A Good Year for the Roses (1988) (18 page)

‘What?’

‘Somebody tried to shoot me.’

‘Christ, Nick,’ Teresa said. ‘What's happening in your life?’

‘It's better that you don't know.’

She seemed to take my word for it.

‘So I can't turn you on?’ she asked.

‘Yesterday, you could have,’ I replied. ‘But now, I don't know. Maybe you can, but maybe it's not worth your time and effort to try.’

‘You don't seem to care,’ she said.

‘Of course I care, but I had to learn to stop worrying about it. That only makes it worse. The doctors said that when I was better, I'd know.’

Teresa thought about it for a while, then said. ‘Don't worry about it Nick. In my line of business I meet loads of blokes who can't get it up.’

‘Gee thanks, Tess,’ I said. ‘I feel heaps better now.’

‘Well you know what they say, don't you?’

‘What?’

‘Fuck you if you can't take a joke.’

With that she stood up and began to undress. Oh, God I thought, men would pay to see this, correction, men do pay to see this. And here I am getting a free show and I knew I'd do nothing about it. I wanted to, but what with my breakdown, that still loomed so large in my life. And the two dead bodies I'd seen that week, and then the attempt on my life, and the threats to Judith. I knew I couldn't handle it. I couldn't concentrate. I was just too aware that under the bed I was sitting on, was a loaded, pump action shot-gun with the safety catch off, and I was listening too hard for visitors to call. Visitors from either side of the law. It was a glamorous life alright, but a tough one to live.

Teresa pulled off her sweater; she wasn't wearing a bra. Her brown breasts were firm and upright, with the deep purple nipples standing erect. Next she unzipped her skirt and allowed it to slip to the floor, then kicked it into a heap by the wall. Her shoes landed next to it one by one. She was wearing tights which she peeled off in a second. She stood before me dressed only in black silk bikini briefs. She removed them in one fluid motion and came and lay next to me and took me in her arms.

Somewhere at the back of my brain, or wherever these things happen, rusty locks were beginning to turn, and bolts that held the doors of emotions that hadn't been used for a long time were trying to open. I felt like a teenager who was seeing a naked woman for the first time.

‘Lie back,’ she ordered. ‘Let's get re-acquainted.’

In the light from the bedside lamp I looked down the length of her. I wondered, not for the first time, how anyone could describe her as black. She was a thousand different colours and shades of colour. Her hair was inky, but her body was tinted from coffee to bitter chocolate colour, yet the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet were pale yellow, seamed with brown. Her tongue was a deep pink and between her legs, where her hair was like mink, she was the colour of strawberry sorbet. I started to kiss her mouth, then her neck and down to her breasts. I took her nipples in my mouth, one by one and chewed on them gently with my tongue and teeth. I felt her start to respond. I kissed her underneath her armpits and felt the stubble where she had shaved rasp against the inside of my mouth. The taste of her was bitter and salt, and mixed with the chemicals from the deodorant that she used.

‘You taste good,’ I whispered.

‘You mean I taste like a nigger bitch.’

‘Correct.’

‘You bastard.’

‘But I love the taste of nigger bitches like you.’

She relaxed and I began to nuzzle inside the crook of her arm and she started to moan softly. I turned her face downwards on the bed. I felt like the great lover. The great lover who couldn't come up with the goods. Not for ever, though, I knew. Things were starting to happen to me that hadn't happened for a long time. And at last with a real live woman.

I began to rub her buttocks and she slowly opened her legs. I rolled her back to face me and she moved under my hands passively. Her pubic hair was tight and curly and looked as if it had been soaked in oil. I moved down and began to kiss her stomach. Then I slid my head down until it was between her legs. My tongue flicked out to touch her clitoris and I felt her hands on my back urging me to kiss her harder. I took no notice. I rolled off the bed and began to kiss and bite her legs. She moved onto her side and I started to kiss the backs of her knees. I remembered how much she loved that. I went even further down her body until I was kissing her feet. I sucked at her toes and bit down hard on her painted toe-nails until she screamed in protest. ‘Come back up,’ she said. So I did. I kissed her lips again and she stuck her tongue straight into my mouth so I could suck on it. I put my hand down into her wet pubic hair and found her clitoris with my fingers. I began to tease and play with it, softly at first, then more roughly until I heard the breath catch in her throat.

‘Harder,’ she begged. ‘Harder Nick.’

