The Life and Loves of Gringo Greene

by David Carter

  ‘What about him?’

  Leaning across the table she whispered: ‘He keeps staring down my dress.’

  Gringo imagined himself sitting up there, and guessed the view the guy was enjoying, peering down Linda’s low-cut frock, a view that tonight was strictly reserved for him. Gringo gave the guy another harder look.

  The bloke looked away, but then back at Gringo with an obvious stare as if to say: What’s your game, pal? and then he really did speak.

  ‘Something the matter?’

  ‘I think you know what’s the matter,’ said Gringo.

  ‘What’s he talking about?’ said the rosy woman sitting opposite, as she rubbed her mouth with an overlarge serviette.

  ‘Don’t know, darling, the bloke down in the stalls appears upset about something.’

  ‘Keep your eyes to yourself!’ said Gringo.

  ‘What does he mean?’ continued rosy.

  ‘You think I could be bothered with looking at that,’ said the guy. ‘I’ve seen more meat on a starving chicken!’

  Gringo stood up and threw his linen on the table and glowered at the man. Linda gazed at Gringo. She liked what she saw. He was standing feet apart like an excited fighting cock; redness had come to his pale face like war paint, his eyes were fixed and steady, she could almost imagine a red cock’s comb standing erectile on his black feathered head, as his eyes darted this way and that. He seemed as if he were about to do battle, and all on her behalf.

  ‘All right, all right,’ said the bloke, backing down and getting up. ‘Keep your hair on, pal. We were just going anyway,’ and the pair of them stood up and sauntered off toward the bar, rosy still muttering something about not understanding what all the fuss was about.

  After they had gone Gringo said: ‘I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she cooed, staring at him through admiring eyes, reaching out and touching his wrist. ‘Thanks for sorting him out.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said, feeling good, and staring into the back of her blue eyes, eyes that at that instant couldn’t look anywhere else but at his, and in that second he knew how the evening would end. It couldn’t come soon enough. It never ceased to amaze him what a spot of testosterone fuelled conflict could do. Worked wonders every time.

  He didn’t ask her if she wanted to come back to his house for coffee, and she didn’t query where he was heading, as he drove rapidly back toward the close. She knew exactly what was in his mind because it was in her mind too, and there was no point in pretending otherwise.

  Before the sun came up he was going to have her, and she was going to give herself to this man, but there was method in her madness, and far more importantly than that, she was going to sink her claws so far into this guy’s mind and body that he would never be able to wriggle free. Two can play mind games, Mister Greene.

  Back at the house they wined and coffeed and writhed around on the sofa, kissing and cuddling for as long as necessary. He bit her neck, not severely but with enough intent to excite her, and shortly after that he suddenly stood and grabbed her wrist and tugged her to her feet.

  She didn’t say a word as he dragged her to the foot of the stairs; too busy was she watching his every move. She did protest a little as he dragged her up the first flight.

  ‘Gently, Gringo! Gently!’

  Not that he was listening, as he started up the second set. He imagined the caveman routine, dragging the woman back to his cave, imprisoning her, leaving her vulnerable to his every desire, was a big turn on for the girl, and whether he was right in that or not, she was still protesting as they made their way up the stairs.

  ‘Not so fast, Gringo. Gently!’

  He still wasn’t listening, so intent was he on reaching the top. But something must have been bugging her for half way up she dug her heels in like a Blackpool pleasure beach donkey with a major beef.

  ‘Gringo, no! Wait a minute!’

  He glanced at her face. ‘What is it?’

  He was certain he hadn’t misread the signals.

  ‘I want to ask you something. I want to tell you something.’

  He looked deep into her eyes. What the hell was wrong? Surely to Christ she hadn’t let it get this far when there was some medical, or physical, or physiological reason why he couldn’t proceed? Whatever the problem, he didn’t appreciate being kept waiting.

  ‘Well?’ He said, ‘What is it?’

  She took a deep breath.

  ‘Tell me what’s the matter!’

