He leaned close to Ronnie and whispered. “I heard she comes from … up north.” He shivered.
“Well, she can stay there. Bit nippy this time of year, I imagine,” said Ronnie.
“I’m only trying to help. You can’t please some people.” He sulked and scratched a spot.
Ronnie looked at his watch. It was too late to rush back home now. He sighed and said, “Okay. Spin me your yarn from the beginning.”
“Well,” said Baghead, leaning close to Ronnie. “It started in the graveyard when we were burying the kangaroo …”
***
Jimmy Robinson took a sip from a bottle of Zwiec Porter. He grimaced and put the bottle back on the bar.
“Ouch!” he said. “That smarts!”
“Not too fond?” said Kevin.
Jimmy grinned.
“Just winding you up, son. It’s very tasty, actually,” he said. “A bit lethal, though. It’s more than nine percent!”
“Yeah, I was in Poland for a stag do last year. I got a bit out of order on that stuff. I Blotted my copy book a bit, too. It was St Patricks Day and everything was green. Buildings bathed in a green light and the like. I asked this bloke why they celebrated St Paddy’s Day and not St George’s Day, since the Irish were neutral during World War 2 and did nothing to help the Poles,” said Kevin.
“And what did he say?” asked Jimmy.
“Not a lot, he couldn’t speak English,” said Kevin.
They all chuckled.
“I like a bit of that Paddy rebel song stuff, myself,” said Wayne. “The Wild Rover and that.”
“Speaking of which,” said Jimmy. “Roving and that. Remember when I went to New York when you two were kids?”
“Sort of. Weren’t you there with ‘Bertie The Bolt’? Working on the Mockney gangster film?” said Wayne. “Had the bloke from The Saint in it?”
“Yep, that’s the time. More than twenty years ago, would you believe.”
“Time flies,” said Kevin.
“Yeah, it does at that. Crashes and burns too. Anyway, well while I was there I had a bit of a fling, like,” said Jimmy. “A contretemps, as your granddad would have said. There was this writer who was married to a posh psychiatrist. He couldn’t get it up and I offered my services as it were. Anything to help out a mate.”
“No change there, then,” said Kevin. “Heart of gold, you have.”
“Yeah, well it turns out there was a result of that particular union.”
“Yeah?” said Kevin, feeling a tad uncomfortable.
“Yeah. A boy. Michael, and apparently he’s heading over to Europe this summer to find his roots, as the yanks are want to do. Heading our way, in fact.”
“Another half–brother crawls out of the woodwork. That last one turned out to be a right annoying twat. Are there any more we should know about?” asked Wayne.
Jimmy smirked and looked at his Rolex.
“How long have you got?” he said.
Durham, England
As the bright spring afternoon drifted into evening, Dr Julian Bogaski’s office grew darker, as did Mad Mack Robinson’s thoughts.
“13 Ghosts?” said Dr Bogajski. He pulled sharply at his shirt cuffs. “I can’t say that I’m familiar with that particular film, or Mr William Castle’s oeuvre as a director, to be honest.”
Mack cringed as Bogajski spoke. The psychiatrist whistled when he pronounced the letter ‘s’ and the sound almost perforated Mack’s ear drums.
“Oh, yeah, it was massively popular at the time. There was even a remake a while back,” said Mack. “All flash–trash and CGI, though.”
The egg stain on Dr Bogajski’s paisley tie had distracted Mack so much he’d had to turn away to look at the silent television in the corner of the room. Images of corn fields rolled across the screen.
“But The Tingler was his most famous film,” continued Mack. “He set up a gadget in the cinema seats that gave people little electric shocks when The Tingler appeared on the screen.” He turned to Bogajski and grinned, beaming.
“A monster that lives on fear, you say? Quite clever actually,” said Dr Bogajski, who was sweating even more than usual. “A slightly Freudian shadow–cast, eh?”
He took his ballpoint pen and scribbled on a yellow post–it–note that he then stuck inside his worn brown briefcase. He clicked the briefcase closed and looked at Mack.
“So, you said you were about seven when your own particular ‘Tingler’ appeared?”
Mack nodded to himself. He glanced at Bogajski.
