by Mat Osman
Bruton Street was almost completely in darkness. One side was a building site where pictures of young couples in gym gear covered a billboard in front of a black hole of building work. The one light came at the end where a neon sign, retro even to my eyes, read HOT ACTION over a sunken doorway. A line of light illuminated the gap at the bottom of the door.
“So what’s the plan?” said Baxter.
The rest of the building sat in darkness. A squat and complex space — as my eyes adjusted I could see that it spread over a couple of blocks — with the entrance right in one corner. I couldn’t see an obvious window. I pulled up the torch on my phone and began to follow the brickwork along the street.
“Bran? You do know where we’re going?”
I held up a hand. About ten yards down there were big double doors, their original colour obliterated by graffiti and stickers. I tugged experimentally at them.
“Bran. I thought you said this was sorted.” Baxter’s whine pulled at my nerves.
“It is, shut up, we’re looking for the window.”
The cone of light from the phone showed up more walls. Then an opening. An alleyway? I gestured Baxter to follow me and then saw it. An oblong of wall a shade lighter than the rest.
“Here.” I felt around for something to stand on but the alleyway was empty. “Give us a leg up.”
Baxter was just a shadow behind me. He steadied himself against the wall and cupped his hands. I pulled the rucksack tight and stepped into the cradle he’d made. The window pushed open and I had my shoulders through before I realised the rucksack wouldn’t make it.
I dropped it down to him. “Take the tapes, I’m going to try again.”
This time I squeezed through. With half my body inside I reached out my arms. Walls to my left and right but nothing in front or below. The darkness was total. The ammonia tang and tight space meant it was probably a toilet stall but I couldn’t tell how far down the floor would be. I swung my arms again, hoping for something to give me a sense of distance. For a few seconds I hung there — body in, legs out, belt buckle biting into my belly — and then I just let go.
I missed the toilet seat with my arms and my head hit the rim just as my hands found the floor. Scrabbling to keep my face away from the bowl I twisted and my legs kicked at the air. For a moment I was in a perfect handstand before my legs toppled back, kicking open the stall door.
Baxter had pulled himself up and the top of his face appeared in the window before dropping down again. I put my phone on the top of the door and climbed on the seat. He looked up from the alley below.
“C’mon — it’s fine.”
I dragged him up and through. It took a couple of goes. I’d cut my forehead on the toilet bowl and the wound throbbed with the exertion. We turned left out of the toilet along a carpeted corridor lined with photographs.
Baxter had his phone out for light and was giving me a running commentary. “Dillon with Jack White, Dillon with Robyn, Dillon with fucking Bono. God, the man is such a tart. Is that fucking Winnie Mandela?” He stopped to take a proper look.
“Bax. Job in hand, please.” I gave him the smallest of shoves. We came to a T-junction with both corridors gently curving away. “Which way?” asked Baxter.
“Right,” I said, not knowing, trusting that I’d recognise something from the pictures Rae had sent me. The curving corridor had alcoves to the left; I looked in and saw it opened out onto a bigger space. It was almost a reflection of the music room at the Magpie: instruments on stands and the glint of polished keyboards.
Baxter peered through. “Must be the peep-show space. Does he really think anyone’s going to wank off over his band? Have you heard that fucking drummer? Christ.”
I recognised the room from the website. “Good. The cutting room is off the side there.”
There was a light on: a blue lamp throwing elongated shadows against the curve of the walls.
“There.” Baxter had spotted something. “The machine’s on and everything.”
He was in his element. The room was small and bathed in an icy light. Baxter threaded and adjusted the tape, listening intently through a pair of headphones that he’d brought with him. He talked under his breath to the machine — good girl, now where’s that light come from and what does it want, no you don’t missy — until he was ready. Then he pulled a plain black disc from his bag. It was smooth as a mirror and it glinted in the swimming-pool light of the cutting room.
“Beautiful isn’t it?”
