CAFÉ ASSASSIN Page 13

  Really?

  Yes, really. But whenever I brought the subject up, I was rounded on by Andrew and his mum and dad. I was made to feel it was a bad idea. One time I wrote you a letter, but I tore it up and threw it in the bin.

  Why?

  I don’t know.

  I stared at Liv, measuring her, weighing her up. Perhaps she was telling the truth. People do that occasionally. Liv had gone quiet. She was hugging her teacup and staring at the table.

  Are you ok? I said.

  I feel completely betrayed. By Andrew, by his parents … but mainly by Andrew. He came up afterwards and tried to explain. He said he had no choice. He said it was his parents’ decision. I said it didn’t matter whose decision it was, they had taken a part of your life away. He said to me, ‘would you rather it was me that was locked up?’

  I wanted to ask her, ‘Well, would you?’ but I remained silent. She put her cup in its saucer and leaned back in her chair. She tilted her head back and took a deep breath.

  Do you want a cigarette? I said.

  She nodded. I took out my pouch and papers and started to roll.

  They never liked me, you know, she said.

  Who?

  Andrew’s parents … I used to think it was the way I dressed.

  They were a bit judgemental.

  You know, I don’t think they thought I was good enough. Not good enough for their high-achieving son.

  I thought back to how kind they had been to me once and I felt the stab of pain afresh. How I had loved them, and wished that they were my parents. How, when my grandma had died, they had comforted me. They had saved me. How, when I had nowhere to stay, they had taken me in, clothed me, fed me, provided a bed for me on their sofa. But they had denied me. They had sold me to a house of torment, in order to save you. I was cast aside. I was no longer part of your world.

  Andrew’s been lying to me, Nick. He’s been lying to me for twenty-two years. Twenty-two years. He’s a murderer. I’ve been living with a murderer for twenty-two years.

  I didn’t need to say anything, Andrew. Everything was slotting into place, by itself.

  This may sound self-centred, she said, But actually the lying hurts more than knowing he’s a murderer. I can actually understand how things can get out of hand. I think we’re all capable of it, given the right circumstances.

  I nodded. I didn’t need to state the obvious.

  You know, I think part of me knew all along. Perhaps I didn’t want to think about it. Perhaps I didn’t want the truth.

  Who does want the truth, Andrew, if it brings no consolation?

  I knew she wanted me to say, it’s ok, I forgive you. But I wasn’t able to do that. It wasn’t ok, I didn’t forgive her. I thought about all that time she could have come to see me. I wondered how hard she had fought your parents, fought you, or whether she had given up easily. I pictured her tearing up the letter and throwing it away. I wondered what it had said. We sat in silence.

  At last I said, So what do you want to do?

  I don’t know.

  Why don’t I pay the bill and we can go for a walk. Ok?

  Outside we walked and smoked. We wandered down Deansgate, across Blackfriars Bridge, over the Irwell. We watched the river carry the filth of the city out to the sea. We walked up Chapel Street, towards the cathedral. We wandered up Shudehill. I hardly recognised the place. All the little stalls selling second-hand books and records had gone. The pawn shops and the shops for nerds selling parts for radios, rare stamps and collectable coins, had been replaced by wine bars, bistros and a tram station. We found ourselves on Oldham Street outside Affleck’s Palace. We’d been walking for over an hour.

  Fucking hell, she said. Look at this.

  We stopped outside the entrance. It looked exactly the same as it had in the eighties. You’ll remember Affleck’s Palace, Andrew, you weren’t as much of a fixture as we were, but you certainly frequented it. Who would have thought an old mill complex off Oldham Street would be such a regular hang-out for teenagers? On Saturdays it was teeming with life. A maze of retro clothes shops, gothic jewellery stalls, cafés, second-hand records, posters, badges … there was a 1950s jukebox that played, ‘That’s Alright’, ‘Latest Flame’, ‘Summertime Blues’. To be honest, I didn’t like that fifties scene with its slavish imitation of a bygone style – the right jeans, the right suede jacket, the right pomade in your hair. I wondered again why Liv had suggested Manchester. Perhaps subconsciously, she wanted to return to a time of innocence. When the world was still unsullied.

