Jennison puts his withered arm around her and holds her close. He starts kissing her; clumsy, slobbering kisses, like an inexperienced teenager. I want him to stop it. She moans, and I can see her body starting to react as he runs his hand up her thigh.
I start to feel nauseous again. Wide Chest is still gripping my arm. I’m totally defenceless against him. His body odour reminds me of wet canvas.
He drags me over to another sofa and pushes me into it. It’s incredibly soft. I can feel myself sink into it. I could just fall asleep here, but I know that’s not a good idea. I take a deep breath in an attempt to clear my head. It doesn’t work.
I’m sitting opposite Jennison and Sara. The big marble coffee table is in between us. There are a couple of hefty coffee table books on it. I couldn’t read the titles when I came in here, but I can now.
One is a National Geographic book called Simply Beautiful Photographs, and the other is called The Cambridge World History of Food Volume Two. That reminds me of China City in Lisle Street for some reason. Great Chinese restaurant. Why am I thinking about that? Oh yes. That girl. Swedish with a name beginning with a K.
The food book looks interesting, so I lean forward to have a look, but my balance goes and I have to rest my hand against the edge of the table to avoid falling over. My sinuses feel inflamed. I have to shake this stuff off, whatever it is. Klementina. Very pretty. I can see Jennison grinning at me. I think he’s got false teeth.
Sara looks over at me and there’s a spark of recognition in her eyes, followed by panic. For a second, she attempts to get up, but she can’t get the momentum going to get off that soft sofa. Besides, Jennison still has his withered arm around her and is holding one of her shoulders pretty firmly. She isn’t going anywhere.
I thought Wide Chest had disappeared, but he’s still in the room, standing next to a colossal salt-water aquarium which I’d somehow failed to notice. I get hypnotised by it for a short while; black and white Clownfish, big yellow Angelfish, tiny, delicate red and white shrimps, a couple of Dragonets and even a blue starfish.
‘Beautiful but captive, eh, Mr Beckett?’
‘Sorry. What?’
Is he talking to me or just pontificating? Somewhere in my head, I realise that I should or could be responding to this statement, but nothing comes. I just hope this condition isn’t permanent.
Jennison takes an adoring look at Sara and gently pushes her hair out of her face. He gives her a couple of light kisses on the lips. She barely responds. It’s like an excruciatingly unsuccessful teenage date. He looks at me as if he’s seeking my approval for his necking skills.
‘She’s what we used to call a little darlin’. Got all the gear; everything in the right place, everything the right size. She’s a lovely little thing. What’s more, I bet she likes to get down and dirty, you know what I’m sayin’? I can always tell the sort. All that girl next door stuff, but underneath…’
She’s my client.
Jennison babbles on with this adolescent tripe. How long have I been here? I look out of the window. It’s still light. I just hope it’s the same day as when I arrived. I notice I’ve got the cold sweats again. My mouth is dry. I’m aware of my heart beating fast. When I move my head I get triple vision.
‘She was wearing fuck all when she got here. Just some crappy old sweatshirt. I wanted her in something more feminine. It was a bit sweaty, too, to be honest with you. The sweatshirt, I mean. I binned it. We just left her on the floor in the toilet until we could get something sorted out. She pissed herself, which I can’t stand in a woman. It isn’t ladylike. It makes me sick. She looks nice and decent now, though, don’t you think?’
Was that a rhetorical question or is he waiting for a reply? All I can manage is a half-hearted shrug. Jennison starts necking with her again. Wide Chest looks on with a smirk on his stupid face, impressed with his boss’s way with the ladies, no doubt. I start laughing for no apparent reason. Jennison’s head snaps away from Sara and he looks straight at me. His expression is meant to be scary, but I just find it hilarious and laugh some more.
He nods just once at Wide Chest, who walks over to me, lifts me off the sofa by my hair and punches me just once in the solar plexus. He lets me go and I plop down onto the sofa again, feeling stunned and disorientated.
The strange thing is that I don’t feel the sort of pain I’d expect to after a punch like that. The hair pull was worse. Maybe whatever I’ve been given has an anaesthetic effect. I think I’m going to be sick, but nothing happens. I have tinnitus in one of my ears.
