by James Meek
‘Thought you said you wanted a face transplant,’ muttered Midge into his beer. ‘When are they going to start transplanting personalities? There’s a need there.’ Nobody spoke for a while. Ritchie ordered another round of drinks.
‘Are you getting much work?’ Art asked Bruce.
‘Yeah! Yeah. Well, no,’ said Bruce, looking down at the floor. Making an effort, he lifted his head and smiled at Art. ‘It was always going to take a while to come back, wasn’t it? The cold shoulders, the divorce.’ He glanced at Ritchie, who was running his right hand repeatedly over his mouth and jaw. ‘The producers, they’d give me a second chance, but it’s your lot, isn’t it, they won’t wear it.’
‘Not my paper,’ said Art.
‘Yeah, come on Bruce,’ said Midge. ‘Art works for a poncey paper. They always give the paedophile the right of reply.’
‘OK,’ said Ritchie, holding up his hands. ‘Bruce’s paid his dues, OK? Midge, you’re out of order.’
Bruce fingered the crucifix on the gold chain hanging out of the v-neck of his sweater. He leaned towards Midge, eyes glittering, and said: ‘I remember being in here with you when you were boasting about the little Thai whores you did in Chiang Mai. You said “If they’re not white, it’s all right.”’
Ritchie took Bruce’s arm, lifted him out of his seat, took him to the bar upstairs and ordered him a drink.
‘Sorry, Ritchie,’ said Bruce. ‘I fucked up again.’
‘It’s been tough for you, mate, we know it,’ said Ritchie.
Bruce nodded and pressed his lips together. Tears welled up and rolled down his cheeks. He rubbed them away with his sleeve.
‘Wait here, I’ll be back in a bit and we’ll talk,’ said Ritchie. ‘I’m not looking for pity,’ said Bruce. ‘I know.’
‘I’m good. I’m good at what I used to do.’
‘I know.’
‘What happened, it’s given me depth. You could use me.’
‘We’ll have a talk about that. Wait here, I’ll be back.’
Ritchie went back downstairs to the others. ‘What did you have to invite that cunt for?’ said Midge.
‘It was a long time ago,’ said Ritchie. ‘Five years, wasn’t it?’
‘Four,’ said Fred.
‘It’s not about what he’s done,’ said Midge. ‘I’ve –’
‘You’ve what?’ said Art. ‘I haven’t.’
‘I can’t even remember how old she was,’ said Ritchie.
‘Fifteen,’ said Fred. ‘And you know what happened to her?’
‘That’s right,’ said Art. ‘That columnist, what’s his name, she ended up with him.’
‘Didn’t they get married?’
‘Now that’s wrong. Married at nineteen.’
‘I saw her once. Fucking incredible. Legs up to here.’
‘What a fucking waste.’ Their heads were close together.
‘What Bruce did wrong wasn’t having sex with a fifteen-year-old …’ said Fred.
‘I thought you were a lawyer?’
‘It was that she was on the show.’
‘What was it called?’
‘Some twattish name.’
‘The Ugly Show.’
‘He had some twattish way of pronouncing it.’
‘The You-Glee Show.’
‘Something like that, yeah.’
‘What a twat.’
‘It’s not the point,’ said Midge. ‘It’s not him fucking a schoolgirl, it’s him being lame enough to get found out. That’s what he’s ashamed of. That’s what’s fucked him up. I hate entertainers who’re too shit-thick to find a way to keep their dirty habits secret.’
‘Shall we leave him?’ said Ritchie.
‘Eh?’ said Midge.
‘Let’s go to Canaan. We’ll just leave him here.’
Fred laughed. Art joined in. Midge smiled slyly at Ritchie and stood up. ‘Come on then,’ he said.
They left and Ritchie stayed to settle up. After he’d paid the bill he went upstairs and stood in the doorway there, half-hidden, watching Bruce alone at the bar with an empty glass in front of him, hunched on a stool, head down. Bruce lifted his head and began to look around and Ritchie quickly moved out of sight and went down into the street to join the others.
