She smiled and in her eyes I saw she remembered.
‘I really don’t care what you say now, Kal. When I think of those moments, I know that we had something.’
Kalila didn’t reply. Didn’t even acknowledge me. She simply fixed her gaze on the gates ahead and continued walking.
When we reached them her driver was nowhere to be seen. She said something to her watch in turned away from me.
Do something. You need to make the most of this.
‘Look, thanks again for seeing me. I appreciate that it might have been a little difficult for you. And probably a bit weird.’
Kalila turned to face me again. Her expression reminded me of one that Bebe would often wear. She looked afraid. Afraid of what the future might hold.
‘You will take care of yourself, won’t you?’ she said tenderly.
‘Hey, don’t worry about me, I’ve got broad shoulders.’ My voice was beginning to falter. ‘Weak ankles, but broad shoulders.’
Kalila smiled. She nodded behind me. ‘A bit like him.’
I looked at the ebony statue mounted on the Wellington monument behind us. My confusion made Kalila shake her head.
‘Achilles?’
‘Is it? Oh, yes, of course. Achilles, I knew that.’
‘I know you did, Felix.’ She smiled politely. ‘So anyway, what will you do now?’
I hunched my shoulders. It was my turn to avoid the question.
There was a piece of graffiti etched into one of the stone pillars we were standing next to. The sight of it brought a question to mind.
‘By the way, there’s something that’s always bothered me.’
Kalila looked wary. ‘What’s that?’
‘Cast your mind back to when we were at school.’
‘Right?’
‘Right, now, did you ever write “Felix Shill deserves to die” on the wall of one of the girls’ toilets?’
Kalila looked down at the floor. Then, as if gripped by a sudden compulsion, she wrapped her arms around me.
I wanted to inhale. Breathe her in. But I couldn’t. Her breath in my ear sent me dead from the thighs down.
An all too brief moment later, Kalila pulled back and looked me dead in the eyes. The edge of an eyebrow flickered, then she leaned forward and brushed her lips gently across mine.
It was not quite a kiss. It was something more. The most tender, exquisite gesture I have ever experienced.
Worth dying for.
I stood there, a million miles away, my mind swirling helplessly, like the leaves blowing on the wind all around us. I was without pain. Without weight. Without form.
I was fifteen again.
All at once those long forgotten feelings returned, flooding my mind. The memories they revived were too much for me to register, too overwhelming to savour, and over all too soon. Through the tumult, I became aware of someone shouting out. I ignored the noise at first. I didn’t want anything to pollute what I was experiencing. But when I felt Kalila’s head snatch away I was forced to take notice.
I opened my eyes to see a look of dread in hers. Kalila stepped away from me.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said to someone standing behind me. ‘Did he fetch you?’
‘Don’t you worry about that there. Who is this, eh? Who are you?’
A hand gripped my shoulder and in one powerful wrench I was spun around, only to be greeted by my old friend. His thick beard was flecked with white and he was no longer the giant of memory, but there was no mistaking the man that kicked me down the driveway all those years ago.
Kalila prised herself between us.
‘Darwish, now you leave him alone. He’s done nothing wrong.’
‘It didn’t look like nothing to me,’ he scowled, and with the back of his hand he brushed her effortlessly to one side. It was the first time I’d ever seen her unspoiled features contort in pain. It looked unnatural. Grotesque. Wrong.
The world blurred.
‘Motherfucker, that was wrong.’ Words spewed out of my mouth.
‘Wrong’
‘Wrong’
‘Wrong’
It took me some time to regain focus. When I did, the first thing I saw were my legs flapping in front of me. Not for the first time that afternoon, I was unable to breath. Only this time someone was physically imposing the sensation upon me. A man, and a powerful one at that, had me locked in a bear hug and was lifting me away.
Beyond my boots I could see Darwish. He was crouched over a small puddle of blood. Kalila was a few yards away, her back flattened against the gates, a look of sheer terror impressed on her face.
