It was seven or eight years before I twigged. A long time, I know. But if I’d been known for the quality of meat between my ears I’d never have been in this game in the first place, would I now? There’s me, picking up my grey hairs and getting a bit of lard round the guts and Vernon, my elder and better, looking as thin as a stiletto and twice as sharp. I never saw him exercising. He ate like a gannet and drank as if to chase off the Devil’s thirst.
We were friends by now. Fast and firm. We talked a lot, but he pretty much clammed up when the chat turned on him, his family, his loves. He got a cloud in his eyes when I asked him about his loves. Because I never saw him once with a lady on his arm. He had no tattoos proclaiming his desire for a Mavis or a Maude, or a Malcolm come to that. But we talked. One night he had had a bit too much to drink and the shakes were on him. I thought he was fearless, but this night he shook so much I could hear his bones rattling. He told me he was never going to be able to stop working. He was scared to stop working because he didn’t know what would happen to him. It wasn’t the poor bastards we visited that put the willies up him, nor was it the people he delivered the money to – what I thought was money. He said he was scared of himself. He had terrible dreams, he said. Dreams in which he walked through a corridor of mirrors and was terrified to turn to his left or right to see what kind of reflection walked with him. Ask him how he was feeling and he’d tell you that he didn’t feel himself today. Then he’d cackle to himself darkly for a bit. The drinking got worse. I drove him everywhere. But he got on top of it. Beat it, I suppose. Wrestled his demons to the ground like the hard bastard he is.
Doesn’t matter any more, he told me, when I asked him if he was okay. He dreamed of his corridor of mirrors and walked along it, smashing every one down with a baseball bat. Dead if I do and dead if I don’t, he told me. I never let it rest. I asked him to tell me what was going on. I dogged him. I went after him about the true nature of his work like a hound after a fox. I threatened that I’d leave him. He came round after that.
He showed me, one night, what the fuss was all about. We went out on a collection. A little house in Widnes. Old couple. Desperate for cash. Well, they’d got their bit of cash and Vernon came to balance the books. Instead of leaving me outside, he took me in with him. I wish I’d had a drink beforehand, let me tell you. What I saw… what I saw…
Vernon lays his hand on the old girl’s shoulder. Myra, her name was. Her old man, Clive, he behaves like a good boy and buzzes off to the kitchen to make us all a cup of tea. There’s the three of us standing in the room. I blink. And there’s four of us. I didn’t hear the door open or close. No footsteps. He’s just there. And it takes me a moment or two for it to sink in because he’s so still. This tall doctor bloke with a paper mask. His eyes are crawling all over Myra. Insect eyes, he had. They didn’t stop bloody moving.
Vernon goes, This is Dr. Chater. His voice is cracking all over the place like a wafer, like a bloody choir boy at bollockdrop. I realise, despite the smile on Vernon’s face, that he is shitting himself.
Dr. Chater moved like nobody I had ever seen before. If you think of a film of someone moving, and then take away all the frames that contain the getting from one position to the next, it was like that. Like looking at photographs. One second he was looking at Myra, the next second his hand was full of knives and she was forced back over the arm of the settee, antimacassars all over the shop. Another second, her blouse is up around her ears and Dr. Chater’s hunched over her. I watched him cut her. I watched him take a lung. No blood. He moved too fast for her body to even realise it was open. Clive came in with tears in his eyes asking who took sugar. One look at her and he shut the kitchen door. A good boy, Clive. She was stitched up and in her armchair within seconds. She was dead. She’d had a heart attack.
Dr. Chater slipped the lung into a plastic bag and tossed it to Vernon before propping a Radio Times into Myra’s hands, the doctor’s bloody prints smeared all over it. I blinked. There was three of us again. We left before Clive came back. I wanted to ask Vernon all kinds of questions but I couldn’t talk. Spit had turned to glue in my mouth. We drove for an hour until we came to a house in the country. Nice house. Big. There was this bloody freak waiting for us. He looked as if he was in a state of constant drowning. Snuffling and choking and coughing. I can see by your face you know who I’m talking about. He took the parcel and told us to wait. We were there for about half an hour, standing around, waiting. When he came back he had mud on his feet and he gave Vernon a couple of pebbles from his pocket. Do I eat this, I asked and Vernon started laughing his head off. The sickly kid was laughing too, but it was the kind of laughter people do when they don’t get the joke, but don’t want to be seen to not get the joke. Put it in your pocket, Vernon says. So I do and I sleep the sleep of kings that night and when I wake up in the morning I check for the pebble and it’s gone and I look in the mirror and all my grey hair has vanished.
That was 1970.
Couple of years ago, I’m with Vernon at a night club. This streak of piss called Norman Spence ran the place. Vernon had sorted him out with a loan and now he’s prospering, his club doing really well. We go round there for an eye. Eyes are needed for some reason. Vernon doesn’t get a chance to touch Norman, to bring in Dr. Chater. Doesn’t even get an audience with him. Bouncers pull guns on us. Guns are the thing now. I’m wondering, as this meathead draws a bead on me, is that one of the guns I carried off the boat all those years ago when I had a wet nose and wide eyes? Could be. Bastard shoots me through the throat. Tears half of it out. Vernon got me out of there. God knows how. Hail of bullets. He patches me up. We get Norman back. We sort him out. You might bump into him if you go paddling in the Mersey. I stick around for a while but my nerve has gone. It’s time to hand in my notice. Tears and hugs and take it easy mate, see you around.
He’s still caught up in it, Vernon. In his eyes, when I called it a day, I could see him thinking I was a jammy sod. I could see him wishing for what I had done. He’s been at it a long time. Maybe that payment, those pebbles, maybe it was worth it for a while. But you get trapped, don’t you? If he stopped now, what would happen to him? All that time, that experience, all of it comes piling down on you, crushes you. It would kill him to give it up now. He knows that. He has to carry on. He has to keep giving, in order to receive. He’s the most generous man in the world, but he doesn’t have a say in the matter.
Kev said, “Vernon Lord was born in 1892.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: THE GRAND PANJANDRUM
WHEN IT BECAME apparent that Sadie wanted someone dead, there weren’t as many rushing for the exits as Will might have anticipated. Some volunteered. And if Will had realised what was lined up for him, he might well have done the same. There was plenty of genuflecting going on as she stepped down from the stage and walked among the punters, the utricle hanging off her side sloshing in time to the swing of her hips. The sad-looking, pickled thing within turned and turned, its ill-formed arms hugging itself. Will realised what it was in George and Alice that he had recognised. It was Sadie.