London Boulevard (18 page)

“I know exactly what you need.”

He disappeared into the back. The radio was playing Midnight Oil and “Beds Are Burning.” Catchy tune.

The
Evening Standard
was lying on a chair, early edition. Gant’s photo on the front page. I edged the paper round, scanned the story. It was being treated as a drug-related deal.

Chris came back, said,

“This is an Irish wedding ring, known as a heart-in-hand, or Claddagh ring.”

I liked it. Caught a glimpse of the price and went,

“Uh-uh.”

Chris said,

“Don’t worry about that,”

and gave me a 50 percent reduction.

Time to go, he said,

“Hang on a mo, I have a book for you.”

Produced a slim volume. I read the title.

Izzy Baia

by

Kevin Whelan

I asked,

“Any good?”

“Magnificent.”

We shook hands, and Chris said,

“Listen, come over for a meal some evening. Sandra would love to see you.”

I assured him I would. We both smiled at the blatant untruth. Some friends, they don’t judge you on the lies you tell.

As I headed out of the city, the ring snug in my pocket, I had a song in my head, Trisha Yearwood with “Hearts in Armor.”

It made me sad, but not in any way that worried me.

N
EXT UP
, I went to Regent Street. I’d promised myself if I ever got flush, I’d buy shoes. Not any shoes, but Weejun. The assistant was better dressed than my bank manager. Same sneer, though. He said,

“How may I help you, sir?”

“You could talk right for a start.”

Where do they learn that shit? Is there a school where they grind them in sarcasm and arrogance? I said,

“Pair of Weejun, size ten, tan . . . got it?”

He did.

Put them on and went to shoe heaven.

“Does sir find them satisfactory?”

“Beaut. I’ll have two more pairs in black and brown.”

The bill was gulp stuff. I gulped. Sneer asked,

“Cash or charge?”

I laid down a wedge, said,

“Take a wild guess.”

Then he did the shoe con of

“Those shoes require careful cleaning.”

He began to pile tubes on the counter, I said,

“Naw.”

“Sir?”

“You can’t beat a spit and a cloth.”

“As sir wishes.”

I took my packages, said,

“I’ll miss you, pal.”

He didn’t reply.

You gonna shop, you have to take a pit stop. Do the mandatory designer coffee trip. I could do that.

The Seattle Coffee Company. They had coffee nine different ways to Sunday. I ordered a latte. Saying it, you have an instant lisp. The counter assistant was an in-your-face fake friendly. Her name tag read debi. She asked,

“Like a shot of something in that, sir?”

“Sure; nut a large Scotch in there.”

She gave the tolerant smile, said,

“We have

vanilla

blackcurrant

maple.”

“Whoa, Debi, just the caffeine.”

Plonked myself on the sofa and grabbed a paper. The latte tasted like foam and air. I read about “heshers”—thirteen-year-olds into heavy metal—and “tweakers”—fifteen-year-olds addicted to crystal meth, known as crank or speed. On weekends, they went out with the gang:

“Endlessly cruising the same shopping centers and ghost slot
machine arcades.”

Getting stoned

drunk

partying

fighting.

Anything to kill the boredom.

The only punctuation was

jail

abortion

suicide.

I put down the paper. The assistant came over, said,

“Would you like a loyalty card?”

“What?”

“Each time you come in, we punch your card, and then, after your tenth visit, you get a free coffee.”

“I don’t do loyalty.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No offense, Debi, but you’re far too young to punch my card.”

Outside a guy asked me if I wanted to score some dope. I looked round; no one seemed concerned he was plying his trade in blatant and broad daylight. I asked,

“Do you do loyalty cards?”

ARRIVING AT
Aisling’s, my heart was pounding. When she opened the door, I went,

“Wow!”

She was wearing one of those sheath dresses. Looked like a slip that shrank. My eyes fell to her cleavage. She said,

“The miracle of Wonderbra.”

How could I not say,

“Wunderbar.”

Inside, we kissed till she pushed me away, saying,

“Phew . . . I have dinner cooking.”

“Me too.”

She produced Jameson, said,

“Let us begin, Oirish; would you like a hot one?”

