***
Ronnie was singing about Galileo and Figaro, ignoring the jibes from Lee and his cronies, and feeling far from magnifico when Marjorie Razorblades walked into the pub. Marjorie was a striking looking woman. She was muscular and well over six–foot tall with short–cropped bleached–blonde hair and leathery, sun–tanned skin. She was dressed head to foot in black leather and at first Ronnie assumed that she had come dressed as Catwoman although he was reminded more of Grace Jones in A View To A Kill. Trailing behind Marjorie, as per usual, were her minders, the Greenwood twins, Darren and Dane. The twins were rejects from some godforsaken one–whore town in frozen wastelands of the north of England. They certainly weren’t the sharpest tools in the box but they were as hard as nails. They were both wearing Newcastle United football strips and had curly black wigs over their normal skinheads. Ronnie assumed they were meant to be Kevin Keegan but wasn’t one hundred percent sure.
As Marjorie walked towards the stage, the crowd parted like the Red Sea. A table in front of the stage quickly became vacant and Marjorie and Dane sat while Darren went to the bar.
An exhausted Ronnie finished his song to muted applause and much laughter. He nodded to Marjorie as he stepped off the stage.
“What tune are you doing tonight, Marjorie?” he said. “What’s New Pussycat?”
She smiled and meowed.
“Cat Scratch Fever,” she said and clawed the air.
Ronnie grimaced and went to the bar. He was relieved to see that Nial was working. He caught the wiry old Irishman’s attention and a pint of Stella Artois was quickly put in front of him. The drink was on the house as usual when Nial was working. A couple of years before, Ronnie had helped Nial out when his teenage grandson had become involved with a particularly nasty drug dealer called Barry Malone. With the help of Marjorie Razorblades, Ronnie had been able to sever that particular bond for good, though Marjorie had done the actual severing.
Ronnie took a swig of his drink and headed back toward Lee and the women. Lee was now canoodling with Mary, and Jola looked bored, flicking through her Smartphone.
Ronnie found a spare stool and sidled up to her just as Marjorie began to belt out a version of Delilah with a sick smirk on her face.
“Have you put your name down for anything?” said Ronnie.
“A song? Me?” said Jola. “No. No chance. I don’t sing very well and I don’t know most of the words to English songs.”
“Yes, I suppose it’s not that easy to sing in a foreign language.”
“In any language,” she said.
“Don’t I know it!” said Ronnie. “If you stay longer you’ll hear some real aural pollution, I can tell you.”
He took a good gulp of his drink.
“Oh, you were okay but she’s very good,” said Jola. She pointed toward the stage.
“Marjorie? Yes, she a woman of a great many talents.”
He saw that Jola had finished her drink.
“Fancy going somewhere else? Somewhere quieter?” he said.
Jola looked around. She saw Mary sticking a tongue down Lee’s throat and grimaced.
“Why not?” she said.
She took off her cowboy hat, put it in a black holdall and slipped on a long black leather coat.
“Aren’t you going to be cold?” she said.
“Probably,” said Ronnie.
He checked that Lee wasn’t looking and sneaked his duffle coat off the back of a chair.
“Finders keepers,” said Ronnie. He winked.
“Is this the sort of British policing techniques I’ll be learning?” said Jola, smiling.
***
Jacqui King hadn’t been at all surprised that The Golden Lion was jam–packed with jackasses. Drunken, braying idiots permeated the very air of the place. The pub was deep in the heart of Soho and was always like that on a Saturday night. But much to her chagrin, most of customers seemed to be half Jacqui’s age, despite the fact that, in her mind, she had only recently tumbled over the precipice into middle age.
Jacqui sighed and leaned back against the switched–off quiz machine. She sipped her Mojito and stretched her long, stocking–clad legs. She wriggled her feet in her black Jimmy Choo shoes. She immediately felt a twinge in her lower spine and knew for sure that it was sciatica or, if it wasn’t, it was some sort of freak reaction caused by a brain tumour. Or maybe that old standby cancer. Just because you’re a hypochondriac it doesn’t mean life’s not out to get you, she thought.
