36
2008
Kreuzberg seemed eerily empty. What seemed like the entire surviving staff of Mids TV (minus the cook and the cleaner) had flown back to Brum on some plasticky budget airline 737. Some Turkish women were weighed down with groceries. Behind them, a murder of cackling hipsters smoked like pirates. Otherwise the streets were quiet, the sky seemed open – as if you could pole-vault up inside it.
I’d been drawn back once more to St Agnes Kirche, but not entirely by my own volition. Something was dragging me here. I didn’t really want to be back. The shoot had been enough for me. Why couldn’t I leave it at that? But I couldn’t leave it at that; I was on my way again. To see more horror, to be more upset. I should have gone up the TV tower and just enjoyed the city views instead. The St Agnes campanile emerged from a side street. It grew like a fat, cuboid tree as I neared it. Inside, the space overawed me as it had done the first time I entered all those years ago. The room – the nave, I guess – felt oppressive in some sense, its walls blank and austere. Yet that plainness was oddly freeing – you could project whatever mental pictures you wanted onto those walls. It was dark, but when sunlight streamed in through the skylights (depending on the movement of the clouds) everything changed; the light jump-started the building. Bel continually told me that space, not a building itself, was the thing you should concentrate on. Space is hard to define. What does it feel like? You can’t touch it. You can only sense it. The space here seemed like a portion too much. So much of it, I felt so small. I hadn’t noticed any of this while I was getting married. The glasses of Sekt in the morning had played their cheeky little tune on my synapses, making everything bouncy and surreal; my mind was focussed not on a building that day but on a person. Bel had talked to me about the church, shown me round and discussed it all, but I was too excited to listen to what she was actually saying. I nodded in all the right places and Genau-ed and Ja-ed in the correct gaps. I never imagined that something like a wedding day could be such a joyous occasion – the ones I went to, where other couples tied the knot, were pretty prosaic affairs, essentially excuses for all-day drinking and pork pie consumption. They didn’t feel romantic to me, they didn’t seem important. It was all just… pleasant. But that’s the strange power of love. An outsider can never grasp the delirium and despair, the secret passions and the hidden joys that couples succumb to. The intensity is so private, so hidden.
There were some pine chairs arranged in rows in the middle of the church. I sat on one for a while, concentrating on how the light got brighter and dimmer with the changing weather. I played out our wedding again in my mind, imagining how it would have looked from this vista, how Bel would have looked from here, beaming and beautiful in her dress, standing next to an Englishman in a dark suit. I heard the door creak open and some footsteps move in the direction of the bank of chairs. I was aware that there was a woman diagonally behind me, over behind my left shoulder. I turned to look. She had honey-coloured hair. I’d had enough of being here. It wasn’t helping.
When I walked out into the sunlight the woman followed me.
What she said amazed me.
‘You wrote Big Plans, didn’t you? That show was a big hit in Germany.’ She spoke perfect English, but with an unmistakeable Teutonic twang.
‘Was it?’ Was it?
‘It was.’
‘It can’t have been. It wasn’t even shown in Bristol, let alone Berlin. I’m sorry, but have we met before? I swear I recognise you.’
‘I’m from Birmingham too. Look for me in all the TV programmes you wrote. I’m there, sometimes hiding, sometimes not. I’ve been in your dreams too. I’m in the novel.’
‘What novel?’
‘The novel that we’re both in. I’m in the dreams you have in the novel we’re both in, the one that’s about to end.’
‘This is crazy. Are you OK… in the head? Do you need some help?’
‘Of course I’m OK. Look at me. Stop. Just look at me.’
She looked horribly familiar. ‘I do recognise you from somewhere. But who are you?’
‘Do you have time for a cup of tea, Donald?’
‘How do you know my name?’
‘I just know it. Do you have time?’
‘I do.’
‘Let’s take a stroll down to Tempelhof Airfield. I like it there. There’s a little cafe – when we get there, I’ll tell you about how things are.’
