Кен Бруен - The Hackman Blues

‘Whatever.’

He slid a snack towards me.

‘Sit, eat, Mr Hackman... what a great name but I must confess to liking Mr David Navan.’

‘Niven, you mean?’

‘Yes, that’s who I said.’

‘Okay.’

I took a sip of the ouzo... jeez, sheep dip. Farmers sometimes dose sheep with lithium. If a dog kills one of these sheep, he recoils and never again goes near them. Was that the reason dogs gave me a wide berth? Not that I hadn’t been with some real dogs in my time.

Oh yeah.

Intuition of the worst kind told me Spiro’s story would be long. He looked like a wizened gnome that had been abandoned in an overgrown garden. He was still in the Niven drone, I rejoined the monotone.

‘John Mortimer, ah, a true Englishman. I study him, is why I speak so fine.’

He say about Mr Navan’s favourite joke. To roar down a ski slope with his manhood bare to the elements. After, he’d push them in brandy to defrost.

I knew the kicker to this. How in one of life’s vicious ironies, he’d had to spend the end of his life sitting in a bath of ice hoping it would cure motor neurone disease. Spiro obviously hadn’t heard this, so I let it lie. Even Greeks need illusions.

He ate some meze, not a sign of him leaving, then motioned me to drink.

What the hell...

As we feasted, a van pulled up to a make-shift tip at Kennington. Ben’s battered body was unceremoniously thrown on to the rubbish. The van accelerated away, then the Minder said, ‘Hold on a mo’.’ And he jumped out, pushed a copy of the Big Issue into Ben’s ruined mouth, said, ‘You move some copies.’

And they sped off.

Spiro said, ‘I think you are a man with some worries.’

Me... I’d ninety-two thousand reasons to be cheerful.

He took a set of beads from his pocket, said, These are worry beads. You let them rest in your hand, thread with your fingers and, we say, the beads do the worrying.’

They were black, on a silver chain with a small bright blue stone at the top. He said, ‘That is to ward off the evil eye.’

‘Could be useful.’

He gave me a direct look, asked, ‘How much do you win?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘From your work.’

‘Oh earn.’

‘Is not the same?’

I gave a tight smile. ‘You might have a point, some jobs yes... you could win a stack.’

The Greeks have a directness bordering on bluntness. I’d like to say it’s refreshing but it ain’t. Now he changed tack.

‘You are a married man?’

‘Absolutely. Roz, my missus, is — alas — detained at the moment.’

‘Ti krima.’ (What a pity.)

Then: ‘I like the cinema, I read Hollywood magazines so much. I know many things.’

A Greek Barry Norman and almost as modest. Maybe time to get his attention, like Mr Magoo, to get him focused.

I said, ‘I have a story you might not know.’

He popped an olive in his mouth, its black skin taut against his teeth as he gave a superior smile, a downright smirk, said:

‘I believe I know all the stories.’

‘Yes, I am sure.’

‘Try this: Foreman, the film director took Romy Schneider’s son to a tennis match. But, he left the boy to make his own way home. The boy was only ten. At his grandmother’s house he tried to climb through a window but he slipped...’

I paused for a touch of ouzo. Spiro looked suitably sick.

‘...And was impaled on a spike. A passer-by removed it in an attempt to help and the boy bled to death. A year later Romy Schneider committed suicide.’

Spiro seemed like he’d gone into a trance. I touched my glass to his...

Clink!

... and said, ‘But I guess you already heard it... yeah?’

He looked at his watch, said:

‘Christos! I must to the desk.’

‘Drop us in the paper, would you?’

A few moments later, the Standard was pushed under the door. I reckoned that would fix Spiro’s visits. That story comes from my post mania periods, when the depression locks on images and thoughts of death like a vice. I was glad to have shared. How often do you get to drop a nugget like that into everyday conversation? It’s a show-stopper.

Settled back to read the paper. It had Barbara Cartland on Oasis. She said:

‘A splendid example of young people using talent in a creative way.’

Jaysus, the old bitch was seriously unhinged. I mean, how out of touch can she be?

As immediate response, Liam Gallagher was also quoted. He gallantly said:

‘Women have had me over. After I’ve bopped them, they’ve gone and sold it to the papers. Fair play. But I’ve just come in their gob and gone off, so therefore I’ve had them over. Tied one-all baby.’

The hetero in all his strutting glory. I threw the paper aside, said, ‘Enough of this shit.’

Bundled all the money into the hold-all, had to push it hard. The ouzo was coursing through me, I felt almost like I do at the onset of mania. To add folly to recklessness, I double chugged hefty shots of caffeine, belched and said, ‘Wow.’

I walked to Victoria in near record time. An energy burning in me couldn’t wait for a bus or even a cab. Down at the Oval I passed a wino, renowned for his foul tongue. He regularly chants a stream of invective at passers-by and makes damn sure it’s personal. A while back he’d launched a tirade at me. Most people, most times, ignore him. Not me.

I walked straight over and gave him two large whacks to the side of his head. He cried:

‘I’m sorry... I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry!’

‘Yeah, you’re sorry now all right.’

He was appropriately silent as I cruised by.

At the time I was doing 600 mgs of lithium daily.

When I got to Victoria railway station, the levels were indeed rising. I felt a sense of disorientation descend but managed to get a left-luggage locker and bung the holdall in. I could barely extract the key as my whole body began to tremble.

As I turned, I walked into the row of lockers opposite. For all appearances, I looked like the wino I’d silenced.

A cop approached...

‘Are you all right sir?’

I collapsed and an ambulance was called. In my wallet there’s a note describing my condition, so they could tell how perilously toxic I was. An intravenous drip was applied and I was effectively off the board. For the next two days I remained at the hospital. A vital time with the various players. The day of my discharge I was sitting in a wheelchair, almost dozing. Not that I needed either the chair or the sleep but they like to see you off the premises in a submissive state.

I heard, ‘Evening all,’ and snapped awake.

Chief Inspector Nolan, without his sidekick. He was wearing a spectacular blue suit, one that would make even John Travolta pause. He asked, ‘Like the suit?’

‘I’m dazzled, truly am.’

‘The missus picked it out... it was remaindered at John Lewis.’

‘Can’t think why.’

He had a brown paper bag in his hands, clutched tight. Now he looked up and down the corridor, asked, ‘Any chance of a cuppa? I’m gasping.’

‘No., they’ve been.

‘Shite... but how remiss of me. Here I am, prattling away about me and I never asked about you. I was flipping through the log when I came across your name... Hello, I said, what’s this then?... Taken poorly, were we?’

Little did he realise just how poorly. If it had been a few minutes earlier, I wouldn’t have made that locker and... yeah, that would have been all she wrote.

I said:

‘I’m okay now.’

‘But I, alas, have not received my stipend... am I being dropped? The missus and I have come to rely, nay cherish the little things, those foolish luxuries... like meat!’