You Can't Make Old Friends

by Tom Trott

  When I returned to the corner they seemed to not have heard this exchange, they were too busy talking quickly in hushed tones, which stopped suddenly. I was glad they were talking about me.

  ‘Cheers,’ I said as I plonked down the drinks.

  ‘Cheers,’ the bear replied.

  The short man just nodded his thanks and Toby didn’t thank me at all. He really was hairy all over, and bony. Really bony. He looked like he could cut me with his elbows. We all took a sip except him. His was the snakebite.

  ‘So, do you remember me?’ I asked him.

  He raised his eyebrows and bobbed his head in an irritating way, trying to make me anticipate his answer. Much like the men at the bar, setting up what they think is a hilarious joke.

  Then finally, ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I said. Of course I remember you, I’ve got a big painful reminder in the middle of my face.’ He paused for breath. ‘Why? You want to go again? I’ll go again. You got me off guard.’ He glared at me. Then, he shouted, ‘Yes, I fucking remember you!’

  ‘He means from school,’ the short man said.

  He had a smooth, prematurely bald head and arms that didn’t seem to add anything to his width. He looked like a bullet standing on its end. And yet he was very calm, and came across altogether more thoughtful than the other two. That is to say, he came across as though he had thoughts.

  ‘School?’ Toby looked at the others.

  This fact had surfaced from down in my memory sometime in the last two days. Now, I’ll admit that this is something I could have told you earlier. But where’s the fun in that?

  ‘We went to school together?’ he asked me.

  ‘Yeah, you don’t remember?’ I replied.

  ‘No, I don’t remember.’

  ‘You were the kid who kept getting nosebleeds. Did that ever stop?’

  He looked like I’d reached out and punched him again.

  ‘No it didn’t ever fucking stop, but I’m sure you’ve really fucking helped by breaking my nose in two places,’ he fumed. ‘Which kid were you? Oh, that’s right, no one remembers!’

  ‘I remember you,’ the short man said. Then after a pause, ‘Joe.’

  ‘Joe?’ Toby spoke before I could, ‘I don’t remember you.’

  ‘You hung around with Rory,’ the short man added.

  I saw a quick look pass between Toby and the bear, but I had to see it out of the corner of my eye as the short man was keeping his eyes on me.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said.

  ‘Wait,’ the bear seemed to have had an epiphany, ‘did you two used to hang out in the trees together like a couple of poofs?’

  ‘Yeah, that was us.’

  ‘I remember you!’ he said ecstatically. ‘Or at least I remember Rory had a friend.’

  ‘Just one,’ I said.

  ‘You guys had a fort in there, that you built in the trees.’

  ‘You remember.’

  ‘Didn’t we trash it?’

  ‘Yeah, we rebuilt it.’

  ‘And we trashed it again.’

  I swallowed just a mouthful of my pride, ‘That’s right,’ and everyone took a sip of their drinks. Even Toby touched his snakebite.

  ‘So were you gay?’ the bear continued, ‘I mean, we always thought you were. Would be interesting to know if we were right.’

  ‘None of your business,’ I replied.

  ‘That means yes!’ he bellowed. Guffawing too. Then he sat back into a reverie, ‘Rory’s friend…’ he took a few more moments to remember the least flattering details he could, ‘You were a skinny little kid, weren’t you? Quite small.’

  I nodded. I couldn’t deny it.

  ‘Grubby too. Kind of dirty.’

  ‘Usually. Although I didn’t always start that way.’

  I took him in from top to bottom. He had blond hair so short that it was practically stubble, and showed up that weird bunch of skin that some bald men get on the back of their head. He looked comical on the tiny pub chair, like he’d be better off with two of them. I was pretty sure he had to book out an entire row if he flew anywhere. But he wasn’t fat, he was just large. It was as though he had been made in jumbo, chunky size like a toddler’s toy.

  ‘It’s Dan, right?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah.’ He smirked.

  ‘I remember when Rory won the electronics trophy you stole it.’

  ‘And…?’ He was goading me.

  ‘And melted the head with a soldering iron.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ he chuckled.

