The London Pigeon Wars

by Patrick Neate

  ‘A couple of weeks?’

  ‘My gig.’ He looked hurt.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Cool, cool,’ he said. ‘You cool?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Kwesi squeezed her hand and smiled and his face, despite his best efforts at creative pain, opened up as ever, as wide as a pop-up book. His eyes and lips were big and wet and glistening. She looked at his flyer. It said ‘Per-Verse’ in red and purple graffiti lettering. Then, ‘Spoken word at the CCC featuring Paul O'Shaughnessy and K with your host MC Wordsworth’.

  She'd known Kwesi for four years and she knew he was a poet because he'd said so on their first meeting; a key plot point in the long-winded story of how his dad was threatening to disown him. But she'd never seen him perform. She remembered he'd told her that he'd stop writing on his thirtieth birthday. At the time, this had impressed her as indisputable artistic integrity, quirky but admirable. Now, six months from the big three-zero, it just sounded premature. Success lends weight to all kinds of foolishness. You can float away on failure and never be seen again.

  Freya watched him move from group to group, handing out his promotions. People nodded enthusiastically as he talked and they glanced attentively at the leaflets. But when his back was turned, they screwed them into balls and dropped them into ashtrays or on to the floor and they returned to their conversations as if he'd never existed.

  ‘Freya?’

  Karen caught her arm. She turned and immediately felt uneasy. They'd been friends once, hadn't they? Real friends with a connection based on more than just Tom. But now they had Tom in common (whatever that meant), they no longer had anything in common.

  After Tom and Karen split up, he'd made stupid, bitter claims about what had actually happened. He reinvented their history and said things like, ‘She gets a new job and we're finished. Go figure’, and ‘She's making money now, Frey! You see? She's made it.’ He would light a cigarette and she'd rub his head, feel uncomfortable and contemplate what she didn't dare say. But now? Freya considered that maybe he'd had it right all along. Because, seeing Karen face to face for the first time in months, she had the definite sensation that Karen was looking down on her. She wondered briefly if she was paranoid but concluded she couldn't be. Because she didn't even care.

  The fact is, Freya thought, if you're at the bottom then people have to look down on you. Better that than they ignore you altogether.

  But it was still no surprise that her connection with Karen was broken.

  ‘Have you seen Tom?’ her former friend asked.

  ‘No. I don't think he's here yet.’

  Karen was gazing at her fixedly. She looked like she had something important to say but settled for, ‘It's a good party.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I like the balloons. They make it look like a prom. You know. Like a movie. Pretty In Pink and you're Molly Ringwald. You've even got the hat.’

  ‘Right.’ Freya smiled in spite of herself.

  ‘I'm sure it'll be a success. The business, I mean.’

  ‘I hope so. Thanks.’

  Freya felt herself soften a little. Karen frowned, reached beneath the brim of Freya's hat and lightly touched her ear.

  ‘What happened? You're bleeding.’

  ‘It was…’ Freya was about to tell her about the pigeon but she suddenly felt ridiculous and her cheeks began to flush. If that story got around it would just be ammunition. ‘It's nothing,’ she said, fetched a tissue from her pink bag and began to dab self-consciously at the sore spot. There was a moment of silence between them. It was an embarrassed kind of silence because they both had their reasons for saying nothing and they each hoped the other couldn't spot them.

  ‘Have you met Jared?’

  ‘Once.’

  ‘I should introduce you properly. You'd like him. Even if he is a posh boy.’

  Freya didn't know what to say to that. The ‘posh boy’ addendum spooked her because she knew it was Karen's way of trying to re-establish the connection; like she'd put on a badge saying ‘I'm still one of you’. But it was a feeble effort. Because the class distinction was only one Karen herself would have thought to make anyway. And besides, she wasn't still one of them and, what's more, she didn't want to be and they both knew it.

  Eventually Freya said, ‘Sure.’

  ‘Later on, then.’

  ‘Sure. Later on.’

  Across the room, Freya glimpsed Tom coming in and she felt suddenly guilty. She saw something unknown but very guessable flicker across his face and her heart sank. But it was gone in a flash and Tom was beckoning her over. He looked excited. Freya hadn't seen him so cheerful for ages and she'd forgotten how cute he could look. He was running his hands through his cropped hair in that way of his. No matter how short he cut it, it always looked messy.

