All Through the Night Read online

  2

  After leaving my office I returned to my digs on Gwyn Street. The place looked good, thanks to some redecoration by my well-meaning uncle Gabe and aunt Pearl, and to some quality knocked-off furniture provided by my cousin Vic. Despite their good intentions to make the place more welcoming, I couldn’t shake off the painful memories locked within its walls. Less than eighteen months previously my bedroom had been the scene of two tragic suicides. The deaths of Stella Hopkins and her surrogate father, Earl Linney, had shaken me to my core. Uncle Gabe had urged me to seek other accommodation or to move in with them; I stubbornly resisted and stayed put. Although I’d never seen anything remotely eerie after their deaths, there was something within me that felt their presence in ways I could not explain, and I was somehow strangely content to reside with the veiled duppies who I believed still inhabited my humble dwelling.

  I took a shave and a bath, and splashed a little Bay Rum through my hair and across my face. Then I changed into a fresh, pale-blue cotton shirt and a pair of Levi’s jeans, pulled on my best brown Oxford brogues, slipped my arms into my favourite brown tweed jacket and strapped on my battered Timex wristwatch. I grabbed my keys and wallet from off the mantlepiece in my sitting room and walked down the hallway and out onto the landing of my upper-floor rooms. It was just after one thirty when I made my way downstairs towards the front door. As I flipped the latch to let myself out, a familiar voice stopped me in my tracks.

  “Happy Birthday, Joseph.”

  I turned around to face my elderly neighbour, Mrs Pearce, who lived in the flat below me. She stood looking up at me, smiling. Her slight frame and small stature hid what was a formidable temper and determined spirit. She had managed to dent my usually impenetrable armour of self-reserve, which usually kept outsiders at bay, and during the last year we had become firm friends. She lifted her slender arm to produce a small, daintily wrapped gift. She waved it at me to take it from her.

  “It’s not much, but I thought it might come in handy at some point.” She took a step backwards, put her hands on her hips and looked me up and down carefully. “You’re looking rather well turned out: off to celebrate, are you?”

  “Nah, Mrs P, I’m just meeting my cousin Vic for a quiet drink at the Star and Garter pub.” I watched as my aged neighbour shook her head slowly in disappointment.

  “Why oh why do you have to spend all your spare time with that good-for-nothing delinquent cousin of yours? From what I hear Victor’s constantly up to no good, you know that, don’t you? I’m surprised at you, Joseph, I really am. A man like you, of good standing, who used to be a police officer, associating with a tearaway like him. You need your head examining.” She scolded me with a mouth turned down at the edges, as if she had just sucked on a lemon.

  “He’s no saint, but he’s family, Mrs P, you know that.”

  “Yes, and Abel probably said something similar about Cain, and we all know how that ended, don’t we! Joseph, family or not, you ought to be a little more careful in who you choose to associate with, you really should.”

  I leant forward and took a hold of the slight shoulders of my frail comrade, then drew her close to me. Bending down towards her head, I whispered into her tiny ear. “Vic says exactly the same ting ’bout you, Mrs P. Thanks for the gift; you really shouldn’t have, you know.” As I let go I gave a gentle kiss on her cheek, winked, then turned quickly and darted out of my front door before she had time to reprimand me some more.

  The Star and Garter pub in the heart of St Pauls was a regular stop-off for me whenever I was in need of liquid refreshment. As I walked along Ashley Road with my trilby perched on the back of my head and my jacket hooked over my right shoulder, I could feel the welcoming warm rays of the summer sun. It was hardly the intense tropical heat of a Barbadian day, but for me anything was better than the bitter winters that had blighted the shores of Great Britain each year since I’d arrived. I turned onto Brook Road and happily wandered the last few yards towards the Star’s front door. When I reached it I stood outside for a moment and put my jacket back on, unfolding my shirt collar over the neck and straightening my trilby in front of my face, shading my eyes, just the way I like it.

  I opened the ornate stained-glass door, walked in then headed across the room. Inside it was fairly quiet, with only a handful of drinkers sat in different parts of the pub, nursing their half-drunk ale and reading various daily newspapers. Nobody lifted their heads out of their rags to see who had walked in, and as I strolled towards the empty bar I could hear the Test match cricket playing on the radio. I stood for a moment then gave the brass top of the bar a couple of hard knocks to let the landlord know I wanted a drink.

