STARSHINE, THE OCEAN AND THE UNICORN
Chapter Three Part 9
It was early in the evening and the club in Old Compton Street was empty. Joe had hoped to find Mandy there, but Nick the owner's son was behind the bar on his hands and knees, stocking up the cold shelves with bottled lagers and fruit juices. Nick had not seen him come in so Joe sat himself on one of the high bar stools and cast a long leisurely eye over the row of spirit bottles. He wanted to start with a short, something smooth on the tongue and warm in the belly. His eye stuck on the rounded bottle filled with honey coloured liquid and the label with a pen and ink drawing of a Mississippi paddle steamer. He waited for Nick to squeeze the last bottle of lager onto the cold shelf.
" I'll 'ave a Southern Comfort please Nick ! "
Nick shot up. He was tall, dark haired boy, well dressed and quiet mannered, good looks, dark eyes and a smile that got him friends and rich women.
" Hello Joe ! " Nick kicked the empty crates aside and stuck a glass under the optic. Joe watched the measure of clear gold run into the bottom of the glass and stop.
" Make it a double, "said Joe. The optic was pushed up again and another measure was added.
" Where's Mandy ? "asked Joe, without showing any obvious interest.
" Gone. Got a job in Amsterdam. "
" Oh ? " Joe's surprise showed.
" Yeah. Always off somewhere. It was Go-Go dancing in Bangkok last time. "
Nick lifted the flap of the bar and moved quickly round the tables, putting an ashtray and four coasters on each one. The Southern Comfort was as smooth and warm as Joe had anticipated but Mandy's spirit of adventure soured it a little. He imagined nothing past the safety of her cosy, heated room and the gentleness of her kisses. Nothing more had occurred to him and now the pieces did not fit and a mild sense of betrayal gnawed at him, because his understanding had misunderstood. He pushed the matter somewhere deep in his mind where it could be forgotten and instead he wondered why Ned was not there yet to chew his ears off with stories of old Ireland, its green lands and sweet grass. Maybe he was about his business of extracting coins from meters and phone boxes or maybe he was in his rented bedsit sitting amongst piles of money, all counted and stacked into little pillars of silver and gold. Joe wondered what three million pounds would look like in coins and how big a room it would fill. He could hear the gentle clinking of little cascades of coins falling from mountains of money. But it was Nick rearranging glasses on a high shelf behind the bar.
" There's a card game on tonight Joe. Fancy joining ? " said Nick.
Joe thought for a moment,
" Yes !" he said and smiled because he could think of nothing he would like more. He loved the feel of cards . The dealing and receiving of hands, chance combinations of luck that turns as the cards are played. He liked the raising of bets, the pushing of money and paper promises to the centre of the table and after some moments of solemn silence, tension and cigarette smoke the drawing back of money towards a winner. Joe had always walked away from a card game with nothing but a pocket full of debts. He had winning streaks, but he never learnt to leave the table until a losing streak forced him from it. This time Joe had a secret mountain of money so that he could win or lose with no other goal but the joy of playing and it seemed so long since he had played.
Nick had a final look around the room to see that everything was set up for the night. He turned bright lights off and low lights on, put some funky music on the stereo, turned the volume up and sat down to a drink. Joe offered him a cigarette. The two men smoked and drank, they talked of the comings and goings in Soho, the court cases and the pay offs, they exchanged jokes and remembered good times and beautiful women. And so the evening went on. Nick was kept busy behind the bar as the club filled up. Cousin Carrot Top turned up with a crowd of friends he and Joe had grown up with and hour passed hour with new rounds of drinks and old rounds of conversation. Joe was relieved to see Ned come through the door and know that he had not been crushed by the weight of his fortune. Nick gave Joe a nod and a wink. The card game was about to begin and there was no time to hear Ned tell of clear running streams through bluebell woods and full cream milk, frothy, warm and fresh from the teets of fat, juicy, brown eyed cows. Joe turned to his friends and cousin to bid them goodnight but there had been some joke that Joe had missed and their faces were red and screwed up with laughter, Joe left them that way and slipped out through a side door.
The backroom was set up for the game, everything was spick and span. Bottles, glasses and cans of cold beer were set up on a small bar, the ashtrays were clean and the packs of cards were in neat piles on the table. Several men hung around the edges of the room to spectate. Some of the faces Joe recognised, others he did not. Three men sat round the table; one was a young trendy who Joe did not know, with the latest cut in clothes and longish black hair stuck back with brylcreem, another was a wiry, middle aged villain with nicotine stained fingers and eyes as sharp as needles , Joe remembered him as an old drinking partner of his dad's. The third was Harry, Nicks father and owner of the club. Harry was a kind hearted man, he was short, fat and bald and had a permanent cigar sticking out of his face.
"Hello Joey boy ! Glad to 'ave you with us. This is Ted and this is Ken. "
The trendy was Ted and the villain was Ken. Joe nodded to them and took his place opposite Harry. Harry dealt the cards and the game began. The cards felt good to Joe, they were smooth and shiny. Hearts, diamonds, clubs and spades, blood red and jet black, clear and sharp edged on bright white. The court cards sat straight backed and stern faced in their regal crowns and embroidered robes. They played on while disorganised piles of money appeared in the centre of the table, disappeared and then reappeared. Jackets were taken off and sleeves were rolled up. Stale smoke hung in the air, ashtrays overflowed, empty bottles and beer cans littered the room and the players played on. Sandwiches were brought in and offered round and more drinks. Joe refused the food and took the alcohol. More hands were dealt, more bets were raised and more time passed. Joe was winning when the cards began to bore him. The air was too thick to breathe and the booze was racing around his veins. He wanted to be outside, he wanted to walk through the ice cold night and ring on Annie's doorbell in case she was alone. So he gathered up his money and left the table.
Monday, 31 August 2015
Sunday, 30 August 2015
STARSHINE, THE OCEAN AND THE UNICORN.
Chapter three Part 8
Leicester Square was crowded with people and pigeons, all brisk and strutting. Joe sat in the park in the middle. It was anaemic patch of grass with a path around it, all covered in bird shit and surrounded by iron railings. Joe sat beneath the grey spidery branches of winter trees, on a wooden bench that was so cold it felt like stone. He looked around at the film titles, he picked one out and headed for the ticket office underneath its big, brash letters.
Joe found himself a place in the back row while the adverts were showing. He sank down into the soft velvet seat, it was large and comfy with a high back and wide arm rests. Joe ripped the cellophane from a new packet of cigarettes and lit one, and in the blackness of the auditorium the flame threw a flickering orange glow over his face. He flicked his wrist and the match died and the glow was gone. He sat back and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. It seemed to have been days since he had smoked, he guessed it had been his lack of money before Morgan Alexander had paid him his pittance and then after that , one thing after another had simply left him no time to think, or maybe it was just forgetfulness. He felt the nicotine mingle and move with his blood, it felt good. He relaxed and looked at the screen that was filled with the sea, breakers and surfboards and girls in bikinis with droplets of salt water over their dark tans, and bottles of clear, sparkling lemonade. The lights came on. The tiny matinee audience was scattered over the rows of red velvet seats. The floor was littered with spilt popcorn, plastic cups and sweet papers. Joe dragged hard on his cigarette and let the smoke out slowly through his nose to deaden the stale, toasted smell of the popcorn. He watched in disgust as a teenage couple three rows in front of him gave each other salivary kisses and he was relieved when the lights went out again and the movie began.
