by P. R. Black
It got louder on the morning Seth took the train back to London. Head full of his own songs, the demos he’d transferred over to DJ Ninjakata, tracks for her full debut album. Seth didn’t like sending his material over the internet, no matter what protocols, VPNs or firewalls were in place. Like releasing a movie on streaming, once it was out there, it was out there, for Seth’s money. Even so, reviewing it on his phone, his outsize headphones cushioning his head against the train window, he smiled to himself, enjoying the thrum and thump of the bass and drums, knowing every note already. He had a hangar full of riffs, beats, chord structures and sequences in his head, some of them backdated from his teenage days, and these were among his newest, and his catchiest.
Seth’s drive was to make DJ Ninjakata a pop artist, rather than a grime artist. She’d used her singing voice in the chorus of their big hit, and everyone’s ears had pricked up as a result. On the front cover they’d turned her into a purple and pink tech-noir sci-fi demon, the kind of thing you’d see in anime, flitting along the skyscrapers of a neo-Tokyo. Seth had thought it was an utter mess, but the image had caught on. In this vein Seth had pushed on, producing a poppier sound, something a little more European. He’d even thrown in a chill-out remix of their original single, and this pleased him more than the number-one hit.
So Seth had immediately divined something was wrong when he arrived at her label’s head office, and she was flanked by two big men he didn’t recognise. Far from a leather-clad demon from five hundred years in the future, now she was just a tiny figure with a black headband across her forehead and tiny shades to hide her eyes.
The executive in the room was younger than Seth, and more abrasive than what Seth was used to. He did all the talking. ‘To be straight up with you, Seth, we’re not feeling the tracks.’
Back in his teenage years, Seth had been rejected by a girl he’d adored. The claw-fingered clutch he felt in his chest cavity had felt similar. He should have known how this would go, right away. He had subconsciously twigged, the moment he sat down, the moment DJ Ninjakata had taken a quick sip of her takeaway coffee and looked away.
‘Not feeling it? What do you think this is, a fucking craft beer tasting session?’
The two big men on either side of the small woman sat forward a little.
‘Let’s not be rash, Seth. They’re good tunes, they’re just not what we’re looking for…’
‘So – who’ve you signed up, instead?’
‘Come on, don’t be unreasonable, Seth. We decided to be up front, to tell you to your face.’
‘Duly noted. I could have done without my time being wasted. Got stuff to do, here.’ He pointed at the executive. ‘Money in the bank by lunchtime, yeah? We’ll go over the small print later, then I’ll decide whether or not I’m suing.’
And so that same old bassline intruded in his head as he took the tube back home. He was actually white-knuckling it at one point, his fists in his lap, before he snapped back to himself. It was humiliating, painful, like a physical beating – and worse, there was the reputational damage to come. People would find out what had happened to Seth in that executive’s lounge. The experience would stain him. It might make him less bankable, less marketable. It might be the end of the good days, his time in the sun. At least they’d gotten it out of the way early. It gave him something to chew on while he got on with the second part of his trip into London. To where his family were hiding, at an aunt’s house.
Jake had opened the door. They’d glared at each other, comically, before Seth had broken the silence.
‘Mum in?’
Jake shrugged and turned away – tall, now, possibly taller than Seth. Seth blinked, waiting for the doorway to clear. He hadn’t known what he’d see, but he would see it forever. His brother’s face swaddled in bandages, eye to chin, with that rotten yellow iodine staining. They must have opened him properly, Seth thought.
Jake wouldn’t talk to him about it. ‘Who?’ he’d asked. ‘Just a name. Do you know? Who they running with?’
‘Nothing you can do, Seth.’ Seth hated his brother’s poise, the insolence with which he met his gaze. ‘Happens, doesn’t it? Happens to the bravest. You told me that.’
‘Who did it? And how much are you in for?’
There had been more arguing then – fury which their mother had to separate. As Seth grew angrier, his younger brother grew calmer. He might even have smirked once or twice, on the good side of his face.
‘No lectures,’ Jake had said, as he left – he hadn’t even taken his coat off. ‘You’re out of it. Enjoy your life, mate.’
