CAFÉ ASSASSIN Read online

  I’m all right, I said, and smoked a roll-up.

  I thought about the week. Monday to Friday. Six o’clock starts. Meeting at the lock-up. Loading up the van, driving to the builder’s yard, loading up the van. Driving to the factory. Loading up the van. Buying bacon butties. Buying cups of tea. Going to the job. Unloading the van. Building a conservatory. Making plastic windows fit snug. Buying fish and chips. Buying cans of Fanta. Buying Iron Bru. Filling in the gaps with silicone. Driving back. Slowing down for school girls. Steve asking for blowjobs. Dumping the van at the lock-up. Going to the pub.

  I was earning my own keep. I was getting stronger and fitter, building up my stamina. A few pints every night in the Royal. Steve eyeing up the barmaid. Steve coming on to the barmaid. Steve getting the knock back. Steve going home to his wife and two kids.

  Steve the sexist, the racist, the homophobe. Steve the hardworking, hard drinking, family man, Steve the shit hot pool player. Steve the Black Eyed Peas fan. He was a simple man but he wasn’t without his contradictions. In a strange way, I was growing to like something about him.

  We were outside the pub. He was counting out the money. Five days’ work. £225. Even more than I’d had last time. This was now the most I’d ever been paid in my life. I rolled it up and pocketed it, again slightly ashamed by my own gratitude. Five days. Every day a struggle. The hate spilling over, trying to tamp it down. But now it was the weekend and I was going to get hammered and forget about you, Andrew. We went back inside. I bought Steve a pint of Stella. We went for another smoke.

  So what the fuck were you doing before?

  Eh?

  For a job?

  It had only taken him two weeks to show any curiosity. No one could accuse Steve of being nosey. Unless you had a pair of tits, you didn’t exist.

  You know, this and that. I did a lot of travelling.

  He took one look at me, You’ve been inside, haven’t you?

  How did he know? What had I said or done to give the game away? Steve was such a paradox. He knew nothing. He knew everything.

  Eh? I said, and tried to look puzzled.

  Listen, I don’t give a flying fuckeroo, have another Peroni.

  We went back inside. I was safe. Steve had a Stella, I had a Peroni. Steve understood prisoners were casualties. For the second time I felt disgraced by my own gratitude. But it wasn’t as though I’d anyone else to drink with. I’d spent an evening with a smackhead, drinking lager and chasers and snorting subbies. I’d met but rarely seen Richard. He was either upstairs in the attic recording or upstairs in the attic sleeping, or upstairs in the attic doing whatever else he did. Like it or not, the only friend I had was this grinning shark, Steve, who didn’t give a shit about anything other than fucking, drinking and making money. What does a shark think about? Eating and moving. Nothing else makes any sense. A shark never stops grinning.

  Saturday morning. I walked into town with Ray. I had some money in my pocket – time I bought some new clothes. I couldn’t keep wearing the same two pairs of jeans. They were covered in silicone sealant in any case. I needed a new wardrobe. I left Ray outside while I went into a clothes shop. Cherry red Doc Martens, lumberjack shirts, cable knit cardigans. 2011. 1989. 1989. 2011.

  I settled for a pair of black jeans and a couple of long sleeve shirts, one crimson, one green. I was trying to pull off the looking-forty-feeling-eighteen look. It was another warm day and we found a café with seats outside. I ordered a full breakfast, giving the sausages and the bacon to Ray. I reflected on how attached I had become to him already. I returned to Richard’s house laden with my goods.

  As usual there was no sign of Richard, just the lingering stench of fried fish. I changed into the black jeans and the green shirt. I looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror attached to the wall. I immediately felt more human. I also felt like I was a part of 2011. I took Ray to the park. I bought a paper on the way and it was very pleasant just sitting there watching the dog walkers, the skateboarders, the runners, the mums with prams, the dads with footballs. Ray was happy sniffing around, greeting every dog with a sniff of their arse.

