Tales from Soho

by David Barry

  Jess was suddenly very frightened. And he wanted to get to his actors’ club and sink a few vodka tonics. Although his house had a small back garden, it backed onto someone else’s garden, so the only way out of the house was through the front door. How on earth could he leave the house without being seen by his arch enemy? Because Jess’s imagination kicked in, the actor in him exaggerated the situation, and Spike Martindale became a dangerous killer who would stop at nothing to exact his revenge.

  Tiptoeing upstairs, without thinking how ludicrous he was being - for there was no way the spieler man could hear him - he went into his front bedroom and took a sidelong look out of his window. He saw Spike leaning back to admire his handiwork, and then a woman came out of the house and also admired the paintwork as she slid an affectionate arm round Spike’s waist. But it wasn’t Vera. This woman had boot-black hair and wore a colourful, hippy kaftan, and looked much younger than Spike. For a moment Jess wondered whether she was Spike’s mistress and he had come round to help with the painting. But the couple’s demeanour didn’t strike Jess as two lovers with something to hide, the way they seemed relaxed and open, arms entwined, gazing onto the street with a territorial affection. After a while, the woman kissed Spike on the lips, and went indoors. Spike took another admiring look at his handiwork, then picked up his brush and paint pot and followed her into the house and shut the door.

  Jess knew it was time to make his move. He imagined Spike and his girlfriend, mistress or partner, whatever their relationship was, would head for the kitchen, which would probably be in the rear of the house, like his own. He dashed downstairs and, without giving it another thought, proceeded down the three steps from his front door and onto the pavement. He hurried along the street, shoulders hunched, head turned slightly away from Spike’s house and headed for Kentish Town station and the welcome darkness of his actors’ club. But as he sat on the Northern Line between Kentish Town and Tottenham Court Road, he thought about his predicament and guessed there would soon come a time when he would have to confront Spike who would either recognise him, having seen him on television, or be told of his presence by one of the other street neighbours. The confrontation came sooner than he expected.

  The following morning, feeling jaded after a night of excess alcohol, there came an assertive pounding on his metal door knocker. Bleary-eyed, with a throbbing head, he donned his white bathrobe, walked carefully downstairs as the knock was repeated - three loud tinny bangs - and threw open the front door. He remembered he had been expecting the delivery of a script for a TV drama production which he was keen to read. Imagine his surprise when he found himself staring at Spike and not the postman.

  ‘Remember me?’ the spieler proprietor demanded.

  Jess blinked sleep from his eyes before replying. ‘It’s Spike, I do believe.’

  Spike stared impassively at Jess, not a muscle moving in his face, slowly and deliberately examining the actor like a specimen. Jess wondered if it was going to erupt into a nasty and violent situation. Not my face. I’m an actor. I’ll sue if you damage my face he heard himself saying but had the sense to remain silent.

  As if weighing up the situation, Spike turned his head towards his own house before turning back to Jess and aiming a finger at him. ‘There’s something I want to ask you.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, Spike,’ Jess said in an excessively obliging tone. ‘Go ahead and ask.’

  ‘Can you let me have a signed photograph of yourself?’

  Jess gazed at Spike with a numbness of expression, wondering if he had heard the man correctly.

  ‘Only my girlfriend Delia has a young boy who loves your programme, and he’d love a signed photo - preferably from the series.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Jess replied effusively. ‘What’s the lad’s name?’

  ‘Daryl.’

  ‘Hang on a second and I’ll go and fetch one from my office’

  As he ran up the flight of stairs to the small room on the first floor, Jess couldn’t believe his luck. Guilt and shame terminated by a request for an autograph. This was true celebrity, fame being the spur.

  He rummaged through his desk drawer and brought out a bundle of postcard-size publicity shots. He started to write on one, thought better of it, and pulled out a ten-by-eight instead.

  When he got back downstairs and handed over the photograph, Spike stared at it, and mumbled, ‘Thanks for that, Jess.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Jess waited for him to make a move, return to his own home, but there was a long pause as Spike deliberated, gradually clearing his throat before speaking.