On a small stage, an overweight, balding guitarist, who was billed as The Man Who Would Be Sting, was performing a heartfelt but dreary version of The Police’s The Bed’s Too Big Without You to a mostly indifferent crowd. Jacqui yawned.
“You know, I much preferred old Stink when he was in The Police. When he was singing about shagging schoolgirls and prostitutes. Before he went all Feed The Whale,” said Jacqui. “At least those songs had tunes.”
“That’s a bit before my time. I’m more of a Stone Roses man myself,” said Robert Reed, wiping his sweaty forehead with a napkin. His lips wobbled as he wheezed. He loosened his shirt collar and silk tie.
“Oh, Robert, The Stone Roses are dire. Music for thickos by thickos,” said Jacqui. She chortled and patted Robert’s arm. He flushed red.
“Only joking,” said Jacqui.
“You do have a wicked tongue,” said Robert. He winked.
“And I’ll give you a good tongue lashing, if you’re not careful.”
Robert blushed.
“Words are our tools, Robert. Even our weapons, sometimes,” said Jacqui.
“Aha,” said Robert.
“Oh, it’s true,” said Jacqui. “You see, words have no meaning within themselves but we give them meaning depending on our own experiences and prejudices. For example, if I describe a man as single it’s one thing — maybe he’s a bit of jack the lad, a lady–killer, like you …”
Robert smirked, his chubby lips looking even more rubbery.
“But if I say that someone’s a bachelor then what do you think of?”
Robert peeled the label from his bottle of Efes Pilsner. “A bachelor gay? Lives with his mother? Kiddie fiddler, maybe?” he said.
“Aha. And what do you think of when you hear the word spinster?”
“Oh, frigid, I suppose. A lesbian. A bit desperate. Gagging for it!” He laughed and snorted beer through his nose.
“You see, that’s why I don’t tell people that I’m a librarian. Because of the connotations.”
“Yeah? I see what you mean,” said Robert, who very clearly didn’t have a clue what Jacqui was talking about.
And she loved it. She loved watching him squirm as he tried to concentrate on what she was saying and tear his gaze away from her ample cleavage. Especially when she accidentally–on–purpose dropped an ice cube between her large breasts.
“But you don’t look anything like my idea of a librarian,” he said. He almost licked his lips off his face.
“Well there you are. It’s a matter of perspective. For example two people could describe the same person in a different way, depending on their political bent. One man will say that someone’s a freedom fighter and another will call him a terrorist.”
“One man’s fish is another one’s Poisson?” said Robert, crunching a mint between his shiny, white, teeth.
“Exactly. One man could say, for example, that you’re well–built and others would say you’re fat.” She winked.
Robert flushed and Jacqui patted his wrist.
“But I don’t need to explain that to you, do I?” She beamed at him. “You’re a successful estate agent. You put a spin on words all the time, eh? Make gold from lead. Turn shit to shinola?”
Robert laughed, seeing this as way out of the conversation and an in–road into talking about himself.
“Well, the place I saw last week could only be described in one way — a goldmine! I bought it for a song, too. The daft old bird I got it from didn’t have a clue what she
was signing over.”
“You’re, wicked,” said Jacqui, with a wink. She looked at her Rolex. “I’d better be going.”
“Your chariot awaits!” said Robert, holding his briefcase in front of his hard–on as he stood.
They left the pub and got into Robert’s BMW. He slammed the passenger door and they drove in silence, listening to Radiohead’s Karma Police. The night was inky black as Robert parked the car outside his Shoreditch flat, eager to get Jacqui through the front door.
“And then there’s my hobby. It’s such a cliché for a librarian, such a stereotype,” said Jacqui.
“What’s that, then?” Robert unfastened his seat belt and twisted round toward her.
“Knitting!” she said. “Imagine! A librarian who likes knitting? Just think of those connotations. That’s why we have to be careful what we put in these online dating profiles, eh? Why I had to say I was a lawyer.” She put her black handbag onto her knee and pulled out a ball of wool, knitting needles skewering through it.
Robert grinned and leaned toward Jacqui.
“Well, I prefer what I see in the flesh.”
