Blakey on Tour - Part 20

(An ongoing story. Part one here)

Kirsty, her name were.

And she weren't blonde.

That's the first thing what hit us, after the earthquake had died down a bit and I felt meself getting control once again. Cos that's what it had been like – an earthquake. She weren't only the fittest bird I'd ever seen, she were the fucking vibrating diamond on the wall. That's what it had been about, the lightsaber and all that bollocks yesterday morning - it were the world's way of telling us I had a big one coming. A jolt so fucking major it's gonna set your teeth rattling and yet make you stronger and better in yourself than you ever felt. But she weren't blonde.

And her name were Kirsty.

'He's been having some problems,' she says, toying with a bottle of ketchup.

We was in the caff. It weren't Burt's Caff no more but in the same place. And Burt were still in it, pottering around behind the partition there. His own business had gone the way of most others in Mangel of late, meaning it had sailed down the pan and been took over by a bunch of outsiders you never saw. They'd stripped out all the old shite and put new shite in, most of it shiny and a bit like a hospital, except a lot cleaner than the one in Mangel. Then they'd gave Burt his old job back, although he were restricted to making toast these days, so I'd heard. But at least he had a future. I had a future and all, now. That's how I truly felt, staring at Kirsty's dark lashes and willing em to lift up and show us them brown eyes behind em.

'What's that?' I says.

'My Dad. He's been... well, he's been back on the whisky. He's always liked a drop but he's lost control of his drinking since Scott died.'

I thought about that. No matter how beautiful she were, and however much I just wanted to look at her and ask her out and try and get off with her, I had to play things careful. I had to make her see that I'm an intelligent, professional person who is not brain damaged. And to do that I had to say the right things, ask the probing questions. 'What d'you mean, lost control of his drinking?' I says.

'Well,' she says, shrugging. I loved it when she done that. It made the whole top half of her body move in a certain way. 'He just never seems to let up on it. He's always knocking it back, no matter what time of day it is.'

'Yeah, but in what way has he lost control of it? You mean he's spilling some down his chin or summat?' Cos I'd heard about that. Loss of motor skills, they calls it. The next stage is that the patient won't be able to drive his motor no more, which is where the condition gets its name from. Mind you, Jock didn't have to fret over that no more.

Shite.

I'd plain forgot about all that business of last night. I'd shoved him swede-first down that gulley, hadn't I? Didn't seem like such a good idea now, with the anti-wossnames inside us and the professional part of my brain getting going. Had I really believed Jock to be the Highlander? People can be twats at times, I swear, and I'm including meself on that. Fuck it, though - can't be helped now.

I could help his daughter, mind.

I could comfort her.

'He's just... you know, he's just trying to escape reality, I suppose,' she says. 'With the drink, I mean. But he's going too far. I think he's gonna hurt himself.'

'He were alright when I seen him,' I says, reaching out and squeezing one of her delicate paws. I were trying to set her at ease. 'I seen him put away at least a bottle and half, I reckon, and not spill a fucking drop of it.'

She frowned and withdrew her paw. Maybe I were being a bit forward there. I budged around the table instead, going for some leg contact. Mind you, I wished I weren't still wearing her old man's trousers – they fucking reeked. Then again, she might find that reassuringly familiar. But what the fuck were I playing at, not giving meself the once-over before stepping out with her? Change of strides and a clean shirt and I'd have been humping her by now, no fucking problem. I had to get me swede straight, truly I fucking did. And I'd already thought of how.

'Two Big Breakfasts?' the waitress were yelling from somewhere behind us.

I called her over and she set em down in front of me and Kirsty, saying she'd be back with the teas. I rubbed me paws and got stuck in, swallowing a streaky rasher whole.

'Erm, I don't think I can eat this,' says Kirsty, grimacing at the plate in front of her.

'Nah, I never ordered you one,' I says, reaching over and getting that plate. I scraped it onto mine, giving me a nice pile of scran about four inches high. If that didn't get me swede straight, fuck knows what would. 'I don't mind lending you a bit o' black pud, though?' I says to her, feeling generous.

'No, I don't really—'

'Go on. It's made of fresh pigs' blood. You can't go wrong with it, I fucking swear.'

'Really, I...'

I put a bit on the spare plate and shoved it back in front of her. Kirsty needed her head straightened and all, after all. I couldn't think of a bird who didn't, now I came to think on it.

'Look,' she says, 'I might as well tell you that my Dad's been living in a bit of a fantasy world lately. Since Scott died, he—'

'Hang on a min,' I says, hushing her up with a hand, 'who's—?'

'Can you take your hand off my knee?'

'Is that my hand? Soz about that. I'm just wondering who this Scott is?' Cos I didn't know no one by that name in Mangel. Foreign name like that, I were wondering if he might be linked with Jock in some way. This is the way you have to think if you wanna do private investigating, like I were doing here. Kirsty had come to us cos she'd heard about my skills in that area, like as not. It's true that her old man had been seen with us yesterday, but so had other folks. I didn't see her going round Alvin's, for example. That's cos Alvin looks like a fucking shaved squirrel in an apron. And cos he's shite at private investigating.

