Ken Bruen - Rilke on Black

I’d waited too long.

Lisa was on her knees, giving Baldwin a blow job. His face had that rictus of torment that is total pleasure. His eyes looked on mine. I noticed for the first time his eyes were brown. Wouldn’t Lisa be proud, I’d caught up. He shoved Lisa back.

“What,” she said. “You didn’t come.”

She followed his look and her face twisted.

“Oh Nico... Nico... you weren’t meant to come.”

I said, “Someone’s got to come.”

Baldwin’s leg was still chained. Heat of passion I guess. No sign of Dex.

Baldwin said, “Believe it or not old chummy, I finished with this bitch six years ago. But she hasn’t given up... as you’ve just seen.”

I looked at her, said, “All this to get him back... jeez Lisa... no wonder you knew Rilke so well. Who’d have thought you could care so much... you poor pathetic cow.”

She put her hand out towards him.

“He’s mine, he belongs to me.”

And Baldwin laughed.

Lisa backed away. I swear she was whimpering. God, is there a more devastating sound in the whole world.

Baldwin said to me, “Oscar Wilde, I don’t think I covered him in our lectures. Well, old Oscar said, you’ll appreciate this: ‘A woman will do anything for the man she loves.’”

And paused here for full effect.

“‘ Except stop loving him.’”

If he expected a reply, I didn’t have one. He gave an irritated shrug, said, “I haven’t seen the bitch for six years, already she’s on her knees.”

Lisa was walking rapidly towards him, I saw the automatic as she said, “Here’s six, you bastard.”

And put that number of shots into him. His body jerked all over the cot but was held in place by the chain. Then he was still.

She turned to me. Tears streaming down her face. I started towards her and she whispered, “I’m so sorry Nick... you weren’t the worst... just red-neck dumb.”

And she squeezed the trigger:

click

click

click

I said “It jams after six.”

And swung my right fist with all the power I had, added, “What... I could have been a contender!”

It caught her up under the chin and I thought I heard her neck break. She fell back on Baldwin. I moved over to her and she was murmuring, “No more ange...”

“Rabbits maybe,” I said, as gentle as I was able.

I found Dex in the kitchen. With his throat cut. A coffee cup still gripped in his hand. I turned him over to see if his face might tell me something. It told me nothing. At least nothing I wanted to hear. It took me a few moments but eventually my saliva returned and I spat full in his face.

Back at his house I found I hadn’t quite finished my gin. I moved to an armchair and put the money under my feet. Then I moved a bit and rested them on it.

Better.

I sat wondering how difficult it would be to find a Morris Minor. Tax and insurance, probably be sky high for an old car. One thing was certain, the colour: black.

They say you hear a sound in a person’s throat as they die. A death rattle. I didn’t hear Lisa’s, not then. But now, I hear it all the time. And keep looking round, trying to locate it. Fuck, I know what it is... I just don’t know where it’s coming from. I remember a thing Dex told me during our tequila session. It seemed particularly fitting now. He’d sat up till the early morning, glued to the television at the beginning of the Gulf War. As the ferocious bombardment of Baghdad began, he’d shouted, “Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”

I stayed sitting, sipping the gin. Not sure what I thought. Eventually they’d come and I’d face:

Four murders.

Arson.

Kidnapping.

Criminal trespass.

Burglary.

As I was the only one left, they’d throw the whole shit and kaboodle at me. I’d be a mini-serial sensation. My photo in the Sun and caption, “Bring Back Hanging”. In prison the brothers would hurt me for offing two of theirs. The money would go back and I’d be full fucked.

                      OR

The whisper came about evening time...

“Dade County

    Big Apple

        Nashville

           Colorado

    Beeboopaloopbopwop.”

A litany of hope.

And I thought, “Why the hell not.” Go for it, I certainly had the cash... did I have the balls. Take the show on the road. If I’d come from the madness then I could certainly head for the final insanity... New York.

I got up and gathered the money. It was light for such an amount. Crossed the street and back into the killing zone. I stayed away from the kitchen and basement. Upstairs, I showered and packed one small case. Lisa and I had passports for our journey. Well, she wouldn’t be needing hers. I tossed it on the bed. The bottom drawer had various drugs and I left them. Enough mind alteration. It crossed my mind to go get the browning automatic

... and see Lisa.

Fuck — no. I was looking for the land of the Saturday-night special. Weapons were as common as burgers. I threw the duffel bag of money on my shoulder and walked out. I didn’t look back. When all this unravelled, they’d be hunting me with everything. Right now, I still had time. Made my getaway on the tube and checked into a small hotel in Notting Hill Gate. The owner was Indian and greedy. When I heard the price I said, “Jeez, bit steep is it mate, I’m not a tourist.”

“Ah, I hope to bring my family over from the village.”

“If I stay a few nights, you’ll be able to bring over the whole flaming village.”

The room was instant depression. I pushed the money under the bed and went out. He asked. “The room is to your liking, Mister?”

“Pure heaven. I may never leave it.”

Walked down Bayswater and everything was open. First off, I bought some body belts, they’re used to Arabs there and these belts would hold a lot of cash. Which I had. Next I bought a Sony walkman and then to select some tapes. A huge promotion for a Scottish rock outfit called “Gun”. I had to have that. Especially as the album was called, “Swagger”.

For Dex.

Then I loaded up on Lorenna McKennet and Iris de Ment. A bookshop next and I couldn’t find what I wanted. The assistant was in her twenties. A cross between a student and a wino. The arrogance was all her own and she clocked me as I approached.

But I could play. I’d had expert tuition. Start low.

“Excuse me, Ms. ”

Without a breath she said, “Thrillers are next to the horror section, on your left.”

She didn’t add, “You moron,” but we both saw it hang there.

I said, “I was looking for something on Rilke.”

“You mean Roethke... or possibly Rimbaud.”

I caught her arm.

“Hey, I’ve had a day you wouldn’t believe, OK, now trust me on this. I know Rilke like you’ll never know fuckin’ manners. So, what y’say, want us to go look?”

We did and found. I bought two volumes. Then the off-licence and a bottle of bourbon. If that’s what they drank...

I turned into Paulbridge Gardens to open the tapes. Christ, they seal those cassettes like aspirations, light and useless. I’d got one out when a voice said, “Wotcher got there?”

I turned, two white youths dressed like blacks. That made me tired and sad. One glanced over his shoulder then back to me, said, “This is a hypodermic needle. Give us yer money fooker or you get AIDS.”

In his hand, I saw the syringe. There was a term for those white boys who wanted to be black.

“Whiggers.” That is, white niggers.

I thought arsehole did as well.

I said, “Are you familiar with Rainer Maria Rilke? Impressive first names, eh, I only just discovered them... here, catch.”