London and the South-East

22

MARTIN LOOMS HUGE in Paul’s mind. He has seen him only once since Easter Day. On Saturday night, straight from his Eastbourne meeting, he turned into Lennox Road to see him leaving his — Paul’s — house. The tall shape was unmistakable, and it was too late to stop, too late to hide in the shadows. They met under one of the street lights, the one that shines in through the bedroom window. It was midnight. And thus ill-met by humming street light, they surveyed each other for a moment. Paul did not like to think of Martin in his house (though it would be his for only another month); he wished that he had turned into the street a minute later and been spared the knowledge of it. Especially with the flight bag on his shoulder, and the meeting with Watt still so fresh in his mind — he was worried that it would show up in his face somehow; a voice in his head was shouting out extracts from Watt’s instructions. He should say he’s from Morlam Garden Fruits … ‘All right, Martin?’ he said, shifting the flight bag on his shoulder; it was not heavy.

‘Hello, Paul. Been out?’

‘You know I have.’

For a moment, Martin dipped his head — hid his smile in inky shadow. ‘Somewhere nice, I hope?’

‘Yeah.’

His eyes moved inquisitively to the flight bag. ‘Been away?’

‘No.’

‘Oh. Well … Goodnight …’

Stopping at the payphone in the hallway of the Queensbury guest house, Paul fumbles in his pockets for the number. Andy waits, staring at the wallpaper. ‘Here it is,’ Paul mutters. Despite the pints, he is nervous. Memories of Andy’s hopelessness on the phone are flooding into his mind — he has already warned him that he will not be paid if he fails even to set up a meeting. He thrusts the handwritten script at him — the one he wrote in the Regency Tavern — and starts to say the number. It is the main number of the supermarket. Andy enters it into the phone, and then waits with a pound coin poised. Suddenly he presses the coin into the slot and says the first line of the script: ‘Oh hello. Could I speak to the fresh-produce manager please.’ Paul turns to the open door and sighs quietly. The memories sit like cold stones in his belly, memories of Andy fucking up. Memories of the sales floor. Of innumerable phone calls … He hears Andy say, ‘Oh hello, is that Mr Short?’ A tense pause. Is it? Is it Mr Short? How strange if it is — how strange that Andy should be talking to Martin. ‘Oh hello, Mr Short. My name’s Andrew Smith. I’m calling from Morlam Garden Fruits.’ Another pause. Paul has turned to Andy and is studying him intently — he has a finger in his left ear and is leaning in to the puffy wall. ‘Kent,’ he says. And then, ‘Strawb’rries mainly.’ The smile flickering on his full lips is something of a worry. It has a loose, twitchy quality, like he might start to laugh at any moment. His self-possession on the phone, however, seems to have improved. ‘Well, I was wondering if we could meet up and have a chat.’ Paul wrote that line. It sounds okay. It sounds fine. ‘Well, as soon as possible,’ Andy says. ‘Tonight?’ He shoots Paul a quick, questioning look. Emphatically, Paul indicates no. They need more time for preparation, and he has to go home and sleep all afternoon. Standing there in the narrow corridor, he is swimmy with fatigue. ‘No, unfortunately I can’t do tonight …’ Martin says something that seems to merit a laugh, and Andy says, ‘I know I did. How about tomorrow?’ Paul lights a cigarette and stares at the torn, balding blue carpet. ‘Yes, tomorrow afternoon’s fine. Five o’clock? That’s fine.’ Some people stop on the pavement outside. Paul turns away from them, turns to his reflection in the mirror-tiled wall. He looks like a jigsaw puzzle; where tiles have come unstuck, pieces of him are missing. Andy is saying, ‘I’m afraid I don’t know Brighton very well. So somewhere central, I suppose. There is one pub I know …’ This is another of Paul’s lines. ‘The Regency Tavern. Do you know it?’ Evidently, Martin does know it. Andy says, ‘Excellent. So I’ll see you there tomorrow at five. Excellent. Thank you, Mr Short.’ He is about to put the phone down, when he says, ‘Um. Oh. Yeah. It’s …’ And he looks at Paul with imploring eyes. Paul does not understand what he wants. What? Furiously, he mouths the word. Andy turns away, lowering his head. He says, ‘You can get me on …’ And then he says his own mobile number. ‘Excellent. See you tomorrow. Thanks. Thanks, Mr Short. Bye.’ Elated, he faces Paul. Who says, ‘Yeah, well done, mate.’

