London Noir - [Anthology]

by Edited by Maxim Jakubowski

  ‘You all right?’ he asked her, touching her arm.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Angel trembled. His hand was still on her arm. She tried to pull herself together, tried to act as though nothing was happening, even though he was sending an electric current right through her. She wondered if he knew what he had done to her, what he was still doing. (Ricky used to tell her a junkie couldn’t fall in love, but she always knew he was wrong.)

  ‘Well, back to work,’ she said brightly, wanting Brian to notice how energetic she was, how eager to please, how quickly she had become indispensable.

  * * * *

  Cold raindrops splattered the pavement. A man staggered around the corner into the narrow passageway where Angel stood waiting in a doorway. ‘If I were you,’ said Angel, ‘I’d want to come in out of the rain.’

  The man stopped in his tracks, swaying slightly. He was about forty-five, with bloodshot eyes, a large red nose, and puffy cheeks threaded with broken veins. He wore a crumpled beige raincoat over jeans and a polo-neck jumper. ‘I’ll come in if you will,’ he told her.

  * * * *

  Angel and the man sat down at a candle-lit table. He didn’t seem to care that there was no sign of a show; he never once looked at the stage. He was sliding a calloused hand up Angel’s thigh when the taloned manageress appeared with the bill, demanding two hundred pounds. ‘Wha’?’ he asked, dazed, no different from any customer that night. The manageress repeated her demand, and he jumped up, roaring like a lion, knocking her back with a swipe of his hand.

  The bouncer was on him in a flash; they rolled on the floor, knocking over chairs and tables and candles. The bartender leapt across the bar and into the melee. Angel ran towards the office, screaming for Brian. He opened the office door, shoving past her.

  The bouncer and the barman got back on their feet, pulling the man up with them. They held him still while Brian punched him in the stomach, over and over.

  He slumped forward; they let him go and he dropped to the ground. Brian went through the man’s pockets, finding less than fifty pounds. ‘Get the son of a bitch out of here, then lock the doors and bugger off home.’ He yawned, smiling ruefully, ‘I don’t know about you lot, but I’ve had it for tonight.’

  * * * *

  Brian and Angel stayed for an hour after the others had left. Brian counted up the night’s receipts while Angel swept up broken glass, emptied ashtrays, wiped down tables. ‘What are you doing, Angel?’ he finally asked her. ‘What the hell do you want from me?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m just trying to help, that’s all.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What do you mean why? You said yourself you were my knight in shining armour, didn’t you?’

  ‘Let’s get out of here, OK?’

  * * * *

  Angel stood outside waiting, watching the neon lights of Soho wink out, one by one, while Brian pulled a set of metal gates across the doorway. The rain had finally stopped and the air smelled clean and scrubbed and full of promise. There was a pink glow on the eastern horizon; Angel imagined herself absorbing that glow. She felt beautiful and alive, like that first rush of liquid sky, when you feel like kissing God full on the lips. She wondered if it was possible to feel this way forever, feel this way watching a thousand sunrises with Brian by her side, feel this way without drugs. And then she thought, I’d like to try. She heard a padlock click into place, and turned to see Brian signal her to follow.

  They turned the corner and were confronted by the leering face of menace. A man, his clothes torn, his face savaged, was waiting. Angel knew him at once; it was only an hour since his rough hand had worked its way up her thigh. He lunged at her, twisting her thin arms behind her back, and raised a steak knife to her throat. ‘I want my money.’ Angel couldn’t believe this was happening; the man didn’t have a knife an hour ago, he must have stolen it from a restaurant.

  ‘You what?’ said Brian.

  ‘You robbed me! I want my money back.’

  ‘Piss off,’ said Brian.

  Angel tried to say Brian’s name, but she couldn’t speak. She could hardly breathe; the serrated edge of the blade was pressed close against her windpipe.

  ‘I’ll slice her fuckin’ head off.’

  Brian shrugged. ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Do you think I care what you do to her? She’s just some piece of shit from the streets of King’s Cross, does blow jobs in cars for a tenner. I only used her tonight ‘cause I was desperate. I mean, look at her!’

  ‘All I want is my money,’ said the man, ‘I had forty-nine pounds. That was all I had in the world.’ His grip loosened. Angel could finally breathe again. She gasped for air, scalding tears streaming into her open mouth. Brian’s words hung in the air, solid and tangible, and something inside her died forever.

  ‘Forty-nine pounds!’ Brian nearly doubled over laughing. ‘For her? Well, she’s all yours now mate, do what you want with her.’ He backed away, palms up. ‘I’m off.’

  An ugly sound pierced Angel’s ears, a cry that didn’t sound human. Angel fell to the ground, hitting her head. Everything went dark for a moment, then there was another sound, the scraping of blade against bone. Her eyes slowly came back into focus; she saw Brian clutching at his chest. She watched him crumple.

  The man in the raincoat turned towards her, the restaurant knife in his hand dripping blood. ‘I didn’t want to. I never meant. . .’ And then he was gone.

