Pat: Ghosts of Another Day by Simon Veal

In the 1970s British criminal underworld, Pat tries to protect Julia and her son Thal from maniac crime boss Lionel who is hunting Jack, Thal’s father.

Image generated with OpenAIEuston was choked with diesel fumes, smog, and cigarette smoke. It made his eyes sting. He hoicked his coat collar up around his neck. Over three hours cooped up in that carriage with all that fag smoke and coughin’. It was diabolical. No relaxation with those kids chargin’ up and down and screamin’. It just set his nerves on edge. That woman needed a swift kick in the jacksie, letting the little runts run wild. No fuckin’ parenting these days! No bleedin’ relaxation what-so-ever. Always something to fuck up the scene, and that train guard was a useless prick. Scared of his own shadow, that one. It made Pat feel weary, the thought of Tam and the others. All the bullshit and palaver; all that stupid banter and the paranoia. It made him want to turn around and get the next train back to those hills. Back to the peace and quiet. He wasn’t up for all the din and bollocks of London. He’d had enough of the smoke. The announcements on the tannoy were too loud. All of those rushing legs, all that baggage rushing off to somewhere? It was cold as he walked the length of the platform. A nasty, squeezing chill in the air. It felt like he might be coming down with something. He felt distant and strange, and his throat was sore.

Down the throat of the escalators with the billboards… Fiddler on the Roof… Jesus Christ Superstar… Cabaret… Double Diamond works wonders… Timex watches… All because the lady loves Milk Tray… Cadbury’s flake girl… Cossack hairspray… Thin Lizzy – Whiskey in the Jar… Down in the tunnels with that familiar waft of wind, ghosts of another day. Something edgy in it, like the plague was lying dormant, biding its time…

Tony Adam’s Motors (aka Tam) had it going well from early ’58 till ’65, then it all went tits up. Everyone used Tam for their getaway cars and laundering. It was a slick operation until he was infiltrated by an undercover cop. Two years Bish slaved away in that workshop. He was popular and he was a great welder and mechanic, and he had some solid faces and backers to get him through the door. Just shows! Tenacious fucker brought the whole circus down. A lot of porridge handed out. Tentacles into everything. Lot of recriminations. Lot of mass paranoia. They say Larry Bishop got a transfer to Canada and some say even that wasn’t far enough and that he met with a tragic accident. Pat kept an open on that. Took Tam five years to regain his foothold after the Scrubs. But he’d tucked a lot away and he hooked up with a bent mathematical genius called Linsey Rosenfeld who’d got too eager too fast working for Mr Golden Balls himself, the untouchable Lionel Gilbert. Tam had been on the rise again under the protection of Golden Balls and everything was hunky dory for a couple of years until a drug addled moron known as Jack Haliday did a GBH number on Linsey Rosenfeld, in a jealous rage over Vicky Roper; a dancer at Sadler’s Wells. Linsey Rosenfeld was now brain damaged along with several million pounds; all stranded in a maze of complicated offshore schemes, and there were new faces being sorted to try and decode Rosenfeld’s meticulous methods. Jack had a major screw missing. He went from life and soul to psychotic mad man. He was a loose cannon and this latest burst of insanity had earned him a death sentence. The drugs were out of control, he was an addled maniac with a string of addicted lovers and associates, including Julia. He’d seen it enough times for himself, that queue round the all-night chemist in Piccadilly; “Just ten minutes Pat, just ten minutes, she’ll be out in a sec.” Fuckin’ junkies everywhere. It gave him the shivers. This wasn’t ending anywhere nice and Jack was no dunce when he came out of a stupor. He’d know exactly what was coming; trouble was, whether he’d accept it. Pat had his doubts.