“And, of course, one man’s serial killer is another woman’s vigilante, eh?” she said, slamming a knitting needle into Robert’s ear. “Vive le difference!” she laughed.
***
Jola Lach stood in the darkness, smoking an e–cigarette looking out of the window of Ronnie Burke’s cramped flat at a bustling Shoreditch High Street. She was wearing one of Ronnie’s old Van Morrison t–shirts which went down to her knees. The neon sign from the trendy bar opposite flashed on and off. Tim Buckley’s Song To The Siren eased from the speakers. Ronnie lay naked on his bed.
“No, we don’t dance the polka in Poland. That’s an American thing,” said Jola, yawning. “Nobody in Poland dances the Polka. It’s a German dance, I think. But when the European immigrants went to America it all got mish–mashed together so American Poles dance the Polka at weddings and things.”
“Sort of a cross pole–ination?” said Ronnie. He smirked.
Jola turned and frowned.
“That is another example of the famous English sense of humour, I assume,” she said.
A police car sped past, lights flashing and sirens wailing and Ronnie remembered that they both had work the next day and sighed. He was sorely tempted to throw a sick day. He got out of bed and put his arms around Jola.
“I suppose humour doesn’t always travel well,” he said.
“British humour doesn’t travel well at all. Although, when I was a teenager my father used to watch Benny Hill and Mr. Bean and laugh like crazy but I never thought they were funny.”
“Me neither,” said Ronnie. “I can’t stand Mr. Bean. I can’t even bare to look at him. He’s got a face like a cat’s arse. I like American shows like The Big Bang Theory and Silicon Valley. Do you know them?”
“I don’t. I don’t have much time for television these days. I just seem to work and study.”
“What are you studying?”
“Criminology. Psychology. The usual. Every second weekend I head off to Gdansk and try to concentrate.”
“So what do you do to relax?”
He pushed himself against her, feeling himself getting hard.
“I have sex with horny and desperate men like you,” she said.
She turned around and kissed him.
“Fair enough,” said Ronnie. He pulled her back toward the bed. “We aim to please.”
The Boys Are Back In Time
London, England
Kevin Robinson got out of his Mini Cooper, locked up the car and, with Sisyphean resignation, slowly trudged up the hill. He shivered and pulled his long black overcoat close to him. His short breaths appeared in front of him like spectres. The moonlight oozed across the city’s dank cobblestones like quicksilver; creeping between the cracks, crawling into the gutters. As he got closer to Marjorie’s Bar he took off his black woollen hat. The cold night air bit at his shaven head. He carefully pushed open the bar’s large oak door. The room was suffocating in red velvet and leather. Chandeliers hung from a mirrored ceiling but there were no other customers. Just the way he liked it, these days.
His brother Wayne had texted him to say that he was going to be a little late but Kevin didn’t mind at all. It was early evening and he was in one of his favourite bars, comfortably nestled on his usual bar stool, calmly contemplating the two fingers of Johnny Walker Blue that Marjorie Razorblades had immediately placed in front of him. The ice cubes seemed to shimmer, glimmer and glow in the wan light.
“Long time no see,” said Kevin.
“Yeah, you’re a shite … for shore eyes,” said Marjorie.
She had her hair cut into a bob as black as a raven, black lipstick and nail varnish, and a black PVC dress. She looked pretty much the same as she had twenty years before when Mart had first met her working behind the bar in one of his Uncle Mack’s strip clubs. She was chewing gum, as was her habit. She’d once said that after so many years on the game, Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum was the only thing that got rid of the taste of cocks and condoms. After she met Peggy Suicide she changed businesses, though. Bought a bar and took up money lending and laundering. She described it as going straight.
“I’ve missed your charm offensive, Marjorie,” said Kevin. “And decent music.”
“I can take a hint,” said Marjorie.
Kevin took a sip of his drink and closed his eyes as Marjorie shuffled through the door to the snug and switched on the lights. She pressed a button and the dusty Wurlitzer jukebox burst to life. Lee Morgan belted out The Day The Rains Came. In French.
“Are you still doing the karaoke here?” said Kevin.
