Verismo Bliss Chapter 7

7.

When Harry stepped out on to Mercer Street, John Khan leapt up from where he had been sitting on the kerb, like a ragamuffin jack-in-the-box. Harry, his beating still a recent memory, flinched, his hands instinctively clenching into fists.
‘What happened to you, man?’
‘Everybody keeps asking me that and I’m running out of smart arse replies.’
‘Sorry, dude. Hope the other guy got off worse.’
‘There were two of them and ugly enough already that any damage I did would be an improvement.’
‘Hell of a city, ain’t it?’ Khan was drifting, hopping from foot to foot, his eyes unable to focus on one thing for more than two seconds.
‘It’s a beautiful city; just the people leave a lot to be desired.’
‘Desired. Desire. Isn’t that a wonderful word? Deeeee-zire.’
‘Were you looking for me, John?’
Khan looked up at him. ‘John? Ha, nobody really calls me John anymore, except Babylon or my parents. Dunno where my mum and dad are now. On the street they call me Jonka. That’s how they know me. You wanna score some dopa’ you see old Jonka. His lime green eyes sparkled for a moment in the afternoon glare.
‘I wanted to see you, Harry. That girl. The picture.’ He tugged out the photograph of Gwendolyn Falsham that Harry had given him; it was ragged and creased now. ‘I saw her, last night.’
‘You sure?’
Khan frowned and looked down at the picture. ‘I was sure last night. And sure this morning. But now you put the creeping doubt in my mind. Why’d you do that?’
‘Tell me what you saw.’
‘It was around a bright midnight, down on The Strand, by the Adelphi. I was there just gazing up at the moon which shone upon the city like a guardian goddess. Then I saw her. First I thought I knew her and I was gonna say hello, but she walked straight past me like she had never seen me before in her life. I get that sometimes, so took no pain from it. But then I recalled her face and pulled out your photo. Sure, that was her. What had fooled me was the hair, dig?’
‘The hair?’
‘Yeah, man, she gone red. And not neo-punk red but what they call Rita Red; you know, after that long gone dead film star. But it was her, she could not fool Jonka, no way bro’. So I tailed her, you know, like a good Sherlock. She went into the Strand Palace. I tried to go in after her but they stopped me. Guess I don’t look like a resident. I hung around for a little but then had business to do.’
‘How’d she look?’
‘Good. She looked good. I’d be happy waking up with her in the mornings, making scrambled egg on toast in our pyjamas for breakfast, then lazing around watching black and white flicks on the tube all day. You like the picture I paint?’
‘Sure, who wouldn’t? But did she look healthy? What was she wearing?’
‘She looked fine. She wore a yellow top that came to her knees and blue jeans. With the hair colour she looked like an exotic parrot.’
‘You did good, John.’ Harry gave him two Hawkins’ and hoped the kid didn’t spend it on food for the mind.
Harry knew one of the doormen at the Strand Palace, but he wouldn’t be on until later. He’d put it on his to do list. He took the Tube the short distance to Russell Square. Gould, Strange and Abbas had their offices just off the green square where office workers lounged in the late lunch lethargy. Noche couldn’t have been doing too badly for himself if he could afford lawyers in Bloomsbury. Gould, Strange and Abbas had the air of an undertakers. They took the law seriously here, as though if you spoke too loudly a carefully crafted piece of legislation could crumble like a bad soufflé. Everything was wood and glass. Pictures hung on the wall depicting the guardians of the law going back a couple of centuries. It was all made to intimidate the poor sod who needed help. But poor sods were thin on the ground in places like Gould, Strange and Abbas - they dealt more with businesses than individuals. The man behind the reception desk was wearing a suit that looked as if it had been bespoke for him that very morning and glasses that had come straight off the Milanese catwalk. Behind the glasses, two small eyes looked at Harry with concern. He guessed they didn’t do much GBH work.
‘Hi, I’m working with the police on a case and wondered if I could speak to whichever solicitor is dealing with the will for Luz Noche.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No. But it is rather important. It involves a murder case.’
‘ID.’
Harry passed over his ID which the receptionist, whose name tag declared to be called Jean-Jacques Miller, put into the reader attached to the PC.
‘It says here that your sub-contracting with the Met was terminated today.’