Nasty wind blowing down Shaftsbury Avenue and that pneumatic drill was going straight through him. You’d never guess about the tatty office just off Greek Street. A nothing little green door set between a kebab shop and a Turkish massage & sauna, and welcome to no end of trouble. Pat took a moment to catch his breath before tromping up the two flights of stairs. It was a strange combination, that smell of kebab meat coming through one wall, and then some poncy perfume he could never get a handle on coming through the other. It was a strange and sickly combination. He set his grip bag down and rummaged in his trouser pocket for his tablets. His blood was skittish.

After a long, steep narrow climb – the big fuck off iron door. No cunts coming through that in a hurry. He could see the point, but it was a death trap in a sudden blaze, unless you were up for jumping thirty, forty feet out the window. There were some nasty railings to negotiate on the way down too. He thumped the door. Heard muffled voices, then the peeper hatch snapped. Same old rigmarole. Eyes watchin’, deciphering. Several locks clicked and clacked…

The atmosphere was terse to say the least. The place looked as if it had been ransacked. Piles of papers all over the floor. Account books and ledgers splayed messily across the table. Big Eric gave his familiar nod, though he looked well fed up sat there with his arms folded and legs spread like a centrefold. Louie the shrew looked haunted. Pat had never warmed to him. Something off there! A jumpy, skittish fucker. He always was a melodramatic cunt. Never gave you the steady. Even when the sun was out and all was well in the world. Always some internal drama that had the better of him. Tam was standing at the far end lookin’ out the window pretending to be absorbed in some astute bollocks. Tam had put on a lot of weight of late. All those big slap-up dinners in the West End with that shrieking baboon of a wife, Sharon. Thank fuck he didn’t have to deal with her tonight. Thank God they were meeting in the office and not out at his home in Chingford. Tam was bald at the front, with a big fat conk and brainy forehead, that had been dented, unfortunately, during an altercation in prison. The rest of his hair was wild, like a nutty professor. A bouncing, frizzy, tangled mass of nicotine and silver. Round, tortoise shell glasses, gave him a deceptively friendly demeanour, but if Tam was friendly, then it was a put on, a manipulation for something further down the line. Tam wore a striking yellow shirt that accentuated his rotund stomach; all set off in a rumpled grey suit…

“It’s all gone haywire Pat! It’s a fuckin’ disaster!”

“What is? What’s gone on?”

“You better get back to your gaff and get cleaned up.”

“What you on about? You said to meet here.”

“You gotta go and meet with Mr Gilbert up in Coombes Ditching; soon as. Eric’ll drive ya. It ain’t looking good for the boy and Julia…”

“Hold up Tam, I just got off the train, I ain’t eaten and I got a bad throat and now all this shit. What’s happened?”

“That fuckin’ maniac’s gone and shot big Don, over in Spain! He’s a fuckin’ lunatic!”

“What! When?”

“Just!” Tam was jabbing his finger at the phone. “Just a fuckin’ hour ago! They were having a meet by the pool. Jack excuses himself, goes to the shitter by the pool-house. Comes back and shoots big Don…”

“Well how the hell he get a shooter in there?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know! Some cunt must have helped him…”

“Well, will he live? Is he dead? What the fuck’s the score?”

“He’s been rushed off to hospital and it ain’t lookin’ good, and whether he lives or dies, Jack Haliday is history! He was history before! He can only hide out for so long. The whole thing is a fuckin’ disaster. If it wasn’t bad enough with Linsey being fuckin’ braindead and all that money stuck in transit, now he’s gone and shot big Don in the head and there’s a storm of coverage on its way with the fuckin’ telly and the news rags, and there’s gonna be a lot of heat and scrutiny on us all!” Tam made a throttling motion and his jowls shook with passion.

Pat pulled up a chair and slumped in it. “You got a bottle in the drawer? I need a stiff drink.” Pat pulled out his Embassy Regals, popped one on his lip and snapped the gold lighter. Tam dragged out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label and two glasses and filled them liberally…

“Don’t go getting pissed, Pat. Lionel’s a funny fucker. He can be fastidious. He don’t like drunks leaning in his face. He can get offended and prissy and he’s a vicious cunt if he’s provoked, and he’s well provoked with all this Jack shit. Who knows where any of us are headed!”

