SMOKE

 

“Tailor of timeless thread

Sow me an overcoat fit for the gods

From horned rams wool

To blunt the teeth of winter

Dye it black as the Great White’s eyes

So I can slip past the dead

Line it with Red Widow’s silk

To keep the blood from cooling

Make the pockets deep

So I can fill them with gold.”

 

04/02/2011. -Hastings, England.-

                The wind blew in through my back, into my heart, and out through my ribs. It froze my blood, flesh and bones. I had nothing left. My money had splintered into loose change. The post-apocalyptic nightmare called me to come and rest with the ghosts. And yet, there was an immense feeling of clarity at having nothing, and owning nothing, except the rags on my back. My lack of capital was burning round my mind. But as the cold ripped into my spine it numbed my despair. What I needed was warmth.

                The warmth of a coffee wouldn’t last? It would soon be drunk, and then the cold would return. I felt the coins in my pocket. I had about three-pound-fifty-five, barely enough to buy a cup of coffee. Any left over change would become useless.

                I needed a coat.

                I peered into the bright lights of the department store. I saw the winter collection, rows of thick cashmere coats, parkers, puffers, and jeans. I walked away from the window, crossed the road, and peered into the nearest charity shop. In I went. The bell rang and I was blown with warm breeze of air. I felt a short interlude of euphoria.

                I scanned the room. I saw the large racks of ladies clothes, with strange hats that women wear to weddings and horse racing, and endless shoes. I smelt the sweet scent of death, the stale perfume of the dry cleaning, and an even staler musk of moth balls. If these were the clothes of the dead, they had more style than the living.

                I took my time at the brick-a-brac. The longer I lingered inside the shop, the warmer I would be. The ornaments of the seventies line the shelves of charity shops from lock to cove. People peer at the porcelain animals and earthenware mugs and think: “oh that’s terrible, urgh that’s awful.” 

I scanned a cluster of wine goblets from the nineties. Strange shapes that were dated the moment they came out of the glass factory. It’s never the ugly goblets that get broken. Ugly goblets live on forever on the shelves of charity shops.

                Next I came to the used toys. I felt the sadness of childhood pierce my heart. These are the plastic leftovers. There is nothing sadder than the charity shop dump of unwanted toys.

I drew away from them, sickened by the colours. I found my way to the books. I loved books, but there was nothing but holiday reads written to pulverise the reader into a cesspool of over-sentimentality. On the middle shelf I saw the biographies of people who have done nothing, except make an appearance on the BBC. Even if there was something worth reading, it would have been no use to me. Even if I burned one of the biographies for warmth I would soon be cold again.

                When I had drawn out all the browsing time I could, I came to the men’s clothing. It’s usually at the back in a corner. There you’ll find racks filled with the suits of dead men. There are trousers so tight they cut off the circulation, and there are big trousers that used to house a colossal beer gut. All I needed was a coat.

                I rifled through the coats. I held up a light brown leather jacket that I could have made a tent from. I saw a worn raincoat the colour of slurry. There was a green denim jacket. I found a ragged puffer jacket. It was cheap and it would be warm. I was about to buy it and then I stopped myself. It was not my style. Vanity is a strong emotion. I was freezing my body away. The cold was grinding me into an animal. And yet I had a nervous compunction that prevented me from buying a coat that would make me look like a blob of melted plastic. I wasn’t ready to sacrifice my style. When you have nothing but the clothes on your back your style becomes important.

                The old lady who kept the shop was pilling up a fresh batch of clothes. She was frantic with her movements as if an invisible boss were standing over her. I walked over to the heap of men’s clothes.

                There, at the bottom of the heap, was a black overcoat. I pulled it out and put it on.

                A surge of masculine energy flowed through me like a line of cocaine. It was a great fit. It was brand new, not a stitch out of place. It was warm. I felt the pockets. They were lined with silk. I felt inside of the jacket, more silk. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked good. When I buttoned up the coat and hid my ragged jumper I looked up together, I looked smart. I adjusted my silver-brown hair into a parting with my hands.  

                “That suits you,” said the woman, stopping her work. “I’ve haven’t priced it yet give it here.”

