CAFÉ ASSASSIN

by Michael Stewart

  I’d never eaten an oyster.

  Er … they’re ok, I said.

  Urgh! How could you? It’s like eating snot.

  We finished off our drinks and found a place that wasn’t very busy. I had cauliflower and almond soup for starters as though this was a normal thing to eat and some potato and bacon dish with a French sounding name. Ramona had a beetroot blini and risotto for the main. I’d never heard of a blini. This was 2011 not 1989. I was heartened to see that England had upped its culinary game. We drank a bottle of rioja.

  So what is it you do? she said.

  It never takes people long.

  I’m between jobs at the moment. Just doing a bit of casual work. Setting up my own business. I told her about the venture.

  What about before. What were you doing then?

  Oh, you know, this and that.

  Such as?

  I worked abroad. Did a lot of travelling.

  Really? Where did you go?

  It would be easier to list the places I didn’t go.

  I’ve always wanted to travel. Where was the best place you went then?

  Tough one. Probably India.

  You went to India? What’s it like?

  Well, at first, the total poverty of the place gets to you. I saw a dead baby floating down the Ganges.

  No way! That’s gross.

  So many people, kids, begging. A lot of poverty and squalor but also it’s so colourful. Everyone seems happy. You don’t see that many miserable people. Even the beggars are cheerful. This man came up to me and said, with really good English, ‘I’m a collector of coins and I’m collecting English coins, I don’t suppose you have any do you.’

  Bit of a dark horse. A man of mystery. And she gave me a look. Was she flirting? I wasn’t an adept reader of the signs.

  What about you? What do you do?

  I seek to improve the wellbeing of an individual.

  Maybe you can help me.

  I don’t know about that, she said. You look beyond help to me. Have you had your human rights violated recently?

  I think I’m about to.

  I can evaluate you.

  I’m guessing you’re a social worker.

  That obvious?

  We went to another bar. They had an offer on cocktails.

  I love cocktails. Do you?

  I nodded. My preference was for neat spirits.

  I love the colours and the names.

  I hated the colours. I hated the names.

  We bought a jug of woo woo – whatever that was, a lurid red concoction with too much ice.

  I love going to galleries. I love looking at art.

  Er … yes, I do too.

  Really? You do?

  In fact, I had never so much as been in an art gallery. But I had seen plenty of paintings and drawings in category A. A category A prison is like mid-nineteenth century Montmartre, full of writers and artists. And drug addicts.

  I’ve been to see Manet, Pollock, Lowry, Louise Bourgeois, have you heard of her? She’s great. Rothko, Turner. I saw Blake at the Tate … she was beginning to slur her words.

  I like Blake, I said. Pleased I could contribute something.

  (I saw him once in Strangeways, George Blake – murdered his wife and two kids).

  We ended up at her house. A short taxi ride. Her dog greeted us at the door. I said hello to grandma. Jake was in bed. Grandma lived round the corner. Ramona walked her back. Then we were on our own. I felt out of my depth, Ramona seemed relaxed, I couldn’t sustain the easy conversation I’d had with her earlier. I was very aware of her body. She put some music on: Kings of Leon. A complete turn off, like being wrapped up in a cold wet blanket. We got comfy on the sofa and she started kissing me. It all felt very rushed, and I couldn’t help the rising sense of panic in my brain. I stood up.

  Are you ok? she said.

  Excuse me, where’s your toilet?

  I found the room and locked myself in. I pressed my back against the cold tiled wall. I felt like a virgin. Ramona would be able to tell. She would sense my inexperience. She would laugh, or worse, she would think there was something wrong with me. There was something wrong with me: I was a freak.

  I looked at myself in the mirror and took a deep breath. You’re forty years old Nick, you’ve been waiting for this for twenty-two years. You’ve had sex with women before, and apart from that first time, which was a disaster, sex has been pretty good. Well, there was that other time when you were caught in the act, but don’t dwell on that. It will be ok this time. Why won’t it? She’s not here to taunt you. She doesn’t want to test you or judge you. She just wants some fun. Come on, you’ve got to see this through, get a grip of yourself. I took another deep breath and went back.