‘Really? Must be a glitch – you know how this tech is always playing up. I’m sure if you gave Detective Karl Carr a call he will vouch for me.’
‘Sir, I really don’t have time to do that. We are very busy. When you get the correct documentation please call and make an appointment.’
‘Can you tell me which solicitor is dealing with the Noche case?’
Miller looked up with immense disagreement. Reluctantly he tapped the details into the computer. ‘Mr Strange.’
Harry walked into the building.
‘Sir. Sir! You can’t just walk down there. Security!’
Harry found the door marked Clive Strange, knocked and walked in. It was a large office of panelled walls, bookcases, drink cabinets and artwork. Behind the largest desk Harry had seen in a while sat a corpulent, red-faced man, who looked like he would have to avoid sea food restaurants in case he was mistaken for a lobster. He was in his late fifties. ‘Who are you?’ he said, leaning forward in his chair, so that his bulk overflowed across the desktop.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr Strange, but I need some very important information to do with a murder investigation.’
The receptionist with security man in tow fell into the room. Jean-Jacques began blustering about how he had tried to stop Harry getting in and the security guard fingered his belt like a righteous bad dude from some saloon scene in a b-movie Western. Harry wondered if he was going to tell him to be on the first stagecoach out of town.
‘Murder, eh? Haven’t dealt with anything like that for a long time,’ Strange said, stroking his chins. ‘Who are you?’
‘Reed. Harry Reed. I’m a private detective. I’m working on a case with the police.’
‘Was working,’ the receptionist said. ‘His ID says he isn’t anymore.’
Strange pointed at Harry’s face. ‘You know it might surprise you, but I myself got knocked about in the old days when trying to run down the low life. Now it’s corporate crime and bad guys wear suits and ties and can steal as much as the Hole in the Wall gang with just a stroke of a pen.’
Harry looked around the room. ‘Pays well, though.’
‘Sit down. I’ll give you ten minutes of my time. You can go Miller.’
‘But, sir…’
Strange threw him a glance and the two men disappeared, like scolded dogs.
For the first five minutes of his allotted ten minutes, Strange reminisced about the gangsters he used to knock about with and face in court. Play fair with them and they played fair, up to a point, of course. He laughed as he talked about the time he was threatened by ‘Jackdaw’ McGraw with a knife the size of Sheffield. He missed those days, he said. He’d made it big when he’d successfully defended the private health company, Asclepius, against accusations that it had carried out research on people who died in their care without the next of kin’s permission. The accusation was true, but Strange had argued that it had been done with the best interests and for the common weal. Indeed, he produced figures to show how many people were alive because of the research. Some of them he wheeled into the witness box to relate their life affirming stories. Even the relatives of the deceased had tears in their eyes.
‘Nice touch,’ Harry said.
‘Juries aren’t interested in the strokes and crosses of the law; they want the human story.’
‘Luz Noche. Murdered. You’re dealing with his estate?’
‘Indeed. The majority of the estate has been left to one person. We are trying to trace her.’
Harry frowned. ‘I thought she had an appointment with you today? I was with Ramona earlier; she said she was meeting you today.’
‘The daughter? No, I haven’t seen her since last week when I told her the contents of the will, and that didn’t go well.’
‘How so?’
‘Ramona Noche gets the shop in Covent Garden, for what it’s worth. The rest of Luz Noche’s estate goes to a Gloria Isles. It’s Gloria Isles that we can’t trace.’

In Russell Square, Harry sat beneath a tree in full bloom. The skies were going grey and most of the workers had returned to their desks. Harry had asked Strange how a man who owned a grotty little antiques shop in Covent Garden could afford the man who had saved Asclepius. Strange had grinned – he had known Noche quite well. The antique shop was just a hobby. Noche had made a lot of money on the markets – buying up cheap after the financial meltdown with a good eye for which companies were going to recover quickest. He was planning on marrying Gloria Isles, did Harry know that? But she had vanished. He had people who were trying to track her down, but if Harry found anything out, be sure to let Strange know. Eh, old chap? You scratch mine and I’ll scratch yours.
