CAFÉ ASSASSIN

by Michael Stewart

  Then I was kissing her. First gentle kisses, then more urgent, fierce kisses. Our lips locked together. My hands round her back, my hands on her arse. Her hands all over me. She stood up and pulled the black dress she was wearing over her head. She threw it in the corner. I unbuttoned my shirt and threw it on top of her dress. I went over to her, kissing her, unclasping her bra, kissing her neck, pulling her hair, kissing her breasts, sucking the nipples. Biting them.

  We moved over to the biggest table, I was pulling her knickers down, tearing them off her. I took off the rest of the clothes I was wearing. I cleared the candle holder, the menu, and the beer mats with one swipe of my arm.

  She lay across the table, naked except for her shoes, clinging on to the edges. I kissed her belly, I opened her legs and kissed her inner thighs. I licked her pussy, Andrew. I licked your wife’s pussy. Pushing my tongue hard against her clitoris, as though her pussy was her mouth and I was kissing it. Harder and harder. She was wet with her own juices and my saliva.

  Within a few minutes she was coming. She was groaning with pleasure, jerking around, muscle spasms building. I had to cling on to her hips to keep her in one place. I dug my fingers into her arse cheeks, my tongue and lips clamped to her. She was panting and moaning.

  We fucked. I picked her up, still fucking, and we lay on the rug, and we fucked and fucked and fucked, like two dogs. I was fucking her so hard I could hardly catch my breath. Her coming over and over, until eventually, I came too and collapsed on top of her, panting like a beast, beads of sweat pouring off me.

  Twenty-two years I’d waited for that, Andrew. We lay in silence, Liv stroking my hair. We lay panting, getting our breath back.

  Now that was the fuck of a lifetime, Liv said.

  That’s what she said, Andrew. The fuck of a lifetime. And it was for me too. We’d both had the fuck of a lifetime. No matter how many times you fucked her, you had never fucked her like that.

  Don’t worry, Andrew. I’ve saved the best till last. I suggest you have a break at this point though. Put it down for a few hours, clear your mind. You’ll need all your strength.

  The Shadow That Walks Behind You

  “He who does not forgive, digs two graves.”

  Chinese proverb

  22

  I’m aware, Andrew, that this has been a long letter, but I’m getting to the end of it now. I’m including some photographs. I’ve had one of them enlarged especially. It’s the one of me and Liv on top of the Rockefeller. I’ve had it printed double size. I thought you might want to stick it on your wall. Prison cells can be very Spartan.

  Oh, I didn’t tell you about New York, did I? Forgive me. You’re not the only one who’s been to the Big Apple. I went there with Liv in the summer. You wouldn’t believe the difficulty I had getting a false passport. My Home Office licence doesn’t forbid me from travelling abroad, but you know what American Customs are like. Luckily, Howler knew some people, but it wasn’t cheap. You must think me mad to go to so much trouble, but I’d say it was worth every penny.

  We did all the touristy things first. Liv, as you know, had already seen most of it, but it was all new to me. Forget that, I’d only come for one reason. Liv didn’t want to do it. She’d already done it so it had no appeal. But I begged her and eventually she agreed.

  We tried a few comedy clubs first, a few live music bars. The comedy clubs were a bit desperate for trade. The comics standing outside on the sidewalk trying to entice you in. It was free, you just had to buy a beer. Of course we were going to buy a beer, what else do you do in a bar? I liked their attitude. We sat down. Only six or seven in the audience but the comics were funny and the material was sharp. There was a ballsyness about them and a professionalism. Even though they were playing to an obviously disappointing audience they didn’t let it show. There were four Indians from New Delhi, two Spanish lesbians and me and Liv.

  You know what they need? I said.

  What’s that?

  A Café Assassin.

  It was true. There were far too many places offering the same thing. There needed to be one place where it was hard to get in.

