Black hat, Fedora, low over his eyes and shadowing his face, its twin peaks framed by the window behind. His attire smacks of an unhealthy Zorro obsession. Coat, trousers, shoes, all are black. A gold watch glints from under a sleeve. His scarf is red, as if to make a point. I may be a suspicious-looking old man all in black but I have a red scarf. Eat that.
Slouching against the bar, ambivalence in a greatcoat, long grey ponytail dangling down his back. He scowls diabolically, glancing about as if he is plotting revenge. Or perhaps he is a man on the run. Killer? Murderer? Charlatan? Jewellery thief? A man whose crimes are catching up with him. I see it all now...
Known in the underworld as ‘Black Hat’, he learned his trade early. As a toddler he stole biscuits from his mother's shopping trolley. In his teens he pinched fags from the newsagent while preparing his paper round. Bullied at school for his unusually thin face, geeky glasses and irritating habit of twiddling his thumbs, rotating them round each other in some sort of bizarre cycling dance, undetected thieving gave him a sense of self-worth and achievement. It transformed him from a nervous tick into a confident prick. Eventually he kicked the thumb twiddling habit.
But it was his gran who led him down the criminal path, a prolific pick-pocket who practised her trade into her late eighties. A tiny woman, smaller than a mouse. It would have to be an abnormally large mouse. A product of a NASA-sponsored "mouse-enlargement" experiment perhaps.
"Listen," the old raisin had said, knitted beanie precarious on her head, her piercing little eyes twinkling with craftiness, "the older you get the less they'll suspect. Who would suspect a sweet old lady like me? Like my Rolex? Here, it's yours. Silence is golden. I've knitted you a scarf, don't want you to catch a cold sweetheart. Sorry about the colour, I only had red left. Fancy some onion soup? Pilfered the onions from Jim next door. Hah! He's always coming over, miffed about losing vegetables."
It all escalated from there. Petty shoplifting at first. Deodorant, hand-cream, gift cards, scented candles. Then on to electronic goods, flogging record players on the black-market. Revelling in small-scale success he moved on to robbing banks, jewellery stores and antique candlesticks from stately homes. He got in with the wrong crowd, formed a gang and with his gran's guidance, soon became one of the most respected criminal minds in North Yorkshire. With fame and success came paranoia and stress. The Fedora was pulled lower and lower and it was convenient too, hiding a giant mole on his forehead that had unhappily been exposed by his receding hairline.
And here he is, slouching at the bar, filled with fear and the knowledge that his past is catching up with him.
Or maybe he's just an innocent old chap fed up with the weather. I'll let you call it.
The "sequel" to Perdido Street Station, one of my absolute favourites, and I'm enjoying it just as much, if not more so.
The worlds and races Mieville creates are simply superb. If you've not read this series and you like "weird fiction" then please crack on and get reading.
Comments
The things one can imagine while people-watching!
I truly enjoyed the story. I always wanted to be able to write stories but I have never been really good at it. Maybe some day I will be :)
.-= Julius Kuhn-Regnier´s last blog ..The 3 Unwritten Rules of Blogging =-.
holy crap. where do you come up with these things!? However, you should know that the mole indicates evil. Remember John Boy from the Waltons?? He's not fooling me.
Evil.
.-= Michel´s last blog ..Walking the Green Mile.... =-.
i'm going with thief. never trust a balding man w/ long hair. he's attempting to deceive you from the get-go.
might be my fave of all (the wonderful posts of yours) i've read.
.-= john cave osborne´s last blog ..Triplet Standard Time =-.
Nah, you had it right the first time
Or maybe she got ahold of some of that stuff Angelica Huston was flogging in Witches.
(Did I use flogging correctly? It is not an American word.)
I wonder if his nervous tick will return, as he ponders his inevitable end.
Mo..there are no words to describe how amazing your writing is. This is outrageously magnificent!
I think all nervous ticks should be transformed into confident pricks....
Mo...you and Mr C are quite amazing and as I told him, I hope to be as good a storyteller. However, I struggle making up stuff and writing so that it is authentic.
grr.
Well done my friendly.
"from a nervous tick into a confident prick" LOL! It's obvious to me the guy is Elvis. Next time you're around him look closely for a small, lightning bolt shaped diamond pin with "TCB" on it. Proof positive.
oh yeah...love sitting and making up stories about those that i see...
