by Gerald Wixey
He ignored that and then the fat man’s offended features ironed out when he said, ‘She always ended up crying.’
A bead of sweat ran down an over inflated jowl, he stubbed his cigarette out and by his expression, he started to ponder something profound. The front door creaked and the fat man’s thoughtful spell ended as his second customer came in. I smiled over at the new arrival – his little porcine eyes sparkled back my way as he said, ‘Jack – haven’t seen you for ages, just the man, just the man.’
Jim the demon barber, a gossiper of Olympian proportions. By the look of it, an out of breath barber with gossip to tell. He came over and we shook hands. ‘Have I got some news for you.’
I put my hand up.
Stop!
I broke his flow; Jim’s gossip didn’t interest me, second, third hand often. Inaccurate and often vicious, the veracity of his rumours never bothered him. He was a nasty little gnome of a man, still he had his uses. I built him up some more. ‘Jim always first with the news, you know everything.’
The barber ignored my compliment and frowned.
I showed him the photograph.
‘That schoolgirl, what a good looker, I always wondered how many would like to give her one?’ His face sparkled an answer.
Only every fucker in town, that’s all.
Jim whispered, ‘Fancy Patrick pushing her out of the bedroom window.’
The fat landlord’s head rocked back, ‘Fucking hell – no one’s safe anymore.’
Jim started to rub his chin, turned to the landlord and said, ‘Are you going to serve me or what?’ Rubbed his chin some more and waited.
The fat landlord put a pint glass under the Guinness tap, stared down at the flowing, black beer and thought hard. A process he probably used rarely. Suddenly he brought his flabby hands up and wrapped them around his flabby cheeks. ‘I’m not surprised really. Do you know what, last time he came in here, he ordered a pint and then insulted me?’
‘What did he say?’ I needed to know, a good insult might cheer me up.
The offended landlord was back, ‘I offered him a nice pint of this new cold lager I’ve just had put in.’ He nodded at a garish lager pump. ‘And all he said was, “no thanks, why don’t you just give me that warm, flat, tasteless piss you usually serve up.”’
A sharp, snorting laugh came racing out from deep within me, the landlord snapped back at me. ‘It wasn’t funny – he was looking for trouble – threatening me.’
Jim grabbed my jacket sleeve, ‘The father of that poor girl was in here.’
Which girl?
I knew which girl all right, hoping desperately that Jim had made his usual error. Two plus two usually made anything other than four in his perverse and perverted little gossiping mind.
‘How do you know who he was?’ The words whispered from my lips. Suddenly punch drunk, I wasn’t sure what planet I lived on anymore. A sickening premonition burst its way into my insecure existence.
‘He asked about her, if she came in here at all, with his strange cockney accent.’
‘A cockney accent doesn’t make him the girl’s father.’
Jim’s head went back, ‘Don’t shout, it’s bad for you. Now you’ve gone as white as a sheet.’
I tried to slow down, ‘Jim… how do you know it was her father?’
Jim smiled at me. ‘That photo of him that you run in your paper.’ He touched my forearm, more to come I fear. I stared down at him.
No more please.
But there was, ‘You’ll never believe this one, he left here with old Daphne, don’t look like that, you know who she is, used to be your cleaner… you know her, lives on the caravan site now.’
Oh I knew Daphne all right, I knew her that well that I wanted to run down the hill, rush out of this depressing little hole and bolt for safety. I took a deep breath and turned through ninety degrees and walked straight into Jim.
‘Sorry.’
‘Jack, hold on, wait up, that’s not all. Haven’t you heard?’ Jim had his mad pixie face on now, bulging eyes and his head twisting this way and that.
He blurted it out, ‘They’ve found a body.’
‘I have to go.’
He gripped my wrist, ‘No, listen up - what a coincidence, a body in old Betjeman’s paddock… how about that then?’
