CAFÉ ASSASSIN

by Michael Stewart

  I finished my drink and went back to Richard’s place. He was in the attic recording. I had an early start in the morning and I wanted to be alert. I had no idea what sort of habits Liv kept. I didn’t want to take any risks. I carried Ray outside to the park. He hobbled around, enjoying the grass and the undergrowth. He sniffed about and then pissed, struggling to cock his leg. He sniffed round a tree and pissed again. I sat on a bench and waited for him to shit but he just hobbled across and put his head on my knee. I carried him back.

  I took two plates and divided the chicken in half. The flesh fell away from the bones and I made two heaps. I poured a glass of water for me and a bowl for Ray. I gave one of the plates to Ray. I sat on the floor next to Ray as there was no furniture and ate my chicken. Then I played my dead dad’s fucked guitar. I found that if I didn’t do something to take my mind out of itself it soon began to turn over the same subjects. Time. All of the plundered time – time you had stolen from me.

  If I didn’t distract my mind, the hate would seep in and the anger would build. But I didn’t want to hate, I didn’t want to be angry, because then you had won. You had won control over my mind and I couldn’t let that happen. Or rather, I did want to hate, I wanted to use the hate, I wanted it to be pure and clean. I wanted to be in complete control of it. So that I owned it and it was my hate, not yours. I needed to shape it, to refine it, so that it shined like polished steel. It was a discipline that required a great deal of effort. I was singing and playing in order to strengthen my resolve, to make me mentally stronger, so that I could beat you.

  I put the guitar down, took a deep breath, emptied my mind of you and tried again. I played for a few minutes but it was no good. Time. You had snatched over half my life from me. The magnitude of the theft overwhelmed me and I found I was gasping for air, my brain reeling, almost passing out with the wrong kind of anger and hate. I carried the dog outside and watched him empty his bowels. I watched him deliver the steaming faecal matter into the gutter, and I thought of you, Andrew.

  Saturday. The alarm on my phone woke me at six. I took Ray to the park. It was 2011 now, not 1989, so I took a bag out and scooped up the shit, posted it in the ‘dog waste only’ box. I got back to the house and did a hundred press-ups, a hundred sit-ups and five minutes of shadowboxing. I had a shower in the strange, sickly pink bath. I was careful to clean and dry my feet before putting them straight into my shoes so they didn’t touch the floor, which was covered in a mouldy carpet.

  Richard used an old pig bristle toothbrush that had worn down to just a few stubbled patches. The soap was caked in curly hairs. At least I wasn’t sharing a cell with him. At least I didn’t have to smell his shit when he emptied his bowels into a bucket or listen to the wet slapping of his masturbating. Or hear him cry into his pillow after.

  What to wear? Shirt or T-shirt? Jeans or trousers? Shoes or trainers? I decided on shoes with jeans and a black T-shirt, long sleeved, that I hoped showed off my toned physique without looking like that was the intention. I combed my hair then scruffed it up a bit. I caught the ten to seven bus to Ilkley, via Otley. When I got to Ilkley it was just gone half seven. I walked up the leafy street to your house. I found a secluded spot about twenty yards away and perched on a wall under a tree and waited. And waited.

  Half eight. A paper boy was struggling with the weekend papers. Every house had at least one, some had more. Big fat broadsheets with twenty sections on everything from fashion, family and housing to holidays and sport. It took him the best part of half an hour just to deliver the papers on this street. He disappeared. Nothing. A few cars. A woman with a pram. Half nine. The wind picked up and I zipped my jacket to the top, pulling my collar high around my neck. I rolled a cigarette. Smoked it. I watched a woman jogging down the street in lycra, a music player strapped to her arm. Ten o’clock. A man left the house opposite, got into his car and drove off. No sign of life. Ten-thirty, still nothing.

  I was about to roll another cigarette when out she came. She was wearing tight black jeans, white ballet shoes, black and white striped top and a leather jacket. Her hair was tied up loosely so that strands dangled across her face. She carried a hessian bag. She looked younger than her age. I felt my stomach turn over.

