Violet

The soundtrack of a hip-hopped East London. Bulgaria, Bhangra and bedlam pulses this world. All the gruff, cherry red market boys are singing along, ‘Oranges and lemons, poor old Mickey Clemons, not a penny in his pocket, a shirt upon his back’.

Holes in the brogues, now ten years old. Heels down to cork, where once they clicked. His coat a wafer. A crumpled tenner in a pocket that’s about to split.

It’s raining vertical. Cats, violins and vinegar. Needle hard and cold down the hill. Pouring into his ears, then under the skin. The view is slate grey, weary skeletons of everyday life are marching. Edward Hopper never came here, nor did Lowry. Not once saw this Walthamstow boy. Poor Mickey Clemons. Never cut out for this town.

Escaping into the charity shop, the damp smell of cardboard. Books nobody wants, stacked by staff that will never be loved. There’s music on the stereo, the Bangles. Who walks like an Egyptian around here? They are all crawling crabs. Outside, women are screaming. Mickey sighs, picks up a vase.

Sweeping through the rails. Jackets they have died in, or bought when they were mad and drunk. Leatherette, polyester and gabardine mix. Stains, rips, memories. There’s a haggle behind him. A deal being struck on a chipped cocktail glass.

Grabs one off a hanger, Mickey slips it on, too big. The music has changed to ‘When Irish eyes are smiling’. He likes the cut of it, two buttons, and lapels like razors, navy blue mohair. Saville Row maybe. He fingers the inside breast pocket, something there. The police car has arrived, the screaming outside appeased. He pulls out a photo, sepia and smiling, creased. On the back a scribble, ‘My darling Reggie. Kill Jack the Hat tonight. My love, Violet.’

The rain has stopped in a heartbeat.