Martin Dash

by Andy Bailey

  “Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger ! – Yes !”

  Michael was now laughing uproariously at his own obscure joke. Susan groaned inwardly.

  “Oh, and Aleister Crowley, of course” – this offered up more flatly.

  “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law,” Susan knocked that straight back at Michael and he stopped still; his gaze moved past her left shoulder to the black night sky through the window and she could have sworn that she saw him cock his left ear ever so slightly, as though he had heard the faint call of his name.

  “Hmm,” was all he said.

  Michael’s talk was setting Susan’s brain jangling. This was exactly the sort of stuff that had filled her adolescent mind at the same age and the name Aleister Crowley always was a sort of covert calling card, brandished to signify that you were one of the initiates who took their transgressions intellectually seriously. Having said that, Susan was fully aware that, in truth, she was a mere dilettante in such matters and that occult sacrifices and drug-fuelled sex rites weren’t really her bag. But she wondered where it had led these three. And then a moment of recall sprang up from her youthful readings – “Hang on, didn’t Aleister Crowley once summon up the Devil in St Ives?” she asked, only a little playfully.

  This had an odd effect upon Michael – he jumped slightly, as though pricked with a fork. His eyes darted to Susan and fixed on hers. He took a slow pull on his cigarette and said: “You know about that then?” in a level tone, as though they were talking about the visit of a dignitary opening a new school.

  “Well I know the story,” Susan replied, struck by how seriously Michael appeared to have taken the question.

  “It was at Zennor actually,” he looked to the ashtray as he flicked the cigarette at it. “Just down the road.”

  “Well it was only a story, of course,” said Susan, hopefully.

  Michael snorted. “Hmm.”

  “Well the Devil didn’t actually visit Cornwall, did he?” Susan was laughing now.

  “P'raps not then.” Michael returned his gaze to her, still perfectly serious. Susan stopped laughing.

  After an awkward silence, she remembered what she really wanted to ask Michael.

  “So, he didn’t have the anhedonia then?”

  “No. Well . . .” He struggled to find the right response. “No, it wasn’t like that. He did get depression but that would come and go. He was up and down like a bottle of pop, you know?”

  “Bipolar,” interjected *BOB* as if, again, she had some personal knowledge of this. Michael looked at *BOB* – “Yeah,” clearly surprised and wondering what the personal connection might be. He decided to park that and return to the subject of Martin.

  “No, it would come and go but it’s now been with him for pretty much the last 10 years. At least that’s what he told me.”

  Susan sat up straight – “You’ve talked to him about it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “Last few days.”

  “Where?” Susan realised she was beginning to sound like a policeman but her indignation at the preferential access this man appeared to have been granted – over her – was subordinating her poise (in reality, already jettisoned – in full view – rather earlier in the evening).

  “At my house. Here.” Clearly enjoying another round of knife-twisting, savouring the pangs of a jealously that Susan couldn’t hide. Almost involuntarily she looked around, piqued by the thought that Martin had been in here. Without her. Acting normal. And then a thought that jabbed her bottom lip out and cast her eyes down: had he been in here earlier . . . with those women . . ?

  She drew breath and continued the interrogation: “So when he got out of jail, he went to you?”

  “I stood his bail.”

  The lawyer in her made her ask, “How much was that?”

  “One million.”

  Carol’s jaw dropped and *BOB* sat straight up – “Whoah . . . Whoah, what? What jail? What the hell’s going on with that boy?”

  Susan jumped in before Michael, not wanting to miss the chance to show that, yes, she had some intimacy with Martin and his circumstances herself.

  “Martin’s been arrested in relation to one of the clients at work. Money laundering. But it’s nothing to do with him.” She was addressing this to *BOB* but, in the corner of her eye, she saw Michael raise his eyebrows at this.

  “What do you mean? – what’s your boy do?” asked *BOB*.

  “He’s a lawyer, like me. And Carol.” Susan nodded to Carol, who beamed, having finally got a (small) part in the drama. “We all work together. At the same firm.” Susan’s mood was brightened slightly, at being able to say that but was quickly punctured by Michael.