  Everything all right? she said.

  I nodded.

  Come on, let’s go through to the bedroom.

  My heart started to bang with fear, counterbalanced by a whack of excitement. Biologically, my body was getting ready for action. Psychologically, my mind was trying to persuade my body to run for the door.

  She took off her dress. Matching polka dot bra and knickers. I thought of Liv, that night, that dress. Then it was my jacket and long sleeved shirt. I had forgotten in the rush of passion, about my arms.

  What happened? she said, looking at the scars along my forearms.

  It’s all right, I said, undressing, flesh, kissing.

  You sure?

  Long time ago.

  She was all over me, I was all over her. She was kissing the scar tissue. I was fumbling, groping in the dark. She must have felt my clumsiness … she was taking me in her hand and guiding me in. I was inside her. I dug into her flesh. I bit on her nipple. She scratched my back and pulled at my hair. Her tongue was in my mouth. But I couldn’t do it. I stopped what I was doing.

  Are you ok? she said.

  Then I was getting out of bed, getting dressed.

  What are you doing? Where are you going?

  I’m sorry. I can’t. I’ve got to go.

  I left her in bed. I needed air.

  Outside, I filled my lungs. I ran along the street until I came to the main road. I stopped and rolled a cigarette. I was confused. What had happened in there? I lit my cigarette and walked along the pavement. The road was deserted. I thought about Keyop. I tried to hold back the tears.

  You are in Wakefield prison – you’ve been here some time. You have category A status. You hang out with the most notorious prisoners. You have one hour of visiting. You have just been to the room. You sat at the table and dutifully waited. He has stood you up before, your dad, but for some reason you are convinced he is going to turn up. So you wait. He’s five minutes late, then he’s ten minutes late. He must have missed his bus, you think. That will put on fifteen minutes. So you wait another five minutes. So it’s not a bus he’s missed then. Maybe he’s missed two buses. So you wait another fifteen minutes.

  You look around and see all the others, with their wives and daughters, sons and brothers. And yes, some with their fathers. You recognise them: the sons and fathers. The traits they share, the same mannerisms. When they smile at each other, it’s a distorting mirror. When they laugh, they do so in unison, the same pattern, the same tenor. Two men sitting opposite each other, one an older version of the other, his hair thinner and greyer, his ears and nose bigger, his skin more creased, his eyes more sunken into his skull. How many minutes do you wait? How many years can you wait? How many years have you already waited? Your life is now defined by waiting.

  Eventually, you get it into your thick head that your dad is not coming. He’s pissed in a pub somewhere, or passed out in a park or unconscious on the couch, the television on in the background. Your dad never comes. Who are you fooling?

  Darren Lease, the prison officer, takes you back to your
cell. He unlocks the door. He opens the door and he comes into the room with you. You both sit down. Him on the chair, you on the bed. He tells you a story about his own father standing him up on sports day. Darren was a fast runner. He was running the hundred metres. He won the race. But no one he cared about saw him do it. His dad had promised him he’d be there. His dad had broken his promise. He felt worse than if he’d lost the race. Dads eh, he says, and laughs. The laugh is there to comfort you and you manage to summon up enough human feeling from somewhere inside to laugh back. But it’s a hollow laugh. A laugh that mocks the very act of itself.

  When he has gone you find the broken shard of glass taped to the underside of your bed and you attack a fresh vein. You tell yourself this is the last time, like you did the last time. It feels good to start on a fresh vein. They only last so long before the pain dulls. Before the nerve endings die. But a fresh vein has a pain so pure. You crave this pain. Another few months of this and you’ll be sectioned. It’s very hard to commit suicide in prison. Most of the time you’re stopped by staff. When you attempt suicide you are stopped by Sam Farnworth. He’s just doing his job.