Eric drove him over to his flat in Battersea. It was a slow crawl. They chatted sporadically, low key, general. Tried to keep a lid on the hysteria. Eric was pretty solid. They both sat in brooding silence mostly. What could they really say or do? It was raining. Everything was glum and oppressive. Pat fretted about Julia and Thal. They were sitting ducks, easy targets, swift retribution. His throat was sore. He felt out of it.

Eric waited in the car whilst Pat went into his flat to get changed. His place was above a launderette off the Park Road. The usual packs of loose dogs trotting round and pissing everywhere. Worn out looking girls pushing prams. Yobs over by the bookies and off-licence; plastic bags and rubbish everywhere; “Fuckin’ shithole.”

Opened the door onto the communal passage. Cor, blimey! Mrs Donnelly’s been cooking kippers again. As he twisted the key and pushed in through his own door a sweeping sense of dread overtook him. He kicked the pile of post to the side with his foot and stood there feeling worn out and overwhelmed. He closed the door on the smell of kippers and went on down the passage, peeped in at the lounge, then went in and dropped his grip bag. It was too still. Alien. It didn’t look to have anything to do with him. The orange carpet. The toffee-coloured settee and grubby armchair. The crappy pine coffee table. The lime green curtains looked dingy and grubby too; and the gaudy green telephone, plus the dumb pictures hanging on the walls. Tart it up? It was diabolical! An old ship out on heavy seas, an outdoor market scene in the rain; didn’t even know if it was in England. A castle or a fort on a hill and some dull dreary flowers… none of it had anything to do with his life or who he was. Visitors often laughed… “Bit of a fuckin dump, Pat!” But it was a bolt hole, somewhere to get his head down and watch the telly and forget his troubles. It was handy for the shops and launderette. It was practical. But coming in fresh from those hills, he got the point. It was ludicrous and sad. It felt and smelt unloved. It smelt stuffy. It smelt scared and depressed. It was all untouched as he’d left it… papers scattered about, the bin overflowing with old food wrappers, the ashtray piled high with butt-ends; ash all over the bleedin’ place. That half empty bottle of Bells Scotch whisky on the table and the dried-out tumbler. Fig biscuits, marshmallows, pack of Embassy Regals. The stillness of the TV unsettled him, like it was watching him, scrutinising his uncertainty. He went to the window, looked down, out across the road at Eric sat in the Daimler. Kids crowding it, giving him some lip. Eric was calm, steady, he’d been round the block and survived a few scares.

He needed to get a hold of himself. He had a meet with Golden Balls up in his palace in Coombes Ditching. That was serious. Lionel Gilbert was serious. Another schizophrenic, on a different level from all the other schizophrenics. He needed to get his head together. Shake the fatigue. Shake that skittish remote feeling. His throat was sore. It was hard to swallow. He stood at the kitchenette door, a brooding, dank space. Old teabags on a saucer, the tin of Toast Toppers he was going to have for breakfast; then the phone went off and everything went haywire. The bread was green with mould. He chucked it in the bin then went to get changed.

The bedroom was depressing too. A dump! He opened the curtains. It didn’t alter the gloom much with the rainy weather and a view onto the back of the scrap yard. All that shouting, clanking, and grinding all day long, and if he opened the window there was a horrible metallic smell. His bed looked squalid. When was it changed? “Fuck it!” Quick bath. He needed to freshen up.

As he came out of the bathroom in a mist of perfume the door was banging. “Hold up!” And he went and got a shirt and some underpants on.

It was Eric. “Sorry Pat, I need a slash. Cor, what the fuck’s that stink? Like Billingsgate market out there…”

“It’s the old dear down the hallway, cooking bleedin’ kippers again.”

“And you in ya mustard shreddies? I don’t need that, Pat!”

