Desmond Barry - London Noir

Brixton

Blame the Irish.

I always do.

The fuckers don’t care, they’re used to it, all that Catholic guilt they inherit, blame is like, habitual. Too, all that rain they get? Makes them amenable to bad shit. I’ve known my share of micks — you grow up in Brixton, they’re part of the landscape. Not necessarily a good part but they have their spot. Worked with a few when I was starting out, getting my act together. I didn’t know as much as I thought I knew, so sure, I had them in my early crew.

Give them one thing, they’re fearless, will go that extra reckless yard, laugh on the trip, and true, they’ve got your back, won’t let you get ambushed. But it’s after, at the pub, they get stuck in it, and hell, they get to talking, talking loose. Near got my collar felt cos of that. So I don’t use them anymore. One guy, named, of course, Paddy, said to me: “Not that long ago, the B’n’Bs... they had signs proclaiming, No coloreds, no dogs, no Irish.”

He was smiling when he told me and that’s when you most got to worry, the fucks are smiling, you’re in for the high jump. Paddy got eight years over a botched post office gig, he’d torn off his mask halfway through the deal, as it itched. I’d driven to The Scrubs, see if he needed anything, and he shook his head, said, “Don’t visit anymore.”

I was a little miffed and he explained, “Nothing personal but you’re a Brit.”

Like that made any sense, he was in a Brit nick. Logic and the Irish never jell, but he must have clocked my confusion, added, “In here, I’m with my countrymen. They see a Brit visiting, I’m fucked.”

Let him stew.

Life was shaping up nice for me. Took some time but I’d put it together real slow. Doing some merchandise, a little meth, some heroin, and, of course, the coke. Didn’t handle any of the shit my own self, had it all through channels, lots of dumb bastards out there will take the weight. I arranged the supply, got it to the public, and stayed real anonymous, had me a share in a pub, karaoke four nights a week, the slots, and on Sunday, a tasty afternoon of lap dancing. The cops got their share and everyone was, if not happy, reasonably prosperous. None of us getting rich but it paid for a few extras. Bought into a car park and, no kidding, serious change in that.

Best of all, I’d a fine gaff on Electric Avenue, owned the lease, and from outside, looked like a squat, which keeps the burglars away. Inside, got me Heal’s furniture, clean and open-plan living room, lots of wicker furniture. I like it, real laid-back vibe. No woman, I like my freedom. Sure, on a Friday night I pick up some fox, bring her back, but she’s out of there by 3 in the morning. I don’t need no permanent company. Move some babe in and that’s the end of my hard-bought independence.

Under the floorboards is my stash: coke, fifteen large, and a Glock. The baseball bat I keep by my bed.

Then I met Kelly.

I’d been to The Fridge to see a very bad hip hop outfit who were supposed to be the next big thing. Jeez, they were atrocious, no one told them the whole gangsta scene was, like... dead. I went down to the pub after, needed to get the taste out of my mouth. I ordered a pint of bitter and heard, “To match your mood.”

A woman in her late twenties, dressed in late Goth style, lots of black makeup, clothes, attitude. I’ve nothing against them, they’re harmless, and if they think the Cure are still relevant, well, it takes all kinds... better than listening to Dido. Her face wasn’t pretty, not even close, but it had an energy, a vitality that made it noticeable. I gave her my best London look with lots of Brixton overshadow, the look that says, Fuck off... now.

She felt an explanation was due, said, “Bitter, for the bitterness in your face.”

I did the American bit, asked, “I know you?”

She laughed, said, “Not yet.”

I grabbed my pint, moved away. She was surrounded by other Goths but she was the center, the flame they danced around. I’d noticed her eyes had an odd green fleck, made you want to stare at them. I shook myself, muttered, “Cop on.”

On my second pint, I chanced a glance at her and she was looking right at me, winked. I was enraged, the fuck was that about? Had a JD for the road — I’m not a big drinker, that shit becomes a habit and I’ve plans, being a booze hound isn’t among them. Knocked it back and headed for the door, she caught up with me, asked, “Buy me a kebab?”

Now I could hear the Irish lilt, almost like she was singing the words. I stopped, asked, “What the hell is the matter with you?”

She was smiling, went, “I’m hungry and I don’t want to eat alone.”

I indicated the pub. “What about your fan club, won’t they eat with you?”

She almost sneered. It curled her lip and I’d a compulsion to kiss her, a roaring in my head, What is happening to me?

“Adoration is so, like, tiresome, you fink?”

The little bit of London — fink — to what? To make me comfortable? “I wouldn’t know, it’s not a concept I’m familiar with.”

She laughed out loud, and her laugh made you want to join in. She said, “Oh don’t we talk posh, what’s a concept then? Is it like a condom?”

I’m still not sure why, but I decided to buy her the bloody kebab — to get rid of her, to see what more outrageous banter she’d produce? She suggested we eat them in the park and I asked, “Are you out of your mind? It’s a war zone.”

She blew that off with: “I’ll mind you. ”

The way she said it, as if she meant it, as if... fuck, I dunno, as if she was looking for someone to mind. So I said my place was round the corner and she chirped, “Whoo... fast worker. My mammie warned me about men like you.”

I’d just taken a bite of the kebab, it was about what you’d expect, tasteless with a hint of acid. I had to ask. “What kind of man is that, a stranger?”

She flung her kebab into the air. “No, English.” Then she watched the kebab splatter on the road, sang, “Feed the birds.”

Bringing her back to my place, the first mistake — and if it were the only one, well, even now, I don’t know what was going on with me, like I was mesmerized.

She looked round at my flat, and yeah, I was pretty damn proud, it looked good.

“Who lives here, some control freak, an anal retentive?”

Man, I was pissed, tried: “You have some problem with tidiness, with a place being clean?”

Fuck, you get defensive, you’ve already lost.

She was delighted, moved to me, got her tongue way down my throat, and in jig time we were going at it like demented things. Passion is not something I’ve had huge experience with — sure, I mean, I get my share, but never like that.

Later, lying on the floor, me grabbing for air, she asked, “What do you want?”

She was smoking. I didn’t think it was the time to mention my place was smoke-free, so I let it slide, not easily, bit down. I leaned on one elbow, said, “I think I just had what I want.”

She flicked the butt in the direction of the sink; I had to deliberately avert my eyes, not thinking where it landed. She said, “Sex, sex is no big deal. I mean in life, the... what do they call it... the bigger picture?”

I wanted to be comfortable, not go to jail, keep things focused. I said, “Nice set of wheels, have my eye on—”

She cut me off, went: “Bollocks, fecking cars, what is it with guys and motors? Is it like some phallic symbol? Got me a mean engine. ”

Her tone, dripping with bile. Before I could get my mouth going, she continued, “I want to be loaded, serious wedge, you know what I’m saying?”