He sat through two hours of star ships flashing through space outer space and landing on mountainous and cratered planets where humans wearing bizarre uniforms and six eyed aliens shot at each other with laser guns on battlefields of swirling orange mist. And a beautiful alien queen who wore garments of coloured scales like an exotic fish and who had foot long silvery eye lashes , was rescued by a swarthy, blue eyed space outlaw. They got married and there was peace throughout the universe and Joe knew he should have gone to see the movie on the other side of the square.
Chapter three Part 8
Leicester Square was crowded with people and pigeons, all brisk and strutting. Joe sat in the park in the middle. It was anaemic patch of grass with a path around it, all covered in bird shit and surrounded by iron railings. Joe sat beneath the grey spidery branches of winter trees, on a wooden bench that was so cold it felt like stone. He looked around at the film titles, he picked one out and headed for the ticket office underneath its big, brash letters.
Joe found himself a place in the back row while the adverts were showing. He sank down into the soft velvet seat, it was large and comfy with a high back and wide arm rests. Joe ripped the cellophane from a new packet of cigarettes and lit one, and in the blackness of the auditorium the flame threw a flickering orange glow over his face. He flicked his wrist and the match died and the glow was gone. He sat back and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. It seemed to have been days since he had smoked, he guessed it had been his lack of money before Morgan Alexander had paid him his pittance and then after that , one thing after another had simply left him no time to think, or maybe it was just forgetfulness. He felt the nicotine mingle and move with his blood, it felt good. He relaxed and looked at the screen that was filled with the sea, breakers and surfboards and girls in bikinis with droplets of salt water over their dark tans, and bottles of clear, sparkling lemonade. The lights came on. The tiny matinee audience was scattered over the rows of red velvet seats. The floor was littered with spilt popcorn, plastic cups and sweet papers. Joe dragged hard on his cigarette and let the smoke out slowly through his nose to deaden the stale, toasted smell of the popcorn. He watched in disgust as a teenage couple three rows in front of him gave each other salivary kisses and he was relieved when the lights went out again and the movie began.
He sat through two hours of star ships flashing through space outer space and landing on mountainous and cratered planets where humans wearing bizarre uniforms and six eyed aliens shot at each other with laser guns on battlefields of swirling orange mist. And a beautiful alien queen who wore garments of coloured scales like an exotic fish and who had foot long silvery eye lashes , was rescued by a swarthy, blue eyed space outlaw. They got married and there was peace throughout the universe and Joe knew he should have gone to see the movie on the other side of the square.
Sunday, 23 August 2015
STARSHINE, THE OCEAN AND THE UNICORN
Chapter Three Part Seven
Joe sat in a greasy café and looked down at the weak tea in a grey-white china cup on a grey-white china saucer on a red formica table top. Then he looked out of the glass front of the café at the clear winter's day. The sky was a clean blue and the sun bright, but the air was freezing and the pavements were busy with fast walking people buttoned deep inside their overcoats and carrying small white clouds of breath in front of their faces. Lunches wand were being ordered and served all around him, there was a smell of frying and the sight of plates full of egg, sausage and chips or pie, chips and peas or liver, bacon and onion. Joe could not remember eating over the last few days, but he reckoned it was a trick his mind was playing on him because if it had been so long since he had eaten he would be feeling the need to eat, but he felt no hunger.
Joe tried hard to concentrate. His brain reached out long tentacles in all directions to try and gather in any tiny clues and details that would make some kind of sense out of Jason's deal. But it all got scrambled inside his head. He found no reasons and he found no answers and when he could not even find the questions he stopped. Because all there was was Jason's deal and he had to kill four more times or get killed himself. Joe sipped his tea. A calmness began to grow inside him and it grew into a decision. He would kill, maybe easily and maybe not, but he would kill. The decision made him happy and he was glad that Jason had not believed that he could get hold of any significant amount of money and he was glad Jason had not allowed him to buy himself out because now his inheritance could not be forfeited, it was all his and nobody knew about it and when the killings were over Joe would lose himself in three millions pounds where the dead men, the chinamen and Jason would never find him. Joe continued to stare through the glass front of the café, but he was blind to what his eyes were seeing as his thoughts carried him even further to a realisation he had reached once before. A game was being played and he had been put on the board without being asked and he could play to win or play to lose and winning was surviving and losing was dying. Joe no longer felt so guilty about killing. He had no choice. He drank the rest of his tea and paid the twenty pence it cost to a greasy haired, acne ridden girl behind the counter. He crossed the street to the post office.
The phone cubicles inside the post office were door less. Joe dialled a number and pushed in the coin almost immediately as Jack O'Neil answered. Joe was half himself again, sparky and cheerful, a fast talking wide boy.
" Hello Jack old man ! It's Joe here. Listen ! I want to meet with you, I've got a little business proposition I think you'll like............ No, no I can't say any more on the phone. Where shall we meet?.......... Saturday at the races. OK I've got it. See ya then. "
Chapter Three Part Seven
Joe sat in a greasy café and looked down at the weak tea in a grey-white china cup on a grey-white china saucer on a red formica table top. Then he looked out of the glass front of the café at the clear winter's day. The sky was a clean blue and the sun bright, but the air was freezing and the pavements were busy with fast walking people buttoned deep inside their overcoats and carrying small white clouds of breath in front of their faces. Lunches wand were being ordered and served all around him, there was a smell of frying and the sight of plates full of egg, sausage and chips or pie, chips and peas or liver, bacon and onion. Joe could not remember eating over the last few days, but he reckoned it was a trick his mind was playing on him because if it had been so long since he had eaten he would be feeling the need to eat, but he felt no hunger.
Joe tried hard to concentrate. His brain reached out long tentacles in all directions to try and gather in any tiny clues and details that would make some kind of sense out of Jason's deal. But it all got scrambled inside his head. He found no reasons and he found no answers and when he could not even find the questions he stopped. Because all there was was Jason's deal and he had to kill four more times or get killed himself. Joe sipped his tea. A calmness began to grow inside him and it grew into a decision. He would kill, maybe easily and maybe not, but he would kill. The decision made him happy and he was glad that Jason had not believed that he could get hold of any significant amount of money and he was glad Jason had not allowed him to buy himself out because now his inheritance could not be forfeited, it was all his and nobody knew about it and when the killings were over Joe would lose himself in three millions pounds where the dead men, the chinamen and Jason would never find him. Joe continued to stare through the glass front of the café, but he was blind to what his eyes were seeing as his thoughts carried him even further to a realisation he had reached once before. A game was being played and he had been put on the board without being asked and he could play to win or play to lose and winning was surviving and losing was dying. Joe no longer felt so guilty about killing. He had no choice. He drank the rest of his tea and paid the twenty pence it cost to a greasy haired, acne ridden girl behind the counter. He crossed the street to the post office.
The phone cubicles inside the post office were door less. Joe dialled a number and pushed in the coin almost immediately as Jack O'Neil answered. Joe was half himself again, sparky and cheerful, a fast talking wide boy.
