So what was Gary doing, Stan thought, fucking with that?
The sky was blue but Comber Grove was dark. Old orange streetlights and the hulking flats and it took Stan a while to remember which floor it was and how to get there. He went up the wrong stairwell and had to go back to the street and let his memory kick in. He was stressed and his stomach gurgled like a baby. His thoughts were shredded and he snatched at them. He thought about going home. Then he got it. Second floor. Right there. One from the end. The first stairwell. He could just forget about it. Go home.
Gary answered the door. Boxer shorts. T-shirt. He looked at Stan and broke into a great big smile.
— Stanley! Finally! Where you been bruv? You’re like the busiest man in the world.
Bear hug. Stepping in to the hall. He’d lost his phone, Gary said. Then his mother appeared, looking out from the kitchen, suspicious first then smiling big when she saw him. Handshakes. Gary going off to get dressed. Arms, yeah? Stan was trying to be polite to his mother. He couldn’t remember Gary’s surname. Mrs . . . Mrs . . . He couldn’t get it. So he talked over himself, yeah it’s Maria, yeah she’s very well, and how are you? No, he died last year, well thank you, no he’d been ill a while. Yes she did. Eight years ago now. Yes ma’am. He said ma’am. He said ma’am. She gave him a wide-eye mid-sentence but let it go and told him that he was Gary’s only respectable friend, the others were all gangsters and then Gary was shouting at her from the bedroom, but they were both laughing, and Stan was laughing too, then Gary was there fully dressed and he had the camera in his hands and he was showing it to him. The camera, finally. Look at it, he was saying, here, and he turned it on and got Stan to hold it up to his eye and he got him to flip out the little screen and he showed him some of the pictures he’d taken, they were stored right there on the camera, and his mother was laughing, saying it was like he gave birth to this thing. Stan thought it was heavy. Thought it was heavy and that it looked expensive, and he found himself looking for scratches and knocks, and he even found himself examining the strap as if . . . and then Gary was taking it back and putting it away and while he was briefly gone his mother told Stan that it was like it was a baby, this thing like his baby, he look after it like it a baby. And she gave him a goodbye hug and told him to bring his girl to dinner, any time, there would be a welcome for them any time. Then they were outside, their bye-bye voices in the warm air, Gary still laughing, Stan feeling ambushed by this pretence, that this was pretence, made to feel that it was somehow he who was in the wrong, as if his worry should just be put away, forgotten, just like that.
— You don’t mind do you? If we stay in it’ll be three of us you know? She loves you too much.
— Yeah. Yeah. Gangsters?
— All of them. She’s just bigging me up. No one ever calls at my door. She’s just happy I still have a friend in the world.
— So did you steal it?
— Perfect crime, told you.
He laughed.
— My uncle gave me the money. Loaned me the money. He’s a good guy.
— Which uncle?
— What do you mean which uncle? You know all my uncles? Ronnie. Guy I work with sometimes. Pretty sure you’ve met him.
— Ok. What happened with your phone?
Gary took a big breath. Sighed.
— Lost it at that demo I saw you at. First time out with the camera and I was so fucking nervous with it, and my hands were all muddled and I must have just put the phone down somewhere stupid or dropped it or something.
— I was calling. It was ringing. You can track them.
— Yeah. Didn’t have all that set up did I?
— But it was ringing? I mean, the next day?
Gary looked at him.
— Yeah. Batteries, Stan. They work using batteries.
He was pretty sure that it had still been ringing a couple of days after as well, but he let it go.
— Anyway what did you think of the pics? Photogenic young man aren’t you?
— How did you print them?
— Printer, Stan. Printer. Jesus. Do you like them?
— Yeah. Sure. Didn’t actually know what was happening though.
Gary laughed. Like it had been a joke.
— I really like the first one, from the demo. Not quite sure how I did it. I took a lot of really shitty pics that day. That was one of about three turned out ok.
— Where did you take the last one from? You’re looking down at me. You’re in a building somewhere.
— I’m on a bus Stan. I was on a bus to central.
— That’s from a bus?
— Yeah yeah. You can see all the grime of the window on it, which I sort of like, but it’s framed all wrong. I think I cropped it for you. Everything is framing. But I’m learning, you know, I’m already learning. Went to this great exhibition at the weekend . . . the gallery down Peckham Road. These really . . . format, beautifully framed pictures of . . . bits of street and it’s . . .
Stan strained to hear Gary’s voice but was missing words as they came up to Denmark Hill and turned right. He just shook his head as Gary asked him a question crossing the road and a bus roared by. Stan hated the lights and the traffic and he didn’t understand why Gary was fucking talking to him when he couldn’t fucking hear anything he fucking said. When they got to the other footpath he slowed down.
— Jesus, Gary was saying. Anyway it’s just these large prints, I mean really big prints, of street corners, doorways, bus stops. There’s a few bus stops. And park benches. Pretty sure one is Burgess Park down by the fake gates. No people in them. Just patches of space. And they are really . . .
