‘I’M READY FOR MY TEA, MR KASS!’ Mum called.
‘Jesus!’ I muttered.
Mum had come out of the bathroom.
She was making her way downstairs.
Mr Kass took a deep breath, then whispered, ‘Alas, young man, we have been “foiled again”, to coin a phrase.’ He stood up and started making his way to the kitchen. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ he called back at me.
‘No, thanks,’ I said.
Mum came into the living room, wearing her bathrobe.
‘What’ve you two been talking about?’ she said. ‘I could hear you both, nattering away.’
I said, ‘We were discussing the triumph of truth over reality in Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations.’ Then went up to my room.
The following morning, when I woke up, Mum and Mr Kass had, once again, already left for work, and I was in an empty house, contemplating another lunar landscape of a day ahead.
I was determined not to have another day like the one before. Just moping from room to room – hour after hour after hour – waiting for Lloyd to come back, slowly – oh, so very slowly – going stir crazy. Oh, no. Today I was going to actually do something.
Anything!
But what? . . .
I know! I would pay Mr Kass a surprise visit at his place of work. I was sure he’d like that. And if he had a break, or if I managed to get there during his lunch hour, he could finish – once and for all – the story of Troy Flamingo’s tooth.
I remembered Mr Kass telling Mum he worked in a bookshop down Cecil Court in the West End of London. I looked up Cecil Court in an old A-Z. It was off Charing Cross Road, near Trafalgar Square. The easiest way to get there was to get the Central Line tube from Bethnal Green (as Mr Kass had presumably been doing every morning), then change at Tottenham Court Road (again, as Mr Kass no doubt did) onto the Northern Line, and then get out at Leicester Square. It was just a . . . what? Two minute walk from there? Easy!
I got dressed and left the house.
I’d been up West a few times with Mum and Dad (to see films – E.T. at the Odeon Haymarket being the most recent – and, when I was very young, a few pantomimes at the London Palladium), and I’d been there lots of times with Lloyd (to buy stuff from the Virgin Megastore, and to see the lights down Regent Street last Christmas), but this was the first time I’d be going there by myself. It felt like a bit of an adventure.
Rush hour was over, so the tube wasn’t too packed. It was hot though, so I was glad I’d bought a bottle of Coke on my way to the station. Getting out at Leicester Square was a bit problematic as there were two exits and, of course, I took the wrong one, which meant I went striding off towards Shaftesbury Avenue. But I soon realized my error and backtracked. Before long I was staring down Cecil Court. It was a narrow, pedestrianized street, and when Mr Kass had said there were a lot of bookshops – boy! – he wasn’t kidding. That’s all the street was. Bookshop after bookshop on both sides.
I took a slow stroll down the street (perhaps I should be saying ‘down the court’, but that doesn’t sound right), looking through each shop window in turn. The interiors were all small, and crammed with old books and maps. I did one length of the court without spotting him. I walked back down it again, peering longer. Still no sign. Perhaps he’s working ‘out back’, I thought. There was nothing else for it. I would have to go into each shop and ask for him. It was a daunting prospect. All the sales assistants – and most of the customers – looked like grumpy schoolteachers. But I hadn’t come all this way just to go home again without at least saying ‘hello’ to Mr Kass.
It took me a while to pluck up my courage, then I muttered, ‘Oh, fuck it!’ and went into the first shop. Did a Mr Kass work there? I’m so sorry, no, he doesn’t. I went into the next shop. Did a Mr Kass work there? Again, he didn’t. I went into the next shop. And the next. Everyone I spoke to was very polite and very friendly – so any nervousness I had soon vanished – but they all said the same thing. In every single shop. ‘A Mr Kass does not work here. A Mr Kass has never worked here.’
It was nearly four o’clock by the time I got home. Surely Lloyd would be back from his grandparents’ by now. But no. He wasn’t. I was stranded on the moon again. But this time I had Mr Kass to brood about, as well as Lloyd.
When Mum walked through the front door an hour later, I asked, ‘Mr Kass did say he worked down Cecil Court, didn’t he?’
‘I think so,’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘Oh . . . no reason.’ I thought a moment, then, ‘He still goes to Bethnal Green Tube with you every morning, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes. But he doesn’t actually catch a train anymore.’
‘Oh?’
‘He says he prefers the bus.’
