Street that Rhymed at 3am

by Mark Timlin

  I could’ve wept.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve got your change.’

  ‘Keep it. And listen. I didn’t mean to scare you before. I overreacted. I’m in trouble. Very deep trouble. It tends to darken the mood.’

  She smiled. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘My dad was in trouble a lot too. He took it out on all of us.’

  ‘But I don’t,’ I said. ‘As a rule. It’s not my game. It won’t happen again. Promise.’

  ‘Good. Oh, I got you this.’ She rummaged around in the M&S bag and brought out the Standard. My photo was on the front. I looked like the Yorkshire Ripper. Christ knows where they’d got that one, but it wouldn’t get me a part in Baywatch.

  ‘Cheers,’ I said and scanned the story. It was pretty much as I’d imagined it would be.

  I tossed the paper on the coffee table and said, ‘Fancy a sandwich?’

  There was another knock on the door then. The room was getting like Piccadilly Circus. Annette looked alarmed, but not, I imagine, as alarmed as me. ‘Get it,’ I said, pulling out the Colt.

  ‘Who is it?’ she called, before opening the door.

  ‘Emily,’ said a voice from the other side.

  ‘It’s Emily,’ she told me.

  ‘I got that,’ I replied.

  ‘Shall I…?’

  ‘Go on then. I might as well meet the whole gang.’ Christ, I thought, putting the gun away. This never happens in Richard Widmark movies when he’s on the lam.

  Annette opened the door to admit a tiny, beautiful Chinese girl in a flower-patterned dress, high at the neck and split up both sides to expose good legs. She wore very high heels, but still couldn’t’ve been more than five-one or two. ‘This is Emily,’ Annette said. ‘Emily Cheng.’

  This was getting more like Open Day at a girls’ school by the minute.

  ‘Nick,’ I said, assuming Emily knew as much about me as everyone else seemed to, and I wondered when it would stop. Hopefully before the SPG came bursting through the door.

  But where else could I go?

  ‘Hello,’ said Emily. ‘I’m on the cadge.’

  Liar, I thought. You’re just nosy.

  ‘Have you got any tampons, Annie?’ she said. ‘I’ve come on. And I’ve been just too busy to get to the shops.’

  ‘You’ll have a few days off now.’

  ‘Suppose so. Unless I stick to blow-jobs.’

  ‘It’ll give you a break over Christmas,’ said Annette, going to her bag.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Emily. ‘And I was ready to kill, with PMT.’ She looked at me. ‘Sorry.’

  She knew.

  ‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘Emily. That’s a nice name.’

  ‘Thanks. My mum was English. Dad was Cantonese. And I’ve heard all the jokes about chop suey.’

  ‘Sure you have. I wasn’t going to make any. But there’s a good one about twenty number six.’

  She laughed and stuck out her tongue at that.

  The place was like a girls’ school.

  ‘He’s nice,’ she said to Annette. ‘Oops, I’m leaking. See you later.’ And she scampered out of the room clutching a box of Tampax.

  28

  Annette and I watched the evening news. My picture was on it again, the story second only to another disaster for the royal family. The third story was about a big jewel robbery in Bond Street.

  I sent her to the bar after that for cigarettes, more beers, a bottle of JD, ice, lemon, and half a dozen cans of coke.

  ‘You want anything to go with that?’ she asked on her return.

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Darkman made a delivery this morning. We’ve got everything.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Dope, coke, Es, crack, uppers, downers. The whole nine yards.’

  ‘And what’s your pleasure?’

  ‘I like a little draw, and some charlie sometimes.’

  ‘But not crack.’

  ‘No way. I’ve seen some of the girls who go for that. They don’t last long.’

  ‘So who is it for?’

  ‘Punters, mostly.’

  ‘Fair enough. I could do with a joint.’

  ‘Great,’ she said, and showed me a parcel of grass she’d put on the tray with the drinks. ‘Skunk. This’ll do your head in.’

  I was quite prepared to believe it.