  I was itching to do it, and eventually that night I did. I went to the top of the world, to topple your crown. We went to the heights where you had sat in your golden throne: the roof of the Rockefeller. First we were outside the building, looking up to the heavens, an ivory white staircase leading to the bowers. We were craning our necks to take it all in. We entered the building, the golden archway, the marble pillars, a bronze Prometheus, the bringer of fire. We read the plaque in the plaza: ‘I believe that the law was made for man and not man for the law.’ Are you listening, Andrew?

  We were being transported, up seventy storeys, floating on a platform. We stood hand in hand, taking in the scene. The myriad lights: white, yellow, blue, green, red, orange, silver and gold. The dark oblong of Central Park. Then we looked south, down Manhattan, the Empire State Building lit up in blue and white, the flashes of cameras as the tourists at the top of that tower took pictures of us at the top of our tower.

  Its entire construction was an ever-extending spire, reaching up to touch the sky. It was a visionary building, as was the Chrysler, a bit to the left, with its vast shining sunburst coronet. Times Square, the Hudson River, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Statue of Liberty. Scenes from films and television. I thought about that night, in your house, watching Kojak with your dad, your mum serving us drinks, pretending she was my mum and he was my dad. And this was my house.

  It was more than pretending, it was occult thinking. I could make them my mum and dad, merely through an act of will. Standing on top of the Rock, I felt like a god. Hundreds of feet above the streets, surrounded by walls of clear glass: north, south, east, west. The city was beneath me. I was the city. I was above you, Andrew, and you were beneath me.

  Which do you prefer? Liv said.

  I’m sorry?

  The Chrysler, the Empire State or the Rockefeller?

  I prefer the Rockefeller.

  Why?

  I don’t know. It’s more of a radical gesture. A huge block of idealism.

  Really? said Liv. I prefer the Chrysler.

  I admire Joseph Rockefeller, I said, And Solomon Guggenheim.

  What for?

  Wealth has a different smell here. In England it stinks of rotting flesh. Here, it’s a living thing. It smells of freedom.

  I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, she said.

  Sorry to drag you up here again.

  You’ll pay for it tomorrow.

  Why’s that?

  You’re taking me shopping.

  Let’s get a picture of us with the Empire State Building in the background.

  What for?

  Just because.

  I hate getting my picture taken, Nick. Besides, it’s weird, it’s what I did with Andrew.

  Please Liv, for me. It’s no big deal.

  I had to blot you out, I had to efface you. We asked a Japanese man to take it. Surely the world experts in taking photographs of significant tourist sites. We posed for the photograph. I was careful to make sure we were standing in the exact same spot you and Liv were standing in that photograph, with the antenna spire reaching up behind you.

  Just move a bit that way, I said. That’s it.

  I put my arm around Liv, just as you had done with Liv, and smiled at the camera. In my mind I was smiling at you. I want you to look at that photograph now. I want you to see how happy we were. How far from a murderer I’d become. How normal, how like any other man in awe of a beautiful woman. In truth, my entire reason for being there was to take that picture. A far as I was concerned, the holiday was over.

  You have just been sentenced for murdering a man you didn’t murder. The man who murdered him is outside. He is free. He is going to university to study law. You look around your cell. It is bare and c
old. This is your new home. You think about Andrew, about his new home, down south. All the way through the trial, you knew that he would come good. He would tell the truth. You know this because he is your best friend. You have known him all your life. You don’t remember a time when you didn’t know him. You became friends at the age of six over a Fascinating Facts book, but that isn’t what made you best friends. What made you best friends happened a few months after, just before Christmas. It was when your Grandma died.

  You don’t remember your real mum. For three years, your grandma has been your mother. You have known no other. She has doted on you, picked you up from school, bought you sweets from the shop, let you watch your favourite cartoons, cooked you your favourite food. Now you are standing in a graveyard with your dad. A man you have never met before is saying things about your grandma. It is cold and his breath mists in front of his face. There is a thin layer of frost on the grass. You watch the coffin as it is lowered into the hole. That’s when you notice water on your dad’s face. Your dad is crying. He walks away and you follow him. He stands by a tree. He holds his hands to his eyes, but the water keeps flowing.

