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Candyman
(Published in Dream Catcher, May 2008)
It is the only murder I came close to.
I cannot recall his real name, if ever I knew it, but after thirty years images of him sometimes fill my mind. We called him the candyman.
He sold high quality cannabis, and only to people he liked, and never ripped you off: 'For you I will, man, yeah. Come and buy whenever you want,' he said to me during our first conversation in The Railway Arms in Hornsey Rise, a pub popular with squatters. His sense of innocence beguiled you. His withered left arm added to his vulnerability.
A few days later I went to see him. A silver needle glinted from the corner of an unlit stairwell of his block. I knocked on his top-floor flat in 171 Tenby House; I remember the number. No one answered, but 'Mr Tambourine Man' floated out of a cracked window, and it sounded like a lament. Locks clunkeds, squeaking bolts were pushed back. I brushed the collar of my brown suede jacket before the door opened.
'So you came.'
He smiled sweetly, and the smell of incense poured from his flat: I was welcomed into a phantasmagoric seminary. An entrance hall led to a door, in front of which a red plush curtain slid smoothly on its brass rails. On one side of the corridor three mauve velvet curtains formed cubicles like confessionals. 'They're my meditation areas,' he said.
He took me into the living room. Another door led off from it, which he opened, and I saw a half-dressed young woman lying on three enormous cushions.
'Hello, she said, 'I'm Janey.' She stood up. 'Got to go now.' She smiled and did up the buttons of her summery, flowery dress. I mumbled apologies and she said in a relaxed way, 'He's been giving me advice.' She pecked him on the cheek. He waved her out.
The candyman was not prepossessing to look at: about 5ft 4 inches tall, long mousy hair, round National Health specs. His checked cowboy coat smelt of fried breakfasts; his blue jeans were shapeless. He looked like a damaged scarecrow but his smile was radiant.
There was an energy, a mood about him, the like of which I have never known in anyone else. When he danced in the pub he was as fleet as a leprechaun, his bad arm jigging on its own like an anarchic totem pole, and his shaman-like movements drawing you into a magic arc.
After Janey left he said, 'Let's 'ave a joint, show yer what I've got.' He patted my shoulder and whispered 'Thanks for coming. We've all got to stick together if the vision thing is goin' to 'appen.' The aura of innocence allowed him to get away with such hippy-dippy talk.
His smile was a glorious thing. It seemed to express all the emblems he revered - the Isle of White Festival, San Francisco, Martin Luther King, Gandhi, Jefferson Airplane, as if they were all Free Lovers and Free Love was the natural state of humanity.
With his five wizard fingers he pulled a Sun Valley pouch from his back pocket, and rolled a perfect joint. 'For you, man.' Always courteous, he gave it to me to light. 'It's Leb,' he said, 'really, really good - that'll change yer vision, polish your lenses.' After smoking his dope, the pavements did turn gold, and the stars did look like dreams you could touch.
The afternoon turned soft and blissful, and the winter sun sent long shadows across the clear day. My body felt as sweet and supple. Time passed. Evening slipped through the window. Our conversation spanned the universe.
A milk bottle smashed on the landing: 'You fuckin' said today!' a stranger's guttural voice shouted as the candyman opened the door. I jumped up and listened.
'It'll be 'ere soon Johnnie,' I heard the candyman say calmly.
I stood in solidarity behind the candyman and said 'Hello' to the stranger.
Johnnie was tall, thin, with the wizened face of a speed freak. He placed his spindly hands on the candyman's shoulder, 'I'll be back tonight,' he shouted. The candyman nodded and said, 'fine, man, that's fine.' Johnnie's black motorcycle jacket smelt dank.
In the kitchen the candyman made some camomile tea and said nonchalantly. 'I owe 'im a favour, that's all, nuffin' to worry about.' It seemed worrying to me, but I kept quiet, stayed for another hour, bought some Lebanese, and left.
That evening in my flat, as I got stuck into my buckwheat spaghetti and tamari sauce, I tried to work out who Johnnie was.
The next morning I woke sweating after a nightmare about Johnnie, dressed quickly, and ran over to the candyman's flat. He opened the door wearing a red silk spotted dressing-gown which came down to his feet: 'Come for breakfast?, he said. 'Very nice.'
I sipped peppermint tea, felt too silly and embarrassed to explain why I had come round, but he knew and said 'Johnnie's no bother, 'e's gone, e's happy.' I laughed nervously. I was about to leave when the he said he wanted to show me something. From a corner cupboard in his living-room he pulled out a crumpled Moroccan-leather wallet and tenderly handed me a torn at the edges, black and white photograph of a woman playing a piano in a village hall. ' "Light Classical" she called it - I was fourteen when Mum died - the music went on. She's my visshon, man.' He held the photograph up to his nose and sniffed. The claws of his withered arm uncurled. 'We had an allotment, Welwyn Garden City, she taught me 'bout cuttings and fruit trees, plantin' at the right time.
When I got back to my flat I burst into tears.
Over the next month the candyman was gone for days on end. When I saw him he was always carrying an army rucksack over his shoulders. On a wet and windy February evening I decided to ask the candyman if he fancied going to the pub. I bundled up into my warmest clothes. I slipped a pack of tarot cards into my pocket so I could do a reading for him.
'This way...'... 'Over there...'...'Hurry up...' In the entrance to Tenby House policemen were running around, shouting orders. There were at least three patrol cars, a police wagon, all with lights flashing.
I sneaked past and began climbing the stairs when a policeman shouted 'Stop him!' and a scowling young policeman grabbed my arm. I asked him what the problem was and he took a few steps back as my accent gained me brief authority.
'Out the way!' two ambulance men said as they came down with a stretcher. His face was covered with a sheet but a turned-up right hand was dangling on the ground. I told the policeman I knew who it was, and gave him my details, as if I was part of a film.
An hour later a man stood on my doorstep. 'I'm Detective Sergeant Reeves.' His thinning dark hair was held down with Brylcreem. His eyebrows rolled as he took in the dinginess. We sat on the window seat. I found I was shaking as I told him about the candyman. I remember catching odd words and phrases as if my consciousness was trying to repel what he was telling me: 'Had no mother...bought up by Dr Barnardo's...£2000 under the floorboards...heroin...big dealer....'
I put my head in my hands and he advised me in a kindly tone to get out of this place. 'It's not for you, son,' he said finally. I recall looking out of the window at that moment: the sun flashed shadows of almost-leafless plane trees across the flats, the chaos of branches were thin arms.
As far as I know the murder of the candyman was never solved.
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