.
Chapter One
Annabel lights a cigarette, smoking with her usual habit of sucking from one corner of her mouth and breathing out with the other. It has taken its toll, there are nicotine stains on either side of her lips. It is surprising therefore how her teeth have remained so white. I have never enquired because Annabel rarely answers questions directly, she speaks a web of half truths and cryptic clues.
The first thing I noticed about Annabel was her teeth, fine white strong teeth, slightly gapped. She once told me her mother prevented her from having them straightened because they added character to an otherwise drab face, then she tilted back her head and laughed to reveal perfect white molars.
Annabel’s eyes are an iridescent blue that change, rather alarmingly, according to her mood. Flecked with gold they contain a dreamy quality, a half light as though caught between two very different worlds. When deep in thought Annabel’s heavy lids droop like hoods as she gazes vacantly through her thick lashes, when excited, her eyes are a violet blue, the colour almost erased by her huge black pupils. In moments such as these, when Annabel speaks in her rasping even tones, a tiny speck of saliva will ooze from the corner of her mouth to be licked with a dart of her thick pink tongue.
At the beginning I scrutinised every move in an attempt to decipher, through body language, the truth of Annabel’s thoughts, it wasn’t until much later that I learnt she is always one step ahead, each gesture deliberate and poised. Today for example, Annabel has chosen a seating position in front of a window where the harsh rays of the morning sun illuminate her outline like an angel. I can’t see her face because it is obliterated in shadow, all I can see are her white teeth, set like delicate porcelain in a glowing crescent. I can feel those piercing blue eyes observing my discomfort as I attempt to shift position.
“Gobstopper?” she offers, holding out a crumpled paper bag. I rummage around, the sweets like sticky marbles, and pop one into my mouth. With careful deliberation, Annabel chooses a gobstopper and we sit in silence, sucking our sweets while the dust dances around her head. Neither of us attempt to speak for some time, not only is it practically impossible but Annabel is in a contemplative mood. She has forgotten my existence and drifted off into that twilight world which has stolen her from me so often.
It isn’t until the central heating bubbles into life that Annabel floats to the surface of consciousness and gazes around, startled by the fact she exists in the here and now. Her eyes eventually settle on me and she makes a slight gesture indicating she wants me to leave. As I struggle into my coat and reach for the doorhandle Annabel touches my arm, she smells as always of ash and onion, she offers me another gobstopper which I decline. I can still taste the bitter aniseed in my mouth and it reminds me of carsickness.
I wrap my scarf firmly around my neck and brace myself for the biting winter wind. It is beginning to get dark. I glance at my watch, I have time to nip into the chemist before I catch the tube. I have only been to this one a couple of times and the pharmacist doesn’t know my face.
By the time I reach the tube station I am in a familiar frame of mind. I no longer sense the cold and have an exquisite sensation in the pit of my stomach. I can feel the path the cough mixture has traced from my mouth, down my throat and into my belly, my teeth are numb and I am entirely relaxed. I flick through the paper, one of the tabloids I have found on the seat. It is amazing how all this can be happening every day and it doesn’t move me at all. I am repelled at my indifference, then five seconds later I don’t care, but it is still there tugging at a tiny part of my dulled brain.
I slope though the high rise towers aglow with dusty orange lights. There are a couple of kids kicking a punctured ball between a crudely painted goal post. I am completely isolated from my surroundings as though I can do anything and it will have no effect. I could kill one of those boys and never be caught because nothing exists when I am inside my impenetrable cough mixture bubble.
I have to walk five flights of stairs as the lifts are broken again, by the time I reach my floor the medicine is beginning to wear off. When I look quickly from side to side I can see reality attempting to dissolve my carefully contrived haven, I’m not too bothered, I have a couple more bottles in the back of my wardrobe. I turn on the TV and run a bath.
Baths are a ritual with me. I proceed each time in exactly the same way. First I take off my shoes and socks, left foot first, then my top, then my jeans or whatever else I happen to be wearing but it’s normally jeans. I place my clothes on a hanger on a peg behind the door. I always run the cold tap first, approximately a quarter of the way, then the hot, then I crouch down, feet first, because it’s normally too hot. I wait until I become used to the temperature then sit and slide back until I come into contact with the back of the bath. I normally stick my big toe up the cold tap, I’ve forgotten the reason now. I usually bring in a book but rarely read. I fear the solitude of baths just as I fear having to go to bed. With baths however, I find that once I’m surrounded by that fog of soothing evaporating water, I forget that I’m alone.
I pull myself out of the bath just as I hear Marek’s key in the door. I dry my left foot and then my right, making sure I dry thoroughly in between my toes, wrap myself in a towel and wander into the kitchen. “How’s it going?” I ask, filling up the kettle. “All right.” He throws his scarf and jacket over a chair, “Got to work tomorrow” He groans and sits at the kitchen table, I make the tea and hand him his mug, he measures his usual three sugars and clinks the spoon around the cup, “Aren’t you cold? It’s freezing in here.” I’m cradling my mug, “Yeah, I’m about to get changed.” Marek’s eyes follow me to the door, “You coming out tonight?” “Yeah” I tap my bedroom door shut with my foot.