“Cheeky cunt! The can’s down the end there, on the left. I’m gettin’ changed if that’s alright with you? Make a cuppa if ya like, but there ain’t no milk, well none that’s fresh that is.”

“Cheers.”

He decided on the bespoke suit from Savile row. He couldn’t go see Golden Balls in a Burtons number. Upset his sensibilities. He splashed on some Old Spice and studied himself in the mottled mirror. Not bad. Amazing how a good cut suit lifted the moment.

Eric was sat on the toffee settee making out to be reading an old Daily Mirror.

“I need to eat, Eric. I ain’t gonna last if I don’t get some scram. There’s a good Greasy Joe’s on the high street.”

“Yeah, we ain’t in any major rush. Don’s dead or fucked however you look at it. Nice suit, Pat!”

“Yeah, it’s a Savile row job. Come on then. I’m famished.”

“I hate to say it Pat, but you could do with an interior decorator.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just a place to crash until I’m retired.”

“Oh yeah, planning on getting out?”

“Be nice, wouldn’t it.”

“How old are ya?”

“Forty-three.”

“Bit young?”

“I don’t fucking feel it!” They both laughed.

At the door, Pat bent down and scooped up the post. “You go ahead Eric, see if you got any hubcaps left, won’t be a jiffy.”

“Don’t say that!” And he went off down the passage, grumbling about Mrs Donnelly’s kippers.

Pat stood in the front room by the window, where there was some natural light. It was mostly bills and junk mail. Then a curious handwritten envelope, with no stamp; the envelope was bloated and wrinkled like it got wet and the writing on the front was smudged. Pat was curious, there was something half familiar about the handwriting; quite neat with a slant. He eased it open and pulled out a grubby folded page. His throat constricted and his heart bumped harder when he realised it was Jack. He’d obviously taken pains to set it down so it was legible.

Pat by now ya no I’m a dead man. They always saed I had delushions of grandur so I might as well go out in a blayz of glory (cant fackin spel fur toffy) Im goin to spain to see that cunt don and he rekens hell kill me, but we will see about that. I aint skard of non of em and that means fackin golden balls an awl. Sod em awl pat…. the junks got me ski hi…beat, I don’t care (fackin hate ritin) soz for the messs but we r awl fucked up on way and enover. I hope ya aint mad Pat u bin good mate an, we had a few laffs down the years… Trev n Bill l be ok but Julia n Thal I dunno, try n help em Pat. U rembr the dump in Mill st, its fallin to bits. Go round the back, lift the florbord in the back bedroom, the smawl room, u c the bord jutin up nr winda….. 3 bords on ya left, sq shape dark culla, pris it up, unda the fiba glass gotta nice surpriz from a resent job, I aint in neeed of it. u have it to elp Julia n the kid….. wach how ya go…

Jack

Pat stuffed the note back in the envelope and stuffed the envelope in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. His mind rolled over visions and memories of Jack. The daft cunt had screwed up royally. He waved down at Eric who was pointing at his watch. He made a gesture to hang on a moment. He picked up the telephone and dialled the cottage. His hands were skittish and an electric like buzz was thrumming in his ears. Visions of Jack kept rushing through his mind. The phone rang and rang, no one picked up. “Come on Julia, you silly tart!” eventually he gave up. Just as well probably.

He gave himself a final check at the mirror down the hall. It was too bleedin’ dark and he didn’t want to turn the light on. He patted the letter, his wallet and keys, fags, lighter. He was good to go. He’d get to Mill Street as and when, keep it dark. His heart was thumping hard and steady. His belly was a continuous growl. “Okay! I hear ya!” He grabbed up his big grey overcoat off the hooks on the wall. That’d go well with the suit.

“Take ya bleedin’ time, Pat.”

“Sorry Eric, Marcia called, and you know what she’s like when she gets going. Right, let’s go get some chow. They do a good steak and kidney at Raymond’s and I’m bleedin starving, how’s about you?”

