Osama

by Lavie Tidhar

  ‘Yes.’

  The address Papadopoulos had given Joe in Paris was for the Castle Club, in London’s Soho area. Royalty payments for the Osama books went to Mike Longshott, care of the Castle Club. Mike Longshott, therefore, must have been a member of the club. And membership numbers, as Mo pointed out, were restricted. It was Joe’s first solid lead. Somewhere inside the Castle there would be information leading him to Longshott — there had to be.

  He took a last swig from his beer and laid down some notes for Mo. The bald man stuffed them inside his raincoat but seemed in no hurry to leave the premises. ‘Everybody’s looking for something,’ he said suddenly. ‘Only some of us get paid to find it.’

  Joe was taken aback. Mo smiled and signalled the bartender for another drink. ‘I hope you find it, whatever it is,’ he told Joe. Joe nodded. ‘And you?’ he said. ‘Anything you’re looking for?’

  Mo shrugged. ‘I mainly do divorces,’ he said. Joe smiled and walked to the doors. As he was about to leave, a small brass plaque on the wall caught his eyes. ‘In a room above this pub, in 1847, the second Congress of the Communist League was held. In the same room, Karl Marx wrote Das Kapital.’ Below that, in smaller letters, was the legend: ‘ “Our age, the age of democracy, is breaking.” Frederick Engels.’ Joe stepped outside and lit a cigarette.

  voices at a funeral

  ——

  There were two shots. The air was a foggy haze. The girl in the doorway opposite had disappeared. There were no pedestrians. The sunlight had a murky quality. It was very silent but for the gunshots. He hadn’t taken more than two puffs on the cigarette — it stayed between his fingers, the smoke curling up so slowly to the sky, but you couldn’t see the sky in London. A moth fluttered past. Brick walls. Great Windmill, a pedestrian street. The sound of traffic coming through from Shaftesbury Avenue, but muted, like voices at a funeral. A torn piece of newspaper blowing past his feet. Someone had spray-painted 7/7 on the wall further up, the direction from which the three men were approaching. He saw black shoes, no faces. The door opened behind him, Mo emerging into the street, oblivious, saying — ‘I’ll give it to you for free — if you get stuck try looking out for Madam Se—’

  Gunshots, three this time. One took the bald man in the head. Joe spun, slow-motion-like, his hands trailing bands of light. The sound of the shots was very loud in the street. A glass window exploded. There were screams from inside. Glass fragmented, rippling out of the blast core, flying through the air, the shards catching the light as they blew. There were momentary rainbows. Mo, falling, like a body in water. The cigarette was still glued to Joe’s fingers.

  Take stock. Turn. Mo still falling, falling, the ground a long way away, his body trailing light like coloured smoke. Three men coming, three men with guns, Joe trapped in a triangle between the Pink Pussycat, the Windmill Theatre and Marx’s pub. Up the road a sign said Bookshop. Mo hitting the ground and Joe thought — Strange. There was no blood. Time speeded up and he staggered, the three men still coming, two of them circling him, the third stopped where he was. Joe ducked a blow, kicked out, heard a man grunt in pain. Someone swore. A pistol butt connected with Joe’s head and he fell back, hit an obstruction, fell. The ground came at him hard. Mo’s body a rise above the plane of the street. Mo’s face, turned to Joe, pale thin lips, moving. A whisper. Joe strained to hear.

  ‘One of us…’

  The eyes closed. The lips settled into a line. A face like the surface of an asteroid, passing in the darkness of space. Fading out. Hands reached for Joe. He fought them. From somewhere, a shout: ‘Don’t knock him out!’

  Pain flared in the back of his head. He thought, Too late.

  Fade to black.

  forget the detective

  ——

  Death defying acts. He was awake, he knew that, but not quite. He was hovering in that space between full wakefulness and sleep. Random acts of senseless violence. One of us. One of us. All I can taste is airline food. Now I hate the taste. Through his half-closed eyes, Great Windmill Street. Outside the Pink Pussycat, a white girl standing with her arms crossed, her hair the same blonde as the black girl who was there before. Angels of Christian mercy watching over him. He groaned.

