But I handed her the packet. I watched her roll the paper round the tobacco inexpertly. She lit it but it soon went out. She’d rolled it too tight. I took another paper and re-rolled it for her.
Thanks. It’s against the law to smoke one of these too, she said.
I think you should let your mum know you’re here.
I could collect glasses.
Could you.
She blew out a plume of smoke. The cloud lingered between us.
My dad thinks I’m stupid.
He’s just got high expectations, Megan. He wants you to do well at school. He wants you to be successful.
You don’t have to do well at school to be successful. You didn’t.
I passed her the ashtray. I don’t think you want to go down the path I’ve gone down.
But you’ve made it now. This place is getting a name for itself.
Really, Megan. I’d avoid my way of doing things at all costs.
I’ll work for free the first night. See it as a trial. If you don’t like my work, you don’t have to hire me.
I’ve got to open up soon, Megan. You need to talk to your mum.
She shifted down the arm of the sofa, her skirt riding up over her thighs. Her legs were so smooth. She caught me copping a look. She held my gaze.
You were excluded weren’t you, Nick? My mum told me.
When did she tell you that?
Ages ago.
I wondered how many times Liv had spoken about me. I wanted to ask Megan, but it wouldn’t do to seem interested.
This has gone out again, she said, You’re as bad as me.
She leaned over and with her cigarette still in her mouth, lit it off mine. She was very close to me. I watched the end glow red.
Pawel will be here in a minute.
Who’s he?
He runs the bar. And Richard, he does the PA. He’ll be here too.
She leant against the back of the sofa. She took a few drags of her cigarette.
I need your light again, she said.
I thought about ringing Liv after Megan had gone. But then I thought better of it.
You have been sharing a cell with Keyop for six years. Keyop is from Chapeltown. He is inside for shooting a drug dealer in the face. He earned his money by taxing drug dealers. He would wait until they were in bed asleep, then he would break in. He would go into their bedrooms and point a gun in their face. He could get thousands each time he did this. It was almost foolproof as dealers tend not to grass and dealers do not use banks. But his main source of income was guns. A connection he got from his first trip inside. The university of HMP. Ukraine was left with massive stockpiles of military weapons after the disintegration of the Soviet Union. Keyop tells you how he set up supply chains.
Gang members, drug dealers, street people and other assorted criminals, all want guns. From a shotgun at £150 up to a sub-machine gun at £30,000, Keyop caters for all tastes and budgets. Bullets, silencers, infra-red sights. Death, that’s my business, he says. Now he is inside, he has switched from selling guns to selling Subutex. From death to paralysis. Keyop is a reader. He reads Ed McBain and James Ellroy, Joyce and Shakespeare, Dante and Tolstoy. You spend all day talking about books. Keyop’s favourite writer is TS Elliot. He likes the Four Quartets best.
‘I’m going to see if I can get some old wallpaper,’ he says.
‘What for?’
‘I want to take each poem and write it on the back of the sheets. I want to hang the sheets up so I can see how the poems look.’
You don’t know why Keyop wants to do this but the idea of it excites you.
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ you say.
This is why you love Keyop. And you realise something for the first time, that Keyop has replaced Andrew, that you have found someone else on this planet you can truly connect with. You are no longer ‘I’. You are ‘we’. But Keyop will never replace Andrew.
Socha was serving absinthe. I watched her pour the dose up to the first indentation in the glass, then take a cube of sugar and sit it on the slotted spoon over the emerald green liquid. She took an iced pitcher and slowly poured water over the sugar. I watched as the water louched the absinthe, turning the clear green spirit into a thick mist.
I’d been chatting to a gallery owner called David a few nights before. He’d approached me with a business idea. If he could exhibit some of his artwork in the club, he could guarantee so many extra punters through the door. I’d agreed to go and see him. It might be profitable. There was an exhibition opening. I’d immediately connected with David, and part of me wondered if we could become close.
Steve was chatting up two students. Pawel and Richard were on stage. I watched them play. I was given a guitar in prison as a privilege. Keeping hold of the guitar was a challenge because of all the drugs we were taking. We did all sorts of things to fool the regular drugs tests. We would drink lots of water before so the sample would be too dilute, or we’d tax a clean. Taxing a clean is risky. It involves the extraction of urine from a prisoner who doesn’t take drugs, concealing it in a bag and then puncturing the bag in the sample container. The risk is this: prisoners lie about how clean they are. A third option was Keyop’s favourite, he would cut his finger with a razor and trickle some blood in his sample. They couldn’t force you to urinate if you had a medical condition which prevented you from doing so. Bingo.
I watched Pawel and Richard. I thought about that day when I used Keyop’s favourite method, only I got caught with the razor and consequently failed the test. The punishment was to lose the guitar.
What do you think? Pawel said, when he came off stage.
It’s getting there, I lied. Listen Pawel, I’ve got to nip out in a bit.
How long for?
Just a few hours. Are you ok to be left in charge?
He seemed a bit taken aback but pleased. Was this the most responsibility he’d ever been given?
Yes, of course. I will do job good, Nick.
