'I won't crash,' Goran said.
Bogdan stood up and grinned. 'Ah, it's good to speak Serbian after a wonderful lunch like that. At least that fat Hungarian bitch can cook.'
'She answers the phones, does she?'
'Yeah. She's my brother's wife, unfortunately. God knows why he chose her. Still, he fucks anything he wants behind her back.'
Goran laughed along with him, though he found Bogdan repulsive.
They went out of the back entrance and down the street to a battered maroon Ford Mondeo. Bogdan asked him to drive to Mayfair, and then to Baker Street and back. Goran did this effortlessly, not even thrown by some roadworks in Notting Hill. Bogdan could not help being impressed. Nearly all of his drivers had to have an A-Z and ask the customers for directions—not that they understood them: most of them could barely speak English.
Afterwards, when Bogdan and Goran walked back down the alleyway, Zigana peeped furtively out of her hatch, reluctant to admit to her curiosity. Her phones were going constantly now and she had a receiver hanging on either shoulder as she sucked up a milkshake through a red and white straw. The vast polystyrene cup had a picture of a smiling baked potato on it.
Bogdan ignored her and took Goran back to the kitchen. 'OK,' he said, 'It's three pounds an hour. You'll work an eleven-hour shift—seven to six. And you can start tonight.'
'A night shift?'
'Yeah, I don't need anyone in the day just now. I've got fucking Kurds coming out of my ears.'
'Three pounds an hour?'
'You got it.'
Goran had been told to expect this and it was with no hope at all, just a kind of loyalty to his instincts, that he said, 'But I thought four pounds fifty an hour was the minimum wage here.'
'Will you be paying tax, then, Goran?' Bogdan laughed.
'Maybe you know how to help me to get—'
Bogdan flapped his hand. 'Look, my brother can get you everything you need. Just start the job now and make me a bit of money and we'll get you the passport and so on later. A step at a time. I'm a businessman, Goran. I can't give you your ticket out of here as soon as you arrive.'
They shook hands.
Sergey had told him that Bogdan could get hold of excellent quality Italian and Spanish passports, and although Goran intended to ask around elsewhere, this personal recommendation meant a great deal. He didn't imagine he would find one more quickly through someone else—and even if he did, how could he be sure of the quality? Most important of all, he and Mila had only fifty pounds and they would need to rent a bed somewhere after tonight so they would have to resign themselves to being secret, illegal workers for a while, until they could purchase their new nationality and with it a few rights.
Goran felt hopeful. Bogdan seemed like as good a boss as any to work for: at least he was honest about his dishonesty, which was about as much as he ever hoped for in a person—except Mila. He went back through the bead curtain and out into the alleyway. He stopped by the hatch, and smiled at Zigana, addressing her in English. 'Hello another time. You are Zigana? I am Goran,' he said. 'I am new driver.'
Zigana grunted, unimpressed by this skinny, tired-looking man, who was much like all the other skinny, tired-looking men. Her friend Yasmine always said how great it must feel to be the only woman at Kwik-Kabs and to order men around all day, like Zigana did. But Yasmine had healthy men in mind, not these desperate, puny leftovers who often doubled up their eleven-hour shifts and had virtually to be carried out of the cars.
The phones were all going as she watched Goran walk round the bin-bags and out into the light at the end of the alleyway.
They had arranged to call Luke when they needed to get back in. Luke searched for his phone, found it lodged in a trainer under his bed and charged it. He had not listened to his voicemail for a week. There were twelve new messages.
The first few were from 'Jules at Videonation' about an overdue DVD called Task Force, which Luke couldn't even remember hiring. Then there was one from a girl who had handed him her number on a napkin a while ago, and who had now, somehow, managed to get hold of his. The desire in her voice was repulsive; he felt violated by it. Then there were some from old rugby friends asking him out for brunch at a gastropub in Pimlico, then telling him how to get there, then wondering where he was. There was a series of messages from Ludo. The first said he needed to get the hell out of London, the second that he had wangled an invite to 'a hot party' in Nice and that Luke should definitely come with him for the weekend. After a few hang-ups there was one from Nice, laughter and music and clinking glasses in the background: 'You are missing the hottest party,' Ludo said. Luke wondered what he was doing on the phone if it was such a great party. Before Ludo hung up, there was a sudden explosion of oohs, as if someone had brought out a cake.
