by Paul Charles
His father being killed in car crash when John was seven years old. Stone saw, vividly, the scene of the police car pulling up outside his house, heard his mother say, “What have you been up to this time, what trouble have you gotten yourself into? Just you wait till your father comes home!” as she glared straight at him, not at either of his two brothers; why was it always him? He could see a policeman and a policewoman exit the panda car and make their way along the well trodden path across the grass to his house.
John B. heard the knock on the door, saw his mother wipe her hands on the apron, which she then removed and placed behind a cushion on “daddy’s chair”, saw her close the living room door behind her and open the front door. He heard mutterings for a few seconds and then he heard this high-pitched, evil-sounding animal whine coming from his mother. He and his sister ran to her but it was too late and she had collapsed into the policeman’s arms. He then saw his father’s coffin set proudly on mobile wooden legs in his parents” bedroom; surely his mother never slept in the same room as the coffin? But he didn’t know for sure because he didn’t feel he should ask her that question, perhaps that’s what his relations meant when they brought him to their house saying his mother has to spend some time alone with the thoughts of his father. Next the day of the funeral and all the people dressed in black wandering around his house.
He saw his two brothers (whom he cared little about) and his sister (whom he cared a lot about). Stone saw himself practising dancing, and kissing, with his sister. When they were left alone in the house they would seek out their father’s precious recordings of the Kinks, the Small Faces, the Who and the Rolling Stones. They were precious only because they were the sole things their mother kept in memory of her husband.
The utter contempt he felt for his maths teacher who now flashed across the screen making little of Stone in front of his classmates and sure wasn’t he only five foot nothing, or knee-high to a packet of Surf as his mother would say, had bad teeth and a poor attempt at a Bobby Charlton haircut. Agreed he knew all about numbers and times tables but was that really anything to write home about? The only image which kept reappearing was one of this black box floating in and out of view mixed up with all the other images. The main difference, apart from the frequency of views was that this image was in black and white while all the others were in living colour.
Also included on this, the final rerun of his life’s highlights, was the first gig he attended: Thin Lizzy with their classic Tthe Boys are Back in Town’ concert at the Hammersmith Odeon, in the days when the Odeon was a great gig and not a poxy beer advert, beer definitely with a small “b”.
Next up came early fumbling with girls (some of them on dates fixed up by his sister) behind the bushes of Primrose Hill. His first full sexual encounter was at a party in his friend’s flat over on Camden Square. He got so drunk he remembered little about the sticky, sweaty affair but he ended up marrying the girl five years, and few sexual encounters, later. His first mode of transport was a Vespa 125 scooter and he had a recurring image of himself driving around the streets of Primrose Hill and in and out of Regent’s Park. His first car was a clapped-out green Volkswagen and it had, in fact, clapped out completely about a mile from his house on the very night he bought it for two hundred and eighty pounds.
The next scene was a scary one; he saw himself drenched in sweat as he sniffed his first, and last, hit of cocaine. He felt terrible after it, didn’t manage to get high on Snow White, the only distortion he managed to experience was a rough, gravelly feeling at the back of his throat. This thankfully disappeared as the cocaine worked its way out of his bloodstream.
Now John B. was the camera himself and flying over a football field as he watched himself try unsuccessfully to score a goal. He knew what to do, he knew all the tactics, knew exactly where and how he should hit the ball to effect the desired result; it was just that his feet, particularly his right one, would never ever do as his brain ordered. Was it an important goal he had missed? He didn’t know and he didn’t care save for his single thought that the only important goals in life always turn out to be the goals you miss.
Again he sees himself sweating, and as the camera pulls back it discloses John B. Stone trying to have sex; he just, barely, accomplishes penetration. So in his book of life it must qualify as his first time but he never considered it to be and, sadly, it was rarely, if ever, better. Then he spies the black box floating past again only this time it’s against a blue background. A beautiful blue, like the Williams Racing blue. John B. thought that people take the colour blue too much for granted, but really it’s such a beautiful, soulful colour, and now all his vision was taken up with blue. The Black Box had disappeared and now the life-giving blue was dissolving into a wedding scene.