“Sounds good to me…”

“What’s that bleedin’ song again?”

“Laffin’ Gnome?”

“Yeah, turn it off will ya, fuckin’ hate that song.”

“If you say so, Pat.”

It was a nice steady drive up the M4 to Coombes Ditching. Space started to open out. It gave Pat a bit of time to ruminate. The weather was foul. But it was nice in the warm car, with the rain slapping and the wheels swishing and the window wipers going ‘clunk, clunk.’ Eric was a good companion; he didn’t yap away like some of the others. He was steady.

Visions of Jack haunted him. What the hell was happening over in Spain? There’d been nothing on the radio as yet. Just going on and on about the energy crisis and the three-day week. He fought down the waves of anxiety, he hated that sensation, the fear and uncertainty of it all, everything full of doom, getting eaten alive from the inside. He patted Jack’s letter in his inside pocket. He thought about the old times and the mad parties at Mill Street, in Clapham. All those long-lost faces from ’63 through to ’66. That winter of ’63, fuckin’ arctic weather; exciting, meeting all those faces, and Tam taking him down Bethnal Green, introducing him to the Krays; and Ronnie, he took a fancy to Jack. Everyone took a fancy to Jack back then when he was just a loud-mouthed charmer. But the cracks were starting to show with Viv chasing him all over town and Julia pregnant with Thal. Always trouble with Jack! Getting in with the pop stars, hanging out at the Bag O Nails, that’s where Jack fucked up, getting delusions of grandeur, getting into the drugs and bollocks…

The fat section of the river with all the bobbing boats moored up gave Pat a dull excitement. A slight, lustful yearning. A resentment? He wasn’t even sure why. Just life on the other side. The haves! The made its! But none of them ever seemed happy. They were all as mad as hatters. Paranoid to fuck! Always looking over their shoulders for some poor sap to make an example of. He and Lionel Gilbert got on okay, but Gilbert was unstable and wobbly at the best of times. He was getting oldish, mid-sixties; the years had taken their toll. He was a dapper old cunt with his gold ringed fingers in so many pies, and though he was a maze of complications, he was as blank as a wall when it came to killing. When it came to business! It was plain and simple. Got a problem? Problem causing a shortfall? End it! And Pat was fearful. He was scared for Julia and Thal. He was scared about what Lionel Gilbert would do. He was scared about his own situation. Everybody knew he was soft on Julia and the boy. That he’d taken them up north; out of the way of it all.

Suddenly they were stopped at the entrance to Hogarth’s Links. An exclusive road that all the millionaires had their mansions on… with their electric gates and sweeping lawns down to the riverbank. But even this exclusive bit of mischief felt subdued, hidden under the grey, wet sky, with all those low scudding clouds and all the piled-up treachery and tricks. It all gave off a kind of hysteria, like no one was going anywhere, everyone was trapped…

A dark figure hopped over, glistening in his black gabardine overcoat, with his cap covered in plastic. He poked his head in the car window. “Can I help you gentlemen?”

“We’re here to see Mr Gilbert,” said Pat.

“One moment sir.” He hopped off and went to the little wooden century box to call up the house.

“‘Nover world ain’t it?” croaked Eric.

“Yeah,” agreed Pat absently.

The guard came out and nodded and the barrier arm lifted.

“You been here before, Eric?”

“Yeah, couple of times.”

Pat nodded at the guard as they slipped by. “Fifth house on, innit?”

“Yeah, and that’ll take ten minutes.”

They both laughed nervously.

There was another anxious wait at the house gates. You never knew who you’d bump into on these occasions. Pat pulled the coat up over his head as he buzzed the intercom. After a brief negotiation, the electric gates swung open. Pat ran back to the car. The headlights lit up the driveway that meandered its way down through sloping lawns and mature trees and rhododendron bushes. Heavy duty lights lit up the front porchway with its bespoke wooden struts and columns and fancy railings. The house was low, solid, and handsome, with its overhanging roof. A solitary figure stood at the big open door. It wasn’t Gilbert; the figure was burly.