I pull open my wardrobe and begin rummaging around for my medicine. Old shoes, holey jumpers, broken hangers but no bottles. I begin to panic. There is no way I can buy any more, not from round here, too many suspicious looks. By the time Marek knocks on the door to see when I want to leave, I’m sitting on the bed chain smoking rolly butts amongst a life times collection of rubbish. He stands just inside the door leaning against the frame, “What you looking for?” “Oh, those boots, the ones with the buckles. Have you seen them anywhere?” “Yeah they’re in the cupboard under the stairs, they’ve been there for ages. Have some of this.” He hands me a spliff and walks back into the sitting room. I inhale as hard as I can then flop back onto the bed as a hot rush hits the pit of my stomach. My head comes into contact with two circular objects under my pillow, I have barely acknowledged my find by the time I’ve poured half the contents down my throat.
I wait for the initial effects of the cough mixture to wear off then take a couple of cans from the fridge and join Marek in the sitting room. He’s on the phone arranging a time to meet the others. He hands me a spliff in exchange for a can, I crack open the lager and settle on the sofa waiting to find out where we’re going. Marek puts the phone down and rubs his face, “Jesus, I wish Steve would sort it out, he could hardly speak.” I throw the spliff over, “Was he off his head?” Marek picks it up, “Yeah, sounds like he’s had another delivery. He’s not coming out, surprisingly, but he said to come over after the pub for a smoke.” “You going?” “Dunno, see how it goes. Vell and the others are down The Pink Porpoise.” I stub the spliff out and finish my can while Marek has a shower.
“Will you wake up! We’re going to be late.” Marek’s leaning over me, his wet hair dripping on my face. “What’s the time?” I rub my eyes and attempt to focus. “I don’t know but we should have left ages ago.” I wipe the water from my face as Marek rushes off to dress. I can’t be bothered to leave now, my eyes lids are heavy with sleep. “Come on.” Marek’s pulling on his jacket at the door. I struggle to my feet, the invisible arms of the sofa tugging me back, and stumble into my bedroom to find my trainers.
There’s a light drizzle outside, the type that soaks you before you realise it’s raining. We turn left up St John street and head towards Islington. I’m beginning to wake up and it doesn’t bode well, my head feels like it’s covered in hair line fractures. I need a drink to soothe the transition between cough mixture numbness and nail down blackboard actuality. Marek can’t remember where the pub is so I’m becoming increasingly irritated, “You said you knew where it was.” “I thought it was down there.” “Why didn’t you ask Steve for directions?” “There’s no point.” I couldn’t argue with that, “Well, you should have made sure before dragging me about in the freezing cold.” The arguments pointless but it passes the time until we ask directions in a local off license and find the pub.
The Pink Porpoise is typical of my local when I was a gothy teenager, punk posters cover the walls and ceiling. The bar staff are moodily dressed in PVC and charge a variety of different prices for the same round of drinks, there’s no point arguing because they’re surrounded by a wall of ex-criminal bouncers. I spot Vell, Jon and Pete crammed into a corner table shouting above the harsh sound of Ministry, we edge our way over. “All right, how’s it going?” Marek takes orders and shuffles his way to the bar, I squeeze in between Vell and Pete. “Where’ve you two been? You’re nearly an hour late.” I ignore Vell by pretending to engross myself in the finer arts of cigarette rolling, she shrugs off my indifference and continues some argument she’s having with Pete.
I light my cigarette. “You coming to Steve’s tonight?” I turn to Jon, “Yeah.” I breath a plume of smoke over his head. “You?” “Yeah. I haven’t seen him for ages.” Jon takes a long gulp of lager which leaves him with a frothy moustache. He starts to describe a gig he went to recently but I’m not listening, I’m craning my neck searching for Marek, I’m gasping for my drink and can’t see him anywhere. Jon’s asking me something but I can’t hear because Vell’s lost her temper with Pete. I listen in because their arguments can become interesting especially when they’re drunk. They have a habit of criticising each other’s sexual performances. I tune out as they seem to be sticking to the usual rubbish and move my chair nearer to Jon. This turns out to be a bad idea due to the fact that some aged biker is gesticulating wildly and spilling his pint over my head. Most of it seems to be going over Jon but he doesn’t seem to mind, he’d do anything for a free beer.
Marek eventually arrives with the drinks which he duly slops over the table. He has a big grin and a phone number clenched between his teeth. He pretends it took ages to get served and sits as far away from me as possible. Vell immediately calms down when she sees Marek, she gives him a vodka fuelled kiss on the cheek, I can’t understand her infatuation, maybe she does it to wind Pete up, she’s difficult to work out. She watches Marek’s lips while he talks, and nods emphatically to everything he says. Pete folds his arms and leans back in his chair.
We’re thrown out of the pub by the growling bouncers and arrive at Steve’s without too much incident. Marek’s managed to blagg a bottle of vodka from the local seven eleven so we’re greeted with cheers as we trip into the smoky room. “All right, how’s it going?” Marek and Steve immediately settle down to a long discussion about music. I recognise a couple of faces I’ve seen round Steve’s before, most are here to score, they drift in and out all night like furtive children. Vell sits next to me and offers me a swig of vodka which I hastily decline, I don’t understand how anyone can drink it neat. She asks me about the shop and I immediately tune out and begin to skin up.