                I tried to take it off and failed. A juddering force took hold of me. I fought with myself and failed to move my arms. I tried to call out in panic. My mouth remained shut. My tongue went dry. I tried again to prize off the coat. I gripped the lapels. Once again I failed to do it. I was afraid. I had no control. I couldn’t scream. I just stared at the woman.

                “How much?” I said without control of my voice.

                “I…haven’t priced it yet, you’ll have to take it off,” said the woman. She looked scared. It was as if she had seen a different -more brutish- man in front of her.

                “How about be we call it a tenner?” I said, my voice no longer my own. All I had on me was a pocket full of silvers. I didn’t have a tenner to give.

                The woman looked terrified at the disregard for transaction etiquette. I just stared at her. I wanted to take the coat off and leave. But I couldn’t. I had no control over my body or my voice. The woman didn’t answer. She trembled inside her purple cardigan. I reached inside my new overcoat, down into the left breast pocket I went, and to my surprise, I felt the plastic sheen of new ten pound note. Out came the note with the queen’s face peering through eternity. I thrust her the note and walked away. She said nothing as I went out the door to the street. The ding of the bell sounded my speechless farewell.

 

The teeth of the wind shattered against my breast. I was warm. I was ready for wasteland. I tried to walk south to the homeless shelter. The coat had other ideas. I turned north and took a steady stroll into town.

                There was no use in trying to fight the power of the coat. It had control of my legs. My thoughts went back to the lady in the shop. I had intimidated her. The coat had control, my body and voice had obeyed its commands. A new consciousness had taken over. I was powerless.

                The feeling of powerlessness turned my blood hot with terror. The coat turned a corner and moved away from the main streets. I tried to call out for help. My lips were held together with the same force that had control of my legs.

                The coat took me towards The Kings Head. It was tucked away from the optimistic over-priced bars. I looked inside and saw the grimy pale brown walls. There were two bald men with tattoos of football clubs scrawled above their ears.

    I would have avoided, looking into the windows of such a place for fear of catching their eye.                                                                                                                                

I would never have gone inside. The coat took me through the door and into the bar. The stench of cigarettes, stale yeasty ale, salt and vinegar crisps, and piss hit my nostrils. It was an antiquated smell. I’d not smelt a pub like this in a long time. The smoking ban had been in place for years. But this place had ignored it. The grand refurbishment had yet to happen.

                The football men with their shaven heads looked at me with a mixture of hatred and laughter. They weren’t sure whether to kick my head in or laugh, so they just stared. I would have turned around and left, happy to have avoided confrontation. Instead I stared back until the bigger one broke eye contact with me. I sat on a sticky old bar stool that had worn down to the foam.

                The barman was in no hurry to serve me. The nightmare I was falling into subsided at the thought of money. I knew I had no money, but what about the coat? I pulled a new tenner out in the shop. I wondered how much money was hidden inside the pockets? I tried to reach inside and failed.

                “A pint of Bitter and a shot of whisky,” I said. The curiosity about the money calmed some of the terror. The barman looked at me, as if I had shat on the floor.

                “We don’t take card.”

                He was politely asking me to leave. The coat reached inside and pulled out a twenty. The barman held it up to the light, and checked it with a little pen, when he was satisfied, he started pouring the pint.

                “Take one for yourself.” I said. The barman smiled revealing his few remaining teeth.

                The door swung open and a man came in.

                “Alright Tel.” said the barman.

                I went to pick up my pint. Before I could sip it I felt a prod against my back.

                “You’re in my seat,” said Tel.

                “I didn’t see your name on it.” I said.

                “Look, get up, and I’ll let you leave quietly,” said Tel, with a mouth full of spitting hatred.

                The shaven football men were grinning. The barman took a few steps back. Time began to slow. If I had control of myself, I would have apologised, and slipped away without finishing my drink.

                Instead, I stood up, switched my legs into a boxing stance, and punched him.  It was the first punch I had thrown since leaving school. It caught him on the nose. He dropped to the floor and banged his head off the brass rail.

                “I think you better leave,” said the barman.