  Then I saw her, the woman from the week before with the Italian Spinone. My immediate thought was, you’re not ready for her. But then I took a deep breath. Plunge into the pool. I stared at nothing in particular in the newspaper.

  Oh hi, it’s you again, she said.

  I put the paper down, pretending I’d only just noticed her. Hi. Nice day.

  Your dog’s leg seems better.

  We both watched as Ray fussed around her puppy. Her puppy rolled over. Ray pushed his snout in and sniffed greedily. I felt a little embarrassed by his candour, as if my dog was violating her dog.

  Have you taken him to the vet?

  Er … no, I’ve not.

  You should do, get him x-rayed.

  Yes, I’ll do that.

  I was stuck for something to say. We watched the dogs run around each other. All the time I was racking my brains, for something to talk about.

  So does your fella never take her out for a walk? I managed at last.

  How do you know I’m with someone? She raised her eyebrows.

  I don’t, just that you mentioned you had a kid. I just assumed.

  Actually, I’ve just kicked him out.

  Got the dog as a substitute? I said.

  She laughed. It was a good laugh – unaffected. I joined in. It was going well.

  Easier to house train, I said.

  You’re not kidding. And they don’t come home at three in the morning and set the frying pan on fire.

  Conversation. I needed more conversation. But before I could think of anything to say, she was leaving.

  Right, well, it was nice talking to you.

  You too.

  She was edging away. I had to say something before it was too late.

  Do you fancy going out for a drink?

  She seemed shocked. I’d pushed it too far, come on too strong.

  Not now, maybe some other time? I said.

  But then she smiled. Ok, she said. Just like that.

  Ha! How easy that had been. I amazed myself at how calm I’d appeared. Perhaps I was more normal than I thought. I wasn’t a freak, I was someone a good-looking, intelligent woman wanted to have a drink with. We arranged a day – Monday. We arranged somewhere in town – a bar. I pretended to know it. We swapped mobile phone numbers. We swapped names. Her name was Ramona. I liked that name. I thought about the Dylan song, To Ramona, and a line from the song: the flowers of the city. Then she was gone. I sat back on the bench, smiling. You’ve done it, Nick. You’ve done it. It may not seem such a big deal to you, Andrew, but in my mind I had just run a marathon on one leg.

  I was still smiling when I got home. But by the time I’d made me and Ray beans on toast, I was having doubts. Twenty-two years. I had a lot of catching up to do. The world of dating felt as remote as a distant planet. I’d seen documentaries on TV about men giving women multiple orgasms. Rock stars having eight hour tantric sex. Is that what you had to do now? I closed my eyes. I tried to imagine undressing Ramona but already her face was vague. I could picture her hair but I couldn’t really hold a full image of her. Then, out of nowhere, I was back to that night. My hands all over Liv. Her hands all over me. Kissing, lips, tongues.

  I met Richard down The Royal. In his black jeans, black T-shirt, black jumper, black shoes, bald head and white beard. He had a knife in a scabbard on his belt. He had his wallet in a security pouch he kept under his jumper, so that when he went to the bar he had to forage underneath to find some cash, making it obvious to any onlooker where he kept his money, rendering the security pouch redundant.

  So, you play guitar? he whispered when he returned with two nearly full pints of cider, having spilt an inch of each on the pub’s carpet.

  It’s more just fooli
ng around, I said.

  I was listening to you the other night. You were really good.

  Thanks. What sort of music do you play then? I never hear you up there.

  I’ve got it all sound-proofed. I had this problem with a neighbour a few years ago so I invested in some refurbishments. It’s all state of the art. I’ve got a lot of ethnic instruments too.

  Really, what like?

  He shrugged, All sorts. Sitars, pan pipes. I’ve got a dulcimer from Kentucky and an alto balalaika from Magadan – would you like to come and have a look?

  Maybe.

  So what is it you do?