‘Why?’
‘He says it’s less claustrophobic. Which it is. If I wasn’t always in such a rush, I’d prefer the bus too.’
Later, in my room, I heard Mr Kass come through the front door. He spoke to Mum for a while, then came upstairs. I heard him go into his room, then the bathroom, then back to his room.
I knocked on his door.
‘Come in!’ he called.
I went inside.
‘Oh, good evening, young man. Keep the door open, if you please,’ he said. ‘Your mother’s going to call up when dinner’s ready. I have implored her to let me prepare dinner now and again. Perhaps twice a week. It’s unfair she should be the one always thus burdened. After all, she’s been at work all day as much as I have.’
‘Have you?’
‘Have I what?’
‘Been at work all day.’
He stared at me a moment. Then, ‘Aha! Your mother just mentioned you were asking questions about my place of employment.’ Another stare. ‘So . . . let me hazard a guess. You made the trip to Cecil Court today. Correct?’
‘I wanted to surprise you.’
‘That would have indeed been a most welcome surprise.’
‘It would have, if you’d been there.’
‘Oh, I was there . . . but perhaps not where you expected – or, to be more precise, were able – to find me.’ He sat on the edge of his mattress and ran a hand over his shaven skull. ‘I’m afraid I have been guilty of a degree of disingenuousness. It’s true, yes, I am working in a bookshop down Cecil Court. But I am not actually in the shop selling books. I am the shop’s accountant. I am tucked away in a tiny room at the back of the building – out of sight, so to speak – and, with the exception of the man who owns the shop – and who is very rarely in the building, being both old and infirm – I doubt if anyone in the establishment is even aware of my existence. Thus is the life of an accountant. We are either invisible, or people would rather not see us.’ He chuckled. ‘There! Mystery solved, I trust.’
‘I . . . well, yes, I suppose – ’
‘Now, I would suggest, as I am in such a “confessional” mode, I tell you – what will surely be – the final instalment of our Troy Flamingo saga, but as I fear the “dinner gong”, metaphorically speaking, may reverberate when we least desire it, may I perhaps suggest something else. Your mother has asked me to clear some unwanted items, and generally tidy, the garden shed. I was thinking of making a start on it this evening, after our evening meal. It would make a welcome change from watching television, that’s for sure. Why don’t you help me? We can kill two birds with one stone, as the saying goes. Finish our story, and do something that will please your mother. We might even, if we’re lucky, be treated to a glorious sunset. Does that sound an amenable proposition to you, young man?’
‘Yes. Very amenable.’
One hour later, after we’d eaten (and after Mr Kass had helped Mum with the washing up) I went with Mr Kass to the shed. I hadn’t realized it was full of so much junk. There were boxes of car magazines, parts of old washing machines, hundreds of cracked (and totally unusable) flower pots and window boxes, my first bike (a tricycle), and nearly thirty cans of Dulux emulsion that had – at one time or another –
been used to paint the house.
I said, ‘Dad was a bit of a hoarder.’
‘So I see,’ Mr Kass said. ‘Let’s make three piles, shall we? One – outside the shed – for the things we definitely think should go. And the other two inside. The first for things we definitely think should be kept, the second for things we are unsure about.’ He looked round at all the clutter. ‘Of course, that means we need to create some space first.’
I said, ‘Well, all the washing machine stuff can go.’
‘Excellent! Let’s get started!’
Before long, we’d developed a pretty impressive rhythm. I had final say on everything, so if I wanted to throw something out, I just did. If Mr Kass was unsure, he’d hold the item up (or point at it) and I’d decide what pile it should go on. We’d refined the piles to three single words: ‘KEPT’, ‘GONE’ and ‘MAYBE’.
Mr Kass held up the box of car magazines.
‘Gone!’ I said.
He put the box on the selected pile. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘do you miss your father?’
‘In some ways, yes.’
‘What ways?’
‘I don’t know. Just the sound of him in the house, I guess.’
‘Do you still love him?’
‘I sort of do . . . and sort of don’t.’
‘I understand. You love him for what he was . . . but not what he’s done to you and your mother now?’
‘I guess so, yes.’
