Street that Rhymed at 3am

by Mark Timlin

  The house seemed to have every light inside on full and when we went up the path, strong security spots lit the way for us.

  ‘Big electricity bill,’ I said.

  ‘’E can afford it,’ said Harold proudly.

  We climbed the stone steps flanked with concrete lions worn almost smooth by time and weather, and Harold banged on the knocker.

  After a moment the door was answered by another lemonade, also in a track suit. This one grinned too, to show more gold than Bond Street, and ushered us in.

  Harold led me down a thickly carpeted hall to a cream-painted door and threw it open.

  He stood back to allow me to enter the room beyond, which was dimly lit in contrast with the rest of the house.

  It was big, with a high ceiling, and once upon a time, when there was still farmland within walking distance, some rich businessman who lived there with his family and commuted to the City by the newly built Southern Railway would have used it as the dining room, or morning room, or some other sodding room. How times change.

  But whoever had it now was also rich. The whole place stank of cash. Hardly what I’d expected.

  I’d expected a flat on a council estate like Darkman’s. All tacky lino and loud reggae. Instead I got Persian rugs deep enough to hide a small dog; loads of cut-glass and china ornaments, and furniture you’d expect to see on the Antiques Roadshow.

  ‘You tooled up?’ said Harold when he’d shut the door behind us. I nodded. I’d already told him that.

  ‘Gimme.’

  Delicate moment. Should I or shouldn’t I? After a second I undid my coat and hauled out the Colt revolver.

  Harold accepted it and grinned. ‘Lemme see,’ he said and frisked me, coming up with the Detonics. ‘You like back-up,’ he remarked.

  ‘A bird in the hand,’ I replied.

  ‘Don’t fuck with me, mon,’ he said. ‘And don’t fuck with Mister B.’

  And who exactly is Mister B I wondered, but said nothing.

  ‘Gimme the bag now,’ he said.

  I passed over the black bag Annette had bought for me, he opened it, rifled through the contents and came up with Isaac’s .45. ‘Regular Terminator,’ he said, grinned, put all the guns inside the bag, zipped it up and hung it over his shoulder by the strap, then went over to a set of massive double doors on the other side of the room, tapped and entered. After a second he came out again and beckoned for me to join him. ‘Be cool, mon,’ he said. ‘Your life depends on it.’

  I’d had nicer recommendations.

  Harold stood back and let me into the room. It was dark inside. Much darker even than the previous room, and lit mostly by a massive aquarium that seemed to fill one whole wall and swirled with fish of the most amazing colours.

  I let my eyes adjust for a second and saw that beside the tank was a desk, and behind the desk sat a black man in a black suit, wearing sunglasses.

  ‘Mr B, Nick Sharman,’ said Harold, and stepped outside closing the door behind him, which made the room even darker.

  ‘Sharman,’ said Mr B in a deep and cultured voice. ‘I’ve heard so much about you. It’s a pleasure to meet at last. Do sit down.’

  Once again it wasn’t what I was expecting.

  I saw the silhouette of a chair in front of the desk and sidled over, hoping there was nothing for me to trip over en route. There wasn’t and I sank into the rich leather upholstery and squinted across the desktop. Mr B was bald and wide, but it was impossible to figure out how tall. ‘You got any light in here?’ I asked. ‘It’s like a bloody tomb.’

  I know Harold had told me to be cool. But fuck it. I refused to be intimidated.

  ‘This is how I like it,’ said Mr B. ‘Get used to it.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll grow to love it. Nice fish.’

  ‘You know about fish?’

  ‘Only with chips and brown sauce.’

  ‘My hobby. My friends.’

  ‘A bit cold, I would’ve thought.’

  ‘You’d be amazed.’

  ‘But not very cuddly.’

  Mr B laughed then. ‘Sharman,’ he said. ‘I heard you were a crazy fucker. How come we haven’t met before?’

  ‘Just lucky, I guess. Do you know where Parker is?’

  ‘In this room I ask the questions.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Tell me about Parker.’