I leant back against the bar and patted my pockets for my cigarettes. My chest had a heavy leather belt across it and someone strong was pulling it tighter, notch by notch. My head began to spin, my world spinning off its axis.
Oh no.
‘Oh no – please no.’ The words slipped out, shock does that, I said it again. ‘Please no.’
Jim pushed a cigarette under my nose, ‘Are you all right – you’re as white as a sheet.’ He lit my cigarette, handed it over and put his arm around my shoulder, ‘All those rumours, all these years ago and no one ever believed them, except me of course. You lived close by back then didn’t you?’
I stood up, wobbled a couple of times and tried to light the cigarette; my hand hovered around like a butterfly in a gale. I looked down at my feet and imagined the world and his dog staring away at me.
What’s upset him?
How could anyone find a body down there? I dragged Jim’s cheap cigarette deep, it burned and blazed deep into my lungs bringing me back to the demon’s inquisitive pig eyes.
I wheezed – one word. ‘Who?’
He shook his head, ‘Don’t know, just a bag of bones. Been there years.’ Jim smiled, ‘You know they’ve been working around the clock on that new gas line, I just happened to be walking home. Shook me to my boots, I had to get back and have another drink.’ Jim’s smile widened, like a gurning, deranged midget with more gossip to deliver. He stared, waiting for another prompt from me to. A cue to tell me more.
‘I haven’t got time for all of this.’
I pushed past him, his words followed me out of the door like a Jack Russell nipping away at the heels of a terrified sheep.
‘You lived down there, all those rumours. You lived down there.’
Like someone turning the volume slowly down, his words faded away. I sometimes wished that someone would do us all a favour and put him down.
My pattering footsteps nowhere near synchronised with my clattering heartbeat. Up to the front door and several deep breaths, my hand slipped on the polished brass handle.
C’mon!
The door squeaked and announced my arrival, I tried to smile at the others, be normal I kept saying it to myself, I hung my raincoat up, brushed my hair back with my left hand. Then the philosophical sigh, fate and coincidence, stars and astrological signs, I tried to keep my world balanced.
Harry shook his head as he passed my pint over. ‘What was Shirley thinking of?’
I didn’t answer the question, Wyn answered it for me. ‘No harm done – what difference does it make?’ Wyn nodded and poured himself a coffee.
I hissed, but said nothing. Always aware of my melancholic tone, any serious conversations and my voice became confidential and others probably thought slightly dull. These thoughts just a defence mechanism, an excuse not to impart my own piece of bad news. I took a drink, lit a cigarette and then pointed it at Harry and then gestured Wyn to come closer. At the same time my eyes looked down at the floor.
We huddled together as I whispered. ‘Trouble.’
I glanced around the bar, empty apart from Tommy sat in the corner in a splendid drinker’s isolation. Did they want the bad news or the cataclysmic news?
Bad news first, I whispered to the brothers. ‘Teddy’s on the prowl.’
‘Where?’
‘Who?’
‘Teddy Lewis, he’s been drinking in the Wheatsheaf, asking questions.’
Harry groaned and glared at Wyn, who canted his head a touch and raised his eyebrows. Wyn pointed his cigar at me, ‘So what … you worry too much Jack.’ He raised his eyebrows.
Relax.
That’s it then, matter closed as the brothe
r’s took their steady gaze over to me, I squirmed somewhat. The squirm became downright uncomfortable as Harry said. ‘He’s an old man, like us all. What can he do? What can happen?’
Wyn nodded, ‘We’re ok, perhaps Shirley should be careful.’
Even after all this time, we had everything to lose. I considered this as the world closed in on me once more. Voices coming my way, sound, but I couldn’t make out the words. Fraud, perversion of justice, impersonating police officers, oh and last but not least… murder.
Harry boomed, ‘You haven’t heard a word I’ve said have you?’
I shook my head.
I thought someone had punched me in the stomach. I stared down at the table, a bead of sweat tumbled down my back. My voice cracking and breaking like an old crystal radio. ‘Teddy left the Wheatsheaf with Daphne.’