  “Who the bleedin’ hell’s that?”

  The familiar Somerset twang of Eric Coles, the Star and Garter’s crabby owner, bellowed out at me from the cellar. I listened as he cursed to himself while climbing the steep steps out of his darkened crypt towards where I was waiting. When he finally reached the top, his glowing, crimson face was not best pleased to see me.

  “Sod me . . . You, bloody Martin Luther King! Can’t you see I’m busy? Whaddya want?”

  “Pint o’ mild’d be nice please, Eric, if you don’t mind?” The Star’s landlord slung the dirty cloth he’d been using onto his bar, then turned to pick up a jug-handled glass pint pot from the shelf behind him and began to fill it slowly from the hand pull. I put my hand in the back pocket of my Levi’s and pulled out some coins. I picked at the money then placed it on the polished brass top. Eric drew the last few drops carefully into the glass, grunted some obscenity under his breath then slid the ale over towards me. He picked up the money and counted it carefully.

  “Here, you bloody idiot, you’ve given me too much. Can’t you bleedin’ count?”

  “Yeah, I can count . . . I’m paying for one for my cousin Vic too; he’ll be in any minute.” I beamed a toothy grin back at the crotchety innkeeper to wind him up, but it was clear from the grim look on his face that the mere mention of Vic’s name had put him in an even worse mood.

  “Oh no, not that thug. I told you, he ain’t welcome in here. Not after last time.” Eric picked up his moth-eaten duster and started nervously polishing his already gleaming work surface.

  “Come on, Eric, you know what went down last week wasn’t Vic’s fault. It was those greasy bikers that started all the ruckus.”

  “Went down! Bleedin’ went down? I’ll tell you what went down: three of my best tables and a chair, that’s what went down. Down the sodding tip! That’s where they ended up once your loopy bloody cousin had thrown four bikers across ’em! Smashed ’em to bits he did. It was like the bloody OK Corral in ’ere last Wednesday night. Well, I ain’t havin’ it. He can bloody well sod off if he thinks he’s walking back through those doors again. My poor missus was picking wood and glass up out of that Wilton carpet for days.”

  “To be fair, he did pay you for the damage, which was more than any of those bikers did.”

  “And whose bloody fault was that? Not one of ’em could’ve put their hands in their bleedin’ pockets after that great big ape relation of yours had finished with ’em, the poor buggers. Two were carried out on stretchers. My customers come in ’ere for a quiet drink, not a bloody re-enactment of the Battle of Rorke’s Drift!”

  I knew that Eric’s bark was far worse than his bite. True, Vic and Eric were never going to be best buddies, but there was a mutual respect both quietly held for each other. Vic admired Eric’s straight-talking and Eric liked the money that Vic regularly parted with across his bar. Both understood the status quo that had been silently created. I was right to remind Eric that Vic had paid up a fair wad of cash that night for the smashed-up fixtures and fittings. Eric accepted Vic’s cash and took it as his apology. But then he could do no other: Eric feared Vic, too, and he was right to do so.

  I went and sat at a small circular table in the Star’s back room, a place fondly known as the snug. I took a heavy draught of my pint, sinking ha
lf of it in a couple of swift gulps, then sat my glass down in front of me. I remembered Mrs Pearce’s gift and reached into my jacket pocket to retrieve it. It was wrapped in white tissue paper, which I ripped off to reveal a small navy-blue box. I looked at it for a moment, smiled to myself then opened it up. Inside was a small Puma pocketknife. I lifted it out and weighed it in the palm of my hand: it was light, no more than four and a half ounces, and its polished stag-antler handle had been beautifully turned. I pulled out the three-inch blade and carefully ran my thumb across its razor-sharp edge. I closed up the knife and returned it to its box then placed it into the inside pocket of my jacket. I was pleasantly surprised by the present that my kindly neighbour had given me: the old woman never ceased to astonish and bewilder in equal measure.

  It was just after 2.15 p.m. by the time Vic sauntered through the door and strolled up to Eric’s bar. I heard him shout out after the landlord; there was real horseplay in the tone of his voice. Eric, who had disappeared back down into his cellar, clearly didn’t hear Vic call out to him. I reached for my drink, took a swallow, then put my head down and waited for things to erupt as my wayward cousin bellowed out across the bar.

