Hymn From A Village

by Nigel Bird

  If it hadn’t been for the waiter, I might have been upset about what the boys were saying.

  He hadn’t stopped watching me since I’d arrived, even when he was serving other customers. When I couldn’t see him I could sense him checking me out, felt my body blush under the cotton dress I’d chosen for the evening, the pink one you can see through when the sun’s bright.

  He wasn’t traditionally handsome, but had one of those interesting Parisian faces - deep set eyes and a bent nose that suggested he’d seen a bit of life and knew how to kick back when it gave him a knock. I liked him.

  When he ran out of things to do, he came to lean on the post-box to smoke and watch me write.

  After his third cigarette, he disappeared inside for a moment then arrived back at my table with another glass of kir.

  “On the house,” he said in English, his accent making me tingle. “And now,” he winked at someone inside, “it’s time to bring some romance to the evening.”

  Above us strings of bulbs lit up in an array of colours, bright against the dusk, just like Eiffel’s tower.

  I smiled at him in appreciation, dealt Dee’s card to the top of the pile and turned it sideways. Picking up my pen I wrote:

  post script - am wearing lucky pants.

  When the lights came on, I’d pretty much decided. The waiter could take me after his shift. Show me some of the ropes he obviously knew so well.

  I smiled at him again to let him know and stood up. As I did so, I bent over right in front of those sewer-mouthed boys. Let my dress fall open while they watched. Shut them up for the first time in an hour. I was pleased that I’d decided against my lucky bra after my shower. When I felt they’d seen enough, I headed into the cafe to the bathroom so I could check myself over.

  Chez Prune has one of those quaint bathrooms where men and women share the sinks and mirrors, the kind of thing that reminds you how chilled the French are about such matters.

  I put on lipstick, brushed my hair, checked my teeth for stray bits of salad and blew myself a kiss.

  When I got back to my table and the fresh air, there was someone new to check out kneeling on the opposite side of the road.

  It was as if he’d been plucked from my own imagination, like he’d been painted into the scene while I’d been away.

  The beard he wore was practically a work of art, neatly sculpted to pencil thin so that it lined the edge of his angular chin. A pendant dangled from a chain that fell from his unbuttoned shirt and his ponytail was kept neatly in place by a perfectly tied black, velvet bow.

  It didn’t even matter to me that he was wearing rectangular shades in the half-light of dusk.

  I’m not sure even to this day whether it was because I’m fickle or because I was getting cold feet, but I didn’t sit back down at my table.

  Instead I picked up my glass and carried it over to where the young man worked, sketching busily on the floor.

  “Funny time to start.” I was becoming a lot more confident about speaking French. Hardly had to think about what I wanted to say anymore.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “There aren’t many people passing this time of night,” I tried to explain as I took a look over his shoulder.

  The outline he’d drawn was of a man lying sprawled face down between the canal and the road.

  The hands of the artist worked quickly, selecting pastels from his box and rubbing and shading with paper-towels.

  It wasn’t long before he’d finished the trousers, with creases and folds immaculately placed at the bend of the knee.

  “So do you come here often?” I was hoping he’d see the funny side of the question.

  Didn’t bat an eye-lid.

  “Forgive me,” he finally said. “Time is short.”

  He stood to check his work and knelt again. “I must finish by 10:47. Then I can talk.”

  Typical of me to start a conversation with a nut job I thought, only I wanted to see how the picture turned out almost as much as I wanted him to get inside me. I wandered over to the canal bridge and sat on the steps. Came close to telling him I needed to get laid by 10:56 to see if he could fit me in.

  Didn’t.

  He set to work on the feet, shading the pink of a sock that showed itself between the trouser turn-up and a brown leather shoe to the left, and on the right making it all sock, even drawing a hole over the big toe.

  “Tell me about yourself,” I urged. “You’ll finish on time.”

  He looked at his watch and began to talk.

