Кен Бруен - The Magdalen Martyrs

“Don’t count on it.”

“I have.”

The elevator arrived with a grinding of metal. I pulled the door open, asked,

“Want to risk it?”

“I insist on it.”

Naturally the space was cramped, and we were jammed together. I could smell her perfume, asked,

“Is that patchouli?”

“Yes.”

“Old hippies never die.”

She looked into my eyes, said,

“I guess that’s the bottle against me or else you’re happier to see me than you’re saying.”

There’s probably a reply to this. I didn’t have it.

I flicked on the television, one of those moments, if not God-given, at least God-inspired. Henry, in the eighty-second minute, scored a magnificent header against Spartak. Almost simultaneously with me switching on, he walloped it home. I said, awestruck,

“Fuck.”

She sat on the bed, said,

“Which means you’re pleased?”

“Oh yeah.”

She took a moment, looked at the screen, said,

“Too bad about Leeds.”

“They lost?”

“Yes.”

“You follow football?”

“I follow men.”

Gave me a smile that was unreadable. She looked round the room, said,

“Somewhat sparse.”

“I’m a simple guy.”

“No, Jack, whatever else, you’re not simple. Drunks never are.”

I still had the bottle in my hand. Her remark stung, all the more for its bitter truth. She caught on, asked,

“Ah, did I hit a nerve?”

I got two glasses from the bathroom, rinsed them, handed one over, asked,

“What do you want?”

“Pour.”

I did.

She patted the bed, said,

“Don’t be shy.”

I took a chair on the opposite side of the room, raised my glass, said,

“Slainte.”

“Whatever.”

No doubt she was one attractive woman.

I took a sip of the whiskey. Ah, it was if I’d never been away. Kirsten asked,

“Been a while, has it?”

“Yeah.”

I knocked back the rest, wanting that warmth to hit my stomach. She reached in her bag, produced a small clear cellophane bag, said,

“I brought you a present, in case you weren’t drinking or even if you were.”

Tossed the cocaine to me. I didn’t make any attempt to catch, let it fall short and to the floor. She didn’t seem, to care, said,

“Tell me about coke.”

I could do that, said,

“Charlie and the Music Factory, except it finally takes away the music. I think I like George Clooney’s remark best. ‘It would dress you up for a party and never take you there.’ ”

She digested this, then,

“You must know about punding.”

I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly. After a spell on the wagon, the first one drives hard.

“Punding... no, I don’t know.”

“You start something then keep returning to the start, over and over again. It’s what cocaine causes.”

I let out a breath, said,

“There you have it, the story of my life. Would I be called a pundit?”

She laughed out loud. A wonderful sound. When a woman does that, without inhibition, without caring how it appears, she is truly lovable. She said,

“Tell me more.”

“In the beginning, coke makes you love yourself. For me, that was a whole other mind fuck. Plus, it gives you a rush of such power. It shrinks the supply of blood to the eyes and makes you bright-eyed. I once saw Mick Houghton interviewed.”

I stood up, could already feel the booze in my legs, got the bottle, poured another, offered it to Kirsten. She said,

“No, I’m good. Who’s Mick Houghton?”

“He was PR to Echo and the Bunnymen, Julian Cope, Elastica.”

She gave me a look of profound disbelief, went,

“How do you know this stuff?”

“Yeah, scares me, too.”

“It should.”

“Anyway, he said, ‘Coke’s worse than heroin. Heroin kills you whereas coke destroys you. People can kick smack before it kills them so that their careers might at least remain intact. You can’t say that about coke.’ ”

She rose from the bed, moved to pick up the cellophane, said,

“You won’t be needing this then?”

“No.”

The phone rang. I picked up, said,

“Yeah?”

“Jack, it’s Cathy.”

Instantly, guilt consumed me, for my behaviour towards Jeff. I hoped the whiskey didn’t sound in my voice. I said,

“Cathy.”

“I got the information you wanted.”

“That’s great... I’ll pay you, of course.”

“I don’t think so.”

The tone of her voice was flat, cold. I said,

“I was a little out of line earlier.”

“So what else is new, Jack?”

“I’ll come by tomorrow.”

“Don’t bother. I left the envelope with Mrs Bailey.”

Click.

Kirsten said,

“Romantic spat?”

“Not exactly.”

She moved to the door, said,

“I hate to drink and run but... ”

“You’re going?”

“What were you expecting? Drinks and a fast fuck.”

The word echoed harsh in the room. I tried to get a grip, asked,

“What did you come for?”

She feigned huge surprise, said,

“To touch base, see how your investigation was going.”

I searched for a sarcastic rejoinder, something to lash her with. Nothing came, and she said,

“Why don’t you just ask me?”

“Ask you what?”

“If I killed my husband.”

I finished my drink. Could feel it move behind my eyes, asked,

“Did you kill your husband?”

She gave a laugh of pure delight, said,

“Ah... that would be telling. Keep it in your pants, Jack.”

And she was gone.

I stood in the middle of the room, shouted,

“What was that about?”

The bottle, three quarters full, stood on the dresser. What sanity I had said,

“So, OK... you’ve had two drinks, no real damage done. We’re not talking major damage. Go to bed. In the morning, start over.”

I seriously considered all of that for a full minute, then I said,

“Fuck it.”

What I thought about was Raymond Chandler and what he once said:

How do you tell a man to go away in hard language? Scram, beat it, take off, take the air, hit the road, and so forth. All good enough. But give me the classic expression actually used by Spike O’Donnell (of the O’Donnell brothers of Chicago, the only small outfit to tell the Capone mob to go to hell and live). What he said was, Be Missing.

All I need to say about the rest of the night is... I wrote a poem.

God forgive me.

Drinking whiskey has led me down so many dark streets, exposed me to situations that were horrific and produced medieval hangovers. But in our long chequered relationship. I’d never descended to the level of poetry.

Could I remember penning it?

Course not.

The writing was all over sheets of blotched paper. Thankfully, a part of it was unreadable, simply an illegible scrawl. But the bones were there. I could recall sitting on the bed, remembering my London wedding. We’d got hitched in a registry office at Waterloo. How fitting that was.

Our nuptial night had ended in a blazing row. I’d surfaced the next morning, blitzed and alone in a cheap hotel near the Arches.

Here is the poem.

In all its feckless glory.

Wasted in Waterloo