  “Hey Eric baby, git ya honky ass from outta that pit and git me a pint o’ that warm piss water you usually reserve for ya best customers!”

  From the depths of the basement Eric yelled back, “I’ll give you piss water, you cheeky young bleeder. That’s best Courage Mild that is!”

  Eric, the sweat pouring off his bald head and brow, lifted himself out of the cellar trapdoor and stood in front of Vic, fuming. “I’ll have you know I’ve won prizes for my beer!”

  “Yeah, prizes fo’ what, best latrine cleaner? I’ve seen you using it to pour down those scabby shithouses o’ yours instead of having to rod ’em out when they’re jammed up to the rim. You ain’t fooling me, brother.” Vic was laughing out loud, really getting into the swing of things, enjoying his time teasing the old boy.

  “I ain’t your bleedin’ brother!”

  “Well, that’s mighty strange, Eric old son, cos a lotta folks bin telling me how much we looks alike!”

  Eric picked up a beer glass, muttering obscenities to himself, then yanked on the bar’s hand pull, dispensing warm alcohol into the vessel. Vic looked on, readying himself for more childish banter. On the radio an announcer began to relay the latest results from the one-day Test match from Lord’s cricket ground. Fuel for the fire for Vic.

  “You hearin’ this, Eric, the West Indies are wiping the floor with you honkies a’gin. I don’t know why they is even botherin’ ta stick those boxes down their scabby Y-fronts; we’re knockin’ them stumps over quicker than they can git their lily-white asses outta the changing room!”

  “’Ere Sammy Davis Jr, here’s your pint o’ mild, care of your bloody kin back there.” Eric dropped the pint glass onto the bar. He wisely chose to ignore Vic’s jibes and went about his business.

  “Thanks, brother Eric, that’s cool. You know it’s JT’s birthday today, don’t ya? We were expectin’ a cake.” Vic clapped his huge hands together, took a hefty swig of his mild then put his hand into his coat pocket and brought out his silver hip flask, unscrewed the cap and poured a heavy slug of rum into the pint glass. Eric stood, mouth wide open in disbelief as he watched, and then began to shake his head, tutting to himself at my cousin’s questionable behaviour. Vic caught Eric’s disdainful look and frowned back at him.

  “What? You tink I’m gonna drink this shit without me puttin’ someting decent in it? Ain’t no way, brother, no way!” Vic howled out with laughter then strode away from the bar to come and join me in the snug.

  I watched my cousin swagger towards me. Rather than walk, Vic seemed to glide effortlessly across the floor, his powerful frame not hindering the grace with which he moved. He was dressed, not unsurprisingly, almost totally in black, the collar of his leather jacket pulled up close around his muscular neck and face. He never wore a hat and his tight, curly hair cut close to his scalp glistened with coconut oil. When he sat down next to me the warm scent of the patchouli oil that he was wearing wafted around the room. He smiled at me mischievously, reminding me of the little boy who I used to get up to no good with back home on the dusty Barbadian streets of St Philip parish.

  “Hey JT, my man . . . Happy birthday, brother.” He raised his glass to toast me and I lifted my pint; our glasses touched, making the familiar chinking sound. Vic sunk the rest of his beer and slammed the pot onto the table then yelled out across the backroom towards the bar, “Hey Eric, we got us a celebration going down, bring us a couple more pints o’ that award-winner drain cleaner you got back there.” Vic chuckled to himself then turned back towards me. “So, cous, what’s happening, you got anyting special lined up for your big day?”

  “No, nuttin’ special . . . I’ve got a job lined up.”

  “Job? You got a job lined up? Shit . . . JT, you should have yo’self some birthday woman lined up, talking like a fool ’bout a job!” Vic huffed indignantly to himself as Eric brought over two more pints of beer, placing them on the table in front of us.

  “That’ll be two shillings ten.” Eric picked up Vic’s empty glass as he waited to get paid, looked over at me, forced a smile and nodded. “Happy fucking birthday.”

  Vic pulled out a bundle of cash from the inside pocket of his coat and handed Eric a five-pound note.

  “Ain’t you got anything a bit smaller than that?”