The door bell rings every half hour or so, various people get up to answer it. Steve touches fists with the new comer without moving from his sitting position on the floor. He tucks his dreads back into his hat, pulls over a set of electronic scales and measures out the required amount of weed. Some stay and chat for a while, others hover then escape at the earliest opportunity.
Vell realises I’m not listening to her sniffs, and turns to talk to one of Steve’s punters. My head spins with drink, weed and a whirling cacophony of thoughts. My mind skims like flint on water. I look around at the overflowing ashtrays and empty cans, Marek swigging from the bottle of Vodka, Steve skinning up. I can’t be bothered to talk, I feel I’ve known all the people I want to know. I close my eyes and put my head back and am greeted with that familiar spinning sensation of a dozen too many.
Chapter Two
Jeff was pacing up and down the staff room staring at his watch as though it had turned into something totally unexpected. He didn’t say anything when Marek rushed in, he merely looked at the weird thing on his wrist and tutted for several minutes as he picked up his stuff and followed Marek to the van. Marek could see Werner peering over his bifocals and pointing at the clock in his office as they pulled out of the car park.
It was Jeff’s turn to drive today and Marek could feel his foot automatically pushing through the floor while Jeff followed the exact speed limit. He had his hands in the correct ten to two position and indicated at least three miles before he had to turn off, “Heavy night son?” Jeff was looking at Marek through the mirror, only for a second, he wouldn’t want to take his eyes off the road. “No. I think I’m coming down with something.” “What’s that, alcohol poisoning?” Jeff chuckled away to himself while Marek gritted his teeth and tried not to throw up. “On a serious note though Marek.” Jeff flashed a car to go ahead that Marek could barely see because it was four miles down the road. “You want to curb your social life. I’m not against a young lad enjoying himself, don’t get me wrong, I was young myself once, I know you can’t believe it to look at me now.” Jeff winked. Marek dug his nails into his palms. “And I’ve bought up three of my own, so I know what it’s like.” He paused for dramatic effect, he’d been to drama night classes, “But Werner has already told me that he’s keeping a close eye on you and you know what he’s like once he gets a bee in his bonnet. He’s like a Jack Russell with a rabbit that one, he won’t let go until you’ve either shaped up or gone. Now I’m not going to go on, just as long as we understand each other.” “Yeah.” “I’m sorry Marek, I didn’t hear you.” Jeff cupped his ear. “I said I’ll do my best to come in on time.” “I’m sure you will.” Jeff smiled and began to whistle Tie a Yellow Ribbon.
They pulled into Finsbury Park. Marek grabbed the boots and torches out of the back while Jeff dealt with the Men at Work signs and florescent ribbon. They blocked off the station, much to the annoyance of some Saturday shoppers who tutted they’re way to the bus stop, and climbed down the ladder leading to the tunnels.
“Right.” said Jeff, tapping his clipboard with his pen, “We have to begin at E5543a and work our way round to J772b. If you begin here, I’ll work my way from the end and we should meet about lunch time in the middle.” Jeff pulled on his boots and waded his way out of sight. Marek adjusted his hat and studied the map, he had at least half a mile before he reached the first pipe. The tunnels stunk of fetid water and decay and the smell worsened the deeper Marek went. He tried to inhale as little as possible as he checked through the list and ticked off the pipes. The first few were all right and Marek thought he’d have an easy job of it until he tapped the sixth and water began to leak out.
Jeff’s voice crackled onto the CB, “Time for lunch Marek.” Marek pressed the transmission button, “Be there in a minute.” He left the toolbox where it was and waded back to the entrance. Jeff was unpacking neat, cellophane bound sandwiches, he was sitting on a ledge near the entrance to the tunnels. Marek joined him. “How you doing?” Jeff said before biting into his cheese and pickle. “I’ve been fixing a leak. It’s going to take a while yet.” “What’s the problem?” Jeff had a lump of pickle in the corner of his mouth, Marek didn’t tell him, “Rust. It’s rusted right through, I’ll have to replace the whole section, it’ll take a while yet. I’m going out for lunch, I’ll be back in half an hour.” “Make sure you are, let’s start as we mean to go on.” Jeff smiled and the pickle fell onto the front of his overall.
Marek found a cafe and ordered a fry up and a large, sweet tea then sat down to read the paper. He flicked through the jobs section. Nothing. Nothing that interested him anyway. His order arrived. He was receiving quizzical looks from people, he must have looked a bit grimy, he wiped his hand on his jeans and took a long gulp of tea. He wondered if he should phone that girl from the pub tonight, see if she’d come out. Or should he leave it for a bit so he didn’t look desperate? Marek couldn’t remember her name but he remembered she had blond hair and nice breasts. He searched his jeans and pulled out a crumpled till receipt. Julie. He’d never slept with a Julie before. An image of Lynn flashed into his head, he quickly thought about something else.
