Ken Bruen - London Boulevard

I learnt this in prison. Compulsive is when you do something repetitively. Obsessive is when you think about something repetitively.

Course, I learnt some other stuff too. Not as clear cut.

Not as defined.

The day of my release, the Governor had me up for a talk.

Bent over his desk, he kept me waiting. His head over papers, a model of industry. He had a bald patch, like Prince Charles. That made me feel good. I concentrated on it. Finally, he looks up, says:

Mitchell?

Yes, Sir?

I could play the game. I was but a cigarette away from freedom. I wasnt going to get reckless. His accent was from up north somewhere. Polished now but still leaking Yorkshire pud and all that decent shit. Asked,

Youve been with us now for?

Like he didnt know. I said,

Three years, Sir.

He hmmpd as if he didnt quite believe me. Riffled through my papers, said,

You turned down early parole.

I wanted to pay me debt in full, Sir.

The screw standing behind me gave a snort. For the first time, the Governor looked directly at me. Locked eyes. Then,

Are you familiar with recidivism?

Sir?

Repeat offenders, its like theyre obsessed with jail.

I gave a tiny smile, said,

I think youre confusing obsession with compulsion, and then I explained the difference.

He stamped my papers said,

Youll be back.

I was going to say,

Only in the repeats,

but felt Arnie in Total Recall would be lost on him. At the gate, the screw said,

Not a bright idea to give him lip.

I held up my right hand, said,

What else did I have to offer?

Missed my ride.

What the Yanks say. I stood outside the prison, waiting on my lift. I didnt look back. If thats superstition, then so be it. As I stood on the Caledonian Road, I wondered if I looked like a con, ex-con.

Shifty.

Yeah, and furtive. That too.

I was forty-five years old. Near 5' 11" in height, weighed in at 180 pounds. In shape, though. Id hammered in at the gym and could press-bench my share. Broken through the barrier to free up those endorphins. Natural high. Shit, do you ever need that inside. Sweat till you peak and beyond. My hair was white but still plentiful. I had dark eyes, and not just on the outside. A badly broken nose near redeemed by a generous mouth.

Generous!

I love that description. A woman told me so in my twenties. Id lost her but hung on to the adjective. Salvage what you can.

A transit van pulled up, sounded the horn. The door opened and Norton got out. We stood for a moment. Is he my friend?

I dunno, but he was there. He showed up, friend enough. I said,

Hey.

He grinned, walked over, gave me a hug. Just two guys hugging outside Her Majestys jail. I hoped the Governor was watching.

Norton is Irish and unreadable. Arent they all? Behind all the talk is a whole other agenda. He had red hair, pasty complexion, the build of a sly greyhound. He said,

Jaysus Mitch, how are you?

Out.

He took that on board, then slapped my arm, said,

Out... thats a good one. I like that... Lets go. Prison makes me nervous.

We got in the van and he handed me a bottle of Black Bush. It had a green bow. I said,

Thanks, Billy.

He looked almost shy, said, Aw, its nuttin... for your release... the big celebration is tonight... and here... He produced a pack of Dunhill. The lush red luxury blend. Said,

I thought youd be gasping for a tailor-made.

I had the brown paper parcel they give you on release. As Norton started the engine, I said,

Hold on a sec. And I slung the parcel.

What was that?

My past. I opened the Bush, took a long holy swallow. It burned. Wow, did it ever. Offered the bottle to him. He shook his head.

Naw, not when Im driving.

Which was rich, him being half in the bag already. He was always this side of special brews. As we headed south he was rabbiting on about the party. I switched off.

Truth is, I was tired of him already.

Norton said, Ill give you the scenic tour.

Whatever.

I could feel the whiskey kicking in. It does all sorts of weird shit to me but mainly it makes me unpredictable. Even I cant forecast how it will break.

We were turning from Marble Arch and, of course, got caught at the lights. A guy appeared at the windscreen and began to wipe it with a dirty cloth. Norton yelled,

These fuckin squeegees, theyre everywhere!

This guy didnt even make an effort. Two fast wipes that left skid marks on the screen. Then he appeared at my window, said,

Four quid matey.

I laughed, rolled the window down and said,

You need another line of work, pal.

He had long greasy hair down to his shoulders. His face was thin, and he had the eyes Id seen a hundred times on the yards. The eyes of the bottom rung predator. He leant his head back and spat. Norton went,

Aw Jaysus.

I didnt move, asked,

You got a tyre iron?

Norton shook his head,

Mitch, Jesus no.

I said, Okay.

And got out.

The guy was surprised but didnt back off. I grabbed his arm and broke it over my knee. Got back in the van and the lights changed. Norton revved fast, crying,

Oh God Mitch, you crazy bastard. Youre out... what? Ten minutes... and youre at it already. You cant be losing it.

I didnt lose it, Billy.

What, you smash the guys arm, thats not losing it?

If Id lost it, Id have broken his neck.

Norton gave me an anxious look, said,

Youre kidding... right?

What do you think?

Norton said, I think youll be surprised at the place I found for you.

As long as its near Brixton.

Its Clapham Common. Since youve been... away... its become trendy.

Oh shit.

Naw, its Okay... Anyway, a writer guy got into heavy schtook to some money lenders, had to do a runner. Left everything: clothes, books... youre set.

Is Joe still at the Oval?

Who?

Big Issue seller.

I dont know him.

We were coming up to the Oval. I said,

Hes there. Pull over.

Mitch... you want to buy the Big Issue now?

I got out, walked over. Joe hadnt changed. He was dishevelled, dirty, cheerful.

I said, Hi Joe.

Mitchell... Good Lord, I heard you was doing a stretch.

I handed over a fiver, said,

Give us a copy.

We didnt mention the change. He asked,

Did they hurt you in there, Mitch?

Not sos youd notice.

Good man. Got a smoke?

I gave him the pack of Dunhill. He examined them, said,

Flash.

Only the best for you, Joe.

Youll have missed the World Cup.

And a whole lot more besides. I asked,

How was it?

We didnt win it.

Oh.

Theres always the cricket.

Yeah, theres always that.

Three years in prison, you lose

time

compassion

and the ability to be surprised.

I was nigh amazed when I saw the apartment. The whole ground floor of a two-story house. And it was beautifully furnished, all soft pastels and wall-to-wall books. Norton stood behind to gauge my reaction.

I said, Christ.

Yeah, isnt it something? Come and see more.

He led me into the bedroom. Brass double bed. He threw open the wardrobes, packed full with clothes. Like a sales clerk, Norton said,

Youve got your

Gucci

Armani

Calvin Klein

and other bastards I cant pronounce. Get this, the sizes are medium to large.

I can do medium.

Back into the living room, Norton opened a drinks cabinet. Full too. Asked,

Whatcha fancy?

A beer.

He opened two bottles, handed me one. I asked,