Pat Garret lives upstairs M Sheridan

He is slender and tall, moustachioed. He moved in upstairs from me about eight weeks ago, this is when things started to change around here.

It was the first of March 2003. A blustery, intense morning, a Saturday in March; unsettled, unsettling. The trees outside my window shook with random violent bursts, making me jumpy, on edge, like when someone feigns pushing you onto the underground tracks, ‘saved you’. The sky threatened rain but it didn’t rain.

As I went down to the street for the newspaper I met Pat Garrett on the stairs, I didn’t know his name then, I nodded to him, he smiled. He was carrying a rocking chair up the stairs, I passed him thinking little of it. I hadn’t seen him before but there was nothing remarkable about seeing a new face on the landing, even if it was a cowboy’s face, there are twenty flats in my side of the block and people came and went. And there are some odd people in Hackney. Two stories down I felt a pinprick in my lower spine, a twinge in my lower back, I stopped. My back plays up all the time, all areas of it really, sometimes its just the muscles from sitting badly, other times it’s the lower vertebrae discs getting inflamed, that really is the worst thing, I can be out of action for weeks. This felt different, a new pain, much sharper, much deeper, like electricity, or even like guilt. I pulled up to check myself and heard a strange noise, a really piercing but quick noise, high pitch, sort of a ‘shing’, the sort of noise from the films when a sword is pulled quickly from its sheath as its wielder squares up to his enemy. I turned and looked up the stairs and Garrett was gone, gone into one of the flats above mine I supposed. I shivered, feeling a little odd. I went down to the street for my paper, thinking that somehow I recognised him, but then thinking nothing more of it.

I had lived in the block for over five years. It wasn’t the sort of place where anything interesting happened. I had always been on nodding terms with the neighbours from day one. Adjacent to me in number 12 lived Paul, a sculptor. I had become quite friendly with him after seeing him in an art gallery once, we’d gone for a drink afterwards. I saw him on the bus a couple of times and again ended up in the pub. By the third or fourth time we’d had a few drinks together we realised we had little in common and began to make promises to meet that we knew we had no intention of fulfilling. One time I saw him waiting for a bus at the stop on the corner, I pulled up short of him and waited there, pretending I hadn’t seen him, I glanced over at one point and knew that he’d seen me, he was keeping out of my way too. Apart from Paul, and a sixty year-old woman below me called Sonia, who new everyone’s business, but was nice, I really hadn’t got to know anyone in the block too well. I was resigned to this by now, I had wanted to be involved in the community in the first instance, but a couple of years in Hackney had taught me that there’s not much chance, most people are from other places and don’t speak much English, if you work during the day, you don’t get to meet anyone really, and most people just live there for a short time, just pass through. I was just biding my time before moving on. I was bored there really, thinking of moving on, moving out of London even, wondering what to do next in life. Then Pat moved in.

The second time I saw Pat Garrett, I got a much better look at him. He was standing outside the entrance door to the block, speaking quietly into a mobile phone. As he talked, he faced the street, his eyes following the movements of some circling pigeons. He cut such a figure in the late afternoon sunlight. He looked and somehow felt familiar to me. A full fledged cowboy in chaps, waistcoat and Stetson was an uncommon sight in Hackney, I just kept looking at him, somehow compelled, I couldn’t look away, somehow he didn’t look ridiculous, there was something very genuine about him, he looked like a real cowboy, an old cowboy from the Wild West. Somehow I knew he was real a cowboy, I guess I was under his spell. I know this now, but I really couldn’t fathom it then. I had always hated anyone in cowboy gear, particularly those fucking cowboy boots, I hated the type of person who wore those, a bloke at my college used to wear them and I really fucking hated him. But somehow I also had an affinity with cowboys, I was told I used to wear a cowboy hat everywhere until I was five years old, apparently I used to kick up a real stink when I had to take it off for school. I remember it actually, if that’s possible, I’m pretty sure it was a dark browny-red felt, with white tassles and a silver sheriff badge. I also had a toy gun and holster, the gun fired paper strip caps, and the holster was brown and white fake leather with a red plastic jewel on the side. The gun fit right through and out a hole in the bottom. And I always preferred the cowboys in the films, even after I realised the Indians were the goodies.

He was clean for a cowboy, clean shaven with a prominent groomed handlebar moustache. He held the Stetson to his right side, revealing his layered hair, long but neat, smoothed close to his head where his hat had left it. As he turned on his left boot, finishing his telephone conversation, I saw his gleaming sheriff badge for the first time, he pocketed the phone, turned and looked me directly in the eye. As he fixed me, the sun caught his badge, and I heard that noise again, ‘shing’. He repositioned his hat and walked towards me, leaving his hand on the brim. I was uncomfortable with his stare but strangely rooted to the spot, powerless, a rabbit in headlights. He approached tipping his hat half an inch, ‘Howdy partner’ he drawled in a slow, confident manner. He passed me as I held the door slightly ajar, I was empty, powerless. I stood frozen for a few further moments, then stepped into the street. I felt calm but confused. Where was I going? Drowsily it came back to me, bread, I had gone out to get bread, Julie was inside and we were going to have Marmite on toast, bread, that was it.