" Hello Jack old man ! It's Joe here. Listen ! I want to meet with you, I've got a little business proposition I think you'll like............ No, no I can't say any more on the phone. Where shall we meet?.......... Saturday at the races. OK I've got it. See ya then. "
Saturday, 15 August 2015
STARSHINE, THE OCEAN AND THE UNICORN
Chapter three Part six
Joe found the massage parlour and stepped in from the cold. An old, toothless chinaman sat at the reception desk, which was a high counter with sides of black plastic and buttons. Patches of foam rubber could be seen where the covering had been ripped. The gloss paint on the walls and doors had yellowed with age. Small metal grills made small burring noises as they blew hot air around. Joe looked at the skeletal face of the old man, the skin was stretched over the bones, the cheeks were hollow, grey stubble grew out of the tiny chin and the eyes were glazed and staring. Joe asked if Jason Donaldson was there. The old man nodded, climbed down from his stool and disappeared behind a door. He came back after half a minute and held the door open for Joe.
" Nummer four." he said, his voice was dried and cracked with age and his gums could not find as many consonants as his teeth used to. Joe stepped behind the door and the old man closed it after him. He was standing on a deep piled carpet in a thin corridor lined with doors on either side. The air seemed even hotter and he began to sweat. He knocked lightly on the door of room number four, but nobody bothered to answer so he walked in.
The lighting was soft and deep red. Quiet Chinese music came through the speakers. Joss-sticks were burning. The walls were covered in erotic Chinese art and there were satin cushions arranged on the floor. Jason was lying face down on a low couch, wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist. Another man who Joe did not recognise, lay on a second couch next to Jason. His face was turned away to the wall, he had shiny black hair, he was medium height , his body was agile and tight with muscles, there was along scar down his back and his skin looked darkish. Jason's mass of blubbery flesh was white in spite of the dark lighting. The two men were attended by identical Chinese girls whose long, straight, black, silk hair touched the floor as they knelt beside the couches. The girls were naked and their small, dark nippled breasts shook slightly as they worked the various oils and ointments deep into the men's backs. Jason looked up at Joe. The other man kept his face turned away and did not move.
" What do you want ? "said Jason, he was annoyed at the intrusion.
" It's important, " said Joe. He was nervous, he could feel the sweat running down his back but he would not take off his jacket.
" So, what is it you want ? " said Jason, forcing his patience.
" I want out, " said Joe. Jason chuckled.
" You want out! "
" Yes, " said Joe, " I don't want anymore killings. I want to buy myself out. I'll have the money in about a month or so. "
Jason shook with laughter and Joe knew he had come unprepared. He had rushed to out to find Jason with the idea of buying himself out but with no thought of the words he would use and the convincing story he would tell.
" Since when did you ever get near that kind of money?" said Jason, still wracked with laughter. Joe's anger flared and he started shouting.
" I'm s'posed to 'ave lifted a load of dough and a load of gear, ain't I ? "
" Joey boy, if you had all that, we'd have our hands on it by now."
" So why am I doing the killing ?" Joe's voice had become sharp and hysterical, his eyes were staring and his head swam in disbelief.
"I told you. You were careless enough to lose it all for us, that's why. " said Jason.
"Oh, I see, "said Joe, but he didn't see at all. " And I'm not allowed to buy myself out."
" No." said Jason flatly, "That's not the deal. The deal is that you kill or get killed. "
The other man spoke without turning his head. His words were slow and his voice was deep and relaxed,
" Can't he pay someone else to do the killing s for him? "
Jason laughed and his fat, oily body quivered.
" What hit man is going to do the other four jobs then wait around for the money to show up on a wink and a promise from Joe Monroe ? Either way he's going to get topped by the end of it. " Jason calmed his laughter and wiped a tear from his eye. Joe was numb, he just kept staring as if he were asking over and over again, Why ? Why ? Why? Jason looked up and read the question in Joe's eyes, he let out more careless laughter, shrugged his shoulders and said ,
" Why not ? "
Joe left, slamming the door behind him. The girls looked up quickly and then continued with their careful hands and sensual movement as they spread soothing oils over skin and rubbed away tension from tightened muscles. The dark haired man said slowly,
" You're going to lose this one, Jay. "
"Na, na, " said Jason smiling " He'll shape up. You'll see."
Then he turned to the girl,
" Get us a cigar luv' There's one in my jacket pocket. "
She got up obediently and drew back a curtain that covered an alcovein the a wall where the men's coats and suits were hanging on a rail. Beside Jason's dark suit and dark overcoat there was a grey suit and a green gabardine mac and beneath them on the floor beside Jason's black boots there was a pair of tan, leather shoes.
The dark haired man turned over and then sat on the edge of the couch facing Jason while the girl knelt up close behind him and massaged his neck and shoulders. He had another long knife scar down the left side of his face, he wore a thin moustache and his eyes were oriental. His name was Collin Roach. His mother had been a Chinese whore and his father a cockney gangster. He killed for a living, he kept his face in the shadows and his day to day life well hidden. The few who knew him had named him The Cockroach.
Chapter three Part six
Joe found the massage parlour and stepped in from the cold. An old, toothless chinaman sat at the reception desk, which was a high counter with sides of black plastic and buttons. Patches of foam rubber could be seen where the covering had been ripped. The gloss paint on the walls and doors had yellowed with age. Small metal grills made small burring noises as they blew hot air around. Joe looked at the skeletal face of the old man, the skin was stretched over the bones, the cheeks were hollow, grey stubble grew out of the tiny chin and the eyes were glazed and staring. Joe asked if Jason Donaldson was there. The old man nodded, climbed down from his stool and disappeared behind a door. He came back after half a minute and held the door open for Joe.
" Nummer four." he said, his voice was dried and cracked with age and his gums could not find as many consonants as his teeth used to. Joe stepped behind the door and the old man closed it after him. He was standing on a deep piled carpet in a thin corridor lined with doors on either side. The air seemed even hotter and he began to sweat. He knocked lightly on the door of room number four, but nobody bothered to answer so he walked in.
The lighting was soft and deep red. Quiet Chinese music came through the speakers. Joss-sticks were burning. The walls were covered in erotic Chinese art and there were satin cushions arranged on the floor. Jason was lying face down on a low couch, wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist. Another man who Joe did not recognise, lay on a second couch next to Jason. His face was turned away to the wall, he had shiny black hair, he was medium height , his body was agile and tight with muscles, there was along scar down his back and his skin looked darkish. Jason's mass of blubbery flesh was white in spite of the dark lighting. The two men were attended by identical Chinese girls whose long, straight, black, silk hair touched the floor as they knelt beside the couches. The girls were naked and their small, dark nippled breasts shook slightly as they worked the various oils and ointments deep into the men's backs. Jason looked up at Joe. The other man kept his face turned away and did not move.
" What do you want ? "said Jason, he was annoyed at the intrusion.
" It's important, " said Joe. He was nervous, he could feel the sweat running down his back but he would not take off his jacket.
" So, what is it you want ? " said Jason, forcing his patience.
" I want out, " said Joe. Jason chuckled.
" You want out! "
" Yes, " said Joe, " I don't want anymore killings. I want to buy myself out. I'll have the money in about a month or so. "
Jason shook with laughter and Joe knew he had come unprepared. He had rushed to out to find Jason with the idea of buying himself out but with no thought of the words he would use and the convincing story he would tell.
" Since when did you ever get near that kind of money?" said Jason, still wracked with laughter. Joe's anger flared and he started shouting.
" I'm s'posed to 'ave lifted a load of dough and a load of gear, ain't I ? "
" Joey boy, if you had all that, we'd have our hands on it by now."
