Desmond Barry - London Noir

Haven’t been in a gym for a while, but you never lose it. Right cross. Uppercut. Jab. Pow. Pip. Pow. Super-middleweight titleholder from ’74 to ’77. Mike said he’d never seen a lad like me. Said I had the “killer’s gaze.”

I get to the other side. Away from the din. I cross again and dip between east and west, keeping an eye on Woodfield Place in case the 4x4 has found his stomach and decided to come back and face me.

No one.

I’m on the home stretch thinking about later, now I’ve made my decision.

A drunk is relieving himself against the bins outside the futuristic Science Photo Library next door to mine. A trusta-farian , some spill from the Hill seeking a cheap thrill, opens the door from one of the flats upstairs, and seeing what the drunk’s up to, pretends, It’s all good in da hood, bro .

“Don’t mind me.”

The guy spits, “I fucking won’t, cunt.”

After dumping his rubbish, I’ll fucking dump him in a minute, he shuffles off back to where he came from, counting out his father’s money, no doubt, in his ironic “chav” Burberry pajamas and fluffy slippers.

He glances, the guy still peeing, and he gives me a limp smile before hopping back indoors.

Life on the edge of a very plush cushion.

Indeed.

Something in the air catches me and sends me spiralling back through time.

Bernadette: Diorella.

Eileen: Diorissimo.

Margaret: Chanel № 5.

In the distance, a crackhead screams for all she’s worth, maybe for all we’re worth.

“THE WHORE OF BABYLON! THE WHORE OF BABYLON!”

Blood songs coagulate in the black currents of a cold cold night.

The need to believe.

Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem.

Ready?

Ready as I’ll ever be.

I approach the mews and should I go in and change or just get on with it? I decide to perform the latter and go to the office. I skip around the back of the building and turn the key, walk in, and head for my desk. Mary approaches me with a smile.

“Father Donaghue?”

“Yes, Mary?” I toss my keys onto my desk. “What is it?”

“Well, Father, I know you’re very busy, but I was wondering if you might be able to add a few prayers tomorrow for my sister. A remembrance, if you would.”

“How long has it been now?”

“It’s been five years, Father. Five years since he took her away from us.” She begins to cry.

I put an arm round her and remind her that the Lord is with us. And to call me by my first name, which is Johnny.

She begins to feel a little uncomfortable, questioning my grasp ever so slightly with her eyes, and so I let her go and then offer her a drop, which she accepts.

“Father. I didn’t know.”

I stare at my glass.

“Neither did I, Mary. Neither did I.”

Mary takes a sip as I put my glass down onto the desk and pick up my crucifix.

We both laugh now and chat about the bargains to be found at Iceland and Somerfield and how the new pound shop is really quite amazing. Mary lowers her now empty glass back onto the tray by the whiskey decanter.

“Thank you, Father, I feel so much better now. Yourself? Settling in? Getting used to our little neighborhood? I know it seems a bit on the rough side, but...”

“Oh, I’ve seen worse, Mary, believe me. Now. I’ve plenty to do, as you can understand?”

“Oh, forgive me, Father, for taking up your time.”

“Not at all, Mary. And I’ll be sure to mention...”

“Molly.”

“Molly. Yes. I won’t forget.”

“Goodbye, Father.”

I sit and wait. For an hour. I fill my glass as tears begin to well up in my eyes and roll down my face.

Poor me. Poor me. Pour me a drink.

Believing in Him. Not believing in Him.

Deus Meus, ex toto corde poenitet me omnium meorum pec-catorum, eaque detestor, quia peccando, non solum poenas a Te iuste statutas promeritus sum, sed praesertim quia offendi Te sum-mum bonum ac dignum qui super omnia diligaris. Ideo firmiter propono, aduvante gratia Tua, de cetero me non-peccaturum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum...

The phone rings and the glass smashes in my hand, just as I bring it to my lips.

“Johnny. You know I will have to kill you.”

A smile widens across my face. “How can you kill what’s already dead?”

Twelve Canadians were the first to welcome the next day as they took off from the Grand Union on their way to the much gentler climate of Kew. Their wings making a terrific, terrifying noise. Pete, the cleaner of the Grand Union pub, was mopping up the beer garden; lost in the fight with his wife, who’d said before he left at 5 in the morning, “Panic, stupidity, and withdrawal. That’s all you’ve got to fucking offer.”

“Fuck away from me.”

When he first heard the noise, he almost dropped dead believing, This is it , expecting Osama himself in a Harrier jet, with eleven henchmen in tow.

Pint and eleven white wines for the ladies?

Pete was mysteriously taken by the magnificence of those beasts and marveled in slow motion when they, first down low and then rising up under the Halfpenny Step Bridge, yelled out as they made their ascent, “What a beautiful sight!”

He looked around to see if Carmel was about.

“Carmel, you should see this. Come here.”

Carmel shook her head from inside the pub, and thinking about her eldest daughter’s latest abortion, snapped, “What is it now? Don’t you fucking play games with me, because I’m in no mood.”

Carmel threw a rag down and turned again to see Pete standing there like a frozen statue. She laughed to herself and walked out toward him. “What’s got you all fucking excited?”

Pete was still motionless, as though aliens had taken his soul. He was now white as a sheet. “Jesus.”

“Oh yeah? And I suppose the fucking holy Virgin Mother of Mary, too...” Carmel’s voice trailed off, as now she understood.

Tied by the wrists to the railing under the bridge.

Black tights pulled tight around her white neck.

Eyes, nose, ears, fingers, and lips removed.

Half-submerged in the canal.

Dead as a fucking doornail.

Legs severed at the thighs.

Red hair ablaze.

Senseless.

Legless.

Beneath the sound of sirens, my view is as always: stark, sullen, and eldritch. I’m prone to believe that it’s a vile and disgusting world above.

Where I’ll die, the Harrow Road Police Station, now a hive of cordoned-off activity — choppers and coppers setting the landscape on fire — is to my right. Our Lady of Lourdes and St. Vincent de Paul, where in less than half an hour I will asseverate Mass before a shaken community, is to my left.

A community brought together by God only knows whom.

A community of chargrins and fighters.

A community no less.

Fighters for peace.

Secondhand peace.

Crime Time West Nine.

Meanwhile.

Gardens.

Animals.

Birds.

Amen.

Mayfair

I pressed PLAY and the screen on the dinky digital camcorder came to life. Vanya’s face the only thing in view, gurning and sticking her tongue out as a kind of visual “ testing, testing ...” before disappearing.

Good girl.

From where the camera was positioned on top of the wardrobe, it takes in about half the room. In the far right-hand corner is a bed with a large mirror next to it, to the left a small chest of drawers, and in between, against the far wall, a coat stand with a French maid’s outfit, a leather basque, and a nurse’s uniform with a white cap; a pair of black thigh-length boots are slumped in front.