  ‘You're late.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Sorry. Look…’ He could barely get the words out, he was so excited. ‘I've got… I've invited a guest.’

  ‘A woman?’ She almost laughed.

  ‘No. Look. You'll never guess who I met today.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Guess!’

  She wasn't in the mood for guessing. ‘I don't know, Tom. Who?’

  He was rubbing his hands frantically across his head and his feet were jitterbugging from side to side.

  ‘Murray!’ he announced.

  ‘Who's Murray?’ Freya was looking at him blankly.

  ‘Murray!’ he said. ‘You know. Murray!’

  She suddenly caught on. Of course, she'd never met Murray but this was going to be interesting, wasn't it? She felt herself kindling though she didn't know why.

  ‘Murray Murray?’ she asked.

  ‘Murray Murray,’ Tom confirmed.

  ‘You're joking.’

  As if on cue, Murray walked in. Of course he might have been waiting for Tom's signal, but his timing seemed impeccable. There might have been a lull in every conversation at that moment but… whatever… the room was silenced nonetheless and all eyes seemed to be turned to the door. Freya caught a single voice behind her (Karen's, she thought), breathy and respectful: ‘Murray?’

  Freya had heard so much about him in the five years she'd known Tom and Karen but he wasn't at all what she'd expected. He was neither particularly tall nor short, fat nor thin, muscular nor scrawny. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and tatty trainers. For all the stories, his first appearance was unremarkable and disappointing, like a first glimpse of the Trelick Tower. He was smiling broadly. He did have good teeth. And there was the hat, of course: a purple crushed-velvet thing like a collapsed topper that sat – as you say of hats – at a jaunty angle on his head. He looked like that Dr Seuss character. The cat in the hat, she thought.

  He was smiling. At her. He looked straight at her, past her, through her, inside her and her guts turned somersaults and she thought, What the fuck is going on?

  ‘I was told I had to wear a hat,’ he said.

  3

  The signs are good

  Karen was quizzing Tom but he was hardly listening. She wanted to know ‘where the fuck’ and ‘when the fuck’ and ‘how the fuck’ and lots of other enthusiastic questions with fuck in the middle. But, for all his excitement about Murray, Tom could only muster monosyllables in response. Because him, well, in the first place there was his own question that had been nagging at him from the moment he'd run into Murray in Trafalgar Square that afternoon. And in the second place (and more to the point) he saw this as his latest chance to have the same conversation with Karen that they'd been having for the best part of nine months. And he was sure… well… he thought… or at least… reckoned he had something new to say this time. But he also knew that as soon as he broached the subject, he'd adopt that expression (intense and a little pained) and that tone of voice (not far from a whine). He wouldn't be able to help himself and she'd spot it in a flash and hear it in a second and she'd pull her face and adopt her voice in return. ‘Tom,’ she'd say,
‘please!’ And that would be that.

  Karen didn't look at him. Not once. She was watching Murray butterfly around the room, her attention rapt. Every now and then she'd say, ‘I just can't believe it.’ Barely above a whisper. ‘I just can't believe it. Murray.’

  Tom stared at Murray – he took in his easy smile, the wrinkle of his forehead, the way he licked his lips -and he felt a forgotten jealousy rising in his belly. But this wasn't just any jealousy. Tom realized he was Murray-jealous; a unique sensation with a style and substance all of its own that he hadn't felt for years. Not since college. He was jealous of Karen's attention, sure. But that jealousy was familiar and, frankly (or maybe falsely), dealt with, and this was somehow more than that. He'd forgotten how Murray made it all look so easy; the minutiae of human interaction. Those numerous, distinct smiles that, once upon a time, Tom had counted and ordered in his head, those unnoticed flutters of expression, conversation and body language that charm or irritate, anger or amuse; those were Murray's speciality, his currency, his core business. And when Murray turned it on, Tom knew there was no stopping him.