We made it to the cafe at Tempelhof, travelling pretty much in silence. The old Nazi airport was like a time capsule. I was looking forward to hearing what she had to say but also worried that I’d just end up being led up the garden path by some old lady who needed a nurse more than she needed me. I bought a tea and went to find her but she’d gone. I wasn’t surprised. I wondered if she was real. What she had said made no sense.
37
1999
The illuminated sign above the door said SC NDALZ. I could only assume the bulb on the first A had blown. Or maybe it was some kind of high-concept thing, a quirky sign for a quirky strip club. The building looked like it used to be a petrol station – brick, one storey tall. It sat, lonely, on a roundabout somewhere on the Birmingham Middle Ring Road. I was too drunk to notice exactly where when I fell out of the taxi and almost grazed my cheek on rough tarmac.
‘It’s your bloody stag do – get in that bloody door.’ Bob lifted me up and shoved me through the door, slipping the bouncer a fiver in one motion, then beckoning for the others to follow us, whistling like a bellhop. The bouncer looked on, ambivalent.
‘Perfect. This is a fucking stag do!’ Bob grabbed my cheeks with a pair of greasy paws and gave me a kiss on the forehead. His breath wafted over me, hot and sour – chicken jalfrezi and pilau rice.
He’d booked us a table right by the stage. I sank into the soft chair, the type you get in hotel receptions. In fact the place felt a lot like a hotel reception – the banks of easy chairs set around low tables, the boring bastards in suits looking sweaty and shifty, the crappy décor. It was darker than a hotel reception of course, and there was more chrome. Chrome was the international visual language of strip clubs; Bob had dragged me to enough around Birmingham (I’d say, in fact, all of them around Birmingham). Sitting down made me feel dizzy. I had to grab the arms of the chair to steady myself. The thumping soundtrack of Eurodisco added to the sense of dislocation I felt from my body and from the place. And yet, this was the most quintessential thing to do in Birmingham, a true city of white-collar sin (here sin comes served with a car park outside, naturally).
‘Whiskies please.’ Bob beamed at the waitress, charming her with twinkling eyes, totting up how many of us there were with the finger of his right hand. He needed to do it three times before he got to a number he was happy with. ‘Eight please, love. And one for yourself.’
A girl in her early twenties, wearing a short dress, sidled up to the stage facing us, pouted artificially, and began to gyrate. Within the space of a few minutes she was wearing only a pair of knickers and heels.
The whiskies arrived and Bob handed them out. He chinked my glass. ‘So how do you feel? You’re not going to be a single bloke for much longer. Looking forward to getting that apron on and being moaned at?’
‘I really, really am. I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.’
‘Yeah, Bel is the one for you, mate. She’s a cracker. If I was younger…’
‘Shut up.’
Bob leaned further over and whispered in my ear. ‘These bastards look like they’re from some engineering firm, not a TV station. What the fuck did we bring them for?’
‘That was your idea,’ I bounced back.
He nodded and looked over at our motley crew.
Baxter sat completely still, transfixed by the girl on stage. Ralph Marks was next to him, fidgeting.
Some guy in a suit I didn’t recognise bounded over, swaying from side to side, drink in hand, and started pointing at Ralph Marks. ‘It’s you! Off the telly! Ha! This is a better show tho
ugh, isn’t it?’
Ralph looked ashen and held his head in his hands.
The others were young writers and crew from Welcome To The Masshouse, all behaving like teenagers, pointing and smirking as if they’d never seen breasts before.
I looked into the girl’s eyes. They looked familiar. I leaned over to Bob. ‘Do we know her?’
‘Doubt it, mate.’
I was drunk, but not so drunk that I couldn’t recognise someone I knew. ‘Seriously. I think we know her.’
She clamped her legs round a pole and span around it. Then she got on the ground in a kind of cat pose, on all fours. She crawled to the edge of the stage. Baxter was sweating; Bob was grinning. I leaned forward.
‘Hi. Er, did you do work experience with us last month?’