Muttering curse after curse Darwish picked himself slowly up. His hooked nose was now bent over to one side and bleeding badly. The flecks of his beard were now scarlet.
‘Koos,’ he said, coming towards me, ’you know who I am, eh? Know what you done? Eh?’
Darwish issued a command, which caused my captor to tense. Something that sounds frighteningly like a rib cracked, then he let go. It was my turn to hit the deck.
I stumbled. Knelt. Before I could regain either my breath or my feet, I felt my lungs collapse under the weight of a well-placed shoe.
Kalila screamed. I flipped over and instinctively pulled my knees up into my chest. Another blow, this time to my side. I begin to wonder if I will I ever taste oxygen again.
‘So it’s you,’ Darwish exclaimed. ‘The little monkey from Chelmsford, eh?’
Seeing me writhing on the ground must have jogged his memory.
‘Stubborn little monkey, you, eh? Come back here after my niece?’ He lashed out again, but this time I was lucky. My arm took the brunt of the force.
‘Well, you in trouble this time, koos.’ I believe him.
Just then, the bodyguard said something that sounded urgent. Darwish snapped a reply. A moment later and I was on my back. Someone gripped my lapels and lifted me off the ground. I heard a sharp click, as if a switchblade were being opened.
‘Kalila and me got to leave now, koos, but I ever see you again there will be an execution. I swear.’
I feel a sting underneath my left eye. Then Darwish threw me back to the ground.
My tattoo burned.
‘You, get in that car, eh?’
Through my bloodied tears I watched Kalila fight to defy him, but Darwish was too strong. He grabbed her by the upper arm and threw her onto the back seat. She just managed to shoot a look of despair in my direction before the driver slammed the door shut.
Darwish walked around to the other side. He pulled open the passenger door and pointed a final finger of warning in my direction. As soon as he disappeared, the tyres let out a restrained screech. The car fought momentarily to grip the wet asphalt before pulling wildly out into the angry traffic.
Still fighting for my breath, I hoisted myself up using the metal of the gates. Kalila’s silhouette was clearly set out against the darkened window and for a second I imagined I could see her looking out at me. Then she was gone.
‘You alright, mate?’ I heard a deep voice ask.
I turned to see the reason for my aggressors’ hasty departure. It was the two soldiers that Kalila had been keen to avoid earlier.
‘He’s given you quite a nick there,’ the older one of them said. ‘Did you manage to get the number?’
I looked back at the busy road. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘But you’re hurt. That’ll probably need a stitch.’
‘No, really.’ I held up a reproving hand. ‘Thanks for the concern, but just forget about it. Believe me, this is nothing compared to his first cut.’
I brushed past them.
‘That was the deepest. By far.’
Wednesday, September 14, 1983
‘Yeah? Well, your mothers so fat, even her clothes have stretch marks,’ Felix said, joining in the laughter.
Then came the shiver.
‘She’s so fat, I heard that one day she left the house wearing high-heels and wh
en she came back they were flip-flops.’
7
It’s one of the consequences of growing up a mother’s boy that I feel totally naked in public unless I have a handkerchief tucked somewhere about my person. It’s a foppish habit, and something I’ve often been secretly ashamed of, but with a torrent of blood pouring down my face, it was suddenly vindicated.
The soldier had been right; the cut was deep and needed a proper dressing, but at that moment I didn’t care. I was sick with rage. Muttering unspeakable acts of retribution and with one hand pressed to the side of my forehead, I wandered conspicuously out onto Hyde Park Corner. No one dared come within a few metres of me.
Before long, I was walking through the black-railed streets of Belgravia. Its lofty buildings looked down on me like great chalky magistrates. Every now and then an unsuspecting resident would appear at one of the reinforced front doors. No one ever offered to help or showed any concern. Instead, they watched from a safe distance to make sure I passed their property in one piece, a carefully controlled look of hostility smeared on their faces. One elderly woman in particular looked at me so contemptuously I couldn’t stop myself.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ I said. ‘Worried that I might affect the book price or something?’
