The London Pigeon Wars

by Patrick Neate

  Bast shot a glance at Kwesi, who was desperately looking out of the window as if trying to read a receding number plate.

  ‘So why did you hit on me?’ Bast said quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was you who hit on me, remember?’

  ‘I don't know…’

  Freya's mind flashed back to the night she'd met him at the twenty-four-hour Esso. It had been the day the shop lease was finalized and she'd rung Tom, hoping to find some company, to celebrate; nothing special, maybe a glass of wine and a bowl of pasta. But Tom had said he was too busy with marking and lesson plans and he was all ‘Sorry, Freya, but what can I do?’ So she'd got drunk on her own and then stumbled down to the garage for an ice cream; a treat. Bast had been buying Rizla. He had some weed. He was there.

  ‘I don't know,’ she blinked coldly. ‘I must've been desperate.’

  Within ten yards of Freya Franklin Hats, Murray had to deal with two of these timewasters in quick succession. Bast clattered his shoulder as he hurried down the street but he didn't stop or say a word and Murray didn't either. Murray was too busy checking out Learie, tottering towards him with his eyes narrowed and suddenly sharpened like two pencils.

  Learie walked right up to him until their faces were no more than licking distance apart. He swayed back to take a mouthful from his bottle of clear spirits and sluiced it around his teeth. Murray didn't retreat an inch but his expression flickered with something – an innocence, perhaps – which would surely have been unrecognizable to anyone who knew him. Learie's breath was hot and sour and his spit flecked Murray's cheeks and lips as he spoke. ‘Yuh smell dat renk evil, bwoy, no true? Why else pyaa-pyaa, maga duppy come monks this new Babylon? Nah cut yai, man! I-and-I speak same tongue.’

  ‘Babylon?’ Murray whispered.

  ‘New Babylon, star. New Babylon.’

  ‘Me? Evil?’

  Learie's face cracked into a rotten-toothed smile. ‘No, man. Babylon! Yuh hear me? Feel no way, duppy! Feel no way!’

  Freya was standing in the shop doorway. ‘Murray?’

  He turned and his face cracked into smile number one; the most trusted and least specific, the catch-all, lighthouse smile. He brushed past Learie and didn't look back. ‘Hey!’ he said and he peered inside as he gave her a hug. ‘Check out all the hats! You could be anyone in a shop like this.’

  She squeezed him too and thought nothing of his sharp intake of breath when her hands joined, tight around his back.

  Murray stood back and checked her up and down. She was wearing a black suit, tailored and flattering. Her unruly dirty-blonde hair was strictly pulled back in a bunch and the pink of her throat looked like a delicate statement against her pristine white shirt. She appeared somehow older, reined in, professional. ‘Look at you!’ Murray said.

  Kwesi was overexcited, like a kid seeing his favourite uncle come Christmas. His veneer of calm fell away and he gripped Murray's hand, saying, ‘Cool, cool, man. You cool? Where you been?’

  ‘Familiarity breeds contempt, china.’

  He raised his eyebrows at Kwesi as if asking a question so Kwesi said, ‘No, man. No. What you talking about?’

  Murray laughed. He looked at Freya, who was now back behind the counter. It was the same look he'd given her when they met at her launch party and it was powerful enough to make her stomach lurch and she noticed her forearms were flushed and her heart fluttered. She didn't know why. There was nothing sexual in his look; but she still felt like she was being sized up, unwrapped for eating.

  She peered deliberately out of the window. ‘I don't know what's going on with Learie. He seems really screwed up at the moment. What was he saying to you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The tramp. Outside.’

  Murray blinked and wiped his right hand across his mouth. He then examined it curiously. Emma's tissue was still stuck to the beak wound. He said, ‘I just saw that boyfriend of yours. What's his name? Bast?’

  ‘He's not my boyfriend.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘That loser?’

  ‘A loser?’ Murray smiled. ‘Right. And you don't want to mix with losers.’

  Kwesi said: ‘There's a new man in town, isn't that right, Freya? You remember that guy Nick Jackson?’

  Murray shook his head. He slowly peeled back the tissue on his palm. The cut was black and wet.