‘I had to give him my mobile number.’

‘That’s fine.’

‘Was that okay?’ Andy is trembling, alight, flushed with triumph. He laughs. ‘Was that okay?’

‘Yeah, it was okay. It was fine. Well done.’ Paul hands him his lighter. ‘But that was the easy bit.’ Lighting a cigarette, Andy nods. ‘Tomorrow’s the hard bit.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Tomorrow’s where you earn your money.’

‘Another drink?’ Andy says eagerly.

‘I can’t, mate. I’ve got to … I’ve got things to do.’

‘Yeah, why aren’t you at work?’ Andy says, holding out the lighter.

‘That’s where I’ve got to go now. And you’ve got to learn that.’ He points to the rolled-up A4 document in Andy’s left hand.

‘Yeah, yeah …’

‘I mean it! You’ve got to fucking know it.’

Andy nods. ‘Yup,’ he says. ‘Yah.’

‘I’ll see you later, yeah.’

‘What time?’

‘Tonight. I’ll see you in the pub at nine, all right? Regency Tavern.’

‘All right.’

Paul starts to leave. Then turning on the threshold, he says, ‘And don’t fuck around with the equipment. I’ll show you how to use it tonight.’

‘Okay.’

‘Learn that stuff.’

‘I will.’

‘I’m going to test you on it later.’

He leaves him loafing in the musty corridor smoking a Marlboro Light, and walks through Regency Square to the bus stop. The colour of the tall terraces varies from cream to biscuit, and in the middle the windy lawn — with its few bushes and spiky palms — slopes down to the traffic of King’s Road and the sea. Walking past hotels with the sun in his face, Paul squints. Gulls hop on the coarse grass. The surface of the sea is striped, like the paintwork in the Regency Tavern — white shining stripes, and dull dark ones. Out in the sea-stripes the West Pier still stands, an outline stubbornly holding its shape.

In the evening, Paul shuffles into the kitchen to prepare his porridge. His head feels heavy and throbs. His face is lumpen, inexpressive, like some naive mask fudged in grey clay. He is standing over the hob when he feels Heather’s presence. He does not look at her; he watches the porridge start to quiver.

She says, ‘Are you seeing someone, Paul?’ It is obvious from the way she says it that she is trying to empty the question of intensity. She does not succeed. He turns to her in surprise; she seems to think, however, that his expression is one of outrage and immediately stops smiling. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I know it’s none of my business.’

For a few seconds he is speechless. ‘What if I am?’

‘I just … I mean if you don’t want to tell me …’

‘No, I’m not.’

She stares at him sceptically. ‘Okay.’

‘I’m not.’

‘So where do you go?’

‘I don’t ask where you go.’

‘You know where I go.’

‘No I don’t.’

‘I mean you know who I’m with.’

‘Where do you go?’

‘Look, Paul, I’m sorry,’ she says.

‘Why? I’m not “seeing someone”, Heather.’

She is not persuaded. She says, ‘M-hm,’ in a pointedly stony tone, and pours herself a huge glass of wine. Then she withdraws to the lounge and shuts the door. Of course, he thinks, taking the raisins from the cupboard, his going out on his nights off must mess up her own plans to some extent. Having to have Martin over here, with the kids upstairs, must be less fun than the bar of the Metropole, or his extravagant extension. Or his jacuzzi. Paul had remembered a few weeks earlier that Martin has a jacuzzi; it was installed last summer — a little winch lifting it from a flat-bed truck while Martin watched from the pavement, shielding his eyes, and half the curtains in the street twitched … Must be fun, he muses, stirring in the raisins, to fuck in a jacuzzi. He sighs listlessly, and starts to eat. Initially, the tone of Heather’s question had pissed him off; now her suspicions make him sad. Strings of light bulbs sway on the seafront. Yes, they make him sad. He is walking through Regency Square. In the twilight, the terraces look statelier — the square is lit like an expensive restaurant — with scores of softly lighted windows, and the entrances of the hotels illuminated. The scruffy lawn is lost in indistinct grey. The Regency Tavern, too, is illuminated; spotlit at the end of the mews like a national monument. The sign shows George IV in the high-collared handsomeness of his youth. Inside, the pub is lively. Andy is up on a high stool, nattering with the staff like a local. Seeing Paul, he smiles. ‘Right, mate,’ he says. The sloppiness of his smile, the fact that he says ‘Right, mate’ as if it were a single word, leave little doubt that he has been there for some time. ‘Wanna drink?’