  “Did.”

  Susan narrowed her eyes at him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I don’t think he’ll be welcome back there, sweetie.”

  “No?” As she said this, she wondered if her own days at Stone Rose were also numbered.

  “Not after the amount of shit that’s hit that fan, no. With the trouble that’s going down over this one, I reckon your bosses’ first instinct will be to let good old Martin walk the plank. Well, I know so.”

  “Really?”

  “Hmm, seen the statements. A Mr Gerard Bild for one.”

  “Fucking Gerry,” Susan spat out.

  “No – Gerry’s fucking Martin . . . ” Michael grinned at his own little joke and *BOB* couldn’t stifle a wee smirk either.

  “But don’t worry. I’ve got some proper lawyers onto it. I’ll look after him.”

  “Oh.” Susan was about to issue another barbed rebuke before it came to her that she perhaps ought to be grateful if Michael was actually trying to help Martin. So, hesitantly: “Well, that’s . . . that’s good of you. Thank you.”

  *BOB* nodded.

  “Listen Susan – Martin’s my oldest friend. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.” Michael looked up at her from stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray and put on his serious face, wanting to appear emphatic.

  Then it hit her. The Google entry from that afternoon. “Hey, it’s just dawned on me. I came across your story when I was looking for you on Google earlier. There was a news report about a fire in Cornwall 10 years ago and you were featured as the guy who lost his sister. Your name’s not Michael Green – it’s Michael Broad !” she concluded, accusingly, triumphantly.

  Michael’s face reddened and darkened at the same time.

  *BOB* slapped her hand to her forehead and rolled her eyes – “Jesus, how much more?!”

  Michael’s eyes were now cold and hard.

  “Well done Sherlock. No, I’m not Green, I’m Broad. I changed my name when I moved up here. A new start, new name. Leave the old life behind. Same as Martin. Nothing wrong with that,” he bristled.

  “All of us having something to hide. Something we’d rather not be out, eh, Susan?” This was directed at her with feeling and a twinge of fear rippled through her. She cocked her head to one side but kept her eyes screwed to meet his baleful gaze.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that this business with Barry Rogers spreads a bit further than just Martin and Stone Rose.” Susan’s whole body deflated slightly as she realised what was coming and, Michael, being fluent in body language, registered it.

  “You know what I’m talking about then?”

  *BOB* and Carol both looked, equally puzzled, at Susan, who guiltily glanced at each of them in turn from under the hand that was now rubbing her eyebrows before returning her gaze to Michael, who had recovered his composure but, to be fair, clearly wasn’t going to be any more explicit in front of the other two – whether out of some gentlemanly impulse or a desire to savour the moment, it was difficult to tell. But he did impart, finally: “It’s gonna be on the news in the morning, love,” and turned the corners of his mouth down, as if in sympathy.

  Susan shut her eyes and knea
ded her eyebrows harder. Then, defiantly looking straight back at Michael, chin held up: “My father?”

  “Your father,” he nodded.

  Carol really did look puzzled now.

  “How do you know it’s going to be on the news?”

  “I told you – my lawyers are acting for Martin. I know what’s happening on the case and the net is widening, believe me. But Martin, by the way, declined to say anything about your father – says he likes the old chap, as it happens.”

  This was the first utterance to have come out of Michael’s mouth all night that made Susan feel good at all.

  “However, friend Rogers is not being so discrete, apparently.”

  “That guy is such a wanker,” Susan blurted out, with some vehemence.

  “Finally, something we can agree on !” Michael raised his hands to show his palms, apparently delighted. *BOB* laughed and asked: “Who’s he? Some greaseball?”

  “The prick who’s going to drag them all down – I’ve told my dad time and time again to throw him off. And that bloody creepy sister.”

  “Ah, the great Joan of Arc. Now there’s a fucking case if ever I saw one,” Michael caught himself and ducked his head at the assembled ladies.

