The Laundry Basket

by G. M. C. Lewis

  “Shit! Burns, listen up man, if you ain’t back in this car in five seconds, me and the corpse is departing with or without you, hear me? Shit, you’s standin’ in your own piss man!”

  “You will wait. Be quiet, I must concentrate.”

  “Hey, fuck you Burns, I’m outta here.” I hit the gas hard enough to close the passenger door and watch Count Burnula out the rear mirror as I push her up to 50. Sum bitch don’t move a muscle – he just standin’ there by the side of the road, pissing like he’s in the you-rine-al. That’s when I hear a noise from the trunk. Shit, that’s all I need. I swing the car off the freeway and follow the A2 up onto the Blackheath, then take her off the main vein and onto a quiet stretch running along the wall of the south side of Greenwich Park. I park her, get out and open the trunk.

  “Help.” Shit, this poor bastard ain’t just alive, he’s talking. “I can’t feel anything.”

  “Tha’s right bro’. I’m sorry to have to report to you that my dumbass colleague done gone and accidentally busted yo’ neck.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, that explains why I can’t feel anything I guess. Listen mate, please can you take me to a hospital? Just leave me outside.” Man, this guy talkin’ to me like he askin’ a cabbie to get him to the theatre on time, not like he talkin’ to a gangsta who ‘bout to dump his sorry ass in the river.

  I put on my best plantation slave accent for this here white man talking head. “Why I wish I could help you, sah, I surely do Mr Talkin’ Head, but my boss, well he insist that I drop yo pa-ral-ized body, along with your talkin’ head, in that there River Thames tonight, no question. I so sorry, sah. My boss tell me that if I fail to carry out his orders, then I ain’t gone get no cotton pickin’ candy and nice time with Mary-Lou this weekend. Plus, he also maybe gone kill my sorry ass and throw it in that there River Thames after he thrown you in hisself.”

  “Bugger, seems like we have a problem then.” Damn, he cool! What the fuck is this English stiff upper lips, huh? If that be my sorry ass in the back of this trunk with my neck all busted and being told I got to die, I ain’t able to guarantee I be lookin’ so cool!

  “But don’t think for one moment that I ain’t awful sorry to have to do this to ya and if you’ll accept my apologies on behalf of my colleague and the company, that’d be mighty decent of you.”

  “Apology accepted.” He swallowing now and blinking some and his head looking around like he thinking. I lean back on the car and look out across the heath. Moon’s rising. I come running up here at night. Even in the winter sometimes, with gloves and a scarf, bout a dozen sweaters and some heavy-duty socks (them Asics is not built for warmth). It snowed one time and when I stopped running the whole town had gone so quiet you could hear the flakes landing, I swear; never seen or heard anything like it before or since. The sound of snow falling. When I got home I needed to tell someone, so I called my sis, but she just started straight in with, “Where you been, Ignatius? Are you back in New Orleans? Why ain’t you called your momma? When you gonna stop being a bad man and take some responsibility in your life, Ignatius? Why you calling? You still takin’ drugs? You need money from me again? When you gonna get a proper job?” On and on, until I hung up. That was eight months ago and I ain’t called her since. Never did tell her ‘bout the snow.

  “Excuse me?” says the head.

  “Oh sorry, my mind wanders. Did you say something?”

  “No, that’s fine – I was just wondering, well, d’you need to throw me in the river immediately?”

  “Well… I guess not. Might be best to leave it a while, let the streets quieten down.”

  “I wondered if you might be prepared to grant a dying man a last wish?”

  “Such as?”

  “I’ve always wanted to visit New Covent Garden Flower Market. It’s meant to be spectacular and, well, if I had one night left on Earth in London, I’d go there.”

  “Shit man, I’d like to aye-com-mo-date you, but what’s to say you ain’t gone start screamin’ blue murder soon as we get in there? Then where’s poor ole’ Ig goan’ be? This ain’t the Duck Tours, man!”

  “Listen, Ig – is that your name? Ig?”

  “Ignatius.”

  “Ignatius – good name. Ignatius, from the sound and feel of things, I’m in a bad way.”