‘He’ll have himself a good time then.’ Wyn fumbled for another cigar and I could do nothing other than marvel at his self-belief. The world and his wife not only respected, they believed in a self-confidant man. I imagined Wyn with his silk dressing gown over silk pyjamas, and leather slippers bought from a small boutique in Knightsbridge. I shook my head and made the natural assumption that Wyn still gave them their daily polish.
‘For God’s sake.’
Two large heads came slowly up and stared my way, eyebrows up, mouths forming question marks.
What’s up with you?
I blurted the real news out. ‘They’ve found the body in Betjeman’s paddock.’
I’d had enough, two complacent fools could see nothing, let them chew on that one.
Teddy - 1980
Some women… most women, all women … apart from Shirley that is. He had to see her again, tell her everything – she’d understand.
Or would she?
The cold had cemented itself deep within him and the warm room seemed to thaw things too quickly. A trickle of sweat careered down his spine, then tears poured out and ran down his cheeks, and his nose ran uncontrollably. All the time the blood thumped though his feet in a painful tattoo. He sat down and thought about things for a long minute. Teddy’s shoulders began to convulse, for another long minute he wondered if it was epilepsy. But he started to laugh, his stomach pumped and he laughed and laughed until his ribs ached and he felt that he might vomit.
Minutes later he stood up, went through to the bathroom and stared into the cracked mirror.
I look in the mirror more than the queen in fucking Snow White. What was he doing in a caravan? Why haven’t the police been to see him? His mouth formed a perfect O, where are they? He’d had a drink with an old woman and then they went their separate ways. Simple, pick the bones out of that one.
He had been sat in that dirty little boozer, staring into his glass, he’d felt her eyes on him – wherever he sat or wherever he looked the old scrubber’s eyes were on him. It didn’t stop him jumping when she said,
‘Shame about your Daughter.’
He wondered what this woman would feel like, different shampoo, perfume. Neither of those smells would be in his nostrils with this old dripper he guessed.
He stared at her great big breasts and felt some movement in his trousers.
She smiled up at him, unconcerned by with his staring. Just passed her empty glass across and said, ‘Large rum n black please.’
‘Are you Daphne?’
He had two thoughts in his head, he hoped no one would see him leave the pub with this woman. More importantly, he hoped she was pissed enough for what he had in mind.
‘Where’s Elms Cottages? Do you know Shirley Catmore?’
‘She lives there, you haven’t had her as well have you?’
Teddy’s hand went down onto an expansive buttock, her hand came around his waist.
‘Just like the old days, two fucks in two days.’
He laughed.
‘What did you just say?’
‘Nothing.’
*****
He jumped, as if he a small electric discharge had shot across between his ears. Followed by a smell – something organic he thought, then the remnants of a dream that he couldn’t recall. He tried to fan the smell away, sat up and leaned across to put the bedside light on… and shivered. He suddenly remembered he wasn’t at home in bed and looked at the woman.
Who was she?
What was he doing in, Teddy stared around the confined space… a fucking caravan? Then he quivered and shuddered at the memory of that woman’s huge buttocks. Dimpled and spotty and her rum soaked breath. Repulsion tore at his throat. He remembered smacking the quivering mass of her arse though.
Hard!
Sweat stood out on his forehead like a tropical disease. Perhaps she had cholera, clap more like – he trembled again.
He had shoved his hand between her legs and prised her thighs apart. All the time her eyes stayed on his. He was surprised how easily he slipped inside her, then she closed her eyes and he felt her heel on his buttock. He groaned and emptied himself in her. She never looked disappointed, not the way all the others did. She even went down on him later, he wasn’t so keen when she pushed his face down between legs. As he went down, he held his breath and shut his eyes. Suddenly a vision of a Bulgarian shot putter’s thighs sprang into his mind and he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
He brought his hands up under his nose, smelt the recent encounter on them – the repulsion disappeared – he might even do it again.