  ‘Funny we should end up living next-door-but-one to each other, ain’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose... ’ Jess started to say, but Spike interrupted him.

  ‘Seeing as how nine years ago you legged it with our float.’

  Jess felt himself blushing. ‘Yes. I... I’m sorry... I... ’

  Spike raised a placatory hand. ‘Don’t worry, mate. I can’t say as I blame you. I might have done the same thing in your position. I felt a bit guilty about the way Vera took advantage of you. We even had a row about it.’

  ‘How is Vera?’

  There was another long pause before Spike replied. ‘She died of cancer in 1996.’

  Jess became aware of the dryness in his throat, but it could have been dehydration from the previous night’s boozing.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said.

  Spike shrugged, looked momentarily sad and lost, then shook it off like a wet dog and grinned. ‘But I’m with a lovely lady called Delia now, and she’s got a little lad - Martin - ten-years-old, and we get on great guns.’

  Jess nodded his appreciation. ‘Good. Glad to hear it. And what do you do for a living now, Spike?’

  ‘I’m a croupier at a London casino. So I tend to work nights quite a lot. But it gives me a lot of time to spend with young Martin. Hey! Tell you what: I ain’t working this evening. What do you say we have a drink at the Alma at the end of the road?’

  ‘Well... I... ’ Jess began to protest, and stopped as Spike aimed a stubby finger at him.

  ‘No objections now, Jess. Otherwise I might have to sell the story of the theft to the tabloids.’

  Jess’s throat constricted, and what raced through his mind was the thought that - now Vera was dead - there was only Spike’s word against his. But then once it was in the papers the damage would be done; he’d be shown up as a petty thief, which in a way was worse than being found guilty of a major crime in his past.

  Recovering from the threat, he chuckled, to show Spike how he thought it had been meant as a joke rather than a genuine word of warning. ‘What time do you suggest, Spike?’

  The croupier laughed loudly. ‘Shall we make it an early doors? Say six o’clock?’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Jess agreed, still with some reluctance. Then told himself it was the least he could do to have a drink with a man he’d robbed and who was prepared to overlook the misdemeanour; which was how they came to drink together on a regular basis. And Jess occasionally wondered if the croupier might carry out his threat and provide the tabloids with the demeaning story of the stolen money if he, Jess, decided to sever their relationship. Not that he had any intention of doing so, because the two men became close friends, even though one had stolen from the other.

  The Poet In Soho

  As the beer-fuddled poet blinked the sleep from his eyes, he knew there was something he had to do, or something he had already done, but his mind was a raging blank. Raging blank! He made a mental note of the phrase before staggering into the bathroom, promising himself he would write it down before it was lost forever in his booze splattered brain cells, and wondered how many millions of the little grey devils he had slaughtered in last night’s binge.

  As soon as he had urinated copiously,
he went into the hit-by-a-bomb kitchen, and found her note on the table. The note from his lovely love, his dearest treasure, and easier to love now that she had caught yesterday’s late afternoon train for Swansea, leaving him alone which was how he wanted it to be. No fussing, arguing, or expectation of performing now, left in peace to be creative and write that poem that was buzzing in his head, tormenting him with words that he relished like liquorice sweets, chewy and sickly.

  Scowling as he lit a cigarette, inhaling smoke deep into his lungs, he stared at the note as if it was a mysterious wartime code, though it was merely a briefly scrawled reminder, unsigned. ‘Don’t forget tonight’s reading. And the suit from Moss Brothers.’