  I told him the story so far. All I left out was the bit about the plane crash and who was on board. If he’d had something to do with blowing it up, I didn’t want him to think I might bear a grudge.

  When I’d finished he said, ‘You want something to drink?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask. Got any brandy?’

  ‘Remy?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He must’ve had some kind of panic button under the desk because an instant later Harold came through the door behind us.

  ‘Remy, bottle,’ rasped Mr B. ‘Two glasses.’

  Harold vanished again, but I’m almost sure he’d been carrying a gun when he came in.

  A minute later he was back swinging a bottle and carrying two brandy balloons in the other hand. He allowed the reflection from the other room to light his way, and I saw that Mr B’s face was scarred from old wounds or burns. Badly. So that his skin looked as if it had been flayed away from his skull, leaving deep trenches in the flesh. It was horrible, like sitting opposite a corrupting corpse. No wonder he liked to be in the dark. I tried not to react, but even behind the lenses of his glasses I knew that he saw my expression, yet made no comment. Behind him, thick, floor-length curtains covered one entire wall of what I imagined must be windows looking out over the back of the house.

  Harold poured two generous measures, left the bottle and went back outside.

  ‘Mind if I smoke?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Got an ashtray?’

  ‘Next to the bottle.’ And sure enough there was one. Clean and empty.

  ‘You?’ I asked, taking out my Silk Cut.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So,’ I said, when I was smoking and had sipped some of the liquor. ‘Do you know where Parker is?’

  32

  ‘I thought I said that I asked the questions.’

  ‘Sure you did. But since I arrived I’ve done nothing but talk. I thought it might be your turn now. A little exchange of information, if you get my drift.’

  ‘I get your drift perfectly. You’re not scared of me one little bit, are you?’

  I had to laugh. ‘Don’t you believe it. I’m terrified! And I could never trust anyone who wouldn’t be, in a situation like this.’

  ‘And you’d be right not to. More brandy?’

  ‘This is not exactly what I expected,’ I said.

  ‘Of course not. You expected a cockroach-infested slum full of young men in bobble hats. But we’re not all like that, although some are. We can be as civilized as the best of you. Often much more so. Our culture goes back to a time when this cold little island was populated by nothing more than savages. You should remember that.’

  ‘Yes please,’ I said and he poured me a decent measure. My eyes were almost accustomed to the dark by then, and I could see that indeed it looked as if Mr B had been badly burned at some time in his life. ‘So are you going to let me in on the plot?’ I asked.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Parker was liberated from his hotel by some bad people.’ Even with his black bins on in the gloom he saw the look on my face. He must’ve had the eyes of a cat. ‘Believe me, Mr Sharman, in all this we’re the good guys. Or as good as you’re going to get.’

  ‘I believe you,’ I said, remembering Harold’s warning that my life might depend on my behaviour, but didn’t add, thousands wouldn’t.

  ‘In doing so they killed three police officers.’

  �
��Not according to the newspapers and TV. According to them I’m suspect number one in that particular incident.’

  ‘Just a ploy, Mr Sharman. They are aware that you didn’t do it.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I have some friends in high places. Expensive friends. It costs me a lot of money to stay au fait with events.’

  ‘So why me?’

  ‘You’ve got a chequered past, Mr Sharman. You’re the perfect patsy.’

  ‘Terrific. But why?’

  ‘Because they don’t know if Parker went of his own free will or under coercion. They don’t want to panic these bad people into killing Parker. He has some information that would be useful to the filth,’ Mr B went on. ‘And possibly hurtful to me.’

  I can imagine, I thought.

  ‘And where does Darkman come in?’

  ‘Our mutual friend? Black trash. But even trash has its uses from time to time. According to him Parker has a large amount of money, which only you seem to have seen. This is not what I was led to expect. Nor was I expecting Parker to be in a room full of police officers. So naturally I am intrigued.’

  Thin ice time again.

  ‘I only told Darkman what I saw?’ I said. ‘And tell me, why did he come to you?’