  Between jobs at the moment, I said. Just doing some casual work. Driving, labouring, stuff like that. How about you?

  I used to work in IT. I took a voluntary severance package about ten years ago.

  And you’ve never worked since?

  I er … like to stay clear of the rat race. It’s all going to come tumbling down any day soon as far as I can work out. Don’t you think?

  I don’t know.

  It may sound small-minded of me, but I didn’t really care. What I cared about was preventing my own little world from tumbling down.

  Well, I mean, really, it’s not sustainable, is it?

  What?

  Global capitalism. I think what we need in its place is an economy based on the free trading of skills for the greater good.

  How would that work?

  Let’s say, there’s a man who keeps chickens and you want some eggs. You could go round and sing him a song in exchange for half a dozen eggs.

  And you think that Western civilisation could sustain itself that way?

  Sure, why not?

  An interesting bloke, but perhaps not all there. He’d taken too much acid in the seventies maybe. Not everyone gets along with acid. It wasn’t popular inside. Acid takes you on a journey into yourself. The last place you want to travel when you are doing time. His eyes darted around as he talked. He reminded me of a dormouse. I thought of my old French teacher Miss Mulrennan, but pushed the thought away. I didn’t need any more dark thoughts.

  What is it you want to do? he said.

  I want to set up my own business.

  What sort of business?

  I’ve had this idea for quite a while. Sort of a private members’ club.

  A gentleman’s club?

  More a sort of bohemian art space. Live music, comedy, cabaret – whatever really. Just a really free space, where everyone can be themselves.

  Sounds good. I could help you with the PA if you like.

  We had another drink and then went back to the house. He built a spliff and showed me the attic. It was a lot bigger than I’d thought and lined with undulating foam that looked like egg trays. He had a lot of electrical equipment up there, an array of instruments, a bed, a TV. His shelves were crammed with books and CDs. There was a big silk purple bedspread with a tree embroidered on it covering one wall.

  It’s from India. The Tree of Life, he said.

  Have you been there then?

  I have yes, I spent six months over there.

  You must have liked it.

  He was sitting on his bed. I was sitting in a rocking chair.

  At first, the total poverty of the place gets to you. There are so many people, kids, begging. You’re swarmed everywhere you go. I saw a dead baby floating down the Ganges.

  Really?

  It’s quite common. Children under two years. They get released into the river. They escape the cycle of reincarnation and go straight to the afterlife … He went quiet for a while, but then carried on. It’s such a colourful place. 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.’ I thought that was very enterprising.

  I laughed. It was a good story. It was certainly better than asking for twenty pence for a cup of tea.

  So when you setting up this club?

  I shook my head as I passed back the spliff. I need to find an investor.

  It’s not a good time for financial ventures.

  I looked over to the tree of life. I looked at the brightly coloured bird at the top of the tree with a golden crest on its head. It was stretching out its wings and looking down on everything. There were birds perched on the ends of the branches. There were ripe fruits hanging from the boughs. There were animals grazing at the base of the tree. I imagined your limp carcass swinging from a rope, but it didn’t fit the picture. I had another use for you.

  I know someone who can help me out.

  Help you out with what? he said.

  Turning a thought into a thing.

  And there you go, Andrew, I decided there and then to go ahead with the business. All those years in prison, thinking it through. I owed it to the tree of life. I could make it happen. I could be a success too. Perhaps I could even be better than you. I could be that brightly coloured bird.

  You are climbing the walls. You are eating the furniture. You are rolling across the ceiling. You are crazy. You like being crazy. Crazy is free. You feel such relief. You don’t have to keep it together any more. You are surrounded by crazy people. You like the crazy people. They are funny. You are funny.

  You don’t know what they have given you, but it’s good stuff. You hope they will give you some more. You are talking to a crazy person. You know he is a crazy person because he says crazy things. He asks you if you want to put your dick up his arse. You don’t want to put your dick up his arse. Will you tell them? Will you make them go away? Will you? His pupils are dilated. There is froth in the corners of his mouth.

