by Gerald Wixey
Eyeless was the thickest man on the fucking planet.
Now there’s a fucking noose waiting for him as well.
Why? Why? Why?
Stupid cunt, well Eyeless could swing on his own.
Finally, he we were. At last and it had been a lengthy slide down to this latest vice. Unlike pornography or women, this had been more like a lesson in dissection.
The fucking blood.
He thought that one day he might find peace. Not this.
For the second time in week, he kicked his way into her flat, nothing – not a stitch.
Gone – he’d find her, one day.
He lay on the bed, turned and buried his face in the pillow.
He could smell her. A familiar constriction in his throat, a sensation those two mugs wouldn’t feel again. Their dead eyes kept staring up at him. Like a stargazzy pie, all those dead eyes focused on him.
His heart wouldn’t stop thumping, a snare drum played by an epileptic with several fingers missing. One of the bouncers sank to his knees, a low, gurgling grown coming from his mouth. An orgasmic noise defining an end to life, not the beginning.
He saw her in a taxi, minutes before. She saw him too and never blinked.
He laughed, over and over. The blonde could be careless with her legs sometimes, the way her slip worked its way up her thigh as she sprawled over the sofa, the blonde and her slips – her indoor uniform.
Then irritation at the thought of her kissing that man goodbye. Her thoughts as transparent as sulphur smoke over a battlefield.
He’d been double-crossed.
A stern cobalt sky greeted him as he walked into pale sunshine. A certain something in the air, something indefinably bad probably, prison?
He followed him for twenty yards or so, pulled up alongside and blurted, ‘You stupid cunt.’
Eyeless brought his thick glasses Teddy’s way, flecked with blood. He could have been a slapdash decorator lashing crimson paint everywhere. His eyes came his way and he took a step back, ‘What you wanted wasn’t it?’
Eyeless sniffed the air; Teddy wondered what he smelt, something on him? All that blood down my shirt. That and the smell of an old tom cat, or mildew and damp. He wouldn’t shave or weeks, his hair needed a wash and his clothes too. Teddy didn’t care, an adversary still to be finished off.
Eyeless smiled and said, ‘C’mon Teddy, had to be done. You know I’ll do anything for you.’
Teddy pushed his way passed him and strode down the Haymarket.
‘Teddy – wait.’
He turned, tears streaming down his face, Teddy thought that his heart had stopped or something. He made a fist and punched his chest. Took a couple of deep breaths as Eyeless put his arm around Teddy’s shoulder.
‘C’mon Teddy – it’s important.’
He shrugged his arm away.
Eyeless tried for an incredulous expression, wide eyed and open mouthed, finally he said. ‘No – Teddy, what about me taking you back and getting us cleaned up?’
Teddy shook his head, ‘You slimy bastard fuck dust.’
She liked to walk around the room naked, always went by the long mirror looking at herself, always looked to see if he was watching – Yes!
His eyes stared at her, he never closed them. What were they looking for? Turning things over and over and over. Rerunning things over and over, looking for the starting place, never knowing what the starting place was. All these photographs in his head, thousands and thousands going back years. Trouble was he couldn’t find number one, the cause, the starting place, the root.
The last time, definitely the last time, no more, no more.
This overwhelming anger kept drifting back, like mustard gas sweeping along a First World War trench. He kept rocking backwards and forwards.
Anger!
Shit or bust!
Get the boys together.
One day.
One day – today, now.
14
Jack - 1980
Stuart’s assessment of Connie Schwartz bounced around in my head.
A cold bitch?
True enough, but living with Bernard Schwartz would be enough to shut anyone’s nervous system down. We drove back into Reading and our visit to Connie Schwartz’s ex-lover. Stuart must have noticed me shifting around in the seat, my sighing and huffing. My hand shaking as I tried to light a cigarette.
‘What’s the matter with you, too old for this police work? I’ll have to have a word with the Super, get you pensioned off.’