“Well, here goes,” sighed Pat. “You coming in?”

“I hope so. I ain’t sitting out here all night. Besides, I need a piss.”

An owl was hooting as they climbed the steps.

Eric was shown to the billiard-room. He seemed to know where to go. Pat was ushered across a long open vestibule with large potted plants, past an impressive stairway, then down a smart passageway with lots of handsome wooden furniture and several doors leading off to other sumptuous rooms. He took off his big overcoat and held it across his arms. The atmosphere of the place came back to him. He hadn’t been here in a long while; several years? The lighting was dim, giving the house a bit of a creepy feel. All that artwork and furniture. A lot of ticking clocks, another world, a bit tomb-like, the silence. A fancy tomb! An unnerving smell of raw lamb? Cool and sweet, like at the butcher’s, a vague aroma of mothballs too, eerie, medieval. They went through some wide, open double doors and down some carpeted stairs into a vast, split-level drawing room. It was immaculately furnished with a soft smoky carpet, dark burnished wood, a big open fireplace with powerful orange flames leaping, spitting, and crackling away. A majestic chandelier hung low, dripping diamond-like jewels. Ahead of him stood large heavyset windows with colonnaded chintz curtains. By a set of French doors, reflecting the fire and lights and just far enough away from the hearth and fireguard, sat a plush crescent of wine-red sofas and two mahogany leather armchairs, all festooned with plump, cream cushions…

The familiar shock of slicked-white hair alerted him to the unmistakable shape of Gilbert. He was stood alone in a corner, by a large drinks cabinet, wearing a maroon smoking jacket. He was lean and slightly stooped at the shoulders. It always intrigued Pat how such a small, unimposing man could wield such power. If you saw him out in a busy boozer you wouldn’t look twice…

“You can leave us to it, Lenny.”

Lionel Gilbert had a cool, rhetorical tone. Half a question. Half an accusation. Lightly timbered, skewered and punctuated with the Queen’s English and a limp north London, Jewish parlance. A strange combination, bit unsettling, and it lent menace to his demeanour.

“Right you are, Mr Gilbert,” and Lenny slunk away.

“Come down here Pat, I’ve some questions for you. I’m all alone here. Gloria and the kids have gone on their yearly pilgrimage to New York to see their cousins and do their Christmas shopping. I can’t stand it myself. London’s bad enough. Drink?”

“Yeah, a Scotch’d be nice.”

“Straight, ice and soda?”

“Straight please. No ice, thanks Mr Gilbert.”

“You ill?”

“No. I just got a sore throat is all.”

“You sure? I don’t want any germs. I got enough on my plate right now,” he handed Pat a heavy crystal tumbler. “Okay, let’s have a sit down and a chat?”

Gilberts eyes were dark, oily, mysterious. Pat didn’t dare look for too long. His spectacles were sharp, rectangle, delicate, with a harsh glint. His nose was long and slender, his chin sharp and pointed. His mouth thin and cruel. He was immaculately groomed, with big thin ears. His Adam’s apple was prominent; and a tuft of silver hairs spilled out over his spotty neckerchief. His hands were immaculate, with long fingers covered in gold and jewels, sharp tapered fingernails. It was only standing so close to the man again that he remembered that menthol smell. Olbas? Vicks?

“I’ve got an uncomfortable feeling about it all, Pat. About that tart of his and the boy?”

Pat flushed. They were straight into it. “Julia and Thal? You see Mr Gilb-“

“Yeah, them. You see, I don’t mind telling you,” he pointed his glass at Pat, “you, I don’t mind telling youuu, that I’m sick of fighting ghosts. I got a lot of dead people haunting me. And I really don’t need some young tart and her dopey kid adding to it. Not many people understand how sensitive I am. You think it’s easy, do you? Do youuu? You think it’s easy being me? Walking around all haunted up?”