  Murray talked to Tariq, of course. But Tariq was flummoxed. He didn't know what to say and he ran one hand self-consciously through his hair that was a decade thinner than the last time they'd met; and the fingers of his other hand drummed on his stomach that was a decade tubbier. That Murray should have walked back into their lives? It beggared belief. Murray was smiling.

  ‘Nice hat,’ Tariq stuttered at last.

  ‘It is, isn't it?’ Murray said, cheerfully tugging at the brim.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘You know,’ Murray shrugged and he turned his smile towards Emma who blinked like she was looking straight at the sun.

  ‘This is my missus,’ Tariq said, ‘Emma.’

  ‘Hey, Emma.’

  She took his hand but she wouldn't meet his eye. She said, ‘Sorry. I didn't catch your name.’ But she knew who he was all right.

  ‘Murray,’ he said.

  Tariq told him about his business and Murray said, ‘Predictive technology? Damn! You always had your finger on the pulse, china, know what I mean?’ Then Tariq told him that he was on the verge of bankruptcy and Murray's expression didn't flicker for an instant. He didn't say anything but he put his hand on Tariq's shoulder in a conspiratorial sort of way. It was a gesture that said, ‘You know everything's going to be all right, don't you? So don't worry about it’. But his body language must have been a whole lot more powerful than speech. Because Tariq had said those same words to himself a hundred times and they'd always sounded hollow before.

  Tariq told him about their baby, Tommy (after Tom), and Murray shook his head and looked bewildered. He said, ‘Shit! A baby? Shit! Congratulations!’ as if it were the most amazing thing he'd ever heard; as though babies were a bizarre myth of coitus that Tariq and Emma alone had just proved to be true.

  Emma said, ‘We should be getting home actually. The sitter will be waiting.’

  ‘You're going?’ Murray looked forlornly at Tariq. ‘You can't go now. I haven't seen you for… what?… Six years?’

  ‘Ten,’ Tariq said.

  ‘Exactly. Ten years.’ He turned to Emma. ‘You've got to stay for a bit. Anyway, it sounds like you two could use a night out. Both of you.’

  Emma smiled. ‘Sorry, Murray. But we've got to get the last tube.’

  ‘So get a cab.’

  ‘To be honest, mate…’ Tariq suddenly looked sheepish and lowered his voice a little. ‘Look. To be honest, things are tight right now. A babysitter and a cab home's a bit extravagant, know what I mean?’

  Murray was staring at him. Tariq blinked. He didn't like talking about his money situation; especially not when he was standing in a room which, to his eye, was full of contemporaries who pissed their cash up the wall like it was going out of fashion. These guys? For them, a tenner was no more than a cheap straw for their gak habits.

  Murray dipped into his pocket and pulled out a fat wad of notes. Tariq was alarmed and more embarrassed than ever. ‘No!’ he began. ‘Mate…’ But Murray was already pressing thirty quid into his hand.

  ‘You remember how many times you helped me out?’ Murray asked.

  Tariq looked at him. That was true.

  ‘Besides, Tariq, it's only money, for fuck's sake. Who cares? It's your friend Francesca's big night…’

  ‘Freya.’

  ‘Whatever. Don't you want to stay for a while? I haven't seen you for, like, a decade. Come on, you're doing me a favour. Emma. Please.’

  Tariq turned to look at his wife and he ummed and erred and he said, ‘It's just she's not been well.’

  But Emma's eyes blazed. ‘You're not blaming me.’

  So Tariq shrugged and took the cash. ‘Thanks, Muz.’

  ‘Good. So just call the sitter and tell her you're going to be late. I bet she'll be glad of the cash. Besides, she's probably got some spotty kid half-naked on your kitchen floor by now…’ Murray paused. Emma looked alarmed. ‘Or not. Just give her a bell and then we can catch up. Properly.’

  Tariq took out his mobile and dialled home. He retreated from the noise a little and cupped a hand over his free ear. Murray raised his eyebrows at Emma and grinned. ‘So then…’

  ‘Tariq has told me a lot about you.’

  ‘Really?’ he said. He looked momentarily puzzled and he licked his lips. ‘I'm going to get a drink.’

  A moment later Tariq turned back to where Murray had just stood with a smile on his face. ‘No problem,’ he was saying. But Murray was gone.

