“You got paid, what can it benefit you to keep this going?’
‘Sheee…it as our black brothers say, “I dun’ tol’ you young un’ I got me a taste for this.”‘
Ray was relaxing, he was close to having fun and this cop was so easy to rile. He said:
‘See, you got a clue right there. Am I a brother or playing at it, running the old double bluff?’
Porter, who’d been having chest pains and had resolved to stop smoking, signalled to McDonald for a cig. This took a minute and Porter clicked his fingers; McDonald wasn’t keen on the gesture. The cig was found, a Rothmans — thus funding the South African connection anew — then a lighter.
Porter got his cigarette flamed, drew deep, said:
‘The picture that comes across from all the clues I have is that you are a sick whacko and I promise you this, I am personally going to bring you down. So how you like that clue, bro’?’
And then Porter Nash did something that would become the stuff of police legend.
He slammed down the phone.
The rule is: never, never never never… hang up on a kidnapper, extortionist or hostage taker.
Then, to add to the myth, Porter collapsed.
An ambulance was called and he was rushed to St Thomas’. The paramedics, on hearing about chest pains, shot him through to Coronary Care, Porter feeeling like he was an extra in ER… the mad gallop through the corridors, the IV bottle, the oxygen mask, he’d have enjoyed it if the fucking pain wasn’t so intense.
Porter Nash knew for certain he was dying. Gays like him liked Dolly Parton marginally better than Barbra Streisand, and her version of ‘I Don’t Know Much’ was reeling in his head. He could hear ‘I don’t know much but I know I’m dying’, which made it a torch song of mega echoes.
They got him hooked up to the monitors, took blood — the cocksuckers — and get this… began to question him.
Like this:
‘When did the pains start?
Where are they concentrated?
Do you smoke?
Any history of heart disease in the family?’
That kind of shite.
He wanted to say:
‘Fuck off.’
But he knew they wouldn’t. They kept up the barrage of questions, carried on doing stuff to his chest. He could see little plastic plugs that were attached to him and the amount of tubes in his left arm was to be seen to be believed.
The specialist said:
‘I would say the tube in your heart is gone.’
At least that’s what it sounded like, or some valve had packed it in. To Porter Nash it all sounded like sayonara. He was finally given some painkillers and he swallowed them with relish. The truth is, he would have killed for a cig.
Like plenty of light smokers, he’d deluded himself by thinking he could kick any time he chose. They are the smokers the tobacco companies like best. What they do not like us to see are the poor ravaged faces of people like snooker ace Hurricane Higgins — gaunt, fucked and forlorn — peering out from the tabloids. The real maintenance comes with the guy who thinks he’s not hooked. Smoking ULTRA LIGHTS and thinking the roof will never fall in.
It falls.
Porter didn’t really think he could ask for ten minutes to nip out for a fast drag. Next up was x-ray… And the technician tut-tutted… ‘This you do not want to hear.’
So Porter asked:
‘What? You see something on there?’
‘Not my job, mate. I just take the snaps, let the big boys deliver the damage.’
‘So you do see something? Oh Jesus, tell me. I can take it.’
And he remembered Burt Reynolds in The End saying exactly the same thing, then, when he’d heard the worst, howling like a baby. The technician, putting the x-ray in a huge envelope, said:
‘The porter will wheel you back.’
Porter Nash grabbed his wrist, said:
‘The porter? I’m Porter, tell me the news. I’m a cop, did you know that and believe me, I can give you shit till Sunday if I want.’
The technician looked around, then whispered:
‘Do you smoke?’
Oh God, it was true. The dreaded messenger was banging on the gates. Porter felt the air go out of whatever remained of his black lungs and the guy said:
‘Reason I ask is, you can slide in the back there, grab a drag and I’ll keep the door closed.’
PorterNash wanted to giggle, he felt hysteria rising. Smoking his cigarette and trying to get his mind in gear, he focused on a poem by Jack Mulveen he’d memorised one quiet afternoon. How the hell did it go? The title was ‘The Coffin Maker’s House’.
He could recall the first verse.
A creaking dilapidated sign of carved wood
Swung where a rusted steel swivel stood
A sway of Gothic letters whispering
‘John Green, Coffin Maker, Est. 1919.’
The technician shouted:
‘Yo, Officer, they want you.’
Ask not for whom the bloody bell tolls. He finished the cig and prayed it hadn’t finished him. The porter wheeled him back upstairs and they got him a bed. He was reattached to all the tubes and the nurse asked:
‘Like a cup of tea, love?’
She was black with huge luminous eyes and he thought of Falls, wondering if she knew of his plight. No sign of Roberts or Brant or indeed any cop.
He answered:
‘I’d really appreciate that.’
She stared at him and he said:
‘What?’
‘You have lovely manners.’
What she thought was:
Fag.
When the painkillers kicked in, Porter couldn’t believe the ease. He remembered Arnie’s line in Predator:
You lose it here, you are in a world of hurt.
He began to feel sleepy, and when the tea arrived he was already dozing. A nurse came and said cheerfully:
‘Mr Nash, we need some more blood.’
‘You’re kidding. I like, gave pints already, what’s the deal?
‘We need to keep an eye on your blood sugar.’
He didn’t know what this meant but didn’t ask for fear she’d tell him, so he said:
‘My name is Porter Nash.’
She began to do shit to his arm and said:
‘Impressive name.’
As she drew the blood, she was humming. There are few things as annoying as that, except for Muzak, and the worst bit is you start to try and identify the goddamn tune. He couldn’t, said:
‘I give up.’
She was finished and asked:
‘You give up what, love?’