" So why am I doing the killing ?" Joe's voice had become sharp and hysterical, his eyes were staring and his head swam in disbelief.
"I told you. You were careless enough to lose it all for us, that's why. " said Jason.
"Oh, I see, "said Joe, but he didn't see at all. " And I'm not allowed to buy myself out."
" No." said Jason flatly, "That's not the deal. The deal is that you kill or get killed. "
The other man spoke without turning his head. His words were slow and his voice was deep and relaxed,
" Can't he pay someone else to do the killing s for him? "
Jason laughed and his fat, oily body quivered.
" What hit man is going to do the other four jobs then wait around for the money to show up on a wink and a promise from Joe Monroe ? Either way he's going to get topped by the end of it. " Jason calmed his laughter and wiped a tear from his eye. Joe was numb, he just kept staring as if he were asking over and over again, Why ? Why ? Why? Jason looked up and read the question in Joe's eyes, he let out more careless laughter, shrugged his shoulders and said ,
" Why not ? "
Joe left, slamming the door behind him. The girls looked up quickly and then continued with their careful hands and sensual movement as they spread soothing oils over skin and rubbed away tension from tightened muscles. The dark haired man said slowly,
" You're going to lose this one, Jay. "
"Na, na, " said Jason smiling " He'll shape up. You'll see."
Then he turned to the girl,
" Get us a cigar luv' There's one in my jacket pocket. "
She got up obediently and drew back a curtain that covered an alcovein the a wall where the men's coats and suits were hanging on a rail. Beside Jason's dark suit and dark overcoat there was a grey suit and a green gabardine mac and beneath them on the floor beside Jason's black boots there was a pair of tan, leather shoes.
The dark haired man turned over and then sat on the edge of the couch facing Jason while the girl knelt up close behind him and massaged his neck and shoulders. He had another long knife scar down the left side of his face, he wore a thin moustache and his eyes were oriental. His name was Collin Roach. His mother had been a Chinese whore and his father a cockney gangster. He killed for a living, he kept his face in the shadows and his day to day life well hidden. The few who knew him had named him The Cockroach.
Saturday, 11 July 2015
STARSHINE, THE OCEAN AND THE UNICORN
Chapter three Part five
Joe paid the cab driver in Wardour street and walked the rest of the way home. He felt the warmth of his tears mingling with the cold rain that ran down his face. He could not numb his senses and forget as he had planned to. He was sinking in blood and afraid to drown. His brain was tired and crazed with thoughts of the three dead men, his own two bloodstained hands and his one soul imprisoned in its own guilt and waiting for the gallows. In a moment of clarity he realised that Jason and the chinamen were in fact administering a torture, but the realisation was soon clouded with sheer exhaustion that finally brought on the feelings of remoteness he had been looking for and at last his soul was blank and his senses were dazed as he climbed the stairs. He had found oblivion.
The light was still on in his room and another visitor was waiting for him. It was Roy.
" Hello Joe. I've been waiting ages for you. I came on in because the light was on and the fire and everything. " What 'appened to the door ? "
Joe gave no answer and Roy did not seem to need one anyway. Roy got up from the chair beside the electric fire. He still looked pale and thin but there was a light in his eyes that smiled a little and his movements were quicker and sharper. Roy's sick and wasted body was kindling sparks that Joe had thought long dead. Joe sat down on the end of the bed and tried to hide his weariness for his brother's sake.
" So what are you up to bruvver ?" he said.
" Just thought I'd come and tell ya the good news." Roy filled the kettle and spooned instant coffee and sugar into two mugs.
" Oh yeah ! " said Joe " Tell me, I could do with some."
" I've got a place in a clinic. Start tomorra. I wanna get off. I really wanna get off and I'm goin' ta get off. " Roy was smiling insanely. Joe believed he would succeed and was happy for him.
Roy's news was good and Joe wondered whether he should share his own good news of a frail godmother and an inheritance of three million pounds and a weird house. How everthing that now applied to their lives would not apply in future. How the noise of Soho would be the stillness high up on a hill. How the grind of the streets would be the freedom of the wind in the grass. And so Joe's mind was journeying on through valleys and fields when he said
" No more apples ! Bernie Summers is dead ! " He was brought back by his own voice saying the words. But he had not thought those words so maybe he had not said them. He tried hard to remember. He knew the words had been spoken and understood when he saw his brother's face in front of his own, looking into his eyes as if he were looking in through a window that Joe was looking out of.
The two brothers sat beside each other and drank coffee. They were sad, they were frightened and they lost each other in the silence. Then Roy spoke, his voice was quiet and bitter with pain.
" There's a note for you on your pillow. I didn't think it meant anything. But now I see it does."
Joe turned and looked at the note. It was creased where it had been folded into four, but now it lay open on his pillow. He recognised the hand writing. Joe had not noticed it before leaving with Jason, so he guessed while he had been carrying out one murder Jason had come back and left instructions for the next;
Arrange a meeting with Jack O'Neil.
He drinks coffee, black with two lumps
Here's one of the lumps.
Joe ran his fingers under the pillow and found a red ring box. He opened it and inside was a wrapped sugar lump. The lights went out. Joe closed the tiny, hinged box, put it back under his pillow and lay on the bed. Roy did not move. There was a rapid clicking as the electric bars cooled and contracted.
Joe dozed fitfully. He woke up feeling cold, kicked off his shoes and climbed under the blankets. Roy still had not moved from the corner of the bed. His presence, his grief and his heavy heart filled the room and held Joe back from sleep. Roy sat motionless like a dark shapeless statue, his swollen unflowing tears all turned to stone. Sleep crept its way back through Joe's exhausted body. The next time he woke the statue had gone and Joe wept as he had wept so many times in his childhood when Roy had looked inside him and found something bad.
Joe drew the blankets around him close and tight so that they hugged him and he rocked himself gently like a small boy whose face was always dirty and whose knees were always grazed. He remembered his mother's handbag on the kitchen table and the brown wage packet sticking out of it, its top ripped open and a thick roll of crisp money inside. He remembered the joy rushing through him because Roy wanted a bike and he could get him one and surprise him. So he stuffed the wage packet in the waist band of his short trousers and pulled down the knitted jumper that was unravelling from the bottom. He ran like crazy to the bike shop, handed over the wage packet and picked out the most beautiful bike he had ever seen, all shiny with red paint and chrome and masses of silvery spokes and clean black tyres with deep treads. He rode it home, his legs barely stretched to the pedals. He struggled to get it in the lift, it was heavy and awkward and he had to rest the front wheel against the wall to fit it in. On the fith floor he wheeled it out backwards and rang the doorbell. His heart was thumping and his face was breaking with excitement. Roy opened the door and looked at the bike. Joe could hear his mother crying in the kitchen. He never got the chance to tell his big brother that the bike was for him. Roy whacked the smile off his face and said quietly,
" So you've got a bike ! And what do you, me, Tim, Bessie and Mum get to eat this week ? "
His mother screamed at him, dragged him in by his ear, pushed him in the bedroom and pulled a cupboard over the door outside. She took the bike back to the shop where kind old Mr. Phillips had been waiting for her with the full wage packet still intact.
