Ken Bruen - Rilke on Black

And he put his hand up to block. I smashed my fist in his face. Heard the nose go. The other made to run and I grabbed him by his ponytail. Swung him into the wall, said, “There you go.”

Bent and picked up the needle, hunkered beside the first.

“Old Rainer Maria used to talk about Quiet Lights. He said the big flashes come without warning and that a single experience of them should effect a full transformation of one’s entire life.”

He was groaning, trying to staunch the blood from his nose. I held the syringe up to the light, muttered, “AIDS... huh?”

And plunged it into his neck. Then I moved over to the other and rammed it in his arse. I picked up Rilke and began to walk away. A middle-aged woman was standing... transfixed. I said, “Not poetry lovers, but they’re safe now, they’ve had their shots.”

I brought my belongings back to the hotel. The money was still there. It crossed my mind to go and buy the place. I felt the owner would understand cash, he didn’t seem the cheque type. Mainly what I felt was like the old story of the drunk. He knows he dropped his key in the dark alley, but he searches under the street light ’cos there’s brightness there. Baldwin had said to me, “You’re like a blind man in a dark room searching for a black cat that isn’t there.”

I’d intellectually rallied with, “Bollocks.”

“Close, but we call it metaphysics.”

One minute I’d be numb from horror... from grief, loss, betrayal. Next, I’d be zooming on my plans for America. What I was... was fucked and part-ways knew it. A drink would help so I tore the seal from the bourbon, chugged it from the bottle. And burn like a bastard it did. More... burn further.

In a little while, I was lit and put the earphones on. “Gun” nearly deafened me and I wrenched it out. Not enough bourbon for that racket. Then Iris de Ment... better. Ball-breaking sad, but bearable, drank on.

I’d seen the billboards across town, “Fly Virgin Atlantic”. Would I get a pair of them red socks with the little white logo. Fancied the idea of that.

Then I jumped to my feet, felt I had the right level of booze and went out. In 7—11 I got a batch of bin liners and tape, hailed a passing cab, asked for Clapham. When I got to my house, it was quiet. No police or flashing lights. Turned the walkman up full volume and went in. I dunno how long it took me to bag and tie the bodies. Sweat saturated me and I hummed along to the tapes, keep playing, keep singing. A complete recklessness possessed me. I backed my van up to the front door and just slung them in...

“Here we go... whoopsy... d.”

Whoops.

Bit heavy there Dex, puttin’ on a few pounds, eh. “Cut out them burgers.”

In yah go Lisa.

Yeah... make room there Ronnie... my man... hey can you stop hugging all the room.

Tight fit guys... eh.

Right... all squared away.

Everybody happy.

...OK...

Dex, you’ll like this... wot Bette Davis said in All about Eve.

“FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

I kept up the lunatic stream of banter. Perspiration on me, my sweat was sweating. The earphones kept slipping off my head as my ears were drenched. Snatches of Iris de Ment in and out.

And I kept expecting a neighbour to call the police. But the street remained silent.

When I’d worked in the nightclubs, we always had a ton of rubbish. For a few extra quid I’d bring it in the van and take it to an illegal dump. I drove there now. As always, there was a line of vans from various Chinese restaurants and dodgy caffs. No one ever spoke. Dump yer load and get to fuck and gone. This is what I did now. Shouted, “Sayonara... and don’t wait up... Garbage ye were... and to garbage ye return.”

Got in the van and gunned outa there.

Reclaimed my home. Not that I believed I’d be able to actually sleep there. How much time before the bodies were found or for the Roozers to come calling was anybody’s guess. But I had a breathing space, didn’t have to fly the Atlantic right now. Time to prepare... for wot... anything. I tore off my clothes and spent forty minutes in the shower. All the soiled clothes, Baldwin’s stuff, Lisa’s gear, I put in the remaining bin liners and flung them in the van.

Put on a clean pair of jeans, sweatshirt and trainers. I found a batch of notes in Lisa’s handwriting and decided to look it over later. I was now sliding into exhaustion and a brutal hangover. Found a half bottle of gin and shoved it in my back pocket and grabbed some music tapes, slammed one in the walkman. Back to the van and eased towards the Elephant and Castle. There’s a large container there for unwanted items. I popped the bin liners through the chute. It occurred to me that I could have stuffed Baldwin in easily.

Jeez, how he’d loathe that. The ultimate charity case. Touched the play button and Elvis came blasting: “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.” Elvis took me all the way to Notting Hill. I had a key for the hotel door and went quietly in. The owner was fast asleep on the desk, dreaming of Samarkand perhaps. I dunno why, but I patted him gently on the head.

Slept for fifteen hours and the dreams, wow, a Vietnam Vet would have given his combat jacket to experience. A muddled concoction of:

Baldwin modelling bin liners.

Lisa riding the hotel owner.

Dex attacking me with a needle.

Hearing Elvis singing Rilke.

Coffee cups full of blood.

Garbage dumps peopled by snotty

Shop assistants.

Came to with a shout...

“Lisa.”

And felt awful. Such a benign word, as if you were a touch under par. If there is such a situation beyond despair, apart from death... that was it.

Next, I looked up to see where I was... then the money. How many times I’d heard the expression, “Felt like a million dollars.”

Don’t think that was it. Climbed off the bed and over to the mirror. Would I see a killer of men? No new facial lines. Looked like a ward case... an old hard case. Checked my watch, evening time. Pulled on the jeans and a shirt, went to reception.

Yup, the owner behind the desk. I said, “Am I a little late for breakfast?”

He smiled and I said, “What do they call you?”

“Jack.”

“Jack!”

He looked at my registration card, read, “Noel Murlers... so I’m Jack.”

“I can see where you might have a point, Jack. OK... how about this, rustle up a pot of coffee for us, I’ll see you right.”

“Most irregular but...”

I went back to my room. Five minutes later he came with the coffee and two buttered rolls. I handed him the “Gun” cassette wrapped in a ten-spot. We had clear and dried communication. The coffee gave me adrenaline if nowt else. I moved the rolls and spread Lisa’s papers on the bed.

The first sheet read,

Und dann sinkt ein Leid aug mich, so trube

wie das gra glanzarmer sommernachte due ein

stern durchfummert — dann und wann—

Yeah, well, this wasn’t very enlightening.

Next up was a travel article on a Spanish town called Ronda. High in the Sierra Nevada. A luxurious hotel there named Hotel Riena Victoria. Looked right out over a stunning cliff top. Situated at the edge was a huge bronze statue of Rilke. Lisa either had... or was planning... to stay there. As poetic hommage. I don’t think she planned on taking me. She’d written,

Ronda

[— then,]

As in my dreams

was grey so dark

the people never saw

The sun

over plains, the tarantula stalked

and over

endless games of dice.

The stranger

always lost

in Ronda.

Bandits

grey with rain

who never smiled but

looked annoyed

as nervous

I always paid

and always joked