It may have been the surge of adrenalin I just experienced, but I suddenly feel a little more ‘in the room’ than I did a few minutes ago. I have to keep focussing on recovering. Every second that goes by, my body will be getting rid of this shit, molecule by molecule.
It feels like I’ve been in this room with Jennison for an hour, though it must be less than five minutes. I think my guess about there being benzodiazepines in the mix must have been correct. Where did they get this shit from?
I try to curtail all of this speculation. I’m suddenly and inexplicably worried that everyone in the room can hear my thoughts. I need to get a drink of water. Someone starts talking to me. It sounds like they’re miles away and speaking from the far end of a long metal tunnel.
‘So we meet at last, Mr Beckett,’ says Jennison, like he’s some bloody cut-price Bond villain. ‘You’ve caused me a lot of trouble. We’ve got a lot to talk about.’
‘Have we?’
Well, at least I can speak. It wasn’t as hard as I imagined it would be.
‘All that’s been going on. It was meant to be a secret, you see. Deniable they call it in the spy films. Now you’re here, poking your nose in where it isn’t wanted.
‘I want to know who else knows about this. I want to know how you found out about Dolly’s, for example. How did you know to go there? You’ve been working on this for two days from what I can gather. You can’t have just turned up there as if by magic. You must have spoken to people. I want to know who they were. I want to know where I can find them.’
He smiles at me like a friendly pervert uncle. I can’t have this guy visiting innocents like Nick Sarna.
‘I realise that you’re in no position to have a coherent conversation at the moment, but you will be soon. Maybe in a few hours or so, maybe less. It’s different for each individual, I’m told. Some things you can tell me now, other things I’ll make you tell me later.’
I nod towards Sara. ‘Let her go.’
My words seem isolated and meaningless. They don’t resonate in any way. They’re dry and flat. I wonder if I even said anything. Maybe I just thought it. Jennison laughs and holds Sara tightly against him.
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea at all, Mr Beckett. If I let her out of here, anything might happen to her. She’s so smashed she could walk under a fucking car and not even notice!’
He laughs at this amusing idea. After a moment, Wide Chest decides it’s safe to laugh along with his boss and allows himself a mild, throaty chuckle. I am reminded of Muttley.
‘And I can’t have that happen, you see, Mr Beckett. And the reason I can’t have that happen is that I don’t like my property being damaged.
‘And have no doubt about it, Mr Beckett; Miss Holt slash MacQuoid here is definitely my property now. I own her like I own that fish tank over there that you were so admiring of. She is now one of my things. She belongs to me. She’s mine.’
I clasp my hands behind my neck and stretch. I can feel things click in my back. I sink a little further into this amazing sofa. ‘You’re pathetic.’
Did I actually say that? That was a comment that I would usually just think, not say out loud, particularly in my current circumstances. Wide Chest frowns and looks to Jennison for instruction. That confirms it; I did say that out loud. Have to be more careful. Have to be aware of that. Don’t want them knowing what I’m thinking. Not good.
Jennison shakes his hea
d, whether at Wide Chest or at me I can’t tell. I try to think of something neutral so they can’t read my thoughts. I think of a wooden gate in the country. I lean against it and look at some crops in a field. It’s the summer. Birds tweet, insects buzz.
He fiddles with a strand of Sara’s hair. ‘I’m doing her a favour. Women can’t handle success. It goes to their heads. They think they’re God Almighty. Some women you have to put on a pedestal. The rest are whores, plain and simple. This is the sort of woman you put on a pedestal.’
‘What a load of bollocks.’
Wide Chest looks at Jennison. Jennison nods his head. Wide Chest lifts me off the sofa by my hair again, but this time he punches me in the balls, before pushing me back down onto the sofa.
I bend double with the pain and can feel the dull ache spread up my back, as if someone’s frying my kidneys. My eyes are watering. The dizziness and nausea return with a vengeance. I’m going to kill this guy.
‘Have you ever been in prison, Mr Beckett? I doubt that you have. It wasn’t so bad for me, all things considered. People knew me. They knew that I wasn’t a man to cross. I got respect.