It was drizzling. Canaan was only a couple of streets away and the four men spread across the pavement as they walked, joking loudly, brazenly turning their heads to follow the girls in heels they forced to squeeze past them. Ritchie signed them into Canaan and when they sat down it was as if they hadn’t left Zeppo’s – the same banquette seats, with the leather a different shade of red, the same drinks, everything the same except that there was no Bruce. Now that they were four they spoke in turn. They spoke about their children and their wives, property, their hobbies. They were earnest and gently competitive. It was as if the expulsion of Bruce had induced a need for tranquillity. On the way to Canaan Ritchie had been proud to be leading a group of cocksure swaggerers and he was proud now to be in the heart of a group of good men who with their eagerness and their harmless boasts about their weekend lives reminded him of the friends he’d had at school. Yet purpose ate at his heart.
‘He never came to you, did he, Fred?’ said Ritchie.
‘Who?’
‘Bruce.’
‘I’m not with you,’ said Fred coolly. He took a big gulp of wine.
‘Didn’t the paper that broke the story try to do some kind of deal with him? We won’t publish it if you bring us the dirt on so-and-so, that kind of thing?’
‘That would be blackmail, wouldn’t it?’ said Art.
‘Innocente!’ said Midge, pointing at him.
‘It would be blackmail,’ said Fred. ‘I don’t see why he would have come to me.’ Ritchie could hear the lawyer in him taking control of his voice, like ice crystallising at the edges of a pond.
‘That’s what you do, isn’t it?’ said Midge.
‘Privilege,’ said Fred, trying to grin, but the ice was thickening. He hid his mouth behind his glass.
‘They have ways of putting it that it doesn’t sound like blackmail,’ said Midge. ‘You know what they’re getting at but it wouldn’t stand up in court.’
‘You sound like it’s happened to you.’
‘I’ve got a lot of clients. They all like to talk,’ said Midge. ‘What it comes down to is two things. One, they can’t keep it in their pants. Two, the country’s full of sneaks and snitches.’
Fred laughed to himself.
‘Traitors,’ Midge went on. ‘People who’ll sell you out. Kiss-and-tell girls. Paparazzi. Tip-off merchants. Camera phones. It’s like the fucking Stasi. How d’you think a police state works? I’ll give you a clue: it’s not the police. Watch your friends. Half the country’s ready to inform on the other half.’
Ritchie said to Fred: ‘Supposing Bruce had gone to you and said look, I’ve been fucking this fifteen-year-old and they’ve found out, they’ll splash it all over the front page unless I give them some dirt on someone else. What do you say?’
Fred put his glass down slowly on a place mat and turned it round through a hundred and eighty degrees, watching it. They all watched it. He looked up. ‘I’d say I charge three hundred pounds an hour,’ he said.
Midge and Al sniggered.
‘I’m curious,’ said Ritchie.
‘I’m off the clock,’ said Fred.
‘You’re a lawyer. Lawyers are always on,’ said Ritchie.
‘Thanks,’ said Fred. ‘You want some free advice?’
‘No, I’d rather give you three hundred pounds.’
‘Do you want some free advice?’
‘Go on then.’
‘The best way not to get caught is not to screw around in the first place.’
‘You don’t need to talk as if it’s me who’s got a problem,’ said Ritchie.
‘It’s good advice, Fred, but then I’d have four dozen fucking saints on my books,’ said Midge. ‘Nobody ever paid for their house in France with ten per
cent of Goody Two-Shoes.’
‘What is it with lawyers?’ said Ritchie to Midge. ‘You ask them out for a drink after hours and the next thing they’re quoting at you from the Licensing Act and billing you for it.’
Fred made a joke about producers always trying to turn a good time into bad reality TV. Nobody laughed. Fred looked at Art, who looked away. Fred got up.
‘Are you leaving?’ asked Midge. ‘Bye.’
Ritchie watched Midge and hated him, his cleverness, his tailored black suit, hand-made white shirt and gold tie, his ability to be absolutely certain of his place in the world while mocking every place in the world. Yet although he hated Midge, he wanted to keep him as his friend.
‘Not going to write this up, are you?’ said Ritchie to Art.
‘You haven’t said anything interesting,’ said Art.
Ritchie and Midge looked at each other.
‘You invited me,’ said Art.
‘Yeah,’ said Ritchie, looking into his empty glass. ‘I’ll get another bottle,’ said Art.