  You are placed in Health Care with all the other physically and mentally ill prisoners. Karen Kenning is the nursing manager. She takes to you. Looks after you. Tells you not to be silly. Why should you let the system win? she says. Thought there was more to you than that. The only way you are going to beat the system is to survive it. And she hugs you. She is not allowed to hug you, it goes against her NMC code of conduct. She could be suspended for hugging you, or even sacked. But nevertheless, she hugs you. You go weak in her arms. You cry like a baby. You feel so sick and weak. Your misery has unmanned you. But you can’t stop crying. It’s ok, she says. And she hugs you harder. She builds you up from nothing, from less than nothing, to be almost human again.

  It was one o’clock and I was waiting outside the chambers. It had just started spitting. Then I saw you in yet another pinstripe suit, glasses low on the bridge of your nose, striding out of the doors and down the pavement. You were coming towards me, although you hadn’t seen me. I walked towards you, only a few feet away, but you didn’t even give me a look.

  Andrew?

  You stopped, looking over your glasses in a puzzled fashion. Then I could see recognition form on your face, followed by shock. Perhaps even horror. Certainly disgust.

  Nick!

  Fucking hell, mate. Fancy seeing you. You look so different, I said, trying not to sound smug. I watched your hasty recovery, feigning excitement at seeing me.

  Do I? You don’t, really. You looked me up and down. I mean, you’ve not really changed a bit. You seemed almost hurt, that nature should treat our aging processes with such injustice.

  What you up to now?

  I’m a …

  You hesitated.

  I’m a criminal barrister.

  That’s great.

  You hesitated again, Well, in fact, I’m a QC.

  You couldn’t look me in the eye.

  Hey, just like you said you would be all those years ago. Well done, mate. And I shook your hand.

  You fiddled nervously with the buttons on your suit. How about you?

  I’m not up to much, to be honest. I shrugged.

  You stared at me for a moment then shook your head. I can’t believe it.

  I told you I was about to go for lunch and invited you along. You were hesitant at first, made a big show of looking at your watch, mumbling something about an important client, but I insisted.

  Come on, Andrew, I’ve not seen you for twenty-two years, surely the client can wait?

  Go on, why not. And you rang your clerk and rescheduled the meeting.

  We went to a pizza restaurant round the corner from the chambers. It was clearly somewhere your barrister chums frequented. Pinstripe suits and Oxford brogues. We were allocated a table near the grand piano. We ordered a bottle of Merlot.

  So, are you pleased to see me? The look of horror on your face hadn’t completely gone away.

  Course I am Nick, why wouldn’t I be?

  You attempted a smile but it was a rather formal one. You kept staring at me and shaking your head.

  Anyway, you haven’t told me why you’re here, in Leeds.

  I live here now.

  You live in Leeds?

  You looked aghast.

  Yeah, what’s so strange about that? I’m sharing a house with this old hippy just past Hyde Park.

  Right. Great. And are you working?

  Well, it’s just temporary.

  What you doing?

  I’m working for a joiner. Sort of a dog’s body really. I drive him about, do a bit of labouring. Fetch him his breakfast, fetch him his paper, fetch him his coffee.

  I see. And is it all right?

  It’ll do for now. But I’ve got plans.

  I waited for you to say something like, ‘go on, do tell’, but you were fiddling with your buttons again and messing with your tie. I told you about the club. You nodded. I could see you thought it was a cuckoo idea.

  Sounds great.

  And how’s Liv? You two still together?

  Yes, yeah. Got two kids, boy and a girl. We’re living in Ilkley.

  We talked about the kids for a bit. They were in boarding school. I raised an eyebrow.

  The thing about this club, Andrew, I need an investor.

  Right, you said and studied the pizza menu. You seemed to find it of particular interest, although I imagined you knew its contents off by heart.

  The waiter who came over clearly knew you and you enjoyed his deference as we ordered.