I couldn’t see the funny side of this, ‘Impersonating a police officer carries a prison sentence you know.’ I finally light the cigarette and slumped back into the car seat.
We travelled on for five minutes like this, until Stuart’s hand slid inside his jacket pocket. He passed me a small plastic envelope, about three inches by two. I turned it over, his photograph on the right hand side, The Thames Valley Police emblazoned across the top. His name, rank and signature tucked in their as well.
I groaned, ‘This makes it even worse, I thought you flashed your cash-point card, this is wilfully impersonating a police officer. Where did you get it from? This is crazy.’ I handed it back, twisted away from him and looked out of the near side window.
‘Kathy did it at work for me, she’s got a computer. We went to a fancy dress a month or so ago. Cops and Molls sort of a do, we like to get into character for these parties.’
I said nothing and he spun the car into the office block where John Stern worked. Stuart smiled away and appeared very pleased with himself, he liked being an inspector, I wanted to be a journalist again. Through the revolving doors and up to reception. He flashed his card again and said. ‘We need to talk to John Stern. Somewhere private would be good.’
‘What’s he been up to then?’ The big haired, receptionist with a slim waist, stood as she made the phone call, ‘Can I tell him what it’s about?’
Stuart, impressively impassive, just shook his head. She tried for small talk which we ignored.
Please yourself.
She sat back down and pouted, unused to men blanking her.
John Stern came through, tanned, black hair swept back. Square, cleft jaw and a hard physique. Attractive to women and Stuart took an instant dislike. I could see his so far impressive inspector’s guise falling apart here. We sat in a small conference room adjacent to reception, he gestured to us with a sweeping gesture.
Sit down please.
Stuart fired off, ‘You knew Connie Schwartz?’
He nodded, a hint of a frown, but still confident, blissfully unaware, he said nothing.
‘Intimately involved.’
He nodded.
Stuart said one word. ‘Why?’
‘Why do you think, what sort of questions that?’
‘A very easy one.’ Snapped back by Stuart, the clear intimation that things were about to get tougher.
John Stern leaned across the table, a man of the world. ‘Usual reason, she wanted it, the old boy wasn’t up to it.’
He leant back and clasped his hands behind the back of his head and smiled our way.
‘We’re all men of the world.’
‘You were intimate with Celia as well weren’t you?’
His eyes widened, the look of a man approaching a roundabout too quickly and the brake pedal goes down to the floorboards. His hands swept back through his foppish hair, then he swallowed hard. His elbows went onto the table, palms of his hands clamped around his ears. He’d heard too much and steadfastly refused to listen to any more.
‘Do I need a lawyer?’ Finally came our way.
Stuart knocked the backs of his hands on the table, the man opposite jumped back. Stuart said, ‘How did you meet her?’
‘She was stood in the corridor, when I came out of Connie’s bedroom, half dressed and looking for the bathroom.’
‘You or Celia looking for the bathroom.’
‘Me of course.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Nothing at the time, she waited for me, by my car. Told me to meet her here tomorrow or she’d tell her father.’
‘When was this?’
‘Lunchtime.’
‘When, date.’
‘April.’
‘She was fourteen.’
He covered his eyes with both hands, shaking his head at the same time. ‘No, no that can’t be true.’
‘Where did you have sex with her?’
‘Connie’s bed.’
‘How often did you meet?’
‘Half a dozen times. She kept telling me she loved me, kept asking me to say it to her.’
I said ‘And you did?’
He shrugged, ‘Of course, if that’s what they want to hear… then yes.’
‘That’s just the thing to say to a vulnerable fourteen year old.’
We sat in silence, finally stern said, ‘I didn’t see him, he crept into the bedroom and punched me on the ear, my head was spinning.’
‘Who punched you?’
‘Daddy of course, then he slapped her so hard. I can still hear it, like a starter’s pistol. He had a knife, I thought… He frightened me, nasty old bastard.’ A couple of tears dribbled down his cheeks. ‘Does my wife have to know?’