“I think so. We were on a school day out. I was running down the side of a cliff with a group of other kids when I started to panic. I imagined myself crashing down to the ground below. My head smashed to pieces. And then the panic took control of me. So, I decided to see what would happen if I just let myself fall.”
“And?”
“Everything went black and red. I came to near a swimming pool and a teacher was shouting at me while she bathed my face in chlorine stinking water. I was off school for weeks. Never really got into the habit of going to school after that, to be honest.”
“And ‘The Tingle’ returned when?”
“Off and on. When I saw the school bus turn the corner, for example. I just wanted to throw myself under it. Or if I saw a sharp knife, I felt the urge to run it across my tongue.”
Bogajski repressed a grimace.
“And when did this stop?”
“Well, it didn’t. It got worse when I was a teenager. ‘The Tingler’ was like a cowl wrapping itself around my head. Smothering my brain. My thoughts.”
“And nothing could stop it? Ease it?”
“Sex took the edge off for a while. But that didn’t last long.”
“So, that is when you started drinking?”
“Yes, the booze helped. And then the drugs.”
“But…”
“Their affects wore off pretty quickly. And then, one night, just after Christmas, I was walking down a path, late at night. It was freezing. I saw an old man shuffling in front of me. Almost slipping over on the ice. In a flash, I realised that I could just kill him. And it wouldn’t matter. No one would know. I could get away with it without a problem. ‘The Tingler’ almost strangled me.”
“And.”
“And so I picked up a brick, ran up to him and smashed his head to pieces like a soft boiled egg.”
Bogajski gulped.
“And what happened to ‘The Tingler’ after that,” said Bogajski, looking uncomfortable.
“It was gone for quite a long time after that. But, it was always lurking somewhere in the back of my mind. Of course, it crept further forward. Until eventually it was at the front of my brain.”
“And now?”
“A singular truth, Doctor. There truly are no consequences.”
Bogajski gulped.
“Chay’ Qong SoH?” said Bogajski.
Mack chortled. He couldn’t help but laugh. Bogajski’s innovative psychiatric technique was to speak to his patients in the Klingon language from the Star Trek films. The belief was that by using a neutral language would allow the patients to open up more. Mad Mack Robinson saw Bogajski as a source of sport. A little diversion while he was doing his time in the slammer.
“You know, I've just seen Dr Harold Shipman described as Britain's worst serial killer,” said Mack. “Worst?! Can you imagine? The geezer killed 218 people! What more do they want? You just can’t please some people, can you?” He cackled and rolled his eyes. He loved playing up the nutter part although he drew the line at drooling.
Bogajski sighed and his iPhone buzzed. He checked it and looked at Mack.
“Mev wIghaj,” he said. “Visitor Daghaj.”
Mack looked at his watch.
“A visitor at this time of the morning?” he said. “Can’t be good news.”
Bogajski gave him an electronic clipboard and Mack signed at the bottom with his index finger. Bogajski pressed a button on his desk and a ginger prison wa
rden came into the room.
“Qapla’!” said Bogajski.
“Tata!” said Mack.
He got up and left the room. The smelly warden escorted him to the garden. Kevin Robinson sat on a bench reading the Daily Mirror. Mack sat next to him.
“What’s been happening in the big, bad world?” said Mack, pointing to the newspaper.
“Not a clue. I’ve been out of the country for just over a year and already the newspapers are full of the lives of minor celebrities that I’ve never even heard of.”
“Things change. Like it or not. Anything else going on?”
“Some politician or other’s been sacked for something or other,” said Kevin.
“I don’t follow politics myself,” said Mack. “Which party is he in?”
“GBIP,” said Kevin. “Not that I know much about them.”
“They’re a bunch of tossers, I think,” said Mack.
“Aren’t they all?”
“Probably. People put too much faith in politicians to sort out their lives instead of taking personal responsibility.”
“Aye. Life’s not about getting the best hand of cards it’s about playing a bad hand of cards well,” said Kevin. “Most people live shit lives because they’re shit people. Their imagination is limited by their lack of experience and their experience is limited by their lack of imagination.”