  There was a barber’s shop that we used to sit outside and watch all the painfully shy young men enter, wearing their turned-up jeans and cardigans, to ask the barber in a painfully shy voice if he would do them a quiff like Morrissey’s, and there was a ladies hairdressers upstairs where the punk girls would get the side of their heads shaved, and get their hair dyed red, blue or green. Then when The Stone Roses, The Happy Mondays and The Inspiral Carpets got to be the new thing, it was all sixties-style mop-tops. Always, in one way or another, looking back to the past. And I didn’t want to look back, I wanted to look to the future.

  Shall we have a wander round, for old time’s sake?

  Ok, she said, and we went inside.

  It was funny being back. It was exactly the same. It was completely different. They still had retro clothes shops, although eighties clothes were what was classed as retro now and there were several places that specialised in eighties ‘vintage’ sportswear: Sergio Tacchini tracksuits, Fila sports shirts, Ellesse jumpers, Farah slacks, Kicker boots. But there was still the same punk and goth shops, and a sixties retro shop that seemed to have the exact same polka-dot dresses and mod suits as I’d remembered.

  The woman running the shop could well have been the same woman as twenty-two years ago – preserved in retro aspic. The barber’s shop looked the same and there was a café in the same place as the old café, although it had been refurbished ‘ironically’ to look like a greasy spoon, complete with red plastic sauce bottles in the shape of tomatoes. There was a lot of tat – I don’t remember the old Affleck’s being that full of tat. Lots of cheap fancy dress. Liv tried on a faux-leather German officer’s cap, I tried on a fake felt Victorian top hat. There was a hat which looked like it had been made from cat fur with cat ears and a scarf attached which had stitched-in gloves to look like cat paws. Liv put it on and did her cat impersonation. We spent a couple of hours just walking around, reminiscing, picking stuff up, laughing. Through an act of alchemy, we’d returned to the time before. Only this time, one thing was different: I knew I could have your wife.

  We walked past Casablancas, then further up Oldham Street, where we found a restaurant next to the old fish market. Remember how run down that area used to be? It was all pet shops, sex shops and knocking shops. Tib Street used to smell of piss-soaked sawdust and lubricating jelly. Now it smells of rosemary and lemongrass. The area has been re-branded the Northern Quarter and is rather trendy now in a bohemian way. Anyway, the restaurant looked stylish. It was by the crumbling facade of the old market. The brick and wrought iron had been left in this state of disarray for effect. We peered inside the restaurant. It was modern but cosy. Lots of black leather, glass, oak, ivy. We chose a bottle of wine that the waiter was keen to recommend. He had been on a wine-tasting course and spoke passionately about the list. He told us both about the blind tasting that was required to pass the course.

  So, Liv said, looking at me with those molten silver eyes, Why didn’t you tell me?

  Why didn’t you visit me, Liv? I said. Why didn’t you believe me?

  There was an awkward pause.

  I filled her glass. The waiter was right – the wine was very good. (Though to be honest, I was no expert back then, but I’ve been on one of those courses now too – and I’m a bit of a wine buff. I’d beat you in a blind taste any day of the week). />
  I’ve told you, Nick, that I wanted to visit you.

  And I told you about Andrew.

  You waited twenty-two years to tell me about Andrew.

  Look, I said, It wasn’t my place to tell you. It was Andrew’s secret. You should be asking Andrew, not me.

  I can’t forgive him. Not the lying, or what he did to that man, but what he’s done to you, she said.

  And another piece moves into its place.

  You don’t need to forgive him. It’s not for you to forgive him. Only I can do that. And I have, I said.

  But how can you?

