Кен Бруен - The Hackman Blues

But I couldn’t go to Brixton with just a bus pass. The bat wouldn’t be quite the speed when I actually went ballistic. I thought of my derailed plans for Jeff. How I’d wanted to reenact the part of Maupin’s ‘Tales’ where the guy raves about weejuns. If there’s a more comfortable pair of shoes, I hadn’t heard of them.

Took a cab to Danny’s place and I was nervous. Stood outside and willed myself to ring the door. Did... and no reply. The relief was enormous. I put on that bemused look, so beloved of Neighbourhood Watch watchers everywhere. I didn’t scratch my head but gave the impression. Started the dance of looking up at the windows the — ‘Gee, someone should be home.’ Then the slide round the side of the house. Again, the looking round and whacked my elbow into a window. No alarms unless it was one of those silent jobs, in which case I was fucked. Put my hand through and opened the frame wide. How fast would the cops come to a burglar’s home... yeah, he’d not be top priority. The smell hit me straight away. In my very worst moments of depression, it had lived in my nostrils...

The smell of death.

She was hanging from the light-chord in the bedroom. From the bruises on her face she’d been beaten first. Dressed in an old nightie, there was a sock on one foot... Mickey Mouse. I wanted to throw up but kept control.

I whispered, ‘Oh Crystal... oh God, I’m so sorry.’

I didn’t cut her down. I didn’t want my prints there and resolved to wipe what I’d already touched. Took me twenty minutes to find the weapons in a cubby hole in the airing-cupboard. Selected a mess of stuff, all lethal. Lifted up the bottom of the hidey-hole and found nearly three grand. Took that too. On my way out I deliberately didn’t look at her. An overwhelming desire to touch her hand came over me but I fought it. Wiped down everything I’d touched and got the hell outa there.

At a brisk pace I headed for The Roebuck and ordered a large scotch. The weapons and money in a laundry bag at my feet. I felt hollow. A barmaid said, ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ ‘Me? no... no, I haven’t seen a thing.’ Like the Neighbourhood Watch in fact.

Rented a car from the outfit ‘who care more’. They didn’t seem to give much of a toss to me but hey, I wasn’t in a responsive mood. I’d wanted an Audi but going into Brixton...? And if things went well, coming out I’d need a tank, Settled on a VW Golf, cos it accelerates on suspense and you can park it anywhere, space isn’t a problem. When I said I’d pay cash, her look said:

Drug Dealer.

I said:

‘Sorry to insult you with money. Blame my upbringing. We were taught you had to pay for things... stupid eh?’

Next up was Cohen’s off the Charing Cross Road. Any outfit you want, they’ll fit you up. Even Village People would be pleased. When I said what I wanted, the guy never blinked an eye, so I added, ‘Will you be offended by cash?’

‘I like being offended.’

My kind of people.

Drove carefully back to Clapham, as Kevin Kline said in The Untouchables: ‘Careful as mice at a crossroad.’

I’d soon see who was touchable.

Next morning, the day of Ben’s funeral, I get my gear together and drove over to Balham. I half-expected, half-hoped to find Reed there. But it was deserted. I brewed some coffee and selected my hardware. There was a twelve gauge pump, the barrel sawn down. Yeah, I could bring that. I’d put the Glock in my waist-band. So light it could have been a toy. Made of shiny black plastic, it fits designer-tight. The terrorists’ weapon of choice as it goes, undetectable by metal scanners. Thirdly, I’d put a Browning automatic in the pocket of my jacket.

As I had a second coffee, I loaded all three and accustomed myself to the feel. They felt like bad news. A thick coating of black tape was wrapped round the handle of the Browning. It fit like a glove. Now here was an item that had seen active service and it was gonna see more.

I turned on the radio, got the local bulletins. The police were asking that people stay away from Brixton unless they had legitimate business. Church leaders appealed for calm. The Left asked for support, to show solidarity with the homeless.

It was shaping up. I’d taken my lithium and now I was just taking my time. At the end of the warehouse, under boxes of pottery, Reed kept a stash. Checked and it was still there. I did some lines of coke and smoked a little weed. Blending me a mental cocktail that was already getting a fizz. A rush from the coke that could have been clarity but was too fleeting to analyse.

Roy Orbison came on with that Elvis Costello song and I nodded... Yeah, comedians was bloody right... have I got a joke today, guys?

Then, time to get dressed. Put the costume on and thought, Okay baby.

Distributed the weapons around my body and put the pump in a Tesco bag. I was the American Dream, sort of:

I. White,

2. Rich-ish,

3. Armed.

Stood on Balham High Road a moment and I swear you could hear the beat of Brixton, Roy Orbison’s sound of drums. I considered for a minute what it was the sound carried, then said softly, ‘It’s the blues.’

Put the Golf in gear, pulled out carefully, heading for home. The Golf had a tape-deck and I punched in one of my favourites. Snatches and pieces I’d recorded over the years. Works for me. Lindisfarne with ‘Run For Home’, but I fast forwarded. Forever ruined by Gazza. If you want to hear hell on vinyl, hear that. Ideally he should duet with Imelda Marcos on ‘Feelings’ and you’d understand the term, Desert Storm.

Next up was Tori Amos with ‘Me and a Gun’. Serendipity or what? Eat yer rain forest, Sting. Tori sure catches the essence of mania in full flight. I didn’t sing along but gave intermittent shouts of, ‘Yeah’ and, ‘Too bloody right.’

I wondered how Ben would have felt now that he’d become the Big Issue — from vendor to essence.

A police check-point at the very entrance to Brixton. Time to test the costume. A young copper holding a clipboard motioned me to roll down the window, his eyes locked on my neck and he said, ‘Sorry Vicar, we have to ensure the legitimacy of each vehicle.’

‘You do great work my son, my flock will sorely need me this day.’

‘Go right on through. I’ll put the PASS sticker on your windscreen.’

‘God bless you, son.’

And drove on. In fact, I felt a little holy. Drugs will do that to you every time.

The funeral was already halted and a stand-off had begun. Riot police fingered their batons and the crowd taunted. I knew it wouldn’t be too long ’til they got down and played the Brixton boogie. I parked near the top of Electric Avenue. Brixton has all sorts of moods but of all the guises it wears, dullness ain’t among them.

Dirty

Dangerous

Vibrant

Degenerate

Exciting

Unexpected.

Yeah! And now it was actually humming. The TV stations already hustling for strategic position, they’d smelt the blood in the water. Morley’s had a pre-riot sale as they knew that everything would definitely go — including the windows.

A Rasta with a tea-cosy on his head was flogging T-shirts with the logo:

The scent of joss sticks, weed, incense, danced on the air as militants of every colour set up stalls.

A middle-aged black woman bumped me and asked, ‘Reverend, ye gonna bless a po’ sinner?’

‘You bet sister, go tell it on the mountain.’

It seemed to do her and she pressed a pound coin into my palm. Maybe I’d been in the wrong racket. I held the Tesco bag tightly to my chest and turned away from the crowd. Sweat was running down my spine as I get to the door of the club.