Approaching their finals, it was only Tom who found time to see Murray regularly (partly because he knew that teacher training didn't require a top-notch degree). They saw a fair bit of Tariq, too, but that was more by virtue of the latest version of Murray-fun: peddling pills at student nights.
The con was simple. These student events were relatively well-policed with the college contracting a local firm for external security. But, with Tariq working behind the scenes, he was always at the venue early and he could carry in Murray's supply. When Murray arrived, he picked up the drugs and pushed them at ten quid a pop, handing on a pound's commission to Tariq for every sale.
The first time Tom saw Murray dealing, he was shocked. Because there was a difference between, say, scamming some greedy landlord and pushing drugs, wasn't there?
Murray had just come off the dancefloor and they were standing in a corner of the Union bar when two nervous first years approached, identically dressed in smiley T-shirts and stars-and-stripes bandannas. Tom watched astonished as Murray produced a couple of small cellophane bags from his pocket. ‘You want to buy a vowel, china?’
‘Two Es,’ one of the students said and handed over a twenty.
When the deal was done, Tom exploded: ‘Jesus, Muz! What the fuck are you doing? Dealing drugs? Shit!’
Murray peered at him quizzically. In the darkness of the bar, Tom could hardly see his face but, as the spots flashed, he caught a glimpse of his laughing eyes. ‘What's this, Mr Superhero?’ Murray hissed. ‘An attack of ethics?’
‘You're no different from that fucker Kush!’
‘Yeah?’ Murray laughed. ‘Let's go talk to Tariq.’ He caught Tom by the arm and almost frog-marched him to the office where the promoter was lounging behind a desk, his eyes sleepy, already hammered.
‘Hey,’ Tariq slurred. ‘How's business?’
‘You knew about this shit?’ Tom exclaimed. ‘Shit!’
Murray handed Tariq a fistful of crumpled fivers. ‘Tom Dare's on the moral highground,’ he explained. ‘Got a touch of vertigo.’ He sat on the corner of the desk and turned back to Tom. ‘Look, china. Just shut up a second and listen. All right?’
The students turned up at college and they were getting into raving, weren't they? Buying everything from the ethnic pants to the mix CDs to the fluorescent bloody T-shirts. But this lot at LMT? They were just typical Home County Sloanes or Arabs or middle-classes from the burbs or wannabe travellers; so what did they know? Basically they just wanted to get pissed but, since they'd started hearing about, listening to, getting into acid house, they thought they should probably start dropping a few sweeties: Doves, Rhubarbs & Custards, Pink Calis, Strawberry Trips, Disco Biscuits and Snowballs.
‘Peer pressure,’ Tariq said. ‘So Muz provides a service.’
‘By flogging them class As?’ Tom protested.
‘It's just aspirin,’ Murray said. His smile was broad and confident; smile number one. He opened the door of the office, beckoned Tom over and pointed to the dancefloor that was a mass of thrashing limbs. ‘Look at them, china. They think they're high. High on life more like. High on life. It's a beautiful thing.’
‘And lager, of course,’ Tariq said and burped into his hand.
‘Yeah. So I provide a service. Give them the illusion of excitement, keep them off the hard shit and maybe even help their hangovers into the bargain.’
Tom still wasn't convinced. Not until Murray said, ‘I don't even tell a single lie. I say, “Do you want to buy a vowel?” And if they say “A”, they get an aspirin or Anadin or antihistamine and if they say “E”, they get an E-Lax.’
‘E-Lax?’
‘A laxative.’
Tom stared out at the teeming bodies that lurched into each other, apparently wired. He started to laugh. ‘Cool,’ he said and he took half Murray's supply there and then and began to deal himself. He gave Murray all the profits because he didn't really need the money and, besides, that made him feel a little better. Because he was only doing it for the spice, because it was funny.
A month or so later, the pair of them were sitting opposite each other in the canteen. Behind Murray a bunch of oyster-voiced Sloanes were joined by a baggy character with a Madchester haircut and a parka.
‘Hey, Frankie, man. What happened to you on Friday night? We all went back to Henry's for coffee and a smoke.’