I pushed down my fingers as hard as I could, and began to whisper in her ear all the things I wanted her to do, and all the things I was going to do to her. Her breath was ripping in and out by then, and I knew she was on the brink of orgasm.

‘Come on baby,’ I pleaded. ‘Come on.’

She screamed a tiny silent scream, then threw herself against me. I could smell the woman on her, and her face and neck had become visibly darker as the blood rushed to the surface of her skin. We held each other tightly, and slowly her breathing returned to normal.

‘You remembered,’ she whispered.

‘Yes.’

‘How do you feel?’ she asked shyly.

‘You know,’ I replied. ‘Maybe you are a doctor, after all. Or at least a district nurse. If we work on this thing together, I think that a complete cure could come about in time.’

‘But nothing now?’ she sounded disappointed.

‘On the contrary,’ I replied. ‘There was a lot happening, but it's too soon Tess. And besides you've got to go. If we get started it could last all night.’ I corrected myself with a grin. ‘Well ‘til at least a quarter past ten.’

She grinned back. ‘You ambitious boy?’ she asked mockingly.

I didn't want to get started on all that. ‘Seriously, Tess,’ I said, ‘I couldn't handle it if you were hurt, and the longer you're with me, the more likely it is to happen.’

‘I've got Emerald to take care of me.’

‘Right, and thank God you have. Give him a message from me. Tell him that he's got to take special care of you. He'll know what I mean.’

‘OK,’ she said.

She lay naked on the bed with her legs open. When I didn't respond she pulled the cover over herself. I got some more drinks and went back to the armchair. We sat in silence together, sipping at our vodkas.

Finally she broke the silence. ‘Pass my handbag, will you Nick?’ she asked. When she'd entered the room she'd dropped the bag just inside the door. It wasn't particularly big, but I knew what it would contain from experience. Enough cosmetics to make up a theatre group, a thick paperback book and at least one change of clothes. I went and fetched it for her. It weighed a ton. She reached into it and after hunting about for a bit, she produced a joint. It was a single skinner, short and fat and rolled in yellow paper.

‘Do you mind?’ she asked politely.

‘Not in the least,’ I replied equally politely. We learned all the drug graces at finishing school.

‘Have you got a light?’

I fetched her a match from the kitchen and she lit the cigarette. After a long drag she offered it to me.

‘No thanks,’ I declined.

‘Christ, you've changed.’

‘I know, I've even given up regular cigarettes.’

Her voice was strained from keeping the smoke in her lungs. ‘So you've cleaned up your act, eh Nicky boy?’

‘Well sort of.’

‘I'm glad,’ she commented. ‘When I first came in, I thought you were still dipping into Charlie's bag.’

‘Lack of sleep has the same effect,’ I said.

I could smell the grass in the warm atmosphere of the room. It mixed with the muskiness of Teresa's sex and reminded me of many things from the past.

‘Good?’ I asked.

‘The best.’

‘What is it?’

‘Colombian.’

I was impressed.

‘Oh well,’ I said. ‘As long as it's not South African.’

She smiled a languorous smile as the dope hit. I even got a buzz from the residue in the air. I was tempted to take her to bed for the night, but I couldn't.

‘Where are you going? Do you need a lift?’ I asked.

‘No, I'm fine. I'll go and visit my friends. I'll stay the night there. That means I'll be sleeping just two streets away. Does that do anything for you?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, and it did. It made me afraid for her. Although I didn't tell her so.

‘I'll walk you round,’ I said.

‘Don't bother,’ she retorted. ‘I'll sneak out by myself, I'm used to that.’

‘Don't belittle yourself Teresa. You're worth more than that.’

‘I know exactly what I'm worth, to the penny.’

I never could win an argument with her.

‘At least tell me where you're living,’ I said.

‘OK.’

‘Write it out here.’ I gave her my notebook and a pen. She scribbled something on a blank page. I took the notebook back and put it in my pocket.

‘Come by any time,’ she said ‘You’ re always welcome.’

‘How often do you go to Emerald's these days?’ I enquired.

‘Every day, every day at five, I'm there for something to eat.’

‘If this thing I'm involved with works out alright, one day at five I'll be there too. Just watch the door.’

‘And if it doesn't work out?’ she asked with a frown.

I felt like saying that if it didn't, she could have a drink for me one day at five and then forget she ever met me. But I didn't.

‘It will,’ I replied.