The girl snapped out of her sexy stripper persona and turned back into a normal human. ‘Oh my God! It’s you lot from Mids TV!’
She jumped up from her previous stance on all fours, bounced onto the edge of the stage and perched there, leaning forward to chat. ‘You’re Don. I remember.’
‘I knew I remembered you. Sophie?’
‘Sally! Close though. Sorry, this is weird.’ She made a gesture highlighting her breasts then reached for her bra in one move and put it back on. ‘So what brings you fellas in here?’ I could hardly hear her soft voice over the music.
‘Oh, you know…’
Her smile seemed to say, ‘I know. Because you’re perverted sods.’
Instead she said this into my ear – like Bob had just done, but the words went in more smoothly: ‘Wow. It’s so noisy in here. Let’s go outside for a smoke.’ She darted behind a curtain and emerged fully clothed, then headed for the door.
I stood up and followed. Everyone on the table was regarding me with jealous eyes. I gave them a camp wave and followed Sally outside.
‘Cigarette?’
‘Yep.’ I took one. She was shivering. ‘Have my coat. You’re freezing.’ I handed it over and Sally wrapped it around herself demurely.
‘Thanks,’ she said softly.
‘I do remember you, Don. You were very kind to me when I was doing that work experience on Welcome To The Masshouse. Not everyone was. Too many of your colleagues were mean. Or out to shag me. Or something.’
‘I try. And I remember you came up with some really good ideas. What was it you were doing again? Media studies?’
‘Exactly. Third-year student at Birmingham University. I only ever wanted to work in TV. It’s my dream.’
‘What else are you doing? Any more work experience?’
‘We have a student TV station at the uni. Have you ever heard about that?’
‘That does ring a bell actually. How does it work?’
‘We’re all just volunteers and we learn by doing, really. There are some techie guys, some journalism students, some designers and stuff, some presenters. I couldn’t do that! Too shy.’
I coughed.
‘I am shy.’ She inhaled her cigarette flirtatiously. ‘I just want to be a producer. Behind the camera. That’s me.’
I looked up at the low brick building that was the strip club’s home. Now it looked more like a former roadside eatery that used to have juvenile branding. I was suddenly reminded of family outings by car when I was young The music thudded out, just a dull der der der der. Flashing light escaped from the open toilet window and the blacked-out front door, in front of which were two wonky, rusted silver poles connected by a red velvet rope. ‘So how did you end up here?’
‘Have you got any idea how expensive uni is these days? Unfortunately my parents aren’t nearly as rich or middle class as the mums and dads of most of the students I know. Well, in my case it’s only really a mum now, so…’
‘Is it… scary here? Is everyone OK?’
‘It’s fine. It’s easy. I just switch off. I don’t look at anyone’s faces. I felt mortified when I realised it was you guys. I deliberately don’t look at anyone.’
‘What about being… you know… naked?’
‘Who cares?’ She looked me in the eyes as she smoked. The look lasted a second too long. I tried to be the sensible one.
‘So I hope you’re studying hard.’
Sally burst out laughing.
‘What?’
‘Why are you talking like a fucking dad would?’
‘Because I should be one. I’m old enough.’
She looked at me again. Silence. Possibility.
‘I need to go back in. The boss’ll moan. But I’m finished at two-thirty. If you wanted to… continue this discussion? Back in Selly Oak maybe – over some rum and a spliff… in a cold house?’ Sally looked up at me.
I paused with my mouth agape. ‘It’s my… stag night,’ I said, looking at the floor. ‘So, er…’
‘Oh my God, I didn’t realise! Well, erm… shit. In that case, I think… you should go and have some fun with your mates and erm… maybe we shouldn’t continue this discussion…’ She paused. ‘…tonight. But maybe some other time?’ She looked around. ‘Actually maybe not. Sorry. Sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry.’
‘I’ve got to go. It was lovely to chat, Donald. Have fun! But can you guys maybe… get a different dancer? I’m too embarrassed now.’