“I er…”

“Well no! No it is not easy. It’s not easy one bit. I’m a sick man! I got all of them spirits agitating me. I’m all alone in this big house, with bodyguards…” he broke off and stared for a long, uncomfortable while at Pat. “They can’t protect me. Not from ghosts they can’t. Nobody can protect anyone from ghosts.” He looked around at the room and the fire was spluttering and shivering shadows up the furniture and wall. “I got menacing shadows everywhere.” He knocked Pat’s arm. “You know what I’m talking about? It’s evil, all these shadow people, conspiring, making the atmosphere heavy with persecutions, a big knotty tangle it is Pat; and I’ve got to make some sort of decision, that’s why I live in this big expensive house and you live in some shithole in Shoreditch…”

“Battersea, Mr Gilbert…”

“Battersea?” he looked at Pat with amazement. “You sure? I thought it was Shoreditch?”

“Battersea, Mr Gilbert.”

“Well, bloody hell! You want another drink? Course you do! We’ll both have a couple of drinks. It’s nice to have a new face to chat to! Bloody Battersea? I thought it was Shoreditch.”

“Is it okay if I smoke Mr Gilbert?”

“No it bloody isn’t okay if you smoke! Christ! You trying to give me germs?”

Pat replaced his Embassy Regals and lay his big coat at his side.

“I thought you had a sore throat?”

Pat offered his lopsided grin. “Force of habit, Mr Gilbert.”

“Well it’s stupid isn’t it? ‘Ere!” he handed the refilled crystal tumbler to Pat. “Why go and smoke when you’ve got a sore throat? I’ll tell you why. It’s because you’re stupid and nervous because you think I’m a maniac. And!” he held a sparkling hand aloft, “I am a fucking maniac, and do you know why I’m a fucking maniac?”

“Well I’m not sure, I mean…”

“It’s because everyone else is a fucking maniac, isn’t it! I mean it’s logical, isn’t it? I mean can you imagine if I weren’t a maniac; then how the hell would I keep my nice house. Those other maniacs would out-maniac me and then they’d come and live in my house and then where would I be!”

Edgy silence.

“Well then I’d be living in Shoreditch with you, wouldn’t I!”

“Well?” Pat thought it better to leave out Battersea.

“Well! Bloody right! Do you think that Gloria and the kids would be happy living in Shoreditch?”

“No Mr Gilbert…”

“Too sodding right they wouldn’t! What would happen, is that Gloria would divorce me on the grounds of mental cruelty, and she’d be well within her rights, sodding, bloody, Shoreditch! And she’d take the bloody kids with her too. I know that Stella and Pete are in their thirties; but it doesn’t matter a sod! Because Stella and Peter aren’t fucking daft, and as much as they love their daddy! Their daddy! They are not going to live with me in sodding Shoreditch, because it would break their hearts to be without their mother…”

Pat watched with mounting concern, Mr Gilbert become more animated and agitated.

“…And then I’d be completely alone in the world with all those shadow people following me around; because the shadow people don’t give a tuppenny damn where they live, livvve, as long as they’re with me they don’t care because I’m their daddy too! And so do you see how unfair it all is? I’ve got to carry on being a maniac and be haunted up with all of those,” he broke off and glared at Pat with his oily eyes, “with all of those creatures. Another drink! Go on Pat, down the hatch, it’ll help your sore throat.”

