Obscured, within a secluded, tree ringed field, in the back of Nixon Tyme's van, the awful truth had dawned. Nixon, breathless and spent, had slumped onto the bare, faded green mattress. After twenty five seconds, no hand reached out and stroked the back of his head. She always did this, and by forty five seconds, sensing the change, Nixon turned around......Lucia didn't blink.
How does one check for death? At first, in panic, he shook her from the shoulders....... nothing,
then, thinking a little clearer, he listened for heart, breath, and tried what he thought might be a kiss of life. She was dead, he was sure, but even so, he went through it all again, twice. Not sure, in his frenzy, how long had passed, but the unmistakable feel of cold, lifeless flesh drew the line.
Now here she was, dead, in the back of his van. He had no idea why, or what to do.
Two dark eyes, stared up and straight through him. Dressed now, and thinking too fast, he tried to calm himself. Not sure why, but perhaps to create some sort of order, he replaced her underwear and buttoned up her dress. As he did so, his eye caught sight of the little tattoo of Timo, high up on her right thigh.
Timo, was a Viscacha, a kind of long tailed chinchilla, and native of the Pampas region of Argentina. The story went that, as a child, she had raised one in captivity. Timo lived a long and cherished life, and then, inconsolable upon his death, she eventually decided to create a lasting memorial, by having a tattoo of his distinctive bandit striped face, on the place where he loved to sit most. Nixon stared at the image, and a pang of sadness and guilt hit him, as he straightened out the dress down over Timo, and the body that no one would ever desire again.
II
North London, 1976
Francis Alan Tanner had several pseudonyms. At school, his initials had given rise to Fatty or Fats, which in adolescence, had morphed into Fat Stan. Tanner hated them all. Not exactly overweight, but neither slender, his build could best be described as stocky. The nicknames had instilled within him an obsessive fascination with his appearance, and particularly his weight.
Tanner Francis, as he arranged to be known in adulthood, had a yearning, like his mother, to be seen as a lover of refined ways. He liked to dress well, and cultivated his accent. Unfortunately, this desire was always at odds with some of the less refined traits he'd inherited from his father.
Strong, but heavy handed, and with a quick temper, meant that anything requiring subtlety of touch had passed him by. Tanner knew he would never become a musician, or an artist, after whom his mother had named him. Academia held little sway, and on leaving school, he had inevitably drifted into the family business.
Tanner's father was known in the trade as Banana Al. In the street fruit and veg game, Tanner senior had hit on the rather unusual idea of specialising in just one fruit. It gave his stall an unmistakable appearance, and together with the now legendary 'no rubbish' sign, placed assertively in the middle of a pile of unblemished yellow, Banana Al had earned the reputation of a connoisseur, and his Top Banana stalls proved a success.
Albany Fruit (and Son), grew steadily, and by the early seventies, there were several successful
pitches established around the North London markets. Tanner, after four years of hard work, had
undeniably earned some self respect, and approaching his twenty first birthday, had managed to
become solely responsible for three pitches. Although now quite successful, Tanner still felt
unfulfilled, and despite attempts to diversify, his father would always resist him with his routine
'keep it safe, keep it simple' maxim.
His mother, Philomena, had long since foundered on the rocks of Al's intransigence. Her place was always at home, with artistic leanings tolerated only as hobbyist distractions. Having passed up the chance to pursue her passions, Tanner began to realise that he too would miss out, if he didn't act. These days, Tanner could afford to spend less time on the shop floor, preferring to hire in his "Geeetya nanaaas...Naarabbish eere..” pedlar boys. His home base pitch was always, St Albans Place, Islington. Most of his fellow traders frequented the pubs near to the market, but one day, he decided to cross the divide, passing through Camden Passage antique strip. Wandering through the adjoining streets, he soon arrived at St Peter Street, and decisively, The Queen's Head.
"Yes guv ?" Clifford Cooke scarcely glanced towards Tanner as he turned to serve him.
III
In 1774 Jean Paul Marat published The Chains of Slavery, his seminal political work. One hundred and ninety nine years later, Jean Noel (Jeanno) Maret, a nineteen year old Parisian student, read it. Written in England, and subtitled 'A work in which the clandestine and villainous attempts of princes to ruin liberty are pointed out, and dreadful scenes of despotism disclosed' It was a book that had the potential to change lives and inspire a whole new generation.