He spun the disc between two fingers, watching it reflect patches of blue, and then with a sigh, slid it into place on the cutting machine. We sat with our backs against the machine. Its warmth and gentle vibrations reminded me of childhood car trips. I was getting used to Baxter’s way of talking now. As long as you gave him an occasional sign that you were listening he’d happily tell stories for hours.
Afterwards he insisted on coming back to the Magpie — Brighton trains don’t start until six — and celebrating. We had champagne and coke, and snacks that Kaspar sent up. While he was in the bathroom I texted Rae. WENT WELL BAX HERE TALK LATER and got an immediate reply WELL DONE!! SWITCH THE MIKE ON
Knowing Rae was listening made me less self-conscious. Baxter was back in hyper-active mood, peppering the conversation with questions like “do you remember?” and “do you ever see…”, and I was out of my depth. The names meant nothing to me but he ploughed on happily.
I went to change the record and my phone buzzed. It was Rae with her reading of the situation: HE WANTS SOMETHING BUT I CAN’T TELL WHAT.
Back in the music room Baxter continued a story as if I’d not left the room, strumming on a guitar as he talked.
“Hey Bax. Was there something else?”
He tapped out a nervous rhythm on his knee. “Well, this is supposed to be a celebration. I thought we could call up that Sistine girl again. And someone for you too, obviously.”
I very much wanted to be able to speak to Rae but there was no disguising the fact that it sounded exactly like something Brandon would do. “Sistine. Yes. Sure, sure. I can’t remember where I put her number.”
“Just use the batphone,” he laughed. “Want me to do it?”
I gestured to the phone. “Be my guest.”
I went to the kitchen and flipped out my mobile to see if Rae had any thoughts. I could hear the excitement in Baxter’s voice. “Hi, it’s Baxter in Mr Kussgarten’s suite again. Hello Annabelle. Wonderful, thank you. We’re having a little celebration and were wondering if Sistine might join us? Fantastic. I’ll check.”
He poked his head around the door. “Anyone special for you?”
I froze. “Thanks Baxter, no.”
Half an hour later, when two girls got buzzed up, I realised that Baxter had taken my “no” to mean “no one special” rather than “no, please God, don’t get me involved in any of this”.
At the door they peeled off like fighter pilots. Baxter threw his arms around a petite, dark-haired girl, cooing, “Sistine, how lovely” while the other girl took me smilingly by the arm. She was a slender, Afroed woman, as tall as me even in flat shoes. When she whispered, “Hello again darling” I realised — of course — that she’d been here before with Brandon.
I offered to make some drinks to give me time to think, but Baxter was puppyish, tugging at Sistine’s sleeve, and in an instant they were off upstairs, waving goodbye before I’d even put the ice in the glasses.
She sat perched on the worktop, watching me make the drinks. I heard a shriek of laughter from the guest bedroom, then music. When she finally spoke she had a surprisingly deep voice.
“So, Mr Actor, what’s it to be? The same again?”
What was worse, saying yes and being led who-knows-where by Brandon’s tastes, or no and be left in charge? She was tall, slender, professional looking. She terrified me.
“Yeah, same again.”
That seemed to please her. “Great, great. Unfinished business, yeah?” Her accent had
slipped a little and there was an unaffected smile on her face. “Shall I go on up?”
“You remember the way?”
She nodded happily. “See you up there.”
As soon as she was on the stairs I unfroze the laptop screen. Rae beamed out at me. “Hello playa.”
“Not my idea, I promise.”
“I heard, I heard. She’s cute though, are you going to leave her up there?”
“I would if I could. It’d be rude, right?”
Her smile stretched wider. “Rude, yes. That would never do.” She turned her head sideways. “Look, you’re single, it’s Bran’s money, and she’s hot.”
“Well, it’s actually your money, technically.”
She made a face. “So it is. Jesus, I hope she’s worth it.”
