by M. P. Wright
“Yeah . . . That’s right, what about it?”
“So you know ’bout the Heartman?”
“Yeah . . . I know it’s some mumbo-jumbo boogey man that my mama used to scare me ’bout when I was a kid. She said that the Heartman would come into our home in the night and steal me and my sister’s souls if we misbehaved. I may have believed it existed when I was eight years old, but I sure as hell don’t now.”
“Oh, you need to believe in him, brother, you surely do. The Heartman’s grasp is closer to you than you think, and he’s been close to your kin too . . . Close to that dead woman o’ yours. She no more at peace as a fly is round a bowl o’ mouldy fruit. She clings to your rotting soul just waiting fo’ you to join her in the white heat.”
I turned on my heels to face her, and as I did the old woman threw what was left of the rum in her glass onto the blistering cinders in the grate of the fireplace, erupting the ashes into a ball of cobalt blue and red flames bringing me to a dead halt on the edge of her fine rug. Dupree pointed at me and then back into the fire.
“She with the Heartman and she burns in there with him, her skin blistering off her back, hair crackling in a furnace o’ torment, and she screams out your name now, just like she screamed fo’ you back then, when you did nuttin’ to try to save her or that poor child cooking in her scorching belly, she gon—”
My right hand was around Dupree’s throat and I was squeezing the breath outta her before she could say another word; my other hand took up the slack of her shiny locks and I drew the old woman close towards my face, my teeth so tightly clenched with rage that I could barely talk. I saw the fear awaken in Hoo Shoo’s eyes as she stared back up at me, and at that very moment her bladder gave way and the strong stink of piss crawled up my nostrils as it fell down the inside of the old woman’s legs and splashed off the toe of my brogue. I released my grip on her neck, flung her into the armchair and stood back away from her as I tried to contain my wrath. I looked down at the urine-drenched rug and saw Dupree’s cane, then bent down and picked it up. I held it at its tip and slowly shook the end of it in front of the shocked madam’s face before pushing the crystal handle of the stick hard into her breast.
“You ever speak o’ my wife again and I’m gonna t’row you on that fire myself, then watch you kick and thrash about on those searing coals. See how you like the white heat.”
I flung the cane across the room and left Dupree sitting in the wetness of her leaked, reeking body fluid, the beast inside of me restrained, but only just.
23
It was after two in the morning by the time I dropped Vic off outside Gabe and Pearl’s house on Banner Road, and other than to tell him that I’d got the information that I needed from the old woman, we barely spoke again as I drove back into St Pauls. I knew that my cousin sensed that something bad had gone down back at Hoo Shoo’s place, but he had the good sense not to ask me about it. After Vic had got out of the car, he turned and stood with his elbow resting on the roof, peering back in at me, a look of unease etched upon his face. I put my hand inside my coat and pulled out the pocketbook.
“You know where to stash this fo’ me till I need it, yeah?”
“Sure. No problem. You got any plans fo’ tomorrow night, JT?”
“No . . . Why’d you ask?”
“I gotta spot o’ bidness with Hurps down at the Speed Bird, selling him some hooch. Meet me there after ten, we can kick back, have ourselves a few rums and take it easy . . . OK?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
My cousin went to walk away and I called after him before he had chance to leave.
“Hey, Vic . . . Thanks, man.”
I nodded my head at him in gratitude for being around for me earlier that evening.
“Don’t sweat it, brother . . . Just do me one ting befo’ we meet up at Hurps’ place tomorrow, will ya?”
“Yeah, what’s that?” I asked him cautiously.
“Git rid o’ that nasty fuckin’ ting you been wearing on your back and sharpen yourself up, brother. You’ll be giving me a bad name if I have to be hanging around with you looking like you just got off of some crab trawler.”
He tapped the roof of the car with the flat of his hand a couple of times before slamming the passenger side door shut and walking away, his head shaking slowly from side to side, those massive shoulders rising up and down as he laughed to himself in the street.
