Bad Boys of London: The Complete GYPSY HEROES Collection (54 page)

And from her flow precious memories. If not for the intervention of the cruel hand of fate, she would have been my mother-in-law. I squeeze her hand and feel a great love for this kind and generous woman. We are connected forever by having loved the same person, and by the grief of having lost her.

‘When you remember Vivien, remember that she was always laughing, always wanting to have fun. She wouldn’t want to be the barbed wire wrapped around your heart.’

I nodded. ‘I know.’

I press a thick wad of money into her reluctant hand and kiss her powdered cheek goodbye. She stands at the door and gazes wistfully at me. I walk up to her wooden gate. I even open it. Then something pulls at me. I turn around and walk back to her. She looks at me enquiringly.

‘I want to show you something, but I don’t want to upset you,’ I say.

‘Yes, show me,’ she says immediately.

I take my phone out and scroll to the picture of Ella. I hold the phone out to her. ‘This is Ella, my girlfriend.’  

She gazes at the phone for a long time. When she looks up, her eyes are swimming with tears. ‘She’s beautiful, Dom. Will you bring her to dinner one day soon?’

I nod, and it
’
s impossible for me to talk because I
’
m so choked up.

‘God knew he shouldn’t have taken her away from you,’ she says, giving me back the phone.

I take the phone from her and walk away, my heart finally free.

Where, O death, is your victory:

where, O death, is your sting?

        —1 Corinthians 15: 55

TWENTY-SIX

I
turn the car around and drive to the cemetery where Vivien was laid to rest. It
’
s a sunny day and the cemetery looks pretty with brightly colored petunias bordering it. I park and go up to a rickety iron gate. I’m not sure exactly where her grave is, but I remember my mother once mentioning that hers is a plot in the east end of the cemetery, and that there
’
s an oak tree nearby.

I take one of the small paths that radiate out to a serpentine perimeter path to lead visitors around the outer graves, some of which are centuries old. It’s hard to imagine that these people walked this earth hundreds of years ago.

They are mostly overgrown, unkempt and crumbling, but one of the ancient, ornate altar tombs catches my attention, and I find myself wandering to it, and reading the worn inscription. Herein lies Arthur Anderson-Black.

Resting in the arms of God forever,

loved forever, missed desperately.

Flying with the angels, your memory

will never die. Our beloved father,

brother and uncle. We will never forget you.

Rest in peace till we meet again.

1830–1875

I think of the mourners who erected the tombstone for him three hundred years ago. Their remains have joined his under the clay soil. But did they meet again? I
’
ve never walked around a cemetery on my own before, and it is an oddly surreal experience. Walking among the dead makes you appreciate the impermanence of life and the permanence of death like nothing else can. All these people once lived and walked and talked and did their thing as if they would live forever. This house is mine, this land is mine, and now they are all just gone forever.

The saddest headstones are the ones erected by grieving parents. They are the most poignant. A simple epitaph on a new grave touched me deeply.

Beneath this simple stone

that marks her resting place

our precious darling sleeps

alone in the Lord’s long embrace.

May 2001–December 2001

As I stroll along the path I remember what my mother once told me. When the fruit is ripe and ready, it will leave the branch easily. I was the branch that Vivien was torn away from. I wasn
’
t ready. She still had too much to live for. Without realizing it I have fallen into a kind of melancholy, contemplative mood, and it is a shock to see a hilarious marble tombstone.

Is This Headstone Tax Deductible?

It makes me smile. I take my phone out and take a photo for Ella. The tax inspector in her will appreciate it.

The curved outer path meets an axial pathway that takes me to a central chapel, and a small custodian’s lodge that was designed to be used for burial services. The path meanders, and I pass a newly dug grave awaiting its occupant.

I walk over to the manicured grass and spot the oak tree in the distance. I begin to walk toward it. I no longer look at the gravestones on either side of me. As if I
’
m guided by an invisible hand, I move forward with sure steps until I
’
m standing in front of Vivien’s grave. My breath escapes in a long sigh. Ah, Vivien. Her grave is a custom memorial in polished black granite with a carved weeping angel holding a rose. The setting sun makes the stone glow red.