Marek finished off his lunch and returned to the tunnels, Jeff had already gone. He found his toolbox and sorted out the pipe. By the time he reached the last one it was gone five and he felt totally drained, he’d been concentrating on the pipe for at least three hours which was difficult enough at the best of times but doubly tiring when you felt like death. Jeff was standing by the van jangling the keys “You ready to go son?” Marek nodded, his teeth chattering. “You really should put on some weight, then you won’t feel the cold so much, like me.” Jeff patted his rotund stomach, opened the door and let Marek in.
“So what are you up to tonight, dancing?” Jeff said as he wiped the condensations from the front of the windscreen, Marek smiled, “I’m not sure yet. What about you?” Jeff folded then placed the rag in the glove compartment and started the van, “Margie and me are off to a darts match. It’s the semi finals tonight and I think our team have a good chance of winning.” “I didn’t know Margie was in the team.” “Well she wasn’t. It used to be men only but you know my Margie...” “What, she’s made them accept women now? That must have caused quite a stir in the men’s club.” “It did, but we put it to the vote and it scraped through. I’m not sure how I feel about it really, I suppose it’s progress but it was good when it was all the lads together. And you have to watch your language and that which is a bit difficult for some of them after a few drinks. I suppose we’ll just have to see how it goes.” “Where’s the competition?” “The Royal Oak down Whitten Street do you know it?” “No.” “It’s round the corner from Archway tube.” “Ah, I think I know it.” “Ever played darts?” “Not really. I play pool though.” Jeff nodded, smiling, “Now that’s a game. Like my pool and my snooker. Margie and me went to see the Benson and Hedges finals at the Conference Centre a few months back. What a match, one of the best I’ve seen in a long time, did you see it?” Marek crossed his ankles, “I caught the last frame, it looked pretty good.” “Ah, you must have seen the last shot on the black, you know when William’s doubled it? Could have heard a pin drop in that place, I’ve never known an atmosphere like it, it was fantastic. I was going to book tickets for the Embassy World Cup but we’ve got the wedding to plan for and everything so we won’t have the time.” “Oh yeah, how’s that going?” Marek yawned. “Well. Well I’m not doing that much really, Margie seems to have taken over the whole show, you know what she’s like.” Jeff glanced in the mirror to meet Marek’s eye and winked, “She’s making the dresses and doing the cake, all I have to do is turn up really. It’s driving Bev mad but she knows what her mother’s like, she’ll be marching down the aisle if Bev doesn’t watch out.” Jeff laughed, his shoulders shook.
“Here we go son.” Jeff parked the van and they took the stuff into the staff room. Werner was waiting for Marek when they came out, “I’d like a word with you lad. In my office.” Marek followed him into the room and closed the door. Werner pushed his glasses firmly onto the bridge of his nose and sat behind his desk. He opened one of the drawers and took out Marek’s file. He shook his head as he leafed through the papers then stared at Marek over the top of his glasses.
“Now Marek.” Werner began tapping the end of his pen on the desk, “I have noticed your attendance of late has not been up to scratch. You are not hitting the mark. Do you understand what I am talking about?” Marek nodded. Werner stood up tucking his chair under his desk, he put his hands behind his back and walked over to the window, “Good. I expect to see changes in your attitude. I expect to see improvements in your behaviour. Do you understand?” Marek nodded. “Good. Then I will issue a warning on this occasion. As I am sure you are aware, three warnings mean you are no longer employed here. Do you understand? Good. Now I am sure you wish to run along home and think about what I have said. I will see you on time Monday.” Werner sat down and began to sort through some papers, Marek took his cue and left.
“Hello is Julie there please?” Marek ran his hand through his hair. “Yeah she is who’s speaking?” “Marek” After a pause a girl picked up the phone “Hello” “Er... hello Julie it’s Marek, we met last night at the pub” “Oh, did we?” There was a long silence, Marek scratched the back of his neck, “Don’t you remember?” “I’m sorry er...” “Marek.” “Mark I’m afraid I don’t.” There was another long silence. “Well.” Marek said, twisting the telephone cord around his index finger, “Sorry to have troubled you.” “Ah, I remember now, tall bloke, dark hair, nice smile.” “I hope so.” Marek breathed out. “Well what can I do for you Marek?” “I was wondering if you were doing anything tonight and if you weren’t if you’d like to do something with me.” His heart had stopped beating, he couldn’t feel his legs, he was sweating profusely. “Depends what you have in mind.” “Well...er...” He hadn’t thought that far ahead, “Anything you like, dinner, a film, clubbing.” “We’ll talk about it later er...” “Marek.” “Marek. Sorry, I’m not very good with names, but I make up for it in other ways.” Julie giggled, Marek’s eyes widened, he shifted feet. “Why don’t you meet me in The Kings Head, do you know it? In Turnpike lane, it’s just near the tube.” “Yeah, I know it, what time?” He said, attempting to untangle his finger from the telephone cord. “Half nine, it’s open till twelve.” “Okay, see you at half nine then, bye.”
