A Song for the Brokenhearted

by William Shaw

  ‘You looking to score? There’s a guy backstage selling some green tabs. They’re good.’

  Breen had no idea what he was talking about, but nodded anyway.

  ‘I just have a message for Afghan.’

  ‘Haven’t seen his arse round here in a while. Maybe he’s on the road. Wasn’t he going to Morocco?’

  A group of young women who were dancing together at the back said they thought they’d seen him, but they didn’t seem sure. A bearded man dressed in a black leather jacket said, ‘Afghan? Why would I know him, man?’

  ‘I was just asking if you’d seen him tonight.’

  ‘I don’t know who the fuck you’re talking about,’ he said, and turned away.

  Breen gave up for a while and just observed. A young man was sitting on the floor, against the old brick wall of the building, licking cigarette papers. A woman sat next to him saying something in his ear as he concentrated, carefully attaching the papers together. From a tobacco tin, he pulled a lump of something dark and held it above a lighter for a few seconds. Breen looked around. Nobody else seemed to think what the man was doing was out of place. The woman was large, with heavy eye make-up. She looked a little bored, if anything, watching her boyfriend carefully rolling the joint.

  Helen Tozer would probably love it here. She would be one of those dancing in the space in front of the stage, lit by the lamps which projected coloured blobs of oil through the haze of smoke. Moments like this made Breen feel utterly disconnected from this new world.

  The boy lit the joint and sucked. The pale smoke drifted around his head, then he blew out of his mouth slowly. Breen half expected him to slump into a narcotic coma, or perhaps leap up, wild-eyed. But he looked much the same as he did before he’d smoked the drug; he just passed the long cigarette to the woman.

  There was a phone near the box office. He put one finger in his ear and dialled the number for the YWCA.

  ‘Is there a Helen Tozer staying there tonight?’

  ‘I can’t hear you,’ complained the woman on the other end of the line. ‘There’s too much noise.’

  A thump of drums drowned out everything.

  ‘Helen Tozer,’ he said again. He spelled out the letters, one by one. ‘It’s very urgent.’

  After he’d put in another pile of pennies, she came back on the line and said, ‘No. No one of that name.’

  It was after two in the morning that the main band came on. By now the place was full, the floor was crowded. The band were all very thin and had beards, but dressed more neatly than the crowd who were now standing on the floor in front of them. They seemed to be playing music that was caught between a Californian trippiness and a kind of very cartoonish Englishness. It was so loud Breen wanted to put his fingers in his ears but he knew he’d look out of place if he did, so he stood, nodding his head and wishing the music would finish.

  Someone was tugging at the back of his coat. He turned. The man in the floppy hat was swaying slightly, a goofy look on his face.

  ‘I’m so stoned,’ he said.

  Breen nodded.

  He said something else.

  ‘I can’t hear,’ shouted Breen.

  The man pulled Breen by the lapel of his coat and said, right into his ear. ‘I said, the General is looking for you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The General. You know, friend, the General.’

  Breen looked around. All the other people’s eyes were fixed on the stage, faces changing colour in the lights.

  ‘I don’t know him. Who is he?’

  ‘The man who has soldiers all over him.’

  Breen looked at the man. He was giggling now, his pupils like saucers.

  ‘Right,’ said Breen.

  ‘Little soldiers marching up and down. Left right, left right.’

  Breen left him idiot-grinning, waving his fingers in front of the lights. So that’s what someone on drugs looked like. Breen knew what it was like to feel out of place; it was something he had lived with for as long as he could remember. But he had never felt as out of place as he did here. None of this was his world.

  There were flashing lights. A squeal of feedback filled the hall. People cheered. Some annoying saxophone was playing the same phrase over and over again. The voice of the thin man on the stage had a strange tremolo that was getting to Breen.

  He rubbed his forehead. This morning’s headache had returned. The entire front of his skull throbbed. He should head home. He had tried, at least.

  ‘This one’s called “Hey Mr Policeman”,’ said the singer.

