Кен Бруен - The Hackman Blues

‘Exciting?’

‘Sure, you dunno, did you ask for chips or a wank?’

Is there a reply to this in any language? The waiter came scuttling with two bottles of Domestica, plonked them down.

Bob shouted, ‘Yo’ Costa, what cha fink yer doing with that shite... eh?’

Looked all right to me. It was yellowish and in a bottle and had a Greek name.

I said, ‘Looks all right to me.’

‘It’s tourist wine. The Greeks wouldn’t piss with it. Costa take this shite away, bring us some Aspro Krassi.’ And he added, ‘Mallakas’

Before I could ask, he said, ‘Means wanker. They use it as a term of affection, or it’s reach for your weapon time.’

A cat entwined itself round Bob’s leg. He said:

‘The thing with cats is... you can’t train them not to kill cos it’s what they do — it’s who they are. You can train them not to kill in front of you and that’s the best you can expect.’

Jeez, I thought, that’s deep and said, ‘Jeez, that’s deep.’

‘Naw, just a law of nature.’

Rodney was chain-chugging bottles of Amstel beer. I don’t think I’d heard him speak.

I asked, ‘Yer mate, he doesn’t say a lot.’

‘Not his thing... he likes to stay half-pissed, be mostly out of the game.’

‘Tell you what, he’s succeeding.’

The food came, the wine in tin beakers. It looked worse than the other stuff.

Bob said as he forked through a dish, ‘This here is Saganaki which is like fried cheese, okay? Or hey, have some papoutsaki. They’re aubergine halves stuffed with cheese and mincemeat.’

‘I’d rather eat it than pronounce it.’ He laughed.

I half turned my head and saw Roz walk towards me. The glass of wine fell outa my hand and my heart rocketed in my chest. As she drew nearer, the moment passed and I realised it wasn’t her. Not even vaguely similar, though she was certainly an ugly cow too.

The information didn’t filter through to my system and a tremor kicked my whole body.

Bob cried, ‘Jeez son, are you all right? Don’t get a coronary before I get me dessert.’

He put his hand on my shoulder, squeezed it... shouted to the waiter.’

‘Get some metaxa over here.’

I forced myself to focus and gradually came back on line, said, ‘I’m okay... guess it’s this bloody flu.’

‘It’s the chick-peas do you in every time... you looked like you saw a ghost.’

‘It’s nothing, don’t mean nothing... drive on.’

Rodney had been galvanised by my performance and began to intone in a sports commentator style:

‘Mike Slater hooked in the second over, got a top edge and was caught by Graham Gooch. The Aussies were nine for one. England has squeezed another 27 runs out of their last three wickets. Fraser scored 28 off 29 balls, only one short of his highest test score...’

They he guzzled half an Amstel, sank back in his chair.

I said:

‘Fuck, I thought he was a Crystal Palace supporter!’

‘He is, but he does love his cricket.’

I stood up, if shakily, said, ‘I think I’ll call it a night.’

‘Call it whatever you like, mate, I’ll walk back with you.’

‘No need... truly... thanks for the Greek lesson.’

Bob gave me the oddest look, said:

‘Life is full of significant meetings. Only in hindsight or Hind Street do we realise what they meant. When you get time, remember the lesson of the cats... that’s the important bit... you take care, mate. I enjoyed yer company.’

I felt too woozy to dwell on any of it. Figured I’d ask him next time. All I wanted to do was curl up under my sheets. If I’d known I’d never see them again, would I have behaved any differently? I like to think I’d at least have paid for the meal. They must have gone next morning, cos I searched in vain. A nagging suspicion that it had been a massive hallucination added to my pervading awfulness.

With them gone, Mikonos lost its appeal and I decided to give island-hopping a go. For the next two weeks, I blitzed across Greece...

... on boats

off boats

in bed

feverish

sun-bathing

pilling.

Went to Rhodes and was assaulted by waves of blonde hordes. The Scandinavians in all their pinched glory. Took a day trip to Turkey and that truly was hallucinatory. Bought two carpets and left them on the boat.

I was a deep mahogany brown colour, a whole lot slimmer and with the wire rimmed frames, looked like Ghandi after a bad night out.

I woke one morning in Kos to feel something on the side of my neck, wondering if Transylvania had moved and I’d been vampirised.

Stumbled out of bed and checked the mirror. Two lumps there and I swear I went ashen behind my tan. I knew what those were...

Sarcomas.

The advance guard of a death warrant.

Back in Athens, I laid out a minor ransom for the undivided attention of a Kolonaki doctor. Got the tests done and the results were peppered with him tut-tutting:

‘Highly irregular, not my usual practice.’

I paid through the teeth.

Got the verdict I’d already known.

HIV positive with strong indication of the full-blown within a year.

Maybe less.

As I walked out into the sun of Kolonaki Square, in front of the British Council, with orange trees all round, I understood the meaning of Dead Man Walking.

It’s all over, save the dying.

I’d also learnt that steroids hide the effects of the disease. Made you look good, too. Course the downside was moments of pure madness.

Well, I’d just add them to my baggage and let them stand in line for their shout at emergence.

Business as usual.

Booked a British Airways flight to London, a first class seat. I’d a day to wait so I went out to Glyfada to have a look at where Christina Onassis lived. Lay on the beach and listened to Lorena McKennit on the Walkman. Once, hearing the piece, ‘The Lighting of the Lamps’ would have me pine for a balcony in Marrakesh. But not — no how no more. Stayed on the beach ’til evening.

A British couple next to me said:

‘Be careful of the ultra violet, you could get a melanoma.’

I said, ‘Naw, I’m immune.’

And heard the husband mutter, ‘Must be a Paddy.’

I should have said:

‘Yeah, but a Paddy on steroids. Wanna fuck with that, Messrs United Kingdom?’

But that’s how it goes. The lines always come too late. Just ask Neil Kinnock.

London was dark and pissing outa the heavens. As if I gave a fuck...

As I waited for my bag, a porter said, ‘Brilliant tan.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Pity they fade, eh?’

‘Not this one, I’m taking it with me.’

And left him to it. Now he’d really have a reason for scratching his arse.

Nolan said, ‘Blimey, I thought I was being mugged by an extra from Baywatch.’

I’d watched his house all afternoon, saw him come home, then a little later, two women call and his wife leaves with them. Jackpot night at the bingo. I’d gone in through the back, something I was getting good at. Too late, alas, for a career change.

He was watching Eastenders. His shoes off and his feet resting on a pillow. Dressed in a shirt, braces and the trousers of that blue suit — the copper at ease.

I shoved the Browning in his ear, said:

‘Young lad I knew hoped to audition for that.’

He half turned, saw who it was, did a double-take, then made the Baywatch crack. I moved round front, adjusting the barrel to fit on his forehead, slid the catch, and as he heard the snap, sweat coated his face.

But he kept his voice steady, said:

‘I thought they done you too.’

‘Who’s they?’

‘Whoever did Reed with the blow-torches.’