  I made sure I kept in the shadows, keeping a good fifty yards behind her. She walked into town. She bought fresh bread, bacon, half a dozen eggs, milk, butter, orange juice. She stopped to talk to another woman who looked about five or six years older. I could tell from Liv’s body language that she wanted to end the conversation and carry on shopping but the woman carried on talking and talking. Liv kept smiling and nodding, looking for her excuse.

  Now would be a good time, I thought. I could tap her on the shoulder. She’d be glad to get away from the other woman and completely shocked to see me. But happy. Would she be happy or just shocked? Perhaps she’d be too shocked and she’d feel awkward, even embarrassed. She’d want to know what I was doing in Ilkley. I’d say I was just shopping. But then she’d ask me where I was living now. I’d say, near Hyde Park, and she’d look puzzled. That’s a long way to come to go shopping, she’d say, and I’d feel I was in the dock being accused of something.

  The longer I stood and watched her with the woman the more I became convinced my plan would fail. Why would I be in Ilkley on a Saturday morning, shopping? Why wouldn’t I be in Leeds, which I could walk to in half an hour from where I lived? Or why wouldn’t I use the local shops? What did Ilkley have that I couldn’t get locally or in Leeds? I looked around. I was standing near a fancy tearoom.

  Liv was walking back up the lane now, away from the tearoom, back home with her bounty, a baguette poking out of the hessian bag. Saturday morning breakfast, a magazine breakfast, with her magazine husband and her magazine children in her magazine house. And now it was too late. We were too far from the centre of town, too much of a residential area, even less reason for me to be here, following her home. Even more reason for her to be suspicious, creeped out perhaps. I was the last person she would want to see. If she wanted to see me she would have come to see me inside. But she didn’t want to see me. I slowed down, watching her stroll along, fading away, further and further. Then she was gone.

  I caught the bus back. I took Ray to the park. I bought a bottle of vodka. I drank the bottle of vodka. Just like the old fucker. Chip off the old block. Just like my dead old fucker of a dad. Two peas in a pod. And I curled up on my sleeping bag with Ray and tried and tried to block it all out. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t block out twenty-two years. I couldn’t block out the stark furnishings of the cell or the harsh light. I couldn’t block out the stink of another man’s shit. Or the stench of bleach and burning foil. I couldn’t block out the feeling of self-hate. I couldn’t block out your face. What was I thinking? How could someone like me be a success. I was one of life’s losers. Nothing I could do would ever amount to anything.

  I knew I couldn’t have the life I wanted. It was impossible, everything was against it. I wanted to die. I thought about my own death. How would I do it? Overdose, noose, bridge, a trip to the coast? I would swallow a jar of Valium. I would construct a noose like the one we built for Madman Marz. I would jump from the top of a multi-storey car park. I would fill my pockets with rocks and wade into the ocean. So many ways. But then I thought about you. I did have something to live for. I would make you suffer, Andrew.

  It was six o’clock in the evening. I fed Ray then took him out. I didn’t carry him this time and he hobbled along beside me. He was putting more weight down on his bad leg, getting stronger. I took him to The Royal. I bought me a Peroni and Ray a Pepperami. Another Peroni. Another Pepperami. I hadn’t seen the barmaid before, she wasn’t the one who told Steve to fuck off, but she was cute. Another student perhaps. She started asking me about Ray.

  He looks just like a fox.

  Yeah, I know, I said.

  Another Peroni. Another Pepperami. Telephone was on the jukebo
x, Eyes Wide Shut, Blind Faith, Let it Rain, Bring the Light. I sat down in my corner, fuzzy from the beer. A man was there. Had he been there before or had he just approached? Everything was becoming blurred. He said his name was Howler. He reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t think who. He was drunk, but so was I. Another drunk. He had a tattoo of a parachute with wings and a crown on his lower arm.

  That’s a nice dog, he said.

  It’s not mine.

  Whose is it?

  I explained how I came to be looking after him. How no one had rung my phone.

  Well it sounds like he’s your dog now. Looks a bit like a fox.

  Yeah, I know.