  You look away and when you look back he has pulled his hood over his face. He is wearing a parka with a snorkel hood. You can’t see his face, just a black hole where his features should be. It is an abyss. You try not to fall into it. He is making a weird animal noise that makes you want to laugh. ‘Keek, brrrmf’, ‘Keek, brrrmf’, ‘Keek, brrrmf’.

  The man is Madman Marz. You laugh hysterically. You can’t stop laughing. You feel your spine ice over and dread like wet sand is falling on top of you. Burying you. The abyss is pulling you into its centre. You try to fight but it is too strong. You cling on to the arms of your chair. You grit your teeth. But it pulls you into it. You are choking on wet sand.

  8

  Monday morning. Monday lunch. Monday afternoon. I waited until we were sitting down. Steve was stuffing his face.

  I need some time off, I said.

  What for?

  A friend of mine. He died last night.

  When’s the funeral?

  Wednesday.

  That’s quick, he said. Though he didn’t seem suspicious.

  He’s a Muslim.

  He gave me a sideways look and shook his head.

  What the fuck am I going to do without a driver?

  We were working in Armley, just down the road from the prison. I’d been confined there briefly. It looked like a castle in a Hammer Horror film. Inside it was even worse. Thinking about it put a shiver down my spine. The job didn’t really need two people. I was only needed for about three hours a day, the rest of the time I was gofer. Steve was a man of constant appetites. No sooner had he scoffed a ‘grab bag’ of really cheesy Wotsits, he was wanting a tube of sour cream and onion Pringles. No sooner had he drained the tube, he was sending me off to gofer a packet of tangfastic Haribo sweets.

  I can’t help it, Steve.

  Only one excuse for not turning up for work – and that’s your own funeral. Do they even have funerals?

  I knew him inside.

  He sat back, swigging from his bottle of milkshake. Suppose I could ask the missus. Her kid brother’s at uni. Only got exams to do.
Might be glad of a day’s work. He’s not a grafter though. Fucking student. Fucking useless fucking student. Can’t see the point. He’s only going to get a job in Morrisons at the end of it.

  Sorry, Steve.

  Fuck it. I want you back on the job Thursday though. Right?

  No problem.

  And listen, cuntyballs, you see that fella right.

  How do you mean?

  You see him off proper. Just cos he was a Muslim, doesn’t mean you can’t get shitfaced. So get shitfaced – that’s an order.

  This was as close as Steve got to a sensitive side.

  I dropped him back at the lock-up. Fancy a beer?

  Not tonight, Steve. I’ve got a date.

  Got a date. Fucking hell. Good for you. Give her one from me. Fill your boots, he said, Fill your boots, and we walked off in opposite directions.

  I walked into town, getting there an hour early so there was plenty of time to find the bar, Milos, near the Corn Exchange, next to a tattoo parlour and a retro clothing shop. I went in and ordered a Heineken. I was on my second pint when Ramona arrived. She was wearing a white dress, a chunky black belt and clutching a black handbag. She looked pretty hot and I was immediately conscious of my own appearance – did I look too drab? Or even worse, did I look like a loser? I bought her a Magner’s. Cider with ice – it was 2011, not 1989, and ice with cider was yet another sign of the times. We sat down.

  So who’s looking after your child?

  My grandma. She only lives down the road.

  Boy or girl?

  She’s an old woman.

  No, I meant your kid.

  I know. Joke. His name is Jake.

  Is he at school then?

  We chatted like that for some time, swapping bits of information about ourselves, building up a profile of each other. With me trying to avoid saying too much.

  Have you eaten? she said. I told her I hadn’t. We should maybe get something, before we get too drunk. I really need to eat something. Food is calling me. What do you like to eat? I like anything. I don’t care what it is as long as it’s edible. Although I’m not keen on seafood. Especially oysters. I find them too slimy. Do you like oysters?