‘If I may venture an opinion . . . You shouldn’t judge your father too harshly. We all do rash and foolish things in our lives. And sexual infatuation – which is no doubt what he has for the young flibbertigibbet he’s run off with – can make us act not just rashly and foolishly, but turn us into raving lunatics. It can compel us to do things we would never have done normally. Things we end up regretting. Like my regrets about what I did to Troy Flamingo.’
Right on cue, Mum came out with two glasses of lemonade.
I asked her if there was anything she wanted to keep from the GONE and MAYBE piles.
She said, ‘No,’ without even looking, then went back into the house.
Mr Kass sighed and sat on the bench.
I sat next to him.
‘We’re getting that sunset I’d hoped for,’ Mr Kass said, gazing at the reddening sky.
‘Yeah.’ I took a few gulps of lemonade. Then, ‘So . . . Troy. Your regrets.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ A sip of lemonade. ‘What I am about to tell you will not be easy for me. I request only one thing. You do not interrupt. If I stop . . . I may not be able to start again. Do I make myself clear?’
I nodded.
Mr Kass took a deep breath. ‘The day after I saw Troy and Lester kissing I went to Major Trusk and I told him a lie. I told him that Troy had tried to kiss me – ’
‘What?! ’
‘Don’t say anything! We agreed!’ Deep breath. ‘Major Trusk, of course, was horrified. Troy Flamingo a queer! It can’t be! I asked Major Trusk to imagine what would happen if word got out. Major Trusk said he understood only too well the perils of harbouring a homosexual in a boxing gym. It had happened to a friend of his in Glasgow. A mob burnt the whole building to the ground. I said, “And it’s not just me he’s after. I’ve seen the way he’s been ogling the boxers. He wants to corrupt them too. One in particular . . . Lester!” ’
Mr Kass sipped some lemonade . . .
I waited . . .
Then –
‘I said to Major Trusk, “Surely it’s your duty to protect Lester.” Major Trusk, clearly seeing all the money Lester might make (and Major Trusk’s years of lucrative retirement) going up – perhaps literally – in smoke, said, “Of course it’s my duty to protect Lester. And I will! But . . .” He looked me in the eyes. “Are you sure about all this, Traff? You’re so young. You haven’t seen anything of the world. You haven’t seen what I’ve seen. The boxers here . . . all that adrenalin in their blood. They can get carried away sometimes. And the way they look at each other . . . all they’re doing is admiring each other’s bodies. It don’t mean they’re queer. Could you . . . could you be wrong about Troy?” I knew this moment was coming. I was prepared. I told Major Trusk there was a way to be absolutely sure about Troy. A way to “entrap” him. Major Trusk said, “No, Traff! I will not allow a boy like you to endanger himself by tempting Troy to – ” I interrupted, “No, no, Major Trusk! The plan doesn’t involve me. It involves . . . Lester.”
Mr Kass sipped lemonade . . .
I waited . . .
Then –
‘I said, “This is my plan, Major Trusk. Tonight, tell everyone you’re going home at your normal time. But don’t go home. Go round to the back of the Emporium and come up to your office via the fire escape. Keep your office light off and the blind closed. When Troy and Lester finish in the gym, I will come and get you. We’ll creep down to the changing rooms. We’ll spy on them. If you see Troy make some move towards Lester – any move at all! – you can ask Troy to leave the premises and never return. And I’m sure Lester will be eternally grateful to you for saving him from a homosexual.” Major Trusk agreed. And so . . . the plan – the trap! – was set.’ Mr Kass was starting to tremble now. ‘But there was one thing I hadn’t bargained for . . .’
More lemonade . . .
More waiting . . .
Then –
‘That evening, one by one, as usual, all the other boxers went home. Finally, it was only me, Troy and Lester. I kept glancing at Major Trusk’s office. The office was in the gym itself, but at a higher level. You had to go up a flight of metal steps to get to it. With its light off and the blind pulled, the office looked empty. But it wasn’t. Major Trusk was in there. He was waiting. I tried to get on with my usual chores. But it was difficult knowing what lay ahead. Because I knew – knew without any shadow of a doubt – that Major Trusk would catch Troy and Lester having some form of sexual contact. Why was I so sure? Because what other chances did they have? They both lived with their parents. They both worked all day. For them to check into a hotel was not an option. These last moments in the gym were the only time they ever had to be . . . intimate. Wouldn’t you make the most of them? Well, wouldn’t you?’
‘. . . Yes,’ I said.