  ‘You remember, man,’ Kwesi said. ‘The geezer at Freya's party who got bitten by a pigeon.’

  Murray shot Freya a glance. Her face was hot and she knew she was now blushing properly. She felt like a schoolgirl.

  ‘Right,’ Murray said. ‘Right.’

  Kwesi went out for a sandwich. Freya said she was OK thanks. Murray asked if K would be passing a proper food shop because he was peckish and fancied some chicken. Like, whatever there was. A corner shop might have wings or breasts vacuum-packed in cellophane. If not, there was always chicken roll.

  Kwesi, who'd heard about Murray's peculiar diet but never thought much about it, said, ‘Oh yeah. You only eat chicken, right? What's that all about, Murray, man?’

  Murray looked at him and his eyes were dancing. ‘It's about function, china. You know there's no such thing as a wild chicken? Free-range, corn-fed, battery-farmed; they're all raised to be eaten. It's their only purpose, you know?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Kwesi said. ‘And that's why I'm vegetarian.’

  ‘No, china. You've got to eat chicken. Otherwise what's it for? It's a question of respect.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Totally,’ Murray smiled. ‘Imagine we were all like you. The nation would be drowning in chicken shit within a week. Function, respect and responsibility in one bite-sized mouthful; it doesn't get any better than that. How many more reasons do you need? Then again, I like chicken.’

  ‘What if I can't find any?’

  ‘You can always find chicken, china. If they don't have any roll, pick me up some stock cubes. Or chicken crisps. I can always lick chicken crisps.’

  Kwesi was laughing. ‘You're joking, yeah?’

  Murray looked momentarily confused. ‘No, china,’ he said. ‘I like chicken. That's what I like. Chicken.’

  When Kwesi left, Freya was immediately uncomfortable. The shop suddenly seemed very quiet and she felt like there was a lot of unsaid stuff between Murray and her that was just hanging out in the atmosphere around them; as real and as unseen as the exhaust fumes over Elephant & Castle, Swiss Cottage or any of those other big London junctions. But what ‘stuff’ that could be, she had no idea. Because she and Murray? They hardly knew each other. Nonetheless, she went out back to the little cloakroom-cum-office and put on a CD – the first that came to hand, a nondescript acid-jazz compilation; anything to drown out the sounds of silence.

  Murray was looking over one of her hats, turning it in his hands like a potter. ‘This is crazy!’ he exclaimed and he'd picked on the very design of which she herself was most proud. It was a black rubber base, almost like a swimming cap, that extended in two licks to cover the wearer's ears (imagine, say, the sculptured shape of a Sassoon bob). The scalp, meanwhile, was covered with light aluminium chains that circled to the crown. It was part twenties society, part mediaeval helmet and part cyber chic. She was yet to sell one and she knew why: it was way too funky for her clientele. But personally, Freya loved it best. She figured it reflected her perfectly even though she knew she could never wear such a hat herself. And, while that appeared to contradict her whole theory (of hats and their owners), it only made her love the design all the more; as though it were in some way aspirational, as though one day she might become the kind of person who could carry it off.

  Freya said, ‘Thanks.’ But her discomfort was growing. Murray's words, his manner, his… being… seemed oddly confrontational, although she knew there was no specific reason to make her think so.

  Murray carefully returned the hat to its stand. ‘It's good, china. You're doing pretty well, eh?’

  ‘Yeah. Sur
e.’

  Freya turned away. There was something about Murray that made her feel accused, defensive, as though ‘doing pretty well’ actually meant ‘doing the devil's own work’. So she was relieved when the shop bell rang and two girls walked in chatting busily in French. Early twenties and wide-eyed with cheap handbags, she knew their type and she knew they hadn't any money to spend but she was pleased with the distraction nonetheless.

  Freya went to help them. They said they were just looking, thanks, and began to try on one hat after another. Generally such behaviour irritated her – especially when she knew they were just messing about, killing time – and she could have politely got rid of them by pointing out prices and hovering over their every move. But right now she was happy to let them play and even encouraged them with appreciative chatter. She glanced at Murray. He'd swung himself up on the counter and he was swinging his legs, crossing and uncrossing them like a clown. He was poring over his hand again and Freya caught a glimpse of the dark circle in the middle of the palm, like stigmata.