  I pointed to his tattoo, You been in the Paras then?

  Twenty years.

  You must have liked it.

  We talked and drank. First year, I was being bullied by this officer – made my life a misery that cunt. So one night when all the other cunts were down the pub and he was asleep, I poured petrol all over his bed sheets. Then I held a lighter in front of his face. I whispered in the cunt’s ear, ‘wake up’. He opened his eyes and I said, ‘can you smell anything?’ and he nodded. ‘It’s petrol’, I said to him, ‘it’s all over your bed.’ Then I lit the lighter. I said, ‘You’re one second from death. You ever talk to me or even look at me again and I’ll come back for that second.’

  And that worked did it?

  He nodded.

  I bought us lagers and whiskey chasers. He seemed a bit of a nutter, but again, I was in no position to judge.

  So what is it you do now then?

  Window cleaner. I was out of work for a long time. Got into a bit of a state. I found it really hard coming out after twenty years.

  Tell me about it, I was thinking.

  I got into drugs.

  Oh yeah, what drugs?

  Anything I could get my hands on. Then I got into smack.

  Right.

  You ever tried it?

  Yeah.

  He bought us lagers and chasers. We chatted some more about the Paras. I remembered where I knew him from. The sunken cheeks. The defiant eyes. The tattoo. From that day in court. He was Vinnie Howell – commercial burglary. I realised what he had meant when he pointed at his tattoo and stared at the judge. I bought us lagers and chasers. It was nine o’clock.

  Here, he said, Cop for this.

  He took out a white pill. He picked up a flyer from the bar, folded it in half and put the pill inside. He took his pint glass and crushed the pill with the thick base of the glass. He folded back the flyer and inspected his work. It had crumbled but there were still some lumps. He covered it up again and crushed again, this time grinding the bottom of his glass. He repeated the process until he’d ground the pill into a fine white powder. He took another flyer and rolled it up.

  What is it? I said. Even though I knew exactly what it was.

  Subutex.

  As I’d thought: opiates. That was all I needed.

  I don’t know, I said. I’ve stayed away from opiates for a long time.

  We can just have half each. Don’t worry about it, I’ll look after yer, make sure you get home safe.

  Perhaps if I hadn’t been so drunk, I might have been able to resist. Perhaps if I didn’t need to get your face out of my head so much, perhaps if I wasn’t yearning for a state of calm, free from anger and hate, I would have found it easier to resist. Opiates, the destroyer of pain. The despoiler of memories. The conqueror of desire. I looked around, to make sure the barmaid couldn’t see what we were doing. She was off round the other side of the bar collecting glasses. The flesh is weak. I took the card tube and snorted half the powder. It was a clean, sharp hit. I passed the tube back. He took it off me and snorted his half. A wave of euphoria. A wave of nausea – opiate waves. Talking, talking. About this, about that. It was eleven o’clock and he was talking about his childhood.

  I was orphaned at eight.

  Why’s that then?

  My dad was a cunt.

  He shrugged, as though that was the final word on the matter, then started up again.

  I came downstairs one night. Him and my mum were at it. He was beating her. She was on the floor in the kitchen and he was kicking her in the gut. Something flipped. I picked up a knife and stuck it in his back.

  Fuck.

  Thing was, my mum rang the police. He was dead, and she said she’d done it.

  Why she say that?

  She didn’t want to get me in the shit.

  What happened to her?

  She got six years. I was fourteen when she came out. I put her in there. Me. He stared into his glass.

  But you were just looking after your mum. She was looking after you.

  He went quiet for a bit. Lost. I closed my eyes. A wave of euphoria. Steeped. I opened them again. He was crushing up another pill. We did half each. It was one o’clock. There we were, two murderers chewing the fat, two murderers drinking whiskey chasers and snorting Subutex.

  Don’t worry, he said. I’ll look after yer. I’ll see you right. Make sure you get home.

  He did most of the talking. He’d had a bad time of it. No doubt about it. But something told me he was making some of it up. Perhaps not.

  Tell me a story, he said.

  So I did.

  There was this man, I said, And this woman.