‘I heard Lester call, “Finished, Traff!” I saw Troy and Lester heading for the changing rooms. I waited for them to go through the iron door – CLANG! – then rushed up the steps to Major Trusk’s office. It was dark. I could just make out the shape of Major Trusk sitting behind his desk. I said, “It’s time!” He turned the desk lamp on. And that’s when I saw . . . Major Trusk wasn’t alone. Another man was standing in the corner. A very large man. I recognized him immediately. It was “Big” Jerzy Blondell. An ex-boxer. Major Trusk occasionally employed him as a bouncer at boxing matches. Jerzy was fiddling with a knuckleduster.’
Lemonade . . .
Waiting . . .
Then –
‘Major Trusk and Jerzy started walking out of the office. I . . . I couldn’t move. I . . . I didn’t want this. All I’d wanted was to ruin Troy and Lester’s love. To separate them. To banish Troy from the Emporium forever. I hadn’t expected any . . . violence. Oh, a scuffle, perhaps. A punch or two. But not . . . not “Big” Jerzy Blondell with a knuckleduster. “Traff!” Major Trusk hissed at me. “Come on!” I said, “Yes, yes, Major Trusk!” I went with them to the iron door. I opened it as silently as I could. We crept down the corridor. We tucked ourselves by the entrance to the changing rooms. I could hear the showers running. I could hear Troy and Lester talking and laughing. The showers stopped. I heard them step out of the showers. Then . . . silence. I saw Major Trusk and Jerzy take a peek. They exchanged looks, then nudged me forward so I could peek as well. Troy and Lester were naked and . . . Troy was on his knees in front of Lester and he was . . . he was . . . You know the sexual act Troy was performing, don’t you?’
‘. . . Yes.’
‘Major Trusk and Jerzy charged into the room! Troy
jumped to his feet. The two boxers looked terrified. Lester started to cry. Major Trusk yelled at Troy, “You queer! You dare come into my gym! You dare corrupt my boxers!” And then he looked at Lester, “That’s what he’s doing, right? He’s trying to corrupt you. You’re not a queer, are you, Lester? Jesus Christ, tell me you’re not!” Lester said, “I’m not, Major Trusk! I’m not!” Major Trusk said, “Then help us get rid of this filth!” And he punched Troy. Troy slipped and fell. Jerzy rushed forward and dragged him to his feet. Major Trusk looked at Lester and said, “Hit him! Hit him!” Oh, the sheer panic in Lester’s eyes. He didn’t want to hit Troy. But what choice did he have? Major Trusk said, “Hit the queer, Lester! Hit him!” And then . . . Lester hit Troy. Major Trusk said, “Harder! Punch him in the face.” Lester punched Troy. And Major Trusk punched Troy. And Jerzy punched Troy. Troy didn’t fight back. He didn’t even struggle. He knew it would only make things worse. Troy’s lip was split open. His nose was bleeding. Blood flowed from his face . . . down his chest. I couldn’t watch it anymore. I ran.’ Mr Kass got to his feet. ‘I ran to the end of the corridor. I grabbed hold of the iron door. I started slamming it as loud as I could. Over and over again. Anything to block out the sound of the beating! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!’
Mr Kass stood very still.
Then –
‘Silence!’ he gasped. ‘I heard Major Trusk telling Troy to get dressed. A few minutes later I saw Troy stumble out of the changing rooms. He was hunched over. His face was covered with blood. He leant against a wall for a moment. I went to say his name, but I couldn’t speak. But I must have made a noise of some kind, because Troy looked in my direction. One of his eyes was completely closed and the other was swollen and bloodshot. Did he see me? I couldn’t tell. Then, slowly, he staggered away from me. Towards the exit. He stopped a couple of times to take stock of his wounds. And then . . . the door to the world outside opened . . . and Troy Flamingo was gone.’ A gulp of lemonade. ‘I heard Major Trusk call my name. I went to the changing rooms. There was a lot of blood on the floor. Major Trusk asked me if I would clear everything up before I went home. I said I would. As Lester walked past me he said softly, “Goodnight, Traff.” And I said, “Goodnight, Lester.” But I couldn’t look at him.’ A sip of lemonade. ‘And the rest of the story, I believe, you can easily guess, young man.’
Flamingoes in Orbit Page 5