  Fade out.

  Awake again. Suspended in a bright white world. The ground beneath him soft, the air perfumed: disinfectant, sweat, patchouli. The sweat his own. The world soft, like a bed. Half-closed eyes: his client, leaning towards him, her face filling his vision. Lips tight, eyes wide. Voices in the background, softly, softly. Something in his arm. A machine pinging. ‘I think he said something. Did he say something?’ — and fade.

  When he awoke the street was dark and a group of Japanese business men in dark suits were piling into the Pink Pussycat. He groaned again and felt the back of his head — there was a large, painful bump there. He blinked, once, twice, tried to sit.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t see you there—’ A man pushing a shopping trolley, looking startled, hurried away. Joe looked at the junk poking out of the cart and thought of a life. He turned his head, slowly, this way and that. No sign of Mo. Behind him the pub was shut, the window boarded up. No sign of the men who assaulted him. He groaned again and thought of a drink, fished in his pockets, withdrew a crumpled packed of cigarettes, put one in his mouth. His hands shook and it took him several times before he managed to light it. He took a deep drag and felt the smoke burning his throat, slipping into his lungs. He sat back, against the wall, and smoked. Bright lights flashing. People walking past, night people, no one glancing in his direction. He blew smoke and knew he was in over his head.

  How long had he been out?

  It was night time. And no one had come for him, and the men didn’t get him, and the window got repaired and Mo removed while he was out cold, it was as if the world was cleaned around him while he slept. He said, ‘No,’ and tasted smoke. He pushed himself up. He was shaking. He stood bracing himself against the wall. Bright flashing lights, a windmill of neon spinning. 7/7 sprayed against the wall up the road, and a Bookshop sign. Fuck it. He pushed himself away and went downstream, towards Shaftesbury Avenue.

  They might be waiting for him at the hotel, but he didn’t care. When he pushed his way in through the doors of the Regent Palace, the first thing he heard was loud Irish music coming from the hotel’s pub. Noise, a blast of warm air, the smell of booze and cigarettes. The doorman took one look at his face, shook his head, said nothing. Joe walked in.

  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Perfume, smoke, laughter. My-name’s-Simon on reception, sitting behind a large brass adding machine, the buttons gleaming. Extra pillow. A flash of something hovering at the very back of his mind — white sheets, the ground soft as a bed, ‘I think he said something—’ No. He staggered into the pub, ordered a whisky, straight, no ice, drank the first one at the counter, ordered another: he felt better after the third, paid for a beer and a fourth, took it to a dark corner, sat down. Irish music and loud voices, faces walking on the pavement outside, lives blowing in the gutter-wind — no. He drank from the beer: it cooled him down. The whisky had burned through him, warmed him up — he hadn’t realised how cold he’d felt. Oscillating temperatures.

  In too deep — that’s what it amounted to. He should relinquish the case. Forget the Castle, forget the Mike Longshott trail — it probably led nowhere in any case. Let go of Papa D, of the girl outside the Gare du Nord. Let go of Mo, drink a toast and forget the detective. Do what the men from the CPD said, and stay away. Forget his employer, the fine lines in the corners of those big, slightly almond-shaped eyes, forget the way she put her hand on his and it was too familiar… Let it go. Let go of Osama Bin Laden, let go of books where bombs go off and people die, let go of this war you have no scale for, that you don’t understand. Let go of the crumb trail, the talk of refugees, the sideshow freaks in the old black and white movie he’d watched in Paris, chanting One of us, one of us.

  It was getting late. The three-piece band had wound down, softer m
usic came on, some sort of jazz, no, he knew that song; he touched his eyes and they were wet, and when he blinked he saw the world through a film of moisture, like rain, and she said, ‘We have all the time in the world.’

  Then she was there, sitting opposite him, blurry, he could only see her blurred through the film over his eyes, an intersection of light and water: he thought she smiled.

  He said, ‘I saw a man die today.’

  She said, ‘Maybe he was already dead.’