  “Pardon my French.”

  “Oh please, Michael,” drawled *BOB*.

  “But seriously, that guy should watch himself. He’s been keeping some very bad company. People who won’t appreciate him shooting his mouth off."

  Susan didn’t like the sound of this. “Dare I ask who?”

  “Honestly – you don’t want to know, believe me. Let’s just say ‘foreign parties’.”

  A whole tableau of frightening outcomes danced at the forefront of Susan’s imagination but she still thought to ask: “Are these people that you know too, Michael? What exactly is it that you do, by the way? You seem to have a lot of money and know a lot of people, a lot of things. I’m not being unfriendly when I ask that – I do appreciate what you’re doing for Martin but I suppose I’m intrigued. What is Mu Productions, for example?”

  Michael laughed but then said, rather pointedly: “It doesn’t pay to be too nosey, you know, kiddo.” This sounded for a moment like a threat but Michael laughed again and continued – “Look, I just got lucky with some property deals. I used my head and parlayed that up, and I get bored, so I try this, I try that; I produce computer games; I open a burlesque club (at this he smiled at *BOB* who shot her arm in the air and called out: ‘Hooray !’); and I seem to have stayed lucky so far – most of these things have made money fairly rapidly. And if you’re doing all that in a place like London, you do get to know a lot of people. So don’t worry – I’m no sort of gangster if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  This all sounded a little pat to Susan, like an oft-repeated routine (for the Revenue, say) but she didn’t press it.

  There was a lull in the talk. Susan caught Carol looking her up and down and followed her line of sight to the appalling state of her own garb. They both started giggling and were soon followed by *BOB* and Michael.

  Carol shook her head “Bloody hell, Susan – you certainly know how to show a girl a good time !”

  It was as though the recall of each crazy twist and turn rose up in succession like a movie hologram in the space between them, without either speaking a word – their two minds in lockstep – and it seemed that only now did it occur to them how demented each episode had actually been. Each instalment cranked up the gut-bursting hilarity of the whole thing until they were finally hanging over the sides of their chairs, crying with laughter, snot running onto their lips.

  A massive release valve had been blown open and it was clearly also a relief to *BOB* and Michael, who chuckled indulgently at the two girls. Finally, when the cacophony of howling had subsided and all were gasping as though they’d run a marathon, *BOB* declared “Jeez – I thought New York was crazy but you guys are fucking nuts !” – this started them all off again and soon they were exhausted from laughing.

  At last, Carol said: “Listen Susan, I reckon I’m going to have to get home. I’m done in and I’m supposed to be at work in the morning !” This last comment was conveyed with a level of conviction that suggested that work the next morning was, in reality, no more than a theoretical possibility.

  Then it occurred to Carol to ask hesitantly: “Will you . . ?” her voice trailed off.

  “God, I don’t know . . . No, I wouldn’t have thought so.” Susan snorted in reply. “I’ll need to see my dad. And Martin.” She looked across at Michael, earnestly – “Where is he, Michael?” (She thought she’d try him again now they seemed to be on better terms.)

  “I honestly don’t know, love,” Michael shrugged his shoulders, “I’ll see him again soon, no doubt, but I don’t know where he is right now.”

  “What about his mobile? He hasn’t answered me but he’ll answer you.” Susan cocked an eyebrow, thinking: ‘There – got you now. This’ll test whether you're on side’.

  Michael hesitated, apparently unsure for a moment of what to do but then, in an easy-going manner, complied. “Yeah, sure – I’ll try him.” He tugged his phone from his trouser pocket, prodded the screen with his thumb a couple of times, and held it to his ear while looking at Susan. As if reading her sceptical mind, he rolled his eyes and straightened his arm forwards to show her the screen of his phone, which duly read: 'Martin Dash – calling,' and put it back to his ear.

  A ringtone could be heard starting up in the bedroom down the corridor – the standard Nokia ringtone that Martin had never bothered to change.