  I knew I should stay alert, but I also knew I wouldn’t sleep after the day I’d had without a little something. And who the hell knew when Darkman would get in touch, or even if he would at all? And what would happen if Old Bill turned up at 3 a.m. and I was out of it on strong grass and booze? Frankly, if they did, by then I probably wouldn’t care. All that ran through my mind as Annette loaded up a three-skinner with just a little tobacco from one of my Silk Cuts and what looked like an eighth of an ounce of pure, green, odorous skunk.

  Who the hell could read the future? And if we could, wouldn’t we just open our wrists at the knowledge?

  So when the joint was lit, I gratefully accepted it and took several deep drags as I lay back on the sofa.

  Jesus, but skunk is strong. Almost psychedelic in its effects, and after only a few seconds the lights in the room took on halos and I felt bombed out, big time.

  Then there was another knock on the door. I licked my dry lips and picked up the Colt that felt as heavy as a brick.

  It was May. ‘Darkman’s been on,’ she said, and her voice seemed to come from miles away.

  ‘Does he want to talk to me?’ I slurred.

  She shook her head, and it seemed to take minutes. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘He told me to tell you to hang on in here. He’ll be in touch in the morning. He said he might have something sorted.’

  Sorted, I thought. Just like me. ‘Thanks, May?’ I said, my voice echoing in my head. ‘That’s great.’

  ‘Have a good night,’ she said. ‘See you in the morning.’ And she gently closed the door.

  ‘You look done in,’ said Annette. ‘Want to go to bed?’

  ‘I dunno, babe,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I should just stay here.’

  I saw her pout. ‘It’s all paid for,’ she said. ‘No one’s coming to disturb us.’

  She got up and sashayed across the carpet to the bed area, where she stood with her back to me and pulled her dress over her head. She was wearing hold-ups, little black panties that almost disappeared up the crack of her arse and a thin black bra. She took everything off, still with her back to me, and pulled on a short raspberry-coloured silk nightie that she took from the wardrobe. It hardly covered her cheeks and had old-fashioned lace around the bottom. When she turned back to me it flared slightly to show me the patch of dark hair between her thighs. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Be a devil.’

  I thought of her warm body and the soft bed and began to unbutton my shirt, and wondered if I’d actually make it as far as the mattress.

  29

  Friday morning

  I woke up at about three and crawled out of Annette’s rumpled bed. I pulled on my jeans and shirt, sat on the sofa in the faint light that crept through a crack in the curtains from the lamps in the street outside, lit a cigarette and poured a glass of Jack. I drank it straight without ice or mix and it tasted like medicine. Maybe that’s just what I needed: a taste of my own medicine.

  Annette slept on.

  I sat there until seven, smoking and sipping until she woke up. It was still dark. ‘Nick? Where are you?’ she said.

  ‘Right here, honey.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Never better,’ I lied.

  ‘Do you want to come back to bed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please. That was good.’

  ‘Was it?’ I’d already forgotten.

  ‘’Course it was.’

 
‘I bet you say that to all the boys.’

  ‘No. I mean it.’

  She got up then and came over to join me. She slipped on the silk nightie again as she came. She snuggled up close and it felt as if she were dressed in water. ‘Come on, Nick. Just a quickie. It’ll be fun.’

  ‘Don’t you get enough of this at work? Or is it work?’

  ‘This is purely pleasure.’

  ‘You certainly know how to get round a man.’

  ‘Just this man, I hope.’

  ‘You’re doing it again.’

  ‘Am I?’ she asked innocently, got up and went behind the divider, and like a dog I followed her.

  We stayed in bed until it got light, late on, maybe eight-thirty, quarter to nine. Then she got up, put on a robe and went and made breakfast. I managed some toast and coffee before I went down for a shave, cleaned my teeth, used the toilet and got dressed. When I got back to the room, Annette said, ‘Darkman’s been on. He wants to see you at ten. He’s got some news.’