  “No question.”

  “There’s a tribe in the South Pacific called the Trobrianders and it is rumoured that when the Trobriand Chief of a tribe reaches an age where he no longer deems himself fit to rule his people, he takes his canoe and paddles out into the open sea, returning his soul to the spirits that created him.”

  “I can respect that.”

  “Now I don’t know about you, but for me a life where my loved ones have to spoonfeed me and wipe my arse morning, noon and night, where I’m unable to dance, make love, or bowl a Yorker, just doesn’t seem like a life at all.”

  “What’s a Yorker?”

  “Cricket swerve ball.”

  “I hear ya.”

  “My problem is that I’ve got a girl, right, an amazing girl who I’ve not known for long, but for sure it’s going to break her heart when she finds out I’m gone. The last time I saw her, I promised I’d get her flowers from the market in the middle of the night and if I could just do this one thing, before I go, she’d know I was thinking of her at the end and that might give her some comfort. Make it easier on her. I’d feel a lot better about going if I got my last wish. I’m not gonna make a fuss in the market, I’m as good as gone. I don’t want Anna to see me like this. And I don’t want my sister to come look after me – she’d waste her life to look after me, even if I begged her not to. I can’t have that. You know it’s not easy to find someone to kill you in this country, even if it’s the only thing you want. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I’m delighted about my predicament, but if I’m going to go, I want to do it right.”

  “What’s your name, man?”

  “Ben.”

  “Well damn Ben, I never heard no talking head could produce such compelling arguments before in my life. Let’s just say, for the continuation of this argument’s sake, that I agree to grant you your last dying wish, what’s in it for Ig?”

  “Firstly, like you said, it’d make more sense for you to drop me in the river later on when there’re less people around, so you’ve got the hassle of having to while away time and, with me in the boot, you’ve got the risk of being caught – with my cooperation, the element of risk is removed.”

  “’Pends if you prove to be trustworthy.”

  “Ignatius, I am a Trobriander at heart.”

  “OK, what else?”

  “Secondly, the flower market is meant to be an amazing place to visit. I’m told that flowers are flown in from around the globe on a daily basis to supply shops, smaller markets, garages, even the guys who stand at the central reservation at busy junctions and throw themselves at your window at red lights, desperately clutching roses – even they go there. Imagine the smell of the place: flowers for every lover, every birth, every wedding and funeral in the country in one building. It would be an experience.” I’m thinking about the sound of snow again: could I be on the verge of another profound sensory experience?

  “That it?”

  “Well, finally, you get the warm feeling from having done a good deed though, as a hardened criminal, I appreciate this may be lower on your list of priorities.”

  “Woah there, I may be a cold hard professional when it comes to carrying out my duties, but that don’t mean I don’t got feelings. OK, so in summary, you’s telling me that if I take you to the flower show, you’ll play good talking head and I get’s to smell the roses and feel all cosy on the inside.” I pull my unimpressed Ig face.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Man, I was goan’ to say yes, but now I feel like you insulted me, telling me I’m a cold heartless killer an all.”

  “Ignatius, I’m very sorry about that, it was an honest mistake.”

  “OK,
well, bad head.”

  “Yes, bad head… So does this mean we can go?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “It’s right by the river…”

  “OK, OK!”

  “You mean it?”

  “Yeah, what the hell.”

  “Mate thanks, I really appreciate it…”

  “Alright, alright, this don’t make us best buds or nuttin’.”

  “So how are we going to get me out of the trunk?”

  “What?”

  “Well if you’re pulled over and I’m found lying in the trunk, that’s still going to be kind of hard to explain. Now what we need to do is brace the neck – have you got some clothes to wrap around my neck for moving me?”

  “Hmmm, well shit, I didn’t know that this was goan’ be so complicated – I ain’t got any spare clothes…”

  “What about that coat you’ve got on there?”

  “Shit, it’s cold bro’ – I need this!”

  “C’mon Ig, it won’t be for long.”

  “Shit, goddamn!”

