pint of Guinness in his hand.
I said, “Waiting long?”
“No.”
“What’s on your mind, Jeff?”
He took a long breath, said,
“That guy, Kerrkovian, he’s disappeared.”
“Good riddance.”
“No argument there, but the kid has gone too.”
“Kid?”
“The punk kid, the one you’d a hard-on for.”
“So?”
“So, he was hanging with Kerrkovian.”
I took a drink, rolled a cig, asked,
“Spit it out.”
“Had you anything to do with it?”
“No.”
He drained his pint, stood up, said,
“People liked that kid; word is you offed him.”
“Bullshit.”
“Thing is, Mitch, once you’ve buried your sister, you’d be advised to stay away from southeast London.”
It took a moment to sink in, then I said,
“You’re threatening me?”
“I’m delivering a message.”
Seemed to me I’d been taking shit from people all day. I said, “Here’s a message back.”
I swung fast, caught him under the chin. He crashed back against the bar. I turned on my heel, walked straight out.
Not a sign of a cab. I half considered trying to fit the scattered card back together.
NEXT MORNING
, my right hand hurt like a bastard. The knuckles were bruised and swollen. I bathed it and then poured antiseptic over it.
Stung?
Oh fuck. I dropped the bottle, let my head back and howled like a son of a bitch.
Put on my suit and checked my reflection. Looked like a minor league mob guy. Bottom feeder and not connected.
Went down to the kitchen, smelt good aromas. Jordan was at the stove, asked,
“Hungry?”
“Like a wolf.”
I pulled up a chair, and he poured me a scalding hot coffee.
The aroma was so wonderful. I was afraid to taste it. How could it measure up? He put a plate before me. It was eggs over easy, with crispy bacon interwoven. Got a wedge of that with heavily buttered toast, bit down. Ah man, like a childhood you never had. Jordan sat down, dug into his. He ate like a demon, as if he’d a fire that couldn’t be fed. He finished fast. I said,
“Jeez, you needed that.”
He gave a cold nod. I added,
“You’re not a morning type, right?”
“I have a busy schedule.”
Stood up, went to a drawer, took out a thick envelope, said,
“You haven’t been collecting your wages.”
“What?”
“You are still on the payroll.”
Then he looked at me, slow, asked,
“Unless you are considering resignation?”
It crossed my mind to tell him I was outta there, in jig time. I said,
“ ’Course not.”
As he cleared the plates, he said,
“Madam and I will be out all day next Friday. Can I rely on you to care for the house?”
“That’s what you guys pay me for. What is it, a hot date?”
“Madam is being interviewed by
Hello!
in preparation for her return.”
“It’s supposed to be unlucky.”
“I don’t believe in luck.”
“ ’Course not . . . do you believe in anything?”
He was surprised, said,
“Madam, I believe only in Madam.”
As before, he was telling me exactly how it was. As usual, I wasn’t listening properly.
I DROVE
to Kensington High Street. Despite the BMW’s color, I loved that motor. Went and got the registry office squared away. In ten days we’d be married.
To celebrate, I went into Waterstone’s and bought Derek Raymond’s
The Devil’s Home on Leave
.
It fit.
Then to a coffee shop and ordered a large cappuccino, no sprinkle. Got a comfortable seat next to the window and settled in to read.
I put the book down, sipped at the coffee, thought of Briony. As a little girl, she used to say,
“Won’t you mind me, Mitch?”
I’d promise with all the empty power and earnestness of a seven-year-old boy.
Got up quickly and left, drove to Aisling.
Derek Raymond said when you dream of rain it’s a sign of death. It was raining now. Briony, at twelve years old, crying,
“I’d stand in the snow, with no clothes on, to look at you.”
Phew.
Only later did I realize I’d left Derek Raymond in the window on High Street Kensington. Maybe he would have liked that, listening to the rain, the rich aroma of fresh brew all round.
I SPENT
the afternoon in bed with Aisling. Later, I asked,
“Was it good?”
“Ish.”
“What?”
“Just kidding, it was magic. I just want to lie here, feeling like the cat who got the cream.”
The rain lashed down on the roof. I said,
“Good thing we’re in.”
“Better that we’re in each other.”
Argue that.
Aisling held her left hand up to the light, said,
“See my ring, how the light bounces off it?”
“Yeah?”
“Notice the very top of the heart?”
I looked. Seemed like a small golden heart. So? I said,
“So?”
“It’s chipped.”
I sat up.
“You’re kidding. I’ll have Chris’s ass.”
“No . . . no, I love it like that. It’s perfect that it has a tiny blemish.”
“What?”
“The flaw makes it ideal.”
I didn’t get this, said,
“Is this an Irish thing?”
She laughed out loud, said,
“It’s a girl thing.”
“Right!”
I took her in my arms, could feel her heart beating against my chest. I was about to say—“I love you.”
It was right there, my brain and tongue in sync to deliver the words I had never used, when she said,
“Will you do something for me?”
“I’ll give it my best shot.”
“Peter Gabriel has a song called ‘I Grieve.’ ”
“And?”
“Will you listen to it with me?”
“Like . . . now?”
“Yes.”
“OK . . . but . . . are you unhappy?”
“This is the best moment of my life.”
“Phew! Let’s give Pete a turn, then.”
As we listened, she held my hand in both of hers, her face in rapt concentration. I’ve no beef with Peter Gabriel, in fact I love “Biko,” but this just didn’t fit. The sadness and pain of his voice and the lyrics made you reach for a lethal Scotch. Finally, it was done, and she turned her face to me, eagerness electric. I said,
“Now, that is an Irish thing.”