A pigeon landed near Harry’s foot, jerked it’s head at him, saw he had no food, and departed. He opened up his smart and made a note, in capital red letters, GLORIA ISLES. Then he scoped down the list of female contacts from Luz Noche’s address book.

If they were still publishing Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies then Harry reckoned Christine’s entry would go something along the lines of: A jolly wench and good sport though wont to be ‘over physical’ in her play fighting. She enjoys her work and goes at it with glee; as lewd as a dog in a street. Makes a man feel wanted, but beware her thieving hands from your purse.
‘Oh, poor Mr Noche, I was so sad to hear about what happened to him. He was a real gentleman. Old school.’
Christine was barely out of her teens and was living in a rented two roomed apartment in a building on Wild Street that looked like it hadn’t been fixed up since the blitz. She wore a short, low cut, black and white striped dress that Harry knew he could remove for a as little as a Churchill. Her hair was short, black and in a style that reminded him of Hitler. Maybe mein Führer had escaped the bunker and fathered sex crazed kids in London.
‘How old are you?’ she asked, taking hold of his arm and leading him into the room.
‘Old enough to be your dad.’
‘Maybe I like older men.’
‘Like Noche?’
‘Hmm, maybe not that old, but like I said he was a good bloke and always gave me a nice tip. Though I always deserve my tips. Strong. ’ She sat on the bed that took up the whole of one wall. ‘Come, sit down. I know it’s not a great place but I’ll soon have enough money to get out of here.’
She crossed her legs and Harry quite clearly saw her white panties. She smiled at him and put her fingers through her hair.
‘When did you last see Noche?’
‘You said you’re a private detective?’
‘Sure.’
‘So if you pay for information you can claim that back as expenses,’ she said, giggling and touching his leg.
Harry took out a Hawkins’ and put it on the bed.
‘It was the arse end of July.’
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘It was the shop - you know his shop? He’d call up and I’d go round. Never took long. Men always seem to have a problem lasting with me, know what I mean? How old did you say you were?’
‘Did he seem any different that night?’
Christine uncrossed and crossed her legs again and nodded at the cash on the bed. Harry doubled it up.
‘He was more cautious.’
‘Cautious?’
‘Yeah, he said his daughter had found out about the women he saw. Dunno why she was so upset, the old guy was just getting his rocks off like everybody else. Why shouldn’t he enjoy himself? God, the way he said she went on about it you’d think she was born in the ‘70’s or something. Get real.’ She lay back, her firm breasts pointing upwards, her bare foot touching Harry.
‘He mention his girlfriend?’
‘He said he was planning on getting married and that he’d stop fooling around once he did. That’s only fair. If you’re married –and that ain’t for everyone – then you make a commitment to one person and you gotta stick with it. Though why anybody would want to do that in this day and age eludes me. Life is too short to waste it on just one person.’ Her foot was now rubbing his leg.
‘So did the wife-to-be know about his funding the self-employed?’
She shrugged.
‘What about other body sellers? You know any of their names?’
‘Oh I think he was working his way through the whole of Covent Garden. Most of them around here went with Noche. One time me and Mandy – she’s a nice little Pakistani girl – had a threesome with him. Fuck, I thought we were gonna kill the bastard! You know, Muslims, supposed to be all religious and restricted, well not in my experience – they’re the worse. Maybe it’s once they let loose they really let loose, you groove?’
‘Did he talk special about any of the girls? Do you know if he was seeing anybody the night he died?’
‘Nah, I only know it wasn’t me, thank fuck. Oh there was a new girl he’d taken a shine to,’ she suddenly remembered, pleased with herself. ‘He told me he’d been with her once but was a bit worried about seeing her again ‘cos he thought she might be underage. And he really did wanna see her again, I could tell. So he was feeling me out whilst feeling me up, wondering if I knew her and if so how old she was.’
‘And did you know her?’
‘She rang no bells. A red head going by the name of Rachel.’
‘When was this?’
‘This would have been the last time I saw him.’
Harlan thought for a moment, as her foot stroked higher up his leg.
‘So does detective work pay much money?’
‘I eat. I have a roof over my head. And sometimes I fuck.’
‘How about now?’
He thought about Ramona. He pulled out a Churchill and put it with the two Hawkins’. Then he pulled up her dress and pulled down her panties.