  A huge cheer went up. The guitarist was trying to tune his guitar, crouching down by his amp. A squeal of feedback emerged.

  ‘Do we have any policemen in the Roundhouse tonight?’

  Now the hall was full of boos.

  Breen looked around the crowd to see if there was any sign of any other undercover police from the Drug Squad, but he couldn’t see any, not even the red-faced boy he’d spotted earlier.

  The band had started playing a drawn-out, bluesy riff. How long could these people endure this noise? There seemed to be no end to their enthusiasm for it.

  If Breen listened to any music, it would be jazz. As a younger man he and Carmichael had gone to see the Jazz Couriers or Charles Mingus on his rare London visits. Though these blaring electric chords shared the same kind of ambition, to make something entirely new, they seemed too leaden, too deliberately simple. It was as if they were saying, ‘Anyone can do this. Anyone can be part of this.’ An ideological statement of the age of Aquarius. The line between performer and audience was blurring. Everybody was an artist now. He hated this idea. It seemed so dull, so unambitious.

  A tall young woman in front of him moved her hands in the air in strange, expressive shapes that reminded him of someone trying to walk through cobwebs. Was she audience or performer? Or was she just on drugs? Were they all on drugs? How could you tell?

  A man in an army coat walked past. It seemed to be covered in matted fur. Breen looked again and realised that the coat was adorned with little bits of plastic. He looked again, closer, and saw toy soldiers. Hundreds upon hundreds of small plastic toy soldiers, carefully attached to his coat with small safety pins.

  It took him a second.

  By the time he had made the connection, the man had pushed into the crowd closer to the stage. Breen went after him, shoving his way between the swaying hippies. A young man with a woollen hat over his long hair glared at him. ‘Chill out, man.’

  Breen ignored him, looking to the left and right. He was there, talking to a woman with a long, flowery dress on.

  He reached out and grabbed the man’s coat. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘You’re the General?’

  The man saluted. Breen now saw that the front of his coat was covered in medals too.

  He leaned towards him, shouting above the roar of music, ‘I was looking for Afghan.’

  ‘I heard.’ The man tugged him away to one side of the hall. He had one of those faces where smooth skin sat tightly on the skull. Small crow’s feet by each eye deepened as he peered at Breen. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Just a friend of a friend. I need to find him. I need to get a message to him.’

  ‘Afghan’s long gone, man. Long gone. On the road. What’s the message?’

  ‘He was here?’

  ‘No. He’s gone. Disparu.’

  The riff they were playing was getting louder and louder.

  ‘Left London?’

  ‘Maybe. What’s the message?’

  ‘I’d tell you if I could, but I can’t. I have to speak to him face to face. It’s important.’

  The General looked him up and down, then said, ‘How important?’

  ‘Life and death.’

  ‘Crazy.’

  Breen shook his head. ‘No. I’m serious.’

  The General nodded. ‘His old lady’s kind of been looking for him too.’

  ‘His mother?’

  The General was laughing now,
all his little soldiers shaking. ‘His girlfriend. Penny. You know Penny?’

  Breen shook his head. ‘I’m not from round here,’ he said.

  ‘If you were from round here, I’d know you,’ said the General. ‘So you have this message for him. Is it about the cops?’

  ‘The cops?’

  ‘They’re always after him, man. They’re crazy.’

  Breen said, ‘No. A friend of his is dead. I need to tell him.’

  The General nodded. ‘You should tell Penny. She’s freaking out about him already.’

  ‘Freaking out?’

  ‘You know Afghan. Sometimes he just goes places. On the road. He’s always on a journey, right? Only she has these bad vibes about him.’

  ‘Vibes?’

  ‘You know. She does the I Ching. Tarot. Something like that. I don’t know. Want to split?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Now. We’ll go and see Penny.’

  ‘At this time of night? Will she be awake?’

  ‘It’s early, man. Besides, Penny doesn’t sleep much since Afghan disappeared. And she’s always got some gear on her.’

  Breen looked at his watch. It was approaching three in the morning.

  The General’s car was parked by Camden Lock. He drove an Austin A30, painted to look like camouflage.