I
GOT BACK
to Holland Park late on Tuesday night. Watched
South Park
and wouldn’t have balked at adopting Kenny.
The actress appeared at my door, asked,
“Can I visit?”
“I’m a little beat, Lillian.”
“As in beating your meat?”
Closer than she could imagine. In her left hand was a bottle and two glasses. Held by the neck as they do in the movies.
Scratch that, as they do in
old
movies. She asked,
“Can a girl buy her fellah a drink?”
Jesus!
I said, “Maybe a nightcap.”
She handed me the booze, said,
“It’s Dom Pérignon.”
“Whatever.”
I popped the cork pretty good. As is mandatory, most of the champagne went on the floor. People seem to regard that as part of the deal. Some deal.
Lillian was wearing a silver ball gown. I’m not kidding—she told me. I asked,
“Why?”
“I thought a little ballroom dancing would be novel.”
“And you hired a band?”
“An orchestra.”
I looked at her face, said,
“I can only hope you’re kidding.”
Sly smile, then, “I don’t do kidding.”
“What, they’re huddled in the hall?”
I indicated my room, added,
“Gonna be a tight squeeze for the guys.”
“They’re in the ballroom.”
I didn’t even ask where it was, but thought, “How fuckin’ big
is
the house?”
I’d never explored it, and come Friday, when they were
Hello!
-ing, I’d go through it like a dervish. Yeah, shake them branches, see what shook free.
We clinked glasses and I said,
“
Sláinte
.”
She asked, “What is that?”
“Irish.”
She shook herself in mock disgust, uttered,
“A nation of buffoons and blarney.”
“Gee, how English of you.”
She moved closer, said,
“Allow me to French you.”
I did.
Her perfume was mothballs in chlorine. Blame the champagne, but I came. Not in a spectacular way due to my exertions with Aisling, more a sad drizzle. Like rain they get in Crete.
Wiping her mouth, she said,
“We need to get lead in that pencil.”
I said, “You’ve exhausted me, there’s no way I’ll get to the dance.”
She bought it, said,
“We’ll dance tomorrow, now sleep, my sweet.”
When she’d gone, I took a scalding shower, couldn’t quite rid myself of her touch. In bed, I tried to think of Aisling, tried not to think of Briony.
Neither worked.
T
HE CALL CAME
at two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. I picked up the phone, identified myself as “Yes” to
“Mr. Mitchell?”
It was the police.
“Are you familiar with one Aisling Dwyer?”
“Yes.”
“I regret to inform you there’s been a tragic accident.”
“What?”
“A piece of paper in her purse listed your name and number.”
“How is she,
where,
when,
oh God.”
I got the address of the Islington hospital and drove over.
I don’t even remember the series of events. Only that she was dead, from a hit-and-run on the High Street. A man had leant over, held her hand until the ambulance came. Some time later, someone gave me a coffee. It tasted like the foam cup. Then I was given the “brown envelope.” Her possessions.
It held
money
purse
calling card
watch
no ring.
Must have left it at home. I was surprised she’d taken it off.
At an early hour of Thursday morning, I drove home. Drank lights out.
I SURFACED
around noon on Friday. Jesus, I was shook. My fingers fandangoed again as I tried to roll a smoke. Sweat cascaded down my forehead, stinging my eyes. I knew a shot of Scotch would shut the works down, but would I stop?
Would I fuck.
Went to my minifridge, got a brewski. Foster’s.
When did I buy that, or worse . . . why?
Never-no-mind.
Popped the ring, drank full. It poured down my chin, drenching my sodden T-shirt. Then, à la Richard Dreyfuss in
Jaws
, I crushed the can, slung it.
Did its minijob, and my system eased. Took a shower, shaved, changed into a white shirt, fresh black jeans. Risked a mirror glance.
Like any seedy waiter.
OK, time to forage.
The house was silent, they really had gone. I avoided Lillian’s room. It was already too familiar. Took a time till I located Jordan’s.
Knew it must be his as the door was locked. Braced myself against the far wall and took a flying kick. Near took it off the hinges.
I entered cautiously—booby traps were a definite possibility.
The room was Spartan, with an army-style cot, spit-made.
I went through the wardrobes first. Half a dozen black suits, black shoes and white shirts. On a top shelf was a shoe box that held a .454 Casull. It is one heavy mother. In every sense not too accurate, but the load it packs would blow a hole in an elephant. I put it gingerly in the waistband above my ass. Three drawers to go. First held spotlessly clean underwear. The second had a pile of old theater programs, all Lillian, of course. Finally, a storm of socks, put my hand through them. Pulled out a dog collar, said,
“What?”
It had dried blood and a name. Bartley-Jack.
Before I could react, my other hand touched a ring. Held it up to the light, the heart displaying the tiny flaw she so admired. I sank back on the bed, my mind reeling.
I THINK
I must have made a subaudible noise. It’s when people under total stress speak aloud without realizing it. Everybody does it, but some are more prone. I’d never be more prone than then. The sound is below normal hearing range. Years ago, it was called “thoughts in the throat.” ’Course, the higher the stress, the louder the sound. Mine was heard, all right.
A voice said,
“Ah, the penny droppeth!”
Jordan was leaning against the shattered door, his arms folded. It took me a bit to find some voice, but eventually,
“You killed them all . . .
Briony
the dog
Aisling?”