You are a genius when it comes to descriptions.
Man, I wish I had time to sit in a pub with you and make up stories about people.
Saucy red scarf. He was totally up to something.
Love it. Whoever thought Harrogate could be so interesting. Nice of him to carry a mole around with him. Wind in the Willows lives in the pub.
One of these days I'm flying across the pond and you and I are going to sit outside a pub and make up stories about all the people who pass by. First round's on me.
You are amazing. I was going to tell you what my favorite line was, but they're all my favorite!
you saw Keyser Söze!!!!
So THAT'S where my gran ended up. She's been mysteriously missing for years!!
I'm supposed to believe he might be innocent wearing a scarf like that? Hah! Not a chance. I say you nailed him.
No one with a mole that big on their forehead is innocent. I usually fine moley people to be guilty of something sinister, so I'm going with the criminal past on this one.
Please Please write a story about my homeless man that frequents MY bar because my boss won't kick him out. No matter how smelly he is. (sigh)
And because I love drama I'm all for the old man at the bar being Zorro senior retired waiting for his son and grandson to slink into the bar to spill about their travels.
It had nothing at all to do with the weather. My instinct tells me that this was actually grandma dressed as her grandson "Z", establishing the alibi that he was in this particular pub at this particular time on this particular day. Thereby establishing an alibi for his whereabouts during the great Black Mask and Red Cape Factory robbery. The main witness...one mo stoneskin. Cunning and diabolical to the end, those two.
Watch your back, Mo...he probably has his gran lurking in the shadows as protection.
I first mis-read that as "smiled diabetically."
You should be a screenwriter. Your stories are so vivid. Good stuff!
Who doesn't love a crafty gold rolex dishing old raisin knitter in a beanie?
Well after my Gran and her Suduko pen stealing I am afraid, very afraid!
you certainly DO have a great imagination...
i love it.
"transformed him from a nervous tick into a confident prick". that line my friend was pure brilliance.
And I thought I had a wild imagination. It's nothing compared to yours.
.-= Sid´s last blog ..Web developer assists damsel in distress =-.
I'm often left wondering and guessing what you know for a fact and what's your imagination. But grans can be that way... (abnormally large mouse - what's with you and small animals these days?)
I can personally testify that whatever starts with petty shoplifting escalates into something major. Like moving to India. To a village.
You and your imagination!!!
My great gran used to be a bit of a thief. Unfortunately she passed before she could share her knowledge. I'm able as subtle as a jet plane.
You would be a treat to 'people watch' with - love your imagination!
I want to visit the pub you frequent.
You spotted "el Diablo"!?! And he let you LIVE!
Now I'm just wondering what grand fantasy you'd imagine for me if you and I were ever in the same pub.
;-)
It seems to me that Sylvester found an abnormally large mouse...it was a kangaroo.
"ambivalence in a greatcoat" is an awesome line.
I suppose getting old is rather boring; what better way to spice things up than a with a little pilfered hand cream?
Loved the story, true or not. Glad to be back here. It's been too long.
"...smacked of an unhealthy Zorro obsession" ... as opposed to those "healthy" Zorro obsessors? And, "going from a nervous tick to a confident prick" your way with words is brilliant Mo. :)
Wonderful story, I loved it! My grandma never taught me about stealing, but she did share a few secrets about contract killings.
Ha, "the old raisin". I call em q-tips.
I think the pony tail and the scarf are the old guy's homage to Karl Lagerfeld, who shunned him in a younger life.
I hope Granny burns in h*ll for leading him astray.
Ponytail. It's the midlife crisis sports car of the elderly male.
"nervous tick into confident prick..." hahahahaha! That's awesome!
I love that the Raisin taught him his trade.
You got yourself an old lady and vermin theme goin' on.
And now I want some onion soup. (no side of pigeon...no side of enlarged mice.)
Fun character sketch!
I suspect he might also be a Johnny Cash fan, one into which can be red an ironic fashion sense.
People watching is an art form. It requires dedication if not intoxication. You sir are a master craftsman, a black belt in voyeurism, a creator of merciless mirth.
Stay out of my local, I'm concerned that you'd have yourself one hell of a field day.
The raisin-made red scarf, the diabolical skills of youth, the hand-me-down Rolex. Love it all. Especially the "Eat that" attitude that underpins it all. This little tale? It has a great layout :)
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