  ‘Want some speed?’ he said, holding up a small packet of neatly folded paper.

  ‘No. I’m fine.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ They were parked off the road on a piece of derelict land that was used on Sundays as part of the market. The General started the engine, but instead of driving away, he reached across to Breen’s side of the car, opened the glove compartment and pulled out a mirror, which he set on his lap.

  He tipped a little of the white powder onto the mirror and produced a razor blade and started chopping at the powder.

  ‘Can I borrow a quid?’ he said.

  Breen pulled a pound note from his wallet and the General rolled it carefully into a tiny tube, then leaned over the mirror and sucked up the first of two neat lines he’d made into his nose.

  Breen watched, appalled and fascinated, trying not to look as if this was the first time he’d seen anybody do this.

  The General held out the pound note towards him.

  ‘You sure you don’t want some?’

  Breen shook his head.

  ‘I understand. Want to stay mellow, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  The General leaned down again and sniffed the second white line, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand and passed the note back.

  As Breen unrolled it and returned it to his wallet, the General crunched the car into gear.

  ‘Let’s go then.’

  Breen looked ahead, anxious not to betray any reaction to watching a man take drugs so openly. He knew nothing of this world. But the man who called himself the General seemed to assume that he would find this behaviour perfectly normal.

  The man jolted the car into motion and set off down Camden High Street, driving straight across Parkway even though the lights were still red.

  SEVENTEEN

  The General was right. She was still awake.

  She opened the door of the house off Ladbroke Grove barefoot, in a long dark cotton dress.

  ‘Oh. It’s you.’ She leaned forward and kissed the General on the cheek.

  ‘Who’s this?’ she asked, looking at Breen. She was young and blonde and wearing a strange oily scent that reminded Breen of damp earth.

  ‘A messenger,’ the General said. ‘I don’t know his name.’

  ‘Cathal,’ said Breen.

  ‘You got any hash, love?’ asked the General. ‘I’m speeding my socks off. I need to come down. Urgently.’ He giggled.

  She opened the door wide and they walked inside.

  The flat was messy, but in a comfortable way. An old bicycle, painted yellow, scuffed the wall it lay against. A huge poster of Humphrey Bogart was pinned above it. She led them through to a large kitchen at the back of the house. There were scarves draped over lampshades to keep the light low in the house. The air had the thick, sweet scent of burnt-out incense mingled with the smell of cooking.

  ‘You hungry? I made some soup,’ she said.

  The General shook his head. ‘Too much whizz,’ he said.

  The kitchen was somewhere she clearly spent a lot of time. There were shelves full of rice and lentils. Strange Buddha figures, embroidered onto brightly coloured cloths, hung from the wall above a large cooker. Strings of cotton flags crossed the ceiling. At the back of the room was an old pine table, surrounded by mismatched chairs.

  She opened a drawer in the table and pulled out a silver tin and handed it to the General. Inside was a lump of what looked like brown stone. He sat at the table, then pulled it out and sniffed at it.

  ‘Nepalese?’ he said. Digging in his pocket, he pulled out a small glass pipe and started crumbling pieces into it. ‘Put some music on, Penny. It’s too quiet.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not now. I like it quiet.’

  Breen stood awkwardly, watching. Penny looked at him and said, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Cathal,’ Breen said again.

  ‘You said that already,’ Penny said. ‘I meant what are you doing here?’

  The General said, ‘He was at the Roundhouse, telling everyone he was looking for Afghan.’

  From his coat pocket, Breen pulled out the photograph of the three men and handed it to the woman. The General held a lighter above the pipe and sucked hard.

  She took the photograph, looked at it and sighed. ‘Who was on?’

  ‘Family,’ the General said, his voice pitched higher as he held in the smoke.

  She wrinkled her nose, as if she didn’t like them. ‘Haven’t been there since Jim Morrison played. Where did you get this?’ she demanded.

  ‘Bill Milkwood’s wife gave it to me,’ said Breen. ‘I’m looking for Nick.’