‘Nono nonono,’ said Ritchie, holding his hand up. ‘I’ll do it.’ He called the waiter over and ordered, then said to Art: ‘You were pretty hard on poor old Bruce.’
Art frowned. He said: ‘It was your idea to leave him there, and it was him’ – he nodded at Midge – ‘who called him a cunt.’
‘“Him”,’ said Midge. ‘That’s courteous.’
‘You went along, though, didn’t you?’ said Ritchie to Art. ‘What do you think? If you’d been the hack who got the juicy titbit about our Bruce? Would you have used it?’
‘I don’t do that kind of journalism,’ said Art. ‘I write about politics for a serious newspaper.’
‘Writes about boring for a boring newspaper,’ said Midge.
‘Come on,’ said Ritchie. ‘You’re all the same. You get some dirt on a popular TV celebrity who falls for a greedy, scheming little girl who can’t believe her luck, who knows exactly what she’s doing, whose mum, whose parents are probably in on the act … you wouldn’t hesitate, would you? You’d stitch him up, wouldn’t you, you’d destroy his life?’
‘She was fifteen!’ said Art.
Ritchie folded his arms, leaned back in his seat and turned to Midge. ‘They’re all the same,’ he said. ‘All the same,’ said Midge.
‘But maybe,’ said Ritchie to Art, ‘you wouldn’t crucify him right away?’
‘Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?’
‘Don’t get upset, we’re just talking. I’m saying you wouldn’t crucify him right away. You might try to use the leverage to get something even more juicy out of him. Here.’ He held the bottle over Art’s half-empty glass.
‘No, it’s OK, thanks.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I should be heading off.’ He got up, licking his lips and fumbling with his jacket.
‘You’re not offended, are you?’ said Ritchie, looking up at him with wide eyes.
‘No, no.’
‘We were only having a bit of fun.’
‘I know.’
‘Even if you are a treacherous little toerag who’d sell your own sister for a story.’
‘Yeah,’ said Art, trying to smile. He forced a laugh. ‘You’re a bunch of fuckers too.’
‘That’s not a very nice thing to say,’ said Midge, seriously.
Art’s face lost colour. He seemed to search for a comeback and settled for staring hard into Midge’s eyes. Midge met his stare and asked if something was wrong. Art slumped his shoulders, half-lifted his hand in a wave and walked away, Ritchie calling after him to give his love to his wife.
When he’d gone they sat quietly for a while.
‘How’s Karin?’ said Midge.
‘You asked me already. I told you, she’s fine.’
‘You’re in a fucking strange mood, Ritchie.’
‘Work.’
‘Tell you what,’ said Midge in a low voice. ‘I could murder a line right now. Have you got some?’
‘Could make an order,’ said Ritchie.
Midge put his hand on Ritchie’s wrist before Ritchie could text his dealer. ‘I’ll go,’ he said. ‘I know a guy near here. I’ll be back in ten minutes.’
Ritchie sat alone on the banquette with the smudged empty glasses disarrayed in front of him. He looked round. A woman in a black dress, bare-shouldered, was sitting at the bar. Ritchie got up, went over to her and said ‘Hello.’ He wanted to buy her a drink and tell her about the time he gigged with Bono and David Bowie at the Hammersmith Palais. The woman looked at him, turned away, raised her finger and caught the barman’s eye.
‘Mr Shepherd,’ said the barman. ‘Is it possible you’ve forgotten we have a strict rule about unsolicited approaches to other guests?’
Ritchie left the bar, putting out a hand to keep the wall at a polite distance after it bumped into his shoulder. He locked himself in a toilet stall. A sign above the toilet warned that any guest found using drugs on club premises would be expelled permanently. Ritchie took a tinfoil package out of his pocket, placed it on top of the cistern and opened it. He took one of the dark brown pieces from the foil, put it on his tongue, sat down on the closed toilet, shut his eyes and pressed the chocolate against the roof of his mouth.
29
Harry saw the potential for comedy in his cancer. He imagined strangers asking him what he did, and him saying he was head of a cancer research institute, and the stranger asking him what kind of cancer, and him saying ‘Not the kind I’ve got. I’m jealous of people with that cancer. If there’s a commandment, I’m breaking it. “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s cancer.”’