*
I woke early on Monday morning, after a poor and short night’s sleep that was disturbed by the visitation of my usual nightmares. I drank a mug of hot coffee, had a wash and a shave and was outta my digs before 9.30 a.m.; then I drove into the centre of Bristol, parked in a side street behind St James’s church and walked up through the Haymarket to Lewis’s department store. I took the lift up to the men’s outfitters on the second floor to spend some of Earl Linney’s cash and kit myself out with some new threads.
I’m no eager shopper and wanted outta the place real quick. I picked up a couple of pairs of military-cut navy trousers; two cotton sports shirts, one in light blue and another in white; and black leather oxford brogues to replace the pair that were leaking slush and iced water through to my socks at the minute. But it was the charcoal-grey wool herringbone overcoat that really caught my eye and that I just had to try on. I pulled it over my shoulders, doing up one of the buttons, and stood in front of a large mirror admiring myself for a moment, immediately feeling at home in it. I dismissed the hefty twelve-pounds price tag, concentrating on how good it felt on me, then took it along with my other duds up to an effete shop assistant who looked at me as if I was about to rob him blind. I paid the man without hardly a word said between either of us, then got back into the lift and pressed the button to take me the two floors up to the Pageant Café.
It came as no surprise to me to find that mine was the only black face in the place. Unlike some of the local pubs, there was no sign up to say I wasn’t welcome, but it was pretty clear from the reaction of the white clientele that I was not. The lunchroom that I had just walked into, which had been busy with the gossiping chatter of diners, was now silent. I stood in the small queue, waiting to be served, and glanced around at the staring faces. A young woman holding the hand of a pretty little girl came to join the line of patrons, saw me and walked out again.
When it came to my turn to be served a middle-aged woman, a bitten-down pencil and jotter in her hands, asked what I wanted without even looking at me. I ordered a pot of tea and a bacon sandwich and took a seat at the back of the place and stared at a large portrait of the Clifton Suspension Bridge that hung on the wall opposite me. An elderly couple were watching me as I put my bags down at my feet and I heard the old man mutter the words “dirty fuckin’ monkey” under his breath to the woman next to him. I ignored his offensive comment, thinking it better to disregard his ignorant and malicious remark, and kept looking at the picture of the famous Bristol landmark.
The food and drink I’d ordered was brought over to me by a middle-aged brunette with bad teeth and the kinda attitude that required no words to tell me how unwelcome I was dining in her establishment. She handed me a cheque for one and six. I reached into my wallet, put the coins onto the paper bill and thanked her. She gave me a pinched smile before quickly sliding my money across the Formica into her cupped hand at the edge of the table and dropping it into the pocket of her apron. She wiped her hands on a pristine-looking white cloth that was looped through the belt of her pinafore, then strode away from me, taking the cash and leaving her prejudice behind to keep me company.
I deliberately took my time over my late breakfast, pulling the crusts from my bread before eating the sandwich, aware that I was being watched as I ate. I was thinking about Clementine Dupree and the things she’d told me last night. The fact that she knew so much about my past simply reinforced my own superstitious belief in the power of voodoo and I was having trouble shaking the old girl’s words outta my head. I finished the last of the tea in the pot
and picked up my bags, and as I got up from the table I gave a polite wave of thanks to the waitress at the serving counter who had brought my refreshments over to me earlier. She ignored my gesture of gratitude, but watched me suspiciously as I walked out of the restaurant. The bitter stare of her bigotry burnt into my back as I got into the lift to leave.
*
It was just after midday by the time I drove out to Horfield. The roads were quiet and the last of snow had been blown off the roads and was thawing in the gutters. I pulled up on the opposite side of the road outside of the old church only a few yards away from the home of Virginia Landry. There been little more snowfall over the last few days and a slow thaw had started to turn the ground to slush. The harsh brightness of winter sunshine crept out from behind grey clouds above me. I’d stopped off at a stationer’s on the way over and bought myself a small black flip-over police-style notepad, which I picked up off of the passenger seat and slipped it into the inside pocket of my second-hand duffle coat. Despite Vic’s hatred of the thing, I was increasingly growing fonder of it and saw no reason to discard it for the moment, despite just forking out twelve notes for a classier new one.