  Just as well, I thought, as she had GMTV on, and I was still a featured attraction on the news segment.

  I sat and smoked and watched her get herself together until May came and told me that Darkman was waiting in the bar.

  It was empty except for him and I sat on the stool next to his. ‘What’s occurring?’ I asked.

  ‘I found your friend,’ he said.

  ‘He’s no friend of mine.’

  ‘Whatever. I tracked him down.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he’s not a very nice guy.’

  ‘I could’ve told you that.’

  ‘And you’re not the only face looking for him.’

  ‘I think I could’ve worked that one out too. The coppers must be after him after what happened at the hotel.’

  ‘And some of his old associates.’

  ‘And you and me and Uncle Tom Cobley and all.’

  ‘Just about. But his associates want him most. And they want to meet you too.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Cosy.’

  ‘Cosy,’ he agreed. ‘Then there’s the money.’

  Thin ice time. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. His associates didn’t know about that. That’s one of the reasons they want to see you.’

  Fuck, I thought. I could be up shit creek without a paddle. But what’s a boy to do? ‘Don’t ask me, man,’ I said. ‘I only told you what I saw. It could’ve been snide for all I know.’

  ‘I hope not, for your sake.’

  And I hoped I looked more confident than I felt. But it was my only chance. I had to find Parker and find him soon. After all, I had promised Judith.

  ‘Where and when?’ I asked.

  ‘Tonight. Eleven o’clock, Victoria station concourse.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, man…’

  ‘That’s the way they want it.’

  ‘OK, OK. How will I find them?’

  ‘Don’t worry. They’ll find you. Then I’ll find the lot of you. Just be sure that money exists. Otherwise I’ll make sure your clock’s stopped. And if I don’t, others will.’

  And with that, he put on his coat and left.

  And with that, I had my first drink of the day.

  30

  Friday evening

  I spent the rest of the day with Annette, doing what you do with a free brass, and counting my bullets. There were fourteen in all, spread over the three guns.

  Then around ten I bade her a fond farewell, put my few things, including Isaac’s .45 into the black bag, distributed the other two guns about my person and headed towards Victoria, and my appointment with Darkman’s contacts.

  I dumped Latimer’s mobile into the first garbage bin I saw on the way.

  Of course, being that time of the year, there wasn’t a sodding lobster around with its light on, so in the end I walked to Edgware Road and caught a bus. This sort of thing never happened to Mike Hammer.

  Victoria at eleven o’clock on the last Friday night before Christmas. Hell is a city very much like that.

  The streets around the station were packed with humanity, if you could call it that. Inhumanity more like. A movable feast of horror. Every low-life, scumbag, hustler, mutant, conman, ponce, nonce, drifter, thief, beggar and arsehole of both sexes – and maybe more – in the universe, seemed to have made a beeline for the area.

  Pond life. Pod people. So far down the food chain they made amoebae look sophisticated.

  And it was cold. Bone-numbingly cold. As I walked from the bus stop I gathered Parker’s coat closely around myself and shivered.

  The station itself stank of piss and vomit, and the tiled floor was slick with slime. There were people with their shoelaces undone, their flies undone, and their trousers wet with urine. And others talking to themselves, or the demons who haunted them, as if they were alone. Everyone seemed to be drunk, and eating some unspeakable takeaway, or drinking from bottles or tinnies.

  Outside, where a dank yellow mist stinking of petrol and diesel hung over London, obscuring the stars; where a few taxis and buses rattled around the terminus, and the queues for cabs were a hundred yards long and four deep, black snow rimmed the kerbs and gutters. But street people still squatted there, holding up paper cups for any money forthcoming from the crowds rushing past. Sometimes these street people got the odd coin, but more often they got insulted, pissed on, assaulted, or worse. But still they sat there like ragged crows rattling the change they had managed to collect from the pissed-up mug punters.