‘She’ll probably find out when you go to prison.’
*****
We went through the front door to be greeted by a proper fire, the blast furnace effect as hot air whistled out as we went the other way. Harry one side of the bar and Shirley sat on the bar stool on the other. Her anxious, ice blue eyes gazed mindlessly at the fire. Her holy grail of a search for pleasure, or happiness forever ending in apparent disappointment. Although Shirley enjoyed a complicated life style, she always seemed happy enough to be the third side of an unequal triangle.
I went up close, her icy blue stare came my way.
‘Why did you tell him?’
‘Tell…’ Shirley frowned, then her features froze for a few seconds. They relaxed as realisation spread through her just like the redness that crept up through her cheeks.
‘Some of us have too much to lose.’ I snapped this out, wagging my finger at her at the same time.
Shirley fumbled around in her bag as the shrill, demanding ring from the phone jolted everyone.
Harry never disappointed, ‘Fuck it.’
He picked the phone up, said nothing, passed it across for Shirley and we listened to a one sided conversation that appeared to be going in one direction. She smiled and nodded, ‘I’d love to.’ Shirley inspected her nails as she spoke again, ‘You know I don’t drink wine, what’s up with you.’
She smiled and put the phone down, looked hot and flushed as if she longed to fall down the vertical face of love or passion… either would do. Her perfume drifted my way, expensive and understated. Shirley had some heavy make up on which highlighted the blueness of her eyes and exaggerated the chiselled formation of her cheekbones… oh yes.
Shirley made up and dressed to kill and a gentle tease in the voice, ‘Yes Jack – I’m out on the prowl.’
Stuart said, ‘You’re dressed for prowling.’
Shirley nodded and pouted a touch, looked at her watch, ‘And I’m late.’
Stress did this to me, sometimes I imaged other people’s love affairs. I’d dreamt of the women close to me. Imagined how they felt to hold, how they responded. How they prepared for the seduction. I knew that Shirley would always be on the front foot, placing ice filled glasses on the table before coming up behind her lover and slip her arms around his waist. Go up on tiptoe and kiss his neck. Her breasts pressed firmly against his back.
Unwrap her arms and slink away and always sit in the middle of the sofa, her knees together and canted to one side. I tried to recall what Wyn used to say about those legs, what was it – dancer’s legs? No, the legs of a showgirl – that was it, a showgirl. I assumed that it would be Don, making the concerted effort to stop his hand from shaking. Failing dismally and the cut glass beat a brief tattoo on the table similar to a one eyed, four year old xylophone player.
Shirley’s small living room didn’t reflect either her personality or the way she dressed. Everything neatly understated, a dark coloured sofa, one soft table lamp. No television, music coming from somewhere bathing the room with some sort of soft soul music. Always the fierce heat, disproportionate to the small hearth enveloped the room in its redness. A carriage clock, with small brass ornaments either side on mantelpiece. No photographs of her husband or son anywhere. Just one picture in the room, Peggy, Harry, Stuart and Shirley stood behind the bar with their arms around one another, broad smiles from all four.
I imagined Shirley whispering, ‘Kiss my legs.’
Kiss my legs.
I heard that she liked having them kissed. I imagined I was kissing Shirley’s thighs as she walked out of the pub. Stuart hadn’t watched her slink across the bar and out. He stared at me all the time. I tried to hold his gaze, after a few seconds, I glanced down at my beer.
Teddy - 1980
She looked fantastic, fucking fantastic in fact.
‘I hope you don’t shave your chuff.’
‘Teddy Lewis – did you just say what I thought you said?’
He shivered, like a drowning man seeking a symbolic lifeline. He didn’t know whether to look at Shirley or the tumbling sheet of oilcloth blowing from the lifeboat on a Spanish ferry. If he looked at Shirley, the oilcloth might unfurl and he would become swallowed by destiny. The oilcloth might develop talons and spear his eyes out.
‘I trim it anyway. It’s the modern thing to do evidently.’