I got out of the car and wandered over towards the sandstone two-storey house with a lime-green door that stood behind a wild spread of weeds on an uncut lawn and a multitude of overgrown rose bushes in the small, unkempt garden. I approached the tired-looking door, the paint peeling off it in big thick strips, gave a sharp knock, then waited.
24
I wasn’t standing there for long before the door was wrenched open by a nervous-looking small, skinny white girl in bare feet, who I assumed to be Carla Havers, the prostitute in Hoo Shoo Dupree’s employ. She was no more than sixteen or seventeen years old and dressed in a tired-looking grey dressing gown, with an off-white towel wrapped around her head soaking up the wet residue of her recently washed hair. She looked me up and down for a moment, her fingers tapping on the unpainted woodchip in the hall, getting the measure of me, and soon gained confidence once she realised that I wasn’t the kind of guy who was calling to arrest her. She threw me her best “I couldn’t give a shit who you are” face and leaned against the wall, not taking her eyes off of me.
“What d’you want?” she spat at me as she drew her dressing gown closer across her chest.
“I’m looking fo’ a Miss Virginia Landry.”
I spoke lightly and smiled as I did.
“Yeah, and who the hell are you?”
“My name’s Ellington . . . I was hoping to have a moment of her time to ask a few questions.”
She kept her face hard and I felt compelled to try to reassure her a little.
“I ain’t the police and I’m not looking to git her into any trouble.”
“Well, that’s big of you. What kind of questions you wanna ask?”
“That’s between me and Miss Landry . . . Is she in?”
“No, she ain’t, but I’ll tell her that you called when I see her.”
The young girl went to slam the door on me, but I caught it just in time and held it open, going with my gut instinct and taking a chance, calling out down the hallway to anybody else who may be listening in the house.
“Well, when you do, let her know your boss Clementine Dupree told me where I could find her and that I’m looking to find out what she might know ’bout a trip to the country she took a short while back.”
I let go of the door and felt the force of its closure on my mug. I began to walk back to my car, thinking whether or not to sit and wait outside of the house for the rest of the afternoon for Landry to perhaps return when a woman’s voice called across the road after me. My gut instinct had paid off.
“Hey, you . . .” she called to me from across the street.
I turned around to face a young mulatto woman who was standing in white stilettos on the kerbside outside of the house whose door had just been pushed into my face. She was around twenty-five years old, petite, and wore a pretty white dress with green and yellow flowers on it. She looked cold as she held the lapels of a lemon-coloured cardigan tightly across her breasts. Her attractive elfin looks were set off by stunningly high cheekbones and a tight afro that was cut close across her scalp.
“I’m Virginia Landry . . . Seeing as you’re letting the world know my bidness, I suppose you best come on inside.” It surprised me when she smiled and outstretched an arm, the palm of her delicate hand guiding me back towards the house. I returned the smile and followed her as the heels of her shoes tapped hypnotically on the concrete path. She held the door open as I entered, and I put out my hand to properly introduce myself.
“Hello . . . My name’s Ellington.”
She gingerly took my hand and shook it briefly before closing the door.
“So you said a moment ago when you were quizzing Carla. I don’t know what you want from me or what you think I can tell you, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t feel the need to raise your voice again trying to find out.”
She looked at me severely and her pretty hazel-coloured eyes attempted to mask the fear my unwelcome visit had brought about in her.
“I’m sorry, Miss Landry. I was just hedging my bets a little back there. Hoping you may have been earwigging in on the conversation. You proved me right and I’m grateful fo’ your time.”