Standing in Wild Street, trying to make out the sky through the overhanging buildings and the smoke from a fire that was burning in a derelict, half-standing building, Harry felt utterly unsatisfied. Sure, she’d had a good fuckable body and had known how to use it but she had giggled like an immature kid and, afterwards, whilst he was wondering what the fuck he was doing, she had put on a classic episode of Spongebob and for some reason that had made him feel as if he had taken advantage of her, rather than the other way round. She hadn’t even wanted to check his health ID and he hadn’t checked hers. She did want to know why he was so insistent on wearing a johnny and when he told her she said she wanted him to cum in her mouth. She wanted to know if fertile sperm tasted any different to the average variety. He hadn’t bothered asking her if it did and had left half way through the Spongebob – she didn’t take her eyes from the screen as she said, ‘Seeya. Come and see me again.’
The smoke cleared and Harry saw a sky turning black with rain clouds. He needed to keep working. That was all. Keep working. Gather the facts. The facts add up. The solution is found. Mysteries are just scattered facts that somebody hasn’t connected up. He could sense himself struggling with his blackness, just as the clouds were suffocating the sky and the rain doused the fire.
He made his way down to Aldwych and crossed the Strand to Waterloo Bridge. He walked half way across and then paused, the rain heavy on him now. The views of London from the bridge were usually a tourist’s wet dream, but the sky was so black and the rain so heavy that you could hardly see St Paul’s dome. But that didn’t matter to Harry; he was staring into the dirty blackness of the Thames. It was from this bridge that Mary had taken her final journey. He came here sometimes when he needed some perspective. Mary had been destroyed by the bottle and it was form a bottle that he had poured her. The sky was pregnant with snow that day and as he had poured her grey ashes into the river the first snows of the winter had fallen. He had been the only one to see her off on that final journey; all her other friends gone. Alcohol is a jealous friend and lover. And the river kept flowing and what perspective did he find? That people die? Hell, everybody knows that. So what then? That once somebody loved him and he had loved them? But how could she have really loved him, when she was driven to the bottle? And she hadn’t loved him the day he’d committed her to the drying out clinic. How could anyone dry out in this fucking town anyway? It was always wet. If Samuel Johnson was right then Harry was tired of life, for he was bloody well tired of this town.
He turned up the collar of his coat and made his way back to the Strand. All there was was the work. The work was the distraction. He went to the Strand Palace Hotel and spoke to Jack, the doorman. Sure, Jack remembered the girl in the photograph. She had a nice smile. She’d used the hotel a couple of times that he could recall. Yeah, he’d give Harry a call if he saw her again. Put your money away, what’s a favour between mates?
A lot of detective work was spent waiting for others to do your work for you. He went to the Lamb and Flag and ate a steak and ale pie in the company of men who stared listlessly into dark beers and spoke about the start of the football season as though it was the answer to all their prayers, and women who stared disconsolately into spirit glasses and spoke about the weather and job prospects. Harry ordered an Old Speckled Hen, and gazed into it, not wishing to feel the odd one out. He wasn’t a big drinker; he had cleaned up too much vomit from Mary to be a big drinker, but sometimes he did like to let himself be lost in the darkness with John Barleycorn. He stayed in the Lamb and Flag for a couple of hours, gazing at the ale until the glass was empty and then getting it filled up again by the obliging barman, so that he could stare into it again.
He received two messages whilst he sat there. He didn’t reply to either. The first was from Carr saying he was sorry he couldn’t talk earlier; he hoped Harry understood (Sure. How is Fred these days?). He’d do his best to let Harry back in on the case, in the meantime carry on working on it on the q.t.. The second message was from Ramona who apologised for having to run out on him, but you know how punctilious solicitors are, don’t you? On her way out of Harry’s she had been invited by Paolo to a dinner party. He said he’d invited Harry too, but that he wouldn’t go without Ramona. She’d love to go! It would be good to distract her mind from all the recent horror.
The sky was turning a blood red colour as the evening moved toward night and Harry left the Lamb and Flag. He walked down to the New Roxy. Just a doorway in a broken tiled entryway. He wondered where all the original punks who had come down the Roxy were now? They’d all be in their seventies or even eighties now he figured. Rebel or straight, you all ended up in the same place, in the crematorium fire and then scattered to the wind. Nobody was buried anymore. The earth couldn’t take it.