‘Have you looked at that stuff?’ Paul says.

Unhesitatingly, Andy says, ‘No.’

‘You haven’t looked at it?’

‘S’all under control.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘S’under control.’

‘No it’s not under control.’

‘Yeah it is …’

‘I fucking knew this would happen.’

Andy looks puzzled. ‘What?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Oh.’ He leans unsteadily towards Paul. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘Look. It’s all worked out. All right? I’ll do it tomorrow morning. D’you wanna drink?’

‘No I don’t. This isn’t a fucking joke.’

‘What’s the problem? I’ll do it in the morning.’

‘You were supposed to do it today.’

‘What difference does it make? I’ll do it —’

‘You’re a fucking idiot, do you know that?’ This seems to hit a mark somewhere. Andy stops protesting. For a moment his eyes sink to the green carpet, its woven laurel wreaths and scallop shells. When they meet Paul’s a moment later they are obscurely distressed. He swallows. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ Paul says.

‘I’ll do it tomorrow —’

‘What are you doing? You’ve been here all afternoon, haven’t you?’ Andy shakes his head. ‘I’m not paying you to have a piss-up. You’re not here to have a fucking laugh —’

‘I know.’

‘I don’t think you do know. Why haven’t you done what I told you?’

‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ he says quietly.

‘This is serious. Do you understand? It’s not a fucking joke.’

‘Look, I’m sorry —’

‘You will be.’ Then he says, ‘All right. Let’s go.’

‘Where?’

‘You’re not staying here.’

‘Why not?’

‘What do you mean why not? I’m going to be round early tomorrow morning —’

‘What time?’

‘Eight.’

‘Eight?’

‘Eight. Tough shit. And I want to have a look at your suit.’

‘My suit …?’

‘Let’s go.’

‘Why d’you want to look at my suit?’ Andy says, turning to search for someone as Paul hustles him out into the mews. Paul has been worrying about Andy’s suit — he remembers the chalk-stripe of a metropolitan barrister or senior estate agent; not the sort of thing a shadowy provincial strawberry producer would be likely to wear.

They climb the narrow stairs of the guest house. Mrs Mulwray — the proprietress in her plywood booth — watches as they disappear into the depths of the convex mirror. They are standing outside the door of Andy’s room — the paintwork is orange with age — when he says, ‘Oh fuck.’

‘What?’

‘Forgot the key.’

‘Get it then.’

He crashes down the stairs. There is then some sort of delay and it is a couple of minutes until he plods up, out of breath and smiling.

‘What?’ Paul says. ‘What you smiling about?’

‘She says …’ Andy pants, ‘she says if you stay the night, you’ll have to pay.’

‘What?’

‘If you stay the night,’ he says, sniggering, ‘if we spend the night together, you’ll have to pay.’

‘Open the door.’

The room looks even more threadbare than it did in daylight. ‘Where’s the suit?’ Paul says. Andy has taken the trouble to hang it in the wardrobe. He lifts it out, still in its carrier, and passes it to him. Then he sits down on the edge of the bed and starts making a spliff. Paul unzips the suit carrier, and pulls out part of the jacket. ‘You can’t wear this,’ he says.

‘Why not?’

‘It’s too smart.’

Andy smirks. ‘Sorry, mate.’

‘I’ll lend you mine.’

‘All right.’

‘I’ll bring it tomorrow morning.’

‘All right.’