  Susan’s whole body suddenly felt warm and her cheeks reddened. She scowled at Michael, jumped up and strode quickly to where the sound came from, through the door into the corridor, past the first bedroom on the left and down to the second at the end of the corridor, where the door was open to let out a pool of gold light. Her heart pounding, Susan swung round into the room with her hand on the left door jamb.

  The ringing red phone was lying on the bed of the empty room – she recognised it as Martin’s. She picked it up just in time to see the “Michael Green” caller display disappearing and the call go to voicemail. When she took it back into the living room, Michael was ready with the explanation: “He must have left it here, we had a bit of a party earlier . . . ” his voice trailed off at this and the atmosphere reverted to its formerly icy degree. Which was a shame, thought *BOB*.

  Michael stood up. “Listen I can get you girls home – you don’t need to bother with taxis. Derek, my driver, will take you wherever you need to go. He’s a good guy, ex-military; he’ll look after you. The car’s downstairs."

  They all four stood now, rather awkwardly, but The World Famous *BOB* broke the silence, moving first to Carol and then Susan to administer to both a squeeze on the arm and a peck on the cheek.

  “Well – good night ladies. That was a hell of an introduction and I expect more of the same next time !” and, to Susan, with a friendly tilt of the head and narrowing of the eyes: “I hope you sort out that fella of yours, darling – he’s a real beaut, ain’t he?”

  *BOB* didn’t seem to be leaving, so the girls gathered up their bags and jackets and were ushered by Michael back out of the flat and downstairs to a now empty club. He diverted them, this time, towards a side exit but at one point they did pass an open door to the club itself. Susan glanced at the cavernous room, which was now entirely dark save for a pale pink light emitted by one of the chiller units behind the bar, just enough to provide a shadowy highlight of the edge of the big stage. Susan shuddered, Michael smirked, and they bustled along towards the street door. But just before that was another door which Michael swung open to reveal the bulky frame of said driver, Derek, sat watching some late night TV, wearing the medium length black leather coat cherished by all true heavies, with matching crew cut.

  As the girls clambered into the back of the big Lexus LS outside, Susan extracted Michael’s mobile number from him with a plea for him to speak to her the n
ext day and to get Martin to contact her.

  “Yes of course, darling,” he assured her, not entirely convincingly to Carol’s mind.

  Michael heard Susan and Carol give Derek their addresses to be dropped off in turn before pushing the car door shut and watching the silver sedan glide away from the kerb. Once he’d passed back through the street door into the club, he pulled his mobile out and pressed the contact named ‘Martin Dayton’.

  23.

  They drove to Carol’s house in Maida Vale first, a journey time of only 15 minutes at 1 o’clock on a Friday morning. This didn’t give much time to talk but they weren’t talking much anyway – Carol had tried to initiate a discussion of the Michael and Martin relationship but this had been pretty much shut down when, in response, Susan had touched Carol’s forearm to grab her gaze and then flicked her own eyes to the nape of Derek’s neck and back again, the meaning being clear: ‘Not in front of the servants.’

  In any event, Susan didn’t want to talk anymore – she’d talked enough and now she was thinking. However, when they pulled up in front of Carol’s house in the middle of a curving street of semis, Susan felt bound to say: “Listen Carol, I’m sorry tonight’s been so fraught; what, with all that carry-on . . . and . . . well, you know . . . But I just wanted to say you’ve really been there for me all night and I won’t forget it. You’ve been a proper friend to me. Thank you.”

  Carol was overjoyed and not bothered about showing it, her grin lighting up the back of the car. “You’re joking, aren’t you, Susan? That was the best night out I’ve ever had in my entire life – I wouldn’t have missed it for the world !” And then, a little more earnestly: “I’ll always be there for you, you know.”

  It suddenly struck Susan that, amongst all the chaos in her life at the moment, one good thing to have come out of it, at least, was the realisation of what a good friend she could have in Carol Gee. They embraced and squeezed each other tight and, as Carol clomped out of her side of the car, she admonished Susan: “Make sure you call me, yeah?”