Кен Бруен - The Hackman Blues

You come

and

You go

permanently.

No thanks.

So in this Village People dream, there was a noose round my neck and pulling on it, was Jack. What the Americans call ‘yanking my chain.’

Came awake, drenched in sweat.

Fuck.

Reached for a cigarette, but I’d quit... as Reed might say ‘Shee-hit.’

If you could put a soundtrack to manic depression, I’d have Jimi Hendrix with

‘All Along the Watchtower.’

See Richard E Grant in Withnail & I bombing up the Ml, all systems fucked, Hendrix blaring and him roaring at people to throw themselves under.

That’s close.

But if you want to get the full orchestration, the full phantom band going full-tilt-boogie, you could do worse than U2 with

‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.’

You have to get the version where the gospel singers are doing back-up. Yeah... and keep a rope ready... you’re in business.

I showered, put on a pair of 501s, scuffed tan work boots, Ben Sherman short sleeve and Adidas windbreaker. The working gay, ready to prowl, if not to rock ’n’ roll.

Did some spraying with Lynx deodorant. I like that Africa number. Picked up the phone and called Jack. Answered on first ring.

Probably sitting by it...

‘Brady?’

‘Yeah, hi Jack.’ (No pun intended.)

‘Is she there... there with you?’

‘Jack, there’s been a problem.’

‘Don’t tell me about problems, put her on the line, what do I pay you for?’

‘Jack, she’s not here.’

I was sweating... had I expected it to be easy?

Wiping my hand on my 501s, the receiver was wet with perspiration.

He said, ‘Spit it out, fellah.’

‘Leon has moved her... says you can have her for a price.’

‘How did he find out? That nigger of yours tell him?’

‘Jeez, course not. He obviously did some checking, knows you’re worth a few sov’s.’

Silence, but I could feel his fury, a palpable thing.

He said, ‘Ever see Mississippi Burning ?’

‘Yeah... but...’

‘Don’t interrupt me son, don’t ever do that. I tell you... Brixton will be fucking burning.’

‘Don’t go crazy, Jack... you’ll never see her.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He says unless you pay, he’ll turn her out and...’

‘Turn her out?’

‘...Erm... as a hooker and... that you can collect what’s left offa Bedford Hill.’

Longer silence and I managed to get my damn jacket off. Jeez, bow’d it get so warm.

I had to ask, ‘Jack... Jack... you still there?’

‘How much does he want?’

‘Forty big ones.’

‘When?’

‘Five days.’

Big exhale of breath or rage then, ‘Okay.’

‘You’ll pay?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re doing the right thing, Jack. I’ll let you know the details in a few days... don’t worry.’

‘I’m not worried.’

‘Good... that’s good... and Jack... you won’t do anything... er, reckless... will you?’

‘Do your job.’

And he slammed down the phone.

I said aloud, ‘There, that wasn’t too bad, was it? Piece of cake really.’

I tore off the shirt. Christ, I’d have to go back in the shower. Even Lynx hadn’t the protection for this.

Hunger came calling and I checked my provisions. Had...

dead cabbage

Two sus’ eggs

Wilted sausages

Kellogg’s Frosties

My cup overfloweth.

Time for a greasy caff. Heading for the Oval end of the Brixton Road. A girl smiled at me. Precious little use at the best of times but she was insistent with it. I figured, a hooker or lunatic, said testily, ‘Was there something?’

‘Mr Brady, it’s me... Crystal... Danny’s wife.’

‘Oh shit, I mean... hello.’

She laughed.

Like I said, I liked this girl and on impulse I asked, ‘Want to join me for a spot o’ nosh?’

‘Could I?’

‘Course you could.’

The café specialises in lethal carbohydrates. The do-you-in grub.

Lovely.

Half of the clientele said:

‘Hello, Tone.’

‘Tone.’

‘Yo, Tone.’

They knew me.

The other half were sorry they did and said nowt. We sat by the window, she said, ‘Me ankles are freezing.’

‘You don’t have socks.’

‘I thought it would be warm.’

The owner came over, said, ‘Usual, Tone?’

‘Yeah. Crystal, wotcha want?’

‘Oh just a tea.’

‘Go on, have a feed.’

‘Do you think I could?’

I said to the guy, ‘Two of the usual, bread and butter, large teas.’

Then I said to Crystal, ‘Hang on here a sec...’

And I took off... got to the corner and yeah, the little market was there... made my purchase and got back, as the food arrived.

Talking big fry-ups...

...Sausages, two eggs, tomatoes, fried bread, bacon, hint of mushroom.

‘Jesus,’ she said.

‘Tuck in, girl.’

We did.

She took a sip of tea, said, ‘Hot as Protestants.’

‘Aren’t they supposed to be cold?’

‘Not on a Saturday night, not on the Ormeau Road.’

I didn’t quite follow the logic, but decided not to ask. I was afraid she’d explain. She buttered some bread, popped a wedge of sausage in there, ate heartily. Grease leaked down her chin but she didn’t mind.

Me neither.

Between bites she said, ‘It’s like being a kid again.’

I enjoyed eating but mebbe more, I relished watching her eat. Without any self consciousness or dainty moves, she got to the grub in the shortest, least fussy way. She ate with and for pleasure. How often do you see that? I eat like a convict. With total alertness, aware of all around me.

When she was finished, she let a loud belch, then giggled, putting her hand to her mouth, went, ‘Oops!’

‘Same again.’

She laughed out loud. The best sound in the whole world. She sounded like Dyan Cannon:

earthy

alive

passionate.

I reached into my pocket, took out my purchase, handed it across, said, ‘For you.’

Her face was alight with joy.

‘But... how...? why...? Oh, when you just went out. Can I open it now?’

‘I insist.’

Two pairs of socks tumbled out, pink and red. Mickey Mouse on one set, Minnie on the other.

She leant ever and kissed me, exclaimed, ‘You lovely man, can I wear them now?’

‘Absolutely.’

She did, then presented her leg for inspection. Minnie smiled at me.

I said, ‘Class Act.’

Then her face clouded — she’d have been a lousy poker-player — asked, ‘Can I talk to you about Danny?’

‘Erm... okay.’

‘We’ve been together a long time, people would probably say we’re co-dependant.’

Jeez, I thought, Everyone’s therapy-literate. If you couldn’t label it, it didn’t exist.

I said, ‘When I was young, we called it a good marriage... nor did we know anorexia, that we called poverty.’

She laughed, if not convincingly, said:

‘And I love him. I’d die if anything happened. I know he’s on some job with you and with Reed. I have such a bad feeling.’

‘No need, nothing to worry about.’

‘Will you mind him?’

‘Crystal, he’s a big boy, he doesn’t need minding.’

‘For me... please... without him knowing?’

‘Okay.’

‘Promise me.’

‘Okay... I promise... on Mickey and Minnie’s head... how would that be?’

‘Thank you. I feel relieved now.’

Get me, eh? Giving my word out like a drunken sailor, with about as much control of consequence.

We stood outside the caff and she touched my cheek with her finger, like Barbara Streisand in The Way We Were.

She said:

‘I don’t know why Danny doesn’t like you.’