Paul rezips the suit carrier and slings it onto the bed.

‘D’you want some of this?’ Andy is holding the nose of the newly made spliff, swinging it like a sachet of sugar. Paul sighs. Yes, he does want some of that. He is knotty with tensions, furious with worries. The prospect of putting some immediate space between himself and his situation is an enticing one. His face is stony, set, expressionless. ‘D’you wanna spark it?’ Andy says.

‘No,’ Paul murmurs, ‘go ahead.’ Andy sparks it. ‘So I’ll be here at eight.’

With his mouth open, holding the smoke in his lungs, Andy nods.

‘You better be up and ready to start.’

‘Uh-huh.’ He exhales, finally, in a long smoky wave.

‘I’m not joking.’

‘No, I know.’

He holds out the spliff. Paul takes it. While he smokes pensively for a minute or two, Andy flops onto the bed, and stares vacantly at the ceiling. Suddenly he stands up. His face, Paul notices, is as white as a cloud. His lips look purple. He mumbles something. Then he opens the door and leaves. A few minutes later — it seems like much longer — there is still no sign of him. The silence of the small room has a piercing, singing quality; and staring intently at the swirling velvet whorls of the counterpane, Paul finds himself forgetting that Andy is even in Brighton. That he even exists. Sometimes, vaguely, it occurs to him that he is downstairs, presumably vomiting in the mouldy bathroom. Such moments, however, swiftly pass — and as soon as they have passed he has no memory of them. For minutes at a time he forgets where he is himself, and why he is there

Um.

That guest house.

The spliff has gone out, and he places it on the side table, next to the tannin-stained mug. His mouth is drier than the dry valleys of Antarctica, where it has not rained or snowed for thousands of years. These valleys must be something he saw on television — there is an associated image of a mummified seal (naturally mummified, he seems to remember, in that perpetually frozen and waterless environment) the colour of a nicotine stain, lying on a gravel slope. What was the programme? He does not know. The dry valleys, and the desiccated, weak-chinned face of the seal — which in a melancholy way resembles his own face — is all there is. Very slowly, he moves to the little sink in the corner of the room. He turns the squeaky tap and finds a trickle of water. It is not easy to drink, though. The sink is too small for him to get his face under the tap, and when he tries to use his hands the water leaks away before he is able to lift it to his mouth. Then he sees the mug. Even when he has drunk several mugs of tepid water, however, his mouth feels moistureless. Naturally mummified. If he keeps drinking, he tells himself, he will just have to piss. So he stops. Standing there, he senses that he has forgotten something … For what seems like a very long time he stands there, with his mouth open. Yes! Andy. He is downstairs, sicking up in the loo. Slowly, Paul switches off the light and leaves. Humming snugly, he descends the tightly turning stairs. He seems to descend through many floors — perhaps twelve — until finally he finds himself in the narrow hall at street level.

Surrounded by the shining silence of the stairs, he had felt safe. Now, though, there are sounds. Mrs Mulwray has turned on a television. From the street, he hears quiet voices speaking a strange language. He stands on the final step, wondering what to do. He has been in this position for some time when he notices that he is visible to Mrs Mulwray. There is a convex mirror high on the wall, tilted so that from her booth she is able to see up the stairs, where he is standing. With sudden purpose, he propels himself towards the exit. The outside air seems to stroke his skin. Passing the phone, he stops. There is something else … Something … He must establish the fact that he is leaving. He must, or she will make him pay. Turning, and trying to project his voice, he says, ‘Um … Guhnight …’

Part of Mrs Mulwray’s face emerges into view. ‘Goodnight,’ she says.

Quarter to eight in the morning, and Regency Square looks less swanky. A street sweeper (not Malcolm, though his ‘patch’ is only a few metres further east) slowly plies the margin, and in the unforgiving light the terraces and hotels look their age. They look tired. They look fed up. Curtains cover their windows like flannels on mature eyes — eyes that have seen through everything, that have no youthful illusions left. The lawn is flecked with litter. Everything looks moist and streaked with dirt. A seagull squats on the head of the bronze soldier, his bronze arm outstretched, symbol of the fallen in an unfashionable war.