  ‘Darkman doesn’t have the resources I have. He’s been dipping too deep into his own sugar bowl. He’s small-time rubbish. But he knows that Parker and I have been associates in the past. And also he knows that, if I found out that he was aware of any information pertaining to Parker, or that Parker was in a position to be a threat to me, and Darkman hadn’t told me, I’d skin him alive and nail his nigger hide to the nearest tree.’

  Nice thought. ‘As a matter of interest, what were you led to believe Parker had?’ I asked. I was intrigued.

  ‘I think I’ve exchanged quite enough information for now, Mr Sharman. You will be told more when and if I believe you need to know more.’

  Fair enough, I thought, but I tried one more question. ‘So what do you intend to do now?’

  ‘I intend to liberate Parker and his money from the people he’s with and make sure that he cannot harm me in the future.’

  ‘Kill him, you mean.’

  ‘Not necessarily. We had other plans for Mr Parker, but we will do what is necessary. Whatever it takes, Mr Sharman. And I also intend to keep you out of circulation for the foreseeable future.’

  ‘Kill me?’

  ‘I don’t think so. At the moment you represent no threat to me or mine. But you could be useful to us, so look upon it as a holiday.’

  ‘I already have plans for the holidays.’

  ‘Cancel them. Or we’ll cancel them for you. There’s a room upstairs and we have a pretty good cook here. Soul food. I think you’ll enjoy your stay.’

  I didn’t have much choice, so when Harold came back in, obviously summoned by Mr B’s panic button again, I just drained my glass and followed him out of the room.

  33

  Friday night/Saturday morning

  Harold took me upstairs to a room at the front of the house. It was medium-sized, warm, and contained a bed, wardrobe and dressing table. All I wanted right then.

  ‘Toilet’s opposite,’ he said, tossing me my bag, which I could feel by the weight was sans ordnance. ‘You need anything?’

  ‘Just some sleep.’

  ‘Do it. You want breakfast in bed and the papers?’ He was kidding. Or maybe he wasn’t.

  ‘No thanks,’ I replied. ‘I’ll come down early.’

  ‘There’s always someone round. Mr B eats alone. The help eat in the kitchen at the back. Martha’ll see to you.’

  ‘Martha?’

  ‘She’s the cook, mon. Best in South London. You wait till you taste her chips.’

  ‘OK, Harold,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, mon. Thank all that money you seen.’ And he left.

  Jesus, I thought, as I undressed and slipped between the sheets. What webs of lies we weave, and what trouble they eventually land us in.

  But even so, I was asleep within minutes.

  I woke just after seven by my watch and went to the bathroom to make my toilet. The house was peaceful and quiet and I got dressed and went downstairs. There were no armed guards on the front door, but it didn’t even cross my mind to leave. Where would I go? I found the spotlessly clean kitchen by following my nose, and a big yellow woman was at the stove stirring a pot of something that made my mouth water. Jazz FM was on a small radio on the dresser. Cannonball Adderley.

  She looked round as I entered. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘No one told me we had visitors.’

  ‘I was a late arrival,’ I said. ‘You must be Martha.’

  ‘That’s my name, don’t wear it out.’ She seemed in good humour, and not the least fazed by my appearance. She must’ve been used to strangers.

  ‘I’m Nick,’ I said.

  ‘Hi, Nick.’

  ‘Hi, Martha. Something smells good.’

  ‘Gumbo,’ she said. ‘For later. You want coffee?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Sit down.’

  I took a chair by the long, polished table that sat in the middle of the floor, and she rescued a pot off the stove and a mug from a shelf and stuck them both under my nose. ‘Help yourself.’

  I did and it tasted good.

  ‘Breakfast?’ she asked.

  ‘Lead me to it.’

  ‘Bacon, eggs, plantain, beans and chips?’

  ‘Sounds like it’s got my name on it.’

  She shoved some bread in the toaster and went to the fridge to get the makings. When they were sizzling in various pans, I poured another coffee, lit a cigarette and said. ‘Where is everybody?’