Vivien Jessica Finch

Goodnight, dear heart,

goodnight, goodnight

Oct, 10, 1987–Jul, 24, 2004

I kneel down and touch the smooth stone. How she would have hated this place. This peace. This quiet. This impenetrable air of mourning and stillness. The impulsive, impetuous Vivien with roses in her hair, the one who could never sit still for a moment is not here. I laugh. The sound is loud and strange among the silent tombstones. It disturbs the peace. Perhaps no one has laughed here in centuries.

A strong breeze rushes at my face. I look up, surprised. And suddenly I hear Vivien saying, ‘I’ll come back and haunt you.’

‘You never did come back to haunt me, did you?’ I whisper into the wind.

And I remember her laughing. How she used to laugh. She was wild and beautiful, but never vindictive.

I wonder where she is now.

‘Wherever you are, Vivien, remember I truly loved you,’ I say, and, in the trees, a lone bird calls. I stay a little while longer, but I am restless. For I stand there, a living, breathing mortal, with hot blood flowing in my veins. One day I’ll join them in their repose and their silence, but not yet. I have a life and it’s calling me. I walk away and never look back.

As soon as I get into my car, I call Ella. She picks up on the first ring.

‘Ella,’ I say.

And she starts to weep.

And suddenly I can’t wait to see her. ‘Where are you?’ I ask.

‘On the way home,’ she sobs.

‘Go home and wait for me. I’m taking you out to dinner. I’ll be there in less than an hour. Wear something sexy,’ I say, joy pouring through my living blood.

I stuff my phone into my pocket and, feeling light-hearted enough to fly, I run up the three flights of stairs. I let myself into my flat and, pressing my palms to my face, I go to the mirror. Wow! Look at me glow.

Undressing quickly, I step into the shower. I fly out in five minutes and do my hair. Putting a tiny amount of gel into the ends of my hair I blow dry it, and leave it as a mass of tumbling curls on my back and shoulders.

Then I sit on the bed and paint my toenails bright fuchsia. I wait ten minutes for them to dry. When they are, I
pull on strawberry-flavored, edible panties, carefully stick edible, chocolate-flavored arrow tattoos on my belly and thighs. All arrows point towards my hoo-ha, which has already started humming with anticipation.

Oh, and there are watermelon-flavored pasties for my nipples.

Just thinking of Dom licking everything off makes a shiver run down my back.
Smiling happily, I slip into a white dress with secret mesh panels on the bodice and back. It molds to my body then flares out from mid-thigh to my ankles.

With butterflies in my tummy, I step into strappy silver shoes. My toenails, bright and glossy, peep out as I walk three times into a cloud of perfume I have sprayed above my head. Sitting at the dressing table, I apply fuchsia lipstick and a layer of mascara, and I
’
m ready. I look at the time. Still ten minutes to go. The doorbell rings. He’s early. He’s eager. I grin at my reflection.

Way to go, girl.

I don’t walk to answer the door, I run. I open the door and my smile dies on my lips. I recognized him straightaway, even with the unkempt beard and mustache, but why on earth is he dressed like that? And what the hell is he doing here? What’s that supermarket trolley doing out in the corridor? But before I can say or do anything he reaches out, and stabs me in the hand with something sharp that he was holding concealed.

It acts so quickly I don’t even feel myself hit the floor.

TWENTY-SEVEN

‘Do not run away; let go. Do not seek, for it will come when least expected.’

                                                              —Bruce Lee

Q
uickly, I push the trolley into her apartment and close the door. Using the tattered blankets inside the trolley, I bundle her up in them. Then I turn the trolley on its side, and pull out all the assorted bits and pieces inside it: old newspapers, empty tins, plastic bottles, some boxes. I drag the trolley so it’s facing her body and kind of roll and push her body into it.

Excellent … She fits even better than I thought.

Grunting, I try to pull the trolley upright, but it is too heavy. I let it drop back down. Slight change of plans. Straightening, I walk over to a small, painted cabinet and take out a phone directory. I lift the trolley slightly and push the thick book into the gap. Now I have more leverage. Using both hands I give the trolley another great heave. My second attempt is successful.

Panting slightly, I throw the other odds and ends on top of her body and stand back to look at the end effect critically. Yes, no one would suspect that it is anything other than the trolley of a homeless man filled with everything he possesses. There’s a mirror on her wall and I go and look at myself.