‘But it wasn’t what went on inside prison that bothered me. It was what was going on outside prison. That’s what was the killer. Do you know how old Isolda was when I was put away?’
‘Yes.’
‘She was only two years old. It’s a lovely name, don’t you think? Isolda. It’s from an Arthurian legend. Can’t remember the whole story. My wife knew. It’s a Welsh name. It means ‘beautiful’ or ‘fair’, and she’s certainly that.
‘Do you know what we used to call her when she was a little baby? We used to call her Dolly. My wife found it out. It’s one of the nicknames for Isolda. Dolly seemed nice. It suited her.’
‘Fuck.’
‘The nightclub’s named after her, of course. I’m sure you worked that one out.’
‘It was a classy joint.’
He laughs. Well, at least my sarcasm is still functioning. The door opens and in strides Shortass. I feel slight anxiety when I see him. He gestures to Wide Chest who leaves the room. Shortass is about to sit down on a straight-backed wooden chair when Sara slides to the floor, her eyes rolling up into her head. She looks sick, frail and pale.
Shortass runs over, grabs Sara under both arms and hoists her upright, placing her carefully next to Jennison, who puts his withered arm around her shoulders again. Shortass returns to his chair, sits down and crosses his hands across his lap. He stares at me indifferently. This is good. This means he doesn’t recognise me from the other day.
I notice he has a big, yellowing bruise on the side of his head, near one of his cheekbones. There’s also a nasty graze down one side of his nose. Presumably this is from the kicking he got at the hands of those girls in Marylebone High Street. He also has a slowly healing split lip. I think I may be responsible for that, but I can’t remember what I did to cause it. Serves him right, whatever it was.
Sara’s head lolls back, as if she’s passed out. Jennison casually fondles her breasts through the baby doll. Her nipples harden. He winks at Shortass. Shortass gives him a lecherous grin. Jennison picks his false teeth. Shortass smiles idiotically. I feel like I’m a participant in someone’s deranged strung-out nightmare.
‘I was just telling Mr Beckett here about Isolda’s name, Timmy.’
Timmy! I much prefer Shortass. I want to laugh again. I bite the inside of my lip to stifle it. Shortass seems to have a pale purple aura around him. I know it’s not really there, but I stare at it intently as it looks quite nice.
Shortass catches my stare, assumes it to be contemptuous and gives me a menacing scowl. ‘Oh yeah. Means ‘beautiful’, don’t it?’ he says.
I can see Shortass’s neck tattoo more clearly now. Quite detailed and delicate, like a Hokusai snake. Did Hokusai draw snakes? I wonder how far down it goes. I wonder if he’s got any others. Perhaps he’s covered in them.
Snake tattoo, short, scowling, says ‘don’t it’, bad teeth, face like a petulant little monkey; Christ, Isolda – where were you when they were handing out the good taste?
‘That’s right,’ says Jennison, after what seems like an age. ‘She was a beautiful Irish princess in the legend. ‘Fair lady’, ‘beautiful’ – it means all of those things. What about you, Mr Beckett? Do you think my Isolda is beautiful?’
He looks at me then glances slyly at Shortass. Is this a trick question? This is unreal and unhealthy. This is a demented, diseased scenario.
I take a deep breath and it morphs into a big yawn. I wipe the tears from my eyes with both hands. Irish princess? Didn’t he just say that Isolda was a Welsh name?
I can see Shortass staring daggers at me, willing me to give some sort of inappropriate answer. I must concentrate. I mustn’t give them what they want. I mustn’t say what I’m thinking, but it oozes out anyway.
‘Yeah, she’s beautiful. She’s probably one of the best-looking women I’ve slept with. When she’s naked, she…’
I don’t get a chance to finish whatever half thought out drivel I was going to slur. Shortass dives across the room, his eyes wild and his fists flailing.
I put my hands up to protect my face against the rain of punches and try to go into a foetal position to protect the rest of me. Apart from the punches, he repeatedly kicks me in the shins, which even in my current state I think is a bit pathetic. He’s like an angry little boy.
Jennison barks his name once and the onslaught stops instantly. Shortass stands up straight, nostril breathing heavily, and walks backwards towards his seat, rubbing his knuckles.
