Desmond Barry - London Noir

I nearly let slip about my stash, held back and asked, “So, you get loaded, then what?”

She was pulling on her clothes, looked at me like I was dense. “Then it’s fuck you, world. ”

She was heading for the door, I asked, “You’re leaving?”

That’s what I always wanted, get them out as soon as possible. Now, though...

Her hand was on her hip and she raised an eyebrow. “What, you think you’re up for another round? I think you shot your load, need a week to get you hot again, or am I wrong?”

That stung, I’d never had complaints before, should have told her to bang the door behind her, near whimpered, “Will I see you?”

Her smile, smirk in neon, said, “I’ll call you.”

And was gone.

She didn’t... call.

I went back to the pub, no sign of her. Okay, I went back a few times, asked the barman. I knew him a long time, we had, as they say, history, not all of it bad. He was surprised, said, “The Irish babe, yeah?”

I nodded miserably, hated to reveal a need, especially to a frigging barman, cos they talk to you, you can be sure they talk to others, and I didn’t want the word out that I was, like... bloody needy, or worse, vulnerable. That story goes out, you are dead, the predators coming out of the flaming woodwork. He stared at me. “Matt, you surprise me, hadn’t figured you for a wally.”

Bad, real fucking bad.

I should have slapped him on the side of the head, get the status established, but I wanted the information. I got some edge into my voice, snapped, “What’s that mean?”

He was doing bar stuff, taking his own sweet time, stashing glasses, polishing the counter, and I suppressed my impatience. Finally he straightened, touched his nose, said, “Word to the wise, mate, stay clear, she hangs with that black guy, Neville, you don’t want to mess with that dude.”

Neville, story was he offed some dealer, did major trade in crystal, and was serious bad news. I moved to leave, said: “I knew that.”

He didn’t scoff but it was in the neighborhood. “Yeah, right.”

Fuck fuck fuck.

The bitch, playing with me, I resolved to put her out of my head, get on with my business. Plus, I had to get a new carpet, the cigarette had burned a hole right where you’d notice.

A week later, I was in the pub where we had the karaoke nights, nice little earner, punters get a few on, they want to sing, did brisk sales those nights. I was at the back, discussing some plans with the manager, when I heard a voice go, “I’d like to sing ‘Howling at Midnight.’”

It was her, Kelly, with the Lucinda Williams song, one of my favorites, she no doubt saw the CD in my gaff. I looked quickly round, no sign of Neville, the pub hushed as she launched. Her voice was startling, pure, innocent, and yet, had a hint of danger that made you pay attention. When she finished, the applause was deafening. The manager, his mouth open, whispered, “Christ, she’s good.”

Then she hopped off the stage, headed in my direction, small smile in place. I resolved to stay cool but to my horror whined, “You never called.”

Even the manager gave me an odd look.

“What happened to hello, how have you been? ” she asked.

I moved her away, touching her arm lightly, and just that small gesture had me panting. She said: “Yes, thank you, I would like a drink.”

I ordered two large vodkas, no ice, and tonics. She took the glass. “I’d have liked a Bushmills, but shit, I just can’t resist the alpha male.”

The touch of mockery, her eyes shining, that fleck of green dancing in there. I was dizzy, decided to get it out in the open, asked, “What do you want?”

She licked the rim of the glass, said, “I want you inside me, now.”

Never finished my drink, never got to mention the black guy either. We were in my place, me tearing off my shirt, her standing, the smile on her lips, I heard: “White dude is hung.”

She’d left the door ajar. Neville standing there, a car iron held loosely in his hand. I looked at her, she shrugged, moved to my left. Neville sauntered over, almost lazily took a swipe at my knee. I was on the floor.

“Cat goes down easy.”

Kelly came over, licked his ear. “Let’s get the stuff, get the fuck out of here.”

He wanted to play, I could see it in his eyes. He drawled, “How about it, Leroy, you want to give us that famous stash you got, or you wanna go tough, make me beat the fucking crap outta you? Either is, like, cool with me. Yo, babe, this mother got any, like, beverages?”

I said I’d get the stash, and he laughed.

“Well get to it, bro, shit ain’t come les you go get it.”

I crawled along the carpet, pulled it back, plied the floorboard loose, Kelly was shouting, “Nev, you want Heineken or Becks?”

I shot him in the balls, let him bleed out. Kelly had two bottles in her hands, let them slide to the floor, I said, “You’re fucking up my carpet again, what’s with you?”

I shot her in the gut, they say it’s the most agonizing, she certainly seemed to prove that. I bent down, whispered, “Loaded enough for you, or you want some more? I got plenty left.”

Getting my shirt tucked into my pants, I made sure it was neat, hate when it’s not straight, ruins the sit of the material. I looked round, complained: “Now I’m going to have to redo the whole room.”

Ladbroke Grove

I’ve been in the Mets all my adult life and I’ve spent most of that time pounding the mean streets of West London. After the war the area around Ladbroke Grove was known as the Dustbowl. This was where smart property developers came to make their mint. Back in the ’50s and ’60s, during those thirteen glorious years of Tory rule, anyone who wanted to could make a bomb from the slums. Houses changed hands over and over again, with their values being inflated on each sale. Before the introduction of ridiculously strict controls on building societies at the start of the ’60s, it was common for property speculators to off-load houses to both tenants and other parties with one hundred percent mortgages which the seller had prearranged. Despite the prices paid under such arrangements being above market value, ownership still proved cheaper than renting. Unfortunately, it was all too common for the new owners to take in lodgers to cover the costs of their mortgage, rather than working to earn their crust like a free-born Saxon. The resultant overcrowding bred crime and this law-breaking stretched police resources to the limit.

The investigation I’ve just completed took me back nearly twenty years to the early ’60s. I knew Jilly O’Sullivan was dead before I arrived at 104 Cambridge Gardens, and in many ways I considered it a miracle she’d succeeded in reaching the age of thirty-five. I’d first come across Jilly in 1962 when she was a naïve young teenager and I was a fresh-faced police constable. I’m still a PC because rather than striving to rise through the ranks, I long ago opted to take horizontal promotion by becoming a coroner’s officer. This job brings with it substantial unofficial perks, and I’m not the only cop who’s avoided vertical advancement since that makes you more visible and therefore less able to accept the backhanders you deserve.

Returning to O’Sullivan, when she arrived in Notting Hill she rented an upstairs flat on Bassett Road for five years before moving to nearby Elgin Crescent in 1966. The bed in which Jilly died was but a few minutes walk from her Notting Hill homes of the ’60s. I’d first called on her at Bassett Road after the force was informed that one of her brothers was hiding out there. My colleagues and I knew parts of the O’Sullivan clan like the backs of our own hands. The family was involved in both burglary and protection. Jilly and her brother had grown up in Greenock, but headed for the Smoke as teenagers. Jilly was doing well back in the early ’60s, making good money in a high-class Soho clip joint, and at that time she even had a pimp with a plumy accent and public school education. Jilly’s brother was eventually nicked alongside a couple of his cousins while they were doing over a jeweler’s shop and that’s how I learned he’d actually been hiding out with his gangster uncle in Victoria. After he’d served his time in a civil prison for burglary, Jilly’s brother was sent to a military jail for being absent without leave from the army. By the mid-’60s, when her brother was finally let out of the nick, Jilly was the black sheep of the family. It wasn’t prostitution but an involvement with beatniks, hippies, and drugs that alienated O’Sullivan from her kith and kin.