  “I’m from a long line of crocheteurs,” he said as he sketched a shoe in the middle of the road, stepping back every so often to let a scooter or a car go by. “Pickers, I mean. Rag-and-bone men.”

  “Rag-and-bone men?”

  “Two centuries ago, my ancestors raked through the Paris garbage every night. What they found they sold at the city walls.”

  He drew a few coins here and there cool as you’d like, then got back to the main body of work.

  “But you’re not looking through garbage.” I looked up at the waiter across the road. Gave him a little wave. He opened his hand, gestured at the lights and went over to take an order from the boys.

  “True, but things change. We evolve. The jobs your children will do are yet to be invented.”

  “I don’t have children.”

  “You will.” If it was a chat-up line, it wasn’t the best I’d heard. “The other name for what they did was ‘pecheurs de la lune’.”

  “Fishermen of the moon,” I said in English just to hear the beauty in the phrase. “So that’s what you are.”

  “Correct.” He wiped his hands quickly and started work on the drawing’s shirt.

  The picture reminded me of someone. I tried to shake the thought from my head on account of the way the limbs were twisting.

  “The time please?” he asked, too busy to check for himself.

  I looked at my watch. “Three more minutes.”

  He stopped talking and I stopped asking him things.

  The shirt he drew was white. Clean and crisp like it was fresh on. From the cuffs, hands jutted as if they were clawing the ground.

  The artist lit a cigarette, filled the air with exotic curls of Gauloises.

  He passed it over for me to hold.

  The silence was unsettling. I decided to break it.

  “What’s the going rate for the moon’s fisherman these days?”

  He looked up at me, eyes hidden behind his shades. Instead of answering he put his fingers to his mouth and blew me a kiss.

  I felt bad for the waiter. Looked over in case he’d seen.

  I don’t think he’d noticed anything. Instead, he was waving my bag over his head and running in my direction.

  “Mademoiselle,” he called. “Your bag, Mademoiselle.” If I’d seen the car, I would have warned him, but the brakes didn’t screech until after the collision. Something shot from the waiter's mouth as the car slammed into him. Could have been teeth or gum.

  The way he flew through the air reminded me of Dee when she was thrown from her pony.

  He landed before me, his body taking the shape of the drawing.

  One of his shoes rolled along the gutter and came to rest in the middle of the road.

  The tinkling of coins stopped only when the body came to rest, the waiter staring at the floor like a fish at a market stall.

  And the crocheteur?

  Gone, just like the drawing and his equipment.

  I took a drag on the cigarette he’d given me to hold. Coughed my lungs up as the tobacco hit. Emptied my stomach into the canal and looked at the moon’s reflection in the ripples of the water.

  No Pain, No Gain

  After all he’d dished out he must surely have got the message. I wasn’t about to tell them shit.

  Smashed my nose, pulled teeth, took nails and sent shocks through my private parts and I still hadn’t spilled a bean.

  Even broke my fingers.

 
; Hell, I used to do that on purpose when I was a kid when I didn’t want to eat my greens. Freaked my parents out watching me bend the fuckers till they cracked. Surest way I knew of getting out of stuff.

  “Where’s Jamie-Ray?” The old bastard was getting tired and sweating all over the place. The man needs to go out there and join a gym you ask me.

  Did my best to shrug my shoulders. Wasn’t easy with my hands tied to the chair. Scumbag hadn’t even given me a cushion.

  Wilson raised the wrench over his head like he was about to use it.

  I smiled.

  He used it.

  When I came round I was still trussed up, only I was lying on my side in a sticky red pool.

  At least there wasn’t no Bart Wilson there. All I had to do was get myself to a hospital and explain.

  Took me a couple a hours to get my hands free. After that it was plain sailing.

  Headed down to Accident and Emergency.

  Had to go through the same old crap.

  “Have you been taking drugs, sir?” They usually ask that. Sometimes it’s about drinking and others it’s about mental health, but mostly it’s the drugs.

  I wasn’t in fit shape to answer. Tried, but something wasn’t working in the mouth department.