  He was proud. The bastard. You know, most people grow up to regret bullying people. The other people are psychopaths. If I was charitable I’d say he hadn’t grown up yet.

  ‘I guess you were jealous.’

  ‘I wasn’t jealous!’ he shouted. Good, he was insulted.

  ‘Why else would you do it?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘Because that’s how school works,’ the short man said. As calmly as ever.

  ‘Care to explain that?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s a Darwinian struggle for superiority.’

  Interesting. This seemed to confirm him as the only one of the three who had ever had a thought that lasted longer than a second. He interested me. He didn’t need to speak loudly, or be overly aggressive to assert his power, they knew he was in charge. I knew it too. He was smarter than them. Much smarter. It was to him that I should be speaking.

  ‘What’s that measured in?’ I asked.

  ‘Popularity, of course.’

  He took a sip of his drink, and we all waited for him to explain further. Which he did.

  ‘If it makes you feel better, you fulfilled a very important social function. Each year-group subconsciously selects a few people who are there to be bullied. Usually the weakest or weirdest. And popularity comes from how well you humiliate them.’

  He took another sip.

  ‘We all remember them, and we all bullied them, all of us. Some physically, some verbally, some just with cruel jokes to our friends. The “retards”. The “spastics”. Whatever we called them, they were the piñatas that popularity fell out of when you kicked them.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember!’ Toby shattered any interesting thoughts we were having, ‘It was you that we put in the bin and rolled down the hill.’

  ‘Yes!’ Dan added, intelligently.

  ‘Yeah, that was me!’ I pretended to laugh, their smiles broadening. ‘I remember when I crawled out, Alan,’ I turned to the short man, ‘you kicked me so hard it dislocated my jaw.’

  I stopped laughing. We all stopped. Smiles too.

  ‘Are you still in touch with Rory?’ Alan asked.

  ‘No. We sort of drifted apart.’

  ‘It happens.’

  ‘Not to you guys,’ I said, ‘You were as thick as thieves then, and look at you now: still thick and still thieves.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Toby said. He seemed not to have got it.

  Dan had, ‘Sorry about your hand,’ he said, pointedly.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ I reassured him.

  ‘Still hurt?’

  ‘A bit,’ I replied, ‘What about your balls, still hurt?’

  He wasn’t amused. I turned to Toby.

  ‘Look, I really am sorry about your nose. I wouldn’t have done it if your friend didn’t have his hands around my good friend’s sister’s throat.’

  ‘That wasn’t what it looked like,’ Dan lied.

  ‘Oh really? So you weren’t shaking her down to try and find Rory’s notebook?’

  They all fell silent. Each of them stared at me. I just smiled.

  ‘What fucking notebook?’ Toby sounded genuine.

  ‘Or were you looking for your big bag of pills?’

  ‘Where’s the notebook?’ Alan asked quietly.

  ‘Where are the pills!?’ Toby pretty much shouted.

  ‘With the police, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Where’s the notebook?’ Alan asked again.

  ‘I want to see Bobby.’


  Toby pretended to chuckle. ‘Who’s Bobby?’

  I put on my most patronising tone, ‘Your boss, Toby, you remember him?’

  ‘Hey—’

  I interrupted him, ‘Taking me to Bobby is the only thing that’s going to keep you out of jail.’

  Dan and Toby stood up, knocking their chairs over in the process.

  The pub froze. Silent. But Alan stopped the other two.

  ‘Sure thing,’ was all he said. And he gestured, after you…

  14

  Storm Joseph

  they led me to the back seat of a black 4x4 where they left me for a while. It was plush and warm, an expensive German model with leather seats that felt like they were spooning you.

  Blown into the street, tin cans and empty bottles were careening down the hill, spilling into the main road, the now departed residents of recycling boxes. The lids of these boxes slid down the road too, like tea trays. The road’s one tree bent and bowed, and the street lamps were dancing a merry waltz.

  Alan, Dan, and Toby were standing windswept on the pavement a few metres away, I could see them throwing an argument between them like a cricket ball. Then Alan pointed to the car and they came and sat with me.