Entering Russell Square with a holdall in his hand, Paul Rainey looks up at the rotten brown cornices and window frames of the Queensbury guest house. The spicy odour of superskunk is noticeable on the pavement outside. On the stairs, it intensifies. Outside Andy’s door it is vivid. Andy is sitting in bed in his boxer shorts smoking a spliff. Seeing his torso, Paul is surprised how fat he is. Loaves of pale flab sit on the waistband of his shorts. Downy tits, round shoulders. He looks up, pale-eyed. ‘What are you doing?’ Paul says, stepping into the smoke-filled room.

‘Quick doob.’ Andy’s voice is hoarse.

‘Are you out of your mind?’

‘Oh, come on …’ he says, in a whisper.

‘We’ve got work to do.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

Paul shoves aside the greasy lace curtain and opens the window. The grotty sash gives with a scraping grunt. ‘You can smell that thing all up the stairs,’ he says. ‘Put it out.’ Surprisingly, without a word, Andy does so, stubbing it out on the inner surface of the mug, which he is using as an ashtray. He yawns, showing fat teeth. ‘There’s the suit,’ Paul says, indicating the holdall. Andy nods. ‘What size are your feet?’

‘Nine.’

‘Fine. I’ve brought some shoes as well.’ The big black brogues — highly polished ebony artefacts — would be as implausible as the chalk stripe. ‘I’ll wait for you downstairs,’ Paul says. ‘You’ve got five minutes.’

‘Do you want me to wear the suit?’

‘No. Why would I? You can try it on later.’

In the corridor downstairs the smell of superskunk mingles with the smells of toast and tea. Quiet munching and murmuring sounds emanate from the dining room. Paul steps out into the dank morning air and stands on the discoloured chequer of the front steps.

‘Where’s the instructions?’ he says, when Andy joins him.

‘Oh.’

‘Go and get them.’

Andy trudges up the stairs. ‘Where we going?’ he asks, when he next emerges.

‘Somewhere. I don’t know.’

They wander off in search of a café, ending up in the Starbucks on Market Street. There Paul studies the newspaper while Andy studies Watt’s instructions. When he has looked through them a few times, Paul puts down the paper and tests him. ‘What’s your email address?’ ‘What sort of strawberries you offering?’ ‘How many grams in a punnet?’ ‘What’s the most usual price this week?’ ‘What price are you asking for?’ ‘Why might an inspection be a problem?’ When Andy scores poorly on these questions, he spends a further half an hour studying, while Paul purchases a lemon muffin and a second latte (wondering, in the queue, whether to expense them), and then settles down to the international news and sport. Andy also fails the second test. He is still quite stoned and only able to remember one or two facts at a time.

When Paul asks him, ‘How many grams in a punnet?’ he stares at him with pink eyes for a few moments and then says, ‘Four hundred?’

‘No.’

‘Um.’ Andy frowns. ‘How many?’

Paul puts down the stapled sheets of A4. He has passed a long night of tedious meditations; meditations that went nowhere, like one of the kiddy-rides on the seafront. Nevertheless, he now wonders for the umpteenth time whether to tell Andy to fuck off back to London and forget the whole thing. Start looking for someone else. To proceed with him seems suicidal. Watt, though, would never wear a postponement. With a sigh, Paul picks up the pages. ‘Two hundred and twenty-seven,’ he says.

Andy nods. ‘Oh yeah.’

Once more in the room on the top floor of the guest house — it has to be vacated by noon — they turn to the equipment. Paul spent Saturday night experimenting with it. There are two units. The first is the camera. Made of rough, unmarked plastic, it has a serious, functional, professional look. On one side there is a small hole, and on the other a socket where the wire plugs in. Were it not for the battery, it would weigh nothing. The other unit is the digital video recorder, which looks more like an ordinary item of consumer electronics, with a metal finish and some chrome buttons. Watt has prepared the bag for use himself — he has made a small hole in the side, and seems to have sewn in a pouch of the camera’s exact size so that the ‘lens’ — it is more of a pinprick — is aligned with this hole. Ensuring that it is pointing towards Martin, Andy will simply have to open the bag and press record on the DVR. Taking out the punnets of fruit — they stopped into Tesco’s for them, and have transferred them to the unmarked punnets which Paul pilfered from work — will provide an ideal pretext for doing this. On Saturday night, while Heather and the kids slept, Paul recorded some images and played them back on the TV; the picture quality was surprisingly sharp, even in low light. He shows Andy how it works, and they take some practice shots, working out how the bag has to be positioned in order to find an object in the camera’s angle of view.

