Number 11

by Jonathan Coe

‘Sorry, who?’

  ‘My girlfriend. She does portraits. Mainly of homeless people.’

  ‘How very fascinating and … worthy of her.’

  ‘But not ordinary portraits. She makes them pose to look like –’

  ‘You’re right, it is chilly out here. I think I’ll go back inside.’

  ‘Look, don’t get me wrong. My friend isn’t looking for help. She knows there are no short cuts. She knows you have to be tough in this business. She can cope with being knocked back a few times, you know what I mean?’

  ‘Well, look, it’s been a blast talking to you. Goodbye.’

  ‘She’s a strong girl, my Alison. Very strong. I mean, you have to be, to deal with some of the stuff she’s been through.’

  ‘I’m so glad to hear that. Now –’

  ‘Only having one leg, for instance. I mean, how many people could handle something like that?’

  ‘Great. She sounds like a real trouper.’ Josephine was halfway through the library’s main entrance when the meaning of Selena’s words suddenly came home to her. She turned round at once. ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘I said she was a strong girl.’

  ‘Not that.’

  ‘And really talented.’

  ‘Did you say she only had one leg?’

  Selena noticed the change in Josephine’s manner. She nodded slowly.

  ‘That’s right.’

  Josephine came closer.

  ‘And this is your … girlfriend, right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Girlfriend – as in someone you … someone you’re … in a relationship with?’

  ‘We sleep together, yeah.’

  ‘So you’re lesbians.’

  ‘Um … yeah,’ said Selena, thinking that she had already made this fairly obvious.

  ‘And is she … like you?’

  ‘Like me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. We’re quite different personality types, really. I’m Taurus, for one thing, and she’s Gemini …’

  ‘No – I mean, is she black as well?’

  ‘Ah.’ Christ, this woman is blunt, Selena thought. But she’d caught her interest, for some reason, and she was going to make the most of it. ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘And does she have a job, your friend? Apart from the painting, I mean.’

  ‘No. Neither of us have, since we finished our course.’

  ‘I don’t suppose … I don’t suppose she’s on benefits of any sort?’

  ‘Well, yeah, we couldn’t survive otherwise. There’s the housing benefit, the disability allowance …’

  She tailed off, and gave Josephine what she hoped was an appealing smile. To her surprise, the smile was returned.

  ‘Your girlfriend,’ Josephine said, ‘sounds absolutely amazing.’

  ‘Could you write something about her, do you think?’

  ‘Yes, I think I could.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Selena. ‘Wow. Just wait till she hears that you said that.’

  Josephine held up her hand in a cautionary gesture. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I don’t think you should tell her anything yet. If you can bear it, this is going to be our little secret for now.’ She put a hand on Selena’s arm. ‘You can keep a secret, can’t you? Good. Now – let’s have another cigarette.’

  *

  ‘You missed all the excitement,’ said Sir Peter, as Josephine returned to the table. ‘They awarded the prize five minutes ago.’

  ‘Really?’ she said, stifling a yawn. ‘I don’t even know what was on the shortlist.’

  ‘Everyone thought it would go to the Hilton Humanitarian Prize this year. Either that, or the Mo Ibrahim Prize for Achievement in African Leadership.’

  ‘So which one was it?’

  ‘Neither. They gave it to the Literary Review Bad Sex Award.’

  ‘Great!’ said Josephine. ‘Another triumph for the Brits.’

  ‘Exactly. Being embarrassed about sex is one of the few things we’re still world leaders at, these days.’

  He drained his wine glass quickly, and signalled for a refill. Josephine wondered how many glasses he’d got through while she’d been outside. She also wondered whether to tell him that, thanks to her conversation with Selena, she now knew that he’d been wrong to criticize her column that time, and soon she would be able to present him with living proof. But she decided to keep it to herself for a while longer.

  ‘Your man made a fucking awful speech,’ Sir Peter said. ‘Didn’t get a single laugh. Don’t think anyone here had the faintest idea what he was on about.’

  ‘Did he mention us?’

  ‘Oh yes. Made sure he gave the whole family a good kicking.’

  ‘The cheek! I hope you’re not going to let him get away with it.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said Sir Peter. He picked up an unused steak knife from his table and began thoughtfully stroking its serrated edge. ‘I have plans for Mr Quirky. In fact, I’m going to discuss them with him now.’

  Still holding the knife, Sir Peter attempted to rise to his feet, but he was very much the worse for drink and it took nothing more than Josephine’s restraining hand to keep him in his chair.

  ‘I don’t think this is really the place to cause a scene.’

  ‘There won’t be any scene,’ said Sir Peter, breathing heavily. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do to that fucker.’ He fixed her with a bug-eyed, resolute glare. ‘I’m going to offer him a job.’

  ‘You’re going to do what?’

  ‘You heard me. I’m going to take him on as a columnist.’

  ‘Oh, sit down, you’re completely pissed.’