  “You think there’s something wrong? Would you open wide?”

  She was just playing me along, I could tell. Waiting to send me up to see a shrink or something.

  A couple of other nurses came over. Hovered over the desk trying to look busy. Like they’d be any good at security if the lady needed help.

  I opened my mouth like she asked.

  “Oh my word,” she said. “Sit yourself over there and I’ll get a doctor over as soon as one’s available.”

  She started being nice. Came round and put her arms round my shoulders. Guided me to the waiting area.

  “Can I get you something for the pain?”

  They never get it. Not even when I can tell them.

  I took off my hat.

  She inhaled and made a noise like she was breathing through a bicycle pump.

  First things first, I had to go and find my sister, Pinky, and her boyfriend. Tell them things weren’t looking so good.

  I’d dropped them off at Bart’s place, just like we’d arranged. Watched them go in through the front calm as the Mediterranean. Bouncers looked them up and down, gave them a token frisk and let them by. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Just my luck to get moved on by the police. That wasn’t in the plan. Guess they had to take the train or a taxi. Fuck knows how they were supposed to move the stuff without the car.

  I didn’t get to find out what happened till I heard it from Bart Wilson back in his torture chamber.

  Pinky and Jamie-Ray had interrupted the game. Pulled out guns and aimed them right at the croupier. Course they knew Jamie-Ray right off. He’d been dealing the cards and spinning wheels alongside me for six months. Smiling and taking their money.

  Unfortunately Bart was there with his cousins watching the way the cards were falling.

  On any one day, there might be one security guy up there. With Bart and his cousins, that made six.

  Jamie-Ray must’ve panicked. Started shooting up the place.

  Pinky had to so the same.

  So now Bart doesn’t have any cousins.

  Bad news for us is he’s the youngest of seven brothers. Worse, he’s the runt of the litter.

  Me and Pinky have always been close. We share things. A football team, friends and our mum and dad. Things she used to do to get out of shit, she was worse than me.

  Been called Pinky ever since her conjunctivitis.

  Our parents are just regular folk. They could never have expected us to come out the way we did.

  When they mixed their genes together, threw in their X’s and Y’s we’re what came out of the mix.

  There were three of us to begin with. Me and Pinky and Josh. We all had it. Congenital Pain Insensitivity. Can’t never get hurt. Feel sensations but nothing else. None of us cried when they cut our feet for the Guthrie test. Guess they must have suspected we were different soon as we were born.

  Sounds like a blessing, right? Never getting sore.

  Wasn’t so good for Josh. He fell asleep by the fire one night. Was only five. Somehow he caught light. By the time my parents got to him all they could do was save the house. If he could’ve felt the pain he’d a woken himself up. Put himself out.

  Only consolation, he never felt a thing.

  Guess that just made Pinks and me closer. Did as many things as a girl and a boy can do together, apart from the sex stuff of course. She’s had Jamie-Ray for that this past year. I tried to warn her off, but she wasn’t having it.

  Must’ve fallen for all that muscle and the Aussie twang.

  Asked him once what he did over there.

  “This and that,” he told me.

  And why he’d come over in such a hurry.

  “Pissed my bosses off by taking a lot of their money.” He didn’t look to sorry about what he’d done. “They weren’t going to give up till I was floating upside down under the Harbour Bridge.”

  “So where’s the money?” I asked him. If he was so rich, how come he was living with Pinky in a ex-council flat in need of more repairs than a stock car?

  “When I get word things are cool, we’ll go and pick it up.” I didn’t like the way he said we. “Show Pinky the cities and the outback then we’ll settle somewhere fine. You’ll come and visit.”

  Halle-bloody-lulia.

  Eventually word came from Oz that things were calm.

  Jamie-Ray and Pinky, they were all set for leaving as soon as they could. Only problem was they’d spent all they had on a camper van that broke down on them on the Edgeware Road. A mechanic friend of Pinky’s said there was nothing to be done.

  They were stony-broke.

  And that’s when Jamie-Ray came up with his plan.