Keen on politics, poetry, and especially music, Jeanno was toying with the idea of forming a band, and needed a plan to hang his hat on. Seeing the connection with the Situationist movement six years before, he realised that 'Chains' had given him what he was looking for.
The Situationists were a Marxist, anti capitalist organisation of intellectuals, formed in the late
fifties, and lasting until the early seventies. It was still a hot topic amongst young revolutionary
students like Jeanno. A poster he'd seen, of the 1968 Paris student uprising and inspired by the
Situationists, struck a chord for him. Depicting a young woman hurling a brick end, beneath the caption 'La beaute est dans la rue' Jeanno reasoned that what had been missing from previous revolts, was a tangible vehicle, through which the public could digest the message of revolution.
It was no use just lobbing missiles or chanting slogans. It needed beauty, and beauty for him, was a band. Not any band, either. A band with a look, and a band with an agenda.
As with Marat's book, Jeanno had sensed the need for an English influence. Fortunately, he had a
distant cousin, Michael Lenoir, an art student with French and English parents, who'd moved to
London when he was twelve, and like Jeanno, was looking for something. And so, in 1974, on the
two hundredth anniversary of the publication of Chains of Slavery, Jeanno quit college, and as an
homage to its author, changed his name to Marrat. He then moved to London and formed The
Belleville Riders. He took the name from the region to the east side of Paris. Situated in the 20th
Arrondissement, not so far from The Bastille, the symbol of the French Revolution.
A considerable immigrant population gave it a multicultural feel. Being a cheaper district, it had
also attracted young, creative and radical elements. Jeanno, no stranger to the area himself, had
noticed the burgeoning street fashion movement. Black PVC, monkey boots and safety pin
jewellery, he felt could well be adopted into a cutting edge music scene. Fashion of the streets, for people of the streets. A uniform of revolution. It all made perfect sense.
Initially The Belleville Riders were two. Michael, (now re christened Michel Black) and front man,
Marrat, spent the rest of '74 trawling the capital for two more Riders. After a year of false starts,
they eventually found their men. The two Englishmen, Damon 'DD' England, on guitar, and
drummer Clifford Cooke. With their bare bones power, they were the perfect foil for their French,
revolutionary partners. The Belleville Riders played their first ever show on Friday, 19th September 1975, at Goldsmiths College. With their raw power, confrontational lyrics, and radical image, they soon started to create an underground movement, and within six months, people were beginning to take note of the bewitching Marrat, and his band of hard faced, arrogant cohorts. At this point, there was no other band comparable, and it showed. This neoteric style, imported from the Parisian street scene of '74, together with an intense rock n roll sound, started to gain a reputation, and gradually, bands began to form in their image.
Born in London, but conceived in Paris. Punk Rock had arrived.
IV
Still trembling from shock, Nixon steeled himself, covered the body with a blanket, then moved to
the front of the van. "Okay, let's start the engine and drive..."
Out of the field and onto the road, Nixon meandered the Transporter aimlessly along the secluded country lanes. "Keep steady, but keep moving.."
It was true. As long as he kept driving, it was unlikely anybody was going to discover his stiffening cargo. Late Sunday afternoon, he still had some time before her absence from anywhere she ought to be would be questioned. Fortunately for Nixon, he had nowhere he needed to be until his next gig, the following Thursday.
Option 1: Go to the police and 'fess up.
He had actually done nothing wrong. Would the police believe him? Might they think it a crime of
passion? Suffocation leaves no marks, but surely there would be signs of a struggle? Would they be any different from the scratches and bruising from the sex? Not sure. Depending on the exact cause of death, he had no way of knowing if it looked suspicious or not.
Even if the authorities could be convinced of his innocence, he was almost certain his identity
couldn't be hidden in the aftermath of an inquest. DNA and phone records would be easily detected, and this would open a door between himself and the not remotely perfect Peter. In the few months he'd known Lucia, Nixon had learnt of her husband's ever decreasing stability. She'd explained about the shotgun kept in the house, and how he'd made it quite clear that, if ever she carried out her recent threats of leaving, then he would, most definitely, be opening the box.
Whether he intended to bring about an end to himself, herself or both were unclear, but Nixon
feared that if his actions were revealed, then he would be most definitely in the firing line too.
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