  ‘I may be pissed but I know what I’m talking about. You don’t attack your enemies, if you really want to hurt them. You co-opt them. “Hey, Ryan,” we’ll say, “come and join us. No hard feelings, old boy. Love your schtick. Come and do a bit of work for us.” We chuck him a couple of hundred grand a year for a thousand words a week and then everyone sees he’s writing for us and thinks we can’t be so nasty after all. We look good, and he looks bad. We keep him on for eighteen months and give him a couple of pay rises. By then he’s lost most of his teeth and he’s hardly being rude about us at all. But he has pissed off quite a few of his fans. And then we kick him out on the street – bam! – and watch how he copes with having his income, which in a short space of time he’s become thoroughly comfortable with, slashed by about eighty per cent.’ He smiled at his daughter and relished the way she was staring at him, open-mouthed with admiration. Sir Peter’s eyes gleamed. ‘So now, if you’d just help a doddery old cunt to his feet, I’m going to get the wheels moving.’

  Josephine did indeed take his arm and raise him carefully out of his chair. Then Sir Peter started to take a few slow, erratic steps towards table number 11. Whether it was because he was becoming forgetful, or because he was rather drunk, or a combination of the two, he was still wielding the steak knife, held at a decidedly aggressive angle, as he approached the unsuspecting figure of Ryan Quirky, who was deep in conversation with a young female admirer in a low-cut dress. But Sir Peter never got as far as the comedian’s table anyway. Before he knew what was happening, he felt his arm politely but firmly seized by a burly, middle-aged man flanked by four or five similar-looking guests, who blocked his path and formed a rapid, protective circle around him.

  ‘Now then, Sir Peter,’ said DCI Capes. ‘I think it would be a good idea if you put that down, don’t you?’

  ‘What are you talking about? Who the fuck are
you? Get out of my way.’

  ‘Put the knife down, and come along with us quietly, and then there won’t be any problems.’

  The other policemen gathered around Sir Peter in an even tighter group. And then Nathan was on the scene, tapping his superior urgently on the shoulder.

  ‘DCI Capes? What are you doing?’

  ‘Not now, Pilbeam. We’re kind of busy here.’

  ‘But, sir, I thought we’d agreed about not jumping –’

  ‘Drop it, Pilbeam, all right? I’m taking this man for questioning. Arkwright, have you got the media room ready?’

  ‘The media room? But you can’t question him there. It’s where the prizewinners are interviewed. It’s full of photographers and TV cameras.’

  ‘PC Pilbeam, I shall handle this situation in my own way, thank you very much.’

  The other officers had by now relieved Sir Peter of his knife and were frogmarching him forward with his hands pinned behind his back. Nathan made one last appeal.

  ‘With respect, sir, we have no case against Sir Peter at all.’

  ‘That’s enough, Pilbeam,’ said DCI Capes, and there was no mistaking the note of aggression in his voice now. ‘Why don’t you sit down, and enjoy the rest of your evening, and concentrate your energies on impressing your very attractive date?’

  With that he was gone, striding swiftly to catch up with the group of officers who were already propelling Sir Peter – too befuddled to protest any further – away from the dining area and in the direction of the awaiting media representatives. A few of the diners looked around to see what was happening, but the operation had been discreet and didn’t cause much of a stir. Most people were more interested in the imminent arrival of dessert.

  ‘Nathan, dear,’ said Lucinda, as he rejoined her at their table, ‘is everything all right? You look flustered.’

  He was very flustered indeed: otherwise, the fact that she had used the word ‘dear’ – the first verbal token of affection to have passed her lips in the whole of their friendship – would have sent him into a swoon of excitement. As it was, he barely noticed it.

  ‘The case has been taken out of my hands,’ he said. ‘And I fear that DCI Capes is about to make a mess of it. And after all that work …’ He sighed heavily. ‘This has been a terrible evening.’

  ‘Really?’ said Lucinda. She sounded hurt. ‘But it’s been so nice, with all these famous people here, and this lovely food, and … well, I thought you liked spending time with me.’

  ‘Oh, but I do,’ he said, clasping her hand earnestly.

  ‘I mean, I know there’s been that mix-up with the bedrooms …’

  ‘No, it’s not that. I didn’t mean to sound gloomy. It’s just that I had a feeling tonight – an instinct – I was convinced I was going to find a clue that would crack the whole case wide open. And so far … nothing.’

  ‘The night isn’t over yet,’ she pointed out.

  ‘True,’ he said, despondent.

  She squeezed his hand. ‘Come on, darling. Just relax and enjoy yourself. Have another glass of wine.’

  Darling! He had graduated from ‘dear’ to ‘darling’ in the space of a few seconds. And still it made no impression on him. Abandoning the attempt to cheer him up, Lucinda turned her attention to Dorian, their talking menu, who was on the point of making another announcement.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, and – as I think I may now call you – friends, your dessert is about to be served. Our chef thought you might be feeling a little full by now, so he has prepared something light for you. You will be presented with shot glasses, each containing a delicate layer of cream cheese flavoured with blueberries, a further layer of cream cheese – as frothy as a soufflé – flavoured with Meyer lemons, topped with Alaskan blueberries garnished with a Meyer lemon zest, all served on a bed of crushed all-butter Highland shortbread.’