  I can’t believe the talking head is giving me orders, but nevertheless I’m still taking off my coat. I wrap it round his head and secure it by tying the arms round the front, real gentle the whole time so’s I don’t hurt him any more than he already has been, but he still blinks like crazy when I do it.

  “OK, good. Now the easiest thing will probably be to drop one of the rear seats and pull me through onto the other rear passenger seat.” I’ve given up complaining now – seems like I might as well just get on with it – so after a whole heap of tugging and pulling, I manage to get his lordship strapped into the rear passenger seat.

  “Perfect, thanks.”

  “OK, well if everything is to Sir’s satisfaction, I think it’s ‘bout time we hit the road.”

  I drive. He aks me if I know the way and I tap the GPS for answer, but I guess he cain’t see it from the angle of his neck, so I tells him. I look in the mirror once in a while but the talking head’s done talking for a while. I guess he’s got things on his mind.

  We’s approaching the Elephant and Castle roundabout, when the head pipes up:

  “Go straight over.”

  “The GPS say it ain’t that way.”

  “But we need a wheelchair.”

  “What in the hell?!”

  “If we go to St Thomas’ you can pick up one from there.”

  “They’s just handing out wheelchairs for the needy, huh?”

  “Come on Ig, you can do sneaky. Besides, how were you planning to get me to the river?”

  “Man, I was jus’ gonna throw your ass off a bridge until your head started talking. Now I guess I’m goan’ have to build you some goddamn funeral pyre and shoot you with flaming arrows with a goddamn gospel choir an’ all!”

  This cracks up the talking head.

  “That won’t be necessary – just the wheelchair and the flowers. That’s all I ask.”

  “All you ask?! Man!”

  I park on Royal Street opposite the Accident and Emergency drop-off.

  “Now listen here, Mr Talking Head – I’s goan’ go in there and secure us a wheelchair, but I’s goan be watchin’ you and if I see you callin’ out for help or any shit like that, I’s goan come out here and shoot you and whoever you done talkin’ to and then your lady friend ain’t gonna get no flowers and know that you love her. We understand each other?”

  “100%. Thank you, Ignatius.”

  “Alright. Sit tight.”

  I gets out the car and slip my piece down the back of my pants. I prefer it in my coat, but his lordship got my damn coat. I cross over at the pedestrian crossing and walk up the ambulance ramp. There’s an ambulance out front and some dude is being helped out the back, but there’s no wheelchair in sight, so I step through into the lobby. There’s a fat security guy, not looking too sharp, half a dozen sicks in the waiting area and two young women behind the reception. I’m scanning the area for a wheelchair when one of the women says:

  “May I help you, Sir?”

  “Yes ma’am,” I say and limp over to her. “I do believe my leg might be busted and I think I’m goan’ have to use a wheelchair for a while until it’s fixed.”

  “OK Sir, would you like to take a ticket and fill in these forms and we’ll get a doctor to have a look at your leg as soon as possible.”

  “Why thank you ma’am.” I still cain’t believe that you can get fixed up in this country for free. It’s a damn fine thing. I sit down next to an Indian dude in a football shirt, who look like he got into a fight with a train, his nose is so busted. I make a show of studying the forms, while all the while I’m looking over the top and casin’ the joint. I see a sign for the restrooms, an’ they’s out of sight of the security dude, so I make a painful display of getting to my feet and hobble off down the corridor. No-one says shit. Soon as I’m outta sight of the reception, I drop the limp and start checking doors. I find a cleaner’s storeroom, where I pick up a mop an’ bucket an’ a plastic apron, an empty room, looks like it’s been refurbished, but most doors are locked. I keep movin’ along, keepin’ casual an’ hummin’ like a happy cleaner boy, wheelin’ along my mop an’ bucket. I see a couple of nurses running here and there, but they is all looking harassed and ain’t paying me no mind.

  I think I must be somewhere in the south wing when I finally see an old dude rolling along in a wheelchair wearing a dressing gown. Fuckin’ A! I roll up behind him.

