“No, see, I’m the dancing bear. Me.”
“You’re the dancing bear?”
“Yes,” said Danny. He started rocking from side to side without quite knowing why.
The Shark began to drum on the desk as if he were playing a djembe. He looked at Ivan. “Is he being funny?” he said.
“He is dancing bear,” said Ivan, the floorboards straining beneath him as he too started to move to a rhythm that only he could hear.
“I’m a street performer,” said Danny, stamping his feet and slapping his thighs as if he were dancing the schuhplattler. “I need a license.”
“To dance,” said Ivan, spinning on the spot with his arms out. “He need license to dance.”
“A license to dance?” said The Shark, bobbing his head as his drumming grew increasingly furious.
“Yes,” said Danny, throwing out moves he didn’t even know he had in him. “A license to dance.”
“We don’t need a license to dance!” said The Shark, pushing his chair back and leaping to his feet. “See?” He swirled his hands around and kicked at the air before appearing to hump the leg of his friend, whose resigned expression suggested this wasn’t the first time he’d been forced to endure this and wouldn’t be the last time either.
“Yes, we don’t need license!” said Ivan, who emphasized his point by making big fish, little fish, and cardboard boxes with his hands.
“You don’t!” said Danny, trying and failing to do the moonwalk. “But I do!”
“We don’t!” said Ivan, bobbing up and down and dancing the hopak. “But he does!”
“Can you help?” said Danny, throwing off his jacket and wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“Yes!” said The Shark, clicking his fingers and jogging on the spot. “I can help! But first, let’s dance!”
“We are dancing!” said Danny.
“I cannot stop dancing!” said Ivan with mild panic in his voice.
“How long does this usually last?” asked Danny.
“Until the music stops!” said The Shark.
“What music?” said Ivan.
“Exactly!” said The Shark.
* * *
Danny had no idea how long they stayed and danced with The Shark. Nor was he sure what time he got home, or even how he got home, although he did wake up with a vague recollection of dancing with Ivan down the Rotherhithe Tunnel while cars swerved to avoid them. Danny also didn’t know whether The Shark would, or could, actually get him what he needed until one morning two days later when he found an envelope stuck in his letterbox. Inside, as promised, was one street performer’s license. Also inside was a note. Danny read it and smiled. Keep dancing! it said.
CHAPTER 12
Danny kicked his lunchbox, not hard enough to capsize it, although he felt like doing just that, but enough to jostle the coins inside. He peered into the box, hoping that the jolt had brought something substantial to the surface like a two-pound coin, or a one-pound coin, or a fifty-pence piece, or literally anything silver, but all he found was a dull bronze sea of well-worn pocket change.
He tipped the money into his hand and tallied it up before jotting down the total in the notepad he used as a ledger.
“One pound twelve,” he muttered, a figure that looked and sounded pathetic even without the minus sign he then added in front of it. When combined with the rest of his takings, Danny’s first official week on the job had yielded a grand total of £13.46, or 34 pence per hour, roughly the same amount that a homeless person made. That wasn’t speculation either but a fact imparted by an actual homeless person that very morning, not with any kind of smugness but with a genuine air of pity. Danny had shimmied, strutted, stumbled, and sweated his way through Liz’s entire collection of Now That’s What I Call Music! CDs every day for the last seven days, and the only profit he’d turned so far was the money he saved by walking the four miles home every evening. The most he’d taken on a single day was a little over seven pounds, five of which he hadn’t even earned but randomly found blowing across the park, and in that time the largest crowd he’d performed in front of wasn’t even a crowd at all but a speed-walking club that had briefly paused for a breather nearby before resuming their frantic wiggling.
There was no complex formula behind his failure. He knew precisely what the problem was. He simply couldn’t dance. He couldn’t even dance in that endearingly crap way that made people think about calling their dads more often. Nor could he dance in that so-bad-it’s-funny kind of way that made teenagers want to film him and put him on YouTube, something he found oddly insulting given the mystifying things that YouTubers found hilarious. The only person who seemed to find him even slightly entertaining was Krystal, who happened to be walking through the park at the very same time that Danny was midway through butchering the Macarena.
Noticing that she was chewing gum and fearing she might be about to land another wad of Juicy Fruit on him, Danny danced his way out of spitting range while pretending he hadn’t seen her, not an easy façade to maintain considering she was standing right in front of him. The more he danced, the more she laughed, and the more she laughed, the more irritated he became, until he turned off the music, folded his arms, and waited for Krystal to leave.
“Don’t stop,” she said. “This is the funniest thing I’ve seen all day.”
“I guess you didn’t look in the mirror this morning,” said Danny, still upset about their encounter on the bus.
“Says the man dressed like a badger’s hemorrhoid?”
“I told you already, I’m a panda.”
“Whatever. You want me to call an ambulance or what?” She waved her phone at Danny.
“Why would I want you to call an ambulance?”
“Because—wait, you mean you weren’t having a seizure just now?”
“Very funny,” said Danny. “It’s called dancing, if you must know.”
“No, it’s called making a complete bell-end of yourself in public, if you must know.”
“Yeah, well, people seem to like it.”
“Do they?” said Krystal. She peered at the pathetic collection of shrapnel in his lunchbox. “They got a funny way of showing it.”
“I’d like to see you do better.”