Seth’s feet followed a well-travelled course to the Seal and Trapper.
Tony was still there behind the bar, still with his head shaven right to the quick so that you couldn’t tell if he was properly bald, properly greying, or still magically twenty-five years old. He recognised Seth right away, but reacted uneasily. ‘Hey stranger, how’s it going?’
Lunchtime, but one or two souls in there already. An old man who might have come with the title deeds, smart, starched white collar underneath his raincoat, taking an eternity over his half-pint and his paper. Someone else, bent double, either concentrating hard on what was on their phone or struggling to remain continent.
After dealing with the small talk amiably enough – yes, he was in London for a spot of business, yes, a big project, one he couldn’t talk about – he asked Tony: ‘Has our Jake been in?’
Tony had been racking up glasses; he moved without pause, all except for his eyes. ‘Not sure… Isn’t he a bit young?’
‘Everybody was a bit young in here, Tony. I think I was fifteen when you first pulled me a pint.’
‘You’ve never been fifteen in your life, Seth.’
‘How about some of the boys he knocks around with? Ryan Cross, the Abbeys’ boy? Think he’s still knocking around with them.’
The scarcely perceptible shake of the head should have tipped Seth off. But he continued: ‘Only asking because, he’s had a spot of bother lately.’
Seth didn’t hear them approach. Hadn’t even known they were in the pub. They might have levitated through the floorboards. Two faces, either side of him, pinched and twitchy. He gripped the bar, resisted the urge to back off.
‘Sorry to cut in there, big guy. You mentioned Jake – that Jake Miller, you mean?’
Tony retreated slowly and stopped as close to his poorly stocked gantry as he could get without damaging the optics. He threw the bar towel over his shoulder and actually began to whistle to himself, as if the situation hadn’t instantly gone wrong and scary.
‘Who’s asking?’ Seth picked the one who’d spoken; he locked eyes with him. He was young, his hair thick and swept back from his head.
‘You Seth Miller? His big brother?’
‘Again – who’s asking?’ He swung round to look at the sidekick, a scrawny runt… but somehow scarier. This one grinned, the whites of his eyes curdled to a baby romper-suit shade of pink. This time Seth did back off, but only a little. He kept his foot on the bar stool.
‘Interested parties.’ The speaker grinned, teeth like tribal jewellery. ‘You let him know he’s got a deadline to start paying. You hear?’
‘Give me a name, and I’ll sort it for you,’ Seth said.
‘He knows, mate. He knows the name. No need for you to get involved. Or make inquiries. You seen him lately? Haven’t seen him near your mum and dad’s for a while. We’ll go to your mum’s first, though. If he doesn’t sort things out.’
‘You go near my mum’s house, I’ll kill you.’ No backing out now; the bassline off at a gallop, notes becoming indistinguishable, one long ululating thrum.
A scratch across the floor as the bar stool to his right shifted; then Seth worked on reflex, fast and smooth, his own bar stool in the air, swung hard, with some purchase in the middle, and then the grinning freak to the right was on the floor, bent at the hinge of his hips, holding his face.
The skinny one to the le
ft backing off, reaching into his jacket… and his hand staying there.
‘Doing, you doing, out of here, muppet,’ were the only words Seth could discern among a jazzy run from Tony’s mouth. He didn’t wait twice.
‘You remember what I said,’ he added, for good measure, pointing at the skinny guy who stood, shaking like washing in a high wind. ‘If I hear he’s been hurt, I’ll bury you… Believe it.’
He wanted to run, though he knew he shouldn’t. He looked at his hands. Not a mark on them. He couldn’t say the same for the stool. Maybe there were some teeth marks in it?
Suddenly he felt nauseous. He paused in an alleyway and shivered, breath steaming up in the air, while fairy lights winked at him from the window of a Chinese takeaway across the road. He felt like he might cry, or laugh. Other thoughts came to him – had the kid he’d smashed died? Blood clots came to mind, aneurysms, fractures, the blood-brain barrier, convulsions and blackouts.