Joe cried softly into his pillow and wished there was a bike that could be taken back to the shop and a kind old Mr. Phillips that could give back the wage packet. But there was neither and there was not even Roy who had always been there to put him right. Joe loved Roy but Roy had gone and Joe had lost him.
Chapter three Part five
Joe paid the cab driver in Wardour street and walked the rest of the way home. He felt the warmth of his tears mingling with the cold rain that ran down his face. He could not numb his senses and forget as he had planned to. He was sinking in blood and afraid to drown. His brain was tired and crazed with thoughts of the three dead men, his own two bloodstained hands and his one soul imprisoned in its own guilt and waiting for the gallows. In a moment of clarity he realised that Jason and the chinamen were in fact administering a torture, but the realisation was soon clouded with sheer exhaustion that finally brought on the feelings of remoteness he had been looking for and at last his soul was blank and his senses were dazed as he climbed the stairs. He had found oblivion.
The light was still on in his room and another visitor was waiting for him. It was Roy.
" Hello Joe. I've been waiting ages for you. I came on in because the light was on and the fire and everything. " What 'appened to the door ? "
Joe gave no answer and Roy did not seem to need one anyway. Roy got up from the chair beside the electric fire. He still looked pale and thin but there was a light in his eyes that smiled a little and his movements were quicker and sharper. Roy's sick and wasted body was kindling sparks that Joe had thought long dead. Joe sat down on the end of the bed and tried to hide his weariness for his brother's sake.
" So what are you up to bruvver ?" he said.
" Just thought I'd come and tell ya the good news." Roy filled the kettle and spooned instant coffee and sugar into two mugs.
" Oh yeah ! " said Joe " Tell me, I could do with some."
" I've got a place in a clinic. Start tomorra. I wanna get off. I really wanna get off and I'm goin' ta get off. " Roy was smiling insanely. Joe believed he would succeed and was happy for him.
Roy's news was good and Joe wondered whether he should share his own good news of a frail godmother and an inheritance of three million pounds and a weird house. How everthing that now applied to their lives would not apply in future. How the noise of Soho would be the stillness high up on a hill. How the grind of the streets would be the freedom of the wind in the grass. And so Joe's mind was journeying on through valleys and fields when he said
" No more apples ! Bernie Summers is dead ! " He was brought back by his own voice saying the words. But he had not thought those words so maybe he had not said them. He tried hard to remember. He knew the words had been spoken and understood when he saw his brother's face in front of his own, looking into his eyes as if he were looking in through a window that Joe was looking out of.
The two brothers sat beside each other and drank coffee. They were sad, they were frightened and they lost each other in the silence. Then Roy spoke, his voice was quiet and bitter with pain.
" There's a note for you on your pillow. I didn't think it meant anything. But now I see it does."
Joe turned and looked at the note. It was creased where it had been folded into four, but now it lay open on his pillow. He recognised the hand writing. Joe had not noticed it before leaving with Jason, so he guessed while he had been carrying out one murder Jason had come back and left instructions for the next;
Arrange a meeting with Jack O'Neil.
He drinks coffee, black with two lumps
Here's one of the lumps.
Joe ran his fingers under the pillow and found a red ring box. He opened it and inside was a wrapped sugar lump. The lights went out. Joe closed the tiny, hinged box, put it back under his pillow and lay on the bed. Roy did not move. There was a rapid clicking as the electric bars cooled and contracted.
Joe dozed fitfully. He woke up feeling cold, kicked off his shoes and climbed under the blankets. Roy still had not moved from the corner of the bed. His presence, his grief and his heavy heart filled the room and held Joe back from sleep. Roy sat motionless like a dark shapeless statue, his swollen unflowing tears all turned to stone. Sleep crept its way back through Joe's exhausted body. The next time he woke the statue had gone and Joe wept as he had wept so many times in his childhood when Roy had looked inside him and found something bad.
Joe drew the blankets around him close and tight so that they hugged him and he rocked himself gently like a small boy whose face was always dirty and whose knees were always grazed. He remembered his mother's handbag on the kitchen table and the brown wage packet sticking out of it, its top ripped open and a thick roll of crisp money inside. He remembered the joy rushing through him because Roy wanted a bike and he could get him one and surprise him. So he stuffed the wage packet in the waist band of his short trousers and pulled down the knitted jumper that was unravelling from the bottom. He ran like crazy to the bike shop, handed over the wage packet and picked out the most beautiful bike he had ever seen, all shiny with red paint and chrome and masses of silvery spokes and clean black tyres with deep treads. He rode it home, his legs barely stretched to the pedals. He struggled to get it in the lift, it was heavy and awkward and he had to rest the front wheel against the wall to fit it in. On the fith floor he wheeled it out backwards and rang the doorbell. His heart was thumping and his face was breaking with excitement. Roy opened the door and looked at the bike. Joe could hear his mother crying in the kitchen. He never got the chance to tell his big brother that the bike was for him. Roy whacked the smile off his face and said quietly,
" So you've got a bike ! And what do you, me, Tim, Bessie and Mum get to eat this week ? "
His mother screamed at him, dragged him in by his ear, pushed him in the bedroom and pulled a cupboard over the door outside. She took the bike back to the shop where kind old Mr. Phillips had been waiting for her with the full wage packet still intact.
Joe cried softly into his pillow and wished there was a bike that could be taken back to the shop and a kind old Mr. Phillips that could give back the wage packet. But there was neither and there was not even Roy who had always been there to put him right. Joe loved Roy but Roy had gone and Joe had lost him.
Sunday, 5 July 2015
STARSHINE, THE OCEAN AND THE UNICORN
Chapter three Part four
Whether they did or not was yet another secret, so Joe forgot it. Then he got to thinking that maybe he was still alive because somebody just happened to liked him. Some big chink, some mandarin type overlord at the top of their pagoda thought that he might shape into something and be useful to them. Or was he being led a dance ? Had his mistaken murder in the warehouse been planned by another ? Was it a sly move to make his quota of killings up to seven instead of six ?
They were crossing Westminster bridge and although he could not see it, he was aware of the river's dark, heavy flow and it scared him. He felt less vulnerable when they were on solid ground again in the shelter of the block of buildings and the many streams of traffic round the Elephant and Castle. But fear was never far from him, like a dark spectre whose presence Joe was growing used to.
The car ran smooth and fast down the Brixton Road. It turned off into a residential street of victorian terraced houses, each with a pocket handkerchief garden and a lighted bay window. Joe sat back and closed his eyes, he felt the car change direction as it turned ninety degrees in and out of identical streets. Then it stopped.
" Get out ! " said Jason.
The cube of muscle on Joe's left opened the door and got out, Joe followed. The chinaman got back inside the car and Joe was left on the pavement beneath a streetlamp. There was a faint electronic whine as Jason opened his car window. He handed Joe a cylindrical package wrapped in polythene.
" Be gentle with it son, it's a bomb !" said Jason. Without having taken the package from Jason, Joe found that it was in his hands and without listening to Jason, Joe was still hearing his instructions,
" Blue metro outside thirty-four Chantry Road, two streets down from here. There's some tape in the pack. Tape the bomb underneath the car, near the driver's seat. It's timed for when he leaves for work. You've got exactly ten minutes."
Joe was looking at his watch when the black car window rose again and the long limo drove off.
