A staircase led to the source of the music and I began to climb. I had the pump in both hands and could feel it slick with sweat. Jeez, I thought, what if there’s an Abba convention. I could take them all back to Balham.
At the top, I was confronted by an open door, the den, obviously. Leather recliners along the wall, bean bags on the wooden floor. In the middle, dancing, was... Roz, giving it large. She was dressed in a leotard and for such an ugly bitch, she sure moved with pure grace. I pulled the breech to slide a shell into the barrel, squeezed the trigger. The hi-fi exploded and Roz screamed.
I said, ‘Thank you for the music.’
She whirled round, spat and said, ‘It’s the moron again.’
I moved down into the room and picked up the remote. A massive TV was perched near the ruined music centre. I switched on. The rioting was in full hop, so close you could touch it and with the lingering smell of cordite, it was like having it in the room.
I motioned with the gun, said, ‘Sit down.’
She didn’t, so I added, ‘Or I’ll knock you down.’
She sat.
If she was scared or even all that surprised, she hid it well. A smirk danced twixt her eyes and her mouth.
She said, ‘I can’t believe even a cretin like you would be so stupid.’
‘Well, there you have it... where’s Danny?’
Now she was truly amused, said, ‘Why, with his wife of course, save her hanging about.’
She wanted me to know. To know they’d done Crystal. Then the TV commentary got hugely excited.
‘A man... a black man behind the hearse has been shot...’
Now I smiled, said, ‘Daddy’s gone a hunting.’
Her face changed, rage through alarm as she looked at me then back to the screen, shouted, ‘What have you done!’
‘Me... nothing... but at a guess I’d say sniper.’
‘You told my father... Oh, Leon.’
And she leapt at me, nails and teeth clawing. I side-stepped and lashed the side of her head with one of them thug specialties. She flayed across the floor.
I said, ‘The second one hurts even more, can you believe that?’
She rolled on to her side then half sat up, a bruise already forming on her cheek.
Her accent now was pure south-east London, no college control here. All bile.
‘Yer friend Danny, he was a poof... yeah, he wanted to try it doggy style... I slit him as he came.’
And pulling open her leotard, she held the plastic cross round her neck, continued...
‘To remind me of his pig squealing... and the courier... yer little toy-boy, we lit him up last night.’
I double-actioned the pump and it blew her across the room. I walked over and put two more in. Now the TV was babbling news but I was deafened from the gunfire. I blew the screen apart and pumped the remainder into the couches. Put the gun in the Tesco bag and legged it outa there.
Out on Electric Avenue the riot hadn’t over-spilled.
Yet.
I went across the road and stood in the doorway. I sunk down on my knees and was thus, when a black limo screeched down the road. It stopped at the club and a bunch of black men poured out. I distinctly saw Leon, live as hate.
After Glow
22
I did what any self respecting gay manic depressive would do.
I ran like fuck.
I spent that night in a numb state at the hotel. Everything had got away from me. I didn’t know how to rein it in or if I even wanted to.
Jeff
Ben
Roz
Danny
Crystal
ALL DEAD.
A line from Flaubert burned in my head:
‘I’m crammed with coffins, like an old cemetery.’
Reed was MIA... I was lithium leaded.
Next day, I bundled my gear together and paid the bill. In an attempt at levity, Spiro said:
‘Your wife will be happy for your return.’
I snapped, ‘Wise up.’
As I went he said, ‘Kalo taxidi.’
I figured he wished wrath of cab drivers on me or some such drivel. When I learnt a bit of Greek later, I found it was, ‘good journey.’ Yeah, like that.
Rented a long-stay locker and stashed the guns, the bat, most of the money. Next I went to Earl’s Court and into a late departures agency, booked the early morning flight to Athens. Not because I felt that’s where I wanted to go, but it was the first available. Then to Marks and Spencer for some lightweight clothes.
Keep it simple:
Two jeans
T-Shirts
Moccasins.
I didn’t venture near my house. I let the landlord repossess, I couldn’t give a toss. Had my lithium supplies restocked and I was ready to roll. The flight was scheduled for 2am, so I had ’till midnight. Checked into one of those back-packer places near Abingdon Road and laid low.
I had only one call to make before I had to head for Gatwick. I rang him. As always, he picked up on the first ring.
‘Yeah?’
‘Hello, Jack.’
‘Brady... I hope you found a deep rat hole to hide in.’
‘I’ve get to hand it to you Jack, you sure fucked it up.’
‘Me?’
‘Your sniper... he shot the wrong man. What’s the problem, they all look alike to him?’
‘There’ll be other times.’
‘Not for Roz.’
‘What?’
‘Leon took her out — retribution he calls it.’
‘Oh Jesus... oh God...’
‘Oh, and I figured something else too... she wasn’t just yer daughter was she...? She was yer wife... at least “wife” in the biblical sense.’
‘How dare you?’
‘I saw Chinatown. All that Hackman... a bloody snow job. I was looking at the wrong movie. Well here’s one for you to rent — Hackman in The Hunting Party. At least he could shoot.’
I thought I could hear sobbing and I said, ‘I’m going to be out of the picture for a bit but no worries, I’ll be back... it’ll be like a sequel. Bye, Jack.’
I bought a pack of cigarettes. The battle to stop had been awesome but hey... click... I was a smoker again. The first few pulls and I dizzied out but that’s why we came.
Decided to go the full route and bought a Zippo. That solid clunk when you close it, it sounds like significance. I bought it secondhand from one of those stalls off Kensington High Street. The traders are Russian and Lithuanian or shit... I dunno, maybe even Lutheran. The look they have, they’ve seen it all.
On the side of the lighter it said, ‘52nd Airborne’ and that seemed about right, considering the source.
I liked it.
Michael Caine said to Bob Hoskins in Mona Lisa: ‘It’s the little things, George.’
He had a point there.
They say the difference between having a single friend and no-one is immeasurable. Oh yeah, I’ll go with that. Or, to really put the boot in:
‘No man can be considered a failure who has one friend.’
Well, what can I say? I’d fucked up big time.
At the Departure Lounge at Gatwick, I was examining my duty-free purchase. Carton of cigs and a bottle of Glenfiddich. They didn’t have my usual and time it was to let sippin’ whisky go. I chose this one cos I liked the name — ‘A Glenfiddich please, straight up.’ See! You sound like you know yer stuff. In the grand scheme of things, it rates zero but right there, right then, it was a notion to cling to.
As I clung, a bloke came and plonked his self beside me. No by yer leave or anything, just sat on down. He was wearing a crumpled safari suit. There’s a place in Jermyn Street they cater to exactly that kind of thing.