  ‘I don’t like anal sex!’

  His mouth half opened. He shook his head and retreated half a step and looked enquiringly into her eyes. What was it about him that brought that crazy thought into her pretty head?

  ‘I’m not that keen on it meself,’ he joked, his light-hearted remark not quite hitting the right note.

  He gently tugged on her hand, but still she wouldn’t move a muscle. He glanced back at her face and saw she’d flushed. Her bottom lip had extended and she appeared close to tears.

  ‘I’d never ask you to do anything you didn’t want to do,’ he said, in an attempt to reassure her, and he let go of her hand and held out his arms. ‘Nothing like that, honestly.’

  She jumped into his embrace and hugged him as if she had never been hugged before.

  ‘I know that, Gringo,’ she whispered. ‘I know that. I just wanted to be sure. I feel so safe here with you.’

  Women often said that to him, I feel so safe here with you as if they didn’t feel safe anywhere else, and that was a puzzle in itself. He had always imagined they were shooting him a line, but when he held her at arms length and looked into her apprehensive face, he instinctively knew that she was telling the truth.

  He hugged her again and whispered: ‘Shall we go up?’

  She didn’t answer, leastways not in words, but his shoulder detected the tiniest of nods coming from her pretty head, twice, in case there had been any doubt. He clasped her hand and led her gently to the bedroom.

  There was no further resistance after that, and in the next few seconds the expensive black dress, bought for a special occasion, disrobed on an entirely different special occasion, was decorating the bedroom floor.

  He watched her jump on the bed and lie on her back and as he approached, she dug the soles of her feet into the mattress and arched her back clear, an obvious invitation for him to slip the green silk French knickers from her body, and everything else that came with it, an invitation he was never going to refuse.

  ‘I’m on the pill,’ she whispered, something he could take or leave, and something that had been true not so long ago, though not now.

  When he came back for her moments later, naked and bristling with excitement, she quickly tucked her Achilles heels behind his legs and dug them hard in against his calves, then wrapped her arms around his chunky shoulders and pulled him down to her. She would remain that way for just as long as he wanted, occasionally issuing an obligatory sigh.

  She began studying the ceiling as she always did. It is amazing how many people never look at their own ceilings, for if they did, surely they would do something about them. One of her former boyfriends had once spent an entire weekend, when she was away working a twelve-hour shift, fixing mirror tiles on her bedroom ceiling. She was not sure she liked the idea, for when she glanced up she saw her own image staring sternly back, puzzled and unhappy, as if in disapproval.

  She found it disconcerting. It was as if her spirit was witnessing some terrible crime, some dreadful wantonness that could never be approved of, or forgiven. She resorted to the first thing that came into her head. She began making silly faces to lighten the mood, expressions that he had no idea were occurring. The faces gradually became more ridiculous, until she was reduced to hideous laughter, something that Jake didn’t appreciate at all. Men are funny that way. On no account laugh in a man’s bedroom, not at anything, ever.

  No, mirror tiles on the ceiling did nothing for Linda Drayton, and when Jake left,
so did the tiles. If Gringo ever stuck mirrors up there, she would smash them down with the cobweb killer, seven years bad luck, or no, she didn’t care.

  She closed her eyes and began reflecting on her jogging times, which that week had been confusingly down on last. She promised herself she would redouble her efforts in the coming days to improve. She thought about work and then of those children to come, those offspring who just might be beginning their long and confused journey that very night. She wouldn’t be the first woman in history to neglect birth control arrangements, nor the last. She could almost hear her response to the news now, and it was all she could do not to giggle.

  How on earth did that happen? I thought the pill was supposed to be 100%.

  That wasn’t the point. The point was; would Gringo Greene be more likely to marry her, and provide her with a good home and a rosy future, if she were expecting his child? She reasoned that he would, and only time would tell whether she was correct in that assumption.