  Angel’s eyes darted from side to side; she was in a narrow alley, just before dawn, and there was no one around. No one anywhere. She looked up, saw empty windows. No faces, no prying eyes.

  She crawled towards Brian on all fours. A puddle of blood formed beneath him, growing larger. She gently brushed the hair back from his eyes before stroking his cheek and tracing the outline of his lips with one finger, exactly the way he had touched her once - when was it? Only a few hours ago? It seemed like a thousand years - back when he was a knight in shining armour and she, a beautiful damsel in distress. He made a horrible noise: a kind of gurgling. Then he didn’t seem to breathe any more.

  Angel reached into his jacket pocket and carefully removed his wallet.

  <>

  * * * *

  JOHN HARVEY

  NOW’S THE TIME

  T

  hey’re all dying, Charlie’

  They had been in the kitchen, burnished tones of Clifford Brown’s trumpet, soft like smoke from down the hall. Dark rye bread sliced and ready, coffee bubbling, Resnick had tilted the omelette pan and let the whisked eggs swirl around before forking the green beans and chopped red pepper into their midst. The smell of garlic and butter permeated the room.

  Ed Silver stood watching, trying to ignore the cats that nudged, variously, around his feet. Through wisps of grey hair, a fresh scab showed clearly among the lattice-work of scars. The hand which held his glass was swollen at the knuckles and it shook.

  ‘S’pose you think I owe you one, Charlie? That it?’

  Earlier that evening, Resnick had talked Silver out of swinging a butcher’s cleaver through his own bare foot. ‘What I thought, Charlie, start at the bottom and work your way up, eh?’ Resnick had bundled him into a cab and brought him home, stuck a beer in his hand and set to making them both something to eat. He hadn’t seen Ed Silver in ten years or more, a drinking club in Carlton whose owner liked his jazz; Silver had set out his stall early, two choruses of ‘I’ve Got Rhythm’ solo, breakneck tempo, bass and drums both dropping out and the pianist grinning, open-mouthed. The speed of thought: those fingers then.

  Resnick divided the omelette on to two plates. ‘You want to bring that bread?’ he said. ‘We’ll eat in the other room.’

  The boldest of the cats, Dizzy, followed them hopefully through. The Clifford Brown Memorial album was still playing. ‘Theme of No Repeat’.

  ‘They’re all dying} Charlie.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Every bugger!’

  * * * *


  And now it was true.

  SILVER Edward Victor Suddenly at home, on February 16, 1993. Acclaimed jazz musician of the be-bop era. Funeral service and memorial meeting, Friday, February 19 at Golders Green Crematorium at 11.45 am. Inquiries to Mason Funeral and Monumental Services, High Lanes, Finchley.

  Resnick was not a Guardian reader; not much of a reader at all, truth to tell. Police Review, the local paper, Home Office circulars and misspelt incident reports, Jazz Journal - that was about it. But Frank Delaney had called him Tuesday morning; Frank, who had continued booking Ed Silver into his pub long after most others had turned their backs, left Ed’s calls unanswered on their answer-phones. ‘Seen the Guardian today, Charlie?’ Resnick had taken it for a joke.

  Now he was on the train as it approached St Pancras, that copy of the newspaper folded on the seat beside him, the debris of his journey - plastic cups, assorted wrappings from his egg mayonnaise sandwich, bacon and tomato roll, lemon iced gingerbread - pushed to one side of the table. There was the Regent’s canal and as they passed the gas holders at King’s Cross, Resnick got to his feet, lifted his coat down from the rack and shrugged his way inside it. He would have to walk the short distance from one terminal to another and catch the underground.

  * * * *

  Even at that hour, King’s Cross seemed jaded, sour, down at heel, broad corners and black cabs; bare-legged girls whose pallid skin was already beginning to sweat; men who leaned against walls and railings and glanced up at you as you passed, ready to sell you anything that wasn’t theirs. Ageless and sexless, serious alcoholics sat or squatted, clutching brown bottles of cider, cans of Special Brew. High above the entrances, inside the wide concourse, security cameras turned slowly with remote-control eyes.

  The automatic doors slid back at Resnick’s approach and beyond the lights of the computerized arrivals board, the Leeds train spilled several hundred soccer fans across the shiny floor. Enlivened by the possibility of business, two girls who had been sharing a breakfast of chips outside Casey Jones, began to move towards the edges of the throng. One of them was tall, with badly hennaed hair that hung low over the fake fur collar of her coat; the other, younger, smudging a splash of red sauce like crazy lipstick across her cheek, called for her to wait. ‘Fuck’s sake, Brenda.’ Brenda bent low to pull up the strap of her shoe, lit a cigarette.

  ‘We are the champions!’ chanted a dozen or more youths, trailing blue and white scarves from their belts.

  In your dreams, Resnick thought.

  A couple of hapless West Ham fans, on their way to catch an away special north, found themselves shunted up against the glass front of W.H. Smith. Half a dozen British Rail staff busied themselves looking the other way.

  ‘Come on, love,’ the tall girl said to one of the men, an ex-squaddie with regimental colours and a death’s head tattooed along his arms, ‘me and my mate here. We’ve got a place.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ the man said. ‘Just fucking fuck off!’