‘Don't talk to me about Friday, know what I mean? I was sorted. Completely fucking sorted. You wouldn't believe it, like. Had, like, four Es and went back to my room, like. So I'm sitting there, high as a kite with Joy Division on the headphones and, you know what? Next thing I know, it's four hours later, like, and I've only gone and fucking shat myself.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Serious? Course I'm fucking serious. They were some blinding pills, man. Blinding.’
Tom and Murray looked at each other. Murray raised an eyebrow. ‘Blinding,’ he said and they both cracked up and laughed so long and hard that Murray couldn't finish his drumsticks for his aching guts.
Of course, the drugs scam couldn't have worked indefinitely. They dealt with the (admittedly rare) complaints by refunding the money and blaming a ‘dodgy batch’ but the students, even the Sloanes, were getting more suss and someone would have twigged in the end. It didn't matter. By now, it was a couple of days before the end of the year and, as Murray said, ‘So you'll go and be a teacher, Tariq, some kind of business bigwig and Karen will find someone to pay her to organize storms in teacups.’
‘What about you, Muz?’
‘What about me, what?’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Me?’ he shrugged. ‘Somebody's got to look out for you lot, haven't they? When you need someone to knock you into shape; know what I mean?’
Tom let this go. It was typical Murray. ‘Hopefully it won't be a full-time job,’ he said.
‘You never know, china,’ Murray smiled. Number five. The most winning of them all. ‘You never know.’
So the story you're telling of the first two years of Tom and Karen's relationship (which includes Murray – ‘BILATERAL’ says the red ink – and Tariq too) reaches its conclusion on their last day at LMT. This was an important day for numerous reasons. It marks, of course, the end of Tejananda's case notes – although this day took up four sessions and thirteen pages of his notebook – concluded by the words ‘SELFISH FAITH’, which labels, unknowingly, the following year of the relationship (coinciding with Tom's PGCE). But it also marks what Tom and Karen denoted as their second anniversary, the day that Kush was released from prison and the last time any of them saw Murray for a decade.
It was a Thursday. Tom had packed up his room the previous night and spent the whole morning running around, choosing presents. He picked up a bottle of Moët and a bunch of daffodils. He also bought St Elmo's Fire on video because he knew she didn't have it. He'd always wanted to get her some underwear but he'd never quite dared. So today he bought her a pair of edible knickers. Just for a joke.
He was supposed to meet her for lunch in the canteen but she didn't show up. After about twenty minutes he started to ask around. Cecily from the SAL Committee hadn't seen her. ‘But there was some bloke looking for her,’ she said.
‘Some bloke?’
‘Yeah. This massive guy with a shaved head. Didn't look like the kind of person Karen would know at all. I told him to try Southwark Hall.’
‘Shit,’ Tom said. ‘Kush.’
Karen had told him a month before that Kush was up for early release. But today?
Tom sprinted to the station. He could feel the champagne bouncing in his rucksack. The flowers made it hard to run so he dumped them in a bin. He caught the Northern Line to Waterloo. On the train, a middle-aged woman with a walking stick stared at him. At first he thought it was because he was so jumpy. Then he realized he vaguely recognized her. It had been one of the games of Strangers on a Train about six months earlier when Murray had apparently restored his sight. He remem
bered her because she'd got quite worked up and begged Murray to cure her arthritis. But today he didn't appreciate her attention because he was so sick with nerves and unformed fears and, when he got up at Waterloo, he felt like he had to justify himself. ‘I saw you staring,’ he said. ‘I was blind and he made me see.’ He didn't know what he was saying and the woman looked upset.
He two-timed the steps out of the station and ducked away from the crowds down to the South Bank. He glanced up at the sky and weighty clouds were banking over the skyscrapers and the rising breeze made him blink. The atmosphere was, he thought, perilously prescient. Was he going to make it there before Kush? Whatever. This time, if there was a beating to be taken, he swore he was ready for it.
Southwark Hall was a gated compound right on the river. In the evenings, it was often busy with cognoscenti theatre-goers shortcutting to the National but, at this hour of the day, there was no one around. There weren't even any students. Tom figured a lot of them must have already left for the summer.