I wondered if there was an upside to the situation as I headed up the stairs. Maybe I could find something out from her. Brandon liked to talk — who knew what he might have said to her. The bedroom was blazingly lit, with all the lamps on. The girl sat, fully clothed and cross-legged on the bed, a backgammon board set up in front of her. She caught the look of surprise on my face. “Is this not what you meant?” Her legs were pulled up under her like a kid’s and the dice were poised in her hand. I saw her readjust her expectations.
“Yes, of course, sorry, miles away.”
I sat across the board from her, making the board slide towards me.
The goofy look was back on her face. “You know I’ve been practising?”
I copied her and rolled a dice, trying to remember the rules. “Really?”
“Yeah. I used to be gooooood when I was a kid.” There was a hint of something European in her accent, making me think of Martinique or Guam. “An’ I haven’t lost like that for ages.” She pulled a face. “So now it is onnnn.”
We played for about half an hour and she won every game. For the first few she was triumphant, raising her hands after each win like a victorious boxer. “In the blue corner your undefeated champion, Anique.”
But by the fourth game she was quizzical. “Not on your game today?”
“I’m sorry,” I told her, “Things on my mind.”
She stopped mid-throw, the dice on her upturned hand, “You wanna…?” There was a wariness to her that turned on and off instantly.
“No, you’re good, this evening was more for Baxter.”
“OK, you want to stop? Do something else?” She looked genuinely disappointed.
“No, keep playing, just don’t expect me to win.”
“I can live with that.” She shook her head and went back to the dice. She rolled a double three and counted out her moves with glee. “And three…” She swept one of my men back to its home.
“So you are you going to watch my triumph again later?”
“Sorry?”
“The camera.” She gestured up above her head. “You going to watch yourself getting beat?” She leaned over the board. “Is that what gets you off?”
Where she’d gestured, over the headboard, there was a long oblong painting of a caterpillar partway through its transformation. There had been no mention of cameras in Brandon’s notebook, but that didn’t mean much. I thought about everything that had been said and done in this room since he moved in.
“Oh, I switched them off,” I told her.
She rolled the dice and swooped on the pieces. “Pity, you could watch your ass getting whipped again.”
I didn’t hear Baxter leave in the morning. It wasn’t until gone noon that the combination of open curtains and a thunderous headache drove me out of the bed. I checked the door panel: climate controls, environmental profile, DO NOT DISTURB signs and, along the bottom, a row of lights, each by a tiny lettered label. BR1, BR2, K, L1, L2, and RF with red LEDs by each. I went back to the bedroom. Above the picture frame a black bar about the size of half a chopstick was glued to the wall.
I buzzed reception. “Morning Kas.” I corrected myself. “Afternoon, even. I want all the camera footage from last week. Something I need to see.”
“Not a problem. It’s all on the Magpie app. Have you logged in before?”
Had I? “No, I haven’t needed to.”
“Then it’ll take a couple of minutes to set up. I can send someone to help you with it?”
“No, I think I can manage that. Remind me who else can view it — maybe I don’t need to even see it.”
“No one.” His comeback was immediate. “Just the occupant of the room and it gets deleted the moment you leave, automatically.”
“Oh yeah. Great, thanks Kas.”
He was right, it was pretty simple. I set up a new profile. There was nothing from that first night with Kimi but I suppose Brandon wasn’t technically the occupier then, but from then on there were nine feeds onscreen at once, of every moment.
I watched in fits and starts. There were long patches where he was unmoving. Reading, or listening to music (it was hard to tell because there was no sound with the recordings) or more often just staring into space. You could fast-forward an hour without the slightest flicker of action from him. I watched the first four days, including the visits of Jay and the guitar guy. There were other deliveries too: mainly clothes but other, smaller packages too that Brandon immediately pocketed, unopened. I tried to catch his manner when he was with people to see if I’d captured his actions. The Brandon on screen was stiller than I remembered him, and less flamboyant.
When it got to the bit with Sistine and Anique, the first time round, he covered the camera in his room, the screen sweeping and fading to grey as, in the right-hand corner, Baxter humped and sweated over the other girl. Later, once they were gone, he was back to his unmoving self. The day after that he spent hours at a clunky old typewriter, pecking away at the keys with two fingers as a roll of paper shrank in front of him.
