TWO
Shards of a broken brandy glass flecked the tiles. The bottle lay another four drunk paces on in a sticky pool of sundried alcohol. Susan Ball stepped sweetly around the debris, her slingbacks slapping at the back of her foot, her high-heels clicking on the tiles. She remembered a joke. Why do women have legs? The punch-line ran: Have you seen the mess slugs make? — but it was Frankie who always came back legless. His slug-trail of brandy, vomit, coke dust and broken glass stretched from the door, out towards the pool and back through the slide doors to the foot of the stairs which was where he’d probably slept. He was gone now but she could trace his movements.
She would have to clear it up. So long as the villa was clean, he wouldn’t notice she was gone. It might be another twenty-four hours before he realised their marriage was over. But first she needed coffee. She couldn’t face his mess while she was fresh awake, still in her bathrobe and only just out of the shower. She hadn’t even had a first cigarette.
The kitchen radio was tuned to the local station, every song clicking away at three Spanish beats to the bar. Susan was naturally a backbeat girl but she tried a few steps, high-tailing it round the kitchen with her robe swinging behind her and her heels stamping out the time. She rounded the movement off with a high-kick before she risked losing the beat. It set her giggling. A cigarette in one hand and the other on the door of a fridge, she danced like a tart in a cheap TV sketch.
Before the coffee boiled she dialled her son. All she got was the answering machine, a snatch of happy techno, followed by Callum’s short stoned message — Speak up, Hang up or Chill out — and a run of beeps. There were maybe three or four messages stacked ahead of her. She hooked the phone back on the wall and checked the kitchen clock. He could be out but was more likely to be asleep. Like her, he was a late riser. Twelve years on the Costa and neither of them had got used to the hours. Instead of sleeping around the hottest parts of the day, they woke at noon and got the full glare on their strawberry blond skin. He better wake soon, he was supposed to be buying their tickets home.
It took her another three cigarettes and at least that amount of coffee before she felt like rolling up her sleeves.
The mop and bucket were in the hall closet with Frankie’s firearm collection. He’d fitted a rack to the wall for his two shotguns but kept the automatics in an Arsenal bag behind the barbecue briquettes. Only one of the shotguns was in place. The sawn-off was missing, so Frankie had probably gone out shooting things. It explained why she hadn’t found him asleep at the end of his slug-trail. He had to be the only person who ever went hunting with a sawn-off shotgun. He claimed it was more accurate and she never argued. Anyway, he was a rotten shot and always had been. He was only accurate over a range of twelve inches but at that distance he was devastating. He even had the press clippings to prove it: a photograph of a bank guard with half his head blown away and an article saying the police wanted to interview Frank “Ballistic” Ball. That would have been in ’67, the year she first met him. The case was dismissed and they were married soon after his release.
She looked in the sportsbag, the machine gun was gone too. Susan pitied anyone stupid enough to go hunting with her husband. He’d be wearing glasses by now if he ever visited an optician. Although what good glasses would do against his everyday hangover, she did not know.
He’d have taken her jeep. He always left the Mercedes when he went hunting but she hated driving the big car through the town’s narrow streets. Today was even worse, if she dumped his car at the airport he’d soon know she was gone. She’d have to wait until evening to exchange keys. Maybe six o’clock, he’d reach the pub. It was cutting it fine but she needed her own car and if she saw him with a pack of his friends she would at least remember why she was leaving. The other wives put up with the pub, the sing-songs, the Saturday night knees-ups and all the weeping nostalgia that kept their husbands sweet. She didn’t bother. Frankie was so whacked out, nothing made much difference. Spain and boredom had done it for him.
It took half an hour to sluice the tiles around the villa, inside and out. Later, she thought about taking a swim but the sun was too strong. She blamed the heat whenever she was on edge, she only ever reached equilibrium when the sun was on its way down. It probably had nothing to do with the temperature. She’d been just the same back in England: a night-time girl. It was why she’d worked as a hostess after she moved down to London. She was nineteen when she left Manchester and had enough talent to have made it on TV, a dancer on Saturday Night at the London Palladium or something, but working the clubs had suited her rhythm. Her rhythm and the taste she had for criminals. At the time, she thought there was nothing sexier than a young crook with too much money and too much zinc in his blood.