  The pubs were just starting to chuck out and office boys were trying to get their fingers into secretaries’ G-strings to show their undying love and release the tightness in their bollocks. People who were old enough to know better were exchanging French kisses with the enthusiasm of teenagers, before they caught the last train home to the spouse.

  Zeitgeist à gogo.

  I hated being there. The place gave me the creeps, big time. Predatory eyes were everywhere. Predatory eyes looking for some chicken on the run from an unhappy home searching for the streets paved with gold. Either sex. It didn’t matter. Both boys and girls had a warm and damp orifice where some pervert somewhere would like to lodge his dick. Predatory eyes looking for a mark to rob or con or generally fuck over for his or her Christmas bonus. And other eyes looking for a certain individual who’d had his name and face plastered all over the media for the last thirty-six hours. And they were the eyes I feared the most.

  And it was noisy. Car alarms going off outside and the sound of the human race at play, screaming at the dying of the day. Shouting out their Merry Christmases to friends and even perfect strangers as if they meant it, all competing with the Carpenters’ greatest hits, muzak-style, that was dribbling out of one set of speakers and the train announcements that were booming out of another.

  So there they were, sports fans. Human filth one and all. And I wasn’t much better. Or maybe I was even worse than the worst of them.

  31

  Friday night

  But at least I was armed. Fourteen bullets I’d counted, let dribble through my fingers and put back in their magazines and chambers. Thirteen for thirteen of the revellers, leaving one for me. That’d make a good story to mull over the next day over the eggs and bacon.

  But such morbid thoughts for holiday time, and they evaporated when someone tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘Sharman’.

  I nearly jumped out of my skin, and one hand went inside my coat to the pistol tucked down my jeans close to my balls. I half turned and a black geezer with dreadlocks long and tight enough to clean a lavatory bowl, wearing a dark, single-breasted mac over a track suit, was standing behind me. ‘Relax, mon,’ he said with a white, gappy-toothed grin. ‘We all brothers here.’

  ‘You’ll be a dead fucking brother if you come up behind m
e like that again, mon,’ I hissed.

  ‘Be cool, mon,’ said the spade. ‘We hear you one chilly dude. Come along-a-me. There’s some folks want to see you. We gonna party, bro.’

  Shit, I thought. Just what I need. A fucking party. But I let him lead me out of the concourse down to Wilton Street where a car was parked facing south.

  Of course it was a Beemer. A silver Alpine with fat, alloy wheels, low-profile tyres and all sorts of skirts and shit attached. I knew it was our motor, as the sound of amplified jungle could be heard two blocks away.

  ‘Discreet,’ I said. ‘You know I’m carrying.’

  ‘Us too, mon. Browning Hi-Power. The only guns for the only ones.’

  Shit, the geezer was stoned to the bone. Or pretending to be.

  There was one guy in the car, behind the wheel. Another spade, another haircut. This time a high-top fade with a marijuana leaf carved in the back.

  I saw that as the interior light winked on when the first one opened the door for me to get in.

  ‘Turn the fucking music down, will you?’ I almost screamed as the driver slapped the motor into gear and took off like a scalded cat once we were both inside.

  He looked over his shoulder at me with a scowl as he narrowly missed a garbage truck, but did as I asked.

  ‘Cool,’ said the first guy. ‘Dis is Marcus. Me Harold. You Nick, correct?’

  ‘On the button,’ I said. ‘Where we going?’

  ‘The independent state of Brixton,’ he replied, pronouncing it Brix-tun. ‘See me guv’nor.’

  We screamed into the independent state about fifteen minutes later and diddled around the back streets into one of those big squares full of huge detached houses that show what Brixton was like pre-war, before the council knocked the shit out of it and built vile high-rises for the plebs. We drew up in front of the biggest house.

  ‘We ’ere,’ said Harold and hopped out, and I crawled out after him. He was young, see. Maybe only twenty-two or three, and I wasn’t.

  Harold indicated that our journey was over, and Marcus took off to pastures new in the BMW with a roar from the engine, a screech of rubber and a blast from his stereo system.