10.25 pm
Nixon had reached the end of the motorway, and the outskirts of London. He turned towards Cricklewood, then headed south, down through Kilburn, Edgeware Rd, and onto Hyde Park Corner. It took him across Oxford St. He couldn't see it, but he knew The 100 Club was there. All these years later, and it was still there. Nixon had visited a few times since, even played there once, but it was that night in 1976, with Gil that had changed everything for him.
Now onto Park Lane, past The Dorchester, and out onto Marble Arch. He passed by the rear grounds of Buckingham Palace, circled around Victoria Station, then down to Vauxhall Bridge, skirting Belgravia and Pimlico. Alongside the landmark MI5 building, he wondered, had they really wasted Marrat? Perhaps somewhere in a vault deep inside the building he was now passing, was a file, detailing the demise of the young Frenchman.
At Vauxhall, Nixon bore right and headed on through Stockwell, and then finally, made his way past the rear of The Brixton Academy, turning right, up the high street, and home, Josephine Avenue. He loved the drive back across London, from a weekend away. The route he took offered a slice of everything he considered to be integral to this, he thought, probably the world's greatest city. It wasn't the most beautiful, but Nixon loved the blend of cultures and classes living cheek by jowl. Each had their own character, colour and flavour. Two hundred years on, and Nixon still felt that Johnson's 'tired of London, tired of life' quote to be valid. He'd be leaving London again tomorrow, but this time unsure of any return date. He wasn't tired of London, but the fates had conspired to make him think a new chapter was about to begin, and perhaps, it might not be here.
Tonight, the traffic had been light, and he'd done it in just over forty minutes. He parked the van, and after hesitating to leave, finally realised he had no choice. In this familiar street, it was probably as safe here as anywhere, and so he turned, and made his way, not to the house, but straight to The Jug. It was almost eleven, and he knew where Steevo would be.
The Jug, was just a couple of minutes walk away. It was an ugly building. The interior wasn't much better either, but it did have an ambience all its own. Being out of town, meant that its core clientele were generally older, working class folks, from the surrounding housing estates. It had a traditional, old world feel. There was the usual dart board, jukebox, and a pool room, but it also had bar billiards, dominoes, and swing skittles. The décor was principally green velvet, that had seen better days. An evident sheen had formed on many of its surfaces, polished and adorned by the myriad of bums, elbows and grubby hands that had passed by over the years.
The place was run by Eugene Fitzpatrick, and his wife Broghna. They'd come over from Dublin in the late seventies, bought the Jug, and never budged. Not much in the pub had changed since this time, and it showed. Steevo liked it for that fact. To him it provided a kind of comfortable, familiar continuity that contradicted his otherwise, rather alternative lifestyle.
Steevo and Nixon had bought their large, ground floor flat in the mid eighties. Neither had enough money to buy a place on their own, but by pooling their resources, they could just about raise a deposit and afford a mortgage, and so, Josephine Avenue had been their home ever since. The flat was part of an attractive, three storey Edwardian property. It incorporated a cellar, which Nixon had converted into a small studio, which is where he gave his guitar lessons.
Steevo's tastes were varied, and the flat bore this out in its décor. Deco furniture, marine fish, and an extensive collection of mainly Sci Fi model kits, filled the place. The walls gave more clues. Posters and pictures, included images from the works of Tamara de Lempicka, Fritz Lang's Metropolis and various early American Sci Fi movies.
Steevo, after his stint on the door at the 100 Club, had become a freelance graphic artist, and part of his living space was given over to a large draughtsman's drawing board, watched over at either side by life size models of Giger's Alien creature, and The Joker from Batman. Over the years, the apartment had taken on an Aladdin's cave quality. There was always something interesting lying around, typically, books on bondage, deco furniture or bootleg punk CD's.
Nixon's quarters were altogether more spartan. A sofa bed, desk and some records and books. It felt minimalist by comparison. It suited them both perfectly, they enjoyed each others tastes, and neither had seen any reason to move on. Until now.
Sunday night in The Jug was quiz night. Steevo loved quizzes. He also loved meat in all its forms, which was fortunate, as tonight's prize was a large, cellophane wrapped selection of pork cuts and sausages, supplied by the local butcher. “A pig jigsaw” Steevo called it.
“Question nineteen. Who was the narrator of children's T.V programme, The Clangers ? Derek Giffiths, Oliver Postgate, or Bernard Cribbins ?”
Steevo noted down his answer immediately. He was good on seventies kids T.V. It wouldn't have been obvious from his appearance, though. He'd always been attracted to the darker side. A little older than Nixon, Steevo had a an altogether more distinctive look. A large man, his head was close shaved. His nose and ears were adorned with multiple, thick silver rings. An ivory goatee beard softened the hardness above, and added an element of wisdom. A kind of punk rock Merlin, as Nixon often described him. The style was further enhanced by chunky, silver hand jewellery, and finished off with enormous, Nu Rock goth boots. As he wrote down his answer, he whistled a quick two second impression of the Clangers' peculiar slide whistle voice. Nixon took a chair at his table, and Steevo, without looking up said,
“Man, Dennis Nilsen arrested, what year ? I think it was '83 what'ya reckon ?”