It was only later, eating lunch out on the balcony, watching the drizzle smearing the clean lines of the skyscrapers, that I realised what I hadn’t seen. No drugs. No drink. No cigarettes even. I went back inside and rewatched some of it. He took a line with Jay, and he definitely handed something out when the girls were there, but in his time alone he was relentlessly clean-living. A couple of times Kas came up with food and Brandon dumped it immediately into the waste disposal. Instead he drank glass after glass of homemade smoothies, made from veg stuffed into a blender and drunk straight from the jug.
I rewound to Jay’s visit. The frustration of seeing their lips move but no sound. At the end of it, after a complex handshake that I knew I’d never be able to master, he shut the door and swept everything that had sat on the table — wraps, pill bottles, blister packs — into a drawer. I paused the video and went to check. Yes, it was all still there. Only one of the wraps had been disturbed, and I guessed that was while Jay was there. The rest was untouched.
I went back to the video. He went out occasionally but when he was at home he was either making, or listening to music. He broke off every couple of hours for more of the green vegetable goop, or to do some push-ups, but the rest of time he was as studious as a schoolboy. There were no nights out. No visitors. He was home every evening. He recorded for a couple of hours, read for a little and then went to bed around 10pm.
I looked from the screen to the scene behind me. He was, I realised, neater than me, and unexpectedly healthier, at least than this new version of me. I put the video on at its highest speed, the light blooming and dying, Brandon flitting between rooms, as insubstantial as a ghost. Until, all of a sudden, the apartment was full of bodies. I backed up. There was Brandon, dressing slowly, long moments in front of the mirror. One minute, two. Just my brother, my double, in front of the glass with an unreadable expression on his face.
Then, methodically, he started to trash the apartment. He lit cigarette after cigarette and left them to burn down, mainly in ashtrays but also on chair arms and saucers. He pulled out armfuls of bottles from the drinks cabinet and half emptied them down the sink. He topped some of the wine with fresh ci
garette butts. Then he spread the bottles around the flat: the music room, the lounge, a couple by the bed. Then he set about the records — transferring them from sleeve to sleeve and then secreting them all over the room. He took out one that I didn’t recognise and pinned it to the wall. Then, looking bored, he casually threw kitchen knives at it until it was speared through in four different places. He went from room to room leaving disarray in his wake. He mussed up the spare bed and then went to his room for dirty clothing which he deposited on the floor. He spent a minute looking at the pattern of discarded clothes, rearranging them with the tip of his foot, smoking a cigarette for the bedside ashtray.
And then he was done. He sat in the lounge, for once without a record spinning on the player, and waited. I fast-forwarded until his guests arrived. It was the band. Baxter first, laden with bags and instruments. An embrace, genuine looking, and a drink for him. Then Saul. He got a hand-shake and then there was a long, serious looking conversation with the pair of them still in the hallway. And while they were there, Kimi, who looked tense, but had hugs for everyone, arrived on those towering heels. Her arrival seemed to be the catalyst for Saul to actually come inside.
And off they went. I fast-forwarded through most of if. They were obviously recording — for long minutes while they sat in their respective headphones and nothing moved bar hands and feet. Then huddles, arguments, and laughter, much more laughter than I expected. It went on for ages but without sound it was dull fare. And then, hours later, they left one by one. Saul first, then Baxter and then Kimi, who stayed for a drink. It didn’t look like Brandon and her were talking much though. After she left, Brandon started again in the music room.
I checked the timecode. 2am, 3am, 4am. He worked his way around the instruments, one by one, occasionally fiddling with the big reel-to-reel tape machine. At 6am he stopped for a while and then disappeared into the bathroom. 6.30am, 7am. Then he was out, dressing quickly with no thought for the mirror. I recognised the outfit. A black jacket flecked with grey, and wide, heavy trousers. It was the outfit from the security footage: the clothes that he would die in.