He laughed.
— Are you listening?
— Yeah yeah. Patches of space.
— Well that’s it. I really like them.
Stan nodded. But he didn’t know what Gary was talking about.
— It’s made me think about exhibiting. Which is yeah . . . dumb, I mean, I’ve literally started. But I fucking love it. And I am so full of ideas Stan. I am fat with ideas. Why are you walking so fucking fast?
Stan slowed, but then sped up again.
— I need to pee, he said.
— Go for it. I’ll catch up.
He didn’t need to pee. But he nodded sideways at Gary and ran. He ran furiously, as fast as he could. His jacket flailed and he slapped at it. He couldn’t afford a new one. Maria couldn’t afford to fix her bike. He had never lost a phone in his life. It took seconds for him to reach the door of The Arms. He thought about running on. About lengthening his stride and continuing, running up the hill and down the hill and all the way to Crystal Palace and on to Croydon, to Brighton, to the sea. He could run around the fucking world until he was running up Denmark Hill again and tap Gary on the shoulder. Clock it. Clock the planet. He stopped and went in.
Stoker was there, elbow on the bar, smiling at him. An awful, slow wink. A few others. Harry on the phone. Stan went straight through the empty back room to the gents and stood by the sink for a minute then dried his hands then washed them then dried them again and went out. Stoker was walking away. Walking away from the door of the toilets as if he’d been in there too. Or as if he’d been walking towards them and turned around. A pint in his hand. Walking quickly, not looking back, through the arch into the front bar. Stan followed him slowly. Gary was at the bar talking to Harry. Stan looked at his phone. He stood behind Gary and sent Maria a text telling her where they were. They went to their table at the window. Stoker hadn’t said a word. He stood at the bar looking at small pieces of paper.
— You can still run.
— Still?
— I’m out of breath taking the stair. I don’t even chase buses anymore.
— I never smoked. I missed the start of you describing this exhibition. What was it?
— Uh. Guy has these .
. . oh ok, it’s photos of places he’s bought drugs. That’s the hook. So he’s gone back to these places and made these large format pictures of them. Really big. Bus stop. Park bench. Doorway. Corner. And there’s . . . well, that’s it. Simple, but beautiful.
— Who’s the photographer?
— Michael someone.
— You know him?
— No.
— Is he black?
Gary half closed an eye and cocked his head at Stan.
— Is he black? I don’t know Stan. I didn’t ask. Why?
— It’s . . . I don’t know, it’s the stereotype, you know . . . there’s a stereotype of black guys selling drugs and white guys buying them. I thought he might be playing with that, you know, whether he’s black or white.
Gary was looking at him like he was insane.
— Ok, I don’t know where that came from my friend. But no. No people in this. Just places.
— Well, said Stan. I just thought it rang a bell. I saw this thing about a photographer somewhere was doing something like that.
— I don’t think this is that.
— Ok.
— I think this is just what it is. Hey maybe he’s Asian Stan. Or Latin. Really fucking with those stereotypes then.
— Ok, ok.
They were on their high stools at their high table. Gary was quiet for a moment, sighing, frowning, drinking his drink. Stan looked at him. A T-shirt and a jumper. A jacket on the back of his chair. He’d trimmed his beard. He looked good, he looked healthy, and Gary remembered when he had looked like shit. It wasn’t that long ago.
— Why did you put photographs through our letterbox like that?
Gary closed his eyes for an irritated second, then opened them again. He waited and he looked at Stan and he took a breath.
— You weren’t in.
— Not if you come by in the middle of the day, no.
— No. I was walking back from work.
He was speaking slowly. Holding Stan’s gaze.
— You can’t just take photographs of people. On the street. Without their permission. I mean, it’s a violation. It’s . . .
— Stan.
— Well it is. It’s creepy. It’s weird. Taking photos of people and then putting them through their fucking letter box.
Gary stared at him. Then he dropped his head into his hands, and started to slide it out again, slowly, pulling his lower eyelids and the skin of his cheeks down with his palms and his fingers, so that he looked like a ghost face but black emerging out of his own hands, his big eyeballs focused on Stan who watched him with a feeling like disgust, as if this distorted, elongated face was something he should not be seeing, that it was none of his business, it was a private thing that no one should see, something personal and obscene. Gary pulled his fingers all the way down over his mouth, pulling his bottom lip and showing his teeth and his gums, and then his eyes flicked towards the street and he let go, and his face returned to something like a human face.
— It’s not people Stan, it’s you. My friend Stan. They went through your letter box because you’re never fucking in. I lost my phone or I would have let you know. What the fuck is this?
— It felt like something.
— What thing?
Stan shook his head.
— What did it feel like?
Stan said nothing.
— Make you nervous did it?
— No.
