by M. P. Wright
It had been a stiflingly warm night, and at around seven o’clock I’d returned to my digs on Gwyn Street, flung the living room sash windows wide open to let in what little breeze there was, then sank into my armchair with a further quart bottle of Mount Gay rum, and finished it off. The booze had done little to purge the blues from me and by the time I’d taken myself off to bed it was late. Staring up into the darkness, angry, drunk and with my belly empty but for the large quantity of dark spirits sloshing around inside it, I lay awake for what had seemed like an age before eventually closing my eyes. I had a head full of dark thoughts still rattling around inside that continued to invade my restless slumber.
I turned over to look at the brass alarm clock on my bedside table: it was just after 6 a.m. Still dog-tired, I crawled out of bed and wearily sat on the edge of the mattress, staring into space, and waited while the last remnants of the nightmares which had plagued me throughout the night finally withdrew back into their darkened recesses. I stared down at the floor and noticed that I was still wearing my socks. I stood up and walked across the bedroom and took a look at myself in the large mirror that was attached to the outside of my wardrobe door. What stared back at me wasn’t a pretty picture. I stripped out of the creased shirt, trousers and underwear I’d slept in and made my way into the bathroom, where I wrapped a towel round my waist then opened up the airing cupboard and switched on the immersion heater to get some hot water going in the boiler so I could take a bath.
In the living room the sash windows were still wide open and a gentle wind was blowing cool air through into the hall. I went into my kitchen, stood by the sink and filled the kettle with water, then put it onto the hob of my gas cooker and lit the front ring with a match. I reached over for a large glass that was sat on the draining board, turned on the cold water again and stuck it underneath the fast-running tap. The water ran a sandy brown, so I left it running on full until it choked and spluttered then ran clear. I knocked the cold liquid back then refilled the glass a second time, draining its contents before my thirst was quenched. I leant across the kitchen table, where my Roberts radio was, turned it on and was greeted by the voice of a well-spoken BBC announcer on the light programme breakfast special. After the kettle had boiled I made myself a cup of black coffee and sat and listened to the morning’s news as the painful legacy of the previous night’s heavy drinking continued to hammer on inside my head.
It was after seven by the time I’d finished my third cup of coffee and had run a bath for myself. I lay in the hot water, soaking my aching limbs, and slowly the hammer in my head began to subside. As I shaved, I stopped briefly to listen to the smooth tones of a new song, Percy Sledge’s “When a Man Loves a Woman”, which was playing on the transistor out in the kitchen. I got out of the tub, dried myself then brushed my teeth and took a long hard look at myself in the bathroom mirror, scowling at my sorry reflection. The small half-inch scar on my left brow, a memento from a childhood accident, caught my eye, and for the briefest of moments my mind recalled happy times back home on the island of Barbados. Those times were now long gone and I shook off any past thoughts by pouring a small amount of Imperial Leather aftershave into the palm of my hand then splashed it around my face, making me gasp as the cologne stung at my now smooth skin.
I walked slowly back into my bedroom, still feeling like death warmed up, and slowly changed into fresh underwear and a white cotton shirt then pulled on the trousers of my lightweight charcoal single-breasted suit. I slid my feet into my brogues, and as I began to tie the laces, my stomach began to rumble. Breakfast was normally my favourite meal of the day, and my churning guts told me that I’d struggle to make it through the morning let alone the rest of day without some kind of food inside me. I grabbed the small Puma knife Mrs Pearce had given me for my birthday from the top of the chest of drawers and put it into my hip pocket, strapped my old watch around my left wrist then picked up my wallet and retractable pencil and dropped them into the breast pocket of my jacket before pulling it on.
I felt light-headed and unsteady on my feet as I picked up my trilby and overcoat from the stand in the hall and, like a condemned man whose gait is hampered by heavy leg irons, walked listlessly out of my digs.