  It started to come back to him, dripping into his brain like a leaky tap, cryptic clues of his impending poetry reading. Not just any old poetry reading. It was something significant, that much he remembered. A reading in front of - was it a royal personage or an important member of the cabinet, someone connected with the arts? What did it matter? He would give his best undying performance whether it was prince or pauper. But where was the venue? Was it Wigmore Hall or perhaps the self-important Guildhall in the City? His memory filtered slowly like coffee in the Swansea Kardomah, and he remembered they were sending a car for him at five-thirty, so the driver would have been given instructions. And he felt it was better not to know where they were going; that way he could surprise himself, indulge in a mystery trip and catch the venue unawares. He chuckled, coughed, and ash fell from his cigarette. Peering again at the note, he saw a writhing snake, a higgledy-piggledy underlining of the second sentence. Of course! She had emphasised the need for sartorial elegance. A dinner jacket needed to be rented for this truly important reading, for a performance which could lead to greater affluence and sustain his family and holy treasure for many months. Much as his mind was torpedoed with bombastic broadsides about bourgeois preening and prancing, he was nonetheless comforted by the delight of dressing up, which would remind him of his stage performances when a mere stripling at the Little Theatre in the ghastly, glorious town of his birth.

  Later in the day - but not much later, as his surfacing had been way past noon - he sustained himself with two pints of bitter before staggering into the Moss Brothers gentleman’s outfitters in Garrick Street, Covent Garden. The first member of staff to greet him was tall and stately, and he could imagine this dignified butler dishing out brandy sodas in some vast drawing room in a country house somewhere in the shires. And if this almost credible Jeeves registered alarm at his dishevelled appearance, it was but a brief flicker of the eyes, and the shop assistant soon resumed impassive dignity in dishing out the same restrained service on offer to every client. Soon the poet was kitted out in evening wear, admiring himself in a full-length mirror. No longer looking like an unmade bed, as some wag had once described him, but now cutting a dash in ballot box black and butterfly bow.

  Careful to avoid temptation and the lure of the alehouse, he returned to his borrowed residence and soaked indulgently in a steaming hot bath, sucking boiled sweets and cigarettes. Proud of his almost two hours of abstinence, he dressed hurriedly at five-fifteen and glanced at his image in the mirror. Bow tie slightly skew-whiff but at least an improvement on his usual tangled appearance. Hair deliberately let loose in uncombed raffishness so as not to pander completely to the bureaucratic whim of the bourgeoisie.

  His car, an impressive Austin Princess, arrived bang on the dot of half-five. The chauffeur saluted him smartly and opened the rear door for him. But, as poet and man of the people, in spite of the upper crust outfit, he refused the open door invitation and let himself into the front passenger seat. The chauffeur slid huffily into his driver’s seat, and he could tell the man was a grovelling forelock puller, streets more snobbish than many of his passengers. So when he was gruffly informed they were heading for Wigmore Hall, he felt a strong desire to puncture the chauffeur’s pompousness and instructed the man to head for a Soho pub instead. The man started to object but the poet waved it aside demonstratively, showing the fellow who was in charge.

  They parked outside the York Minster in Dean Street, the pub everyone knew as ‘The French’, and without a backward glance the poet dashed inside. His intention was perhaps one pint and a whisky chaser, just to show the wretched driver how free he was from the constraints of convention; and then, having made his point, he would be a good poet and allow himself to be chauffeured on best behaviour to the venue. But there is many a slip, as they say. And the slip was the bibulous atmosphere of the pub, beckoning him away from duty, along with the other ragbag of artists, actors and writers, some of whom he knew, propping up the bar and imbibing as though their lives depended on how much booze they could slosh down their throats. Three pints and two whisky chasers later, his mellifluous voice soared in the blue fog of the bar as he belittled Wordsworth. His voice, cut with glass vowels from Oxford, still rose and fell in sing-song Welsh, and stories sprang from his lips with abandon, often punctuated by nicotine coughs. He was great company, and so was everyone in the bar. This was phase one of the evening. Next came the offer to his dearest friends, even ones he had only just met, of a lift to the next boozer, the Coach and Horses. Two of them took him up on the offer, while others walked the short distance round the corner. By now the driver was resigned to his fate, stiffly obedient, but comforted by the thought that he might get home early and still be paid the same rate..