  Go on, he said. I like it so far.

  The man really wanted to fuck the woman. The woman was married with kids. Nice house, lots of money, perfect life. He didn’t just want to fuck the woman, he wanted more. He knew if he didn’t have the whole lot he would never be happy.

  So what did he do?

  Well, the thing was, she was happy. He had a think about it. He had no right to take her happiness away from her. He tried to see her as just an object. Something he needed to reach his end goal. But he couldn’t stand the thought of making her sad.

  So what did he do?

  He didn’t do anything. He just got on with his life.

  He nodded. He sat back thinking about what I’d said. He nodded again. That’s a shit story, he said. It started off all right but you need to change the ending.

  I nodded. He was chatting away again. I was trying to focus on what he was saying, but I kept zoning out.

  You ever get in trouble, you just come to me. Sorted. Like that. Any cunt you need sorting. To me it’s a walk in the park. It’s dealt with. Happy days.

  I was nodding my head, barely clinging on to the conversational threads. Each time I closed my eyes, a wave of bliss. It was gone three in the morning when I finally got back to the house. I had a spliff and collapsed on the sleeping bag with Ray.

  It was noon when I came round. Face wet with cold sweat. Jangled. Smackhead jangled. It took me everything I’d got to open up a tin of dog food for Ray and make myself a mug of tea. I sat up, my back against the wall, the newly bought TV on. Watching real people fail. Watching real people cry. Watching real people expose themselves to the viewer.

  I closed my eyes. Waves of euphoria. Gouched out. Came round. Watched TV. Closed my eyes. Waves of euphoria. Gouched out. Came round. It was four o’clock before I could face the idea of taking Ray out for a piss and a shit. He must have been bursting by now. I got to my feet, feeling fragile, and put on my coat.

  We went to the park. He was still limping but not as badly. I was still jangling, though feeling a bit better. I could feel the heat of the sun on my face. There were too many people around. We walked into the wood. I sat down on a fallen tree. I felt weak again, as though I were about to topple over. I watched a female blackbird collecting bits of dried grass to line her nest. There was a blue tit in a tree singing his heart out, trying to attract a mate. I saw a woman walking towards me, her dog off its lead but walking by her side. The dog bounded across when it saw Ray. It rolled over to expose its ge
nitals. It was a she.

  Ray sniffed the genitals. She was just a puppy but very distinctive looking. Almost white fur. I stroked her. Soft white fur, strong boned. Plenty of muscle even at this age. Plenty of hair around her muzzle, which was almost golden. She had bright green eyes. Human eyes.

  The woman was close to me now. She had the same black hair as Liv, but she had it cropped short. She was probably in her mid-thirties. Not bad looking. She stopped to watch the dogs.

  That’s a striking dog, I said. What breed is she?

  She’s an Italian Spinone.

  Never heard of one of them.

  No, they’re not that common.

  Amazing eyes. You never see green eyes on a dog. They’re normally brown or amber, I said.

  She’s just getting used to other dogs. All still new to her.

  She’s very placid for a puppy.

  That’s one of their characteristics, she said. They’re good with kids.

  You got kids then?

  Just the one.

  She smiled, a beautiful crooked smile. Her eyes were green like her dog’s. She said goodbye and walked off. The leaves were starting to sprout on the trees, the sun dappled the path. The air was rich with bird song. I sat there thinking: Nick, you need to get Andrew out of your head, you need to forget about Liv. You can’t have any of it, it’s madness to torture yourself with the thought of it. Night and day. When you’re awake, when you’re asleep.

  And then I could see it clearly. Nothing good could ever come of this desire for another man’s wife and another man’s life. The past was the past. After twenty-two years of incarceration, I was no use to anyone. Here I was, with post-smack jangles, no friends, no money, no prospects, just a lot of soiled baggage. There was no magazine life for me, just the continual filth of my own history. I was like a slug, leaving a trail of slime over the leaves of a plant, only satisfied when it has destroyed the petals and the plant has withered. It stops. From today.

  7

  Have a proper fag you daft cunt, he said and offered me a Regal.