  Toby was silent in the passenger seat, and Dan was silent next to me, taking up both the right hand and middle seats. Alan was now on the phone. The conversation didn’t seem to be a happy one, his face was one big frown and he was nodding, taking his orders no doubt. I asked the other two what was going on, but they both ignored me, staring out at the storm.

  Eventually Alan joined us, and leant over the back of the driver’s seat.

  ‘You’re in luck, he wants to see you.’

  ‘I’m honoured,’ I said sarcastically. He wasn’t amused.

  ‘Put these on,’ he ordered, and passed me a pair of blacked-out goggles and ear defenders.

  There was no point in arguing if I wanted to make it to the meet, so I did as I was told. Once I was kitted out I felt the vibrations of the engine roaring to life. The idea was that I wouldn’t know where we were going, of course. But they had forgotten this was my city.

  We headed down Ditchling Road all the way to the Steine, then along Edwards Street past the police station, courts, and job centre, then into Kemptown.

  Kemptown sits between the centre of Brighton and the marina. It’s now seen as an arty area, as it’s the sort of place where thirty years ago creative types could afford to buy flats. It was also one of the places that had spare space for social housing, so just like Brighton in general it squashed the rich and the poor into the same neighbourhoods. You could probably also describe it as the real centre of Brighton’s gay community, but the need for such a place has slowly died out over the last couple of decades.

  It was originally the site of Kemp Town, at one point the largest housing crescent in Britain, a once-beautiful regency estate with large cream houses and mews where the servants lived, completed even after Thomas Read Kemp fled the country to avoid his debts (not being able to afford a house in Brighton has an illustrious pedigree).

  Now they’re all expensive flats, not that that fact really distinguishes the area. And despite the bohemian reputation Kemptown is still the site of the only private school the city really cares about.

  We pulled up down one of the mews and I was manhandled out of the car. For those thirty seconds I was assaulted by the blast from the storm, especially that close to the sea. It was like being marched through a carwash.

  When the goggles came off I was sitting in a dark room. A dark, but also shiny room. The lights were off but I recognised fairly quickly that it was a stainless steel restaurant kitchen. I reasoned it must be one of the many independent, and highly regarded, restaurants in the area, presumably a front for laundering Coward’s drug money. But it could just as easily be a vanity project, a nice hobby to keep him busy when he’s not destroying the city or having people killed.

  It looked expensive. There was a clean row of ovens and gas hobs. An island of hot cupboards. A huge bank-vault-sized door to a walk-in fridge, and an identical one into a freezer. Saucepans hung from the ceiling, and running along the far wall was a long magnetic strip. Every variation of chef’s knife clung to it. Nothing in this place was soft. Everything was sharp.

  I was sitting in a metal chair. Opposite me was another. Empty. They had gone through my pockets and my phone and knuckleduster were on the side, too far out of reach. I couldn’t hear any traffic, but it was late, and who the hell was going to be out in this weather?

  Alan, Dan, and Toby were standing in the corners of the room. Completely silent, as though we were about to receive royalty. I spotted a proper-looking coffee machine sitting on the side.

  ‘Could I get a cappuccino?’

  They didn’t even look at me. Instead, Alan nervously checked his watch.

  Thunder rumbled all around us, shaking the cabinets. Rain was beating against the few tiny windows. Storm Joseph was here in full force. I imagined what I could see if the ceiling was made of glass. Good thing I was inside.

  A few minutes later I saw a bead of sweat creep from Alan’s hair, down over his temple, to his chin, over the moles on his neck.

  Toby was swallowing in my left ear, far too often, and too loudly, gulping gallons of saliva.

  Dan was clenching and unclenching his fists. Cracking his knuckles.

  Finally, the sweat arrived on Alan’s shoe. Then there came the sound of a car pulling up and headlights swept across the room through the small windows at the top of the back wall.

  A car door opened and closed. And then the back door to the kitchen opened, the one I assumed I came in by. In stepped a hard-looking young man. He had a stubbled head and a tattoo poking up from under his collar. His face was scarred, and hard, but this image was rendered ridiculous by the full-on, gold-buttoned, Parker-from-Thunderbirds style, chauffeur’s uniform he was clearly forced to wear. He disappeared for a moment and another car door opened and shut.