Then Andy tries on Paul’s suit. It is more in the black economy line, very much more typical of the gangmaster sector, than his own. A bland blackish blue, with shiny patches, old creases and a missing button, it is not a perfect fit. The shoes are scuffed. The tie a dismal strip of paisley. ‘You look shit,’ Paul says. ‘Perfect.’

‘Like you then.’ Andy smiles. ‘Only joking, mate.’

Paul says that if he scores a hundred per cent in a final test he’ll stand him a pint. ‘And then that’s it,’ he says. ‘That’s it — no more booze till it’s done.’

‘Sure.’

He makes the test easy, and they stroll to the Regency Tavern. Sitting under the large frosted-glass window, Andy looks nervous. He is quiet — very unlike him — and smokes even more heavily than usual. Other than his smoking hand — shuttling to and from his mouth — he is very still. He has a misleadingly unpractised way of smoking, an odd manner of holding the cigarette between his plump fingers, of exhaling the smoke like a twelve-year-old girl. They sit in silence for a while. ‘Look, don’t worry about it,’ Paul says. ‘If you stay sober, everything’ll be fine.’

Andy nods, and says, ‘M …’

The hangover lends him a pallor, a slightly hollow-eyed quality, which is entirely welcome. His edginess, too, will be in keeping with the role. He should not, however, be overly nervous. And to take his mind off the performance ahead, Paul says, ‘How’s things going at PLP?’

‘How are things going?’

‘Yeah. For you, I mean. Getting the deals in?’

Andy shrugs. ‘Some.’

‘Yeah?’

He seems unwilling to say more.

Why are you still working there? Paul thinks. He wonders whether to put this question to him; he even wonders whether to make an impassioned speech, urging him to leave sales and start something else while he still has time, to wake up, to shake off the sedations, to stop and think, to save himself from the sort of life that he is sleepwalking into.

Instead he says, ‘What’s it like working for Tony?’

‘It’s all right.’

They leave the pub, and for a few moments loiter in the mews. ‘I’ve got to go, mate,’ Paul says. He is not happy about leaving Andy on his own in a town full of temptations, but he is exhausted. He keeps yawning. ‘All right,’ Andy says. Wearing Paul’s suit, he has his own luggage with him as well as the flight bag. ‘This Short character,’ Paul says, yawning. ‘He’s very tall. And he doesn’t drink.’ Andy nods. Paul looks at his watch. ‘You’ve got four hours. If I was you, I’d dump that stuff at the station. It’s not far.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Get a paper or something.’

‘Yeah.’

‘No more drinking.’ Andy smiles. ‘Why are you smiling?’ The smile vanishes. ‘Look, mate, if you can’t go four hours without a drink —’

‘I was joking.’

‘And no more of that.’ Paul makes a smoking motion. He feels that there must be more to say. Nothing occurs to him. ‘All right. Phone me when you’re done.’

‘Okay.’

‘And good luck, yeah.’

‘Yeah. Which way’s the station?’

‘That way.’ Paul points to the far side of Russell Square. ‘Turn left and just keep going. There’s signs.’

‘All right. Cheers, mate. See you later.’

‘Yeah.’

For a few moments, with misgivings, Paul watches him totter off past the peeling guest houses. In that shapeless blue suit, it might be himself that he is watching. He has an uneasy feeling that he ought to have done more. He is too sleepy, however, for this thought to trouble him much. He will sleep. Whatever his omissions, it is too late to mend them now — a state of things which imports a sort of peace — and he will sleep through the event itself. And he turns and wanders off through Regency Square, with the sea wind in his tired face.