The bride was stunning, in white, and Stone felt proud, but then as the camera pulled back he saw not himself by her side but his brother. This made the scene very painful for him to watch. Now the camera moves on, racing away at such a speed that everything it catches is blurred, but when the picture comes back into focus again it reveals another funeral in progress, this time his mother’s and everyone is getting drunk at the wake. His sister-in-law is getting particularly drunk and he sees himself join her, his head swimming in alcohol, and they go off for a walk down the garden, through a hedge - all of this is in very sharp focus - now they are kissing and she is responding passionately to his kiss. Then she realises she’s with the wrong brother and so she starts to push him away. In fact she pushes him away with such force that she loses her balance and falls back into the bushes.
Now he’s on top of her and she’s struggling but she’s too drunk for her struggles to secure her freedom. He sees himself, from his vantage camera position, interfere with his sister-in-law’s underwear, sees her start to cry but without tears, it looks like she’s started to enjoy the encounter because instead of trying to push him off her she is using her hands to hold his shoulders, maybe even tenderly, and she appears to be trying to steady Stone as he uses one hand to undo his fly and release himself. He uses his other hand to play gently with her. No aggression now, just pleasant floating waves and she’s on the high of a wave when he removes her underwear and places himself between her legs and as he tries to force himself into her she regains some of her senses and starts to struggle against him again. But it’s to no avail, he’s inside her, and her struggles just add to his pleasure. Her face dissolves into another face, one he fails to recognise, then it returns to the face of his sister-in-law who has given up the fight and is sobbing.
The camera pulls back again, only slowly, very slowly this time, and he realises that it’s today, much earlier today and he can see that he’s dressed in his current outfit and he’s leaving his house, his lonely house, this morning. He’s on a bus and the bus is moving but he feels it shouldn’t be moving and it’s all very confusing. Then it’s later in the day and someone is talking to him, the conversation seems quite friendly, but then a split second later they are out in the dark and he is being beaten up.
Next he sees himself receive a good beating. He’s in shock and he’s doesn’t know why he’s being beaten and he can see blood, his own blood, fly everywhere and he hears himself thinking, ‘shit I’m going to get blood on my shirt, who is going to wash this blood out?’ On and on the hiding continues and he’s surprised by the fact that there is not as much hurt, or as much pain, as he would have thought on receiving such a hammering. With all the blood flying about, and the wet and warm liquid flowing about his head and out of his mouth, nose and ears, he feels he should be dead at this point. He’s aware that he’s still alive, surprisingly, but feels himself helpless about doing anything to stop this wreckage of his body.
Then he sees and feels himself drop into darkness; is this death, he wonders. But in a few seconds he knows it’s not death because he can taste the mixture of liquids from his nose as it flows into his mouth. But the beating has stopped and he finds peace, solitude and rest in this dar
kness.
Oh, he’s so happy for the rest and the fact that the beating has ceased but, now that it has, he feels the aches start to creep all over and through his body. There is not a single part of his body which does not hurt. Every time he tries any movement he feels like someone is drilling into the small of his back with an electric drill. It seems like he is lying in a cave, he feels some kind of happiness in his place of solitude, and he wants to sleep. It’s like when he used to be very drunk, too drunk to drink that special pint of milk, or water, before falling asleep. He would be so drunk that he wanted to escape the dizziness and the buzziness and the fuzziness and he would be happy to find sanctuary in sleep. He always knew that he would pay, in trumps, the following morning when he would wake up with the mother of hangovers, but it just didn’t matter, sleep was bliss.