“True. True. Mister Magoo. Ninety nine percent of the world’s population are just here to make up the numbers. Cannon fodder. So what can I do you for?” asked Mack.
He watched a short man wearing a Napoleon hat chase an even shorter bald man across the grass.
“It’s dad. He’s told old us about another secret half–brother that Wayne and I have,” said Kevin.
Mack smirked.
“Is that the American one or the Italian? Or the Albanian?”
Kevin was flustered.
“Er, the American. The thing is, it won’t be long before he starts to ask what happened to the other one, Brian Naylor.”
“The one that got his brains splattered by a Sumo wrestler outside your dad’s pub, you mean?”
Kevin cringed. “Yeah, that one,” he said.
“Well, if I were you I wouldn’t mention it all. Use a bit of smoke and mirrors to divert your dad’s attention. Where does he think Brian is?”
“In Thailand, teaching English. Banging some young Thai gash.”
Mack grimaced.
“So, that’s a good way to brush over the topic,” he said. “What about Brian’s mother, Brenda?”
“Ah, Brian’s ma is currently sleeping the sleep of the just under a shopping centre in the west midlands. Dad thinks she’s moved to Wales.”
Mack fished in his dressing gown pocket and pulled out a hip flask. He checked for mercenary eyes and took a sip before returning it.
“So, you know, ‘loose lips sink ships’,” said Mack. “Say nothing.”
Kevin nodded.
“So are there really loads more half–brothers out and about?” he said.
“Well, let’s just say that you wouldn’t have any problems getting a family football team together.”
New York, USA
‘Bertie The Bolt’ was fuming. It was bad enough getting knocked out but getting knocked out by a woman made it even worse. For a moment he convinced himself that it wasn’t actually a woman that slugged him but a transvestite. That seemed even worse, though. He’d spent the morning in his private gym, burning off his anger, and he was tired out. Sweating like Donald Trump at a Gloria Estefan gig.
Bertie showered and changed. He walked into his penthouse apartment and poured himself a drink. He looked out of the window at the New York skyline. Dawn was breaking. It was like something out of a Woody Allen film, though Bertie couldn’t stand the little nonce, or his films. He didn’t like comedy in general. Life was no laughing matter, as far as he was concerned.
Still, the view was a symbol of how far he’d come from the backstreets of Bermondsey. His chance meeting with Howard J Howard at Stringfellows all those years ago had turned his life around, no doubt about it. Most of the yarns that Bertie had spun Howard over the years were cobblers, of course. Just old wives tales and urban legends. But they convinced Howard that Bertie was the real deal and got him employment as the writer’s adviser on his novels. Which had later got Bertie into the film business. And what money for old rope that was, too.
He went into the kitchen and made a cappuccino. Sat in front of his curved screen television and switched it on. There seemed to be nothing on but reality TV. He channel surfed for a while and ended up at a local arts channel which was how he found out about Howard J Howard’s heart attack.
London, England
Darek Peplinski had felt the lure of the night for far too long. The hotel room he was staying in, luxurious though it may have been, seemed antiseptic: clean but claustrophobic. Stifling. He needed to taste London at night. Taste its sin. Its decadence.
He showered, dressed in a brand new suit and stood by the window, looking out at the city’s twinkling neon. He could see his reflection – seedy and gone to seed perhaps but still one of the elite. The crème de la crème. He poured a decent measure of Johnny Walker Blue Label into a tall glass and downed it in one. It burned as it shuddered through him. His skin began to tingle. Sweat poured from him. He could barely breathe as he headed out of his apartment and took a shining gold lift down to into the hotel s luxurious lobby.
He nodded to the prune faced night watchman and burst through the front doors. The night had draped itself over the city, and the moon bit into the sky. He stopped in the neon soaked street to breath in the sultry air. He could smell the lust, the sin, and the decay. An old drunk collapsed at his feet, shattering a bottle of Ukrainian vodka. Darek stepped over him as he lay sobbing. A young blonde woman was bent over a dumpster, her red dress pulled up to her waist. Her screams of passion obviously fake as a hairy biker, his leather trousers around his ankles, silently rammed into her. A group of ‘hoodies’ waving broken bottles and baseball bats chased a fat, wheezing businessman into a darkened alleyway.