I looked around the room. People laughing, chatting. Lovers holding hands, potential lovers flirting. I was overcome with a feeling of loneliness. You were probably at home now, in the same room as Liv, breathing the same air as Liv. No friendship I’d ever had in my life had come close to the bond we once had. I drank some whiskey in the hope of staving off the feeling. I thought about Gerard de Nerval. I wondered what he meant when he said that tonight would be black and white. I had this urge to ask Keyop, but of course I couldn’t ask Keyop. I couldn’t ring Keyop, I couldn’t even write to him, because Keyop was a memory. Keyop was dead. Keyop topped himself.
I went over to Steve. He was sitting on his own now. I sat down beside him.
Fancy a whiskey? I said and produced another glass.
Go on then.
How’s it going?
Alright. There’s quite a bit of skirt in. Thought I was in with them two, he said, indiscreetly pointing. I’d love to cum in her hair.
You see that picture there, Steve? I pointed to the print of Gerard de Nerval.
What about it?
That’s a French poet called Gerard de Nerval.
So?
He topped himself.
Daft cunt. What’s the point of that, you’re going to be dead in no time anyway.
Before he died he left a note. In the note he said that the night he killed himself would be black and white.
What you telling me for?
Just idle banter, Steve. What do you think he meant by that?
How the fuck should I know? Oi, cuntyballs! Steve shouted over to Pawel. Another beer.
Steve had stopped calling me cuntyballs and started calling Pawel cuntyballs. I’d been promoted. It sounds silly, but I actually felt a degree of pride about that.
I don’t know whether I should be upset or not, I said.
What do you mean?
You used to call me cuntyballs, Steve, don’t you love me anymore? I passed him the whiskey.
You’re doing a good job of this, he said, looking round the busy room. I admire anyone who grafts and makes a go of it. Plus, there’s lots of fanny about.
And that’s why I’m no longer cuntyballs?
Like I say, you’re doing a good job.
Pawel brought over a beer. Steve swigged from it. The posher they are, the more I seem to score.
Eh?
Student fanny.
I felt tired: physically and mentally drained. I looked around the room, a lot of familiar faces. Then I noticed him, the man with the military-style hat. He was sitting in the opposite corner and he was staring at me. How had he got in? I’d made it clear to Pawel that he was banned. But he didn’t have a drink so perhaps he hadn’t been to the bar. I excused myself and made my way over.
Thought I’d made it clear? I said.
I’ve told you before.
Told me what?
It’s the trains.
Who you working for? How much do you want?
You’ve got it wrong pal, he said. I’m not working for no one. I don’t want your money.
What do you want then? I said.
Oh, you know, a little cottage in the countryside, fresh bread, fresh milk, somewhere to keep chickens.
Come on, stop messing about.
He gave me a wink. Who was he, Andrew? Was the man in the parka in the woods the same man or did I have two men after me? Was this the man who had fired a bolt at me? I couldn’t work out which was the more paranoid thought: that I had two men after me, or that they were both the same man.
I forced myself to appear calm. I went into the back room. I sat down. I didn’t know what to do. I could get Steve to throw him out. I could get Steve to do him over. I turned on my laptop and opened up the spreadsheet with all the membership details. There were over three hundred members. I scanned through them, I read down the list. I don’t know what I was looking for. It wasn’t as though I knew his name. An act of desperation, I suppose. I scanned down the columns. I sifted through the cells and across the rows – nothing rang any bells. A lot of the names were familiar, but quite a few were new to me. People who had joined on the first night and never come back, I supposed. I stopped at the name ‘Harry Maggs’. It didn’t sound like a real name. It sounded like a made-up gangster name. I took out my phone and rang the number. A man with a Cockney accent answered. I apologised and killed the call. I sifted through the files again.
After half an hour I clicked on the ‘x’ in the right-hand corner. I emailed Liv again: please get in touch, I need to talk to you. I wondered what was going on between you and her. I felt jangled. I took out a bag of phet. With my knife, I scooped a half inch dose and necked it. I put the bag back in my pocket and went over to the bar.
Pawel, he’s here. I thought I’d made it clear he wasn’t to come in? I’ve got to go out. I want you to get Steve to kick him out. Make it clear he’s not welcome back.
Who?
The man with the military-style hat.
Where?
It was only then I looked across to where he was sitting. Only his seat was empty and there was no sign of him.
I was in a taxi with David, the gallery owner whose exhibition I’d just been to. He was with his girlfriend, Lucy. We were meeting the artist for a drink. I’d bumped into Ramona at the opening and only narrowly avoided a heated altercation, but she seemed more upset than angry. She wanted an answer. Why had I run off?
Where are we going? I asked.
We’re going to the Falcon Bar. David said. It’s the other side of town, in the studenty bit.
The exhibition was by an avant-garde artist called Michael Gray. It consisted of two landscape projections. One was a snowscape and the other was a woodland scene. There were red neon lights superimposed over the canvas. Very few people had turned up to see the exhibition. I wondered where the artist’s friends were. I wondered where his family were. I wondered where the artist was. David had invited us to have a drink with him.