So he sees himself drift way off into the distance through the quietness and into the darkness. Next he hears the cracking again, loud and getting louder, and he realises he is hearing bones being cracked. He regains a little consciousness and then realises it is his own bones which are being cracked. This time, though, the thumps are different, not so forceful, but seemingly more effective. Probably just his imagination but he does wish it would stop. Stop this tirade of thuds. Now he hears them very clearly, thud, thud, thud, like a chef beating a steak to tenderise it. So much violence for such a compassionate act.
The thuds are getting louder and louder and he realises this is because the thuds are getting closer to his ear, the one ear he can still hear with.
He hears just one more thud and the lights go out.
Chapter Ten
Kennedy visited the Camden Bus Estate Agency on Arlington Road opposite the Rat and Parrot. The enterprising owner, instead of paying the usual high local rents for office space bought himself a beautiful 1948 London Transport Routemaster and parked the double-decker behind the Tupelo Honey Cafe. His initiative had supposedly irked the other Parkway estate agents, of which there were many. But the novel approach served him well.
The manager of this successful business, Mr Arnold Cooper, now conducts Kennedy to his office on the top deck. He invites the detective to take a seat in front of the desk. As they both sit down Cooper gives Kennedy the estate agent handshake, firm, quick and you come away with a business card planted so firmly in your palm an imprint of the ink remains on your skin.
“What can I do for you?” Arnold, never Arnie, inquires. He is a pleasant enough chap, dressed in the estate agent’s uniform of white shirt (first of two for the day) a lime green tie, thick red braces and a light blue suit. His hair is ginger and wavy and looks like it is permed, though close examination reveals that this is not the case, it’s just that he has very thick wavy hair which he likes to grow long but dampens it down on his head to retain a semi-presentable look. Kennedy wonders does Cooper’s hair fall all about him à la Jerry Lee Lewis when he’s partying. His appearance is set off with large blue-framed glasses, the lenses of which are so strong they make his eyes look too big for his little head.
“John B. Stone I believeŠ” begins Kennedy.
“Oh. I see,” the other cut in. “You want John Boy. He’s aŠ he’s not in yet. Most unusual for him.” Cooper speaks with perfect diction in short clipped sentences.
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t explain,” says Kennedy. He won’t be coming in today or… I’m afraid I have to tell you he’s dead.” Kennedy notices the colour drain slowly from the office manager’s face, so he lets the news settle in for a few moments before continuing, “We found his body this morning at the other end of Parkway.”
Parkway is the busy street which connects Regent’s Park with Camden High Street (the direction of the one-way traffic). It is the heart of Camden Town due to the fact that it is less touristy than the High Street and the businesses and their owners create an informal community atmosphere. The aforementioned owners form one of the best bush telegraph systems in London. News and gossip travels the length and breadth of the street in as short a time as Radio 1 spends considering what good music it will play. So now Kennedy has advised one member of this tightly knit community, the rest of Parkway will know about the death of John B. Stone by the time Kennedy walks the short distance back to his office.
“He was beaten quite badly and died as a result of his injuries.”
“Oh my God. I was just drinking with him last evening. We all drink in the Spread Eagle, it’s very friendly in there, recently refurbished and there is a younger rock and roll type crowd,” Arnold Cooper announced proudly as if he was trying to sell Kennedy the property.
“What time did he leave?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t stay very long myself, to be honest. The wife you know. We’ve got two young children.” Cooper glanced to the photos on the desk. Kennedy followed his gaze and saw in an eleven-by-nine pinewood frame embossed with sea shells, a woman, mid-thirties with a bit of a haircut problem, and two (one of each) very cute children. “And my wife keeps telling me I’ve got to concentrate on bonding with them at this stage in their life. So she likes me home for dinner before she puts them to bed,” Cooper said with a shrug of his shoulders, “No more late nights in the boozer for me I’m afraid.” He smiled, “I’m not really henpecked” smile which soon disappeared from his face. Kennedy assumed he had remembered the death of his colleague.
“Listen, I’m sorry. What else can I do to help you?” he said solemnly. “Well, for starters, what can you tell me about him?” “Now let me see. He is… sorry I meant he was good at his job. He wasone of our best agents. In fact I believe he was our second best in last year’s figures.”