Chantry Road was another quiet , snug little road of terraced houses. The gardens were longer and there were garden paths and clipped hedges. Joe sat deep in the bushes of a garden three doors up and on the opposite side of number thirty- four. The boot of the blue metro was open and the west indian with the full head of hair and the moustache was packing. There were cases and bags and a small trunk on the ground at his feet, all waiting to be jammed into the little car. The guy was not going to work to take up his shift that night. The disappearance of his work mate had made him nervous and he was running. Joe guessed he would drive to the airport and catch a plane that would fly him many thousands of miles away where he could start afresh on the proceeds of his misdemeanour and Joe wished the guy could have made it but for the sake of his own life he was not going to let him. Joe had no watch and no idea how many minutes were passing as the west indian packed and repacked his car. Joe was still carrying the bomb and the luggage was not going to fit into the metro. Joe began to sweat. He carefully unwrapped the bomb. He had never seen a bomb before but he began tearing lengths of tape from the reel anyway and attaching them over the small device in readiness. He held his breath to try and steady his hands, but his palms were clammy and his fingers felt like sausages.
The security guard finally wedged two of the cases in the back seat. He closed the boot softly but left the car door open. He glanced about him fearfully as if he could feel fate stalking him and expected it to appear before he could escape. He walked back up the garden path and into the house. Joe moved like lightening. He strapped the bomb quickly and delicately to the underside of the car, right on the edge beneath the drivers seat. He left the polythene wrapping and roll of tape underneath the car and rolled away, minding his head on the open car door. Then he slunk back into the shadows and took cover behind the dark, wet foliage of another garden hedge directly opposite. He peered through the leaves and saw the man reappear and get into the driver's seat. Then a woman with a carrycot appeared and closed the front door behind her. Fear spread through Joe like hot fire. He watched the woman as she started down the path and in his silent hysteria he grabbed a large stone from a rockery and hurled it over the hedge. His madness was quick and strong like a catapult and the rock landed with a loud thud about four feet from the woman. It stopped her in her tracks. Her husband opened the car door but he did not get out before the explosion.
The metro was a black frame filled with fire. Joe could see the woman's large and petrified eyes as she stared into the dancing yellow and amber light. He could hear the baby's faint crying behind the roar of the flames. Then doors wee flung open and neighbours ran out. The crowds and commotion were instant. Joe joined it and worked his way steadily back to its outskirts and then unnoticed, he was lost to the night.
He was back in the street where Jason and the chinaman had dropped him when the widow's screaming filled the sky and Joe started to run. He came out onto the Brixton Road. He stood and watched as the various sirens and flashing lights of emergency vehicles swept past him. When they had turned off the main road the rest of the traffic pulled out from the sides and continued normally. Joe hailed a black cab, it drew up and he jumped in.
" Soho, please mate ! "
" Where abouts ? "
" Wardour Street will do, " said Joe, careful not to let out his address
" Something big just 'appened then. " said the cabby.
" Yeah ! " said Joe, sighing, " Heard a heck of a bang earlier on. Another gas explosion I shouldn't wonder. "
The rain came down hard and the windscreen wipers laboured hard from side to side. Joe was glad that his fingerprints would be washed from the large stone that lay in the widow's garden.
Chapter three Part four
Whether they did or not was yet another secret, so Joe forgot it. Then he got to thinking that maybe he was still alive because somebody just happened to liked him. Some big chink, some mandarin type overlord at the top of their pagoda thought that he might shape into something and be useful to them. Or was he being led a dance ? Had his mistaken murder in the warehouse been planned by another ? Was it a sly move to make his quota of killings up to seven instead of six ?
They were crossing Westminster bridge and although he could not see it, he was aware of the river's dark, heavy flow and it scared him. He felt less vulnerable when they were on solid ground again in the shelter of the block of buildings and the many streams of traffic round the Elephant and Castle. But fear was never far from him, like a dark spectre whose presence Joe was growing used to.
The car ran smooth and fast down the Brixton Road. It turned off into a residential street of victorian terraced houses, each with a pocket handkerchief garden and a lighted bay window. Joe sat back and closed his eyes, he felt the car change direction as it turned ninety degrees in and out of identical streets. Then it stopped.
" Get out ! " said Jason.
The cube of muscle on Joe's left opened the door and got out, Joe followed. The chinaman got back inside the car and Joe was left on the pavement beneath a streetlamp. There was a faint electronic whine as Jason opened his car window. He handed Joe a cylindrical package wrapped in polythene.
" Be gentle with it son, it's a bomb !" said Jason. Without having taken the package from Jason, Joe found that it was in his hands and without listening to Jason, Joe was still hearing his instructions,
" Blue metro outside thirty-four Chantry Road, two streets down from here. There's some tape in the pack. Tape the bomb underneath the car, near the driver's seat. It's timed for when he leaves for work. You've got exactly ten minutes."
Joe was looking at his watch when the black car window rose again and the long limo drove off.
Chantry Road was another quiet , snug little road of terraced houses. The gardens were longer and there were garden paths and clipped hedges. Joe sat deep in the bushes of a garden three doors up and on the opposite side of number thirty- four. The boot of the blue metro was open and the west indian with the full head of hair and the moustache was packing. There were cases and bags and a small trunk on the ground at his feet, all waiting to be jammed into the little car. The guy was not going to work to take up his shift that night. The disappearance of his work mate had made him nervous and he was running. Joe guessed he would drive to the airport and catch a plane that would fly him many thousands of miles away where he could start afresh on the proceeds of his misdemeanour and Joe wished the guy could have made it but for the sake of his own life he was not going to let him. Joe had no watch and no idea how many minutes were passing as the west indian packed and repacked his car. Joe was still carrying the bomb and the luggage was not going to fit into the metro. Joe began to sweat. He carefully unwrapped the bomb. He had never seen a bomb before but he began tearing lengths of tape from the reel anyway and attaching them over the small device in readiness. He held his breath to try and steady his hands, but his palms were clammy and his fingers felt like sausages.
The security guard finally wedged two of the cases in the back seat. He closed the boot softly but left the car door open. He glanced about him fearfully as if he could feel fate stalking him and expected it to appear before he could escape. He walked back up the garden path and into the house. Joe moved like lightening. He strapped the bomb quickly and delicately to the underside of the car, right on the edge beneath the drivers seat. He left the polythene wrapping and roll of tape underneath the car and rolled away, minding his head on the open car door. Then he slunk back into the shadows and took cover behind the dark, wet foliage of another garden hedge directly opposite. He peered through the leaves and saw the man reappear and get into the driver's seat. Then a woman with a carrycot appeared and closed the front door behind her. Fear spread through Joe like hot fire. He watched the woman as she started down the path and in his silent hysteria he grabbed a large stone from a rockery and hurled it over the hedge. His madness was quick and strong like a catapult and the rock landed with a loud thud about four feet from the woman. It stopped her in her tracks. Her husband opened the car door but he did not get out before the explosion.
The metro was a black frame filled with fire. Joe could see the woman's large and petrified eyes as she stared into the dancing yellow and amber light. He could hear the baby's faint crying behind the roar of the flames. Then doors wee flung open and neighbours ran out. The crowds and commotion were instant. Joe joined it and worked his way steadily back to its outskirts and then unnoticed, he was lost to the night.
He was back in the street where Jason and the chinaman had dropped him when the widow's screaming filled the sky and Joe started to run. He came out onto the Brixton Road. He stood and watched as the various sirens and flashing lights of emergency vehicles swept past him. When they had turned off the main road the rest of the traffic pulled out from the sides and continued normally. Joe hailed a black cab, it drew up and he jumped in.