I stood for a moment on my front doorstep. Looking up at the almost cloudless blue sky, I took in a couple deep breaths of fresh air and squinted as the early morning sun hit my eyes. I quickly fitted my trilby onto my head, pulling the brim down low over the front of my face, cutting out the glare. An unnerving sense of foreboding nagged at my being as I wearily trod down the granite steps towards the pavement. I headed down Gwyn Street, thinking about the large wad of cash in my desk drawer back at the gym, how to find Dr Fowler, and Ida Stephens’ enigmatic request for me to seek out the whereabouts of “the truth” for her.
Her words echoed around and around in my head, over and over again in my brain. “It’s quite simple, Mr Ellington . . . When you find Fowler just ask where we can find the truth.”As I walked the length of the road, the summer sunshine painted out my shadow onto the concrete slabs in front of me and I watched as the sunbeams dragged my darkened silhouette out into the gutter. I stopped and stared down at the dark stone trench that ran along the length of the road, my mind carrying itself towards places I had no right returning to, back to my forgotten life in Barbados as a police officer. An unwelcome recall crept out of my psyche as if it had just crawled up from the sewers below to taunt me. It threw out at me the unwelcome, hidden memories I had so carefully kept suppressed, black memories that I wanted to remain undisturbed: the crime syndicate I had once fought and fallen foul of, the corruption and betrayal I had uncovered within my own squad, and the murders of both my wife, Ellie, and daughter, Amelia.
I felt the early warmth of a June morning suddenly become a blazing heat at my back: the tortured screams of those I loved calling out from a blistering furnace for me to come to them, their scorched hands reaching towards my ankles to pull me into their searing hell. I tore myself away from the side of the road, the sweat running down my face. I wiped away the perspiration with my shaking hand then continued walking, yet the cries of the dead clung on inside me, their pleading resonating with my footsteps as I paced away from a fiery underworld I never wanted to revisit.
The Black Cat café on the corner of Wilde Street in the heart of St Pauls was not exactly true to its name, being the last place that a man like me could expect to get a warm welcome. Not that I was after one: I never went for the hospitality or for company; I went in there because it served good food and it was cheap. The Black Cat was one of those joints that “decent” people stayed well clear off. It was mostly frequented by what I came to know as grafters, hard-working types: builders, chippies, carpet fitters, factory workers on their way home from the night shift, postmen having a crafty breakfast cuppa before finishing their rounds, delivery drivers filling their faces before starting the day’s slog. And crooks. How I fitted in as one of the café’s regular customers wasn’t something I thought a great deal about. I turned up most mornings, sat at the same table in a corner, ordered my meal, tucked into it then left. Few engaged me in conversation; no one was interested in what I did for a living and most sitting inside the place ignored my very existence. All except one: its owner, Donald “Muff” Walker.
Known as “Mr Muff” to everyone who knew him, he’d picked up his nickname years before from the fellow merchant seamen he had served with during World War II. It was given to him on account of the comical old cap complete with swing-down earmuffs that he wore on his head during the perilous, freezing Atlantic sea crossings he’d made. Muff was the kind of guy I could never get a handle on. He was all looks and smiles when you walked through his gate door, came over like your best friend, offering up his warmest welcome, then called you a dirty coon no sooner than he’d taken your money and your back was turned. Early on, I’d come to the conclusion that Donald Walker was not a man to be trusted, and my friends in the black community consider
ed him to be a sly, tight-fisted and racist chump. For as long as I’d been taking my custom into the Black Cat, Muff had always offered up the same greeting to me; today was gonna be no different to any of the others that had gone before it.
“How you doin’, John John?” Muff cocked his head and winked at me as I approached his bleached-out Formica counter. He was leant against the worktop, arms outstretched in front of him, his faded blue naval tattoos proudly on show as I made my way towards him.
“I’m swell, Mr Muff, yo’self?” I shot him a smile then looked up at the printed menu behind the old duffer and read what was on offer.
“Can’t complain, John John, can’t complain. Now what’ll you be having?” He slapped the palms of his hands together then picked up a small lined pad from the top of the cash register, took a pencil from behind the back of his ear, licked the lead tip and prepared to take my order.
“I’ll take a couple o’ rashers o’ bacon, a fried egg and two slices o’ toast.” I watched as he wrote, his handwriting more a scrawl than legible print.
