After our coffee I took her back to her hotel. Then in the evening I took her to see Phantom of the Opera, which did my head in, but she said she liked, as ‘it was obvious they’d all put a lot of work into it.’ I took her back to the B & B in a cab and said good night. No kiss. No hug. Just another shake of the hand.
Bad vibes
The next day she was taking a midday coach back to Liverpool. And then her nice mechanic was picking her up and driving her back to St Helens. She said that before she went she’d like to see the club. I picked her up after she’d had her breakfast and took her down there.
Empty clubs are strange places. The smoke and mirrors aren’t there, and all there is is potential. It felt like walking round a shipwreck. The cleaners were in, but nothing could get rid of the smell of impregnated smoke, spilt beer, sweat. Ain’t no joss stick gonna fix that. It was clear Mammy wasn’t impressed. And being a cleaner herself, she had a few choice comments about the standard of cleanliness behind the cleaners’ backs. In the office she ran a finger along my desk and checked it for dust, giving a disgusted grimace at what she saw.
‘You must be very proud of what you’ve achieved, son,’ she said. ‘But I get a bad vibe off this place. Like it’s cursed.’
Gee, thanks, Mum.
I took her to Victoria. She said the taxis in London were too bumpy.
‘It’s like someone’s playing my ribcage like a xylophone.’
Some folk were never happy. I was glad we’d not arranged for her to stay any longer. Or with us, come to think of it.
Baby steps.
The snowglobe returns
I’d done a few magazine interviews, on the advice of my accountant, to make sure everyone knew about China Crisis. I didn’t like seeing my face in print. Not because I found myself an ugly pig, but more because, as you know, I liked to keep my head down and fly under the radar. I was worried someone might clock the trendy new club owner and write to the magazine going, Oh, he was a drug dealer.
Oh, he was a pimp.
He ran away from our school.
You just didn’t know who or what was gonna come crawling out of the woodwork.
I was working in the office one night when one of the bouncers came through with a face on him.
‘There’s someone in the queue, says he’s guest list, but he’s not. Says he knows you.’
This was always happening. I sighed, put down the pile of twenties I was counting.
‘Name?’
‘Said he didn’t need to give a name. Said to give you this.’
He pulled something out of his pocket and slammed it on the table. It was a snowglobe. As the plastic snow inside it bobbed around and then settled, I saw it was the one I’d sent to Sam all those years ago.
‘Bring him in here.’
‘He’s off his face.’
‘Just do it.’
‘Yes, Boss.’
I didn’t like it when he called me Boss. It always sounded insincere. Like when my dad called my mum Mammy and there was that vague threat to it, that tinge of sarcasm, like she was anything but. But I wasn’t going to show him how I really felt. Right now I had bigger fish to fry.
Sam. In the flesh. After all these years. I was so excited. I shoved the money in the safe and went about fixing him a brandy. I didn’t know if he liked brandy, but there was a bottle and glass to hand, so I poured him some. I was nervous. Firstdate butterflies. I was more excited to see him again than I had been my own mother. With her, it was more a case of ‘best get this out of the way in case I’m denying my son something’. But this was something I’d hoped would happen one day, but didn’t really think it would.
I heard him before I saw him. I heard raucous laughter and screaming and general camp rambunctiousness. And then the door was flung open, and there he was. He raised one arm in the air, bent the other to his waist and shouted,
‘HERE SHE IS!!!!’
Then did what I can only describe as a jagged catwalk flounce over, and gave me the biggest hug I’d ever had in my life.
Mammy/Sam = polar opposites.
And there were no baby steps here.
Once he’d said his hellos he went back into the corridor, and then dragged a massive holdall in with him. Eventually, the inevitable happened: I said he could stay at ours.