  ‘Fuck you too!’ Turning away from the tide of abuse, she saw Resnick watching. ‘And you. What the hell d’you think you’re staring at, eh? Wanker!’

  Loud jeers and Resnick moved away between the supporters but now that her attention had been drawn to him, Brenda had him in her sights. Middle-aged man, visitor, not local, not exactly smart but bound to be carrying a quid or two.

  ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘What?’

  The hand that spread itself against him was a young girl’s hand. ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘How old are you?’ Resnick said. The eyes that looked back at him from between badly-applied make-up had not so long since been a child’s eyes.

  ‘Whatever age you want,’ Brenda said.

  A harassed woman with one kiddie in a pushchair and another clinging to one hand, banged her suitcase inadvertently against the back of Brenda’s legs and, even as she swore at her, Brenda took the opportunity to lose her balance and stumble forwards. ‘Oops, sorry,’ she giggled, pressing herself against Resnick’s chest.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Resnick said, taking hold of her arms and moving her, not roughly, away. Beneath the thin wool there was precious little flesh on her bones.

  ‘Don’t want the goods,’ her friend said tartly, ‘don’t mess them about.’

  ‘Lorraine,’ Brenda said, ‘mind your own fucking business, right?’

  Lorraine pouted a B-movie pout and turned away.

  ‘Well?’ Brenda asked, head cocked.

  Resnick shook his head. ‘I’m a police officer,’ he said.

  ‘Right,’ said Brenda, ‘and I’m fucking Julia Roberts!’ And she wandered off to join her friend.

  * * * *

  The undertaker led Resnick into a side room and unlocked a drawer; from the drawer he took a medium size manila envelope and from this he slid onto the plain table Ed Silver’s possessions. A watch with a cracked face that had stopped at seven minutes past eleven; an address book with more than half the names crossed through; a passport four years out of date; dog-eared at the edges: a packet of saxophone reeds; one pound, thirteen pence in change. In a second envelope there were two photographs. One, in colour, shows Silver in front of a poster for the North Sea Jazz Festival, his name, partly obscured, behind him in small print. He is wearing dark glasses but, even so, it is clear from the shape of his face he is squinting up his eyes against the sun. His grey hair is cut in a once-fashionable crew cut and the sports coat he is wearing is bright dog-tooth check and over-large. His alto sax is cradled across his arms. If that picture were ten, fifteen years old, the other is far older - black and white faded almost to sepia. Ed Silver on the deck of the Queen Mary, the New York skyline rising behind him. Docking or departing, Resnick couldn’t tell. Like many a would-be bopper, he had been part of Geraldo’s navy, happy to play foxtrots and waltzes in exchange for a fervid forty-eight hours in the clubs on 52nd Street, listening to Monk and Bird. Silver had bumped into Charlie Parker once, almost literally, on a midtown street and been too dumbstruck to speak.

  Resnick slid the photographs back from sight. ‘Is that all?’ he asked.

  Almost as an afterthought, the undertaker asked him to wait while he fetched the saxophone case, with its scuffed leather coating and tarnished clasps; stuck to the lid was a slogan: Keep Music Live! Of course, the case was empty, sax long gone to buy more scotch when Ed Silver had needed it most. Resnick hoped it had tasted good.

  In the small chapel there were dried flowers and the wreath that Frank Delaney had sent. The coffin sat, cheap, before grey curtains and Resnick stood in the second row, glancing round through the vicar’s perfunctory sermon to see if anyone else was going to come in. Nobody did. ‘He was a man, who in his life, brought pleasure to many,’ the vicar said. Amen, thought Resnick, to that. Then the curtains slowly parted and the coffin slid forward, rocking just a little, just enough, towards the flames.

  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

  If the women don‘t get you, the whisky must.

  While the taped organ music wobbled through ‘Abide With Me’, inside his head Resnick was hearing Ed Silver in that small club off Carlton

  Hill, stilling the drinking and the chatter with an elegiac ‘Parker’s Mood’.

  ‘No family, then?’ the vicar said outside, anxious to find time for a cigarette and a pee before the next service.

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  The vicar nodded sagely. ‘If you’ve nothing else in mind for them, we’ll see to it the ashes are scattered here, on the rose garden. Blooms are a picture, let me tell you, later in the year. We have one or two visitors, find time to lend a hand keeping it in order, but of course there’s no funding as such. We’re dependent upon donations.’

  Resnick reached into his pocket for his wallet and realized it was gone.

  * * * *

  The ‘meat rack’ stretched back either side of the station, roads lined by lock-up garages and hole-in-the-wall businesses offering third-hand office furnitur
e and auto parts. Resnick walked the gauntlet, hands in pockets, head down, the best part of three blocks and neither girl in sight. Finally, he stopped by a woman in a red coat, sitting on an upturned dustbin and using a discarded plastic fork to scrape dog shit from the sole of her shoe. There were bruises on her neck, yellow and violet, fading under the soiled white blouse which was all she was wearing above the waist.