“And to drink?” He fired his enquiry at me in a manner that was more a command than a question.
“A cup of your special coffee would go down a treat, Mr Muff.”
“That’ll be two and six.” He didn’t even stop to look up from his notepad to stick his hand out in front of me.
I took out my wallet, picked out the necessary coins and handed him my money. He carefully counted through what I had given to him in the palm of his hand with the tip of his index finger, double-checking I had not cheated him, before turning and ringing the amount up in the till. The drawer shot open and Muff dropped the coins inside then slammed the cash register shut. He yelled out my order towards the kitchen then picked up a copy of the Daily Mirror from off a stool behind him, opened it up in front of me and started to read.
As all the corner seats were taken, I went and found myself a table over by the front window of the café and looked out across the street at the people coming and going. While I realised that the colour of my skin always caused Donald Walker a great deal of displeasure, taking my money on a regular basis did not. If I wanted to eat out in a local café then Muff’s was the only place and his unpleasant behaviour was something I had to put up with. He was happy just as long as I paid up and didn’t sit next to any of his other customers while they stuffed their faces with his food. Although I did not like the man, I knew how to play the game with the bigot: I generally kept my conversations with him short and sweet. Whatever I may have thought about his attitude towards me, the fool had one good thing going for him and that was stood out back in his kitchen making my breakfast.
Elsie Walker, Muff’s wife, could sure cook up a mean plateful of food. In no time she’d rustled up my order, and I watched as she walked carefully across from her kitchen towards me with my meal in one hand and my coffee in the other. I smiled at her as she approached my table and placed my breakfast in front of me. She turned to check if her husband was still reading his paper then bent down towards my ear to whisper to me.
“Growing lad like you needs more than two rashers of bacon and a miserly egg to set him up for the day. Here, get that lot down ya.” I looked down at the mountain of food she had prepared for me: along with the extra bacon and egg there were sausages, mushrooms and grilled tomatoes. It was a generous gesture from a kind-hearted woman and one that I was grateful to receive, throbbing hangover or not. As Elsie walked back to her kitchen I glanced over towards Donald Walker, who was peering suspiciously back at me from behind his morning paper. I nodded back at him in gratitude then picked up my knife and fork and began to tuck in to my huge breakfast. The old fool stuck his nose back into his rag, none the wiser that his old lady had taken a shine to me and had been feeding me up with princely amounts of his food for the best part of a year. I sat back in my chair, gulped down a mouthful of coffee and looked back out into the street. It was going to be another hot day for sure. I returned to my hearty breakfast and smiled to myself, realising that my little victory over the Black Cat’s stingy proprietor had lightened my frame of mind and, for the first time in a while, I felt strangely good with the world.
*
It was just after three in the afternoon when the telephone on my desk rang. I picked up the receiver and before I had the chance to speak was greeted by my cousin Vic’s cheerful, booming voice.
“JT, it’s your lucky day, brother. Ole flush-it Fowler gone an’ took the bait!” Vic, clearly pleased with himself, began to laugh loudly down the phone. I pulled the receiver away from my ear as he guffawed into it, only daring to return it to my head after he’d finally stopped.
“You saying you found the doc already?”
“Course I did, fool. I said I’d put one o’ my boys on to it for you, didn’t I? You know Levi Caesar?”
“The pimp?”
“Yeah, that the brother. You know Levi, he could find pussy in a convent. Hittin’ on that raggedy-assed ole drunk for ya wasn’t gonna vex Levi none. He sniffed him out real sharp. Levi had words with your missin’ medic, told him how one of his girls needed the good doc’s bedside manner, if you git my drift. When Levi tole Fowler it was Rita Lee needed his services, urgent like, he was on the case like a fly round a horse’s ass. Just like I tole ya, Doc Fowler has a soft spot for the woman, so he wasn’t too shifty when Levi asked if he’d mind going to work an’ stickin’ his hand up Rita’s moo moo fo’ a fee. I’m hookin’ you up with the two of ’em later tonight; you know the King’s Head pub on Victoria Street?”