Room at the inn
There wasn’t really any room at the inn. But we made some. One of the problems of loft living is the lack of privacy, and it was magnified with Sam staying with us. The loft was basically a very large room. On one side there was a bathroom, for all the world to see. A bath and a sink on a raised platform. If you wanted privacy you could pull a curtain round the platform, which we started doing when he moved in. There was a door off to the loo and a utility room, so at least some things weren’t shared. And the bedrooms were in these little pods that you had to climb a ladder to get to. Basically the space above the loo and utility room had been hollowed out and separated into two bedrooms, which only just fitted a mattress and a wardrobe in. Owen came and slept with us. Sam got his own pod. Nat was so kind letting him stay – admittedly he didn’t think he’d be there long, but he’d moved to London and wanted to see what was what before deciding what to do.
Whenever I thought I might broach the subject of What are you planning to do next?, he’d trot out the line,
‘Ah, d’you remember that night when you said . . . if you’re ever in trouble, come to me? I’ve never forgotten that.’
Well, here he was.
Owen was fascinated by him, couldn’t take his eyes off him. He was so loud, brash, camp, funny. The loft was all industrial polished cement and exposed brickwork, metal pipes and strip lights. He brought a much-needed dash of colour to it.
‘He’s so unlike you,’ Natalie always said.
‘Thank fuck,’ I’d say back, and she’d do that playful slap that was Natalie sign language for You’ve got to believe in yourself more.
Sam had commandeered his pod and marked his territory with a swathe of scarves and wraps and throws – God knows why he felt the need to carry all them around with him – and he had all sorts of lotions and potions spread out on his duvet, as if he was constantly trying stuff out in a beauty parlour. Propped up to the side of his pillows was his holdall. Even that looked like it had been placed there by a dresser or art director. But he’d just shoved it there on arrival.
The chaos
It wasn’t just his pod that was chaotic. He was, too. His personality. His life. I mean, I felt for him, but God, he was hard work. From the night I brought him back, off his tits, every day he rabbited on about himself. It was so draining.
He’d grown into a thick-set bloke. The muscles of his youth had given way to late-onset puppy fat. And I wasn’t surprised when I saw the sort of food he put away: takeaways, burgers, everything on the hop. He was amazed that Natalie cooked proper meals, said it wasn’t something he’d really had since Hansbury.
Ah, Hansbury. Whenever I asked him about it, his demeanour changed.
‘That place. That fucking place, Danny. I could bring down the government with what happened. And I’ve got evidence.’
‘What evidence?’
‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’
He’d talk about Benedict Bishop like he was the devil incarnate.
And look at him now. Lording it over the country, and look at me. Fucked.
Natalie gave him help sorting out his benefits. He’d not worked since leaving Hansbury – too busy, always on the go. To my mind, he was a hustler. He wasn’t the prettiest lad on the block, but blokes will pay for anything in the early hours. And back then, of course, I thought that at twenty-six, twenty-seven he was past it. Now I realize he still had youth on his side. Sometimes he’d disappear for days, then reappear off his nut with pockets full of cash.
‘You never look in there,’ he had said the first night, pointing to his holdall. ‘Promise?’
I promised. And I never did.
> The longer he came and went, the more Natalie got pissed off with him. Looking back, it was only for about a month, but it felt like a lifetime, and he never had a key. Since having Owen, one of us was usually there. Natalie had taken more of a back seat with the club, so she had to cope with him more than me, and it was starting to grate. She never dared leave him in charge of Owen for any period of time, as she felt his chaos wasn’t to be trusted. She once nipped to the shops for a few bits and came back to find Owen in tears because Sam had painted some of her make-up on his face. He didn’t like it, and nor did she. Words were exchanged and Sam went walkabout again.
The fridge
No, not the nightclub in Brixton. This was the Nineties. Fridges with pictures on them were all the rage. Me and Nat got one from John Lewis – I know, cutting-edge – that was bright blue, with a massive photo of a bright yellow lemon on it. It shone like a beacon against all the stainless steel of the rest of the kitchen in the corner of the loft. But after we’d had it a few weeks, it stopped working. So they said they’d exchange it for another. When the new one arrived it had a different photo on it. This one was blue on the sides, but the front showed a photo of a tropical beach. White sands, turquoise sea. We both decided we preferred it to the lemons one, so it stayed. I could spend hours staring at that view, making out I was there. I found it so calming. Whenever I was worried about anything, I could sit on the couch and stare at my fridge. Nat used to laugh that it was cheaper than therapy for me.