Perhaps she didn't believe me, because she jumped up suddenly, and I knew that if I looked closely I'd see her tears. So I didn't look. It would have been too easy to beg her to stay. She got dressed with her back turned towards me, then said, ‘Take care of yourself, promise me. I'll watch the door every day. Just don't leave it too long, I'm getting tired of waiting for you.’ She turned briefly and looked at me. I saw a future in her look and almost said the words we both wanted to hear. Something stopped me and she left without another word. I watched her from the window. She didn't look back. Nothing moved in the street. No-one followed her, and no cars pulled away as she crossed and vanished into the suit of the night.

The last I knew of her was the clicking, clacking of her high heeled shoes on the pavement. But that too soon died into the darkness. I lay back on the bed and smelled her perfume on the pillow until I fell asleep fully clothed.

At some time in the night I must have undressed myself and got under the bed covers. I remember it was a night of disturbed, restless sleep, haunted by dreams of Laura, Teresa, Patsy Bright and all the other characters I'd encountered over the previous week.

I rose early and got dressed to kill. I chose tight, faded jeans, baseball boots, an Oxford cloth button down collar shirt and one of those loud, checked, baggy cotton jackets that were so popular that summer. For my main accessory I chose the Colt Cobra I tucked into the waistband of my jeans, at the back, well hidden by the drape of my jacket. I put an extra dozen bullets into my trouser pocket, where they nestled lumpily against my groin. Reluctantly I had to leave the shotgun. I hid it in the crawlspace in the roof of the house with the 12-gauge shells and the rest of the ammunition for the .38. I'd decided to go on the offensive at last. That Friday was going to be my day. The day to finish the Bright case once and for all. I drove the Trans-Am down to the office and parked it right outside. I was determinded to get hold of George Bright and talk to the men who worked for him. I was sure that one or more of them had information that I could use.

There was no sign of Cat, I guessed he'd deserted me for pastures new and a more regular food supply.

It was still early, not quite nine and there was no answer at George's warehouse when I called. I decided to make a personal visit. I went back out to the Pontiac and climbed behind the wheel. I sat staring at the controls for a long time. Finally I started the engine; it caught first time. I put the car into gear and pulled away from the kerb. I drove to Herne Hill with George Bright's business card on the seat next to me.

The warehouse was situated close to the railway station and I parked the car tight up to a wall surrounding the goods yard. I could hear the noise of the trains from where I sat. George's building stood alone in the centre of a block waiting for redevelopment. It was built like a fort, in grey stone which had been repaired and enlarged with concrete slabs. The long, narrow windows looking out onto the road were streaked with grime and I could see moss growing up the walls where water had leaked from the guttering on the roof. On the left of the main building was an archway that led from the street into a courtyard surrounded on three sides by a high, brick wall. A heavy duty wire grilled gate had been set into the archway, and it was fastened by a large, brass padlock hooked through a length of chain. I saw through the grille that the courtyard itself was a muddy quagmire, dissected by a cobbled drive. The whole place was as quiet as a church. Facing the street, opposite to where I had parked was a huge metal door, set into the stone. Upon it was mounted a wooden plaque with the words BRIGHT LEISURE picked out in chrome lettering. The chrome was as discoloured as the rest of the building. There was a battered entryphone mounted by the side of the door. I left the car and walked over to the warehouse. I pressed the button on the machine and waited. A distorted voice asked me my business. It could have been anyone speaking.

‘Nick Sharman to see George Bright,’ I said into the plastic mouthpiece. There was no reply. I pushed the door, it was securely locked. After a few seconds a buzzer sounded and I pushed the door again. That time it opened and I stepped through into George's little empire.

Inside the door was a reception area. The room was painted beige and the floor was covered with dark green carpet. Photographs of juke boxes and pin-tables decorated the walls. They all looked like relics from the late fifties. There were three closed doors leading out of the room. Between two of the doors, on the wall opposite me stood a dark brown leather chesterfield. In front of the sofa was a low, glass topped coffee table with several trade magazines scattered on top. Directly in front of me, blocking access to the room was a light coloured wooden desk supporting a telephone and a typewriter. Behind the desk was a typist's chair. That was where Patsy must have sat when she worked for her father. I pictured her sitting there. Apart from the furniture, the room was empty.

The middle door of the three opened and George Bright came into the room. He was wearing a grey, single breasted, three piece suit, a grey shirt and a grey tie. I checked his shoes, thank God they weren't grey too. He was wearing black Gucci casuals. I must admit that George's wardrobe was top class. I stood and waited and felt like a scruff. George half ran, half walked towards me. One look at his face told me that I was about as welcome as a bacon sandwich in a kosher snack bar.