  The prettier of the two girls – all olive skin, blonde highlights and shocking-pink lipstick – had put on the cheapest hat in the shop. It was Freya's take on an Irish Walker, the traditional houndstooth material set off by an amber band embroidered with gold detail. The girl was posing in front of the mirror, laughing while her friend pulled faces at her. Freya felt suddenly nostalgic. She remembered when she'd had fun just trying things on, just for the sake of it. In fact, now she came to think about it, she couldn't figure when that had stopped being true. It must have been when the shop opened. She caught sight of her own reflection. A tired, thin-lipped, hardened expression was frozen on her face.

  ‘Superbe.’ This was Murray speaking. ‘Choisissez celui-là. A n'en pas douter.’

  The girl looked at him: ‘Vous êtes Français?’

  ‘Non! J'ai passé du temps à Paris. Aussi en Belgique.’

  She nodded. At first she seemed unsure what to think, like maybe he was mocking her. But she had the confidence of one who knows no better and she inclined her head, coy and coquettish.

  ‘Vous trouvez vraiment?’

  ‘Celui-là vous va à merveille,’ Murray said and then he smiled. This one was a dazzling number; a smile so bright it was like a sunrise that peeps over the horizon for a moment before suddenly washing the landscape in its brilliance. Freya felt another unexpected pang of nostalgia. Or perhaps this time it was jealousy because it was connected to the thought of how young Murray looked. And the girl? What else could she do but return the smile and buy the hat?

  On their own again, Freya tried a laugh. She said, ‘You're as good as K.’

  ‘At what?’

  ‘Selling hats.’

  ‘I think you're doing all right yourself, china.’

  ‘Getting there.’

  ‘No. You're a success. You're successful. You've made it. Freya Franklin Hats. It's great. You must feel great, eh, china?’

  Freya stared at him. She felt her temper rising and the fact that angry tears were beginning to needle the backs of her eyes only made her angrier still; as did Murray's continued contemplation of his right hand, pressing his left thumb into the palm and then squeezing his fist around it. ‘Are you laughing at me?’

  Murray looked up. Where moments earlier he'd been like an animated teenager, his face was now drawn, blank and exhausted and that just made Freya feel all the more bewildered. ‘No. I just said you must feel great, china. And I meant it. You're getting what you want, you're where you want to be, doing what you want to do. You must feel great.’

  ‘There's more to life than hats,’ Freya said and she tried a weak and winning smile but it didn't work.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘What do you mean “like what”, Murray?’ Freya snapped. ‘Like believing in something. Like being a good person. All that stuff. What are you getting at? If you've got something to say just spit it out.’

  ‘Selfishness must be distinguished from “true faith”.’

  Freya paused, confused. Then, ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Like Tom.’

  ‘What's like Tom?’

  ‘Selfishness must be distinguished from “true faith”.’

  Freya chuckled and it came out just as bitter as she intended. ‘What are you talking about, Murray? You sound like a five-pound guru. This what they taught you on the ashram? I'm just saying I need something to believe in. Yeah, Tom too. I don't know about you, though. Really I don't.’

  ‘So that's why you fucked him?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That's why you fucked Tom.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Freya was suddenly cold; bitterly cold and her skin was goosebumping and her breathing came in quick gasps.

  ‘I'm just saying, china. That must be why you fucked Tom. I mean, you met him first, right? And then you met Karen. You knew they were going out. In fact, more than that, because they'd been together for years; they were, like, partners. But then something happened, an opportunity, a moment of truth. And you needed it. In that instant you said to yourself, “This is what I need.” ’

  ‘It wasn't like that.’

  ‘Right,’ Murray nodded. ‘What was it like?’