And then he saw Vonny’s face. Her reaction. What if she’d been there? What if she’d seen it? Somehow that was the worst of all, dirty fingers on something immaculate. It had the sense of cheating on her, somehow. It was the summit of his disgrace.
Seth moved as if his legs were pipe cleaners, bypassing the nearest tube station and tapping onto a bus across the river.
A drink, now. And someone to drink with. Hold it in abeyance. Talk it over.
He called Bri, an old friend who worked as a chef in a steakhouse. He was free, and they met up. They soon covered what had happened. There was sympathy at first, but after three pints they were laughing about it. ‘Been a while since you smacked someone, Seth. Feel like getting back into it?’
‘Christ, no,’ Seth said, draining his beer. He held up the glass. Then he put it down and held up his hand. ‘Still shaking. Look at that. I must be getting old.’
They talked about the house. Then they moved on to the Datsun Cherry.
‘Not being silly or anything, Seth,’ Bri asked. ‘But did you check the car out?’
‘Yeah. No bodies, before you ask. No gear, either.’
‘You absolutely sure about that? I mean, it’s a vintage car, but it’s not totally vintage, you hear what I’m saying? Not like you’d found a Lamborghini Countach or a GTO in there. It didn’t make you rich, is what I’m saying. No point hiding it all that way out there for just the car.’
‘I promise you – I had the same idea. I looked all over. I felt up the seats, everything. There were no drugs in that car. If there were, they’ve gone to a classic car dealer, and good luck to him if he ever finds them.’
‘Doesn’t make sense.’ Bri took a quick sip. ‘I mean… maybe we’ve both made the easy assumption.’
‘Which is?’
‘That the car is the object of the game.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘You were sent on a treasure hunt, right? You assume the car is the X on the map. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe the car’s another clue.’
‘You drunk already?’ Seth said, as he ordered another.
‘Just think about it. Have you looked around about where the car was hidden?’
‘Some of the contractors cleared away a load of brambles and stuff… But no…’ He wondered at that. They’d only cut some of the prickles away – enough to get the car out without scratching it. Had they checked thoroughly?
The thought wouldn’t leave him, even as the train pulled away, three hours later. The bassline wasn’t quite so dirgey any more, but the percussion had ramped up in his chest as he considered the number hanging over his brother’s head, the woods at the back of his house – dark, now, and frozen – and what they might be hiding.
Home, he thought. One single destination, cleaving through everything else. Home to Vonny. Now.
He dialled her number.
‘What’s up?’ She was outside; he heard her footsteps, heard the lingering remnants of the autumn leaves crunch beneath her boots. This was a curiously lonely sound, even filtered through a phone while he was sat on a train. Seth didn’t want to be away from her any longer.
‘Nothing’s up. Well, not really. Just letting you know I’m coming home.’
‘I thought you’d be away till Sunday?’
‘Things have all worked out.’ It was almost a joke. He might almost laugh.
‘Really? You don’t sound too chuffed about it.’
‘Well… The DJ Ninjakata thing has fallen flat. I’ve got one or two other people I can try, but… I wasn’t happy about it.’
‘Hadn’t you signed a contract?’
Seth clenched his teeth. ‘Unfortunately, no, I didn’t do that.’
Vonny sighed. ‘I never liked her anyway, Seth.’
‘I definitely don’t like her now.’
‘What about Jake? Did you see him?’
Seth paused. ‘He’s going to be OK.’
‘But…?’
‘Well, he’s pretty messed up, going by the dressing on his face. God knows how much blood he lost. I heard how much he might be into them for… I can’t pay it off, honey. I don’t have it. Not after the house.’
‘You shouldn’t have to!’
‘He’s my brother… I have to try and dig him out. He’s been messing around with Blockchain, Bitcoin… something dodgy to do with that. I don’t pretend to understand it. I’ve spent the last twenty minutes trying to translate a Wikipedia article on it. Computers, that’s what it boils down to. He’s pissed off the wrong people. He owes a fortune. They’ll kill him for it.’ He lowered his voice, aware of one or two stares from people sat a few rows away from him.