  Murray wandered over to Karen and Tom, who were still hovering on the fringes. They didn't see him coming. As he approached, Karen was saying, ‘Come on, Tom! Please!’ She sounded exasperated and her expression was strained and irritable.

  Murray clapped Tom on the shoulder. ‘Tom!’ he mimicked. ‘Please! How many times have we been over this? What does that say?’ He paused and looked between them; a nervous smile flickered on his mouth. ‘Oops. Put my foot in it haven't I?’ But, seeing him, Karen was too excited to care and she threw her arms around his neck and planted a fat kiss on his cheek. ‘Murray!’

  ‘Hey, Kazza.’ He squeezed her tight.

  He looked at Tom over her shoulder and his expression asked, ‘You all right?’ Tom shrugged. Murray stood Karen back with his hands on her hips and looked her up and down, taking in her sombre suit, sensible shoes and her hair, which was scraped back in a ponytail. ‘Look at you! You're so… decent!’ He was laughing. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It's been a long time, Muz,’ she said. ‘Some of us have grown up.’

  ‘You remember when we first met? You were a right little casual, remember? All pixie-boots and pedal-pushers. And you had that terrible fucking boyfriend. What was his name?’

  ‘Kush.’

  ‘Kush! That's right. What kind of a name is Kush? A horrible little thug. How long did he harass you?’

  ‘I don't know. Like, two years.’

  ‘At least two years. I remember that shit and I'm telling you, Kazza, you were well out of that one.’ Murray glanced at Tom. ‘Then you hook up with china here and you got into all that hippy shit. What was that about? Fuck! Now look at you. Aren't you the chameleon!’

  Karen's smile was fixed in place. ‘I grew up.’

  Murray couldn't stop laughing. ‘Good! I meant it as a compliment. It's good to be a chameleon. From what I've heard, you've got to be a chameleon these days.’ He took Karen's hand and lightly squeezed her fingers.

  ‘Pots and kettles, Muz,’ she said. ‘You always were an arsehole.’ Her smile was mobile again.

  ‘Me? Really?’ He looked hurt – just for an instant – then it was gone. He turned to Tom. ‘So how are you two doing, then?’

  Tom dipped his chin a little. ‘Murray. I told you. We split up.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He stared at Karen, his expression blank. ‘Shame.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Karen looked at Tom as thou
gh he'd betrayed a secret. Tom didn't know what that was about. She thinned her lips.

  Karen bombarded Murray with questions then. But he laughed them off one by one. What the fuck had happened to him? What do you mean? He'd been around. Where the fuck had he been? Around. What the fuck had he been doing? You know. This, that and the other. Yeah, yeah. A lot of the other. No. He hadn't seen anyone from college. He'd been away a lot. All over. Just fucking around. He wasn't going to disappear again, was he? Of course not. Shit. He didn't exactly disappear last time. Did he promise? He promised.

  ‘Who's that guy?’ Murray was looking across the room.

  ‘What guy?’

  Murray pointed out a floppy-haired beanpole who was staring their way.

  ‘That's Jared,’ Tom said. ‘Karen's boyfriend.’

  Karen's eyes flashed. She suddenly felt embarrassed and angry but she wasn't sure why. She tried to hear bitterness in Tom's voice. But there wasn't any. Maybe that was the problem. For someone who was supposed to be gutted, he sometimes seemed remarkably composed. She felt briefly irritated with Jared too. What business did he have looking their way? Or maybe it was just the situation. Because seeing Murray seemed to turn back the clock, it rewound her to a zestier time and she was suddenly confronted by all kinds of images of things they'd done together (her, Murray and Tom, Tariq too) and her mind was a collage of snapshot moments of laughing faces. She realized that she hadn't thought about Murray for a long time but, now that he was standing next to her, it was like being reminded of a favourite movie that had been gnawing at the back of her mind or tickling her tongue tip for longer than she could remember. For some reason she thought of The Breakfast Club, the moment where Bender shows off the cigarette burns on his forearm, and she felt briefly confused, even a little scared. And she couldn't be sure whether she was remembering something about Murray or something about herself. She looked up at Murray curiously but she couldn't figure his expression.

  ‘So you'd better go and see to your man,’ Murray said.