Pat swallowed the whisky back and handed his tumbler over. He was sweating now. The fire was too hot. He loosened his collar and tie. The whisky was good and strong and his head felt light and breezy. He didn’t want to get complacent with Gilbert, but everything felt a bit manic, like he could say something shocking, like, “Shut the fuck up, you stupid cunt!” Pat’s lopsided grin gurned broadly as he watched this mad man in his maroon smoking jacket pour more drinks. Pat felt like he was stoned and he had to keep himself from laughing. It was a testy balancing act, nerves, tiredness, a kind of drunken despair, like everything was over any which way…

“Now that cunnnt!” he handed the refilled tumbler back. “That fucking berserk mate of yours,” he eyed Pat closely, leaned in slightly. “Well he’s put a number on us all! I got Linsey Rosenfeld, the cabbage, in one hand, and several million pounds locked up in the ether; then we got big Don Faraday with half his face blown off; and now that cunt friend of yours, he’s up and scarpered. Vanished like a fart on a hill!” Gilbert leaned in closer and tapped Pat’s chest. “But he’ll turn up, and in the meantime I got his fancy piece and that kid of his, Al.” He tapped his glasses back up on to his nose and studied Pat some more. “You’re sweating, Pat. You’re sweating cobs! You sure you’re not ill?”

Pat cleared his throat. He saw no point in correcting Gilbert directly. It made no difference if it was Al, Thal or Geoffrey. “It’s a diabolical situation, Mr Gilbert. Jack’s gone off his rocker and he ain’t deserving of any mercy, but his kid, Thal, he’s just ten and he’s got a lot to contend with, he’s a good kid, loves his mother, and well, she’s a good kid too, but she’s dreamy, she ain’t practical.”

“Well it’s nice that he loves his mother even if she is a daft tart. But can’t you see the problem here, I mean I tried explaining it the best way I could, Pat. If I don’t get ruthless then somebody else will. It’s the law of the jungle, Pat. There’s a lot of agitation and fear out there. A lot of grievances, and people are looking for a target. And I’m, for better or worse, I’m the great punisher. I mean it isn’t the little kids’ fault that his daddy is a mental drug addict. But fair’s fair, he’s going to have his daddy’s genes, and then he’s going to become a mental drug addict…”

“Nah, nah, Mr Gilbert…”

“Shhh, shhh, shhh,” he pressed a finger to Pat’s mouth. “Now, don’t get me any more upset than I already am, Pat. I told you all about the ghosts and the hauntings…”

Pat was amazed to see tears slipping down Gilberts’ cheeks. Gilbert removed his glasses and mopped them up with the back of his hand, and then he put up a warning finger. “Now don’t cross me, Pat, I’m right on the edge here. I haven’t said that they’re dead yet, have I? All I’ve said is that they’re potentially dead. You think I want some little runt ghost hanging on me? No, no I don’t, but I have my obligations; now, youuu, youuu!” he pushed at Pat’s chest, “you keep an eye on them, Pat. So I know where to find them if needs be. And don’t get so personal about it all, okay? It’s business, it’s the roulette wheel, it’s what it is. Now, you finish your drink, Pat, and then get on back to Shoreditch, because I’m feeling a bit peculiar, like all of those ghosts are trying to climb into me.” He gave Pat a calculating look, offered a strained smile. “You sure you’re not ill, Pat, because I hate germs.”

“No Mr Gilbert, it’s just a sore throat is all.”

Gilbert patted his wrist. “I’m very tired Pat. I feel exhausted and it’s only a quarter to nine. You finished with that?” he nodded at Pat’s empty tumbler.

“Thank you, Mr Gilbert.”

Gilbert took the glass and stood up, looking spaced out. “You know the way out?”

“Yes Mr Gilbert.” Pat gathered up his overcoat and slung it across his arm.

“We’ll be in touch, Pat. Regards to Shoreditch.”

“Thank you, Mr Gilbert.”

Eric looked sheepish when he finally appeared. Both he and Pat exchanged pleasantries with Lenny and the other one, who remained nameless. They both watched from the front porchway as Pat and Eric walked back to the car. The rain had stopped and a mist was rising. They crunched along the gravel.

“How’d it go?” asked Eric.

“Fuck knows,” announced Pat.

They crunched along the gravel and his mind was on Mill Street. He tapped at the letter in his inner suit jacket. He felt short of breath.