“Yeah, you talkin’ ’bout the place out by that bombed-out old church?”
“That’s the one, it’s anutha one o’ those rough-assed honky joints. You should fit in real nice. Anyways, to keep the doc on side and not git him all spooked up, our cock-rat’s gonna meet him in a public place. They’ll be sitting doing their bidness in the King’s Head at eight tonight. I’ve kept Rita sweet with a little up-front bread; you just slip her another five notes for her trouble when you git there and she’ll be cool.”
“Five pounds, Jesus, that’s damn steep for a night out an’ an hour’s work.”
“Hey Dick Barton, don’t you be gittin’ all cheap on me. Just pay the bitch her five sheets and let her walk. All you gotta do is pinch the doc and git outta him what you is lookin’ fo’, it’s as simple as that.”
“How the hell am I gonna know what they look like?”
“Son of a bitch . . . You want me to come down there an’ point the fuckas out to you? It ain’t gonna be that much o’ a problem. Shit, you lookin’ for a clapped-out ole whore an’ a washed-up elderly nigga sitting in a back room full o’ honkies. How goddamn hard is it gonna be to pick ’em out o’ the crowd?”
“OK, you made your point, but if I find myself sitting in some dive for the night and come away with nuttin’ more than a sob story from a hooker and five pounds poorer, Levi Caesar is gonna have to go into hiding, never mind Doc Fowler.”
“Quit bitchin’ on, will ya? It’s like I said, Fowler needs a steady stream o’ cash coming in so his drinks cabinet don’t dry up. He ain’t gonna let you down if he tinks there’s easy money to be made. Now you’re the detective: go detect. I ain’t gonna be holding yo’ hand every time you be facing a brick wall; you is a big boy now, JT, ain’t like we’s eight years old no more.” My cousin chuckled down the line at me, goading me a little more. I didn’t bite.
“Well, thanks for coming up with the goods. I owe you one.”
“Yeah, don’t I know it. Hey, just so you know, I’m gonna be outta town for a few days, on a spot o’ bidness.”
“Yeah? Where you goin’?”
“London.”
“London! What the hell you goin’ all the way up to London for?”
“Like I said, brother, I got me some bidness in the big city. I’m gonna be expanding my commercial interests, that’s all.”
“Commercial interests? What the hell you talkin’ ’bout?”
“I
’m talkin’ ’bout football, JT.”
“Football! You ain’t thinking o’ putting money into a football team, are you?”
“Hell no! Do I look stupid enough to be putting my dough into some honky football team? Shit, who’d you think I am, some kinda blacked-up Alf Ramsey? In case you didn’t already know, next month we got ourselves the World Cup hittin’ these shores. Everybody and anybody who can so much as kick a hogskin ball round a yard is gonna be haulin’ their asses up to the smoke for those games. The city’s gonna be heaving to the seams with chumps wantin’ to watch a game, kick back with a cold beer and spend their hard-earned cash. I intend to git myself a piece o’ that action.”
“Yeah . . . and how you plan on doing that?”
“What you tink, fool? I’m gonna be doin’ what I always be doin’ when there’s money to be made. Gittin’ out on the streets with my supply-an’-demand enterprises. By the time the World Cup arrives on my gate door I’m gonna be supplyin’ booze and bootlegged game tickets to any sap that’s willin’ to buy ’em from me and my boys. I’m lookin’ to make myself a small fortune.”
The line had gone dead before I had time to wish my cousin well. I dropped the receiver back into its cradle then slid open my desk drawer and pulled out the envelope containing the money that Ida Stephens had left. I tipped the contents out onto the desktop in front of me and fished through the bank notes for the swanky-looking business card with Stephens’ contact details printed on it. I picked it out, reread the details then leant across my desk and pulled the telephone towards me and dialled the four-digit number to the Walter Wilkins orphanage. A faint dialling tone purred back at me as I sat waiting for a reply. I pushed the receiver closer to my ear and readied myself to break the good news to the stern administrator, unaware that the call I was about to make would reap terrible consequences for me in the coming days.