  Soon as I opened the door I knew something was up. For a start, something was blocking way in. For another there was no stink of Brylcream.

  My mouth still wasn’t fit for talking. As it turned out, that was the first lucky break I’d had in a while.

  The shots came from the bedroom.

  My instinct was to run like hell, but I managed to get over that pretty quick.

  Instead I sprinted to the kitchen, picked out a couple of the biggest knives and ran through.

  The balcony door was open, so I thought I’d go and take a look. Problem was I tripped over someone on the way.

  I could only see the legs when I looked back.

  The trousers had turn-ups, but the shoes were regular black leather affairs. That’s how come I knew it wasn’t Jamie-Ray. He never wears anything but winkle-pickers. Reckon he still thinks it’s 1959, with his leather jackets and his fancy shirts and all.

  I gave the legs a pull to see who came out.

  It wasn’t easy to tell with half his face missing and the other half covered in blood. Only real clue I had was the ginger hair. Wilson was a carrot top. Wasn’t Wilson though, at least not Bart. Bart never went out without a flower pinned to his lapel. Best guess was that it was one of his brothers.

  Can’t say I gave a shit about the guy I’d found. He probably had it coming to him.

  It was the blood on the bed that had me worried. It was already dry.

  And then there were the red circles leading to the door.

  I followed them out on to the balcony. By the time I got there, all I could see was nothing.

  London’s a big city. Aren’t they all?

  You’d think it would be easy enough to lie low for a while. Jump on a tube and stay on it till the end of the line. That’s what I’d have done.

  Jamie-Ray doesn’t think that way, though. Nor does Pinky anymore.

  They sent me a text checking in. I’d have called back, only I still couldn’t talk. Texted instead. I’d meet him at the usual place at midnight.

  I went hom
e to bed to catch a couple of hour’s nap. Had to lie with my head propped up to keep the taste of metal out of my throat. Didn’t sleep a wink. Came up with a new plan. Don’t reckon I’ll ever do my thinking when I’m half asleep ever again.

  Kite Hill’s just about my favourite place when it’s dark. There’s hardly anyone around if you don’t count the men-folk cruising the bushes looking for their own kind.

  All you have for company is the hum of traffic and all you’ve got to do is think your thoughts.

  The city stretches out in front of you whichever way you look, like there’s nothing else in the world but people going about their business.

  Didn’t enjoy it in the usual way knowing the Wilson brothers would be turning over every stone out there to see if Jamie-Ray came out a crawling, ready to squash him dead under their heels. Not that I gave a shit about him. Problem was if they were going out looking for him, chances are Pinky was going to get hers, too.

  Could hardly see Jamie-Ray coming up the path, his black hair and black clothes camouflaging him against the darkness. Heard him well enough. Gene Vincent was leaking out of his headphones. ‘Race With The Devil’.

  Gave me one of his Aussie shakes and sat down.

  I took out my pen and pad. Asked how they were.

  “Tell you the truth, I’m not sure.”

  “Where’s Pinks?” I wrote.

  He lit his cigarette and ran his fingers through his hair. Must’ve been worried that the breeze had mussed it up. “She’s at Jenny’s. Jenny’s doing what she can, but she doesn’t know the first thing about gunshot wounds.”

  “Fuck man,” I wrote. “Shouldn’t you be getting her to a hospital.” I don’t know if it was the cold or what, but my hands were shaking pretty bad. I lit up a cigarette of my own. Helped me to calm down.

  “Can’t risk it. Soon as they report it as a gunshot wound, Bart’s men’ll hear and it’ll be Bye Bye Miss American Pie.” He spat. Made a noise with his lips. Looked at me for some kind of appreciation like spitting was an art-form where he comes from.

  I dropped the pen.

  “We need you to go to the flat. We’ve got the cash, but no passports. Go to the flat, pick them up and pack a couple of bags and half the money’s yours.” He was a bastard. I was supposed to be getting a cut anyway just for doing the driving.