                “I ain’t going anywhere,” said the coat. I knelt down, picked Terry up off the floor, and sat him on his stool.

                “What you having?” I said.

                “Tra-ple whusky,” he said through threw blood and snot pouring from his nose.

                The barman poured him the drink. Tel slurped it through the red slime.

                “And one for yourself,” I said to the barman, who took the money and handed Terry a napkin.

                “Anyone else want to tell me where I can sit?” I shouted to the bar.

                The men were silent.

                I sat at that bar for a long time, watching, as it filled up with drinkers. Endless money flowed from of my pocket. I bought everyone a drink. I got drunk. My tolerance was feeble. The coat’s was immense. It held me straight and I found my speech remained clear. The door opened and three women came in.

                The drunken heads all turned at once. The coat turned me to see what they were looking at, and when my eyes saw them, fire rushed through my veins.

 

The first was a blonde. She was young. She had a face that disapproved. She was sucking on a vape. She might have been beautiful if she wasn’t so miserable. The second woman was after a fix. Drugs had hold of her and her body had a coiled energy ready to do anything for the rush. The third woman, the one that caught my eye was well fed. Her curves were tight in her black jeans. Her rounded buttocks spilled over her legs, and they drew me like a rat to the cheese. I stared at her long black hair and her olive Italianate skin. I stared at her for far too long. I saw her breasts bursting out of a red top. The three of them slithered to the bar and started to order.

“Let me get you these,” I said.

“Champagne all round,” said the black haired woman.

                “I can’t sell it by the glass,” said the barman. The thought of loosing money agitated him.

                “Then crack a bottle and take one for yourself.” I said. I pulled out a fist full of notes. The barman obeyed and popped the cork. He poured the women their champagne. The blonde one revived. The woman in need of a fix took one of the shaven football men into the toilets and left as quick as she came in.

                I hadn’t been with a woman in a long time. My mind rushed with nervous energy; the coat was even calmer than before. It eyed the woman with covetous intent. The woman wasn’t repulsed. She seemed to be flattered by the blatant display of lecherous pervasion.

                I leaned in an asked “Do you want a line?”

                “Come with me,” she said.

                She took my hand and led me into the toilets. We took a cubical. A rush of blood hit my cock. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a large bag of cocaine. She grabbed the bag, opened the seal, and dabbed her finger into the powder. She slipped it into her pocket. The coat didn’t object. I felt her hand on my fly. She unzipped my jeans and reached in. She pulled out my cock and stuck a condom on the end. I felt the warmth of her mouth.

                It had been a long time. I went quick. She stripped off the condom and put another one on. Then she slipped her jeans to her knees. She put her hands on the top of the toilet and wiggled her ass at me. I slid into her cunt. She moaned as I drew in and out while she rubbed her clit. I felt her begin to quiver, it drove me on and she let out a scream and we came at the same time. She wiped herself clean flushed it all away in a ball of toilet paper. She kissed me on the cheek. Then she disappeared into the night with an eighth of purest cocaine she had ever tasted.

                An immense sense of satisfaction lingered for a minute before I remembered I was being controlled by the coat. This was not me. I was not a violent man. I had respect for women. To trade cocaine for sex was sickening, and yet I couldn’t argue with the results. I hadn’t felt this good for over a decade. I zipped up my fly and left the toilets.

                Tel was waiting for me. He had his mates with him. His nose had started to scab. 

 

                “You didn’t bring enough,” I said, reaching into the right side pocket. I pulled out an antique set of brass knuckles and slid them on to my left hand. Terry stood in between two large men. They had scars on their shaved heads from where they had been bottled and beaten. The world had forged them into fighting machines capable of taking my best. They looked like brothers. The biggest of the two rushed in first. I dug my duster deep into his solar plexus. I felt something crack inside of him and he dropped gasping for air. I wasn’t quick enough to stop the second. He dove onto me and took me down. He slammed me to the ground and started clubbing at my head. I used my left hand to shield the blows.

                Tel walked over and aimed a dirty trainer at my head. The kick hit my arm. I grabbed his ankle and bit into the Achilles tendon. He screamed and fell clutching his bleeding heel. That left the big bastard on top of me. I used my right hand to guard, and struck the duster into his temple. He shook it off, so I hit him again, the second blow had more force and he rolled off.