Jessica had also called a few times. 'Me again', 'Just me again', she said each time. The last one said, 'Hey, me again, relentlessly checking up on you. You see, Luke, I'm trying to exhaust you into a state of submission so you'll do what I tell you. Oh, for goodness' sake, have a shave. Go back to work, babe.' Luke always smiled at the affection and humour in her voice, but the words meant nothing.
Message number ten was a guilty-sounding one from his friend James, who plainly felt he ought to have called when the story about Luke's father came out in the papers. Luke thought how glad he was that his friends had all missed this opportunity and that even Ludo had resigned himself to not knowing what to say.
Then, unexpectedly, there was a message from his sister, Sophie. 'Hey, Lulu,' she said, 'just thought I'd say hi and how are you.' She was ringing from an outside telephone. He could hear birds in the background, the sound of a two-stroke engine sputtering, male voices egging it on. 'You should be out here, you know,' Sophie said. 'There are water buffaloes, Lulu. When I woke up this morning I was thinking you could take one of your beautiful photos. Do you take pictures any more? You should. You were really good at it, you know? Anyway, take care of yourself. And ... thanks for being around for Mum.'
Her voice sounded different to Luke; it sounded gentler. He was amazed she had thanked him for something. He sat still briefly with the various answerphone options playing into his ear: 'To repeat this message, press one, to delete it press two, to save it, press three...'
He deleted it out of habit, and then he found himself wishing he hadn't. It had felt like throwing away a letter.
For some reason, a memory had been triggered, of a time when Sophie had come to an open day at his boarding-school and asked to be shown round. He had suspected that she just wanted the other boys to get a look at her in her miniskirt, but he set off on the tour they gave prospective parents just in case she was actually interested in his life.
In fact, if she had wanted to show off, Luke had been glad to note she was out of luck as the inside of the school was deserted. All the boys were out receiving music prizes or doing judo demonstrations or poetry recitals for their proud parents. Enjoying the thought of her disappointed vanity, he continued an efficient tour, until they walked along the main corridor and passed a nasty little scene. Jonas Gully, a boy from Luke's year, was bullying a first-former. The older boy pushed the younger one against the wall and slapped him hard enough to make his nose bleed. Knowing the etiquette, Luke had continued to walk and Sophie followed him, her head twisted round to stare.
'Who's he?' she said, 'that huge boy?'
'What? Oh, that's just Gully. Anyway ... so, these are the science labs,' Luke said, trying to continue as normal.
Sophie put her hand on his arm and stopped him. 'Can I see your bedrooms?'
'Well ... sure. OK. They're nothing special, though. Like yours but stinkier, I imagine.'
'I'd really like to see,' she said, 'so I can picture where you sleep, Lulu.'
Impressed, he took her up to them. Each room had a boy's name slotted on the door. When she saw the name 'Jonas Gully', she pushed her way in. Before Luke understood what was happening, she had climbed on to the creaking
single bed and urinated, holding her skirt clear. She had not even been wearing knickers underneath it, Luke noticed with alarm.
'What the fuck are you doing, Soph?' he said.
Sophie wiped herself with some of Jonas's tissues and stepped lightly back on to the floor. Luke grabbed her wrist and closed the door behind them in silence. He took her straight back down to the picnic, abandoned her to his mother and his aunt and went off to get changed for the tennis tournament.
Later that night, when he was on his own, looking at the little gold medal with crossed tennis rackets on it, he felt thrilled by what Sophie had done. Everyone thought Jonas was a horrible, vicious person and there would be endless gossip about this 'anonymous revenge'. Luke couldn't help being elated at the idea of his part in it, even if it was only accidental. Fundamentally, he thought Sophie was crazy but that she did have a sense of justice which was superior to his own. He admired her, even if her protests always seemed brutal or mad or specifically designed to get her into trouble. Secretly, he understood why she got so angry with him for 'conforming' all the time.