  An hour later the poet, in the company of an actor and a musician, tumbled out of the ‘Coach’, and the chauffeur-driven car was dismissed with a grandiloquent gesture. Every pub was now within weaving distance, and next on the agenda was the Dog and Duck in Bateman Street where, after their noisy entrance, the poet abandoned the bow tie in an ashtray and spent much time discussing Marx Brothers films. By now he was well into his cups, and after another hour of rambling conversations about Stravinsky and surrealism, he and his tipsy companions staggered to the Nellie Dean, where they consumed alcohol in vast quantities, drinking faster as their pub crawl degenerated into a race towards oblivion. Clinging to hazy parodies of sobriety, they then reeled into the Intrepid Fox, where they reached the penultimate phase of the night, becoming argumentative and contradictory. The final phase came a little bit further up Wardour Street at The George, where the poet fell over, tried to pick a fight with the musician over slurred disagreements about jazz and opera, before blundering into the Gents, where he bounced into the door, impaled his coat pocket on the handle, and ripped an ugly gash in it as he pulled himself free. A sudden agitation in his stomach was his last surviving memory of the evening.

  Stirring the following day, a mouth like the ashes of the dead, and eyes that seemed to be glued together, he felt his bladder bursting, and groaned loudly as he dashed to the bathroom and made it just in time. The relief was unbelievably enjoyable, like sitting down and getting one’s breath back after hill walking. When he returned, swaying, to the bedroom, and stood framed in the doorway clutching the doorknob for support, he spotted the sad bundle of his evening wear, discarded in a heap on the floor by the end of the bed. Head bent, he shuffled closer to the bundle, moved the jacket with his foot, and was horrified to see the vomit clinging to it like cereal in an unwashed bowl. He tried to recall the butt end of the night, vaguely remembering arguments and a fuzzy recollection of being thrown out of The George. Everything was hazy, like dream sequences in films. He gave up trying to stitch the pieces together and went back to bed where he slept for another two hours. When he awoke at well past two o’clock, his eyes focused on the degraded bundle of his rented dinner suit. He shivered from blood-lowering excess and finger-pointing accusations of his third-rate antics of the night before, then suddenly remembered the chauffeur and his appointment at the Wigmore Hall. He swung his legs out of bed and sat up, cupping his throbbing head in his hands. How could he have forgotten the poetry reading? And how could he now repair the blunder? There was no telephone in the basement fla
t so he resolved to go out and make his almost-needing-hospital-treatment excuses from a call box. But first there was the problem of the dinner jacket to sort out.

  Still swaying and muddle-headed, he carried the Moss Brothers bundle into the small back garden. Rummaging in the garden shed, he found a spade, then buried the stinking bundle in a small patch of soft earth in the flower bed. Once he had patted the soil down with the back of the spade, and returned it to its shed, he went indoors to make himself a cup of tea and erased the tawdry crime from his brain.

  Almost a week passed before the evening wear was noticed missing by Moss Brothers. A letter arrived, polite at first, wondering if the return of the suit had been overlooked. But the poet, busy broadcasting for the BBC, conveniently forgot about the reminder. A second letter arrived, now more assertive and demanding. This too was shoved into the part of the poet’s brain reserved for trivialities, while he concentrated on creating a masterpiece of metaphors and imagery. But when the third letter arrived, this one more threatening in tone, and even hinting of legal action, he decided it was time to act. He dashed out and purchased brown paper and a ball of string. Then, returning to the scene of the crime, he went back to the garden and dug up the offending suit from its burial ground. Back in the kitchen he laid the sodden article carefully on two layers of brown paper. Lumps of clay now clung to the disgorged contents of his stomach and, holding his breath, he quickly folded the brown paper over the carcase of his evening wear, Never clever with his hands, except for wielding a pen, he struggled to tie the parcel and swore profusely. Eventually the misshapen object was tied with so much string it looked like an escapologist trying to fight his way out of a strait jacket, but at least it was secure. He stared at the slipshod parcel for a while, wondering what might mitigate the offence, and then it came to him. Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of it? He was, after all, a regular broadcaster for the BBC and a poet about to have a five-thousand print run of his latest anthology. He would write a poem for the gentleman’s outfitters which should appease the hardest heart.