But strangers never did pronounce the lines Harry scripted for them. He ended up having to fill in the set-up himself, and before he could get to the jokes, three Os appeared on their faces: two widened eyes and one open mouth. Harry didn’t want that. He wanted the cancer and him to be treated as partners in an ancient country story, The Cancer and the Scientist, like the Devil matching wits with a farmer after dark at a crossroads halfway between the farmer’s hearth and hell. The three Os deferred to death. He felt like a man introducing a friend who knows a celebrity. It was the cancer they wanted to talk to, hoping for the inside juice. ‘Oh, you know Death! What’s he like?’
Harry’s former wife lived in New Zealand. She’d removed herself to the land of her ancestors when she told Harry that he’d made a mistake marrying her, that getting hitched to the first woman he got pregnant had seemed like clearing something complicated off his agenda early when he had other priorities; and Harry hadn’t disagreed, or tried to stop her. His post-divorce affairs petered out in his late fifties. An experience with the heartbreaking jollity of an erotic masseuse had put him off paying for a woman’s company. At night there was no one for Harry to turn to and demand an embrace and a hearing. His was the only warm body in the house.
He woke up when the first planes from Asia descending into Heathrow shook the darkness. At those times it wasn’t so much his own fate that frightened him as a simple disproportion of scale. An image of the Earth as a distinct turquoise speck drifting across a vast yellow sun haunted him and became the gateway to a recurring fit of vertigo in the face of the unknowable. In daylight the fear became a background hum of anxiety about an imminent, important trip he had to make against his will. He caught himself thinking he had to pack and remembered he didn’t.
Chemo and radiotherapy were behind him. Surgery couldn’t help and he was in a lull before the palliatives got interesting. He didn’t have cancer-related tasks to occupy his time. At the institute, he observed a benign conspiracy to peel away his responsibilities. In garrisons preparing for battle, he’d read, officers filled soldiers’ time with pointless drills and parades to tire them out and occupy their minds; but what did the officers do? Harry had thought making his own funeral and burial arrangements might amuse him, but that, too, fell short. He’d ordered his own headstone, chosen the material, the font and the text. It turned out you could do it online.
It had seemed funny to have:
HARRY COMRIE, MEDICAL RESEARCHER
IT WORKED IN MICE
chiselled deep in black-enamelled letters in a slab of pink Scottish granite. A few weeks later he woke up with his heart beating fast and his face burning, sure that he’d paid twelve hundred pounds to have a scientific in-joke perpetuated in a Surrey cemetery as his memory on earth. He called the mason’s yard next day, half-hoping they’d say ‘Well, it’s not set in stone. Oh no, it is.’ But the mason’s receptionist told him they wouldn’t start work until long after the client was buried. There was always the danger of subsidence if you put the stone up too early, they said. You had to let the grave settle.
It seemed to Harry that laughing at death was a good way to show he wasn’t afraid of it, and that carelessness in the face of losing everything was the bearing of the noble man he wanted to be. And yet what was it, he wondered, to enclose death in comedy? Was it nobler to show your bravery by laughing at yourself, or to make the purest comedy by cheating death at the end, and make death the fool?
Often the awareness came to him that in a cold room at the institute, suspended in CryoStor solution, bagged, labelled and kept in a Planer freezer at minus one hundred and fifty degrees, was a large supply of his own cells, drawn from him, genetically modified and cultured ten years earlier. A sample had been infused into his bloodstream then to show that they were safe, and they had not had the slightest effect on him. They were designed for a different kind of cancer. There was no scientific reason why they should have any more effect on solid tumours than an injection of orange juice, yet Harry couldn’t stop thinking about them. His cancer was his own; the cells were, whatever the institute’s lawyers might say, his own; why shouldn’t he put the two of them together? It would be a family reunion.
Harry remembered how doubtful he’d been that the expert cells would work as they were supposed to. Most things didn’t, after all. And yet they had worked on those patients. Harry’s mind arranged a pseudo-logical argument that he knew was nonsense but found attractive. It went like this:
I thought a treatment designed for one cancer would probably fail, and it succeeded.