As he crossed the flagstone courtyard, he realized he had no idea what he was up to. If Kush was there, what was he going to do about it? And what would Kush want? Tom pictured a stir-crazy thug dragging his ex out by the hair and beating her senseless. Was that realistic? Kush probably wouldn't show up at all.
The door to Southwark Hall was opened by a keycode. Tom knew it by heart but the door was latched open. His stomach dropped and his imagination immediately rewound exactly two years to another hall of residence on the other side of London. This time Karen's room was on the ground floor – a third-year privilege – the first on the right. The door was shut. He knocked.
It was a couple of minutes before Murray answered. He seemed surprised. Not half as surprised as Tom. Nor as relieved. He was smoking a cigarette. That was unusual but not unheard of. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, no jumper, and his feet were bare. He looked a little dishevelled but Murray always looked a little dishevelled.
‘Muz!’ Tom exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Kush got out today.’ Murray took a drag on his cigarette. The smoke lingered between them, picked out by the shaft of light from the open front door. ‘I heard he was round the university, looking for Karen. Thought I'd better get down here, china, know what I mean?’
‘Thanks,’ Tom said. ‘Right.’ He looked at Murray curiously. There was something in his manner. An edginess. ‘You all right?’
Murray smiled without teeth. ‘Cool. I thought you were Kush, didn't I? Thought things were going to get hectic.’
‘Right,’ Tom said. ‘Where's Karen?’
He walked past Murray and they clashed shoulders for a second because Murray didn't get out of the way. There was a short, shadowed corridor (the tiny en suite loo and basin on the left) which opened up into Karen's room. Tom looked around. The double bed was unmade and crumpled. The desk under the window had been cleared for the end of term. One of Karen's bras hung from the back of the upright chair. That wasn't like her. Tom felt like he was seeing the room for the first time. It seemed somehow unfamiliar. There was a smell in the air; a mustiness. It was probably just the smoke. Although she had an occasional cigarette herself, Karen hated people smoking in her room. Tom had a nagging sensation in his middle. He knew what it was but he tried to ignore it. He was being stupid.
Murray followed him into the bedroom. ‘She's in the shower,’ he said. ‘She was crying. Worried, I think. She wanted to take a shower. To calm down.’
Tom nodded. The communal shower-room was at the end of the ground-floor corridor. ‘Why was the door shut?’
‘What's that, china?’
‘Why was her bedroom door shut? If she's taking a shower…’
‘In case Kush showed up.’ Murray went over to the window. It was one of those modern ones with double glazing and several ways of opening. Murray tilted it a little. ‘The smoke. You know how she hates the smell of smoke.’
‘I know,’ Tom said and sat on the edge of the bed. His hand stretched over the undersheet. It was warm. He began to feel a little sick.
There was a knock at the door and Murray hurried to answer it. His movements were curiously uncoordinated; lurching and clumsy. What had happened to his usual poise? Tom could see Karen silhouetted in the doorway. She was barely covered by a small towel that was wrapped around her breasts. Another was turbaned around her head. Instinctively he looked at the full-length mirror with the hooks beside it. Sure enough, there was her dressing-gown; a huge, soft-towel cream bathrobe with a hood like a boxer's. He'd bought it for her last birthday. It had been a thoughtful present; to keep her warm to and from the showers.
Karen shuffled into the room, one arm clasped across her cleavage. Her face was pink and her expression taut but she flashed him a smile. ‘Hiya!’ she said. It sounded like such an impersonal greeting; vacuous, with open-ended jollity. Tom couldn't speak. She grabbed the dressing-gown and disappeared to the en suite to dry herself and put it on.
Murray was leaning against the wall. He produced another cigarette and lit it. Where the hell did these cigarettes come from? He'd never owned a pack in his life.
Tom shivered. He felt physically cold and detached, like he was watching himself on a security camera. And when he spoke, it was as if he were hearing his own voice on the radio or an answering machine. ‘What's going on?’
‘Sorry, china?’
‘What have you been doing, Murray? What the fuck have you been doing?’