Jennison smirks at me, pleased that I fell into his trap. Wide Chest pops his head around the door, then disappears again.
‘Now where was I?’ continues Jennison. ‘Oh yes, Isolda. She was a beautiful baby and she’s a beautiful woman. But I missed all the bits in between, d’you know what I’m saying? Because I was in fucking prison for sixteen years. I missed her growing up.
‘I missed her being a little girl. I missed her being a teenager. I missed buying her presents. I missed all those birthdays. I missed all those successes and I missed all those failures; times when I could have been giving her a cuddle.’
I want to puke.
‘I told my wife never to bring her to see me. I didn’t think it was right that she should see her daddy in prison. When her mummy died, my mummy looked after her. And I told my mummy never to bring little Isolda to see me in prison.’
I have to laugh at this sentimental claptrap. All this mummy and daddy stuff. He just sounds like a feeble-minded, self-pitying, self-justifying numbskull. I don’t want to hear this shit. I want him to shut up.
I want to get away from here. I want to get Sara away from this toxic situation. Jennison is fondling her again. She looks half asleep. This seems to be going on forever.
‘You might find it all funny, Mr Beckett, but it wasn’t funny at all. Not to me. To have a daughter and to miss that hugely important part of her life. It almost killed me. There were times, when I was in prison when I felt like ending it all.’
I give him a friendly smile. ‘You should have done it.’
Jennison’s face darkens and I get another tough look. My body continues to feel heavy. I’m intrigued by this stuff, whatever it is. If I get out of this, I must have my blood analysed. Jennison leans over Sara and loudly sniffs her neck.
‘And then came the news that every prisoner dreads. It was about my wife, Yazmine. My business was still ticking along nicely while I was inside. Of course, it had to be more low-key and all the big jobs had to be shut down. They required brains, and good as my boys were, none of them had the nous to carry on my work in the same style, if you get my drift.’
‘Yeah. Could I have a drink of water?’
I’m not sure whether I said that out loud. No one gets me a drink, so I suppose I just thought it. As Jennison reminisces, he casually strokes Sara’s hair. Shortass gazes at him adoringly. He’s heard all t
his miserably sentimental bullshit prisoner wank before, but I’m sure he never gets tired of it.
‘But I was hearing nasty rumours about Yazmine,’ he continues. ‘There was a club she used to go to. It was a good, classy place in Peckham. We’d been there plenty of times. I was known there.’
Shortass suddenly looks sad and hangs his head.
‘Yazmine was picking up men there and bringing them back here. Now don’t get me wrong; you can’t expect a woman in her late thirties to go without being banged for sixteen years. She had needs. I understood that completely. But she didn’t get it; all that has to stop once you’re a mum.
‘I was worried about how little Dolly would be taking it, having so many uncles around the place at all hours of the day and night. All the stuff she’s be hearing coming out of Yazmine’s bedroom. Yazmine wasn’t one to be quiet, if you get my drift, and always used quite a lot of putrid language, which I couldn’t stand.’
‘Nice.’
‘So all of that was going on. Years and years it went on. So I moved my mummy in with her. Mummy’s health wasn’t good; it still isn’t good even today, but I needed to make sure that little Dolly was well looked after. I needed someone to keep my Yazmine in check.
‘Then a year later, the stupid cow killed herself. Took a load of paracetamol. They tried to pump her stomach, but it was no good. Some of my boys took care of the funeral arrangements. They wouldn’t let me go to her funeral. The prison authorities, I mean. I was too high risk.’ He nods his head proudly. ‘They reckoned that some of my boys would try something and they were probably right.’
God, this is so tedious. I’ve already had the back-story from Isolda. It seems like he’s been telling me this tedious crap for about three days. Still, each second he talks, it’s another second I’m still here and another second for my liver to sort out the toxins, so I’m letting him get on with it.
‘You see, it could be said that being sent to prison wrecked my life, and when someone wrecks your life, you have to wreck theirs back. That’s only fair, isn’t it, Mr Beckett. And if they’re not around, you have to wreck the lives of their nearest and dearest.’
Death is the New Black Page 28