  He is clinging to the tree. Then he is choking. Choking with grief, the tears pouring from his eyes. You have never seen your dad cry and you are shocked. You watch his whole body shake and you don’t know what to do. You want to comfort him, but he seems so remote in his sorrow that you don’t know how to touch him. Eventually, one of his friends comes across. He talks to him. He walks across to you and he tells you that he is going to take your dad for a drink, and that you will have to come with him.

  You go to a pub. You have never been to a pub. You watch your dad pour a drink down his throat. Your dad has never drunk before. What does this mean, that he is drinking now? Even aged six, you know it is significant. He lost his wife only three years ago, the mother you don’t even remember, and now he has lost his own mother. Your dad’s friend buys you a bottle of pop and you sit in the corner and watch. Your dad does not speak. He has no words. He stares at nothing and drinks.

  The next day you are back at school and you are telling your new friend about what has happened. He gives you his chocolate bar. He puts his arm around you. For a mad moment, you are so grateful for this gesture that you want to embrace him and cry into his soft jumper. But you don’t. When school finishes, you see him talk to his mum. Your dad is there too. Your new friend’s mum is now talking to your dad. Your dad is nodding his head. He tries to give you a smile, but he can’t quite manage it. Your friend’s mum walks over to you. She asks you if you would like to come for tea. She tells you your dad says it is ok.

  He waves at you, as you walk off in the other direction. When you get to the road, she tells you to hold her hand. Andrew is holding her right hand and you are holding her left hand. You give Andrew a look and he smiles at you. You look at Andrew’s mum and she is smiling at you too. You feel bad about leaving your dad. You love your dad. But you can’t help it, you feel good to be in this world of smiling faces and warm hands.

  You see all this in your mind, as you sit in your new cell. The white walls, the grey floor. A world without smiles or warmth. You can’t believe that, that he never came forward, that he never admitted what happened, that he lied on oath. You have no words. You are numb all over. You stare at nothing.

  So there you go, and now you know, Andrew. Anyway, it’s been a long letter as I’ve said before, and that’s because I’ve had a lot to say and also because I know what it’s like to be in prison and how nice it is to receive a letter. Mail has a magical aura. It is revered. I hope you agree and that you’ve enjoyed reading it. I’d like to say that I’ve enjoyed writing it, and to some degree that’s true, but it was something that I had to do, rather than something that I wanted to do. You see, for twenty-two years I have been asking myself one question. Why did you stitch me up? I’ve come to the conclusion that you stitched me up for two reasons: the first is your cowardice and the second your vaulting ambition.

  Of course it helps when you have two parents who are willing to lie under oath. That was quite an alibi they fabricated, and first rate acting skills too (no wonder they were so convincing as Santa and his elf helper). My dad wasn’t even at the court when I was sentenced. He told me later, it was because he couldn’t face it. Maybe that’s true. He had a lot of upset in his life: losing his wife, losing his mum, losing his licence, losing his job. Having a murderer for a son sort of puts the cherry on the cake, don’t you think?

  Actually, I think there’s a third reason why you stitched me up, and it’s to do with that knife. The knife our custodial system was kind enough to guard for me all these years. The knife your wife gave to me for my eighteenth birthday. You won’t remember my eighteenth because it largely passed without event. Unlike your extravagant affair. There was no hired room, no surprise posse of friends and family hiding behind a partition, no champagne, no cake with ‘Happy 18th Birthday Son’ piped on with white icing. There were no party poppers or balloons. There were no celebratory banners.

  Feeling lonely, I went round to your house, but you’d gone out with your new student friends. I was no longer a part of your circle. Had you forgotten it was my birthday? Had you deliberately ignored me? I’d been excluded. I was somewhat baffled by this state of affairs. No – I was gutted. I bought a bottle of cherry wine from the off-licence and I walked across the slacks on my own, thinking about why you might have shut me out of your life. Perhaps it wasn’t cool to work as an apprentice. Perhaps it wasn’t cool to work. Perhaps it wasn’t cool to wear blue overalls and have oil stains from the machines in the factory. I think what changed everything was that day we were excluded from school.