The third night she met Frankie, she hauled him into the dressing room while the other girls were on stage. Inside two minutes, she had his pants undone and his Y-front briefs pulled sideways around his erection. After she finished, she used the three fivers he’d given her to wipe her hands and his cock then handed them back saying he’d better give her new ones, these were spoilt. Frankie zipped up, took a roll out of his suit and peeled off another couple. He looked so cool. No doubt though, she’d worn better than him. For years she hadn’t been able to look at a five pound note with a straight face. Nowadays, she was reminded of him every time she cleaned the fungus off the swimming pool filter and that never raised a smile.
Back in the kitchen, the radio was still pumping its tricky Spanish beats. She re-tuned. The station for ex-pats was playing “If You Go Away” by Scott Walker. When it came to it, you couldn’t beat true British pop.
She tried calling Callum another three times but only got the answering machine. Her phone started ringing halfway through Glen Campbell’s version of “By The Time I Get To Phoenix”. She stopped laughing along and grabbed for the receiver, hoping it was her son. It wasn’t — the voice at the other end was unmistakeable.
She said, “Hi George. How’s the accountancy?”
George Carmichael always sounded like he was gargling engine coolant, “Fine. So what about you, are you all set for your return?”
She told him the tickets and her suitcases were ready and waiting for her at Callum’s apartment.
“So what are you wearing now?”
She had a wardrobe full of clothes besides the caseful she’d smuggled to her son’s the night before. But she admitted she was still in her dressing gown.
He said, “Goodness, if Frankie knew you were talking to me semi-undressed…”
Susan said, “He knows you’re a poof.”
“Is he mellowing with age?”
“He’s marinated. Just the same as he ever was only none of it’s particularly appetising any more. He’s bored and he’s stewing in his boredom. So, no, he’s not mellowed. I’ve got to get out, I don’t want Callum turning into something like him.”
When she told him that she couldn’t find Callum, George said, “Maybe he’s stolen your clothes and run off to join a cabaret.”
It was some kind of poof humour, assuming everyone else was bent. He didn’t push the joke or the subtext — that she’d prefer any kind of mummy’s boy to a replica of Frankie. He didn’t talk business either. Instead, he told her he had a story about a dancer. He’d been saving it for her.
She smiled.
George said, “It seems this boy’s main employment was telly commercials. He’d been a high-kicking carrot for a frozen food company, a bank clerk who changed into Fred Astaire for an insurance company, all kinds of gigs like that. The work paid well, but no one could call it regular and he had to find a new way to make money. In the end, he decided to become a male prostitute. He had a soft heart, at one time he thought about becoming a nurse, so he was sure the work would suit him.”
George had to explain, the dancer knew a man who ran an escort agency but the agency specialised in octogenarians, cripples and anyone generally unsound in limb. Hence the materiality of the dancer�
�s near-vocation for nursing. Was Susan following? George apologised for getting the whole story fanny-first.
Susan said, “No. I’m following it.” It didn’t matter which way George told a story. Anytime she heard his gravel-purr voice, she just relaxed into it.
“The dancer visited one particular character who was paraplegic; he’d been in a car crash or something and suffered massive spinal damage. When the dancer first met him, he thought ‘Christ!’ Naturally. What could anyone do for him, he had no control over anything below his shoulders. But the client was very specific, he explained exactly what he wanted and it didn’t call for motor skills — just a few elaborate props. In fact, so elaborate that the client suggested they video the whole scene…”
A pause while she listened to him drag on his cigarette.
“…well, the dancer normally steered clear of home videos but he agreed. They weren’t likely to repeat it often and a video would be some kind of testament to the experience. So a week later the dancer arrived with a rented camera and the rest of the necessaries. The star item was a headpiece, a kind of helmet but open at the top. Can you imagine?”