  The silence lingered between them. Joe shook his head, said, ‘No.’ The girl reached across the table, touched his hand. Her hand was warm. ‘No,’ she said, agreeing. He blinked, the tears still there. The pub quiet now, the voices hushed. She said, ‘Do you remember—?’ and Joe said, ‘No,’ — his vocabulary shrinking to that one word, one single perception.

  ‘Find him, Joe,’ the girl said, and he noticed her ears again, a little pointy, and lovely for that. ‘Find Mike Longshott. Find Osama Bin Laden.’

  He wanted to say, No one ever catches him in the books. Now you see him now you don’t. And then he thought how the writer resembled his hero, a jack in the box, a disappearing act. He said, ‘Why?’ Her hand on top of his trembled. He had the urge to take her hand in his, lace his fingers with hers and not let go.

  She shook her head. ‘For…’ she was fading, he couldn’t see her clearly any more. He rubbed his eyes and they were dry. When he looked up she was gone. Left on the table was a calling card. He picked it up. It said The Blue Note. Nothing else. He finished the dregs of his beer and stood up, and walked out, through the wide corridor of the reception area, up a wide and empty elevator, down an empty echoing corridor, and to his room. Later he had a shower and shaved and watched the dried blood from the back of his head swirl down through the plug-hole, turning and turning in a diminishing spire of loss.

  bruisers and cruisers

  ——

  The next day he decided to watch the Castle. He walked through Soho, passing signs for Adult Bookshops, Adult Cinemas, Adult Shows — an entire wonderland of adulthood, sculpted into the red-grey bricks of the narrow streets. Italian restaurants; Chinese restaurants; Indian restaurants. Newsagents selling cigarettes and soft drinks and newspapers. Pubs. Bars. Clothes shops. Ticket agents selling tickets to shows on Shaftesbury Avenue at half-price. Mini-cab stands. A man sidled up to him as he walked, said, ‘Hashish? Marijuana?’ He pronounced it like a name, Mari-Joanna. ‘You want girls? Boys? Opium?’

  Joe shook his head, no, no, no again; the man sidled away, shaking his head. Joe walked along Old Compton Street and wondered who Old Compton was, and smiled.

  Frith Street: old stone houses spilling down to the pavement. Outside number twenty-two, a coffee-bar, tables outside, on the left: a small, unmarked door. He went up the stone steps, pressed a buzzer.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m here to meet a member.’ Said as a question.

  ‘Who are you looking for, sir?’

  ‘Mike Longshott? I believe he’s expecting me.’

  Silence the other end. The sound of papers being moved. ‘We have no member by that name.’

  ‘My apologies,’ Joe said. ‘Is this not the Century Club?’

  ‘No, this is the Castle.’

  ‘I must have the wrong address.’

  Silence on the other end. Conversation terminated.

  Joe smiled.

  He sat at the coffee bar outside and ordered a cappuccino. A wide-screen television inside showing BBC coverage of a European sports league. He sat with his back to it, watched the approach to the Castle. Not long to wait: a man came out, dark suit, a large frame, a once-broken nose — making sure he was gone.

  Well, he wasn’t. The bruiser went back inside, seemingly satisfied. Joe lit a cigarette, added sugar to his coffee. The bruise at the back of his head still hurt.

  He sipped his coffee. He watched the club.

  09:30 — a black cab pulled up to the curb, a man in a brown suit came out, holding a briefcase and a cane. Climbed up the stairs, the door swallowed him, the cab drove off.

  09:42 — a man and a woman, casual clothes, the woman smoking, the man gesturing with his hands as he talked — up the stairs, into the club.

  09:48 — an elderly man with a wild mane of white hair, stepping out of the club, blinking in the light, walked off towards Soho Square, zigzagging a little.

  Nothing for another fifteen minutes, and he ordered another coffee, went to the bathroom. Through the counter, through a too-low door, down stairs, a cubicle underground. Emerging back into the light to find his coffee waiting for him, and a horse-drawn carriage, no less, outside the Castle, men in livery holding open the doors: two Japanese officials emerging in full regalia, a white man with square glasses, receding hairline and a suit, the three of them went into the club. He could be waiting all day.