“I’m not even going to pretend I have the obvious reply.”

I gave her the book Chris had given me, said,

“I had to search London to get you a Galway author.”

She squealed,

“Kevin Whelan! I love him!”

I said, “And . . .”

Produced the box. She took it slowly, opened it carefully, went,

“Oh my God!”

It fit.

THE SMELL
of good food cooking wafted from the kitchen. I had a look at a framed poem on the wall. It was by Jeff O’Connell.

It read:

SUFFERING SHIPWRECK

He sought the very moment

when one emotion became its opposite,

As if there he could find the explanation

that might excuse his callous treatment of her.

It gave me an eerie feeling. Like I’d just had my palm read. Aisling asked,

“What do you think?”

“Phew.”

“Which means?”

I meant, or think I meant, someone walked on my grave. I asked,

“Where’s he from?”

I heard her laugh, then say,

“That’s so Irish.”

“What?”

“Answer a question with a question.”

“Oh.”

“He’s from Galway, the home of the Claddagh ring. Isn’t that odd?”

I thought it was downright spooky.

KEEPING THE
Irish theme, the Fureys were doing “Leaving Nancy,” and we’d made hot international love. She asked,

“Do you love me?”

“I’m getting there.”

“And will you marry me?”

“I’d say so.”

“When?”

“Soon as.”

She sat up,

“Oh my God, are you serious?”

“I am.”

She ran from the bed and returned with the champagne, said,

“You know, we were to have Black Velvet.”

“Yeah?”

In a perfect mimicry of me, she said,

“Screw the Guinness.”

I was as near to happy as I’d ever get. That’s pretty close.

I tried to do a bad brogue, asked,

“Will you be wanting the wedding to be big?”

“I’ll be wanting it to be soon.”

Love or its neighbor must have made me selfish or heedless or simply an asshole. I’m reaching . . . trying to lay off the fact that I didn’t check on Briony. Not even a phone call.

TWO NIGHTS
later, I was deep in sleep at Holland Park. It took the phone some ringing to pull me awake. Finally, I grabbed for the phone, muttered,

“What?”

“Mr. Mitchell?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s Dr. Patel.”

“Who? . . . Oh yeah . . . Jeez, what time is it?”

“Two thirty . . . there’s an emergency . . . it’s Briony.”

I sat up.

“Is she OK?”

“She’s apparently taken an overdose.”

“Apparently? What are you doing . . . guessing?”

“I’m trying my best, Mr. Mitchell.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on my way.”

I thought—“No better time to give my new BMW a run.” I also thought that no way could it really be red. Not even Lillian Palmer could pull off a red BMW.

It was. Bright fucking red.

Well, leastways it was night. How much could it show? Glided up toward the lights in Notting Hill Gate. It was a dream drive. As I waited for the light to change, a blue Mazda cruised up beside me. Packed with brothers, rap streaming. My window was down, and the driver checked me out, said,

“Bro, dat be a righteous color.” I nodded. He reached over, handed me a jay, said, “Rig like dat, yo gots to git down.”

I took it, inhaled deep. The light went green, and the driver gunned his engine, said,

“Y’all be cool.”

The dope kicked, and my vision blurred. I nearly did a cyclist at the Elephant and Castle roundabout. He shouted obscenities, and I answered,

“Be cool, bro.”

When I got to St. Thomas’s, I parked in their doctors’ allotted area. A uniform came bundling out, crying,

“Oi!”

“Yes?”

“This is reserved for doctors.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“Eh?”

“How much are you smoking? Good Lord, man, look at your pallor, when did you have an ECG?”

“I . . .”

“And cut out those burgers, you won’t last six months.”

I strode past him. Though with the dope, it was more of a mellow sweep.

I met Patel outside the ICU. He didn’t shake hands, accused,

“You’re stoned!”

“So?”

“Well, it seems inappropriate.”

“Is Briony conscious?”

“No.”

“So what does it matter a fuck, then?”

I didn’t know the rage was there till I tapped into it. The old “kill the messenger syndrome.” He said,

“We pumped her out, she’d ingested seventy-nine acetaminophen tablets.”