He stared at her, Shirley or the oilcloth? She rested her hand on his.
‘Your place?’
‘Too complicated.’
‘Still married to that little rat?’
She shook her head, ‘He died a few years ago.’
He ducked to avoid a big hawk-moth that flapped and fluttered his way. It seemed to come out of the oilskin. He needed to get out of the restaurant. He needed the sense of freedom that would come with fucking her.
What did he say?
She said it for him, ‘Why don’t we go somewhere more discreet?’
He could’ve said that, but…
She stared at him, those fucking eyes.
He looked away.
‘What do you think? Perhaps we should start getting to know one another again?’
He stared at his coffee.
‘You know I could always make you relax. It’s been so awful for you.’
‘Don’t mention that again.’
He brought his eyes up to hers and begged with them.
Ask me again – please.
‘We don’t have to do anything. Lie close and talk. I can make you better. C’mon Teddy.’
He let a long slow sigh out. Did she still perfume the gusset of her knickers?
Only one way to find out.
He woke much later, the sleep of the dead. The first time for weeks that he had slept that deep. His eyes opened and she was looking at him, he felt himself smile and then they began to talk. About her husband, Spain,
Connie.
‘I contacted the military police, told them about the Major. He got three months.’
Teddy felt himself laughing, good girl.
‘I talked to Eyeless as well.’
When?
‘Took me weeks and hours stood in that freezing phone box. He said he was coming down to settle things once and for all.’
‘When?’
She shrugged, ‘February I think.’
‘What fucking year?’
‘1946.’
‘And…’
‘There was all sorts of rumours, they won’t say anything. Gunshots were heard, but they’ve never said a thing.’
Gunshots? Eyeless had an old service revolver he used a few times in a couple of jewellery shops.
‘Only one person ever talks about it and she’s just an old drunk now. Used to be their housekeeper,
I’ve heard all three of them were sleeping with her.’
‘Where is she? Who is she?’
‘Daphne Miller – gets in the Wheatsheaf. She hasn’t aged very well.’
15
Jack - 1945
They read the riot act at us, a burly inspector cursed and shouted and pointed. How dare we leave, where had we been? Were we all stupid? Didn’t we want police protection?
Chastened I crept back up to bed and felt… Entombed. And we were, what with two policemen on the front door with strict instructions not to let anyone in… or out. We’d been closed down and I did what I always did at times like this, tried to sleep, bury my head in the sand. To begin with, it went well. I dreamt of tumbling cataracts, Greek columns, snow covered mountains, goatherds, golden beaches. Somewhere safe to sit and all day the sun shone. And with the sun came safety and a small boned man in a crisp uniform serving drinks all day. A couple of hours earlier and I had crawled into bed with the room still heavy with sweat on perfume, cigar smoke and soap. The same bedroom that Wyn had said goodbye to Shirley, dense with the smell of sex. It hung like a cloak and I slept in amongst it and dreamt of Shirley.
Violent and disturbing images burst in amongst my sweet dreams. I woke, covered in sweat and on the edge of a panic attack I guessed. Teddy pointing his finger my way. Or his razor more like. I sat up and tried to get my breath. I got out of bed and walked around the room in a daze. I didn’t like the feeling of dependency that two policeman acting as lifesaving sentinels induced in me.
Entombed.
I climbed out of bed and went up onto the roof. An eerie neon light, a hotel sign that winked and teased my way as the city prepared to put itself to bed. The Regent’s Palace, another name to nightmare about. Music from a film inside my head, was it Brief Encounter? My favourite blonde? The man who knew too much? A slight case of murder? All four cocktailing into a dream that filled my darkness. Whistling out from the open door of my mind like a newspaper being whipped across the beach in a September gale.
Amid the anarchy of my psyche, I tried to figure the number of murders in the capital. Less than fifty a year. The number of cold blooded assassinations as rare as six fingered leg spinner. The rest, all family disputes, crimes of passion and most of these involving the common denominator that was booze.