  She would not reach a climax, no matter how long he ploughed on for, no matter what he did, she had other things on her mind, not with Gringo Greene, not there in his cosy new house in the close where she felt so safe and untroubled, because she never did. It didn’t bother her, so she told herself. Not everything in life is perfect.

  As for Gringo, once she’d become his, he thought she seemed somewhat remote, and that old conversation with Paul flickered into his mind.

  ‘Do you ever think of one of them when you are screwing another?’

  ‘Nope,’ he’d said, glancing around the bar to see if there was any new flesh in the place that night. ‘In my experience that just isn’t possible, I am so busy concentrating on what I am doing, I don’t have time for anything else.’

  Maybe it was possible. He forced himself to think of Glenda, but still it didn’t work. It really didn’t. It just confused him, his mind and his body. It brought him to a crashing standstill as if a spanner had been flung into the works by some bitter wrecker.

  ‘What’s the matter,’ she whispered urgently.

  ‘Nothing, sweet. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Don’t stop darling, don’t stop,’ she said, urging him onward, for he had vital duties to fulfil, targets to meet, criteria to be matched, it didn’t matter whether it was office or bedroom, there were always targets to be met, and she would not be denied. He had further work to do, much more.

  ‘More darling, more!’

  At 3am she stood and went to the bathroom before coming back and getting dressed. For a moment she imagined he would not wake, but he did.

  ‘What’s up?’ he said.

  ‘I’d like to go home now,’ she said, as she came and sat beside him on the bed. She always went home afterwards. She made a point of it. ‘Methinks you’ve had a very nice time, Mister Greene, but now come along, I’d like to go home.’

  ‘I thought you could stay till morning.’

  ‘No,’ she said, gently, though leaving little room for doubt. ‘I’d like to go now. Shall I ring for a cab?’

  ‘No way,’ he said, staggering to his feet and yawning. ‘I’ll take you.’

  She always knew that he would. He was the type. It was one of the reasons she liked him so. A caring, loving man who would never send his woman out in the company of a desperate taxi driver she didn’t know. (Who wouldn’t be desperate working at half past three on a Sunday morning?) The driver might be looking to clock off with one final bonus. No, that wasn’t going to happen, not to Linda Drayton, Gringo would make sure of that.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, slapping him playfully with a thwack on the back. ‘I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.’

  They drove back to Bingley in a happy silence; in truth Gringo was half asleep. The roads were deserted but for an occasional drunk who waved happily at the car.

  ‘When shall I see you next,’ he said, an automatic remark made as if on autopilot.

  ‘When do you want to see me next?’

  ‘Wednesday?’

  ‘Can’t do Wednesday, I’m working late shift.’

  ‘Thursday?’

  ‘Can’t do Thursday, early start Friday.’

  ‘When then?’

  ‘How about Tuesday?’

  Gringo slowly bobbed his head. He could do Tuesday. That was fine by him, sooner than he would ideally have liked, sooner than he would have chosen, but if she wanted to see him again so soon, it, or he, must have meant something to her.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Tuesday it is; I’ll pick you up at eight.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘And you’ll feed me?’

  ‘Of course. We all have to eat.’

  He pulled the car to a halt beside the main door to her block and turned off the engine. They turned in toward one another and smiled. She had applied fresh lipstick. He leant over and kissed her softly, just as she would have liked him to have done on their first date. Her lipstick was now on his lips, like a bee depositing pollen. It was a fair trade. He had made his deposit, several in fact, she was simply giving something back.

  ‘I’ll see you on Tuesday,’ he whispered.

  ‘I’ll be ready.’

  ‘You better be.’

  But as it turned out he didn’t see her on Tuesday at all. He couldn’t, because he wasn’t even in the same county.

  Fifty-One

  On Sunday afternoon Gringo hung about the house doing as little as possible; the late night with Linda still haunting his bones. The TV was on but the sound was muted, as a Leonard Cohen CD drooled in the background. He felt like talking to someone, a woman, he didn’t much like chatting with men. He thought of ringing Linda, but she’d arranged a late shift and was probably preparing for work. She wouldn’t want him interrupting her thought patterns.

