CAFÉ ASSASSIN

by Michael Stewart

  I pulled up outside your chambers and waited. I put the radio on. There was someone singing about having open arms for broken hearts. I was hungry – I hadn’t eaten since yesterday but it was important to watch every penny. I’d given the last piece of bread to Ray that morning. He was still weak. I left him on the rug licking his leg. Over and over, licking and licking.

  It was two o’clock when you came out of your chambers dressed in a different pinstripe suit from the one I’d seen you in two days ago. I watched you walk over to your Jag, deactivate the locking mechanism with your electronic key fob, open the driver’s door and get in. You got out again, nonchalantly removing a parking ticket from your windscreen. You started the engine without a single splutter and then you were off, with me following behind.

  I made sure to maintain a safe distance between us, letting one car in between to act as a shield. You drove out of Leeds, up Woodhouse Lane, towards Otley. I nearly lost you at the mini-roundabout when you took the bypass to the left, in the direction of Ilkley. You drove through the centre of Ilkley, past café bars and restaurants, wine merchants and antique shops, then up a long tree-lined lane, until at last you slowed down without indicating left, and pulled up outside a pair of gold-coloured gates attached to two huge white pillars.

  The gates opened without you needing to get out of your car. You drove across a gravel driveway to a triple garage. The garage building looked old – seventeenth century. Bigger than my old man’s council house. You parked the car and walked round the garage, out of sight. I waited for half an hour then got out of my car. Your house was quite unassuming from the front, but as I approached the wall round the back I could see this was misleading.

  In fact, your home was a palace. The garden reached out with views of the moors stretching as far as the eye could see. I checked that no one could see me, then I climbed over the wall and slunk through the orchard. Had Liv aged as badly as you, Andrew? It would make things easier. I could go back and forget about your wife. Find some nice do-gooder with a thing for murderers on matchfinder.com.

  I was close to your house now. I looked through your conservatory, observing your sofa, a dining table and six chairs. I wanted to get closer but it was too risky. I was well concealed behind a thick green bush which grew around an oak tree. I waited. Then the door opened. I saw her hair first. The same flash of black, albeit shorter, neater than it used to be. She bent down to put on some garden shoes and picked up a wicker basket.

  She walked across the gravel path very close to the bush where I was crouching. I held my breath. There was a herb garden just past my den and she bent down to collect some. She was wearing a white gypsy top and as she bent down her black hair cascaded and her cleavage came into view. My heart raced and my stomach churned. I was a forty-year-old man. I was an eighteen-year-old boy. It was 2011. It was 1989.

  I knew then that I wouldn’t be using internet dating facilities. Twenty-two years I’d been waiting. And now I was going to take what was mine. I wanted everything you had: your car, your house, your kids, your wife. I wanted your life.

  I sat and I watched. Hours went by. Cars drove past, returning from work. The sky darkened, the street lights brightened, the stars appeared. I watched you eat your evening meal. You seemed to take no pleasure from the food in front of you but you reached greedily for your wine glass. You didn’t have much to say to each other and neither of you smiled. You cleared the table in the dining room. Liv was in the living room on the phone. The telly was on but there was a mute symbol in the corner of the screen.

  I walked round to your study. There you were, sitting with a glass of red wine, the bottle almost empty by your side. The table was strewn with legal papers. You were holding a black notebook and a pencil, skimming through the documents, scribbling in the book. You looked tired. You looked old.

  On the wall by the window was a poster-sized photograph in a gilded frame. I got as close as I could to it. The picture was of you and your family. You were in a park. Your two children were in the foreground. The boy was about ten, and looked like you, the same weak chin. The girl looked to be about fourteen. She had jet black hair and silver eyes. I was shocked to see how much she resembled Liv. You were holding hands with Liv and you were smiling at the camera. You looked a bit slimmer, and I guessed the photograph was taken a few years before.

  I stared at the photograph for a long time, at the smiling faces, at the happy family, and I felt sick with envy. I walked to the car. I put the radio on. An old reggae record was playing: you win at poker but I’ve got the joker.