  It was an act of cowardice, not one of malice. Who’s to say, boot on the other foot, I wouldn’t have done the same thing.

  Liv stared out of the window, at the crumbling facade.

  How are you feeling? In yourself, I mean, I said.

  Not good.

  Have you spoken some more to Andrew?

  What’s the point?

  So what are you going to do about it?

  The waiter returned and we ordered.

  Liv looked out of the window again, deep in thought. At last she said, It’s an impossible situation.

  I raised my eyebrows. I could think of a solution. You could leave him, I wanted to say, choose the right one this time. Instead I said, Perhaps you can patch things up. His parents were only doing what any parent would do in that situation. Don’t be so hard on him.

  We went to a bar afterwards, The Night and Day Café – of course you’ll remember this old haunt? I hadn’t drawn on it consciously, but in some ways I think it must have been one of the inspirations for Café Assassin.

  We used to go there a lot, to see bands, to watch stand-up, to see (in theory) good performance poetry. It’s an interesting side issue this one. We did see some good performance poetry there but the vast bulk of it was mediocre doggerel delivered by talentless fops doing a rat-a-tat copy of John Cooper Clarke. Everything else seemed to come first: the clothes, the make-up, the hair, even the predictable left-leaning opinions. It was almost like they had forgotten about the words. As though the only reason for a word to exist was to rhyme with another word. You may or may not be interested to note that twenty-two years later the scene hasn’t really changed. Bad dress, naive political opinions, no life experience, just a rhyming dictionary.

  Anyway, what I liked the most about the Night and Day café was that it was always busy and convivial. But as we stood at the bar and gave our order, I looked around and there was hardly anyone in. The atmosphere was grim. It was the middle of the day, I supposed. I imagined it would be quite different during the evening. Or perhaps not. The brightest stars, at the end of their lifetimes, contain little more than degenerate matter. In my mind I made a note: as one star dies, another star expands to become a red giant. We sat on two bar stools and drank Peroni.

  I’ve got something to confess too, Liv said.

  What’s that? I said.

  When you were in prison.

  What about it?

  I missed you.

  Bang. Her words shot into my brain. They were burning hot. They were luminous. I made sure not to allow any expression on my face.

  She looked me in the eye and I returned her gaze.

  These few weeks have been really hard, she said. I’ve come to really like my routine with the club. I enjoy the atmosphere, got to know quite a few of the regulars. I’ve made friends with the staff.

  They like you.

  It’s pretty sleepy in Ilkley. We rarely go out, if at all. All I seem to do is worry about what the kids are up to at boarding school. I hate them being there. Or when they’re back home, drive them around. Since when did my life get shoved to one side?

  I wondered why she hadn’t fought you over the boarding school. Perhaps she had. I’d seen you in action and I knew you were a master of persuasion.

  I didn’t tell you how I came to murder someone.

  I can imagine, inside, things got pretty dark.

  Do you want to know?

  She thought about this. At last, No, not just now. I’ve lost my taste for it.

  Lost your taste for what, Liv?

  The truth.

  We sat in silence and finished off another beer. I walked Liv back to the train station.

  Can I hold your hand, she said as we walked along, a little unsteady. (Not quite cuckolded, Andrew, not quite). I tried my best to stay calm.

  You’d best get the first train. I’ll get the one after, I said.

  She nodded. She knew how it would look if we both got off the train together. So we headed to the platform hand in hand. I kissed her on the cheek. A rather chaste kiss I thought. She kissed me full on the lips. We held on to each other. Then her train arrived on platform four and she was getting on it. She was getting on it, she was getting on it. Then she was gone. I went to the station bar and ordered a double shot of vodka. I waited for the next train. I could still taste Liv on my lips. Time for a little celebration.