  10:16 — three men in casual clothes, talking loudly, coming from the direction of Chinatown.

  10:22 — a cab pulled to the curb, waited. Four minutes later two women came out of the club, climbed inside. Strong features, prominent noses, mute and expensive clothes — the cab drove away.

  Another trip underground for Joe. Standing under London all sounds were muted, the small dark space closing in on him. He hurried back up the narrow stairs.

  Third coffee, and he was beginning to lose the thread of what he was looking for. Only a sense, a feeling that he would find something, an end to follow, if only he waited long enough. But he had enough of the coffee. He felt wound up, kept fidgeting with the cigarette.

  10:43 — black car, diplomatic registration plates, no flag flying, three men in black suits, the older man gesturing, telling a joke — they were too far away for him to hear the particulars — the other two laughing. Grey Hair and his two muscle-boys, last seen Moceau. The car drove away, the three went up the stairs, disappeared inside the club.

  Cosy. Did they know about Longshott, then? Too many unanswered questions. He left money on the table and stood up, stretched. Went back to number twenty-two and stared at the door. A small blue plaque on the wall: “The first television broadcast was made on this location in 1926.” He waited. He didn’t have to wait long.

  The door opened. The bruiser from earlier. The suit an excellent cut, the face cut also, from long ago. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  Joe liked the ‘sir’. The man’s massive frame blocked the door.

  ‘I was just leaving,’ Joe said.

  The man waited, face impassive. Joe thought of the people coming and going from the club, of the man in front of him. Bruisers and cruisers, he thought, and smiled.

  ‘Sir?’ The man detached himself from the doorway. A bulge under his jacket. Concealed gun. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  Joe left.

  convict’s last

  ——

  He walked back to the Red Lion. It was still early. The Pink Pussycat was closed. The broken window of the Red Lion was still boarded up. Two African men walking past; a woman in a sari; a red-headed girl with pale Irish skin; a group of builders, heading for the Red Lion—- Joe left them to it.

  Spray-painted on the wall, there was that number again. 7/7, lucky number doubled. He wondered what it meant. There was that Bookshop sign again. He went up Great Windmill, stepped through the door to the shop. A bell tinkled faintly.

  The interior dark, a little musty. Dusty books in piles on the floor, movie reels stacked on shelves behind a counter, a black cat sleeping on a rocking chair. Leather outfits like something out of World War Two hanging loosely on hooks. Behind the counter, straightening up: an old man, white candy-floss hair sticking out, glasses perched on the edge of his nose. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘What sort of books do you have?’

  ‘Dirty books,’ the man said, flatly.

  Joe trailed a finger on a spine, left a line in the covering of dust, said, ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Very funny. You want to buy something?’ the implication being — if not, get out.<
br />
  ‘Do you have any Medusa Press titles?’

  The old man grimaced. ‘Sure. We got the latest titles just come in from Paris.’

  ‘Could I see them?’

  The man gestured at a pile of books by the door, a little less dusty than the rest. ‘Help yourself.’

  Why was he looking at the books again? He didn’t know. He had a feeling he had missed something, in his talk with Papa D. He squatted down and began sifting through the titles, forming a new pile as he shifted books starting at the top.

  Confessions of Dungeon Slave.

  Alien Sexperiments — this one a science fiction title.

  The New Translation of the Kama Sutra.

  Countess Szu Szu’s Guide to Erotic Love.

  Papa D had been busy.

  He went through some more of the same. ‘Do you stock any of the Osama Bin Laden books?’

  ‘Vigilante?’ the owner made a face. ‘I might have the new one somewhere. Hold on.’

  The man came from behind the counter. Liver-spotted hands. A thick moustache salt-and-peppered. A turkey neck. There was something about him that suggested a convict’s last, un-nourishing meal. A pile of unopened mail by the door. ‘There it is. Came in last week.’ He tore open the bag. Five slim paperback volumes slid out. He passed one to Joe, left the rest on a random pile and shuffled back to his stool. There was a distinct smell, very familiar by now, permeating the shop. Joe tried to ignore it.