‘Jesus, Seth. What are you going to do?’
‘I dunno. It’s going to affect Mum and Dad… They target parents, relatives, you know. Collateral. It’s not just you who gets it.’
‘Oh my God. The police…?’
‘Not a chance. I’d be signing his death warrant.’
‘Then what are you going to do?’
‘I’ll think of something,’ he said. And he felt his voice breaking at the end. It felt utterly absurd. When was the last time he had wept? He pinched the bridge of his nose.
‘Sweetheart,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘Get home. We’ll think of something. OK?’
‘I know, pet. I’m on my way. I’ll be home soon.’
*
The beer helped, but things melted away a little on the journey back home. The train station was a delight every time he saw it; framed by farmer’s fields on either side. Brenwood Green’s lines stretched far off into a misty haze, a surreal effect that put Seth in mind of virgin railroads in western movies. The station house had long been converted into an actual house – a trainspotter’s paradise, Seth supposed; surely the only reason for buying a place where freight trains could rattle through at all hours of the night, and where an express crashed past like the God of thunder.
Next to the station was a pub, the Basset and Beagle. Everything about this pub, from its whitewashed, Edwardian exterior to its large bay windows and the wonderful, faux olde-worlde sign, also delighted Seth. It was a good forty or fifty minutes’ walk from the station to their house, down the winding A-road through the green. Seth decided it was time for another pint.
Not too many people inside; lots of Second World War memorabilia dangled from the ceiling, and a Lancaster bomber lit by tracer fire in an image best suited to the front cover of the Commando comic was the subject of a massive painting in a far corner. Good fire, well stocked, nipping the cold in the bud. There were one or two people at tables, including a nervous-looking young couple squashed in beside two massive suitcases, drinking vodka and orange.
It was not exactly the stuff of slow-motion pool balls, stopped clocks and heads swivelling on ball joints – it was a train station pub, after all – but Seth was given a good look by the barman. Nerves still jangling, Seth offered him a stare in return.
‘Pint of stout while you’re waiting, chief,’ he said, with as much amiability as he could find.
<
br /> The barman said nothing, drawing a pint automatically. Without looking up, he said: ‘I should welcome you to your new local.’
‘What’s that, pal?’
‘You’re up at the old Grainger place, aren’t you? Some plot of land, you have there. And cars hidden in the bushes, too!’ The barman nodded at a folded newspaper on the bar top. He still hadn’t looked directly at Seth’s face.
‘Ah, got you. Yes, that’s me. I’m Seth, incidentally.’ He offered a hand, which was taken, and the barman smiled at long last. ‘Sorry. I’ve been miles away. Family stuff. Anyway, yeah, I’m your new neighbour, I suppose. They count neighbours by how many hectares away they are, out here. Or acres. Something.’
‘Heh – hope you’ve got a car; it’s a fair walk back to that plot.’
‘Ah, three or four miles? That’s no problem. Unless it rains.’ Seth took a sip. Very fine; it reminded him of the upmarket taproom where he’d used to live, a pop-up operation that got very serious about craft beer, very quickly, at the very crest of that foamy wave. As he’d got older, Seth appreciated the soupier stuff more, though he couldn’t drink an awful lot of it, and he wasn’t looking forward to testing his bladder elasticity on a long walk back down the road. ‘This is nice – local brew?’
‘No, mate – Dark Destroyer. Brewed in London, I think. Your neck of the woods?’
Seth chuckled. ‘Here was me thinking I was going rustic!’
‘You looking forward to putting down roots here, then?’
‘I think I’m tangled up in roots already, mate.’
‘And how about the people? Did you know anyone in Brenwood Green?’
Seth shook his head. ‘There’s a couple across the road from us, who myself and my wife have met, but apart from that… Not really. Just the boys on the site. We’ve been busy. Vonny’s project-managed the lot. It’s her game… I’ve been away a lot. She tells me where to put the nails; I bang them in. It’s just about done, now. Been busy from the start – this is the first time I’ve managed to get a pint in.’