  Then in slithered Robert Coward. He was wearing a midnight blue, full length coat. Purple velvet suit jacket, black trousers, and pointed brown shoes with giant buckles. Silver silk scarf, black leather gloves, and a rose in his buttonhole. He could have been stepping out onto a fashionable red carpet, but instead he was here. His face was sharp, his eyes keen, and his tongue darted out of his mouth from time to time, giving him the general appearance of an overdressed reptile.

  He took off his coat and handed it, scarf, and gloves, one-by-one to his driver, who shut the door and stepped back into the shadows. Opening that door had brought more than a chill to the room. Or maybe that was just Coward.

  Rather than regard anyone in the room, he went and opened the walk-in fridge of all things. From it he emerged with a big stainless steel bowl covered in cling film.

  ‘Antonio makes the best French onion soup,’ he said to no one in particular.

  His voice was a big baritone. Much bigger, and about twenty years younger, than his octogenarian body. There was some impression of an old stage actor, who had trained his voice to project to the last row of the gods, but with some flavour too of a hard-drinking, hard-living artist, akin to Hemingway or John Huston, but also taking a far more dandyish pride in his appearance than either of those. To be honest, I didn’t know exactly what he was, but he was nothing like the thuggish brute I had expected, and nothing like the brat I had imagined in Harry’s story.

  He poured some of the bowl’s contents into a saucepan and lit a gas burner underneath. Everyone just watched. Then he grabbed an empty bowl and a spoon and sat in the chair opposite me.

  ‘Don’t let it boil this time,’ he grumbled to his driver. Then he looked at me and acknowledged my existence for the first time. ‘Do you know what the secret is to great French onion soup?’

  I just stared at him, incredulous. Despite it being a simple question, I had no idea what he wanted from me.

  ‘Do you know?’ he asked again, his brilliant white eyebr
ows dancing along to his words like two conductor’s batons.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s judging the sweet spot.’ He smiled, and leant forward as though I gave a shit. ‘You have to caramelise the onions to a deep, dark brown. But not burn them.’ He emphasised that last point very strongly. ‘It takes a great chef because depending on the butter, on the temperature, on the onions, it’s always different. You have to know when to stop. But it’s difficult, because the longer you cook them the darker they go, and the tastier they get. But then—’ he clicked his fingers, ‘they’re burnt. And all you’re making then is bitter-tasting onion water.’ He leant back in his chair, very satisfied with his story.

  ‘That’s a lovely story,’ I reassured him.

  ‘It’s going to come back up later in the conversation,’ he said without a smile, ‘I promise.’

  ‘What makes you think you’re in charge of this conversation?’

  This time he gave an ophidian smirk. ‘Because I’m in charge of everything.’

  I tried not to nod. If I did it’s because I knew he would say that.

  He looked at my bruised face, ‘You’re the bastard who broke into my building site.’

  I nodded, smiling slightly.

  ‘I should have guessed that bitch would hire you.’

  He put the empty bowl down on the worktop and straightened his back, getting into work mode. He also pulled his shirt cuffs back out the end of his sleeves.

  ‘Joe Grabarz. We’ve never met, but I know you by reputation of course.’

  ‘Likewise.’

  ‘You wanted to meet me. Something about a notebook. I suggest you start talking.’

  ‘I’ll try and cut through the crap,’ I started, making sure they were all listening. It felt like a duel. Things were going to happen quickly. ‘I’m an old friend of Rory’s.’

  He did nothing but raise his eyebrows, and only a millimetre.

  ‘Rory Sweet,’ I reiterated.

  ‘Yes, I knew who you meant,’ he replied calmly.

  Normally when you say to a person the name of someone they’ve ordered killed it registers as some kind of emotion on their face. Anger, guilt, regret, something at least. I was getting nothing.

  ‘A few months ago Rory started keeping a record of every deal you guys made. A very thorough record.’