He put the phone down his heart thudding, he couldn’t remember what she looked like apart from the hair and breasts. What was he going to do, stare at every girls chest who walked into the pub and try to recognise a pair? Calm down Marek, he told himself, get ready, have a spliff, chill out. By the time Marek strolled casually into The Kings Head, his head was numb. He’d smoked nearly an eighth and done a couple of bongs. He casually swayed towards the bar. Everyone seemed to stop talking and look round. “Pint¼.er...yeah...a...pint¼if you have it¼thanks.” The barman held Marek’s eye while he poured the flat lager into the glass. As he waited for his drink, Marek glanced around. He stared suspiciously at a middle aged woman sitting at a table by herself, she caught his eye and winked, he looked away and gulped some lager. He put his hand to his face and squinted through his fingers at her chest, but that didn’t tell him anything. A man came over with some drinks and sat down next to her, Marek let out a long breath and started choking on his pint. He couldn’t breath, he was doubled up and wheezing. “You all right?” He nodded, his eyes closed and watering. “Here, have some of this.” A woman behind the bar handed him some water. Someone beside him began punching him on the back. “Get off. You’-re b-reak-ing my spi-ne!” The bloke continued to thump him, he seemed to be enjoying himself, eventually one of his friends dragged him away.
“Are you okay?” Marek was still coughing, “Yeah, I’m fine, really, just went down the wrong way, thanks.” The girl raised an eyebrow and studied his face, “Are you sure? How’s you’re back?” “Oh fine, nothing a short stay in casualty wouldn’t remedy.” She laughed, “Here, let me buy you a drink, I think you deserve one.” “No really, I’m fine, I’m about to leave.” “I insist.” She insisted and turned towards the bar. “You here by yourself?” She said, tapping a coin on the bar while she waited. “Well I wasn’t supposed to be, I’m meant to be meeting someone but they haven’t shown up. You?” “I’m with some friends, we’re out celebrating someone’s birthday, him over there with a pint glass on his head.” She pointed towards a figure slouched in a corner, with a glass on his head and beer dripping down his face. “He doesn’t look too well.” “I’m not surprised with the amount of cocktails he’s been drinking. What time was your friend supposed to be meeting you?” She handed him his drink, “Thanks. Half nine.” She glanced at the clock above the bar, “It’s only ten they might have been held up. You should wait for a bit and see if they show. What’s your name?” “Marek.” “Mark? Nice to meet you Mark, I’m Scott.” She held out her hand. “MarEk.” He said, shaking her hand. “Oh, sorry, you must get that quite a lot, people getting your name wrong.” “I’m sure you get some funny looks as well with a name like Scott.” “Yeah, I do, but you get used to it. I think it’s because I was conceived in Scotland, on my parents honeymoon. Well that’s what they said anyway. Fancy a game of pool Marek? I put some money down ages ago and I think my turn’s next.”
Marek followed Scott into the pool room, as she was setting up the balls a girl walked in who he thought he recognised, he walked over, “Julie?” “Yeah. Sorry I’m so late...er¼” She focused on his face for a second, her brow furrowed. “Marek” “Mark, you know how it is. I’m quite pleased you recognised me, I couldn’t really remember what you looked like. Aren’t you going to buy me a drink?” “Sure, what would you like?” “Whisky please, with a dash of water, cheers.” Marek went back to Scott, “Look, my friend’s turned up, I don’t think I can have that game of pool, sorry.” “That’s fine, don’t worry I’ll play someone else. See you later” Marek went to the bar and ordered the drinks, Julie had disappeared somewhere, she was a bit of a stunner to say the least and certainly wasn’t any older than twenty two or three. Nice one, Marek thought taking a sip of lager.
He’d finished his pint and was just thinking about leaving when he spotted Julie with her arms around some blokes neck. She was with a group of people she seemed to know well, he went over. “Mark, where’s my drink?” He handed it to her, “Everyone this is Mark.” He looked up smiling then dropped his head as soon as he realised no one had noticed him. “We’re going to a club later if you fancy coming along.” Julie nodded towards her friends. “Yeah sounds great.” He touched her on the arm and pushed his mouth close to her ear, her hair smelt like strawberries, “Do you fancy finding somewhere to sit?” Julie leant away, he breathed onto his palm and inhaled. “Sure Mark, you find a table, I’ll be over in a minute.” She downed her drink and handed him the glass, “Get me another while you’re at the bar, there’s a darling.” She pecked him on the cheek, wiped her mouth and followed her friends through the crowd.