‘What do you want here Sharman?’ he shouted. ‘I thought I told you I didn't need you any more.’

Now I knew how a used Kleenex feels.

‘And I told you it was personal,’ I said. ‘Well it's even more personal now.’

I told George about the letter that had been left for me at the office. When I'd finished his face was shocked and his hands were trembling. ‘I don't know what to say.’ He wasn't shouting now. His voice was hoarse and deep. I didn't blame him, I didn't know what to say either.

‘Don't say anything George,’ I said. ‘Just introduce me to these blokes that work for you. You told them that you'd hired me and strange things started happening.’

‘What about the people you told?’ George interrupted.

‘They're both above suspicion,’ I retorted. ‘One was the detective sergeant that you reported Patsy's disappearance to, and as for the others,’ I hesitated. I could hardly tell George about Terry's decapitated body, that was even now decomposing in the police mortuary. ‘He doesn't figure any more.’ I finished half heartedly.

George didn't seem to notice.

‘I am going to see your men George, I'm not asking you I'm telling you.’ He looked at me pleadingly. ‘By the way,’ I continued, ‘you've never told me, how many of them are there?’

‘Two, just two,’ he replied. ‘On a permanent basis. I use other lads casually as I need them. Cash in hand, you know.’ I knew.

The old black economy rearing its head.

‘What are their names?’

‘That's really none of your business,’ he blustered.

‘Just tell me George,’ I insisted.

‘Lynch and Grant,’ he capitulated.

‘Describe them.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What I say, describe them.’

He thought for a while.

‘Lynch is tall and dark with a beard and Grant is getting on a bit, he's got grey hair, but he's well built too, about six foot tall.’ The descriptions meant nothing to me.

‘Where are they?’

‘I've told you I don't want you talking to them. I simply mentioned your name. Besides you don't seem to understand. I don't want you to do anything more about Patsy. I've told you that enough times already.’ He seemed to be getting more and more agitated with every moment that passed.

‘Stop fucking me about George,’ I said through clenched teeth. ‘I don't care what you want. It's what I want that matters now, and I want to see your staff, and if I don't get to see them -’ I didn't finish the sentence. I think I would have hit him if I had. ‘Where the hell are they?’ I asked finally.

I think George sensed my mood.

‘They're out delivering some machines. They won't be back until late this afternoon.’

‘Have you got a list of their calls?’ I asked. ‘I'll catch them up.’

‘They left early this morning. The drops were in Leicester. You'll never catch them now, come back later.’

‘Let me see their manifest,’ I demanded. I know bullshit when it's waved under my nose, and what George was giving me was 100% proof.

‘We don't work like that. I just give them receipts to be signed and the addresses to go to. They know most of the calls anyway. This is just a small firm.’

‘Have you got a list of your customers?’

‘Of course.’

‘Show me where they've gone and I'll call ahead.’

I didn't think he liked the idea, but he said, ‘Come on then, the book's in my office, downstairs.’

I followed George out of the same door as he'd used to enter the reception room, which led straight into a windowless storage area. We walked through and down a flight of stairs to the basement.

George led me down a bare corridor and through a door at the end. I found myself standing in a tiny office. It smelled of old chips and sweaty feet. George obviously put most of his profits into his own house and car, and onto his back. The walls were painted white and stained with nicotine. Close to the ceiling in one corner was a small, permanently sealed window glazed with dirty opaque glass. In the centre of the room stood an old, scarred desk with some papers and a telephone sitting on it. Behind the desk was an executive swivel chair, upholstered in some vague, grey, tweedy material. Next to the chair, hard up against the wall was an old fashioned metal safe. The only other furniture in the room was a battered filing cabinet made from dark green tin. On it stood an electric kettle, an assortment of chipped cups and mugs, and tea and coffee-making paraphernalia. The floor was covered with an off-cut of carpet, worn and ragged at the edges.

‘So this is the hub of your little universe,’ I said. ‘I'm impressed. It's just like home,’ I continued, letting an edge of contemptuousness enter my voice. George ignored it and went behind his desk and sat down. But then he's never seen my home. As there were no other seats to be had, I perched on the edge of the desk. He opened a deep drawer and produced a bottle of brandy and two misty glasses. ‘It's a bit early for you, isn't it George?’ I queried.

‘Have a quick one while I look up that ‘phone number for you,’ he said.

‘You mean you don't know it?’