When Kennedy failed to ask the obvious question Cooper continued unabashed.
“I, actually, was the best last year. It was a tricky year for our business, you know. Although the property slump was over punters were cautious as we came to the end of the last government. I think everyone knew the Tories were going to be beaten but people felt the need just to sit tight and see what happened. But we got by and this year is much better. In fact John Boy is having a tremendous start to the year and if I don’t watch myself he’ll bea… oh shit I’ve done it again. It’s hard to comprehend the fact that he’s no longer going to be around and part of our life and business.” Cooper’s voice trailed off at the end of the sentence.
Kennedy merely coughed to fill the silence. Cooper shook his head and continued.
“John Boy. We called him John Boy here because he looked so young. He’s about forty-one or forty-two I think, but you’d swear he wasn’t a day over twenty-four. I swear it should be illegal for a forty-year-old man to look so young,” Cooper said as he patted down his bushy hair.
“How long has he worked for you?” Kennedy inquired.
“He’s been here about three years now. He’d had a few jobs in his life. He came here with a great set of references. But he always seemed to want to be on the move. I think this might have been his first job in North London. He told me he grew up around here somewhere but he’d spent his recent years around Wimbledon and Raynes Park.”
“What about relationships?”
“Well I’m sure some of the others in the office, who socialised with him more, would know about all of that better than me. In fact Jane and William were still with him last evening in the Spread Eagle when I left. But really, from what I can gather, he didn’t seem to have much luck with the ladies.”
Once again Cooper looked at the photograph of his family, “I think he really could have benefited from settling down with a good woman. A good woman, you know, makes all the difference. Both of John Boy’s parents are dead and he has some brothers, two I think, and a sister. I never listen to office gossip you understand, but I did hear something about the family not getting on too well, something weird happening at his mother’s funeral. All this chatter was going on on the lower deck and I couldn’t hear properly. I could never exactly find out what had happened.”
Kennedy tried a different line. “Would
he have made any enemies in this business?”
“You’re kidding of course. Don’t you realise we’re the most loved people in the community?” Cooper smiled briefly at his own attempt of humour, and Kennedy shared his smile, if briefly. “Well, we do get a bit of flack from time to time, as I’m sure you’ll know. A perspective buyer will make an offer, the offer is rejected. Guess who is to blame? Your friendly estate agent. A seller won’t get the million he was told his property is worth at a dinner party. Who is to blame?”
Kennedy nodded at carrot top, who replied with a smile, “You got it! Or, a deal falls through at the last minute and we get blamed by both parties. No, I reckon we’re as popular with the general public as Yoko Ono is with Beatle fans.”
The detective, a Beatle fan himself, thought Cooper was being a bit hard - on estate agents, that is.
“So taking all this into consideration, are you aware of any clients who might have had a grudge, a big enough grudge against John B. Stone to beat him up, and maybe just overdo it?” All this talking without a cup of tea was making Kennedy’s seat very uncomfortable.
“No. Not to my knowledge.”
“Was there ever a big deal of Stone’s which went sour?” the dry-mouthed detective pressed.
“No. Nothing like that. He had quite a few of his own clients. Property developers in the area. He’d be on the lookout all the time for ‘his people’ and they’d take care of each other, if you know what I mean,” Cooper replied, vaguely.
“Not exactly.” Kennedy longed for a cup of tea, if only to say “I’d a cup of tea on the top of a double decker bus today.” That would certainly be a good opening line to ann rea. He wondered when he would speak to her next. She hadn’t left a contact number and Kennedy hadn’t pushed her on it.
“Look,” said Cooper, “here’s the thing. We estate agents and developers are both in a similar business. We sell properties and they work with us at both ends of the transaction. They will sometimes take derelict properties off our hands, spend a lot of money redeveloping them into flats, shop units, commercial units or houses. They then come back to us to sell their properties when They’ve completed the work.”