‘Of course. I can’t take much more of this place. I don’t mean you. I just mean… you know. Not my scene. Take care.’
Sally turned back to give me one last look over her shoulder as she walked inside. Her face was impossible to read. She looked so young. What the fuck was someone like her doing here, surrounded by these debased examples of masculinity, these boys let loose for a night, these believers in the power of capital and the cock over the feelings of everyone and everything? And was I one of them?
I finished my cigarette, suddenly aware of the cold. Of my lack of coat. I didn’t care about that. I needed a sit down. And some coffee. And something like an apple pie – maybe one of those six-packs of apple pies, each contained in their own individual metal case as if they’d just emerged from a doll’s oven. This… petrol station would have sold pies like those, but instead it had turned into a fucking strip club. I stared over at the building, cursing it silently. The sign above the door stared back at me, flickering a little. Now it read SC NDA Z.
38
2008
Birmingham Airport late at night. Fat men in garish shirts, women with their arses hanging out of jeans. Everyone suntanned except for one or two businessmen in pressed shirts. Hardly anyone looked like they’d been on a work trip. Containers of fags and bottles of alcohol strained plastic bags.
‘I’ll come round and cook you something,’ offered Kate on the phone as I was walking through Customs.
I said, ‘Yes, if you bring wine too.’
She said, ‘Deal.’ We finished the call.
Just after I’d got home and dumped my suitcase on the bed, Kate came over and whipped up some kind of Vietnamese soup with prawns and chilli and noodles. My mouth was paint-strippered by the peppers and their devilish seeds. I enjoyed that bit.
‘So what did you do for those two days after we all left Berlin?’
A chilli seed made me cough. ‘I met Bel’s mum.’
‘How was she?’
‘Sad.’
‘I bet.’
‘See anyone else?’
I lied. ‘No one else.’ But then if only I could see the blonde woman was it really a lie?
‘Wish I could have kept you company.’
‘Me too. You could have saved me from two days of currywurst.’
‘Oh Don, I hope you ate something more than just currywurst every day.’
I looked at her.
‘I’ve found you something. A present.’ Kate slotted a video into the VHS and cuddled up close to me on the sofa.
Titles flashed up, the outline of the Midlands region morphing into a dartboard. A stern voiceover: ‘It’s the fourth of April, 1984. From the centre of the country, from the heart of your region…it’s Bu
llseye! Tonight…’
‘Shit, not this one,’ Kate fumbled over the machine. She ejected the tape and inserted another, flashing me a grin.
It whirred into action. The picture quality was appalling. But the title music was unmistakeable. I could recognise The Rationalists anywhere.
‘Jesus! No way. Where did you find this?’
‘Never you mind.’
‘I thought they wiped all the tapes?’
‘Well obviously they didn’t wipe all the tapes, did they?’
‘Hail To The Brummies still exists.’
‘It does.’
‘Wow. Kate…’
‘Wanna watch it?’
‘Go on then.’
*
[Title music – ‘Hail To The Brummies!’ by The Rationalists.]
[Aerial shot of Birmingham, the helicopter flying north from the city centre, cars and lights strung out along Corporation Street, then along the Aston Expressway. The music really supercharging the passion of this intro. Eventually the helicopter reaches Spaghetti Junction, the most Brummie place of all. Hairs on the necks of Birmingham natives will be standing up now. Over the top of this ant’s nest comes the titles.]
Title card – Hail To The Brummies
[A Brummie voice speaks my words, my script.]
Voiceover: ‘Motorway city, spaghetti city, canal city to rival Venice, car city, manufacturing city, city of culture, city of concrete, city of ideas, city of optimism, city of cynicism…’
[Cut to a hundred people outside the factories at Longbridge, speaking.]
‘Hail To The Brummies!’
[Cut to a hundred people outside the university at Selly Oak, speaking.]
‘Hail To The Brummies!’
[Cut to a hundred people outside the Town Hall in Chamberlain Square, speaking.]
The Wall in the Head Page 26
