Neville R. Biggins, B.S.C.
Ford phoned him and was put through.
“Ah, Mr Ford.”
“I got your imperative.”
“Yes, well, the matter is of some delicacy and perhaps we could meet for an aperitif.”
“A drink, you mean?”
“Yes, quite. Would 6:30 on Thursday at Finchs be convenient?”
“I’ll be there.”
And he was. Neville had the executioners suit, the dark worsted number.
“A drink, Mr Ford?”
“Got one, thanks.”
Neville ordered a large schooner of dry sherry. Sipped it, fixed the crease in his pants and forehead and began.
“I trust we can be civilized about this?”
“Trust is an earned thing, Nev, and in my book, you’re all outta credit.”
“Be that as it may. Er — Amanda has produced a child.”
“What? Jeez! Produced! Like suddenly flashed from her handbag?”
“A girl-child. Healthy and strong.”
“Good grief! Girl-child? You sound like something from Kipling. Who’s the father?”
“I feared you’d be disgusting, but really, that’s low even for you, Mr Ford.”
“I’m sorry. Truly, I apologise. It’s a shock. I didn’t mean that. O.K. sorry.”
“Yes, well, watch your mouth. I’m a tolerant man, but there are limits and I’m trained in the self-defence arts. The child was named Annabel-Lee.”
“You’re coddin’! Like in the Edgar Allen Poe poem?”
“It was my mother’s name.”
“When can I see her?”
“That’s the crux. Amanda says... She says you’ll never, never see her. Those are her exact words.”
“You can’t! Jeez, c’mon Neville! You can’t do that.”
“Can. Already have. And will continue.”
“You’re some bollix. God, don’t do this.”
Neville drained his sherry. A grim smile danced on and off.
“Never, Mr Ford. As far as you’re concerned, you are without issue. Now, I must visit the bathroom. Our business is concluded. I don’t expect our paths to cross again. I bid you adieu.”
The smile had grown full to an actual smirk. Imaginary crumbs were brushed from a crease and he marched briskly to the toilet. Ford’s heart hammered like a wild thing. Red spots hummed in the very air. As he lifted the glass, his hand shook. Standing slowly, he followed Neville. The toilet was well kept, shining sink and mirrors. Neville was relieving himself, his back to Ford. Turning the cold tap, Ford mopped his face, the reflection showed a face in granite shock. The water was tepid but the coldness forming in his gut was ice in purity. Neville turned. A look of disinterest.
“Is there any point in pleading, Neville? I will... I’ll beg, grovel, whatever. Do they need money? I have money. I have, honestly.”
“Keep your money, Mr Ford. Use it for alcohol or some other Irish activities.”
The first blow smashed Neville’s nose and threw him back against the urinals. Ford bent, put his knee in his chest and slowly, methodically, began to, open palmed, slap the bleeding face.
“You fuck! I’m going to kill you!”
Slap. Pause. Slap. Back. A silence crept above the roof of the toilet, broken only by the sharp rhythm of the beating.
Neville lived, and Ford was arrested. They took him to Jeb Avenue, home of the brave, if not the free.
Brixton Prison. A grim place for remand prisoners Ford had grown up with black and white prison movies. You did hard time or “rolled over.” Roll too your own tobacco and let no one fuck with you. In any sense.
The more current American movies were of the Clint Eastwood mentality. Hang tough. You picked out the meanest “muttah fuckah” in the yard and beat him to a pulp. Rather a surprise for that individual, thought Ford. Each new arrival had to stomp the man. Then no one messed with you. You had “tutto respecto.” Lest a chap plunge a shiv in your back, you narrowed your eyes a lot.
The reality was totally different. He did two days there and what it was... was boring. Long tedious days and overcrowded. Like being in a permanent football crowd. A skinny thug tried to head-butt him but his heart wasn’t into it. The smell was the worst. A mix of cabbage and stale urine.
A guy offered Ford a prison tattoo. The notion of Grace on his arm amused him. Perhaps “Millwall” on the other. What he said was “Give me a break. Piss off.” Hangin’ semi-tough.
Jack went to Court with and for him. The charge of grievous bodily harm was reduced to drunken assault. Ford was bound over for two years.
“Thanks, Jack, you helped a lot,” Ford said outside the Court.
“Gotcha! Your reputation will be more effective than my ‘edge’ for boozies.”
“Seriously, though, I could have gone to prison.”
“Ah, I’ve been inside myself. Half of London would like to wallop a social worker.”
“And the other half?”
“They are the social workers.”
The Sun wrote a small article on the affair with the heading;
“Social Services Director Mauled by Former Colleague”
“Neville Biggins, BSC, was accosted and assaulted by a disgruntled colleague in the toilet of a public house. Thomas Ford, an Irishman, was said by a confidential source, to have gone berserk and threatened to blow up the Dept. of Social Services. The Judge called Ford (36) a public menace. The case continues.”
The story underneath exposed a major rock star’s obsession with his dead dog. Ford kept the clipping. Maybe send it to Boston and see what shook loose.
Back to work and to Alison. Her Scottish background understood all about the police and pub brawls. The ceremony of the rings moved closer. A week after the court case, Ford went to his bank. He asked for “new accounts.” An assistant manager summoned him. Ford sat at the small desk. The nameplate read “A. Richards.” As opposed to A. Wanker, mused Ford. A. Richards was about thirty, in there. Neville would have liked the suit. Brown wool with a discreet stripe. Bald on top, A. Richards had seriously swept hair from the side to cover this. It didn’t. Thick glasses hid his eyes and the adjective prissy leapt to mind for his mouth. The desk said, “this is a busy man.”
“Mr...” he looked at his notes, “Ford.”
“You already have an account with us?”