Actually, a few times she suggested I go for therapy. I hadn’t told her half the things I’d seen in my life. I’d told her a few, and even that tiny amount made her think that a bit of counselling might help. I know you’re supposed to be honest in relationships and share everything, and not be scared of being judged. But you know me: I like to keep a bit back. And blimey, if she thought I needed help after all she’d heard, imagine if she’d heard the lot! She’d have me down as a basket case.
No shortage of offers
Women were always coming on to me in the club. The odd fella, too. But I’d never really been driven by my dick. I didn’t find it that hard to stay faithful. I mean, don’t get me wrong, some of these birds were beautiful. Real stunners. But I’d promised myself, hadn’t I? I’d never do anything to screw up what I had at home. Some of the blokes in the office thought I was mental. They reckoned what Natalie didn’t know didn’t hurt her. But that was mostly their booze and lines talking. To do their heads in, sometimes I wiped baby oil on my desk where they’d do their lines. I’d try not to laugh as they upended their wraps of coke onto the surface and then not be able to work out why it wasn’t being hoovered up through their tenners when they went in for a snort. Got them every time with that one.
My favourite times
It may have been a throwback to what I did when I was a kid, but the happiest times back then were not when I was working, but when I was back in the loft, lying on this massive inflatable armchair we had, Owen sprawled over my chest, with the telly on in the background. And I’d do silly impressions of whoever was on the box. And Owen would lie there, chortling. And when I stopped he’d go, ‘Again.’ Or just poke me in the arm. Or poke his knee into my chest. And I’d do some more. He smelt of fresh sheets. They were the best times.
Just another manic Monday
I woke to the sound of Sam kicking off. Natalie was shouting at him, and Owen was crying.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ I shouted. ‘Do you know what time I got in? Jesus!’
‘Danny? Tell him!’ – Natalie’s voice.
I dragged myself off the mattress and started clambering down the ladder. Sam was still screeching.
‘Sam, will you pack it in?’
‘I’ve told you! No-one goes in my bag!’
‘Who went in your bag?’
‘Owen went in his bag! He’s two! He doesn’t understand!’
‘Yeah, well, he does now! Don’t you, you little twat!’ The tone in his voice was murderous.
‘Right that’s it. Take your things and get out of my house.’ I really had had enough.
‘It’s not a house, it’s a loft. As you keep on telling everyone. It’s hardly Buckingham Palace, dear!’
‘I want you out, Sam. You don’t speak to my son or my wife like that.’
‘You said. You said any time I was in trouble. Come to you. Liar!’
‘You came! And now you’re going! You’ve outstayed your welcome, lad!’
He was walking round the loft picking up his things, grabbing his holdall to him for dear life. He was only half dressed as he stumbled to the door, shoving things into the bag. At the door he looked back, lifting the bag aloft.
‘I could bring down a fucking government with this!’
And that was it. He was gone. Now bloody Natalie was crying as well, hugging Owen to her, rocking him on the sofa, telling him the nasty man was gone.
Then it was, ‘Nice one, Danny. Bringing that into our house. I told you he was dodgy.’
‘I was trying to do the right thing, love.’
‘Well, next time, don’t bother.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, love. There won’t be a next time.’
I tried to join them on the couch, to put an arm round Owen and tell him everything was OK. But she sort of pulled him into her more, like it was me he was scared of.
‘It’s not me he’s scared of,’ I went.
And she gave me this look. Incredulous. As if to say, Oh, isn’t it?
Down in the street below there was some sort of commotion going on. A car horn was beeping and someone was shouting. I went to the window. Sam was stood in the street, in the middle of the road. Traffic had stopped each side of him and he was staggering round, swinging his bag, shouting either up to us or out to the world. I pulled the blind down to block him out. I turned to Natalie. Owen was calming now.