" Soho, please mate ! "
" Where abouts ? "
" Wardour Street will do, " said Joe, careful not to let out his address
" Something big just 'appened then. " said the cabby.
" Yeah ! " said Joe, sighing, " Heard a heck of a bang earlier on. Another gas explosion I shouldn't wonder. "
The rain came down hard and the windscreen wipers laboured hard from side to side. Joe was glad that his fingerprints would be washed from the large stone that lay in the widow's garden.
Sunday, 28 June 2015
STARSHINE, THE OCEAN AND THE UNICORN
Chapter three Part three
It was dark and raining in Southampton. It was five 'o' clock and the station was crowded with agitated, grim faced travellers, pushing through each others ranks in both directions, their overcoats and luggage wet with raindrops. The train back to London was ready to pull out when Joe ran onto the platform and opened a door that had already been slammed shut by a guard. He found a seat by the window, collapsed into it and tried to catch his rasping breath. He had found the right house in the right street in the right part of town and the cherry red porsche had been delivered to a smartly tailored, dark haired gentleman with a dago accent, fitting the name and description Morgan Alexander had given to him. Joe had made some weak excuse for his extreme lateness and then bolted to miss a fight and catch a train.
The train was moving. Joe looked out of the window to try and see the dock lights, but all he saw was his own unclear reflection on a black background. His hair and shoulders were wet and his face was pink with cold. He watched large raindrops on the glass being joggled by the train's movement, occasionally one would break and run fast diagonally across thew window, leaving a watery trail behind it.
People trapezed the gangway on their return journeys from the buffet car carrying plastic cups of hot coffee and polystyrene cartons of burghers and toasted ham and cheese sandwiches. The thought of food crossed Joe's mind, but it was so long since he had eaten that he had forgotten the need to and anyway he had no money in his pocket so he ignored the idea and closed his eyes to think of sleep instead.
While he was relaxed and waiting for sleep to arrive, the euphoria of his new found wealth sprang from a tiny core deep in the pit of his stomach and spread through him like a wave that drew him from the sea bed and carried him on its breaking surf to the highest mountain where he was gently laid down to sleep in the hot, drying sun. The passengers around him looked up from their books and papers and crossword puzzles and they stared at the young man's sleeping face that smiled like a child.
He was awoken an hour or so later by the ticket collector who was leaning across and frantically shaking him by the shoulder, and again the passengers looked at him but this time more furtively because his eyes wee beginning to open and they all pitied him being brought back from wherever it was he had been. The train rattled through fast black tunnels back to town. Joe rested his head against the window, its tiny vibrations tingled through his skin and day dreams drew him back through their own fast tunnels of his monied future; the fun, the freedom, the generosity. First there was Roy, he would be cured in the best, most modernly equipped clinic, a white walled country mansion somewhere in Surrey. Then there was Annie, he would take her to Barbados where the water would be warm and the sand would be soft between their toes and the palm trees would stand and nod to a gentle sea breeze. Then Joe remembered Jason and the fantasies turned a sour corner. He decided to distance himself from the killings, to carry them out methodically and professionally and then wipe them from his senses and forget. Now that he had so much to live for it was even more important to complete Jason's ugly assignments and to stay alive himself. Having made that decision he came to the end of a cold stream of consciousness and moved straight into another that felt warm and good. He had a godmother.
"I had to stop in on my godmother," was Joe's casual answer to Mr. Alexander's angry little eyes. It was suffocating in the tiny office that was filled with cigar smoke, the scotsman's sweat and foul mouthed temper. Joe got out fast with only a quarter of the money he had been promised and no job. He had no need of it and being sacked was just another laugh at a way of life that was no longer his. The cold air outside was a release. His mind was still busy with possibilities and three million pounds.
He was halfway up the dank, dark stairway without any notion of having left one place and arrived at another. He had no memory of the route in between, or buying a ticket for the underground, or the escalators slowly going up and slowly going down. He turned the last landing onto the last flight of stairs and his heart quickened. The meter had been empty when he had left that morning and now the weak light from the low watt bulb shone from his empty doorway. He hesitated and his footsteps faltered.
" Come on in Joe. Door's open ! " The scornful invitation was Jason's and his chuckling was deep throated and snide. Joe stood, hands in pockets and one shoulder against the door frame. Jason still wearing his hat and coat , sat on a chair and warmed his hands over the oranged bars of the electric fire.The wooden chair looked silly beneath his sheer mass. " You've never been very lucky have you Joe ! "
Joe wanted to say something of his good fortune to wipe the sneer from Jason's face. But neither the courage or the wit found their way to him. He felt slow and heavy and knew something bad was coming. So he waited and it came.
" You killed the wrong spade, " Jason's controlled chuckle grew to uncontrolled laughter and the chair looked even more precarious beneath his shaking weight. Joe was struck. His eyeballs seared and a fever burned through him. He remembered the shiny shaven head of his victim and the full head of hair in the photograph. Then he remembered the polished boots and the perfectly creased uniform trousers and in his mind's eye he saw the trousers on an ironing board and the careful precise movements of a steam iron operated by a woman's hand. Joe dropped to his knees. A pressure in his head tried to explode and a high pitched whine inside his ears shut out Jason's laughter.
When the screaming inside had left him and the fever had subsided he was drained, sucked out and his whole body was hollow. He said " So what happens now ? ". The question was mindless and his voice seemed to come from somewhere else.
" You kill the right spade." was Jason's flat answer, " Now ! "
Jason held on his hat and ducked to get through the doorway. Joe followed him but did not feel his legs move. Jason stopped at the top of the stairs and Joe nearly ran into his back. " You owe me fifty pence for the electric, " said Jason. Joe dug deep in his pocket and found a fifty pence piece. Joe held out his hand like a huge dinner plate and Joe placed the silver, seven sided coin in its centre where it looked small and worthless.
The sleek black car that had cornered Joe not so long ago was parked outside the front door. A fine drizzle was falling and the streetlamp's bold reflections glowed on the wet pavements. The car pulled away. Jason was in the front beside the driver who Joe recognised as the man with a silver flask in the multi-storey car park. Joe was in the back, wedged between two more chinamen, both square, squat and solid like cubes of muscle wearing clothes. The car engine was noiseless. Outside the Soho night moved silently by. Joe had no idea where they were going. Instead he watched the slight movement of the driver's shoulders as he turned the wheel first one way and then the other as the route zig zagged from street to street.