There was a support band playing, they were bad enough to be ignored by the punters, but not so bad that they got any abuse. Harry sat at the bar and ordered a bottle of Viva. It tasted sweet after the bitter ale. He gazed around him. All the neo-punks were like peacocks trying to outdo each other with their coloured hair and mashed up clothes. Harry smiled. There was a nice vibe to the place and the crowd was boisterous but friendly. For the briefest of moments he suddenly felt he belonged, but then he saw himself reflected in the mirror behind the bar. He saw the greying hair and the lines around the eyes. He saw the straight clothes. The boring colours. He saw death in the eyes. He looked down at his hands and saw, ingrained in the palms, all the good and bad that they had done. The comfort and the violence. And he knew in that moment that he could never belong with this crowd anymore. His time had gone. He saw himself how they saw him – a boring old fart.
‘Hey, man, you’re that geezer who was beaten up the other night, ain’t you?’
White shirt, brown skin and strawberry mohican.
‘Neapolitan, right?’
Neo nodded and held out his hand. Harry held out his hand. Neo then began a complicated routine that must have passed for a greeting in the neo-punk world; Harry embarrassedly tried to keep up. It just made him fucking older.
‘Hey, in this light the damage ain’t too grievous,’ Neo said, squinting at Harry.
‘Let me get you a drink, as a thank you.’
‘Cool. Strawberry Blitzkrieg, Benji.’
Benji was the name of the barman who looked only just old enough to drink in a club himself. Harry had never heard of a Strawberry Blitzkrieg, but judging by the mixture of spirits that went into it he guessed it would have the same effect on the body as the Stuka had on Poland.
‘You here for the band, man?’
‘The Prostates? They any good?’
‘Sure. I know the singer. They got attitude. Strong. White heat. Dig?’
‘Is Navaho in tonight?’
‘Nav? Sure, she was here, but she gone out. Scoring. She be back later, I think - though with Nav you never know.’
The rest of the gang appeared. He bought Bernie and Worm drinks that were just as outrageous and heavy on the alcohol content as Neo’s had been. They began laying down conversations over each other in a patois foreign to him. He listened to the band. He figured he must be beginning to feel a little drunk as the music was beginning to make sense to him. They ended with the Clash song Should I Stay or Should I Go and were duly bottled off. Nobody liked the Clash anymore, even Harry knew that. Revisionism to the original punk view: the Clash had sold out the movement by signing to CBS. It was a nice piece of provocation by the unknown band to end with a Clash song. The general consensus from Neo and his mates though, was that they’d blown it by not having the balls to stay on stage as the bottles rained down.
Harry drank. He tried to drown his self-awareness. The Prostates hit the stage at 9.30 and there was a crush towards the stage. Harry ordered another drink from Benji. The Prostates were a thrash-a-billy band. The singer’s blonde quiff hovered over the audience and he wield the guitar as though it was a weapon of mass destruction. The drummer played standing up. The bass player slapped and spun an upright bass that was as big as he was. The lead guitarist wore leather trousers so tight that he just stood in one place and looked cool with black mohican, sunglasses and a tattoo of a bleeding skull across his bare chest. Harry liked the way they looked. After two blistering numbers they slowed it down a little with a number the singer introduced as London Loss. It had a melancholic minor chord change in it and after hearing it for the second time, Harry reached for his smart. He pulled up Ramona’s message about the dinner party at Paolo’s. He hit reply. He began to compose some vitriol in his head. Then he smelt vanilla.
‘Hey, Harry.’
He looked down to his right. It was Navaho. She was wearing a forest green dress that went all the way down to her ankles, hugging every curve as it went. If Morticia Addams had worn any colour other than black then that was the dress she would have worn. Harry had a thing for Morticia Addams; the TV show one, not the movie one.
‘Nav. Hey, good to see you.’
‘You been drinking, Harry?’
‘Sure.’
‘You sending a message to a woman.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You like her?’
He looked at the smart in his hand and frowned.
‘Then don’t send a message. Drink and narcotics don’t mix with the written word.’
‘Tell that to Ernest Hemingway.’