‘We have never, ever spoken to Owen like that,’ she said softly to me. ‘I don’t want my son raised in that kind of environment. I don’t want to replicate your childhood.’
‘You don’t know the first thing about my childhood.’
‘I don’t wanna know.’
‘Don’t worry. I only tell people I’m arsed about,’ I said. Arsey. And then clambered back up the ladder to go back to sleep.
I regretted it instantly, of course. The promise I’d made to myself. To keep her happy. And now I was saying things to hurt her. Is this what happened when you’d been together so long?
I buried my head in the pillow, hating myself. Then looked up at the ceiling, turning on my back.
‘Sorry!’ I shouted out. ‘I’m a tit.’
But instead of a response, I just heard the front door going.
Ah, well. Served me right.
A crisis in China
It was just a normal night in China Crisis. The place was heaving. It was a hot summer’s night, and Natalie wasn’t in coz she’d just found out she was pregnant. Although I’d been wary of taking the plunge and having another, the news had thrilled me, and I was bouncing round the gaff with a spring most definitely in my step. Life was good. Profits were up. Every banging DJ in London, the world probably, wanted to play a set at CC. Life was sweet.
The only dark cloud on the horizon was that our licence was up for renewal, and word on the street was that the council were looking for any excuse these days to shut down the clubs that had sprung up in the area. Not that the attendees were a nuisance to the locals, per se; Vauxhall Cross was just a massive roundabout and a couple of train stations. But MI6 had not long opened their new headquarters there, and there was surveillance everywhere. And they didn’t miss a thing. No doubt the council didn’t want to go showing themselves up in the eyes of the spies. So I was paranoid about getting any sort of bad reputation. The slightest fracas in the club, I was on it: cops were called, the kids detained. I couldn’t afford to have any trouble at my door. Or outside it.
I was giving it large on the VIP floor, coked up to the eyeballs as per – with
Diet Coke, naturally – when Jimmy the bouncer came up the stairs and gave a flick of his eyes for me to follow him. I knew immediately there was trouble.
That trouble was a girl lying dead in a corridor out the back of the club. God knows who she was. And God knows what she was doing in the back corridor, which hardly anyone ever used. There was a fire escape there, and her head was up against it. She must have been trying to get out.
‘She’s dead, Danny.’
I could see that. For a moment I froze, staring at her. Somebody’s daughter. She could only have been about fifteen.
‘Who the fuck let a kid in?’
He shrugged.
‘Fuckinell. Has she got a pulse?’
He shook his head.
I opened the fire door. Looked up the lane behind. Nobody about. I panicked. I’m not proud of what I did next, but I couldn’t think what else to do.
‘Get her in your car. Drive her to St Thomas’s. Drop her off at A and E. Leave her there. It’s only what an ambulance’d do.’
He looked at me like I was mad.
‘I’ll give you an ’and. Got your keys?’
He nodded.
And God alone knows if those surveillance cameras all suddenly spun round to watch two grown men carry a young girl out of a club, but something happened, because as soon as we were getting into Jimmy’s car there was a flashing blue light in our faces.
I turned in the performance of my lifetime. I was so convincing, even Jimmy seemed to buy it. As they radioed through for an ambulance, I insisted we were just about to drive her to the hospital. Look, I had my phone, I was just about to call the cops myself. We’d literally just found her. We’d get her to hospital just as quick as any ambulance. We were a stone’s throw away.
The girl’s name was Tiffany Keith. She was from a good middle-class family in a leafy suburb of London. Her dad was a copper. Her mum was a teacher. She’d been to a friend’s birthday party and taken E for the first time. For a while after her death, she became the poster girl for the anti-drugs brigade. She’d only had one tablet, but had drunk so much water (as she’d heard the drug made you dehydrated) that it caused some sort of overload in the brain. It was her caution that killed her. Well, if she’d not taken the drug, of course she’d have still been alive.
The Secrets We Keep Page 29