  ‘Mmm, delicious,’ said Lucinda, as her shot glass was laid before her. ‘I adore cheesecake. That’s what this is, isn’t it?’

  The question was addressed to Dorian, who admitted: ‘Quintessentially, yes, madam: this is a cheesecake.’

  And now, in an instant, Nathan was jerked out of his reverie. He looked straight across at Dorian and knew, with a thrilling but also terrifying certainty, that he was looking into the eyes of ChristieMalry2. He knew, as well, that Ryan Quirky was in mortal danger. The words from the blog came rushing back to him:

  I hate these fucking middleclass liberal-left comedians and so should you. It seems to me quintessential that they are all wiped off the face of this planet, or we are never going to summon up the energy to overthrow our current rotten, corrupt and soul-destroying political establishment. Down with comedy!

  How he had obtained employment at this dinner, and secured a place at table number 11, was not yet clear. What was clear, however, was that he had come here with no other intention than to commit murder. There was no time to lose.

  Nathan dived under the table. The movement was quick, but not particularly elegant, since he banged his head loudly against it as he did so, thereby attracting everyone’s attention. Without pausing, despite the pain he was in, he lunged at Dorian’s legs and seized them in an uncompromising grip. The resulting spectacle, from the diners’ point of view, was bizarre, as the disembodied head suddenly found itself being yanked downwards through the hole in the table, a movement Dorian resisted by clinging on to the edges with his hands and screaming out for help. Two or three of the guests – including Ryan Quirky – grabbed on to his arms and tried to pull him to safety, resulting in a violent human tug-of-war and, ultimately, the overturning of the entire table amidst a cacophony of shrieks and screams.

  ‘Stop that man!’ shouted Nathan, as Dorian broke free and ran for the exit. Sure enough, a barrier of security guards appeared, and Dorian found his way blocked. At the same time, DCI Capes and his henchmen came back into the room to see what all this noise was about.

  ‘Who is this?’ said the detective.

  ‘This,’ said Nathan, having scrambled to his feet and made his way, panting and dishevelled, to the scene of the capture, ‘is your stand-up comedian murderer. And this is the weapon with which he intended to continue his campaign tonight.’

  With that, he opened what appeared to be a spectacles case, which had fallen out of Dorian’s pocket in the course of their struggle. It contained a long syringe filled with a transparent liquid. DCI Capes took it from Nathan’s outstretched hand, his face a picture of bafflement.

  ‘I suggest,’ said PC Pilbeam (and he could not believe that already, so early in his career, he was using a phrase which he had always dreamed of using), ‘that you send this down to the lab.’

  *

  Two hours later, Nathan and Lucinda were having a final nightcap at the bar of the Hyatt Regency when DCI Capes came by.

  ‘We’ve extracted a full confession,’ he told them. ‘These pinkos soon crumble under pressure. No backbone, you see.’

  ‘Can I interest you in a brandy, sir?’

  ‘Well, why not. It’s been a long evening, after all. But a highly successful one, thanks to you.’

  ‘To both of us, I’d say, sir.’

  ‘All in a day’s work, Pilbeam. They don’t call me “The Caped Crusader” for nothing.’

  He threw the potential nickname out hopefully, but Pilbeam had already turned his back to get the barman’s attention, and the effort once again seemed to have been wasted. What in God’s name would it take, DCI Capes thought, to persuade people to start calling him that? He gave a disgruntled sigh and took the proffered bran
dy glass from his junior colleague.

  ‘So it was merely a verbal tic, was it, that gave him away to you?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘But what about his motive? How had you come across him in the first place?’

  ‘Well, there, sir, if you will allow me to show off a little, you find the vindication of my methods. Cases like this are best approached from the intellectual point of view. The key to the entire problem lay in the history and theory of comedy. So that was where I concentrated all of my research. I began with Aristotle, of course, although sadly the half of his Poetics that deals with comedy has been lost. However, it’s still possible to re-create something of his think –’

  Fascinated as he was by PC Pilbeam’s discourse, DCI Capes was distracted at this point by the appearance of two uniformed constables walking through the bar towards the lobby, carrying a couple of cardboard boxes.

  ‘Ah – evening, Jackson,’ he said. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the first constable. ‘The suspect is safely locked up in the cells at Newtown Station. We’ve cleared out his room on the seventh floor and taken everything away.’

  ‘Excellent. Find anything interesting?’

  ‘Not really, sir. Just a few clothes and toiletries. Oh – and this book.’

  From the top of the box, the constable produced a battered, well-thumbed paperback: an old Pelican edition of Sigmund Freud’s Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious.

  Nathan allowed himself a knowing smile, and said:

  ‘Pretty conclusive evidence, wouldn’t you agree, sir?’

  DCI Capes shook his head in puzzlement. He was yet to be convinced. ‘I rather think a syringe full of liquid cyanide will stand up better in court. I wouldn’t have given much for Quirky’s chances once he got that in his leg.’ He drained the glass of brandy and rose to his feet. ‘Well, I’d probably better go along with these two for now. Goodnight, Pilbeam. You’ve been a credit to the force this evening.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. You don’t know how much that means to me.’