  ‘Mr B like to sleep late Sat’day. Harold and Marcus, they be sleeping too. Goldie’s out back taking care of business.’

  ‘Anybody else live here?’

  ‘You’re nosy.’

  ‘Sorry. Force of habit. Are there?’

  ‘Not right now. People come and go.’ She started to slip food on to a plate and I dogged out my cigarette. She put toast on the side and pointed to the butter and condiments on the dresser.

  I dug in. Harold was right. Her chips were great.

  34

  As I was finishing my food, the geezer with all the gold teeth came into the kitchen. He had to be Goldie. Hey, I’m a detective. I can work things like that out in a flash. In one hand he was carrying a rifle that he propped against the dresser, and in the other, a pile of newspapers that he dropped on the table, then made a pistol out of his right hand and pointed it at me. ‘Breakfast, Goldie?’ said Martha, which proved my powers of deduction were spot on, as usual.

  ‘Sure, baby,’ he replied, and sat down opposite me.

  I picked up a copy of the Telegraph from the top of the pile and found a little bit about myself on page three. Still wanted. Well, it was nice to be popular for a change.

  Goldie took a pack of Marlboro out of his sweatshirt pocket and offered them to me. ‘How you doin’, mon,’ he said, with a flash of yellow metal in his smile.

  ‘Not too bad,’ and I took a cigarette and lit both his and mine with my Zippo.

  ‘I hear we’re all goin’ visitin’ this a.m.’

  ‘Is that right? Anyone I know?’

  ‘Don’t know who you know, mon. But these are bad people. Lawless. Desperadoes. You know what I mean?’

  My heart sank. ‘I know,’ I said.

  ‘But we badder,’ and he winked.

  Martha served him up a huge plate of food and he dug in, and I went back to the papers. Someone was a big reader, because there was a copy of every single national newspaper, and I featured in most. The investigation of the murders at the hotel was ongoing and an early arrest was expected.

  That was wh
at I was afraid of.

  Just as Goldie was wiping the last of his egg yolk from the plate with a crust of bread, Harold came into the kitchen. It was a regular café round here.

  ‘Martha, honey,’ he said, whirling her around the room. ‘Get rattlin’ them pots and pans. I’m a hungry man and there’s work to do today.’

  ‘You put me down!’ she screeched, but I could tell she loved the attention. ‘You boys’ll be the death of me, and I got Mr B’s breakfast to fix.’

  ‘Well, do everything double and gimme a plate,’ he said, letting her go and going to the fridge for some juice. ‘Today we’re gonna make our Christmas bonus,’ and he gave me a big grin.

  Or not, as the case may be, I thought.

  35

  Martha got busy at the stove again and made up two more plates of breakfast. One she put in front of Harold, who’d joined Goldie and me at the table, and the other she put on a prepared tray with a pot of coffee and the papers and left the room. When she came back empty-handed she said, ‘Mr B wants to see you lot and Marcus in an hour in his office.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Harold. ‘But I’d better dig that Marcus out of his pit. Get some more coffee on, Martha, I think he had a kinda late night.’ And he left the room too.

  Marcus looked like shit when he came into the kitchen ten minutes later, wearing a T-shirt and mohair strides, and the look on his face when he spotted me gave me the impression he thought pretty much the same about my presence there. He rubbed his unruly hair and slumped at the table where Martha shoved a mug of coffee under his nose. ‘Too damn early,’ he said. ‘I shoulda stayed with my woman last night.’

  ‘Mr B wouldn’t like that,’ said Harold, who’d come in close behind him. ‘And you know how he get when he don’t like things.’

  ‘Sure, man,’ said Marcus, pushing his beak into his mug and slurping up some of the hot liquid. ‘I know how he get.’

  ‘So be a good boy and button your lip,’ Harold went on. ‘You don’t know when you’re well off.’

  Marcus grunted and scratched under one arm. ‘I know,’ he said.