Me, on the other hand, I'd done loads of it in the past, sorting shite out for folks and locating missing persons. This one were gonna be a piece of piss, cos I already knowed where he were. But I had to make it look like I never, and the way to do that were by asking questions like who this Scott feller is.

'Hang on, don't tell us the answer,' I says, putting my fork down and pressing a finger to my temple, like clever folks do when they wanna get even more cleverer. I think there's a hidden button there or summat. Like the turbo boost button in Knight Rider. 'This Scott, he's linked with yer old man in some way. Aye, I'm getting strong feelings on that. And what's more, I reckon yer old man is linked with this Scott as well. So it's a two-way kind of linkage. Aye, I truly feels that.' I glanced at her, making sure she were keeping up with this.

'Scott was his son,' she says, looking a bit disgusted. I don't think she liked her black pud. 'He died... well, he had a drug-related fatal accident. They said afterwards that he was hallucinating on acid or summat, and I suppose he thought he could fly. They always warn you about stuff like that, don't they? But my brother was reckless. He was always doing crazy shit.'

I ate a couple of bangers. 'Your brother?' I says, chewing. A bit of sausage flew out of my gob and stuck on her forehead, but I don't think she noticed. 'How do he come into this, then? Did he know this Scott feller?'

She looked down and rubbed her pretty eyes, the pressure of it all coming down upon her. I wanted to put a paw round her shoulder but I sensed it weren't the moment. I went for her knee again instead.

'Maybe I'm not explaining myself well,' she says, batting it away. 'Scott was my brother, Jock's son. It's my brother who died falling off the roof of Rockefellers. We're the same family. Do you get it?'

'Ah, I gets it now,' I says, casting me swede back to summat Jock had said about his son getting killed by vampires on the roof of that selfsame club. It all made sense now. All you had to do were tie up the wossnames, cross-reference your thingios and you found the true picture. 'So Jock had two sons, right? Bit of a fucking nightmare, ennit, both of em carking it on the same roof? Anyone'd go a bit barmy after that and spill some of their whisky. So which one were first, the druggy one or the vampire one?'

Kirsty pushed her chair back and got up, flashing us a bit of creamy thigh before tugging down her skirt. At first I thought she were gonna give us a big hug, me being the first person to finally understand where she were coming from and know how she felt. Maybe she'd sit in my lap as well, stick her tongue in me ear and waggling it around a bit. I don't half love it when they does that. But she never.

She pissed off outside.

'Hold up a min,' I yells, going after her. Some twat got in my way by the door but I didn't have time to fuck around with that. This were a test, weren't it? Kirsty were my vibrating lightsaber diamond and I had to prove meself worthy. I caught up with her on the corner of Friar Street and grabbed her arm, not letting go when she struggled to get free. If that didn't show her how worthy I were, fuck knew what would.

'I made a mistake, OK?' she says, calming down. Some tears were coming down her cheeks and I wanted to wipe em off. With me tongue. No, with a hanky or summat. Fucking calm down, Blakey. And I could finally get that bit of banger off her forehead while I were at it. Waste not want not. 'I thought you was a serious person,' she says, getting all emotional now. 'I thought you'd be able to help me. But now I can see that—'

'I am a serious person. I fuckin' swear I am, Kirst. See that place over there? I used to be head doorman of it. And you can't get more serious than that.'

'What place? The Porter Centre?'

'No... I mean, yeah, but... Look, that place used to be Hoppers, Mangel's premier piss house, and it were me who done the doors there, letting in them who's welcome and knocking back them who ain't. I were a fucking community pillar, honest I were. Ah, you should of seen us back then, in me dickie bow and that. I'd of soon defrosted yer, I fuckin' swear. I mean—'

'I'll tell you what you are – you're worse than my dad. His brain's addled from the booze, but you, you're just nuts. You're off your head. Look at you – you're wearing a woman's raincoat, for fuck's sake!'

'No, you don't understand, I—'

'Go on then – what don't I understand?'

'See, you're the vibrating diamond, and, erm... well, before that, I thought your old man were the Highlander, and that there could only be one of him, but, er...'

She walked off again. I didn't blame her. I were fucking it all up, weren't I? Here were the biggest chance of happiness Blakey's ever had, and he cocks it up by getting his swede all confused. I mean, fancy saying that about defrosting her? She were too classy for that kind of wossname, this one, even though she were a bit frigid in actual fact. I'd blown my chance, no doubt about it. But I knowed how I could pull it back. I had one card left to play.

And it were the ace of fucking spades.

'I can take you to your old man,' I shouts.

She stopped.


(Come back tomorrow for more...)