                I downed my drink and left. The coat handled the conflict with merciless precision. I was not a violent man. The coat had no problem with taking people out. The blood spilled out onto the filthy floors. Tel’s screams were muffled by the doors. The night was cold. The coat kept me warm. I wiped my blood onto the sleeves. The blood soaked away leaving no stain.

                I had nowhere to go. I had been evicted earlier this morning. The landlord had changed the locks. My stuff had been thrown onto the street. It rained hard and I decided to leave it for the binnies.

                The coat knew where it wanted to go. It took me to the train station. We walked to a bench in the shadows of the platform. It sat me down. The trains had stopped. The board read 05:53 To Charing Cross. The clock read 01:03. The coat laid me down and the alcohol did the rest. I slipped into a light sleep. I was cold but I should have been freezing. The coat kept the worst of dead hour cold from my kidneys.

                 

 

 

TWO

“Here is your overcoat fit for the gods

Sown to shatter the teeth of the wolf

Darker than death

With pockets deep

My finest work

Wear it and you cannot fail”

 

“How much do I owe master tailor?”

 

“The coat is priceless.

All I ask is you must never break a promise

It will hold you to your oaths.”

 

05/02/2011. -The Silver Dream.- 

I dreamt of silver…

Silver bricks

Shining Silver filled my eyes silver sunlight silver sky

London silver

I was sat at a silver table peering out onto the silver river

Silver clouds silver brickwork silver ripples

A silver woman with a silver pram

A silver baby tucked over a pound of silver ham

Silver walls

Silver buses driving silver lanes

Silver gutters silver planes

I stepped out onto silver streets silver tenements

With Silver people on silver pavements

Silver suits silver beehives silver mops

Silver bricks

Some with nothing on their silver tops

Chequered silver patterned skirts silver ties silver shirts

Silver raincoats silver jeans silver boots shiny clean

Silver cans filled with silver beans

All it was silver

Silver sixties hits playing over silver pints

I wandered down the silver streets

Silver walls

Searching the silver streets, silver sixties streets, beneath the silver railway, under the silver rails, the silver bricks and a silver arch, and into the arch of silver dark, along silver arches to a silver lock up

With a silver lock

 Out of my pocket a silver key and into the darkness silver me…

               

05/02/2011. -On the train to London Bridge.-

I woke up on the train…dawn broke across the green blur of the countryside. I was flying through the green towards London. The carriage filled up with commuters. I stared out the window into the dying agricultural idle. I saw harrows left to rust in overgrown fallow fields. Lonely ponies chewed at tufts of trampled grass. Deer ran across chilled meadows.

                I watched as the fields as they turned into a golf course. Then I saw golf course blend into graves, miles of graves filled with dead Londoners. The graves ended. Then dying payments ringed around acres of distribution warehouses and commuter conurbations. The buildings grew taller and the streets went from rolling streams to morning gridlock.

London.

I had arrived at London Bridge. I got off the train. I stopped fighting the will of the coat. It had me. I couldn’t control my footsteps or my words anymore. It knew where it was going even if I didn’t. Down the escalator I went into the madness of the morning work rush.

                When I got to the barriers, I realised I didn’t have a ticket. The commuters gathered in large bustling crowds, the mix of a thousand perfumes filled my nose. The barriers were overwhelmed with hundreds of people bleeding towards work. The coat took control and slipped behind a sleepy business man. When the man tapped his card at the barrier, the coat leap forward and made it through. We ran off, ignoring the shouts of guards. I was out on the street in the crowd and I headed to the river.

 

The coat took me east along the Thames paths. I watched the sun on the river. Starlight sparkled over the rippling tide. We walked at a slow pace. It gave me time to gather my thoughts. The coat had control of everything expect my thoughts.

                I had bought an overcoat. It had taken over my body. I had fought, and fucked, and gone to sleep on a railway bench. I had left my life in Hastings. I had no where to live. All I had were my clothes and this coat.

                I glad that I left Hastings, if the police were after me for the assaulting those men they would have a hard time finding me here.