  ‘He’s dead now too, isn’t he?’ she said, looking at the picture. ‘Bill, I mean.’ She didn’t seem particularly concerned.

  ‘Who’s dead?’ said the General, passing the pipe to Penny, who pulled out a chair and sat down beside him. She didn’t answer.

  ‘An old friend of Afghan’s,’ said Breen. ‘What do you mean, “too”?’

  It was Penny’s turn to suck. She held the smoke in her lungs a minute. ‘He wasn’t a friend of Nicky’s,’ she said, as she exhaled smoke through her nostrils. ‘Nicky hated him. Just someone Nicky knew. From the old days.’

  ‘You heard about him being killed?’

  ‘Killed?’ said the General, coughing. ‘Wow. Bummer.’

  ‘It’s OK. He’s been reborn.’ She held out the pipe to Breen.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m OK, thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Take some. It’s good.’

  ‘Really, I’m fine.’

  She handed the pipe over to the General and smiled at Breen. ‘You don’t fool me,’ she said. ‘That make-up and those nails.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ said Breen.

  ‘You’re not on the scene.’

  ‘I’m a policeman,’ he said.

  The General had just taken a long pull on the pipe and erupted into coughing. ‘Bloody hell.’

  Penny leaned over and thumped him on the back. ‘I thought so,’ she said.

  Breen said, ‘I’m trying to find who killed Bill Milkwood. Nothing else. I’m not here about drugs. I’m not even here officially.’

  ‘Christ. I thought there was something funny about you. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.’

  Penny just stood and said, ‘I’m going to make some tea.’ She switched the electric cooker on and went to fill a kettle.

  ‘I can’t believe I brought the bloody fuzz to Afghan’s house. What a fucking moron. He’ll kill me.’

  ‘Where is Nicky?’ asked Breen.

  Penny said, ‘Why? Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Because he may know something about who killed Bill Milkwood.’ />
  She nodded.

  ‘Nicky’s dead too,’ she said simply.

  ‘I mean, you don’t actually know that for certain,’ said the General. ‘You don’t really know it, do you? What if he’s just lying low? Sometimes he just, you know, vanishes.’

  ‘He’s dead. I know.’

  Breen looked at his watch. It was very late. ‘Are you his… lover?’

  ‘Yes. Was his lover, I suppose. He left. Went. Never came back.’

  Breen was puzzled. ‘Did he pack a bag or anything? Did he leave a note?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ she said. ‘He may have done. He came and went as he pleased. He was never here that long. But he always came back.’ She stretched up and took a tin from the shelf. ‘Chamomile or lapsang?’

  Breen looked around the kitchen. It was messy, but not chaotic. ‘How can you not notice whether he packed a bag or not?’

  ‘I was in Afghanistan,’ she said. ‘It was getting towards winter so I came home. When I came back he was gone. No note. Nothing. He’d been planning a trip to Morocco.’

  ‘A fucking policeman.’

  She leaned down to the General and said quietly, ‘It’s OK. Stay calm. You’re peaking. Nothing bad is going to happen.’

  ‘Right,’ said the General, reaching for the pipe.

  She took it from his hands. ‘Not now. Later. You need to chill out. I’ll give you some tea.’

  ‘OK.’ He nodded. ‘Tea. Sounds nice.’

  The kettle began to bubble. She spooned black tea into a large pot. Even if it was in a city, something of the warmth of the kitchen reminded Breen of the Tozers’ farm.

  ‘This was when?’ he asked.

  ‘It would have been back in November, only I got ill in Afghanistan. They said it was dysentery, but I don’t think it was.’

  ‘The shits. Oh, God,’ muttered the General.

  ‘I was so sick I spent two weeks holed up in a freezing shed in an olive grove near Herat hallucinating, so I didn’t make it back until a few weeks ago. By then he was gone.’

  ‘He’s probably still on the road,’ said the General. ‘Morocco. Goa. You know.’

  The tea steamed in mugs. Breen took one and put his hands around it.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Penny eventually. ‘He’s moved on.’