The only available seat was next to a man with his head in an ashtray, Marek sat down and edged the man along the bench with his shoulder. He’d been sitting there for about ten minutes when Julie bounced over and squeezed in next to him. “So Mark.” She said, downing her whiskey, “What were you doing in the pub last night? I don’t think I’ve seen you there before.” She offered him a Silk-Cut, Extra Mild, he shook his head, “No, first time. How long have you worked there?” Julie blew some smoke into his face, “On and off for a couple of years. It’s a good laugh.” Marek rubbed a tear from his eye, “Is that what you do full time?” She nodded, “At the moment, yes. What about you? You look like you look after yourself.” She squeezed one of his biceps, he tugged down his T-shirt, “I work for London Transport.” Julie stopped smiling, “Are you a bus driver?” She yawned. “No, I work for the underground.” Julie smiled and said, “Do you observe life from a crack in the floor?” “What?” Marek ran his hand through his hair. “Doesn’t matter. What do you do in the underground, drive tubes?” “No I’m on the engineering side of things.” He picked up a soggy beer mat and began peeling off layers, “I check the maintenance of the place, keep everything running smoothly.” Julie watched him tearing the beer mat, “Oh, so you’re one of the operators?” Marek put his hands on his lap, “Not exactly, I check the actual running of the tunnels. I’m an inspector. Where do you live?” He said, scratching his arm. “Near Essex Road, do you know it? Near Disgraceland?” She lit another Silk-Cut and stared blankly over Marek’s right shoulder, “Yeah, Islington. I’ve been there a couple of times.” She rolled her eyes, “I did it to death when I was younger, can’t stand the place now, it’s full of drunken old men trying to get their end away with teenagers.” She looked over at her friends and yawned, Marek rubbed the back of his neck, “So what music do you like?” “I’ll tell you after you’ve got me another drink.” She winked and squeezed his knee. “Same again, whisky and water?” Marek said, feeling in his pockets for money, “Cheers. Do you think you could make it a double?” She smiled and raised her watch to her eyes.
By the time Marek returned from the bar, Julie was with her friends again, he waved for her to come over but she couldn’t have seen him. When he’d finished his pint, he downed her whisky, she wasn’t coming back, he’d had his chance and blown it. Well maybe one last try, never say never. Marek, staggering a little, bumped his way through the crowd and stood beside her, she looked through him, he touched her shoulder, she looked at him as though she’d never seen him before then said “Mat!” and put her hand to her chest, “God I’m so sorry darling, I’ve been a bit caught up. Where’s my drink?” “I er...” “Listen we’re off now, we’re going to this club, are you coming? It would be great if you could. Wouldn’t it?” She turned to her friends who looked in any number of directions rather than at him. “No. I don’t think so. Maybe some other-” by the time he’d finished the sentence she was gone.
Marek was sitting next to the man with his head in the ashtray attempting polite conversation, so far he’d managed a bubble of saliva. A hand waved in front of his face, he looked up, Scott was standing by the table holding a pool cue. “What happened to your friend?” Marek could feel his face reddening, “She...er...had to go.” Scott nodded, raising an eyebrow, “Really? Well in that case do you fancy a game of pool? It’ll get rid of all that pent up frustration.” “I don’t know.” He ran his hand over his face, “I think I’ve played enough games tonight.” Scott leant her cue against a wall, “All right, I’ll join you for a drink, do you want another?” He hesitated then held out his glass, “Yeah, thanks.”
When Scott returned with the drinks, Marek was using a match to draw a face on the table with the unconscious man’s saliva. “That’s very good.” She said, handing him his pint, “Is it someone you know?” “What?” “The picture, is it someone you know?” Marek studied his art work, it bore a faint resemblance to Lynn, “No, it’s just a doodle. I’m not a professional or anything.” “I should hope not, you might catch any number of diseases. Well cheers, here’s to star crossed lovers.” Scott held up her glass. “She was hardly my lover.” “Yeah but you wanted her to be didn’t you?” “No not really.” He couldn’t meet her eye, Scott laughed.
Chapter Three
The next day Saturday, a day that always smells of stale chips and washing powder. I can’t remember the last time I woke up on a Saturday without a hangover. I’m at the bus stop staring vacantly at a sign across the road which reads: ‘You never know what’s round the corner so why not take a look?’ Around the corner is an insurance company, next to that is the dole office. The bus is late as is typical of a Saturday. There’s an old woman sitting beside me on the bench, our eyes meet. Mine bloodshot and cracked with sleep hers, mottled with cataracts and yellowing around the edges. She has a pair of those brown suede boots with fur on the inside and her hair is that garish orange old people tend to think looks glamorous. She has one of those meshed shopping bags packed with bargain tins of beans and cat food.
She lights a cigarette, her hand carefully cupping the flame, then puffs frantically and draws in the smoke, her eyes closed, face fleetingly content. She has that drawn, hardened look as though she resents life, her eyes are like two currants pushed into her skull. I feel sorry for her children, if she didn’t drown them at birth.
The bus turns up and hisses to a halt. The old woman snatches up her bag and pushes past me onto the bus. I follow the stream of smoke she exhales from her nose, the last remnants of her hastily stubbed Superking and squeeze my way through the aisle. I stand on the stairs and try not to meet anyone’s eye. We career to a halt near Holloway road. A black bloke clambers on. He tries to get away with an old travel card and the driver shouts at him to come back. He ignores the driver but can’t move very far because the bus is so packed. The driver pushes open the hatch and leans round, he tells the man to either pay up or get off, before the black bloke has a chance to say anything, the old woman hits him in the knee with her mesh shopping bag. He looks at her, then down at his leg, then back at her again. Her face is twisted with venom, she’s seething. He turns back to the driver who’s trying not to laugh, then pushes through the crowd to get off the bus. “Nigger.” The bloke stops in his tracks, “What did you say?” It’s a mechanical reaction, he looks shocked. “You heard” He shakes his head, “That’s right, you nigger thief, always stealing, always trying to rip decent citizens off.” Her roe egg eyes watch him intently, gauging his reaction, his mouth is opening and shutting as though he’s gasping for breath. He steps off the bus. “That’s right get off! Go back to where you came from bleeding niggers, always trying it on.” As the old woman shouts, spittle escapes her mouth, various muscles in her face are twitching. She sits down, her hands curled into fists, clenching and unclenching her mesh bag. The people near the front are stunned into silence. Some are staring at the woman with wide eyes, others look out of the window. I feel my insides knot. Someone pats her on the arm and asks if she’s all right, if she was hurt and the driver climbs back into his seat and shouts for people to move down the bus to make more room.
