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.”
“Hey, I’m not going to top myself.”
“I didn’t mean that... the other business.”
“I’ll see you Tom, I’ve got to leg it. You mind how you go... keep the faith, see you again.”
Outside I drew some deep breaths; thought he’d said, “I’m afraid not.”
I forgot to light the bloody candle and decided I’d burn a whole batch of ’em next time. Shove a tenner in the box, cook up a flaming frenzy. Yeah, I could do that.
The hour was getting on. I had to haul arse to make the pub. Hailed a cab and liked the easy way to travel. I got one in a million. On the glass partition was a large sign, “PLEASE DO SMOKE”. I smiled and couldn’t miss that the cabbie was certainly setting an example. He was scarcely visible through smoke. True to the taxi code, he was a talker, couldn’t shut it. I wonder do the verbals just continue even after the passengers are gone. No mystery to me if they did. Shit, was beginning to enjoy my own rap and I didn’t need professional help to figure out where that led.
He was saying, “Yer smoker now, he’s the new leper. Know wot I mean John. You got yer politician, yeah, most of ’em got ’er head up their arse, or someone else’s more like. They get fat on the tax from tobacco, am I right? And treat the smoker like dirt. I’d a non-smoker get in the cab the other day, started to give me a lecture on passive smoking. Know wot I done?”
I realised he expected an answer, so: “I’ve no idea.”
“Stopped the bleeding cab I did. Told him to hop it, wotcha think of that then.”
“Am... well done?”
“Too bloody right! Here we are then, Oval tube, right?”
As I paid him, I said, “Keep up the good work.”
“Too right I will, the sanctimonious bastards.”
And he burned rubber.
The pub was The Greyhound on the corner there, opposite St Mark’s. Best grub in South-East London and generous with it. I suppose I better describe Bill. Like Ed Asner with a jig, a hairpiece... or how he was in his Lou Grant days. The grouchy-bear effect, the look that says “I’ll help you out but don’t get fucking notions either.” Few did. Most everybody liked him, including me. Dex had said, “He’s a wanker.”
Perhaps the best endorsement. One end of the pub had the Irish fraternity doing serious damage to rivers of Guinness. Midway was a hockey team, a male one and they were doing... I dunno... hockey-ish stuff. The end alcove had Bill on his tod, such is his rep. I’d heard he had a baby girl with something wrong. I said, “On yer lonesome.”
“Yeah, makes a change. How are ya Nick?”
“Doing OK.”
“Wotcha drinking.”
“Scotch.”
“Yo’ Jimmy... couple large Teachers, one for yerself.”
We waited till the drinks came, said, “Cheers.”
And meant it. Drank deep. Bill wiped his mouth, said, “I bin hearing about you Nicky. That toe-rag you run with, Dexy, him and some black bit... Mebbe involved in major bad doing.”