I returned with the bread and told Julie about the new cowboy staying in our block. I didn’t mention the strangeness surrounding him, I was still unsure.

‘Yes, I’ve seen him a couple of times, strange bloke, very calm somehow’ came Julie’s reply. So she felt it too, I took it no further, I wasn’t expecting any strangeness, I’m just an ordinary bloke.

The next time I saw Pat, I heard the noise first, before I’d seen him. I was coming through the door to the flats and he was coming down the stairs, this time accompanied by a soft drum roll. The roll reached its crescendo as he stepped on the bottom step in front of me. He fixed me with that stare again.

‘Howdy Mick’, he offered, quietly, smiling. I just stared at him, I couldn’t help it. My mind was blank again, I wanted to ask him everything, about the ‘shing’ sound, about the drumming sound, and now, how he knew me by name, but I couldn’t, I had nothing to say, couldn’t say anything. Instead I said ‘Hello Pat’ and began to climb the stairs. I ventured a glance shortly after and saw him descending, I saw his shirt tails as I closed my door, his left spur spinning. I could do nothing to stop my mind racing, even though I felt that same strange calm. Why had I called him Pat? How did I know his name even? What was the drumming noise? I was spooked, spooked enough to call on Sonia downstairs, I used the ruse of asking if she knew anything more about the date when they were putting the pigeon proofing of the front of the flats. It was a safe ruse, the situation had been ongoing for some two years, but at last we seemed to be getting somewhere with it. We chewed the fat for a while and I introduced the topic, ‘have you met that new cowboy bloke?’

‘Oh yes, he moved in a couple of weeks ago into number 17 on the landing above yours. I’m not sure what to make of him, all them cowboy clothes and that, but he seems nice enough. His name’s Pat. Pat Garrett he told me, made a point of telling me. Speaks really slowly. ’ A prickly line of sweat appeared on my brow at the mention of his name. ‘He knows you, he said,. Said he knows you from before, how do you know him?’

‘I don’t know, but he does seem familiar, I’ll let you know’.

I knew the name Pat Garret. I knew him from the films, the sheriff who’d stalked and eventually shot Billy the Kid. But that was in the films. I rationalised things in my mind, this was London after all, why was I getting uncomfortable feelings about this man? Why did I feel what I currently felt, that this was the same Pat Garrett from the films, from the Old Wild West? I’m a rational man, not given to these strange feelings, definitely not given to these type of feelings. I went to bed. It took a while to get to sleep.

The next day I went to work in the usual way. But I couldn’t work for thoughts of Pat fucking Garrett. I put his name into Google and watched the results come up. Loads of Wild West type sites, loads of stuff about Billy the Kid. I learned that Pat Garrett was a western law man famous for killing Billy the Kid, he started out as a buffalo hunter in Texas in 1869. By 1880 he had been elected Sheriff of Lincoln County, New Mexico, and that same year the war ended leaving the outlaw Billy the Kid still on the loose. His capture became Garrett’s fixation, his addiction. He stalked him for nearly two years, the two had many altercations, The Kid outsmarting Garrett on all, until Garrett finally shot and killed Billy the Kid in Fort Summer, New Mexico on 13th July, 1881. In addition to his driven pursuit of one man, Garrett was a notorious hard man and gun expert, variously on the wrong and right side of the law, a man with his own morals and a single sense of awful, final justice; a pedantic and relentless pursuer of men, everybody’s nemesis.

Could this man be the same Pat Garrett? That self-same barnstormer of a sheriff? That persistent, insistent pursuer of one man? I tried to rubbish the idea – if it was, he was looking pretty good for over150 years old.

I was wholely perturbed by this Pat Garrett, I asked Sonia about him again, ‘Sonia, you know this Pat Garrett cowboy bloke, did you tell him my name?’

‘No, he already knew you, I told you that, where do you know him from, did you remember?’

‘Err, no, I’ve been meaning to ask him but I haven’t seen him since, I’ll let you know’.

I knocked at Paul’s door, ‘Hello mate, how are you doing?’

‘Yeah fine’, he looked a little uneasy,

‘Sorry to bother you, but I wondered if you’d seen that cowboy bloke upstairs today?’

‘Pat? No. I haven’t seen him for a couple of days, weird bloke, all that cowboy stuff, you know him don’t you? He was asking me about you a few days ago when I bumped into him, says he knows you from some time back or something’.