My hand hurts and I realise I’ve been clutching the metal handrail. My stomach feels so tight, it’s as though my intestines have congealed. It’s become worse recently, I ought to see a doctor. I used to have terrible headaches but it seems to have moved into my stomach. I know it’s not an ulcer as they’re supposed to be painful and it’s not painful, merely uncomfortable. It begins with an excited sensation, as though I can’t wait for something, then it grows and grows until it’s no longer excitement but fear. At least, I think it’s fear. It just sits there, like a stone and my limbs stiffen up, it becomes difficult to walk, it looks like I have a limp and the more aware of it I am the worse it becomes. I’ll have to ask Annabel about it.
I look at the woman, she’s talking to an old man, the one who patted her arm. I press the bell, the stop’s a short distance from the shop. I’m late for work. I’m always late for work. I pull up the battered shutters and switch on the lights. It doesn’t usually become busy until lunchtime so I have time to skin up round the back before I check the tills for change and restock the shelves. Vangelis, the manager, won’t be in till closing, so I have all morning to listen to the radio and stare at the passers by. They can’t see me from in here.
By half eleven the beginning of the lunchtime rush arrive. Most of the customers are Greek women. Although I’ve never been to Greece, I imagine the atmosphere’s very much the same. They buy huge quantities of olive oil, Feta cheese, sticky cakes and fresh olives. In the summer Vangelis orders in melons by the lorry load and they disappear as quickly as they arrive. I know most of the regulars, they nod acknowledgement, some stop for a quick chat, they always seem to be in a hurry and push each other out of the way to acquire the freshest fruit and vegetables. I’m busy until about three, then people come in dribs and drabs until I close up.
It will be Christmas soon and the thought causes a muscle in my eye brow to twitch. The roads are already lined with traders selling cheap tinsel and wind up Father Christmases. Vangelis swaggers in at quarter to five with the perpetual cheroot clenched between his teeth. He places a heavily jewelled hand on the counter and motions for the till receipt. He raises a thick black eyebrow at the days takings and meets my eye with a frown on his face. I’m not sure what to say. Vangelis is always warning me that if they’re not up soon I’ll be out of a job, I think he’s waiting for a chance to fire me. I can feel my stomach beginning to knot at the thought. His nephew’s over for Christmas and looking for a holiday job and there isn’t enough work for two.
Vangelis counts out my wages with a look on his face as though I’m robbing him. I pocket the cash and turn to say goodbye but he’s engrossed in cashing up, some ash drops off the end of his cigar onto the counter. I need to get back, I need my medicine. My heart is fluttering, sometimes it jumps and the limp has returned in my left leg. I try not to think about it and wonder what Vell and Pete are up to tonight. Vell mentioned something about a club last night but I wasn’t really listening. I haven’t been clubbing for ages, I stopped when I began to despise it, the whole drugged up concept. Maybe it’s because of all those drugs I took that I’m like this now. I don’t know, I’ll never know. I might have turned out like this anyway.
I breath a sigh of relief as I round the corner and see the flats. Home. I’m greeted by flickering lights in the corrider. Luckily the lifts are working, I press the button and wait for them to trundle into life. I glance around the corrider. It looks dank and squalid, like a government health warning from the sixties. Both the main exits are open, one door is hanging from its hinges, it’s been like that for as long as I can remember. The stairs have rusty cans and a pile of soiled nappies underneath them. I think the woman next door uses the space as a tip, there’s a broken pushchair there as well. I can hear the hum of various televisions and stereos emanating from behind the identical blue painted doors. Even though the walls are made from cardboard, the sound is muted as though smothered by a thick blanket.
The lift eventually halts and the doors creak open. Normally I don’t take the risk but today I feel drained. A kid who lives in the flat directly below mine is scribbling on the inside of the door, he can’t be more than six. He has a mass of thick, tightly curled hair that frames his face. His eyes are almond shaped and a deep brown, his lips, even and full, he’ll be beautiful when he’s older. He turns and growls when he sees me, I’m not sure if he knows how to speak. Throughout the journey to my floor he continues drawing on the lift door, he’s covered most of the available space over the last few years.
I’m not surprised he spends most of his time in the lift, I’ve heard his parents fighting. I think the dad’s a drinker, he’s violent as well. I’ve been tempted to call the police a couple of times, I don’t know why I haven’t. I’ve seen the wife scuttling into the flat, her face a shocking hue of colours, I always feel guilty when I see her. It’s strange the way you become invisible when you need the most help.