While he relived this memory he laid the phone in his lap. It was a shame to have deleted Sophie's message and he looked at the phone and found himself thinking he would quite like to have called his sister. Where had she gone? His crazy sister! She had so little common sense ... and yet part of him felt sure that because he had not learnt to play four musical instruments to grade eight, or done five A levels, one a year early, that as usual he was just missing the point.
With a distinct physical ache, he missed the 'us against them' sensation they had occasionally shared as children, when they weren't allowed more chocolate or were made to swim the lilo back depressingly close to the shore. Perhaps Sophie would have known what he should do about Arianne. At any rate, she would have approved of his helping Goran and Mila. Her approval mattered enormously to him—even though it infuriated him that this was the case.
He imagined standing on a mudbank, taking a photograph of a water buffalo. He had not had the faintest idea Sophie knew he took photographs. Suddenly he wondered what he had done with all the ones he took in Peru and why he had never shown them to anyone except Ludo, who had only said they would look cool as album covers, which had not felt like the right sort of compliment at all.
Luke redialled his voicemail to hear the last message. With suitable dramatic emphasis, it was his boss, asking how he was, hoping he was 'absolutely fine now' and 'just querying' when he might come back to work. Luke pressed 'three' right away and felt physically safer when it had been deleted. Behind the smooth voice, the insulated hush of Sebastian's office had signified stifled instincts, thwarted love, to his racing heart.
He tossed the phone on to his bed and scrabbled his fingers wildly through his hair. It would simply not be possible for him to go back to work now. Obviously not. But he must think of a way to delay his return without actually getting sacked. He decided to call James.
He had not seen James since that evening at Noise, when they had both been struck by an extraordinary sight: a tall, sexy girl standing on a table. It was almost impossible to think that his friend had continued existing—calmly eating breakfast and taking showers, reading the paper—while the great drama of Luke's life played out in other rooms. Fortunately, he and James had developed an easy, casual friendship, which had learnt to admit long absences for James's surgeon's exams.
'Oh, OK—you're alive, are you?' James said. 'I'm a bit disappointed you haven't run off with a religious cult actually. I got the highest points for my story. There was half an ounce of weed in it for me, Luke. Couldn't you at least consider it?'
Luke saw what was required and attempted a laugh. 'No religious cult,' he said. And then he changed the subject. 'Listen, James, I'm basically calling to ask you a favour. I've got a kind of medical question for you.'
'Oh, yuck,' James said. 'You little tart. Go to your bloody GP.'
'No, no. Nothing like that. I just need an excuse for work.'
'Go on.'
'Basically, if you wanted to get off work for a month, what would be the best way of doing it?'
'Mmm. It's a long time, a month. You'd need a proper medical certificate. What d'you want a whole bloody month off for, you skiver?'
'Well, I might not really need a whole month, but I'd just like to think it's there. You know what I mean—I basically don't want work hanging over me.'
James laughed. 'Interesting way of looking at it. Didn't we use to have to drag you off your laptop? You were like the media whiz-kid. I was just waiting for you to get a pair of those National Health glasses and wear them with withering irony and a pair of Prada trainers, like all the whiz-kids do.'
'I know. No, I know,' Luke said, trying to conceal his impatience. 'Funny ha-ha,' he said. Suddenly he was worried James would think he was acting bizarrely and would tell Jessica and Ludo. He dreaded compassionate interference because he was beginning to realize that it saw no hope for him and Arianne. But the voice sounded amused, rather than concerned: 'OK, Mr Langford. What you're saying is, you need to get yourself a medical certificate and you want the good doctor to tell you how.'
'Exactly. But the problem is, there isn't anything wrong with me.'
James snorted. 'Nothing wrong with you? In this day and age? Don't be ridiculous.'
Luke could hear him typing as he spoke. It sounded as though he was instant-messaging someone. James 'multi-tasked': he said he had learnt to maximize his extra-curricular hours.
'Listen, all you need is an invisible ailment,' James said. 'I'm told back pain's de rigueur among skivers, but you'd be unlikely to get a whole month out of it. In your shoes, I'd go with depression.'