  I headed back to my squalid flat. I stopped off at an all-night garage on the way, to buy a tin of value-brand hotdog sausages, and when I got back to the car it wouldn’t start. I flipped up the bonnet and had a look. I couldn’t see anything in the dim light and I couldn’t call anyone. Perhaps in daylight I would be able to fix it, but I couldn’t stay there for the night. First thing in the morning the garage would have to tow it off their forecourt. Life without money or legitimacy, I was discovering, was a constant succession of obstacles. There was nothing I could do but abandon it and walk the eight miles. I resigned myself to the fact that I’d never see the car again.

  I arrived at the flat over two hours later, carrying the tin of value-brand hotdogs. I put the radio on and made a mug of tea. Ray tried to get up to greet me but he was still in pain and weak. I went over to him and stroked him. It’s ok, boy, it’s ok. You rest up.

  I opened up the tin and we shared them between us. One sausage for Ray, one for me, until they were all gone. I realised that Ray was the only companion I had on earth, although there were plenty waiting for me in hell. The radio was playing some Cramps wannabes and I was back with Liv. You were still at the bar. We were drinking Newcastle Brown Ale, not because we particularly liked the taste of it, but it was what some of the more hardcore clientele were drinking and we wanted to be acknowledged as more hardcore. It was colloquially known as a ‘bottle of dog’ and we thought it rather cool to go to the bar and ask for ‘two dogs’ – at least you did, Andrew.

  I never told you this, but I used to wince at your attempts to get in with the proper punks and goths, as you would think of them. Liv was dancing to The Cramps and smiling at me. They played two Cramps songs that evening, back-to-back. ‘Can Your Pussy Do the Dog?’ was mixed in with ‘What’s Inside A Girl’, so that as one song finished the other kicked in. The guitar sounded demented and the drum was frenetic. The crowd was bouncing up and down. I didn’t like The Cramps, but I knew that Liv was a massive fan so I kept my feelings to myself. But, as I let myself get carried by their rhythm, I found I was enjoying it. Liv was shaking her black messed-up hair to the music. Her eyes were heavily kohled. She looked like she’d landed from another planet. I watched her dance, lost in the moment.

  Before I knew it I was enjoying the song and dancing along to it. By the time I’d made my way over to Liv, I was no longer pretending to like The Cramps, I had actually decided I genuinely and wholeheartedly liked them. What’s wrong with a bit of rockabilly goth? I was willing to do anything for her. Then she was taking my hand and leading me to a dark corner by the fire escape. I remember Liv looking round to make sure there was no one about, that you were not about, then she pulled me towards her and kissed me. She pressed herself hard against me. My head was spinning, my knees weak. I knew I had to have her. I kissed her in return like it was the last two minutes on Earth. My hands through her hair, my hands on her neck, my hands on her back, my hands all over her. I couldn’t get enough.

  I was back in my flat, on the floor, stroking a stray dog. It was midnight but I wasn’t tired and didn’t want to sleep. I wanted to breathe in the night, to fill my lungs with it. The door was open, I kept having to remind myself of that, it wasn’t locked.

  So, out into the night I went, past the little houses, down the roads, the lanes, the streets. Through snickets, ginnels. Most of the curtains were
closed. People were in bed. I was looking for the couple in the kitchen, frozen in that moment of embrace. But the blinds were shut, the lights were out, and they were both in bed, curled up like two cats, warm and soft. Warm and happy. Sleeping, dreaming happy dreams. I lay down on the pavement and placed my cheek against the damp stone.

  4

  The next day I went to the pub. I yearned for human contact. Deep down, I longed for a friend. I thought of Keyop, but forced the memory back. There were two pubs close by. The nearest was The Royal Park, which also appeared to be the most likely to have a lax view of the law. Inside it was capacious, with room for three pool tables and a number of flashing machines.

  It was about four o’clock. There were students sitting in clusters and what looked to be more serious drinkers gathered round the bar. I got talking to the barman. I needed a job, I told him, cash in hand. But they had all the staff they needed. There was a man in his thirties sitting on a stool by the bar. He had a clump of yellow straw-like hair and there were white streaks on his blue jeans and on his sweatshirt.