" What did the guy , do ? " asked Joe. He was answered with more silence and a quick, blank glance from Jason. Joe said no more. He worked on the mysteries himself. He did not even know whether the organisation was a Tong, a Triad or just a chinese mafia. Whatever the outfit it was it was all silence and rigidity. Its operations ran smoothly and were untraceable because each cog acted deaf, dumb and blind to the rest of the machinery. There were no pardons for meddlers and pilferers like Bernie and the security guard. And Joe had just been a hireling who had jumped at the chance to make a quick ton. Just a simple collection from a courier after the merchandise had been guided safely through customs. Easy and safe. But a third party had made its move and cheated and so now Joe was a blackmailed pawn back on the board as a hitman. He wondered why he had not been hit himself. Maybe they thought that given time he would lead them to the stash of saleable drugs and the money he had supposedly replaced with sand and monopoly notes. But surely torture would've been more their style and more effective. These thoughts became a whirlpool, then Joe's mind seized up and his mouth opened with a question he did not know he was going to ask. It was an instinct, a subconscious line of thought that asked it for him. " Know a man who wears a green gabardine coat, grey trousers and tan shoes ? "
Chapter three Part three
It was dark and raining in Southampton. It was five 'o' clock and the station was crowded with agitated, grim faced travellers, pushing through each others ranks in both directions, their overcoats and luggage wet with raindrops. The train back to London was ready to pull out when Joe ran onto the platform and opened a door that had already been slammed shut by a guard. He found a seat by the window, collapsed into it and tried to catch his rasping breath. He had found the right house in the right street in the right part of town and the cherry red porsche had been delivered to a smartly tailored, dark haired gentleman with a dago accent, fitting the name and description Morgan Alexander had given to him. Joe had made some weak excuse for his extreme lateness and then bolted to miss a fight and catch a train.
The train was moving. Joe looked out of the window to try and see the dock lights, but all he saw was his own unclear reflection on a black background. His hair and shoulders were wet and his face was pink with cold. He watched large raindrops on the glass being joggled by the train's movement, occasionally one would break and run fast diagonally across thew window, leaving a watery trail behind it.
People trapezed the gangway on their return journeys from the buffet car carrying plastic cups of hot coffee and polystyrene cartons of burghers and toasted ham and cheese sandwiches. The thought of food crossed Joe's mind, but it was so long since he had eaten that he had forgotten the need to and anyway he had no money in his pocket so he ignored the idea and closed his eyes to think of sleep instead.
While he was relaxed and waiting for sleep to arrive, the euphoria of his new found wealth sprang from a tiny core deep in the pit of his stomach and spread through him like a wave that drew him from the sea bed and carried him on its breaking surf to the highest mountain where he was gently laid down to sleep in the hot, drying sun. The passengers around him looked up from their books and papers and crossword puzzles and they stared at the young man's sleeping face that smiled like a child.
He was awoken an hour or so later by the ticket collector who was leaning across and frantically shaking him by the shoulder, and again the passengers looked at him but this time more furtively because his eyes wee beginning to open and they all pitied him being brought back from wherever it was he had been. The train rattled through fast black tunnels back to town. Joe rested his head against the window, its tiny vibrations tingled through his skin and day dreams drew him back through their own fast tunnels of his monied future; the fun, the freedom, the generosity. First there was Roy, he would be cured in the best, most modernly equipped clinic, a white walled country mansion somewhere in Surrey. Then there was Annie, he would take her to Barbados where the water would be warm and the sand would be soft between their toes and the palm trees would stand and nod to a gentle sea breeze. Then Joe remembered Jason and the fantasies turned a sour corner. He decided to distance himself from the killings, to carry them out methodically and professionally and then wipe them from his senses and forget. Now that he had so much to live for it was even more important to complete Jason's ugly assignments and to stay alive himself. Having made that decision he came to the end of a cold stream of consciousness and moved straight into another that felt warm and good. He had a godmother.
"I had to stop in on my godmother," was Joe's casual answer to Mr. Alexander's angry little eyes. It was suffocating in the tiny office that was filled with cigar smoke, the scotsman's sweat and foul mouthed temper. Joe got out fast with only a quarter of the money he had been promised and no job. He had no need of it and being sacked was just another laugh at a way of life that was no longer his. The cold air outside was a release. His mind was still busy with possibilities and three million pounds.
He was halfway up the dank, dark stairway without any notion of having left one place and arrived at another. He had no memory of the route in between, or buying a ticket for the underground, or the escalators slowly going up and slowly going down. He turned the last landing onto the last flight of stairs and his heart quickened. The meter had been empty when he had left that morning and now the weak light from the low watt bulb shone from his empty doorway. He hesitated and his footsteps faltered.
" Come on in Joe. Door's open ! " The scornful invitation was Jason's and his chuckling was deep throated and snide. Joe stood, hands in pockets and one shoulder against the door frame. Jason still wearing his hat and coat , sat on a chair and warmed his hands over the oranged bars of the electric fire.The wooden chair looked silly beneath his sheer mass. " You've never been very lucky have you Joe ! "
Joe wanted to say something of his good fortune to wipe the sneer from Jason's face. But neither the courage or the wit found their way to him. He felt slow and heavy and knew something bad was coming. So he waited and it came.
" You killed the wrong spade, " Jason's controlled chuckle grew to uncontrolled laughter and the chair looked even more precarious beneath his shaking weight. Joe was struck. His eyeballs seared and a fever burned through him. He remembered the shiny shaven head of his victim and the full head of hair in the photograph. Then he remembered the polished boots and the perfectly creased uniform trousers and in his mind's eye he saw the trousers on an ironing board and the careful precise movements of a steam iron operated by a woman's hand. Joe dropped to his knees. A pressure in his head tried to explode and a high pitched whine inside his ears shut out Jason's laughter.
When the screaming inside had left him and the fever had subsided he was drained, sucked out and his whole body was hollow. He said " So what happens now ? ". The question was mindless and his voice seemed to come from somewhere else.
" You kill the right spade." was Jason's flat answer, " Now ! "
Jason held on his hat and ducked to get through the doorway. Joe followed him but did not feel his legs move. Jason stopped at the top of the stairs and Joe nearly ran into his back. " You owe me fifty pence for the electric, " said Jason. Joe dug deep in his pocket and found a fifty pence piece. Joe held out his hand like a huge dinner plate and Joe placed the silver, seven sided coin in its centre where it looked small and worthless.
The sleek black car that had cornered Joe not so long ago was parked outside the front door. A fine drizzle was falling and the streetlamp's bold reflections glowed on the wet pavements. The car pulled away. Jason was in the front beside the driver who Joe recognised as the man with a silver flask in the multi-storey car park. Joe was in the back, wedged between two more chinamen, both square, squat and solid like cubes of muscle wearing clothes. The car engine was noiseless. Outside the Soho night moved silently by. Joe had no idea where they were going. Instead he watched the slight movement of the driver's shoulders as he turned the wheel first one way and then the other as the route zig zagged from street to street.
" What did the guy , do ? " asked Joe. He was answered with more silence and a quick, blank glance from Jason. Joe said no more. He worked on the mysteries himself. He did not even know whether the organisation was a Tong, a Triad or just a chinese mafia. Whatever the outfit it was it was all silence and rigidity. Its operations ran smoothly and were untraceable because each cog acted deaf, dumb and blind to the rest of the machinery. There were no pardons for meddlers and pilferers like Bernie and the security guard. And Joe had just been a hireling who had jumped at the chance to make a quick ton. Just a simple collection from a courier after the merchandise had been guided safely through customs. Easy and safe. But a third party had made its move and cheated and so now Joe was a blackmailed pawn back on the board as a hitman. He wondered why he had not been hit himself. Maybe they thought that given time he would lead them to the stash of saleable drugs and the money he had supposedly replaced with sand and monopoly notes. But surely torture would've been more their style and more effective. These thoughts became a whirlpool, then Joe's mind seized up and his mouth opened with a question he did not know he was going to ask. It was an instinct, a subconscious line of thought that asked it for him. " Know a man who wears a green gabardine coat, grey trousers and tan shoes ? "
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