“No. We ditched it. I go to The Essex Arms these days,” said Marjorie.
“Isn’t that the coppers’ pub?”
“Yeah, I’ve shined a few Bobby’s Helmet’s there.”
Kevin smirked as he looked outside where the rain now fell down in sheets and the fading street lights shimmered, reflected in the parked cars’ windscreens. The wet pavement reflected Marjorie’s Bar’s flickering neon sign. Headlights cut through the heavy rain. One drink melded into another until a gangling scarecrow rushed past the window and burst through the door.
Tall, and with long black hair, Wayne Robinson flew in out of the storm like a murder of crows, bringing rain and a waft of golden leaves behind him. He wore a long black raincoat which flapped in the breeze. He took a seat next to his brother and took off his raincoat.
“Rum and coke, Wayne?” said Marjorie.
“Naw. Rum makes you glum,” said Wayne Robinson.
He took off his coat. “I’ll just have a pint of Guinness for now, ta,” he said. “I’ve been gasping for one.”
“Can’t get a decent pint of the black stuff in Spain, then?” said Marjorie.
“Not easily,” said Wayne.
“I never expected to see either of you back in The Smoke so soon,” she said. “What is it for? Love or money?”
Kevin and Wayne looked at each other.
“A bit of both,” said Kevin. “Jimmy beckoned.”
Marjorie smiled.
“Yeah, I know. Just winding you up. Your dad told me you’d be turning up. Same again?” said Marjorie.
Kevin nodded.
“I thought you were on the wagon?” said Wayne. “Have the wheels come off?”
“It was a bit of a wobbly wagon anyway,” said Kevin. “I heard you’d given up the gargle, too.”
“When in Rome,” said Wayne.
He smirked at Marjorie.
“Give us a Jack Daniels chaser,” he said.
Marjorie poured the drinks.
Kevin pointed to a poster on the wall.
“Fancy that?” he said. “Jeffrey Munday’s Punk Rock Disco. Saturday night.”
“Should be alright. As long as he plays some decent Northern stuff,” said Wayne.
“Such as?”
“You know, The Fall, Buzzc
ocks, Penetration, The Prefects, Magazine. The northern punk bands were always much brighter than the southern ones. They talked about Camus and Dostoevsky but the southerners were all about where on the Kings’ Road you bought your knickers from. Except for the Subway Sect, mind you.”
Kevin chuckled. Same old Wayne. As contrary as ever.
“If you like. By the by, have you signed up for Mixcloud?” said Kevin. “I use it to listen to Gary Crowley’s Soho Radio punk and new wave show. Good stuff, that.”
He smirked. He knew that Wayne wasn’t even on Facebook. He still had a MySpace account.
Wayne shrugged.
“I’ll have a gander when I get back. I like that BBC Radio 6 myself,” he said. “Marc Riley and that other bloke.”
There was a cough and Jimmy Robinson walked out of the shadows and took a bar stool next to his sons. Marjorie put a drink on the bar in front of him.
“Alright, dad. How’s life in the blighted Blighty?” said Kevin.
“It’s a bit weird, to be honest. So many things in London have changed,” said Jimmy. “And not for the better, either. But at least some of the boozers are the same.”
“I bet there’s been a few surprises since you got out,” said Kevin.
“Well, it’s funny you should mention that,” said Jimmy. “I went up to Durham nick and saw your Uncle Mack yesterday.”
“How is he? Still hamming up the mental health plea?” said Kevin.
“Of course,” said Jimmy. “He’s got headshrinker sessions every day, though the psychiatrist sounds even more mental than Mack.”
He knocked back his drink and turned to Marjorie.
“Another round, please Marjorie,” said Jimmy. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
And they slipped toward oblivion like dirty dishwater down a plughole.
New York, USA
The waiting room was filled with the sound of muzak — sleepy synthesizers and yawning saxophones. The pastel walls were covered with generic abstract paintings — all splashes, dots and sharp lines that were probably worth a fortune. The view from the window was terrific, despite the sky being granite grey. The Manhattan skyline was everything it was supposed to be.
Big City Blues - Paul D Brazill Page 2