She pictured a cripple, sat in his chariot, wearing something like a chimney pot on his head. She gave George a n uh-huh, she had the picture.
“The helmet had an elasticated neck piece so it fitted snug and watertight. Once it was in place, the dancer filled it to the rim with five litres of orange jelly and tangerine chunks.”
“Christ, wouldn’t that scald?”
“I guess he waited for the mix to cool before he poured it into the helmet. The client got off on the feeling of the jelly setting around him, enclosing him in tasty lumps of fruit.”
“How did the cripple breathe?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he used a snorkel or something, you’ll have to use your imagination. Anyway. Apparently it took a while for the jelly to set. The dancer had to rig up an air conditioning unit and sit the cripple right in front of it until the cold air froze his head. But when the helmet was pulled off, he was left with a perfectly round translucent orange jelly on his head.”
“What was the gimmick?”
“He wanted to be orally abused with various objects – nothing bad: a banana, an eclair, that kind of thing – while the heat in the house made the jelly melt. The whole scene would end with the dancer getting a gobble as the mask collapsed and slithered down the client’s head.”
“It couldn’t work.”
“It worked, believe me. But what the dancer didn’t know was, prior to his accident, the cripple had been an artist and he saw the whole scene as performance art. The next thing the dancer knew, the jelly head appeared on posters all over town. He couldn’t believe it, the video won an award at some obscure German festival and was showing at an arthouse cinema in the West End. Word got around, Jello Head Man became a celebrity and the dancer couldn’t get any more work in advertising.”
“Is that a true story?”
George shrugged, What else could it be?
“So what’s the moral?”
“No matter how perverted someone seems, you’d better watch out they don’t have a rational explanation.”
Susan laughed as she said, “Is that a warning?”
“A promise. Your business is safe in my hands. I’ve even bought you the restaurant you wanted. I’ve got the opening party all planned to coincide with your return.”
She wanted to know, was jelly on the menu?
George said, “Only if Frankie finds out what we’re doing.“
They both knew Frankie would find out. She was starting divorce proceedings in the morning but if she wanted alimony, she’d need all of George’s help. She asked how the rest of the account was doing, “Is it multiplying?”
“Yes. Secretly, assiduously. The whole operation’s so legitimate, if Frankie was extradited tomorrow they wouldn’t be able to recover a penny.”
Susan hoped he’d give them a little longer than that.
George said, “Did you get the keys to your new flat?”
She had. They’d arrived by FedEx at their bank in Marbella with a short note giving an address in Marylebone. Everything was working out fine. Frankie cared so little about the way his business was run he never visited the bank. It was her job to check the accounts and oversee George’s investments. As long as his credit cards and the local cash machine worked, Frankie never asked questions.
George was still fussing about the keys. “You’ve got them then?”
“Yes. Except they’re round at Callum‘s with the rest of my things.”
Packed and ready. George had to say he was surprised. ‘I never thought you’d return to London.”
He’d always said she was a provincial girl at heart, that she couldn’t take the big city speed. She told him, “I always said London would be a cool place to live. If all the Londoners would sod off back to Essex where they belong and left the place for everyone else.”
George was born in Kentish Town but he didn’t bother reminding her. All he said was, “Yeah, well hurry back. You’re the star guest at the restaurant’s grand opening party.”
She’d almost forgot, “You remember Callum wants to DJ on the night?”
‘You’re the boss.”
She was. Or she intended to be. She asked George what the people were like who were running her new restaurant.
He said, “There’s two of them, Hogie and Cheb. The cook’s really good, he’s going to be a star.”
“And the other one?”
George said, “He’s definitely jello salad. But he’s also the chef’s best friend so he’ll have to do. He’s some kind of New Age type, interested in exotic religions and back-packing round the East That kind of thing.”
Susan said, “One of those.”
