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Candyman
(To the candyman)
(Published in Dream Catcher, May 2008)
It is the only murder to which I have a connection.
The winter of 1975 was grey and flat and most of the time I hated London and my life in the squats. I lived on a tightrope between heaven and hell, and despair won most often. I cannot recall his real name, if ever I knew it, but after thirty years images of him sometimes fill my mind. In those days we called him the candyman...
He sold high quality cannabis, and only to people he liked, and never ripped you off. When he talked, looking back on it, he sounded like a cliché: 'For you I will, man, yeah. Come and buy whenever you want.' He said this to me during our first conversation in The Railway Arms in Hornsey Rise, a pub popular with squatters. Yet he came across like a holy fool and his sense of innocence beguiled you. His withered left arm added to his vulnerability.
A few days later I set off 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 Tenby House, 171, I still remember the number. No one answered, but 'Mr Tambourine Man' floated out of a cracked window, and it sounded like a lament rather than a freedom song. Locks clunked from inside, squeaking bolts were pushed back. I brushed the collar of my brown suede jacket before the door opened.
'So you came.'
He smiled so sweetly, and the incense poured from his flat with such Catholic generosity, that it was like being welcomed into a phantasmagoric seminary.
An entrance hall led to a door, in front of which a plush red velvet curtain slid smoothly on its brass rails. On one side of the corridor three mauve velvet curtains formed cubicles, which were reminiscent of confessional rooms. 'They're my meditation areas,' he said.
He took me into the living room. Another door led off from it, which he opened, and there was the supine form of an attractive half-dressed young woman. 'Hello, she said, 'I'm Janey.'
Lying on three enormous burgundy cushions, the busty brunette crossed her legs and then stood up. 'Got to go now.' She smiled and did up the buttons of her rather summery, flowery dress. I mumbled apologies and she said in a relaxed way, 'He's been giving me advice.' Her voluminous breasts squashed against the candyman as 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 always smelt of fried breakfasts; his blue jeans were shapeless. The overall impression was that of a damaged scarecrow. Yet his face had a softly radiant moon quality and his eyes glowed with a rare sense of fellow feeling.
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.
Anyway, after Janey left he said, 'Let's 'ave a joint, show yer what I've got.' He patted my shoulder and whispered in my ear 'Thanks for coming. We've all got to stick together if the vision thing is goin' to 'appen.' The candyman's aura of innocence allowed him to get away with such hippy-dippy talk.
His smile too was a glorious thing. It seemed to embrace 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.' Sure enough, after smoking his dope, the pavements did turn gold, and the stars did look like dreams you could touch.
That day, the afternoon turned soft and blissful, and outside the winter sun sent long shadows across the clear bright day. My body felt as sweet and supple as marzipan. Time passed. Hazy evening slipped through the window as 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 as he slunk away.
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 really 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 anyway and said 'Johnnie's no bother, 'e's gone, e's happy.' I laughed nervously. I was about to leave when the candyman 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 breathed in the odour of the photograph. The claws of his withered arm seemed to uncurl. 'We had an allotment, she taught me 'bout cuttings, and fruit trees, and plantin' at the right time. You should have seen my carrots.' He told me he was bought up in Welwyn Garden City.
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 particularly wet and windy February evening I decided to ask the candyman if he fancied going to the pub.
'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 managed to sneak passed and began climbing the stairs when a policeman screamed. 'Stop him!' and a thuggish young policeman grabbed my arm. I asked coolly what the problem was and he took a few steps back as my posh accent gained me brief authority.
Two ambulance men said in unison, 'Out the way!' as they came down with a stretcher. The figure had his face covered with a sheet but a turned-up right hand was dangling on the ground. I told the policeman that I knew who it was, and gave him my details, feeling strangely calm, as if I was part of a film.
An hour later a man stood on my doorstep. 'I'm Detective Sergeant Reeves' said the avuncular character, his thinning dark hair held down with Brylcreem. His eyebrows rolled as he took in the dinginess of my squat. We sat on the window seat. My body shook as I told him about the candyman. My recollection of his reply to me was of catching odd words and phrases as if my consciousness was trying to repel what he said: '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 way to get out of this place. 'It's not for you, son,' he said finally.
I still recall looking out of the window at that moment: the sun flashed skeletal shadows of almost-leafless London plane trees across the flats. The chaos of branches were like withered arms hanging in the windows....
As far as I know the crime was never solved.
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