I’d already decided that David’s idea was a waste of time but I accepted the offer of a drink. I wanted to expand my social circle. Perhaps I could make a new friend, one with more than just ‘fanny’ on his mind. Yes, perhaps David was the answer.
Why wasn’t the artist there? I said.
He never comes to his own openings, David said. As though this made him more virtuous, more of an artist. I had become anxious about what I was going to say about the exhibition. I was racking my brains: think of something clever to say.
What did you think? he asked me.
I don’t know, I said. I like content. I felt a bit daft, saying this.
I like content too, he said. But I also like work without content.
We arrived at the Falcon Bar. The windows were steamy.
It looks hot in there, I said.
This is where the cool people hang, Lucy said, and laughed.
David paid the taxi man and we went in. The security was comprised of one grinning bald man from Belfast. You’ll like Belfast, he said, You’re English. The place was teeming with young men in check shirts and beards and young sparkly women with shiny hair and retro dresses. It wasn’t a million miles from the Café Assassin audience. Still predominantly students, only students with richer parents. And therefore students who were trying harder to look like they had poorer parents.
Have a pint of Black Rat, David said.
It tasted of fruit juice and had a sinister red glow. We sat down. We were joined by two glamorous women, they were curators. They were sparkly with shiny hair and retro dresses. I could feel a jolt of super-alertness, as another dose of speed kicked in. Then a man in a check shirt and a beard approached. I was wearing a suit and an open necked shirt. I felt over-dressed.
This is Michael Gray, the artist, David said. We shook hands. We drank Black Rat.
Michael, this is Nick, the man I was telling you about. Nick owns the bar over the other side of town, Café Assassin.
Oh, yes, I remember.
Have you been? I said.
No. It’s a live music venue isn’t it?
Live music, comedy, cabaret, burlesque, magic. It’s a bit Cabaret Voltaire.
What’s that then?
I was surprised. I thought he’d get the reference that I’d made especially to accommodate him. You know, where Dada started.
Of course I know, Michael said. Which made me think even more that he didn’t. David tells me you’re interested in exhibiting work there.
It’s David’s idea, I said. It’s a good idea, I lied.
Nick has just been to your exhibition, David said.
What did you think? Michael said.
I don’t know, I said. I like content. I mean, I like things that are free of content too. But, you know, my preference is for content.
But that’s the point, he said.
I see, I said. I get it. I didn’t get it. I felt over-dressed. I took my suit jacket off and rolled up the sleeves of my shirt. I asked him why his friends hadn’t turned up. I asked him why his family hadn’t turned up. I asked him why he hadn’t turned up.
I don’t need an audience to validate my work, he said.
I see, I said. I was grinding my teeth.
What do you think of the Black Rat? Lucy said.
I like it, I said. It was the black rats that carried the bubonic plague.
I was imagining Michael Gray with swollen lymph nodes.
That’s dark, she said.
We drank more Black Rat. The room was swimming. It was strong stuff, cutting through the pharmaceutical-grade speed I’d downed.
I need to go outside, I said, For some fresh air. David joined me. We both rolled cigarettes.
No, I’m from Manchester. How about you?
Bristol, he said.
He didn’t have a Bristol accent.
How long did you live there?
Twenty-one years, he said.
We stood in silence, smoking. Although I was buzzing from the speed, I couldn’t think of anything to say to him. He was stubbing out his cigarette and putting his lighter in his pocket.
I’ll just finish this, I said. And held up my cigarette. He nodded and went back inside.
I felt deflated. It was clear that there was no special bond between us. I felt like a fool. What was I thinking? The truth was that I was closer to Steve than I was to David and his crowd who didn’t need ‘an audience to validate their work’.
There was a golden nimbus of light emanating from the street lamp opposite, but everywhere else was quite dark. As I watched the halo it seemed to grow. It pulsated. I wondered if it was the speed or the Black Rat.
Then I noticed him standing in a doorway of a boarded up building, the man with the military-style hat. He was staring at me and beckoning me over. I felt my muscles contract and a cold steel wire wrap itself around my neck. I looked around. The street was empty. I looked back over to the doorway. He was in shadow now, the peak of his cap concealing his eyes. He was smiling. Then he waved.
I chucked my cigarette in the gutter and went back inside. I went over to David’s table.
I need to go, I said.
Are you all right?
I need to go.
Can I take it as a ‘yes’ then?
What?
To the exhibition space.
He held out his hand for me to shake. I backed away from him.
Outside, I stood waiting for a taxi. He was still there, in the doorway. I flagged a taxi down and got in. I was shaking. I wished that I was driving, driving over the artist, and the gallery owner, over the curators and over the man with the military-style hat. I pictured a giant black rat, eating the man’s face off.
Since the beatings stopped, life inside is bearable. You are no longer afraid of the world outside your cell. You are no longer afraid of other people. You play chess with Keyop and talk about life outside. You have known him for three years. He has a daughter and she has agreed to visit him for the first time. She is coming this afternoon. You have never seen Keyop this nervous. He is wearing a white shirt and a green tie. His hair is neatly parted. His shoes are polished. There are creases in his trousers.
CAFÉ ASSASSIN Page 19