‘Come, dance with me.’
Before he knew what had happened, she had taken the smart from his hand and put it in her bag. Then she took his hand and pulled him away from the bar. The music was loud and fast but she danced slow and close, enveloping him in her vanilla scent. He noticed that her pupils were enlarged and wondered if she, like him, was under the influence. Harry couldn’t dance, but it didn’t seem to matter. They both just swayed like willow trees buffeted by musical notes. The Prostates did a version of She’s Like Heroin To Me. Harry knew this one. He wanted to tell them all that he knew this one but then another voice told him they would just think he was an arse.
He pulled away from Nav. ‘Let’s get a drink.’
She held his hand lightly as they went to the bar and he bought them both drinks.
‘Looks like you’re healing ok,’ she said, her fingers touching his cheek. ‘What you been up to Mr Detective?’
He shrugged. ‘I think I’ve been feeling sorry for myself, in-between detective stuff.’
She smiled. ‘Feeling sorry for yourself is ok as long as you turn the negative energy into something positive: change!’
‘You weren’t there when I woke up.’
‘I never am.’
‘I needed to ask you something.’
‘About Wat Tyler?’
‘How did you know?’
‘You were mumbling something about my t-shirt the other night. It didn’t take much for me to realise Wat Tyler meant something to you in your professional capacity. Is that why you are here?’
‘Yeah, but I wanted to see you too.’
‘Heart cross true?’
He laughed. ‘Yeah, heart cross true. You remind me of what it’s like to be young.’
‘Do you forget as you get older?’
‘A little, yes.’
She turned her attention to the band and let the music drown out her thoughts. Then she turned to him. ‘Why’d you want Wat Tyler?’
‘Missing girl. He manipulated her ID card and since then she’s been invisible.’
‘Not a he. Wat Tyler is a tribe. And I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear they are very secretive.’
‘Anarchists?’
‘Semi. Most are just university kids with degrees who are pissed off they can’t get jobs. But the core are rebels at heart.’
‘Can you take me to them?’
She took out a card that had the same image as the one on her t-shirt from the other night. ‘You want to meet the crazy Wat with the bottle and the black flag? They won’t tell you anything. They are like Catholic priests hearing confession.’
‘I could still learn something. Can you set it up?’
‘Navaho can lead you down the road, but you will have to take this as transport,’ she said, placing a small orange pill on the bar.
‘What does it do?’
‘It takes you on a trip to meet Wat Tyler and the New English Rebels.’
She looked at him with those brown eyes that he couldn’t imagine wishing anybody any harm and took the pill. A few minutes later and the world exploded into a cornucopia of colours.
Prostate were playing in his head and the music was floating around him in colours and shapes in a synaesthesia. They were hard edged, dark colours. But then a flower bloomed in front of him. He called it Navaho. And he did feel so old, old, old like an oak tree to her beautiful young rose. She took him by the hands and they floated along the spirit roads. He saw his parents. He saw Mary. Mary how she was before the booze took her heart and soul, turning her yellow and aged, like tobacco stained vellum. He saw the dead and it scared him not. He saw the murdered. He longed for them with a desire like lust. At his side his guide. His hand in hers felt like cotton wool. He wanted to hold her softly. He wanted to take her ice skating and to the movies. He wanted to teach her what he knew. He knew it was an illusion. But it was all illusion anyway.
Whump!
Whump!
Whump!
His head was pressed against wood. It was dark.
‘Are you with us, Harry Reed?’
Slowly, for his head felt like it weighed twice it’s normal size, he raised himself. The wood was a desk. It was his desk. He was in his office. But he was sitting where his clients normally sat. Opposite him was a dark shape in a suit, silhouetted against flickering light from fires and neon that came through the window.
‘We are Wat Tyler. What would you want from us?’ asked the man. His voice was soft and he spoke slowly as though weighing each word.
Harry’s mouth felt like it was stuck with marshmallow and he flexed his jaw before speaking. ‘Gwendolyn Falsham. She came to you. You fixed her ID card.’
‘Do you think it’s right that we can be tracked wherever we go?’
Harry was still feeling a little woozy; he struggled to get control of his thoughts. Where was Navaho? ‘What option do we have? Without our ID’s we can’t buy or sell anything.’
