Free London Noir by Cathi Unsworth Page A

down White Horse Street and into Shepherd Market, a twisty-turny little red-lit corner where all Mayfair’s dirt had been swept to, out of sight. Like a mini Soho but better-spoken and wearing a blazer. By day, the place wasn’t really that special—a bit too twee for my taste. But come night—proper night, that is, once the after-work lager’s been drunk and the late-night diners have fucked off—that’s when it happens. When it reveals its true identity. The perfect place for a discerning maverick street thief artist.
    I stopped to hitch my rucksack up, then turned left, then right into Market Mews. Stopped at the open door marked Model 1st Floor and made my way up the stairs. Up the wooden hill to Shagfordshire. Another good one, Jonny boy. On the way up I waved at the CCTV camera on the wall and pressed the plastic doorbell helpfully labeled Press . Rita opened up. A short round woman with enormous sagging tits, bald but for a few patches of yellowy-gray hair. She was sporting worn-out pink slippers and a loose-fitting cream-colored tracksuit topped with an off-pink toweling dressing gown. Rita is Vanya’s maid, the woman who welcomes the punters.
    “Hello, Jonny love, she’s with a gentleman at the moment, be about ten minutes, that all right?”
    “Fine,” I said, unhitching the rucksack and plopping myself on the foam two-seater sofa in the living room. The only other rooms in the flat are a tiny kitchen with a kettle and microwave and a small bedroom.
    The TV was on so Rita and I sat watching the ITN news report of the millennium celebrations. I broke a Marlboro open to pad out a joint while Rita puffed on her B&H.
    “Looks bitter out,” she said, nodding at the TV images of the crowds along the Thames. She got up to turn the thermostat to one hundred.
    “Yes,” I said, twisting the end of my newly constructed joint before lighting it up.
    “Aren’t you playing a show tonight, love? Thought you’d be busy tonight of all nights.”
    “Nah. I could’ve had a gig but I wanted to check out the River of Fire,” I said, watching the end of my joint glow as I toked on it.
    I’d often chat with Rita while Vanya was otherwise engaged. She thought I was a bit glamorous cos I was a magician.
    “Been busy?” she asked.
    I told her about the last gig I’d done—a Christmas party for an accounting firm in the city. I’d been booked with an illusionist called Damon Smart to entertain the staff before dinner. I’d worked with Smart before. His real name was Dave Smith. He was a cheesy cunt, but skillful.
    We would approach a group of five or six of the accountants as they enjoyed some preprandial quaffing and introduce ourselves as so-and-so and so-and-so who’d just joined the firm. After a while Smart would start behaving oddly, grimacing and rubbing his stomach, complaining of indigestion. Then he’d do some pretend-wretching and—this is the particularly cuntish bit—start pulling a thread of razor blades from his mouth. Yes, it was that shit. Shitter, in fact, cos once his shtick was over I would then produce a selection of items I’d lifted from them while they were busy watching Smart hamming it up. “And I believe this watch is yours, sir …” I fucking hated it. I fucking, fucking, fucking hated the fucking fuck out of it.
    Not that I let Rita know this though. She was happy to think of me as some kind of Paul fucking Daniels, so I figured, why upset her? Nothing to be gained.
    “So, yeah, it was a good night,” I lied, and took another draw on my spliff.
    “You’ll be on the telly next,” she said, nodding toward the box.
    We watched the news coverage for another minute or so, then Rita nodded toward the bedroom door. “That’ll be it then, love,” she said.
    She meant it was time for me to step into the kitchen—out of sight so the punter could leave without the embarrassment of seeing another male in the place. I don’t know how the fuck she knew it was time—I hadn’t heard