Karen emerged. She had a towel in one hand and the other ran through her locks, untangling them. Her face was its usual porcelain again but there was still a flush around her neck and jaw. She stood next to Murray. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You, Karen.’ Tom turned his attention to her. ‘What game are you playing? You think I'm stupid?’
‘Now wait a second, china.’ Murray was holding up a hand. ‘I came down to keep an eye on Kazza. You've really got the wrong end of the…’
‘Oh, fuck off, Murray. Just get out. Go on. Fuck off. I don't even want to look at you. Get out.’ Tom could hear his voice shaking. He was amazed it had any control at all. Murray glanced at Karen. ‘Don't even fucking look at her, Murray. Just get out.’
‘No,’ Karen protested. ‘What's the matter with you, Tom? You're being an arsehole. You get out.’
Tom felt a sudden pain behind his eyes. Tears. He didn't want to cry but there was something about the removal in Karen's tone. He'd heard it once before. When Kush had trashed her room. Two years ago to the day.
Murray said, ‘It's fine. I'm going.’ Karen touched his arm – a gesture that twisted Tom's guts – but Murray added, ‘No. It's cool. I'm going.’
Tom found himself starting towards him. ‘Yeah. Get the fuck out, Murray. I don't want to see your face again, Murray. Don't come near her. You hear what I'm saying? I never want to fucking see you again. Never.’
When Murray was gone, Tom and Karen had the fight to end all fights. Tom kicked it off with all the macho vigour and incoherent ranting of the typical cuckold. Karen kept shouting at him to leave, to just leave. But he said he wasn't going anywhere until she gave him some kind of explanation. Karen seemed to calm down a bit and there was the shadow of a smile on her lips.
‘Are you laughing at me?’
‘Explanation of what?’
‘You and Murray.’
‘There is no “me and Murray”.’
Tom couldn't believe she denied it and he talked about the dressing-gown, the smoking, the way she'd greeted him, the bed that was still warm with their bodies. Karen was shaking her head. What? So those minutiae of behaviour had nothing to do with the fact that her ex might come round any moment and knock seven bells out of her. Oh no. They meant she was fucking Murray. Of course they did.
Tom was getting desperate. ‘What about that day at the Curzon?’
Karen stared at him. Her expression was bewildered; blank like Clapham Junction billboards. ‘What the fuck are you talking about
?’
It was about half an hour before Tom started saying sorry. And he kept on saying sorry for a little more than a year. Sometimes he meant it and sometimes he didn't. Sometimes he wondered how his evidence could have seemed so certain and sometimes how it had been so easily refuted.
It was only in therapy that Tom finally figured it out. At their last session, Tejananda suggested, ‘Perhaps they did have an affair. How would that make you feel?’ He chose his words carefully. ‘After all, you yourself… strayed… in the end.’
Tom thought about this for a moment and a guilty nausea welled in his belly. ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘No. I don't think so.’
‘Do you think Murray was the kind of person who'd have an affair with his friend's girlfriend?’
‘Yeah,’ Tom said quickly. ‘Yeah I do. But… it's funny but that only makes me more certain that he didn't. Because the way we were, the three of us, she'd have told me in the end. Definitely.’ And he realized this was the first time he'd believed that unequivocally.
Of course, the real point about all this – and the reason you're telling this story (courtesy of Tom via his therapist) is that, after Murray left Karen's room on their final day at LMT, they didn't see him again for ten years. Initially Karen blamed Tom. But when he said, ‘What? You really think anything I said would have had that much effect on Murray?’ she had to concede he had a point.
‘I guess that's the thing about Murray,’ she admitted. ‘He was always such a chancer.’
And what about Kush? After all, it was his release from prison that triggered this Moment of Truth (from the subject's perspective). Well. He never showed up, did he.
14
What goes up must come down
Do you object if I take a ninety from the narrative thrust and detach myself like a sulky coochie from the flock (who's just dropped the squirmiest squirm into the reservoirs at Barnes, say, or lost the handsomest geez to some harlot rival with no charms but a coy coochie coo) ? After all, I never set myself up as a war historian, chronicler of chaos or top-storey storyteller so this process is as novel to me as it is no such thing to most niks. And that is imprecisely my point.
The London Pigeon Wars Page 19