  “Nah . . . You have one yo’self, Eric brother, then you stick my change behind the bar for later. Like I said, we’ve got some celebrating to do.” Vic beamed up at Eric, raising his eyebrows at speed a couple of times.

  “Well, you just make sure you keep your bloody celebrating to yourselves, I don’t want another bleedin’ punch-up in here just cos you two are full of ale. You hear me, the pair of you?”

  “Yeah, yeah . . . We hear ya, ya miserable old goat.” Vic stuck two fingers up at Eric’s broad back as he wandered back to the bar, whinging to himself. I finished off what was left of my first pint then took a sip out of the one that Vic had just bought for me. My cousin leant back in his chair, his beer in hand, watching me knowingly.

  “So, what’s this job you got lined up then?”

  “You know a Theodore Fowler lives round these parts?”

  “You mean Theo the flusher? Shit, JT, everybody knows old Doc Fowler.”

  “I don’t.”

  Vic blew out a breath and then sucked air back through the tiny gap in between his gleaming white upper incisors, making a faint whistling sound as he did.

  “That’s cos you got your head up your ass most o’ the time. Fine detective you make. Look, any woman got themselves knocked up and don’t want no pickney hanging off their titties in eight months’ time, they gonna be calling on Theo Fowler, that’s for damn sure. Why you looking for that old bastard anyways?”

  I took another mouthful of my ale then brought Vic up to speed, giving him all the relevant information before finishing my account with Ida Stephens’ unusual request for me to ask Dr Fowler where the truth was.

  “You gotta be kidding me, right? Only trute Theo Fowler’s gonna be able to tell you is where to git a half bottle o’ scotch cheap and how to stuff a crocheting hook up a cock-rat’s snatch. That fool wouldn’t know the trute if it was hung on the back o’ his ass! Man’s permanently wasted. How the hell he even finds a bitch’s nuk nuk with his shaky ole hands is beyond me, I tell ya straight.”

  “Can you find him for me, set up a meet?”

  “I can try . . . Best way for you to git to him is to git yo’self a woman. Make up some shit ’bout her being in the family way.”

  “Don’t s’pose you know someone?”

  “I know a piece o’ skirt that’ll help you out if you’re prepared to drop a few notes into her purse. Name’s Rita Lee. Oh she’s real sweet, knows the streets and Doc Fowler too. We use Rita an’ he won’t git spooked. Hell, she’s been to him so often she gets specia
l rates. I’ll git a couple o’ my guys to sniff ’bout, see where he’s been gittin’ loaded. Man’s never far from a shebeen. Give me a day or two. Don’t you worry; we’ll find the flusher for ya.” Vic leant forward towards me and nodded towards my glass. “Come on, brother, drink up, time fo’ more o’ Eric’s piss water.”

  I drained the remainder of my beer and put my glass down in front of me.

  “No thanks, Vic, I gotta go.” I stood up, straightened my jacket and put my trilby on. Vic, baffled, looked up at me seriously from his chair.

  “Go? Where the hell you gotta go that’s so important on your birthday, you gotta leave me drinkin’ on my own in this crap hole?”

  “I need to visit an ole friend. I’m gonna buy some flowers, take a walk up to Brunswick cemetery and pay a visit to Carnell Harris’s grave.” Without farewell, I put my hand on my cousin’s shoulder and squeezed it tightly before heading out of the pub. As I left, Vic called after me from his seat.

  “That ain’t no place for you to be, brother. You need to be staying away from that old boneyard, do you no good grieving for the dead up there, you hear me, JT?”

  I kept my head down and walked, Vic’s kindly words of warning repeating in my head as a cold cloak of sorrow wrapped itself around my body and ushered me cruelly out into the empty street.

  3

  After a fitful night’s sleep, filled with bad dreams, I was woken early on the Wednesday morning by the sound of chattering birdsong from outside in the street. My pounding head still ached from the day before and had fused with a bad mood that was probably going to be set in with me for the day. My determination to go to the cemetery and lay flowers on Carnell Harris’s grave had left me feeling blue and in need of hard liquor. With Vic’s earlier words of warning about visiting the dead ringing grimly in my ears, I’d walked out of the churchyard and into an off-licence, picked up a bottle of rum and gone back at my office; there I’d sat alone with an air of bleakness about me and begun to drink myself into a stupor.