‘So you give up your freedom for a bowl of rice.’
‘I survive.’
‘Is that all life is? Survival?’
‘When you’ve seen as many dead bodies as me then sometimes survival really is all that matters.’
‘I am going to ask you a question but I want you to know something first. The drug that you have taken has a tendency to make you tell the truth. If you don’t wish to answer then say nothing. I am no fascist. I give you choices.’
Fascists? Nobody talked about fascists anymore, Harry thought.
‘Who wants you to find Gwendolyn Falsham?’
‘Her father. Martin Falsham.’
‘Owner of Raf-Med. A company that makes money from other peoples illnesses. Did you know that their so called side-effect free Zehigh is actually highly addictive? Simulated happiness for saccharine existence.’
‘Everything is addictive.’
The Wat Tyler representative leaned forward. ‘You cannot be free if you are addicted; even if that addiction is to love. You have to have the freedom to say no. That’s where the fucking hippies went wrong – they said yes to everything and ended up unable to say no to anything. Then along came the punks with their straight down the line, get off your arses, attitude – then the Clash signed to CBS, street credibility became more important than action, and the scene was dead in a year. Now we have retro fashions, a pick and mix culture: one week a raver, the next a headbanger, the next a neo-punk. Movements are fashion, fashion is fascism.’
‘And what of Wat Tyler?’
‘Wat Tyler will sell out or be destroyed.’ He shrugged. ‘We keep trying. We keep hoping that the next movement is the real one.’
‘Gwendolyn Falsham,’ Harry said.
‘I don’t know where she is, but I do know she doesn’t want to be found.’
‘Do you know why she ran away?’
‘Is that important to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was a family thing. I got the impression that there was a secret she didn’t want her father knowing, or maybe something she’d found out about him. If you find her, don’t hand her over, until you’ve spoken to her.’
‘She’s old enough to make her mind up herself,’ agreed Harry.
‘Oh, none of us are yet old enough to make up our own minds.’
Wat Tyler held out his arms. It seemed like a resignation. Then he smelt vanilla, and smiled.
He found himself lying on the couch. He was shivering.
‘You’re sweating,’ Navaho said.
‘But I feel cold. Or maybe I mean old.’
She stroked his forehead. ‘I told you Wat Tyler wouldn’t tell you anything.’
‘Maybe he did. People do, often, tell you things without actually telling.’
‘Ah the great detective. My Sherlock.’ She kissed him and it felt like butter upon his cheek.
‘But I can’t think now. Tomorrow, I’ll be able to think straight.’
‘You will be fine tomorrow.’
‘Cold.’
She stood away from the couch and took her clothes off, as though she needed to do her laundry. For a moment she stood there, her body in silhouette and shadow, reminding him of how bodies looked when they were fresh and new. She slid in next to him and pulled him tight. He was naked. How had he got naked?
‘Harry, I’ll keep you warm. Try to sleep.’
Her body: soft, warm, firm – like candy floss and ice cream and hot toffee fudge. Vanilla. She always smelt of vanilla. He let himself relax into her body. He hadn’t been held like this since Mary. Had he and Mary once been young? Had they had bodies once upon a time like Navaho. If they’d had a child she could have been Navaho’s age by now. Why had he always avoided the issue with Mary? That was before the booze took her. She had wanted a kid. Maybe a kid would have kept her from the booze. He could have kids. Many couldn’t. Why did that really fuck him off? He closed his eyes and drowned in vanilla. He dreamed of a forest so dense that one could hardly move through the trees. Slippery moss made walking even harder. Then a wasteland in the centre. A mound. A ring of fairies weeping. And accusing him.
He woke and found Navaho gone. He called her name but there was no reply, and this time no farewell note. He felt an unutterable loneliness. It was still dark outside. He checked his watch. It was 4 am. How was it that we often missed those people we hardly knew the most? Is it because we create a history for them, a might have been lover or best friend. Things often finish before they start.
His head was throbbing, just like his smart. Shit, he’d missed a few messages. They were all from Jack, telling him that the red-head had turned up with a punter at the Strand Palace. There were three more messages, buzzing him. Then the final one, telling him the red-head was leaving, gone into the Covent Garden night.
‘Shit.’