She stepped back a little way into her house before answering, ‘Go on, bugger off out of it or I’ll set the police on you.’
‘For what? Bleeding on the pavement?’ Then I removed the handkerchief from my eye, sending great plum tomatoes of blood to the ground.
The woman shrieked and disappeared behind her shiny black timber shield.
I lumbered on and when I passed a road sign for the London Borough of South Kensington, it occurred to me that Kalila must live nearby. I imagined myself kicking in her door, beating Darwish and his other hired muscle into submission before taking off into the sunset with Kalila. So carried away was I, I even kept one eye open for their street. However, I soon gave up on the fantasy. There was still one thread of rational thought holding up against the gale of fury, reminding me that a man in his line of work was used to threats far more substantial than the one I could ever muster. If I cast so much as a shadow on his manor, his operation would be sure to detect me. Then he would be true to his word and fuck me up, and this time it really would be for real. All too soon my anger turned into anguish. I felt powerless. Weak. Impotent.
They say the higher you climb, the further you fall. Having ascended to such an elevated state of pleasure, I was plummeting fast. Being with Kalila had been like a reverie – a lavish meal given to a condemned man. Now she was gone, and all I had left to look forward to was the executioner. The drop.
I was on the other side of Kensington when the urge, which had been nudging me for some time, became too much. I knew of only one cure. When you can’t handle that many unwanted thoughts, you tie them in a bag and throw them in the river. You drown the little bastards.
I found the first available off-licence and slithered in. It was a pokey little hole, the type of place where you can see into the shopkeeper’s living room when you’re being served, where their six-year-old kids sell you cigarettes and beer, and where there always seems to be something nasty cooking. The shopkeeper, all turmeric and nasal hair, looked up at me from a porno mag.
‘I wouldn’t have thought she was your type,’ I said, pointing at the teenaged amateur splayed out on the counter. ‘I’d peg you as more of an Ageing Asian Babes reader.’
The shopkeeper looked vacantly back.
‘Fair enough,’ I said, and lay down my purchase. ‘I’ll take that first aid kit, twenty Lights and two half bottles of your cheapest single malt.’
Half bottles on account that I didn’t feel I’d quite sunk low enough to be seen swiping out of a long neck. Not yet anyway. Besides, half bottles are more portable, much better suited to the busy alcoholic on the go. Slide one in each pocket and they provide a reassuring balance. Like a manic-depressive’s own pair of six shooters.
But still the shopkeeper continued to stare at me.
‘What?’ I asked. ‘What’s the problem? Do I not look eighteen?’
He grunted and his look changed to one of confused anger.
I shook my head and tried to smile. ‘Yeah I know, I’m not in the mood either, mate. Can you just give me two bottles of that whiskey up there, the nine ninety-nine malt. Glen Hoddle or whatever it’s called.’
The shopkeeper grimaced and slurred something in a language I don’t think even he understood. Whatever it was, it sounded hostile.
I held my hands up in submission and slowed my speech.
‘Alright, alright, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you don’t speak English. Look, it’s that one there.’ Then I steered his claw across the liquor bottles like one of those grabbing machines that children and girlfriends like to play in fairgrounds. It took a couple of attempts but we eventually managed to locate my prize.
‘Twenty nine ninety-five,’ he said, punching the till.
I handed thirty pounds over, picked up the whiskey and only then did I realise what he’d just said.
‘Hold on a minute. What’s the score here, chief?’ I asked, glaring at him. ‘I didn’t think you understood English?’
The shopkeeper looked away.
‘What? You know just enough to take my money. Is that it?’
He slammed the till shut and stared defiantly back.
I felt a snarl appear on my face. ‘And this is your idea of integration, I suppose?’
His only response was to turn the cud over in his mouth.