‘Err, yeah, it’s a long story, I’ll try his door again later, err, never mind, I’ll see you later’, I sped off up the stairs, confused, worried, sweating.

How did he know me? What was all this about? It was time to confront him, I knocked on his door, no answer. I waited and listened at the door, trying desperately to see in through the crack. I fancied I saw his rocking chair moving, but I couldn’t be sure. I waited but he didn’t come. That night I dreamed of the old Boot Hill computer game I had played on Brighton sea front as a kid. I used to play against the computer, but in the dream, Garrett had the other gun, he put the coins in each time, and each time I lost, I went to Boot Hill.

More restless nights, more sweating.

Two days later I saw him again, I was waiting outside my flat door for him, just waiting, I could do nothing else, I hadn’t slept, I was exhausted. I heard him come through the door downstairs, ‘shing’, the drumroll started as he ascended and grew louder as he rose, louder, but never too loud. I stopped him. He stopped with ease and grace. ‘Pat’, I ventured, ‘sorry to bother you, but there’s something on my mind. How do you know me? How did you know my name? A couple of the neighbours said you were asking about me.’

‘Come on Sheridan, you know what this is all about, you’ve been waiting for me for some time, you know you have’, he took his mobile phone from his pocket it and span it in his hand.

‘What do you mean? Who are you?’

‘You know Sheridan, and you know that you know, think, think back, you’ll figure it out, “shing”’.

With that he was gone, nowhere around, gone. I shivered a huge shiver and went back into my flat. I lay down on my bed but there was no chance of rest. I went back out to knock on his door, but it was open, wide open. I peered inside and saw his rocking chair rocking empty in his lounge, it was rocking back and forth on its own. I could hear him whistling in his kitchen ‘ Oh my darling, Oh my darling, Oh my darling, Clementine..’ I felt an overbearing tiredness, an aching need to leave and sleep, I walked back down the stairs and slept like a dog.

The next day I didn’t go to work, I waited for him again and eventually he appeared, passing right in front of me on the stairs, he was going up. This time he didn’t look my way and no noises came. I stopped dead and followed him with my eyes, he walked slowly and confidently once he’d passed me, but he seemed nervous, concerned as he passed. For some reason I carried on down to the street and walked to the bus stop, as if to go to work, but I couldn’t get on the bus, I couldn’t go to work, I hadn’t even intended going to work. I walked back to the flats, dazed, dreamy, purposeful, lured. I opened the door to my flat slowly and stared into the half-dark of the long corridor. I moved stealthily along the hall with purpose and fear. As I passed the door to each room, I quick-glanced through each one, eye-checking who was there. I knew Pat would be in one of the rooms, I knew that much. But Pat wasn’t there, as I reached the living room at the end of the passage, I could feel that he wasn’t there. I walked into the room and saw his empty rocking chair, still rocking, in my front room. I reached instinctively into my pocket for my mobile phone and pulled it out, holding it pistol-like in my hand, I raised it aloft and stepped onto the balcony, Pat was not there, I stepped back inside, when ‘shing’ , the noise came from above, two floors up, on the roof. I peered out and up, nothing, bright sunlight but no Garrett, I peeled back inside, my pulse raging, ‘Where are you Garrett? Come out you coward, the time has come to face me’. The words were not mine, but they came from my mouth. I ran through the flat and raced up the stairs to the flat roof, reaching the top of the stairs I slowed and stepped cautiously through the rooftop door. I could see his silhouette inside the roof door to the next block. It was unmistakeable, tall, lean, cool.

‘Come out Garrett, face me like a man’ I shouted, my phone held steady at arms length with both hands.

He stepped out from his shadow into the sunlight, calm, unconcerned, ‘shing’, His phone was in his hand.

I saw the sun move in the sky, from left to right and back, bouncing now, like a ball, blinding me, then settling stock still. I threw my hands in front of my eyes, but I had focussed on the sun and black spots came, blurring, masking my vision. As my eyes recovered he loomed into focus, his huge hand towards my neck, pointing the phone right into my face. This was insane. I dived left and rolled behind a chimney stack as he ‘fired’.

‘Crack’.

The stack was aflame, he had missed.

The sky instantly greyed, Domesday Grey, End of the World Grey, no sun, no life.

I looked into his eyes and ‘fired’ back. I pressed the phone buttons wildly, wondering what the hell I was doing. Nothing happened.

Pat Garrett fixed me again with his eyes and a smile spread across his face as he watched me desperately pressing buttons, pointing the phone. He rocked slowly back on his heels and a hearty laugh built in his chest. As I lay squirming on the floor at his feet, his body began to grow with his laugh. The light came back at once. The sun came back. He became huge. His body rose up into the daytime sky, huge and omnipotent, covering the whole sky. His mouth opened wider and wider and his laugh rang through the bright streets, louder and louder. And he was gone.