Nico Read Online Free

everything. You’d strain to catch the gist of what he was saying as the words surfaced in a tortured whisper from his tar-blackened lungs and his nicotine-lined throat and out through gaps in his crumbling teeth. It flattered you into thinking that only the wise could hear and it enabled him to retread a twisted path through his own Vale of Tears.
    His cigarettes were the cheapest brand, No. 6, sold in tens. His match broke as he tried to light one. ‘Tour of Italy ’s OK but I’d prefer to be where it’s safe an’ warm an’ nothin’ changes.’
    â€˜Is there such a place outside of the womb?’ I asked.
    â€˜Yeh,’ he croaked, finally lighting his dimp. ‘Nico’s ’andbag.’
    (Deep in the ambiotic still of Nico’s bag a small blue notebook sucks its thumb and awaits the desperate delivery of a dealer’s address.)
    Demetrius left the artists alone, in Echo’s parlour, to wrestle with the Infinite; driving off in his sagging old Citroën Pallas in search of a phone. He never felt at ease unless there was a phone within reach and Echo’s place had few direct connections with the outside world. Even the entrance was a secret, tucked away at the side, past a barricade of dustbins and rusting prams.
    â€˜Purra brew on, pet.’ Echo’s wife vanished obediently into the kitchen to make tea. (Once you get north of Hampstead, the sexual territories become more clearly defined.) Faith was even thinner than Echo and deeper into denial and repentance, if that was possible. She had shining red hair down to her waist that her children would take turns to comb. Faith was the perfect weeping Magdalene for Echo’s domestic Calvary.
    Nico and Echo (Necho) sat together on the sofa, facing the fire.
    â€˜â€™Ow’re yer fixed, sweet’eart?’
    â€˜I’m down to my cottons,’ she replied glumly.
    â€˜Give us twenny an’ I’ll pop round the corner.’
    She handed him £20 that Demetrius had just ‘loaned’ her.
    â€˜I’ll come with you … d’you have – er – something sharp?’
    â€˜Here you are.’ I pulled out my Swiss Army knife.
    She looked at me, stupefied.
    â€˜Come on,’ said Echo, ‘it’s a kosher gaff. We’ll be all right.’
    He took her by the arm. As they were going out, I heard her say, ‘He’s a bit of a klutz, that Jim.’
    â€˜Nah,’ said Echo, ‘’e’s just a grammar-school boy, out of ’is depth.’
    I stared at the children’s goldfish. We commiserated blankly with each other. The Three Graces danced and sang among the yew trees and rhododendrons.
    Hark! Hark!
    The dogs do bark,
    The beggars are coming to town;
    One in rags,
    One in jags,
    And one in a velvet gown.
    Beyond the garden was an empty church that marked the dividing line between the Torah and the Gospels. Echo would go sketching up there among the gravestones. He was a good artist, but indiscreet enough to let Faith see a nude portrait of his mistress … all curves, roundness and fertility. He just couldn’t resist showing it to visitors. It was his first wholly successful piece and he was proud of it. He tried to bluff Faith that it was a pure product of the imagination. She averted her gaze every time she walked past, as it hung there above the fireplace, Venus Triumphant.
    â€˜What d’yer reckon, Jim?’ he’d croak time and again.
    â€˜Pretty good,’ I’d say.
    â€˜She dunt much care fer the ol’ jigga-jigga, but she can suck a bowlin’ ball through a Lucerzade straw.’
    He insisted it was an arrangement they both preferred, as ‘Left Footers’. Sex was best expressed with the least physicality. The conventional sex act could be messy and unprofitable, fraught with sudden embarrassments and disclosures. It was enough for him to have a pair of crimson lips around the tip of his being.