‘And what about my change?’ I held my hand out. ‘Cheeky bastard.’
He muttered something under his breath and then turned his back on me. In the circumstances, that was all the provocation I needed.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ I screamed. Then, picking up one of the counter top displays, I hurled it across the counter.
The shopkeeper yelped as it struck him square on the back of his head. He lifted his hands to protect himself and in doing so, I saw his hairy belly poke out from underneath his shirt. I might have stopped there if he’d put up some kind of fight, but his pathetic reaction only spurred me on. I continued with the onslaught of boxes and bags until I saw someone move in the front room. The man’s wife appeared, holding a mobile phone to her ear. She was clearly the braver of the partnership and after picking up a baseball bat, she immediately started to make her way around the counter. It was time to make myself scarce again.
My salvo of crisps and confectionary continued all the way to the door, but it nothing to deter the little woman’s progress. Still she kept on coming. There was a magazine rack next running along one side of the shop and after picking up a pocket A-Z of London I collapsed it, virtually demolishing their shop but successfully barring her way in the process.
Once outside, I limped away, quickly losing myself in the back streets. Only when I was confident that I was a safe distance away did I crack a seal. I swilled, let my gums burn for a few seconds then swallowed, setting the rest of my body alight. Oh yes, I was in familiar territory now.
Using the reflection in a parked car’s window, I patched myself up as best I could. With no water to wash away the crusts of drying blood I was forced to soak the edge of my handkerchief in whiskey. It smarted, but I managed to stem what remained of the bleeding with a couple of plasters. And so, with ‘x’ marking the spot at one end of an eyebrow, I skulked along the pavements until I eventually tripped over the Thames. The sky was haemorrhaging worse than I was and I stood for a while, mesmerised by its fiery reflection in the water. The ruins of Battersea Power Station stood out like an overturned table at a party. My party. Going sour.
My master plan was showing serious structural weaknesses. Of the potential names on my list, Kalila was meant to be the safest, the least likely to cause me direct harm, and yet here I was struggling to breathe. What was likely to happen if I sought out any of the other, more dangerous characters?
Perhaps I should call it off. I’d met two people from my past. I’d proven my point. But what would I do then? I pondered that and watched the day bleed out. Then, with reluctant feet and a hollow, aching heart, I pushed on, following the line of the river.
After a while the pavement began to bustle. I looked up and to my surprise saw the Houses of Parliament. The surrounding area was teeming with activity and I had to fight my way through the hordes of tourists, apparently undeterred by the possible security risk. Tourism truly is the most fickle of pastimes. Maybe the attack on flight BH1612 would make potential visitors think twice about booking a London holiday, but the ones here already were certainly not letting anything get in the way of their photo opportunities.
I fought my way over Bridge Street so that I might continue my lonesome trek along the river, but when the pain in my feet overtook that in my head I was forced to rest. I found a low wall on the Embankment and slumped down onto it.
Directly opposite me sat the London Eye. I watched it for a while. Cast against the busy streets and river, its lethargic turn made me feel even more isolated and out of place. I turned my back to the world and stared into space. The whiskey was working. A reckless anger was welling up inside of me. When the sky started to spit again, I leaned back and dared the elements to do their worst.
*
Homelessness, it seems, is a common bond of union. Like any band of refugees, being stripped of all but the most necessary material possessions is the ultimate leveller. Personal agendas consist of little more than the next meal and there’s not much room for ego when you’re forced to huddle up with animals to survive the night. At that point your self-esteem is pretty much shattered. That's probably why homeless people find it easier to relate with one another. It’s also probably why one of them suddenly took a real shine to me – that and the bottle of whiskey I was holding.
‘You lose someone, perchance?’ he asked.
‘What?’ I said, hardly turning my head.
‘The war.’ The man nodded at the memorial I’d been boring a hole through. ‘Did you suffer the loss of one of yours back then?’
Felix Shill Deserves to Die Page 14
