Ken Bruen - Rilke on Black

“The fuck I will.”

Danny grabbed his arm, said, “Don’t play silly buggers, you want the readies or not?”

With a disgusted sigh, George pushed me away. I rolled on my side and cupped my groin. Christ, the pain! George spat and said, “Thought you said he was tough, look at ’im, wanking is he?”

Danny bent down, said in a friendly voice, mate to mate, “Nick, watcha say, no harm done, just a misunderstanding, alrite mate. We’ll see you Friday, do our bit o’ business and yer on yer way. Alrighty, your place, early. Got it?”

I nodded.

George half turned then as if a thought struck him. He lashed out with his foot catching me at the base of my spine, said, “Watch yer back chummy.”

Their laughter sounded all the way up the alley.

When I got back to the hotel, I was weak as a kitten. Showered first and examined my torso, bruises and cuts all over, said aloud, “Shit.”

Then climbed into the sack and slept or passed out instantly. I didn’t dream, leastways nothing I could recall. Not that I wanted to, my mind was set on horror full.

Woke late evening and my spine was on fire. Eased gingerly out of bed and risked a look in the mirror. Old, a face about to crumble into late middle age, checked my eyes to see if they’d changed. After what I had to do with the bodies, surely it would take its toll. But no difference. I felt randy though. A surge of lust that blocked out the aches. Couldn’t believe it, said, “You wanna get laid, is that it. I thought you were all through with women. After Bonny and Lisa, how could you ever bother again.”

But my groin said, “Oh yeah, do bother and soon.”

Mebbe the action with the needle and the wiggers had unhinged me. A compulsion to talk to myself and out loud was becoming more frequent. Jesus, I’d be one of those sorry bastards who trudge the high street muttering. Well, least ways I’d be a rich one. I’d need to have a plan to deal with Danny and George. I could of course give them the money and pray for a quiet life. Yeah, dream on sucker.

The radio was blaring in the hall of the hotel:

I went through the desert

on a horse with no name

I was glad to come in from

the rain.

I think that’s what I heard. Remember it, one of those songs you heard all the time, you’d no idea what it meant. In fact, if pressed, you couldn’t even say if you liked it. But you knew it and, worse, it clung. One of those songs that hung out with, “me and you/and a dog named boo”.

I thought of all those half-baked hippies in California smug on soft drugs and sunshine and maybe I’d swing by, hum a mellow tune meself. After Nashville of course. Shit, I had to pay my country dues first.

Checked in the directory for Bill’s number. He was the guy who’d given the day’s work to Dex and me. The time we moved the furniture and Dex had dealt with the skate-board kid.

Bill was yer London-ed wideboy. The likely lad from the East End. When one of the Krays died, Bill walked behind the hearse. Very few were afforded that privilege. A top CID bloke in step behind. When they showed it on the telly, the huge crowds, you could see Bill as among the lost elite.

I’d known him a long time and once I might even have joined his crew. But, like I said at the outset, I’m not a criminal. Not the obvious sort anyroad. The mix of family and pompous legend was a tad too rich. How many Kray stories can you stomach and then, the exploits of the Richardsons as dessert. No thanks.

Bottom line was, my old man would have shit himself for such a position. I didn’t want nuffink he admired. Bill got himself in a bit of stuk a few years back and I helped out. No big deal, no strenuous effort on my part. It appeared more than it was and he believed he owed me. That I played it down only added to its value. How grateful he might still be, well, I was going to find out.

Got him on the line and arranged to meet. In a pub, of course. I needed air, to walk, so headed down Kensington Church Street. The memories began to pound. Then my heart lurched. Here was Lisa walking towards me. Like a physical blow, my heart goose jumped and I staggered back against a railing. Instant sweat stinging my eyes. As she came closer, it was just a young black girl. She gave me a contemptuous look, said, “Sober up mon.” I wanted to shout “Why?” But the scare had left me too shaken. Fuck, I hoped I wasn’t going to start losing it. Physically, I was strong, always had been but, how do you put muscles on the mind? If it goes soft, how to repump it? Was there a gym for it? As if in answer, I looked up and saw the small Carmelite Church on the corner. I knew that ’cos a sign outside read “Carmelite Church”.

Remember the old black’n’white movies. The hero is full fucked, all is lost then he looks up and... big music score... a church steeple. He nips in and an Audrey Hepburn’d nun bathes his face and redemption is found. Nowadays, Demi Moore would have him in the aisle. What’s wrong with the picture? Yeah, Audrey Hepburn wasn’t in black’n’white films. But, I was confused and cinema vérité wasn’t my top priority. I went in and literally took a pew. Jeez, it was so quiet and, yeah, peaceful.

In my old reliable, the maligned Reader’s Digest, I’d like to read the little items on the bottom of a page called “Points to Ponder”. One of them had said: “Never assign more tenderness to a thing than God intended.”

Felt someone behind me and whirled round. A tall priest watching me.

I said, “Jesus, don’t creep up on a person like that.”

“I’m so sorry. I’ll work on that if you try not to take the Lord’s name in vain.”

What is it they call it... Black Irish? Dark eyes, dark hair, and swarthy complexion, almost Spanish. And the voice, quiet but, wow, contained and powerful. As if he had to rein it in. He smiled and the warmth was astounding. Some people have that. You get to witness it and you think “Hey, everything’s gonna be OK.” Would go a treat in the DHSS.

He said, “I’m Father Lee but, we’re trying to catch up so, please call me Tom.”

“Tom.”

“Yes, well it’s a bit transparent. I think that the powers that be would like to present us as ecclesiastical game show hosts.”

“Big prizes?”

“The biggest. Are you a believer?”

“In game shows?”

“Touché! No, I meant the Catholic faith.”

“No. I don’t believe in a whole lot.”

“Quelle douleur.”

“You wot?”

“Nothing. I like to show off. I’d have guessed you weren’t a Catholic. You lack a certain servility that gets bestowed early.”

He sat in beside me and I said, “You’re not a very good promotions man, are you. I mean, is this a sort of inverted sell? Down playing the product to whet my appetite.”

The smile again. Jeez, I’d buy that.

“You’re a perceptive man. I also think you’re a troubled one. Might I be of comfort.”

And I wanted to tell him. For fuck sake, I knew him five minutes and was ready to blurt out the whole sheebang. But got a grip, partially. Said, “I don’t think it’s really what you’ve trained for; not in yer curriculum.”

“You might be surprised... try me.”

“Let me ask you this. If a man cares for a person and then causes her death, in a horrible way, does a piece of him die too?”

“You want forgiveness?”

“I want to understand it.”

“Go to God.”

I stood up and the spell was broken. I gave him a close look and thought... “What was I thinking, he’s just a bloke in a black suit and a fairly shabby one.” I said, “Got to go... not to God but Nashville.”

He touched my arm and near whispered, “Don’t do what you’re contemplating, I beg of you.”