                It had been over Thirty-six hours since I had eaten. My stomach began to gurgle. I had to tighten my belt. I always felt better when the belt holes went in the opposite direction. The hunger was building with each step.

                We made it to Surrey Quays. It was here the coat and I left the river. I wove through buildings and parks until I came to a street filled with dusty windowed eateries. The coat took me into a breakfast café. It was hungry too.

                This would have been my last choice. I was a vegetarian. I was just a host possessed by this devilish coat. It sat me down and pulled the menu to my eyes. There was a vegetarian breakfast at the bottom of the menu. I willed the coat to choose it.

                The waiter came over.

                “What can I get you?” he said.

                “Cup of tea, and a full English please,” is what came out of my mouth. I hadn’t eaten meat since I was at college. The thought of pork made me sick. It was the worst kind of pork, bacon and sausages, with eggs and drowned in baked beans. The only thing I was looking forward to was the toast and hash browns. The coat brought the tea to my lips far too early. It burned my mouth. It felt as if the coat was doing it on purpose. I got a spiteful feeling from it.

                The heap of meat was slid in front of me. I stared down at the salty pork. For a moment I had control of my arms. The coat went to cut up a sausage and I managed to stop it. My hand gripped the knife. I stopped the coat from cutting for at least a minute before it took control of me.

                It began to shovel in the meat. I hurled inside but the coat kept it down. It shovelled in the plate faster than I would have done. My belly stopped rumbling. I stopped fighting. The meal was over. The coat slipped the waiter a tenner and we left.

 

I felt better will food in my belly, even if it was pork. I felt tears form in my mind. I had lost control of my destiny. The coat had me. It was taking me down roads I had didn’t know existed. It had no qualms about smashing a man’s face in if he got in our way. This was Deptford.

                I was walking down streets I knew not where my destination lay. It felt familiar as if I had dreamt of it before. But my dream had faded and I couldn’t remember.

                We came to the gate of graveyard. Two carved skull and cross bones were mounted on the gate posts. They gazed down at me. Into the graveyard I went. A huge church rose up into the sky. The tower was much older than the hall. I found my way to the door. In I went and found a pew. I sat there for hours. The coat had had enough and made its way out of the stale church air. It found a bench in a wind haven looking over the graves. There was warmth in the sun. It must have been late afternoon.

                The graves looked happy in the bronzing sun. I stared up as the sky turned from gold to red. The pink light caught the leafless ash trees. Then the blue light of twilight washed over the sky. It was a quick February dusk and the darkness came on. The bench was caught in the shadow of the church. The darkness was deeper than the rest of the graveyard. The graves no longer felt happy. The darkness had given them a sinister radiance. The dead under the soil were only feet away and I felt closer to them than I had ever felt before. The coat had seen enough and it took me out of the graveyard.

                Where to now I thought? I had no money but the coat was loaded. I wondered where I would end up. Would I spend another night on the street? We moved at a pace towards the high street. Then we peeled off the street and moved to a row of arches. I had seen these arches in my dream.

                The coat had made its way to the lock up. It was no longer a lock up. The arches had been gentrified. Instead of corrugated iron and oil stains a row of bistros and bars had taken its place. The coat found the lock up of my dream. A great glass wall covered a bar. I knew there would be trouble. I felt the coat flex my arms.

                The tables outside the bar were old cable spools. The cold had driven the drinkers inside. I heard the Reggae music blaring but all the people inside the bar were white. They were dressed in clothes made twenty years ago, yet there wasn’t a thread out of place. These were vintage garments never worn until now. They looked young and rich and free from the worries of having nothing. There was a bouncer on the door. It was a tiny bar on a cold week night in February, it didn’t need a bouncer.

                The coat took me inside. The people looked at me as if I was lost. My jeans and shoes were repulsive to them. I felt the bouncer’s eyes on my back. He was a big bloke. That didn’t seem to matter to the coat.

                I felt as if I shouldn’t be there. I didn’t have the clothes or the money to drink in such a bar. And the people were alarmed at my arrival. This was their haven away from the high street drunks and homeless mad men. The walls were covered in pictures of soap stars. There was a bust of Queen Victoria. The ceiling was lined with Jamaican bunting: yellow, black, and green.