The phone’s ringing as I turn the key in the lock, it’s Vell. She’s going to a club in a couple of hours, she’s driving down with Pete, Steve and a few others. She seems disappointed when I tell her I’m the only one here. I hesitate, deliberating between the need for escape and my disdain for clubbing. I become caught up in Vell’s enthusiasm and decide to go. I regret my decision as soon as I put the phone down but we only have incoming calls, so I’d have to walk half a mile to the nearest phone box to tell her not to pick me up. She’s coming about eleven which gives me enough time for my bathing ritual and to dig out some presentable clothes.
I hear the van before I see it. Vell can’t stop because the brakes are dodgy, so she slows down as much as she can and Pete holds his arm out to me from the back. I jump in. I can hardly see for the smoke. There are a couple of people I don’t recognise, one of them hands me a spliff once I’ve settled into a relatively comfortable position. I can hear Steve’s voice in the front, he’s arguing with Vell about the music. Normally Steve’s too laid back to argue but in this case I can see his point. He wants to listen to one of the remixes he’s been working on for a couple of weeks but Vell wants to listen to a Madness tape she found in the back of her wardrobe. She appears to have won as we drive through Upper Street, faces black, orange, black, orange to the unforgettable beats of Monster Mash.
We eventually screech to a halt, everyone in the back flies forward, piling on top of one another. The club’s been open for a few weeks, it’s set within an industrial estate in Camberwell, it’s a couple of quid entrance and just beginning to fill up. I buy a round at the bar, it’s not really a bar, just a casually constructed work bench selling cans of lager, bottled water and tea. Vell starts scouting around for pills and speed.
The club’s tiny, it couldn’t fit more that a hundred and fifty at a push. There’s already sweat dripping from the ceiling, the walls are slimy, the floors covered with fag butts, cans and beer. The music’s good, my favourite kind of dance music, not too fast, an easy rhythm which builds up and up until you’re so full of excitement and anticipation you want to guide it into explosion. The DJ’s teasing the crowd, throwing in a steady thump, spirals, breakbeats. He builds them up. And up. The strobes pierce the smoke, blind the dancers, gradually increase in intensity, then – Bang. The beat kicks off, the speed kicks in, my heart races, my stomach churns. I have so much energy I’m going to run a marathon. The music’s good. It seems to anticipate every move I make. I throw my arms out and try to catch the atmosphere. I glimpse a flash of grinning faces, chomping jaws, staring eyes. Paranoia strikes, then quickly fades. Everyone’s a friend. We share water, cigarettes, chat in the queue for the toilets, pass round chewing gum. Ears ringing, sweat dripping, feet stamping. There’s a girl dressed like an angel and if this is heaven, I never want to leave.
Vell taps me on the shoulder and tells me they’re leaving, her face looks haggard under the harsh glare of the strobe, she looks like a depressed clown after an arduous circus performance. I shake her hand off and tell her I’m staying, I can’t believe she wants to leave. I’m so excited about being here, about dancing, about the music, the crowd. It’s like a secret society with a few select members and I’m a privileged guest. This is one of the only times I can truly feel at ease, my head held high, shoulders back. I belong and I want to remain here for as long as possible. I tell Vell to stay, I want to be with my friends, I want them to experience my power, my immortality but they turn and leave. I’m initially at a loss then forget about them, there are so many more interesting people here. I chat to a girl with long, blonde dreads, she has glitter on her eyelids and I love the way they flash and twinkle like tiny stars. There’s a boy by the bar with a blue, painted ear, I ask him why he’s painted it then realise the futility of the question before he shrugs; why not?
I sit down and look around, I have never felt so at ease, I can meet people’s eyes and smile, I shake people’s hands as they trip past. I accept proffered water from sweating palms and nod when I catch an eye. I scrabble to my feet and join the dancers, they move to make room. I stand, interlace my fingers and stretch my arms up as far as they will go. I feel energy surge through my system, my legs springy and light, my fingers tingle.
I don’t know how long I’ve been dancing but the dance floor’s becoming less crowded. I hate that initial moment when I know I’m coming down and life smacks me round the face. This is probably one of the worst feelings in the world and is one of the reasons I stopped clubbing. I can’t handle the come down. I feel exhausted and washed out. I hate what I am, I despise the fact that I’m here, I know it’s time to go but I don’t want to leave. Daylight curls through the door. There are people sitting around, smoking spliffs, sipping tea, staring, mindlessly nodding their heads or tapping the floor. One bloke is walking round and round in circles, too knackered to do anything else. I want to dance. I make my way to the dancefloor but I can’t. My body’s telling me to sit down. My legs buckle, I nearly fall.
I sink to my knees and sink into depression. A depression so deep it sometimes takes days to come out of. I feel sick, paranoid, full of despair. I want to be anywhere but here. I see myself as the washed up loser I really am. I see those people swaying, jumping, smoking, and hate them as much as I hate myself. Vell and the others have gone long ago, I wish I’d gone with them. They’ll be sitting around smoking and listening to tunes. I’ll have to wait till seven for the first tube. It’s about half six, so I buy a tea with plenty of sugar and wait to face the brand new day.