  It was the start of the second year. I’d set off the fire extinguisher (on your say-so) so my cards were already marked. ET was the film everyone was watching and BMXs were the thing everyone wanted. We’d been to the chip shop for our dinner and we were walking past T Brooks. There it was in the window, a Raleigh Gold Burner, £160, way above our budget. I admit that it was my suggestion. I can’t blame you for that. I said, ‘Why don’t we nick it, Andrew?’ and you laughed. I was half joking but you thought this was a great idea.

  You went into the shop to talk to T Brooks. I think you distracted him by asking him about a puncture that needed repairing. You were very convincing, mendacity is obviously an inherited trait. While you chatted away, I lifted the bike off its frame and carried it silently out of the shop. You glanced back, saw that I’d done the deed and you ran. Out of the shop. You jumped on the back of the bike and off we went, down the hill, quickly gaining momentum, with T Brooks running after us, his brown work coat flapping in the breeze. We soon gained distance and the gap widened. He stopped running. I looked back. He was in the middle of the road shouting at us. We were laughing.

  It was stupid to bring the bike back to school with us and to put it in the bicycle sheds at the back of the school. Of course, T Brooks had recognised our school uniforms and went straight to the school. They found the bike straight away. The secretary of the school, whose office window looked onto the bike sheds, had seen us dump the bike a few minutes before. We were taken out of class less than half an hour later. Hardly the crime of the century.

  We admitted it immediately, but there were to be consequences: a phone call home. Both your parents and my dad were summoned to the headmaster’s office. We stood waiting for our punishment. The headmaster, Mr Sibery, said that we would have to be excluded for the rest of the year. Your parents nodded, showing solidarity with law and order. My dad shrugged, knowing full well that Sibery was flexing his muscles. Miss Cohen, the deputy, pointed out that it would be a mistake to have us both on the streets for a year, that the problem was the influence we had on each other and not how we behaved individually.

  My dad was well known to the school at this point: a serial neglecter. And yet they still made the decision that I was to study at home as my dad was out
of work, whereas your parents were both in full-time employment. You would sit outside the headmaster’s office all year. And that was that. Everyone seemed satisfied. At the time I thought you’d drawn the short straw. My dad said I could play out as soon as I got the work done. To be fair to my dad, he made sure I did all the work. He was strict that way and I worked hard. Most days, I had it finished by twelve noon, sometimes one o’clock. I’d play out with all the other excluded kids, getting into the sort of trouble excluded kids get into.

  Whereas you had to sit outside the headmaster’s office at one of those folding desks they used for exams. I actually felt sorry for you, but the thing was, you thrived in this environment and when the end of the year came and we were tested to see what groups we’d be put in the following year, you were in all the top groups, whereas I was in the bottom. It was also when you probably decided that you enjoyed studying for its own sake. It wasn’t until I was in prison that I could see the appeal.

  So there I was, my eighteenth birthday, wandering the slacks with my bottle of cherry wine, thinking back to where it had all gone wrong. You see, I didn’t really have any other friends. I found it hard to make friends: to open up, to give myself, to trust other people. Not like you, with all your trendy new student mates who were into The Smiths and The Cure, with their cardigans and quiffs and pretend NHS specs. Or their winklepicker boots, drainpipe jeans and bird nest hair. The men I was working with at the factory were much older than me. They had families. They went fishing at weekends, or to their allotments, or to football matches with their kids. We had nothing in common.

  I wouldn’t have stolen that bike, Andrew, without your encouragement. We were both culpable. I sensed after that incident that your mother’s appraisal of me changed. Nothing on the surface, but I felt that deep down she disapproved of me, saw me as a bad influence on her precious son, and probably viewed me as a chip off the old block. My dad didn’t do much to ingratiate himself that day. I’m sure she saw him for what he was: a pathetic pisshead. I realised that my pitiable dream of being adopted was never going to happen. I was not suitable material. I was shut out of your family.