  14

  It was a matter of life or death. I had to make a success of the club – I had to show you I could be as successful as you. But I couldn’t keep on going as I was. There were staff to pay and bills. Food, tobacco, drugs, booze. I needed to open every night of the week just to break even. But would I make enough on those nights? Would the cost of amphetamine required to work two jobs full-time outweigh the profit? This was the gamble. I was making good money labouring and managing to save some of it. But not enough to cover any big loss. I needed to be solvent for at least another six months before I could give up the labouring job. It was back-breaking work.

  Steve came out, clutching his diary and scratching his balls.

  Fucking quids in, he said, and went over to the van. We got inside and I started the engine. Took longer than I thought though, he said. If we want to get a decent run at the job in Adel we’ll need to make it a late one. Five o’clock. You ok with that?

  I can’t, Steve, not tonight.

  Why the fuck not?

  I’ve got to open up the club.

  Thought you only did Mondays and Wednesdays during the week?

  It’s a new night.

  What sort of night?

  Storytelling.

  What the fuck’s that all about?

  People on stage, telling stories.

  He laughed and shook his head. What’s wrong with sitting at the bar telling stories?

  They’re not those kind of stories.

  What other kind is there?

  Traditional tales, fables, folk stories, ancient myths.

  He gave me a look. He was not impressed.

  What’s on tomorrow? Making jam? Knitting jumpers?

  Burlesque.

  We were driving along the ring road, slowing down every minute or so for a roundabout.

  Strippers? he said, getting interested.

  They don’t call themselves strippers.

  Do they get their kit off?

  Well, yes.

  So they’re strippers then.

  It’s more about the tease. It’s a form of theatre. They use peacock fans and feather boas.

  Do they get their tits out?

  Sometimes.

  Then they’re strippers.

  It’s not what you think, Steve, trust me.

  Do they get their minges out?

  Not very often.

  I might come along anyway. Wife’s out with her mates. Mother-in-law’s babysitting. What time does it kick off?

  It’s a members only club, Steve.

  You saying I can’t come?

  It’s not that.

  I helped build it, don’t forget.

  I just don’t think you’ll like it, that’s all.

  I’ll be the judge of that.

  So that was settled
.

  I did a hundred and twenty press-ups, a hundred and thirty sit-ups and eighteen minutes of shadowboxing. I took Ray on a three mile run, building up his strength. Only a slight limp now. As we ran down the old railway track, Ray spotted a rabbit and gave chase. It felt good to watch him run after that rabbit. No other thought in his head. His muscles taut. His ears pinned back. His forelegs stretching out, towards the quarry that was running for its life. I was running too. You were my quarry, and I was running faster than you, Andrew.

  Ray was running with a limp beside me, panting. I was running all the filth out of my body, the way you bleed a radiator until all excess air has escaped and the rotten water has spurted out. I ran until I couldn’t run anymore. We came out of the woods and climbed over a stile, into a farmer’s field. The footpath skirted the borders. The path went through an area of five houses. I had my headphones on. I was listening to The Destroyers. The path cut through the gardens of the houses. Whoever owned them had cordoned them off with fences, walls and hedges. Ray was walking a few feet in front of me. I became aware of something moving in my peripheral vision. I stopped. There was a big fat man with a red leathery face, standing outside his house, waving his arms at me. He was shouting. I took off my headphones.

  Get that fucking dog on a fucking lead! He was screaming.

  I stopped in my tracks. I don’t have a lead.

  What?! You thick bastard! I could shoot that fucking dog. Do you know that?

  I walked over to him.

  Did you see that film last night? It was on telly.

  What?! What the fuck are you talking about?!

  There was this film about a farmer. He stopped this bloke and told him to put his dog on a lead. Do you know how the film ended?

  The fat red-faced man didn’t answer.

  It ended with the man going back to the farmer’s house when he was asleep. He poured petrol through the letterbox. The farmer was burned to death along with his wife and kids.

  Are you threatening me? The man had stopped shouting now.

  No. I’m telling you about a film, I said, and carried on walking through his garden.