                The barmaid turned her nose up and looked for help from the manager. The woman was young and good-looking the coat eyed her with the same look he gave the women the night before.

                The manager was talking to his customers. He pretended not to see me. He was slimier than over-ripe avocado. He was balding but he refused to do the skull shave.

                If they could have had a sign that said “NO POOR PEOPLE” they would have had it above the door in pink neon lights. I would have left. I could feel that my presence had made the drinkers uncomfortable.

                The coat wasn’t deterred it walked me over to the bar. The barmaid looked over to the manager for help. He was embarrassed and gave her no help. She had been drilled on how to deal with unwanted customers. She ignored me. When someone else came up to the bar, she served them straight away. If they could have called the police, and had me removed, they would have done it. There was no law that prohibited a poor person from drinking in a middle-class bar, no yet anyway.

                She continued to ignore me. Punters came up and got served. I stood and waited. I wanted to leave. The coat was going nowhere. It stood patiently waiting and kept my lips shut. The bouncer stood right next to me. They were waiting for the outburst. They hoped I would raise my voice and give him a reason to show to the door. I had no control I just waited at the bar.

                The manager stared at me. He saw how my presence was sending his customers away. He stepped in and told the barmaid to collect the glasses.

                “What can I get you?” said the manager, with the officiousness of a GP receptionist. His eyes conveyed the message that he didn’t really want my money.

                “A pint of Guinness please,” I replied.

                The manager smiled as he poured it out. He slid it to me.

                “That will be twelve-pound-seventy-five,” said the manager, holding in his laughter. This was the second barrier to the poor. The price of a pint was more than an hours pay of minimum wage. It was usually enough to turn away the people with enough patience to wait in a bar that didn’t want them. The coat reached inside the pocket and pulled out a twenty note.

                The barman was angry that I had paid. He hoped I would have raised my voice to give the bouncer a reason to be rid of me. Now he had no right to turf me out. The coat took the pint to a table with my back to the wall. It placed the pint down without taking a sip.

                Two hours passed. The customers came in saw me and thought better of staying. The manager lost a lot of custom. The bouncer stood next to me trying to intimidate me. I was intimidated and embarrassed, the coat was calmer than I had ever felt.

                The manager sent the barmaid home early leaving me, the bouncer, the manager and the clock. The manager watched the minute hand as I got closer to eleven. At ten to the bouncer said “finish up your drink it’s time to leave. The coat took a gulp. It drank half the pint in one. My throat was washed with sweet black liquid.

                I saw the manager’s snide grin. It was eleven P.M he had the law behind him and was legally allowed to turf me out. He didn’t do it himself. He sent the bouncer over.

                “It’s time to leave,” said the bouncer. The coat stood up drank the other half of the pint and made its way to the door. I was glad we were leaving. When I got to the door the coat turned the lock, locking us in.

                “What are you doing? Don’t touch that.” Screamed the manager.

                Time slowed again. In the time it took for the bouncer to reach me, the coat had reached into the right pocked and pulled out a sawn-off shotgun. He stuck it into the bouncer’s belly.

                “Turn around.”

                The bouncer obeyed.

                “Walk to the bar.”

                “What’s going on?”

                “Hands on the bar,” said the coat.

                The barman saw the gun and shat himself.

                The coat pulled out the bouncer’s phone and radio. Then he went to the manger and took his phone. The coat ripped the bunting down.

                “In the backroom now.”

                The men obeyed. The coat tied the bouncer’s hands behind his back with bunting, and stuck a napkin in his mouth. He did the same with the manager and then bound them back to back on the floor of the stock room.

                The coat went to the CCTV machine. It was old. It still had a compact disc system. The coat put on some disposable gloves and slipped the disc out putting it into a pocket. Then it went back into the bar to get the lemon knife.

                The manager saw me come back knife in hand. He sweated but couldn’t squeal through the napkin.

                “It’s not for you little piggy,” said the coat.