“Steve, I need to talk, something's come up”
The pig jigsaw was foremost in Steevo's mind, he hadn't even said hello, and didn't respond to Nixon's irrelevant statement.
“You won't be getting much from him at the minute, Nikki. Half and a chaser, is it ?”
Nixon nodded, “Hi Michael, how long we got to go ?”
Michael had been Steevo's regular partner for around five years. Almost the antithesis to Steevo, Michael, a couple of years younger than Nixon, was a small, svelte man. A drag artist by profession, in his off duty hours, he dressed simply, and mostly in black. His perennial kohl ringed eyes, painted nails and a single diamond stud earring, the only real indication that he inhabited a lifestyle outside of the norm. Despite being younger, he'd become the households matriarchal figure.
“Not long now dear, Eugene's already dropping off”
He went off to the bar to get a last round in, while Nixon glanced over to see Eugene, propped in a high chair, next to the bar, head lolling upon his chest. His greasy hair fell down the side of his face. Two inches of prime, pot belly peeked out from the gap between his straining tee shirt and his beige, flared slacks. His right hand, resting on his paunch, carried a lit cigarette with almost an inch of ash on the end, seemingly defying gravity. Nixon could see that some had previously fallen undisturbed, upon his squat, fat thigh. Suddenly the lit end of the cigarette dipped a little, and touched the bloated stomach.
“Oww, ya fawkin' basted ye !......” He started, and looked to see if anybody had noticed.....they had.....Eugene did this all the time.
“Asbestos bib's what you need” laughter.....
“Ah fack off, the lotta yers.....”
Michael came back with the drinks, and Nixon downed his scotch in one. He drew on his roll up, head back, and exhaled slowly.
“How were the gigs dear, did it go well ?”
Nixon had been friends with Steevo for a long time. Even Michael, who had only been in his world more recently, he considered to be as good as family, however, he still didn't feel able to explain the full extent of his situation. On the walk back home, Nixon decided that he would tell half a tale. Without mentioning names, he explained the fact that he'd been having an affair. He said he'd been discovered by the unhinged husband, who was now on his tail.
“To be honest, I'm scared. The guy's a screwball, and I think I need to get away for a while”
“Does he know where you live ?”
“Well no, I don't think so. Even she doesn't know that, but she does know my name, and has seen me gig so it might be possible to find out if he made her talk.......Listen, I've got a plan. Do you remember that French geezer I came to the Hundred with ? You know, way back, when you were doin' the door ? Steevo nodded.
“I think I'm gonna schlep out over there for a while, and hang out with him. If anybody comes asking after me, then you don't know anything, yeah ?”
“How long for ?”
“As long as it takes, six months, a year. I don't really know. I've got enough in the bank to handle six months, and I'm gonna need you to cancel all my lessons over the next few days. Tell 'em I've gone off on tour or something.”
“And after six months ? You'll have no job..........”
“I know, I'll think of something. I won't let you down, I just need you to do that for me.......”
“Okay, if you're sure........Leave it to me”
Steevo didn't need to ask any more than he'd been told, and Nixon knew he would be as good as his word. Nixon, for his part knew that Steevo trusted him, and though he couldn't see much around this particular corner of his life, he still believed he could make it good it in the end.
They arrived back at the flat, and Nixon quickly swung into action, furnishing his friends with all the relevant information they'd need to tie up the loose ends. Nixon then made a quick inventory of all the things he might need for his unspecified visit to France. With little real idea on how this could possibly map out, he decided to keep things to a minimum. It was now nearing two in the morning. He showered, ate, then packed his regular touring bag, with three changes of clothes. Years of travelling away to shows, had taught him that he could exist almost indefinitely, with just three changes. One to wear, one as spare, and one to wash.
He checked his passport, wallet, phone and diary, and then, after an emotional goodbye hug with Steevo and Michael, he made his way outside to the van. Nothing had been disturbed. He decided his best route to Brittany was via the ferry at Portsmouth. It would take two hours, and he'd be well in time for the early departure, which sailed around six am. At this time of year there were several sailings a day, and so even if it was full, he could book a place later in the day. Before he made his way back onto the road, however, there was still one job to do.
On the motorway trip down to London, he thought he'd hit on the perfect solution for hiding the body. In a lock up garage, not far from the flat, Nixon kept some large pieces of music equipment, that wouldn't fit into his studio. Back in the eighties, he'd got involved with hiring out sound systems, and was now the owner of a rather ancient P.A system, that included some hefty, bass cabinets. These cabinets had a detachable back panel, which provided access to the large speakers housed within. By removing the speaker cone, he was sure he had enough room for something much more important. The front of the cabinet had a dense metal grill backed with black gauze material. It would be impossible to see the contents inside, and without knowledge of the back panel, difficult to inspect.
Nixon figured that unless the customs officials at the port had a very real suspicion, then an internal investigation of the cabinet would seem too complicated. Normally these cabinets were used in pairs, but together with his guitar and amplifier, it would appear to anybody with no specific knowledge, to be not so out of the ordinary. He was merely a musician on his way to France, to do a few gigs over the summer. In the back of the van, after heaving in the bass cab from the garage, Nixon closed the doors behind him. The body, after some struggle, did eventually cram into the space. It was now nearing three am, there was nobody about, and Nixon was now finally ready to set off, and confront the next hurdle.
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