  He thought of Glen. He wanted to ring her too, he always wanted to ring her, but wouldn’t. He didn’t know why he wouldn’t ring, perhaps it had something to do with the crazy logic of treat them mean, keep them keen, though if she didn’t really care whether he rang her or not, she wouldn’t be aware he was trying to treat her mean. Would she? He thought of ringing Maria, but she could go to hell. She hadn’t rung him in ages; she hadn’t even returned his last call. He shook his head and didn’t once touch the telephone.

  In the evening he made do with a chicken curry ready meal, and two movies he had seen several times before, then went to bed, unusually early at ten.

  The next thing he knew his sleep was interrupted by the telephone ringing, three, four, five times. I am coming, I am coming, but in those circumstances the mind is often far ahead of the body. The phone was still blaring out its message as he finally managed to dislodge it and bring it to his ear. The bedside clock winked back 6.09.

  ‘Glen?’ he mumbled.

  ‘Is that Mister Kevin Greene?’

  It was a man’s voice, a voice he did not recognise.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, now sitting up, nightmarish thoughts zigzagging through his head.

  ‘Hello, I am Sergeant Wilkes of West Mercia Police in Shrewsbury.’

  The nightmarish thoughts rushed closer.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I have some very bad news for you.’

  ‘Oh no! Don’t say anymore, I already know.’

  ‘You already know?’

  ‘I’ve been expecting it for some time.’

  ‘There’s no easy way to give someone bad news, is there, sir?’ said the guy, probably parroting from some official police manual.

  ‘How is mum taking it?’

  There was a brief pause and then the guy said: ‘I’m very sorry Mister Greene, but I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Mrs Gayle Greene passed away first thing this morning.’

  A moment’s silence.

  ‘What!’

  ‘That’s the truth of it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But it can’t be! How? Where?’

  ‘It happened at home. The doctor thinks it was a brain haemorrhage, but we shall know the cause for
sure just as soon as the post-mortem has been completed.’

  ‘Oh Christ!’

  It seemed like a bad dream, the most hideous of nightmares. Was he truly awake? He wanted to lie down and fall sleep and wake up in an hour or two and discover the world just as it was when he went to bed. Not mother, please God, not my mum. No way, that just can’t be right. She was absolutely fine; it was him that was…

  ‘How’s dad taking it?’

  ‘He’s pretty cut up, as you can imagine. He’s quite shaky. It seems to have hit him really hard. It was him who asked me to call you.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘At home now I believe, sir.’

  ‘I’ll give him a ring.’

  ‘Why don’t you leave it for an hour or two, in case he has managed to find some sleep? He’s been up for most of the night.’

  ‘Yeah, right, that’s probably wise, I’ll do that. Thank you Sergeant, er…’

  ‘Wilkes sir, it’s Wilkes, I’ll give you my telephone number and an incident number you can refer to, in case you need any further information.’

  ‘Yeah, right, I’ll get a pen,’ and Gringo went scrabbling around for one that worked. The cop recited all the relevant stuff and rang off. Gringo stared around at his silent and cold bedroom. He glanced at his crazy notes. An incident number, a ten digit figure, his mother reduced to a string of scribbled numbers, an incident for God’s sake. Christ, is that all we are destined to become; an incident number in some messed up police computer?

  He thought he was supposed to cry in such circumstances, but tears never remotely threatened to exude from his face. It just made him angry. He didn’t know it, but his face had turned bright red. He lay down again, his body suddenly cold and numb. He pulled the covers around his shoulders and closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  He awoke at eight on the dot and felt dreadful, as if he was suffering from the worst hangover imaginable. His notes awaited him, hurriedly written, ugly and vile, brooding beside the bedside lamp. No dreaming here, they are never dreams when you so desperately want them to be. A look of surprise sat on his face; surprise that he’d fallen asleep at all. He threw on some jeans and hurried downstairs and made coffee and toast that he didn’t eat.