On the corner of the street, beneath a blinking street lamp, a woman was smoking a cigarette. The woman was tall with wan looking skin, a slash of red lipstick across her full lips and her black hair cut into a ‘Louise Brooks’ bob. She was wearing a red PVC raincoat and shiny black stiletto heels. She blew Darek a kiss and stepped into the alleyway.
Darek smiled, flexed his muscles. A battered Ferrari screeched to a halt in front of a 24 hour liquor store. Two skinheads rushed out. One went into the shop, the other into the alleyway, unzipping his fly.
Darek grinned, feeling stronger by the second. He whistled a Stevie Wonder tune as he walked into the alleyway. At first, the smell almost overpowered him, but then it invigorated him. The alleyway was illuminated by the light from a stained glass window and he could see Jacqui before him.
“Ah, Darek,” said Jacqui. “So good to see you again. Unfortunately I have to sever your contract.” A knitting needle flashed and Darek Peplinski screamed.
The Whole Wide World
New York, USA
Solitaire couldn’t stop laughing.
“It’s not funny,” said Dana North. “I’m a man out of time.”
“Like in the Elvis Costello song,” said Solitaire.
“Maybe. I don’t know it. I’m not a fan.”
“It’s one of his better ones. Something about being in a private detective’s overcoat, wearing a dead man’s shoes?”
“Well, I can see how it would appeal to you,” said Dana.
They were sat in Solitaire’s loft apartment which also acted as an office that looked like a parody of a private eye’s office because of the venetian blinds and desk with blotters and a gooseneck lamp. Private eye film posters covered the walls; The Maltese Falcon, Chinatown and The Big Sleep. Even The Long Goodbye, though she hated the film. A vinyl copy of The Lounge Lizards’ debut album played at low volume.
The air–conditioner was cranked up high.
Dana was dressed in a tuxedo. He’d spent the evening before at the Lincoln Centre, enduring the New York Philharmonic to keep his mother happy. He’d slept all day on Solitaire’s sofa and nursed an espresso. Solitaire was in black jeans and a black turtle neck sweater. She was sipping a martini. It was just after noon and Dana was still hungover, unsuccessfully trying to set up his first Facebook account. Tapping away at Solitaire’s laptop and grunting.
“I still don’t know why I need to sign up with Facebook,” he said.
“I told you, only serial killers and sociopaths don’t have a Facebook account these days. People with something to hide. It’ll increase your date–ability potential, too.”
She sipped her drink.
“I seriously doubt that date–ability is a real word, but I’ll do as you say,” said Dana. “As usual.”
Solitaire was lost in thought when Dana tapped her on the knee.
“What’s a fan page?” he asked.
“Well, some people have private accounts and, if they’re famous or think they’re famous, they also have an official fan page. Most musicians and writers have one. Why?”
“Well, according to your Howard J Howard fan page, the guy’s dead.”
“What?”
She pushed Dana out of the way and read the obituary.
Solitaire slouched in her armchair. Thought about a scenario that had already crossed her mind. How Katherine would inherit Howard’s money. How convenient a fatal heart attack would be. Then she pondered a little longer and decided, hey, that the guy was an asshole, anyway.
“Did you mean to click ‘like’ on that post?” said Dana.
Solitaire grinned, poured another drink and let the booze embrace her.
Cambridge, England
The Eagle’s beer garden was crowded, mostly with Italian tourists, talking loudly and smoking so heavily that Detective Inspector Niki Scrace felt the urge to take up the filthy habit again. She fought the craving and took a sip from the pint of Spitfire she’d been nursing in a failed attempt to grasp sobriety without it running through her fingers. Sheraton Hove was halfway through a pint of Stella Artois, and his brittle, upper–class accent seemed to be retreating with every sip, a Birmingham slur creeping out from underneath the clipped vowels. Hove was in his seventies. He had jet black hair and a hooked nose, but was still handsome. He was wearing a well–tailored tweed suit. A deerstalker hat hung on the back of his chair. He smoked a strange elaborately curved pipe.
Big City Blues - Paul D Brazill Page 5