He smiled, things were on the up. She thumbed one of his cheekbones, like an indulgent mother cleaning her only child’s face. She removed her thumb and tilted her head and came close and kissed the same spot where her thumb had been, deposited some fresh lipstick on it. He slid his hand under one of her breasts at the same time as the other slipped under the hemline of her slip. She tried not to, but a groan came easily out from her and she groaned again as she felt him hardening against her.
Another escaping moan as his fingers slipped into the crack of her arse and they kissed. She twisted away from his probing fingers, ‘Careful where you put those.’ She laughed and wouldn’t shut up, ‘I think you’re living in a dream.’ Did she mean he was in a dream? Or living within a dream?
A nightmare maybe?
Later the grey haired woman stared up at the ceiling and smoked. Tipping her head back and sighing her plume of smoke vertically up. At the same time stroking his thigh, as if she was detached and thinking about something else – but Teddy knew that she wasn’t. She wanted him aroused again. He watched her stub the cigarette out, chasing the ashtray around the small bedside table at the same time.
He gasped as her hands enclosed the stem of his penis, it felt red hot in her small hands. She moved her hand up and down and looked into his eyes. He shivered and his eyes went back and then closed. He felt her lower herself on him, he groaned and she felt the slow burn inside her – she answered his groan with one of her own.
When had he last felt this calm?
Lying in bed with the blonde and the windows open with the warm August air filtering in.
Then?
‘When’s the funeral?’
‘I don’t fucking know.’
‘Touchy aren’t you? I only asked.’
He noticed the large headline in the local paper. Teddy snatched the paper up and quickly scanned the front page.
Body Found In Paddock
1945.
Londoner.
Possible gangland hit.
Glasses.
Gun.
Eyeless!
Poor old Eyeless.
17
Jack -1945
Turn left down Regent Street, around the circus and along Piccadilly. I spent so much time looking in the rear view mirror, it was a wonder that I never ran off the road. All the time I looked for headlights, winking and blinking my way. A warning flicker of trailing lights
Oh, I can still see you.
Listening to Harry’s great big heaving sighs. Right hand clamped onto his left, a tea towel c
ompressing the wound. Even in the darkness of the car, his face as pale as a ghost. Stoic and no longer angry, just hurting. His brother’s whispered words, ‘Has the bleeding stopped yet.’
‘Think so.’ He said this through gasps and groans. I had never experienced real pain. Harry said once that there’s a purity to the sensations caused by pain, concentrates the mind somehow. I always accepted that one at face value.
I missed the turn at Hyde Park corner, shuddered at the thought of heading east along the Bayswater Road, back the way we were coming from. I swung south down Park Lane, fully expecting to drive into a car driven by Teddy Lewis, sweeping along Piccadilly like a gunboat up the river Nile. Back on track and heading west. Go west young man, eye on the mirror. See the redness of the sky behind me, go west.
‘Why did we do a circuit of Hyde Park?’
‘Sorry.’
I raced through Hammersmith and along the Great West Road. I knew the route so well. You see I’d planned this escape for months. I had lain in bed staring at a road map, memorising, until the directions were burnished into my mind. Despite this, my concentration was all over the place. My mood swinging ever upwards as we headed west.
An advertising hoarding distracted me.
Wake up perky in the morning.
I laughed as the advert for Ovaltine flashed past. The scantily dressed model in the picture, more suited to a film poster. That’s when I clipped the cyclist. He came across the Cromwell road. Turned in front of the car and into Fullers Brewery. I caught his back wheel and sent him somersaulting into the pavement. I braked until prompted to do otherwise from the back seat.
‘Keep going. He’s alive.’
To confirm the Major’s instant medical assessment, the cyclist stood in the road shaking his fist at me. I sighed, unsure whether to laugh or cry. My eyes still on the rear view mirror as I went hurtling through a red light just past Hogarth house.
‘Are you trying to get us killed?’