THREE
Behind the cathedral, in the loop of cellars beneath Manchester’s Corn Exchange. It was only just past eleven o’clock but the club was already so crammed it was unhealthy. Mannie would have had made the bouncers carry government warnings: Anyone tending towards claustrophobic; take a long wide swerve. The low ceilings didn’t help. The place was scooped out of the building’s Victorian foundations and styled along some kind of crypt theme with a maze of roughcast fibreglass corridors. Mannie stood with his back to the plastic grotto wall, waiting. This was the absolute worst hour of the night, when a club was hot and crowded but hadn’t started kicking. He’d prefer to skip this stage, fuck the sense of anticipation and power up to the next level. Then he saw Cheb and Hogie.
He recognised Cheb despite the serious head-shave. The high scalp emphasised the demon in him. What he’d heard, Cheb had spent the last couple of years frying his brains in Thailand beach bars, listening to old acid tracks and trance and watching Vietnam war films. Whatever, it hadn’t slowed him down. He came jolting down the steps like a superball. Hogie’s progress was slinkier, tossing his blondilocks. He’d even managed to grow a beard without looking like a prick but he was born lucky and nothing dented his pure aura. Mannie would have called out but he saw his sister in time. Maybe Hogie wasn’t so lucky, Jools had followed him around since school. Mannie knew how painful it was having Jools anywhere close so he stayed hidden.
Cheb shuffled himself out of the group before they hit the dancefloor, leaving Hogie and Jools to find a corner seat. He was carrying the wad, so he headed for the bar. On the drive into town he’d made Hogie stop at every bank they passed while he raided the cash machines. This was supposed to be a pleasure trip and he didn’t want any more embarrassing face-offs with his credit cards. They might be fakes but they nearly all worked. He collected more than five hundred quid just coming down Cheetham Hill.
He never saw Mannie. A couple of yards shy of the bar, an arm snaked out and pulled him sideways. He found himself standing in a dim alcove, being shouted at by some mournful-looking geek.
“Mannie, is that you mate? Why are you hiding?”
Mannie nodded back across the dancefloor towards h
is sister. Cheb turned. He had to say, she was looking almost sober after the excitement of the drive.
“Yeah, sorry mate. But she’s totally fucking adhesive.”
Mannie didn’t have to be told. “Forget it, mate. It’s good to see you. So what’s with the coiffure?”
Cheb ran a hand across his scalp. “Smooth eh? What about you, though? You were supposed to meet us at the pub, you no-show bastard.”
At least he looked apologetic. “Yeah, I’m sorry. The truth is, I been feeling a bit schizzy the last few days but I’m hoping to mellow out when the drugs start working.”
This was what Cheb wanted to hear. ‘Yeah? Hogie said you’re dealing now.”
He shook his head. “That’s one of my problems. I had a run of evil luck and quit the business. I won’t be able to help you.”
Cheb should have known. Whatever Mannie touched, pretty soon it began smelling like it died. He said, “What about our party next week. Hogie said you’d see us right.”
“This grand restaurant opening thing? I might be able to sort something out, I don’t know. But you’re on your own tonight.”
There was a boy leaning against the cigarette machine, with a Charlie Manson stare and a pierced tongue. Mannie pointed towards him: “Tell him I sent you. I’ll catch you later, when you lose Jools.”
Cheb okayed. He was about to go when Mannie called him back.
“Hey, what’s with you and the restaurant I know Hogie’s going to be the chef but what are you going to do?”
“I’m the maitre d’, maintaining the vibes and bonhomie and shit.”
“So why’d they choose you?”
Cheb flashed a fat smile. “Someone’s got to make mankind feel good before its eventual destruction.”
He carried on smiling, walking backwards into the crowd until it closed around him. He didn’t know but maybe he’d got a smile off Mannie for a second. Call him Mr Glum.
Over at the cigarette machine, he asked for eight grams of speed and ten tabs of acid. The guy told him there were no discounts on bulk purchases. That was fine, Cheb never expected to get a good price with Mannie’s recommendation. He counted the notes off his roll – £170.
Jello Salad Page 2