“Counted them, did ya?”

Spittle from me landed on his white coat, my fists were balled. Two seconds and I’d be battering him. He began to back off, asked, “Would you like to see her?”

“Take a wild fuckin’ guess.”

I had to suit up for ICU:

gown

mask

booties.

I felt like an unneeded extra on
ER.

Briony looked dead. Pale as the very color of despair. A respirator was aiding her breathing.

I held her hand, and a nurse got me a chair. The nurse said,

“You can talk to her.”

“Can she hear me?”

“Perhaps.”

“It would be a first.”

“Excuse me?”

“She never heard me before.”

S
HE DIED
after six. Never made it to the dawn. Later, Patel took me to his office, said,

“Feel free to smoke.”

“Thanks.”

“I am so very sorry.”

“Whatever.”

“I had . . . feelings for her . . . I . . .”

“Yo . . . Doc, I don’t wanna hear it . . . OK?”

“Of course.”

The paperwork done, the doc said,

“You’ll want her in the family plot.”

I gave a laugh steeped in malice, said,

“The family plot is a shoe box.”

“Oh.”

He hung his head. I reached in my pocket, took out a heavy wedge, dropped it on the table, said,

“Burn her. Isn’t that what you Indians do? Then plonk her ashes on your mantelpiece, and you finally get to have her.”

I was walking away when he asked,

“What about her little dog?”

“He lost his head, it’s a family trait.”

At reception a nurse called,

“Mr. Mitchell?”

“Yeah?”

“I am so sorry.”

“Sure.”

“Will you want her raincoat?”

“What?”

“She was wrapped in a coat . . . would you like to take it?”

I gave her a long look, said,

“She was about your build, you keep it.”

I turned to go when she said,

“It’s Gant.”

“What?”

“The coat, it’s a Gant, American label—a very expensive brand.”

I couldn’t get to grips with that, waved her away. Outside, I tried to light a cigarette. My hands were doing a fandango. I threw it away, headed for my car.

Blame the events of the previous days, jeez, the previous weeks, or the dope, the booze, or the shock of Briony’s death, or I’m just a dumb motherfucker.

Whatever, I failed to ask two vital questions.

(1) Who found Briony?

(2) Who brought her to the hospital?

No, I was intent on small damage. To lash out at the nearest.

The uniform came striding out. I focused on his shiny pants.

It mirrored the spit in his soul. The miracle of dry cleaning hadn’t filtered down to him yet. He folded his arms, didn’t speak. Fine, I thought. Fuck you, Jack.

I reached the BMW. Along the front fender, gouged in huge letters, was

JURKOFF

I spun round, shouted,

“Call yourself a security guard?”

“Why not? You call yourself a doctor.”

Pure white rage coursed through me. What especially galled me was the gouger couldn’t spell. I asked,

“And you’ll have no idea who did it.”

He gave me a toothy smile, said,

“Nope.”

Then the anger evaporated. I couldn’t be bothered. Got in the car, pulled outta there. I can still see his face, writ in dismay that I just let it go. Felt dismayed myself.

Rest of the day, I drifted like a ghost through pubs in southeast London. I was there

I drank

but never touched base.

Later, at Holland Park, I fell asleep in my clothes. Woke to find the actress giving me a blow job. She stopped, said,

“Don’t worry, darling, we’re nearly there.”

Then, I thought she meant bringing me to climax. As with most everything else, I was hopelessly wrong.

N
EXT MORNING
, I shaved, showered and put on fresh clothes.

Felt fresher if not better. Working through a double hit of nicotine and caffeine, the phone went. I said,

“Yeah?”

“Mitch.”

“That you, Jeff?”

“Yeah, listen, mate, I’m gutted about Bri.”

“Thanks.”

“Listen, mate, I need to talk with you.”

“ ’Kay.”

“Eight this evening, the Charlie Chaplin.”

“I’ll be there.”

Put the phone down, thought—“Was there an edge there?”

Then I shrugged it away, not Jeff, no . . . he was my mate. Fuck, he and I went way back.