                The coat set about felling the bricks on the back wall. He felt all of them until my finger touched a little diagonal mark. The coat rammed the knife into the mortar around the brick. It dug it out quick. Then it dug out some of the bricks. I reached in and pulled out a rectangular biscuit tin. The tin was cover in black corrosion marks. I just about make out a Christmas design on the paint that hadn’t flaked off. With the box in hand the coat fled the bar. He left them tied up in the back room with the door shut.

 

The coat took a swift walk down an alleyway. We kept moving through the dark. Most of the population was asleep. I saw foxes bolt into patches of trees. The coat had a plan. It held on to the tin with a stiffening grip. The night was cold. We were moving so fast the blood pumped warm. I was worried about the police. Holding people up at gun point was sure to get the cars out. The armed police would be called. Helicopters would take to the sky. Camera footage would be checked. They would track my movements. I had done nothing. The coat had done it. But that Wouldn’t hold up in court. I would be sentenced for the crimes of the coat. Prison filled my mind. It took over from the terror of having no control. It pushed out all my worries about being homeless. Prison was a far worse fate. To be locked up from morning to night with the nations convicts. Men who have had it all taken away, men with nothing to lose, and all the time in the world to figure it out. Hate breeding in the paintwork like mould. I would be able to survive. The coat would have been fine. It would have enjoyed it probably. The police would take the coat off me and I would go back to the man I was: a scared sexually frustrated waste of human genes.

                The coat was going to get me banged up.

                It took me at speed east. It took me back along alleys through river parks to Lewisham. Then it pulled off the roads into residential estate. The buildings were post war council flats. I climbed up a staircase. The coat took me to a roof ledge. We jumped down and sat on a rooftop under a vent. The air was warm.

                We sat there in the shadows of the flats above. I was glad to stop. All I wanted to do was look inside the tin. It was heavy. Not knowing what I carried really pissed me off. It must be valuable, if the coat had stored it inside the walls of an archway.

                I dosed off.

                I opened my eyes to the London dawn.

                I had survived the night with out being bothered by the police.

                The coat jumped over the wall to the row of flats. It took me to number 332. It knocked and waited. A sleepy eyed woman came to the door.

                “Is Rose in?” said the coat.

                “There no one of that name here.”

                The door shut. The coat moved along to 331, all the way along to 339.

                When 339 answered an old woman with a walking stick struggled to open the door.

                “Do you know where Rose went?” said the coat through me.

                “Who’s asking?”

                “I’m Donald’s nephew.”

                The coat was lying.

                “Rose is dead.”

                I felt the power of the coat diminish at the news. It no longer had control of me. I felt I could take it off.

                “Goodbye” I said, taking back control of my speech.

                I left the estate and found a secluded spot. I reached into the pockets and felt them empty of money. There was no gun or brass knuckles. I still had the tin. I prized it open.

                Inside the tin I found bullion from all over the world: Kugerands, maple leaves, kangeroos, pandas, Francs, Marks, and sovereigns.  All heavy, all gold. I pulled out on of the smaller coins and shut the lid.

                I took it to the nearest pawn shop and got myself five-hundred pounds cash.

                From there I made my way back to London Bridge station. I bought a ticket and headed back to Hastings.

                When I got off I went back to the store where I bought the coat. In I went and found the lady from before. I apologised and took of the coat. She tried to give me the money back. I refused. I left the coat with her.

                I went out into the cold. It was as if I had got out of a warm bed and jumped into a freeze. I felt all my heat lost to the wind. I went inside the super store and bought myself a new outfit. I left my old clothes in the store for them to bin. I must have had four hundred sovereigns. Each worth between five hundred to a thousand pounds.

                The police had yet to do me fro the crimes of the coat. I wandered into a coffee shop and sat in a soft leather chair. I held onto the tin, rubbing it affectionately. My little tin of gold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The overcoat was ready before the wolf of winter bore its teeth.

 

“Here is your overcoat fit for the gods

Sown in are the bloodstained buttons of the generalissimo

This overcoat will cow the living and intimidate the dead.”

 

“What do I owe you master tailor?”

 

“There is no price. Take it. It was made for you

It is my finest work

If you put it on you will not fail.”