She nervously rubbed at the back of her hand as I spoke, clearly unsure of my intentions. Carla Havers stood at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the large domed sphere of the wood-turned banister; she was guarding the entrance to the property with the same kinda determination as the damn dog that had bitten me had done a couple of nights before. My hand unconsciously took hold of the top of my arm and I briefly rubbed at the healing wound over the fabric of my coat.
“You better come on through, but I can’t give you very long. I have to be at work fo’ one o clock. Carla, it’s OK. Mr Ellington’s only stopping fo’ a short while, you go on back up and dry your hair befo’ you catch your death, child.”
She pulled back the sleeve of her cardigan to look at her watch, which read twelve twenty-five, then turned the handle on a door that opened up into a small sitting room as the young Havers girl made her way sullenly back upstairs. I followed Miss Landry in and she pulled out a rickety metal chair with red foam back and cushion from underneath a brown glass-topped dining table for me to sit on.
“Where is it you work?” I asked inquisitively as I tried to make myself comfortable on the chair, which I seriously doubted would take my weight for long. She joined me, sitting with her arms rested on the table in front of her, answering me as she stared at her reflection in the glass.
“The Bee Hive Inn; you passed it on the way up here. I’m a barmaid there; I don’t normally do the lunchtime shift. Today’s a favour fo’ one of the girls who normally works during the day: she has some appointment and I’m covering fo’ her. I normally work from 6 p.m. till closing time.”
She lifted her head and stopped gazing into the glass, and swallowed hard as she looked at me.
“I don’t know what you’ve been told about me by Miss Dupree, Mr Ellington. I’ve never met her, and other than the fact I’m aware of her unpleasant bidness dealings through a friend of mine, I fail to see why she should feel that I could possibly help you.”
“By friend . . . you mean Carla upstairs?”
Virginia Landry didn’t answer and returned to staring at the tabletop.
“Look, it’s like I said earlier at your door: I ain’t here to make trouble fo’ you. But I think you may be able to help me out.”
“How . . . ?”
She kept her head down, her hands still unmoved from the table.
“Carla Havers, Your house guest, flatmate or whatever you wanna call her, works the streets fo’ Hoo Shoo Dupree, right?”
“I think so . . . yes.”
She was cagey in answering me, confused and still uncertain as to why I was asking the kinda questions I was.
“Well, I heard that while you
were at a party in St Pauls some time back you met a white guy who drove you out into the middle of nowhere, perhaps to another shindig but with a more, how can I say, a more upmarket clientele. I also heard that you got yourself blindfolded in the back of that car. I’m trying to find out who took you there and what goes on inside that house.”
“And why would you wanna know that, Mr Ellington?”
“Cos I believe you weren’t the first to be taken out there. I’m looking fo’ a missing woman who may not have been as lucky as you were in getting home.”
Virginia Landry lifted her head and stared back at me, tears welling in her eyes, her lip quivering. I reached across and placed my hand on the back of hers, but she snatched it away, folding her arms protectively across herself and sitting bolt upright as a single tear fell and ran down her cheek and stopped briefly on her chin before falling to the floor.
“How’d you find yourself in the back o’ that car, Miss Landry?”
I waited, letting the girl fully absorb my words, hoping that she’d come clean. My patience was finally rewarded when she took a deep breath, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and began to speak.
“’Bout four weeks ago, Carla took me to an all-nighter in Montpelier . . .”
“Was this all-nighter held at a shebeen on Richmond Road?” I interrupted.
Landry nodded and I watched as she recounted the facts in her head before beginning to talk again.
“Believe it or not, but I’d never been to a shebeen befo’, until I met Carla that is. She came into the Bee Hive one night ’bout six months ago with some guy who ended up knocking her about in the car park after she tried to pick his pockets. She was in a bit of a state and came home with me so I could clean her up. She stopped that night and she’s been coming back here on and off ever since.”
She shook her head to herself as she spoke.
“Carla invited me to a private party at Richmond Road. It was a Saturday evening and I had the night off, I thought, ‘A free night out, what the hell, why not?’”