I’d tried to figure what lay behind the multi personas. As I realised Lisa was right, I felt the chill along my back. I didn’t want to be the first thing those eyes looked on as the face began its routine of movement, adapting to whatever personality the mind seized. Slipping past him I went to the kitchen. Made me an elephant coffee. I didn’t want a hit of caffeine. It was blitzkrieg.
When it makes you want to throw up, you’ve got the combo. I knew there’d be a lot more unpalatable things these next few days. The coffee didn’t make me feel better. Hell-no, it just woke me enough.
I was heading for the basement when I remembered the flaming mask. I pulled it on and checked in the mirror. I looked like a terrorist with a hangover. Aloud I said, “Horse’s arse.”
Baldwin was sitting on the cot, supping from a can of purdey. He watched me approach. I knew he was in his sixties and he certainly looked it. If a black person can have a black pallor, he’d achieved it. Naked except for a blanket... and the chain... he looked pathetic. I know now what woesome means. Till you saw his eyes. Jumping with intelligence, you knew this one was a sharp cookie. He said, “Dr Livingstone, I presume.”
Then he rattled his chain and added, “By the rattling of my chains, something foul this way comes.”
The BBC must have loved his accent.
Neutral.
Clear.
Concise.
Polished.
Modulated.
All the friggin’ things mine wasn’t. I was south of the river, always would be. An accent like his could convey effortless intimidation. In my corner I had size on my side and it was time to flex it.
Baldwin was about five foot, five inches and looked shorter. A black gnome with bright eyes, looked on me. I hunkered down beside him and began, “You know what this is... what’s going down here.”
“It’s downright stupid, I know that.”
I gave him a slap to the side of the head. The eyes burned.
“Whoa... little guy, lose the attitude... OK. Let’s get that squared away from the off. See my size... and you just learned I’m a mean fuck. You do what you’re told, button yer lip... we get paid... you’re outa here. Simple.”
“How much will you demand?”
“One and a half million.”
He gave a huge laugh so I slapped him again. A degree harder.
“What’s the joke?”
“You haven’t a prayer.”
“You best pray, fella. The rest of the team, they make me look like the good guy.”
I raised my hand and he ducked.
“See, you’re getting the picture already.”
I prepared a fry-up for his breakfast. Heavy on the eggs. By the time I switched them from the pan to the plate, they were a mess. The toast was black. A sort of pathetic fallacy according to the Digest. Was he a tea drinker? Not any more. What we stocked was coffee, all the current residents being wired. Lisa had laid in one carton of fresh juice. I had a glass and only then realised how adrenaline had dehydrated me. Jeez, it tasted good, walloped in another. Ah... there was a quarter of a glass finally for him. Captives can’t be choosers.
Back on with the mask again and serious irritation. I found an old track suit and brought it along.
As I set the tray before him, I asked, “You’re name’s Ronald, right... so I guess I’ll call you Ronnie.”
“No one calls me that... ever.”
“They do now... here’s something for you to wear and your breakfast. Hope you like eggs.”
I had to unchain him to get the tracksuit on but he didn’t struggle. With a disgusted sound he stirred the food.
“I don’t eat cholesterol.”
“Then you don’t eat.”
“No tea.”
“Right.”
“Too much to hope for decaffeinated, I suppose. Tad tight with the juice. Budget a shade low perhaps?”
I pointed with my hand.
“You got music, stuff to read. Could be worse.”
He gave me a withering look.
“Get me something I can read... anything on or by Rilke, Lowell, Baudelaire.”
He paused, then added, “You want me to spell those for you?”
“Ronnie, lose the attitude, or you’ll lose the fuckin’ lip. Can you spell that?”
He picked up James Baldwin, asked, “What were his deathbed words?”
“Fuck should I know.”
“Not that... he said ‘I’m bored.’”
“I thought that was George Sanders.”
“You thought wrong, he shot himself because he was bored. My namesake died of somewhat normal circumstances. However, your answers reveal a muddled tabloid intelligence. Suitable for donkey work.”
I was leaving when he shouted, “Yo’... Gorilla, this music! Surely you jest... Whitney Houston.”
He dropped the cassettes on the floor, continued, “I shall require some Elgar... Bach... or even Beethoven. But only as a last resort. How am I supposed to wash, pray tell?”
He was a spunky little fucker, I’ll give him that... or he was nuts. I asked, “Your verbals reveal a bit too much mate. You’re obviously a man of culture, of refined tastes. Am I correct?”
“One tries.”
“No doubt you’ll be familiar with a French whore’s bath?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What it is, I bring a basin of water and you use that.”
“I most certainly will not.”
“Ronnie... Ronnie, this is getting like a bad song. Then... you don’t wash. As for toilet facilities, that complicated job at the foot of the cot is a chemical toilet... state of the art. Let me promise you one thing, however. You call me names again... any names, washing won’t be a problem... Esso es claro.”
Apart from his muttering “A kidnapping linguist” the message got through. At least for then.
Dex had gone but he’d left a note: “Some greedy-guts left us juiceless, the inhumanity of man.”
No doubt he was already before his wardrobe selecting a persona. Clothes indeed make the man.
Breakfast for me was more coffee. No eggs. As I sipped, I glanced through a magazine Lisa had left on the table.
She’d red-marked lines from a feature on Kathy Galloway’s “Love Burning Deep”.
The poem, “Going Over” had many red lines. It looked like this:
Now, the very last few lines were under red ink gone riot, as if the continuous re-emphasising would drive home the message. Certainly drove it home to me.
We stand, one foot upon the bridge
Wondering if we too have the courage to go over
And strike the match behind us.
So rapt was I by the last line, I didn’t hear her. She snatched the magazine from me, clutched it to her bosom, flared, “Ain’t yo got no decency white boy, no sense of privacy?”
“Hey, back off... I didn’t know it was sacred.”
She rummaged in the fridge.
“Where de juice at?”
“Dex took it.”
“Muthah-fuckhah.”
To ease her down, I asked, “What will you do with the money?”
She mellowed. “Armistead Maupin’s character, Anna Madrigal, said she’d like to buy a small Greek island... but on reflection, she settle for a small Greek.”
I wondered if I had wandered into her “A” Level English class. This morning I had culture coming out of my arsehole.
Did I share this? Hell no. I told her of Dex’s plans. He was going to open a pet cemetery. She didn’t laugh, but asked, “Like Stephen King... is there a demand?”
“Well, there’s already an existing one. At Silvermere in South-West London. Seems there’s three horses buried there. I think, in fact, I used to back them. Oh yeah, they’ve got a goldfish, a family of rats, a terrapin, a monkey and a parrot. He showed me a price list for the deceased... and should I say pet-ceased?”