'Depression?' Luke felt a thud of dismay. Depression was Sophie's problem. Must he sink to that?
'Yeah, depression rocks,' James said. 'Doctors are shit scared of people topping themselves if they don't take it seriously. It's your best bet—and your boss will assume it's all to do with the thing about your dad, so that works nicely. Yeah, sorry if that's unbelievably tactless, but you know what I mean. I'm just trying to help.'
'Oh, that's fine. Forget it. It's a good idea.'
'Look, I really am sorry, Luke—about your parents. It must be a tough time for their marriage and stuff...'
Luke could not think what to say.
'...and I know I should have called you earlier. Shit, I just want you to know I'm here if ever you need a mate to have a drink with or whatever...'
James listened to the dead silence.
'OK,' he said. 'I'm getting the impression you'd rather not talk about it.'
'Kind of,' said Luke.
'Okey-dokey. Completely understood.'
Luke heard James hit 'return' and a paranoid thought formed: what if this supposed friend was instant-messaging Jessica or Ludo, outlining the necessity for compassionate interference in real time?
James said, 'So, what's the skiving about, then, Luke?'
'Skiving? Oh, it's nothing, really. It's really nothing. I just want some me-time or whatever. I'm just having a rethink.'
'A "me-time rethink"? Sounds incredibly fashionable. Will it involve a yoga mat?'
The phone cut out momentarily.
'Whoopsy-daisy,' James said. 'Call waiting. Might be a girl. Look, I'll email you some symptoms, OK?'
Luke was relieved to avoid further questioning. 'Thanks, James. Owe you one.'
'I suspect it might be more than one by now,' James said.
Luke made an appointment to see one of the local doctors that afternoon. He read James's email several times until he was sure he knew exactly what to complain of. Actually, he was surprised to find that, other than the 'suicidal ideation', he seemed to fit the profile for 'clinical depression'. When he wondered what a 'clinically depressed' person ought to look like as he stared into the bathroom mirror, he decided that his unwashed hair and dirty T-shirt were probably about right. This was lucky, he thought, because he really didn't have the ener
gy to change.
Dr Crawford had a small whitewashed room with a smell of new carpet and plastic seating. On her desk, in front of the monitor, was a picture of a little boy in a cowboy outfit. Along the walls was a series of government warning posters urging people to wear condoms, give up smoking, get a flu jab, cut down on fat. It was a basement room and the window faced out on dingy steps that led up to the street. In a bright strip at the top of the window, shoes walked past the railings.
The doctor studied him, nodding slowly with her eyebrows drawn together. Luke shifted his weight in the plastic chair. 'Basically I have thoughts about suicide,' he said.
'I see. OK,' said Dr Crawford.
'That's as well as the insomnia, and the appetite loss. I've lost about a stone and a half,' he said, again wondering if this was actually true. 'And I used to find lots of things fun and now ... now they just seem totally meaningless,' he said.
The doctor was typing something. 'And how long have you been feeling like this?' she said.
'Oh, quite a long time. Months, really.'
'Months. OK. And do you have any idea what brought it on? Any tragic event or mishap?'
'Oh, yes. Yes, I know exactly. It's work stress,' Luke said carefully, as if he was spelling out his name for the completion of a form.
'I see.'
'Basically I've been under all this pressure and my boss bullies me. I just can't cope with it any more. I need a rest or I'll—you know—I'll crack!
The doctor gave him a prescription for something called ZylamaproneTM, which she said would 'lift' his mood and help him to sleep. She also gave him a medical certificate which would secure him a month off work.
When, out of curiosity, he looked it up on the Internet later, Luke found hundreds of ZylamaproneTM sites. There were a lot of postings from people in bits of America he had never heard of. 'Kayla' from 'Paoli, Pennsylvania', said: 'I gained forty pounds!!! Add to this I wanted to kill my husband with a knife'. 'Lolitaboy' from 'Ybor City, Florida', said: 'Pharmo-friends! Zylie just gets BETTER. Crush it up and you can totally smoke it, too...'
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