  He looked up from his pint. He sized me up. Can you drive? he said.

  Yeah, I can drive.

  He explained that he needed a driver. He was a joiner, but he mainly assembled PVC conservatories. His name was Steve. He’d been banned from driving – caught three times over the limit. He’d received a hefty fine and a two-year ban. It was obvious from his tone that he had no affection for the law. I explained that the same fate had befallen the old fucker, my old man.

  Is that what you call him? The old fucker?

  Well, technically he’s the dead old fucker now.

  I like you, he said. You’re all right. You look like you can shift some weight too. I could do with a cunt like you. When can you start?

  He gave me directions to his lock-up where he kept his van and his tools and said to meet him there at six-thirty the following morning. He bought me a pint to seal the deal. I was unsure about him, but he agreed to pay me a fiver an hour and murderers can’t be choosers.

  The minimum wage is five ninety-three, I said.

  Do you want this cunting job, or not?

  We shook on it.

  You have done labouring work before, right?

  Course I have, I lied.

  It was a white Transit. We loaded it up with tools and materials. Lots of tubes of silicone filler. I drove us both to the factory where they made the frames. I loaded up the van while Steve enjoyed a hot mug of tea and a Regal with one of the workmen. They sat chatting, laughing and smoking as I toiled away. Then we drove to the other side of town to the factory where they made the glass. Again, Steve enjoyed a cigarette and, this time, a mug of coffee, while I did the work. He sat chatting and laughing and smoking while I loaded up the glass into a special frame bolted to the side of the van. I had to wait while Steve regaled the man with a story about ‘banging’ a ‘bird’ in a factory canteen after closing time.

  Next stop the builder’s yard, where Steve had another mug of coffee with another man. More tales of comic conquests, much merriment all round. I was given the task of loading the van with five bags of coarse. The first bag I shifted with some effort. It was made harder by the fact I’d parked the van ten yards away, but shifting it now would draw attention to my mistake. The second bag was harder and I had to really concentrate, making sure I didn’t drop the bag and spill the load. I placed it in the van just in time.

  Hot sweat trickled down my back. I took a breather before attempting the third bag. I tried to lift it but it wouldn’t shift. All those years in the gym, but they hadn’t prepared me for this. I didn’t want to look a fool in front of Steve and this man. I took a deep breath and used all the strength in me to lift the bag to the van. I looked around. He was still talking to the owner of the builder’s yard. My arms and hands were shaking. I couldn’t make a fist. Come on, pull yourself together.

  We went to a housing estate in Morley. Steve had hired a cement mixer. He started on the frames. But first he told me how to make up the mix. Half aggregate, half sand and cement. Only the half that was sand and cement needed to be twice as much sand as cement. He asked me if I understood and I nodded. Inside my head was whirring. I was never good with numbers. How much water?

  What the fuck are you doing, you daft cunt?

  He was standing right behind me smoking a Regal.

  What’s wrong?

  He told me I’d put too much coarse in and I would have to let it down with more sand and cement. I filled a wheelbarrow with the gloop and took it round the back to the conservatory.

  Tip it in there, cuntyballs, he said, pointing to the area where he wanted it, with the stub of his cigarette.

  I did as I was told. ‘Cuntyballs’ was his term of endearment. Even affection. I hefted another wheelbarrow full of the mix. Back and forth. Barrow after barrow, mix after mix. Until there was enough to cover the floor a few inches. I felt dizzy. Each time I filled up the wheelbarrow I put a bit less mix in. I was struggling to push it. The load was getting lighter but my perception of it was that it was getting heavier and heavier. I was down to just half a barrow of mix and still struggling with that. I was at the point of collapse.

  Fill the fucker to the top, he said. We’ll be here all fucking night.

  I dropped us back at the lock-up. I could hardly walk. There were no thoughts in my head. I didn’t even think about you, Andrew. I felt like I’d been lobotomised.

  Fancy a pint? he said, oblivious to my pain. To him this was just a normal day.

