Violet

The soundtrack of a hip-hopped London. Bulgaria, Bhangra and bedlam. All the gruff, cherry red market boys sing along.

‘Oranges and lemons, poor Mickey Clemons, not a penny in his pocket, a shirt upon his back’.

Holes in the brogues, ten years old. Heels down to cork and a coat of wafer. A crumpled tenner in a pocket that’s about to split.

It rains vertical. Needle hard. Cats, violins and vinegar. Cold down the hill, the view is slate grey. Skeletons march. Hopper never came here. Not once saw this Walthamstow boy.

'Poor Mickey Clemons. Never cut out for this town.'

Into a charity shop, the smell of cardboard. Books stacked by the unloved. Music on the stereo, 'The Bangles'. Who walks like an Egyptian here?

Outside, women scream. Mickey sighs, picks up a vase.

Through the rails. Jackets they have died in, or bought when they were mad. Leatherette, polyester and gabardine mix. Stains, rips, history. There’s a haggle behind him. A deal struck on a chipped cocktail glass.

Grabs one off a hanger, Mickey slips it on, too big. He likes the cut of it, two buttons, and lapels like razors. Saville Row maybe. He fingers the breast pocket, something there. He fingers a photo, sepia, creased. On the back a scribble. ‘My darling Reggie. Kill Jack the Hat tonight. My love, Violet.’

The rain has stopped.