  “Excuse me sah, allow me to introduce myself.” He turns his fat glasses roun’ to me and squints out of some real cloudy eyeballs. “I represent St Thomas’ (I say this like the old momma from the Tom and Jerry cartoons) wheelchair cleaning service and your wheelchair has been specially selected for a complete overhaul and facelift. If you’d be kind enough to vacate your chair temporarily, this will enable me to take your chair and apply the necessary cleansing fluids and a replacement chair will be brought along to you directly.”

  He squints at me a while and rolls his chops. He ain’t got no teeth for sure.

  “What the devil are you talking about, young man?”

  “I’m jacking your wheels ole man!” I tip him out and watch him sprawling on the polished floor and then he starts hollering and balling and I’m running like crazy down the corridors, pushin’ this damn wheelchair for the head. Damn, why didn’t I put the Asics on when I got back in the car? I’m just running, with no clue as to which direction I should be goin’ in, but I figure if I just keep cutting and running in the same zig-zag direction I’ll get out eventually, but this damn hospital seems to go on for ever. I round a bend and see a nurse up ahead and I call out and stop her and say:

  “Which way to the Accident and Emergency entrance please, Miss?”

  “Straight down,” she says, pointing, and then I see ‘em, the restrooms that I passed on my way out. I practically sprint down the corridor, slowing as I approach reception, but there ain’t no sneaking through, the word’s clearly gone out that there’s a wheelchair thief on the loose and the security guard is walking towards me with a serious fat man face on him. As he gets nearer, I put my hands in the air and says:

  “Oh thank goodness, Sir,” moving round the chair, which is still rolling forward. “That man’s insane,” I say, and he drops his serious fat attention for just a second, which is plenty long enough for me to butt him in the nose, square and hard, and feel a light spray of blood as he reels backwards away from me. I’m back behind the chair and running without having missed a beat, passing the faces behind reception, a phone at one ear, two mouths hanging open, sicks on the left, and I can hear fat man up and behind me running – more to fatty than I’d thought – and bang, I’m out the door and I turn the wheelchair to face down the ramp and I jump my legs over the top and push off rolling down the ramp, and fatty’s breathing down my neck and I feel my piece slip at the back of my pants and from the right corner of my eye I see a double decker red heading for a collision path with me on the chair at
the bottom of the ramp and, as I’m calculating whether or not the bus is gonna hit me, or the fat man’s gonna grab me, or my shooter’s gonna fall out my pants, I hear what my sister said on the phone and wonder whether it is time to think about a career change.

  Strides

  “Where’s that fat-handed twat with my peonies?!”

  I can hear Ken going ape again, but I know he’s too busy to hunt me down and, anyway, I’m dealing with a potential sale here.

  “I’d say your boss is requiring you roun’ the front,” says the tall lanky black geezer standing behind the wheelchair. He’s got a proper yank accent and sounds like he belongs in the movies or from that series The Wire. He’s got veins in his neck, is wearing shades and looks cold.

  “Don’t worry about him,” I say. “He’s old enough to find his peonies himself.” Not even a flicker of a smile from the yank. The fella in the wheelchair smiles. He’s blinking like crazy, like he’s got a nervous twitch.

  “Hey, whassup with these tulips, huh? My man here is looking for some serious premium ass foliage and he ain’t wantin’ none of them cheap ole’ flowers, been lying roun’ for three weeks, that are goan’ turn brown by the time his special lady friend receives them, you know ‘m’ sayin’?”

  “Patience, patience, Rome was not built in a day,” I say as I roll a smoke. “The trouble with the world these days, my friend, is that folks don’t have a sense of the time and effort that goes into the turning of the wheels behind the scenes. Take, for example, the Underground. Now I bet if I asked you whether an Underground ticket represents good value for money for the average London commuter, you’d probably say no, am I right?”

  “What you talkin’ ‘bout the Underground fo’? I’m sayin’ my man needs the best tulips available in the whole of Great Britain and he need ‘em now. I ain’t goan’ try to explain how important it is that these flowers leave a lastin’ impression, but take my word, they got’s to be the mutts,” he says impatiently.

  “Easy Ig,” says Wheels. He is not looking like a picture of health. “Agreed; the Underground is a rip-off.”