He looked at me as if I was stupid. ‘Not off-hand. I've got lots of customers up there. It's here in the book.’

He drew a battered ledger from another drawer, opened it and flicked through the pages. He was either very clever or telling the truth. I poured a good measure of brandy into each glass as he searched. ‘Right,’ he said, pulled the ‘phone in front of him and started to dial.

‘Let me do that,’ I said.

He passed me the book and pointed to the name of a club in Leicester. I dialled the number and listened to the ringing tone. After three rings the inevitable answerphone cut in.

‘Very good George,’ I said. ‘It's another fucking machine.’

‘That's the way it goes,’ he replied, glancing at his watch. ‘No-one ever answers in clubs at this hour. They'll be shut, and some barmen or other will be sitting, sampling the booze and waiting for the delivery. I do my business during licensing hours. What did you expect?’

I couldn't work out if he was taking the rise out of me or not. I slammed the ‘phone down on the mechanical voice and got to my feet. ‘Write the number down for me,’ I ordered. He copied it out onto a scrap of paper as I finished my brandy. ‘I'll try again later. If I can't get through, I'll come back here. You'd better tell your people to hang on for me, or else things could get ugly.’ I didn't quite know what I meant by that, perhaps I'd wear a gorilla mask.

‘Fine,’ said George, quite unfazed. ‘I'll do that.’

I followed him to the front door. We paused briefly to say goodbye. George was on the step above me. It made him taller than me. I didn't like that. George smirked slightly as he began to close the door. I thought I'd get a quick one in below the snakeskin belt he was wearing. ‘I spoke to one of Patsy's friends the other night,’ I said. George blanched until his face was the same colour as his suit. He said nothing.

‘I tracked him down to where he used to share digs with Jane Lewis. You remember her don't you? You saw her body in cold storage on Monday afternoon.’

‘I remember,’ said George.

‘He seems like a nice boy,’ I continued. ‘The way he tells it, it was just two kids trying to make their way in the world together, sharing a squat in picaresque old Brixton Town. Just them and every other doper around. And who was supplying the goodies? Why sweet little Patsy Bright. That's who.’

I made as if to leave.

‘What?’ spluttered George, his hands working themselves into fists. I turned back. ‘He told me Patsy was a dealer, a very big dealer in very hard drugs.’

I thought George was going to faint or hit me, or both. ‘Have you told this preposterous story to anyone else?’ he demanded.

‘I might have mentioned it.’

‘Now see here Sharman,’ he said, and hustled close to me. Too close. His breath was full of brandy and anger, or was it fear? ‘You make that allegation to anyone else and I'll see you in court. Patricia was a good girl.’ He paused. ‘Is a good girl,’ he went on, correcting his tense. ‘And I won't have you blackening her name.’

He raised his hands still clenched into fists. They were the size of small cauliflowers. I realised that George must have once been quite a heavy geezer. I wondered if he'd run with any of the famous South London gangs of the fifties.

He unclenched one fist and put his hand on my shoulder. It weighed heavily. His face had gone from grey to livid red. I thought he must have read my mind when he said. ‘Don't underestimate me Sharman. I might not be all that now, but once …’ He left the sentence unfinished as if I was going to be impressed. I felt sorrow more than anger. I couldn't be bothered by more threats. I'd been threatened by the cream.

‘Lay off George,’ I said, shrugging his hand off. ‘It's too late. You'll have to do more than serve papers to stop me.’

‘I'll - ‘ he said. I never found out what.

‘No you won't,’ I interrupted. I turned and walked back to the car. George remained on the steps of the warehouse and watched me go. I glanced back as I unlocked the car. He looked like an old man all of a sudden. I wondered when that would happen to me, when some jack the lad would ignore my threats and just walk off in disgust, too confident that I was bluffing to even worry about turning his back. I got into the car and drove off. George's figure shrunk in my rear view mirror until it disappeared completely as I turned the corner.

I drove straight back to Tulse Hill, dumped the car outside the pub and checked the office. No mail, no nothing. Another storm was grumbling in the sky somewhere to the east.

I was at a loose end again. I went to the pub and drowned a few sorrows. Not enough, there wasn't a bottle big enough. I left the office door open and hung around outside the pub in the sunshine with the rest of the unemployed. The hours stretched and I wondered where my ex-wife and daughter were. I wondered where Patsy Bright was. I wondered about the meaning of life and lots more. I felt about as useful as a tailor in a nudist camp.