She carefully extracted it then tore it into little pieces.
I said, ‘That comes outa your allowance.’
Thus we passed my shift in aggressive spirits. She’d sulk, then ask about how long we’d keep her and... like that, sometimes I answered, sometimes I sulked. Had to give her another few slaps but other than that, it was no worse than any other first date.
When Danny arrived, I said, ‘No masks.’
‘Just be myself, that it?’
He had a pile of glossy magazines.
Cosmopolitan
Vanity Fair peeking out.
I said:
‘What, no flowers?’
‘Does she want some?’
‘Get in, for fuck’s sake.’
Roz was doing exercises, stopped, said, ‘Another wanker.’
And continued her sit-ups.
Danny looked at me.
I said, ‘I think she likes you.’
He approached her, said, ‘Miss... I brought you some mags, I didn’t know your favourite, so I got a selection.’
She didn’t stop but called out, ‘Jes-us.’
He turned back to me: ‘Any trouble?’
‘Naw, she’s a sweetheart, plus... a slap gets her attention.’ He was indignant.
‘I don’t hit women.’
‘Naw, you hit on them.’
Then a superior grin, the male animal in preening glory.
‘Women wouldn’t be yer strong point, Tone... eh? Not yer field, so to speak.’
‘Gee that hurts. But do keep using my name, mebbe later you can give her my phone number.’
‘Shit... sorry... Tone... erm...’
Roz was up now, interested, said:
‘He’s gay... I knew it...’
Danny shrugged, ‘Sorry.’
I got ready to go, added:
‘Sorry? That helps. Maked it all better. Phew, I’m so happy.’
I looked at Roz, her face shining in triumph, said slowly to her, ‘Yeah... I go for men, but not wimps like Leon.’
‘Bye bye, Tone, keep it in yer pants, big boy.’
Outside, I considered and had to confess, she won that one. Maybe it was the Cambridge education, gave her the edge. I’d have to go back to beating her I supposed.
13
I got my head down and dreamt of Village People. Jeez, nightmares I have known.
One time I tried to kill myself, I needed a rope. Well, I’m English, what did you expect... imagination?
The big hit at the time was
‘Reasons to be Cheerful, Part II.’
Ian Dury and the Blockheads. There’s a name, eh? The arse end of punk. Hugh Cornwell and the Stranglers were on their uppers and Chrissie Hynde wrote for the NME.
Days of Puke.
I’m not saying these events are connected. It’s how it was. I’d watched Gone with the Wind. Of course the inference gets drawn. Vivien Leigh was manic depressive. I never got why Judy Garland is the gay icon, with Vivien there undawned.
And coming off a ferocious bout of euphoria, I had been fucking exalted! And ended exhausted. I bought and sold my car twice in one week.
After the Burning of Atlanta, I stood up and, in the great English tradition, went to the garden shed. Took the rope and coiled it over the beam. Put the noose around my neck and kicked away the chair.
The physical pain was like nothing I ever experienced. I hadn’t done the noose properly and I strangled for minutes, but my neck didn’t break. Got free finally, heavily bruised and mangled. I checked into the Maudsley.
A guy I was bopping one time, was into auto-eroticism. Strangulation to the point of orgasm and seemingly, orgasm like nothing ever before. It would frigging need to be. Course it frequently goes wrong and:
You come
and
You go
permanently.
No thanks.
So in this Village People dream, there was a noose round my neck and pulling on it, was Jack. What the Americans call ‘yanking my chain.’
Came awake, drenched in sweat.
Fuck.
Reached for a cigarette, but I’d quit... as Reed might say ‘Shee-hit.’
If you could put a soundtrack to manic depression, I’d have Jimi Hendrix with
‘All Along the Watchtower.’
See Richard E Grant in Withnail & I bombing up the Ml, all systems fucked, Hendrix blaring and him roaring at people to throw themselves under.
That’s close.
But if you want to get the full orchestration, the full phantom band going full-tilt-boogie, you could do worse than U2 with
‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.’
You have to get the version where the gospel singers are doing back-up. Yeah... and keep a rope ready... you’re in business.
I showered, put on a pair of 501s, scuffed tan work boots, Ben Sherman short sleeve and Adidas windbreaker. The working gay, ready to prowl, if not to rock ’n’ roll.
Did some spraying with Lynx deodorant. I like that Africa number. Picked up the phone and called Jack. Answered on first ring.
Probably sitting by it...
‘Brady?’
‘Yeah, hi Jack.’ (No pun intended.)
‘Is she there... there with you?’
‘Jack, there’s been a problem.’
‘Don’t tell me about problems, put her on the line, what do I pay you for?’
‘Jack, she’s not here.’
I was sweating... had I expected it to be easy?
Wiping my hand on my 501s, the receiver was wet with perspiration.
He said, ‘Spit it out, fellah.’
‘Leon has moved her... says you can have her for a price.’
‘How did he find out? That nigger of yours tell him?’
‘Jeez, course not. He obviously did some checking, knows you’re worth a few sov’s.’
Silence, but I could feel his fury, a palpable thing.
He said, ‘Ever see Mississippi Burning?’
‘Yeah... but...’
‘Don’t interrupt me son, don’t ever do that. I tell you... Brixton will be fucking burning.’
‘Don’t go crazy, Jack... you’ll never see her.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He says unless you pay, he’ll turn her out and...’
‘Turn her out?’
‘...Erm... as a hooker and... that you can collect what’s left offa Bedford Hill.’
Longer silence and I managed to get my damn jacket off. Jeez, bow’d it get so warm.
I had to ask, ‘Jack... Jack... you still there?’
‘How much does he want?’
‘Forty big ones.’
‘When?’
‘Five days.’
Big exhale of breath or rage then, ‘Okay.’
‘You’ll pay?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re doing the right thing, Jack. I’ll let you know the details in a few days... don’t worry.’
‘I’m not worried.’
‘Good... that’s good... and Jack... you won’t do anything... er, reckless... will you?’
‘Do your job.’
And he slammed down the phone.
I said aloud, ‘There, that wasn’t too bad, was it? Piece of cake really.’
I tore off the shirt. Christ, I’d have to go back in the shower. Even Lynx hadn’t the protection for this.
Hunger came calling and I checked my provisions. Had...
dead cabbage
Two sus’ eggs
Wilted sausages
Kellogg’s Frosties
My cup overfloweth.
Time for a greasy caff. Heading for the Oval end of the Brixton Road. A girl smiled at me. Precious little use at the best of times but she was insistent with it. I figured, a hooker or lunatic, said testily, ‘Was there something?’
‘Mr Brady, it’s me... Crystal... Danny’s wife.’