  All I could think about was a hot bath, sinking my aching limbs into the steamy water and letting the heat penetrate to my bones. I staggered back to the flat and made a mug of strong tea. Ray tried to get up to greet me, but he was still frail. We were both in a bad way. I went over to his bed, collapsed on the floor next to him and stroked his head. It’s ok boy, it’s ok. I filled a bath with hot water and sparked up a spliff. I clambered into the tub, feeling every muscle in my body throb.

  I was fucked. Then I was stoned. Then I was fucked. I lay there until the water around me was cold. I started to shiver but I was too fatigued to crawl out. I shivered some more. Eventually I climbed out, wrapped myself in towels and collapsed on the bed. I’d done nine hours’ work. The first nine hours of real work in twenty-two years. Nine hours lifting bags of coarse. Nine hours mixing. Nine hours barrowing. Forty-five quid. I wondered how much you were earning, what rate per hour you charged, Andrew. Not five pound an hour, that’s for sure.

  Five o’clock. I was coming round from my skunk-induced stupor and I registered a growing thirst. I would go out for a pint. Then I thought about Steve. He would still be there no doubt. Steve Taylor he was called, joiner and conservatory assembler, and I couldn’t face conversation with him and didn’t have the energy to walk to the pub further on. I closed my eyes and I was back there. That night. 1989.

  We better go back, Liv said, Before he notices we’ve gone. She gave me one last kiss. Her lips were so soft. We headed back to the dance floor. You were making your way across with three bottles of dog, a big beaming smile on your face, oblivious to the act of betrayal that had just been perpetrated.

  There you go, and you handed me mine and then you handed Liv hers.

  Then you smacked your bottle on top of mine so that my beer came spurting out. I put my mouth over the top of the bottle and guzzled the excess liquid. It was a regular trick we played on each other. No malice in it. We danced and drank to a succession of songs: Freak Scene, I Want The One I Can’t Have, I Wanna Be Adored, I Wanna Be Your Dog.

  You said that you wanted to be adored. Really? I said. I want to be a dog. What I really wanted to say was, I want the one I can’t have.

  Come on, you said, Let’s leave the girls to it. This place closes at two. Let’s go to The Top Cat.

  The Top Cat. The biggest dive in Manchester. Open all hours, open to a
ll comers, open to all sinners. If only we had stayed in The Venue that night, got on the last night bus at two-thirty with the rest of them as planned, still loved up from a ten pound pill. If only.

  I went over to Ray’s bed and I lay down on the floor with him. I want, I want, I want. And all I could think of was fucking your wife, and fucking you over. I wanted everything.

  I need vengeance like a tired man needs a bath.

  Ray gave me a blank look.

  5

  The second day of work wasn’t as heavy. The ten hours’ sleep had gone some way to repairing the damage of the day before. We were on the roof, waterproofing, going through lots of silicone tubes. It was my job to fetch them. It was my job to get Steve a bacon butty and a Styrofoam cup of coffee for breakfast. It was my job to get him twenty Regal and a Mars Bar at ten o’clock. It was my job to get him a BLT, the Sun and a can of cherry coke at twelve. It was my job to get him a can of Iron Bru and a bag of Chilli Heatwave Doritos at two o’clock. At three-thirty we were done. I drove us back to the lock-up. School girls were sauntering up the street.

  Slow down, Steve said, and wound down the window. He waited until he was level with them then shouted, Fancy a shag? and laughed. They shouted abuse at him. One shouted ‘perv’, another shouted ‘paedo’. I tried not to get their attention. I smiled benignly back when he grinned my way. One man’s fool is another man’s boss.

  I dropped him back at the lock-up. Fancy a pint? he said.

  Got a few errands, Steve, I said. I’ll see you in there in half an hour.

  I went over to the post office and wrote out a card to place in the window. Found: dog that looks like fox. Ring … then I realised I had no phone. I told the woman I’d be back. I called in at a general store and picked up a twenty pound phone and SIM card. I bought a ten pound pay-as-you-go and inserted the SIM but it needed charging. I went back to the post office and finished the card – putting in my new number. I now had less than a tenner to my name.