— Yeah it did. It made you nervous. Like me joking about crime makes you nervous. Me taking your photograph makes you nervous. Me coming to your meeting makes you nervous. Even me getting sober makes you a little bit nervous. You think I don’t see that Stan? Seen. Drug deals is bad-man stuff so it’s black-man stuff. Must be. What are you really nervous about Stan? What is the thing about me, do you think, that makes you nervous, really? My height? My beard? My accent? No? My taste for cock? No? Let’s see what else there could be. I wonder. What else is there Stan?
Stan looked around. No one was paying attention. Stoker was standing at the bar, standing up straight, just his head bent forward at the neck, looking down at a small pile of paper, writing, writing on little pieces of paper.
— Christ Stan. You know how depressing it is to constantly have to deal with this shit? Again. And again. And again. It is so fucked up. You’re a good bloke Stanley. You’re an intelligent, decent man. But you have these big fucking zones of stupidity where you wander alone. I don’t know where they come from or why they’re there, but that’s not my problem it’s yours.
He took a sip of his drink. He looked weary. Different. He looked tired.
— It’s a life’s work Stan. For all of us. In this fucking country? It’s generations of work. And I know exactly what you think because I think it too and I have to work every fucking day not to. Have to. What makes me shy? What makes me keep my mouth shut? What makes me not take an interest in things that I’m interested in? What do you think it is? Over-protective mother? I have it inside me and it’s the work of a lifetime. For all of us. But you get to clock off and I don’t. So. Maybe put in a little overtime Stan, just for a while, cos you need to catch up.
— I don’t know . . .
— Don’t Stan. Because you’re only going to make it worse. You’re either going to tell me that I’m imagining things. Or you’re going to try and get some sympathy out of me for fucking up, or tell me that you’re trying, or tell me anything at all. And I don’t want to hear it. Just sort it out. Give me your number.
— What?
— Write down your number.
He was holding out a piece of paper and a pen. Stan glanced at Stoker. He was still there. Writing on a piece of paper, putting it to one side, writing on another. Stan wrote down his number for Gary.
— I’m pissed off now. I’m going to go. When I have a new phone I’ll text you. Give my love to Maria. Sort yourself out.
And he left. Stood up and took his jacket and shouldered open the door and was gone into the street.
Stan sipped his pint. Stared out the window.
He’d argued with Noor about it and she’d just ignored him from then on.
When he finished his drink he started on what was left of Gary’s.
He remembered that the only time his father had hit him was when Stan had described some new neighbours by using a word that he had never used since. Never. Not once.
The place was quiet. Some people were watching the football but they didn’t seem particularly interested. Stoker started walking around the room, handing out his pieces of paper. Stan watched a couple of people glance at what they’d been given, glance at Stoker, and go back to whatever it was they’d been doing. He didn’t look at Stan, just held out what looked like the torn corner of a newspaper page. On it, in a very neat cursive script was mouse.
— Right everybody! Let’s play a game. You’ve all been given an animal, and that’s the animal that you are and it’s up to everybody else to guess what animal you are by asking you questions about what animal you might be. Let’s
— What are you doing? Harry asked him, loudly.
— Playing a game.
— Leave people alone, Harry said.
Stoker looked hurt. Then he went around the room and collected all the pieces of paper.
— Another time, he said. Another time.
Stan went to the toilet. There was a guy at one of the urinals and they chatted about Stoker and discovered that they had both been mouse, and when they went back to the bar they asked other people and it turned out that everyone had been mouse, and there was laughter, and people called out Are you a mouse? My first question is — are you a mouse? which Stoker seemed to enjoy, and he joined in, and of course he was soon laughing louder than anyone else, and kept on laughing and calling out Are you a mouse? long after everyone else had stopped.
Stan stayed until they closed. He drank a lot. He couldn’t afford it. But he couldn’t help it. When he got home he slept on the sofa because he didn’t want to disturb Maria.
The Sweat
He drumbled, stats and notches. Wrong word. Insurmountable. He liked the long words, they felt manipulatable, like things in his mouth. Manipulatable. But they were too long, too big. They were cubes and blocks (oh! notches!) and he couldn’t catch his breath. It was nice. It was fine. But what could he do with them. He had a mouthful of bricks and he was trying to build something in there. A house. An aircraft carrier. A maze of places he could go. He needed and wanted and required things that were smaller and more precise. Measurements is a long word for example. Seems inconsiderate. Something smaller. A tiny thing. So small. Notches for example, was a pretty good fix.
Notches
Not
Ches
Ot
Ches
Tch
Es
s
Fix
Ix
x
I
God no
x
Nothing was coming through him but innards, his innermost. His skin was a leathery peel. A wet dry thing. He had been scraped and reapplied to himself and now he was dying in the street like an ant on a fire.
Notches.
He didn’t know why he was repeating that word. So annoying. Such inconsideration.
Only small words from here on.
As a kid he’d sat by the fireplace and used the tongs (tongs?) to put tiny pieces of paper on lumps of coal (coal?) and pretended they were airplanes that had crashed onto the sides of volcanos and he waited for them to burn. Sometimes they just sat there curling and sometimes they burst suddenly into orange. Into flames.
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