  Sort of a sleeping partner, Andrew. They wouldn’t need to get involved in the day-to-day. And they’d get their money back plus profit. It’s a win-win.

  You nodded but your body was tense. You looked round the room. Spotting another colleague, you waved hello.

  And if it fails?

  I’ll not lie to you, Andrew, if it goes tits up, it goes tits up. I shrugged. Then I said, But it won’t. It won’t fail.

  The pizzas arrived. We managed to avoid the subject. You made a big deal about settling the bill at the end. We were walking out of the restaurant. Outside we swapped numbers.

  I’ll give you a call, you said, and put your phone away.

  Will you?

  Of course I will.

  We shook hands.

  Listen Andrew, you owe me this. And I looked you in the eye. Because you did owe me this and you knew you owed me this. You were a maggot on the end of a line, eyeing the fish with its mouth agape. But I was not going to let you wriggle out of it. It was time for payback.

  9

  White man, white bread, white van. Steve Taylor. The wasp in the jam, the snake in the barrel, the shark in the pool. Steve Taylor. My only friend in the world.

  We went to the pub for lunch while we waited for the cement mixer to be delivered. Steve ordered two pints of lager and two steak and ale pies with chips.

  You see him right then?

  Eh?

  Your mate. Your dead mate, you daft cunt. The Muslim fucker.

  His question took me by surprise. It was nearly a week ago that I’d had the day off. But that was Steve, you would think he wasn’t interested, days would go by, and then he would come out and ask it, as though he hadn’t seen you in between.

  Oh yeah, had a right session, I lied.

  When my old man snuffed it, we drank the boozer dry. Only way to see out a man’s life.

  Is that in your will then?

  I’ll tell you what’s in my will, I don’t give a flying fuckeroo – that’s what’s in my will.

  We drank San Miguel and waited for our food. There was no one else in except for an old man in a flat cap in the corner and a kid in a baseball cap at the bar.

  Did you do her?<
br />
  Eh?

  That bird.

  You mean Ramona?

  Well, did you?

  Come on, Steve, that’s private.

  So you didn’t fuck her?

  I’m not saying that.

  So you did fuck her?

  He patted me on the leg. Don’t call you cuntyballs for nowt, he said. Good for you. Working, drinking and fucking. That’s what life is.

  Once again, I thought about a shark that had to keep moving and breathing at all times, but remained cheerful, a grin like an upturned banana. When you need to travel from the depths to the surface, you cling on to the shark’s fin.

  I hadn’t heard a word from you, Andrew. It was now Tuesday – almost a week. I’d had several awkward phone calls from Ramona, but nothing from you. A week was long enough for you to get back to me. Why hadn’t you rung? Perhaps you were too busy, or perhaps you were avoiding me. I decided that if you hadn’t rung by the next day, I was going to ring you.

  We did a day’s graft and I drove Steve back to the lock-up. I had one in The Royal then went back to the house. There were no signs of Richard other than the usual stench. I had a shower, standing on plastic carrier bags, and brushed my teeth, taking my brush back to my room where it would be safe.

  I went for a walk. Ray’s leg was now healed, though he was still limping. I watched him run after another dog. I felt normal. I felt like a human being. It was a rare moment of balance. I got talking to the dog owner, a man in his thirties.

  I love watching dogs play, he said. They’re really caught up in the moment. It makes you realise, you know, that the most important thing is the here and now. Don’t you think?

  Did I think this? He was asking the wrong person. I was a man entirely consumed by the past. Perhaps I needed to change. I tried to picture you without feeling any emotion. Impossible.

  I wondered if I concentrated on the exercise enough it would become easier with time or whether you would always have that hold over me. Because, despite what you think, Andrew, I didn’t want to think of you and I didn’t want you in my life. That hold made me feel weak, it made me feel beneath you. You were a snake coiled around my neck. I was holding the snake, but the harder I held it the more it squeezed. There was no shaking free. I had to grab the snake by its tail and let it bite me. Only then would it let me go.