  Freya was gaping at Murray and her eyes were icy and bright but her mind was lurching elsewhere: to her and Tom in that bar piping Sade; to the way he tugged at his hair, a nervous twitch; to the hand on her leg that said she was a good friend, a good listener; to the speed drinking for excuses and reasons; to her front door to call it a night; to her phone to call a cab; to her bedroom to call a spade a spade and to her bed to call him her boyfriend for just one moment. And Freya thought, It was what I needed and it was exactly like that. But, sometimes, when need and desire intersect, you call it love because you don't have another word for it nor another experience to set it against.

  ‘Fuck you, Murray,’ Freya said. ‘Is that what you think? What the fuck's it got to do with you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Who are you to judge?’

  ‘I'm not. I'm not… judging…’ His eyes were fixed on her but she couldn't read anything in them. They were glazed, distracted. It was almost as if he were half asleep, half dead, and he pressed his left thumb into his right palm again until he winced. ‘I don't think… any more… I don't make judgements,’ he said. ‘I don't know how to. I'm just asking questions.’

  ‘Well, don't!’ Freya snapped. And then more softly, ‘It's none of your business.’

  Murray dropped his head for a moment and then drew a sharp breath that whistled through his teeth.

  Freya said, ‘What have you done to your hand?’ And Murray held it up for her to see. Seeing it spanned like that, she was surprised by how small his hand was. The wound glistened but it was dark; more like a hole than a cut. It looked quite bad but Freya couldn't resist a sly laugh. ‘You been playing Jesus again?’

  Murray grimaced. ‘A pigeon.’

  ‘You and your pigeons!’ Freya snorted. ‘You had a tetanus shot?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You'd better. They're dirty things. What were you doing?’

  ‘Wringing its neck.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Ami asked me to.’

  ‘You always do what someone asks?’

  ‘Don't know, china,’ Murray said. ‘You?’

  Freya reached behind the counter. She pulled out a white silk scarf that some effeminate City boy had left behind the previous week. She handed it to him. ‘Here. Use that.’ She'd never seen Murray like this; pitiful. She'd heard from the others, Tom especially, how Murray played to his audience, she'd even seen it herself. But she hadn't expected this. Was this just more – what was it Tom called it? – Murray-fun? Freya said, ‘I'm not a bad person, you know? Really I'm not.’ And when Murray didn't reply, she asked, ‘What are you thinking?’

  He shrugged. He was wrapping the scarf around his hand. ‘I'm not sure I think anything, china. People are what they do. The mo
tivations can be good and bad and the results can be good and bad. But people are just what they do, as simple as that.’

  ‘I guess…’ Freya began. ‘I just feel like a flower in the shade, you know? Like I poked my head out of the earth and I had to dodge the other buds and shimmy and crane until I could see the sun. But even seeing the sun, I look down at my stem and it's too long and twisted and fragile and it could be snapped just like that.’

  She closed her eyes and pressed the heels of her palms into the sockets until she saw swirling patterns in purple and green and shooting stars. She attempted to picture Murray sitting just opposite her but found it impossible. Every time she tried to add features to his face, they turned out to belong to someone else – the lips of that newsreader, the nose of the bus conductor on the 94, the bone structure of some rapper jostled for position – until what she pictured looked like a photofit pasted on a police-station noticeboard.

  She heard Murray say, ‘At least you feel like a flower.’

  ‘You're weird, Murray. You know that?’

  He chuckled and she lowered her hands and now he looked completely different again: revitalized, radiating good health; his eyes sparkling and his lips twitching with good humour. Freya sighed and then, in spite of herself, she smiled. She didn't know why, it was some sense of an unknown and unspecific but nonetheless delicious absurdity. Murray returned her smile with interest.

  Kwesi came back in then and Freya pretended to look at her watch and said, ‘Where have you been?’

  He said, ‘Sorry. I was looking for chicken. There was nothing in the corner shop so I had to go all the way down to the supermarket.’ He pulled a packet of barbecue thighs out of the plastic bag he was carrying and held it out to Murray.

  ‘Thanks, china,’ Murray said. ‘I'm touched.’

  He took the packet, tore it open and bit deep into a juicy chunk of flesh, sending chicken juice squirting down his T-shirt. He made a noise of appreciation that wasn't far from sexual.

  ‘Do you have to do that in here?’ Freya said. And then, ‘Just don't touch any of the hats, OK?’