“I wouldn’t waste my time.”
“Because you can’t.”
“I can, actually.”
“Prove it, then,” said Danny, peeling off his mask and coming face-to-face with Krystal for the very first time.
“What?”
Danny threw the mask at her and unzipped the panda outfit to reveal the sweatpants and T-shirt he’d wisely chosen to wear every day since his bag of clothes went missing.
“I’ll bet you twenty quid that you can’t make more money than me in the next ten minutes,” he said, dumping the costume at her feet.
“I wouldn’t even wear that thing for twenty quid, never mind dance in it.” She kicked the costume and backed away in case it moved.
“Okay, fifty.”
“I haven’t got time for this bollocks,” said Krystal. She turned and marched off down the path.
“Thought as much,” said Danny, grinning as he basked in a rare moment of victory. He grabbed his costume from the grass and flicked off a cigarette butt, but before he had time to put it back on, Krystal came storming back.
“Make it a hundred,” she said.
Danny smiled. “You’re on.”
Krystal put her handbag down and edged her way into the costume with so much caution that it seemed as if she were trying to inhabit it without the material actually touching her.
She crouched beside the CD player, plucked an album from Liz’s music collection, and fed the disc into the machine while muttering to herself about what an antique piece of shit it was and how the only people who still used CD players were, for reasons that Danny didn’t even try to understand, lollipop men, virgins, and people who kept snakes for pets.
Conducting a series of breathing exercises
akin to a free-diver prior to descent, she held her breath, pulled on the panda mask, and stabbed the play button. Danny watched smugly from the sidelines, convinced he was already a hundred pounds richer. But as Krystal started to dance, moving to the music as if she’d been listening to that one and only track since the day she’d first appeared on an ultrasound, his smile began to fade. A crowd quickly formed as everybody who passed slowed and then stopped to watch her performance until Danny had to fight to see through them. The other performers stopped what they were doing as their own crowds peeled away to watch the dancing panda at the other end of the park. Even at that distance they could hear the cheers and applause as Krystal did a backflip that ended in the splits, but nobody cheered and clapped louder than Danny as he watched his lunchbox filling with money.
The music stopped and Krystal took a bow before ripping off the mask and throwing it at Danny.
“You were incredible!” he said as the crowd began to trickle away.
“I know. Pay up.”
“How do you dance like that?”
“I’m a dancer. Pay up.”
“Can you teach me?”
“I ain’t teaching you nothing.” She wriggled out of the panda costume and kicked it at Danny.
“Please. I just lost my job and I really—”
“Boo-hoo. Pay up.”
“My landlord is literally going to kill me if—”
“Good. Pay up first.” She jabbed her palm at Danny.
“I can’t,” he said, grabbing the costume off the ground and shrugging back into it.
“What?”
“I don’t have it.”
“We had a deal!”
“I know,” said Danny, zipping up the costume, “and I’m sorry, really, but if you teach me to—”
“Well, I’m taking this, then,” said Krystal, tipping the contents of Danny’s lunchbox into her purse. “Twat.”
She turned to leave and walked straight into El Magnifico. Standing on either side of him were the nut juggler and the break-dancer, who were trying to look as intimidating as people dressed like oversize squirrels and chickens could look.
As per Tim’s instructions, Danny had kept well clear of the magician until then, but now that he was up close he could see that the man was around his age but with less stubble, more hair, and distinctly more eyeliner, not just around his eyes but also across his upper lip where a pencil mustache had been drawn. His face appeared to be modeled on that of a French waiter whose wine-pairing recommendations had just been ignored.
“Well, well, well,” said El Magnifico. “If it isn’t Christina.”
“Well, well, well,” said Krystal. “If it isn’t El Magnificunt.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“And I told you to stick your dick in the toaster,” said Krystal.
El Magnifico sighed. “I see you haven’t changed.”
“And I see you’re wearing my bathrobe!” She pointed at the magician’s getup. “I fucking knew you had it!”
“It’s not yours,” said El Magnifico. “And it’s not a bathrobe. It’s a magician’s gown.”
“No, it’s a bathrobe—correction, it’s a woman’s bathrobe—and it’s mine.”
“I’m not going through this again,” he said.
“Fucker stole my bathrobe,” said Krystal to Danny.
“I didn’t steal anything, Christina. I told you already, my mum bought it for me.”
“Why would your mum buy you a woman’s bathrobe?”
“It’s not a fucking woman’s bathrobe! It’s a fucking magician’s gown! This is how fucking magicians dress!”
“David Blaine doesn’t,” said Krystal.
“He’s an illusionist!” said El Magnifico. “Totally different dress code!”
“What about Uri Geller?”
“Do I look like a spoon bender?” he said. “Actually, don’t answer that.”
“Paul Daniels didn’t dress like that,” said Danny.
“I’m sorry, who are you exactly?” said the magician with a frown. “Oh yes, that’s right. You’re the new fish. I heard you fell victim to a spot of thievery the other day. Terribly sorry to hear that. You can’t trust anybody these days, can you?” He let out a guilty chuckle. The squirrel and the chicken joined in. Danny’s eyes narrowed. “Anyway, must dash. Always a pleasure, Christina. And you, ferret person—”
“I’m a panda.”
“Then best of luck, panda man. Having seen how you dance, I’d say you’re going to need it. Shazam!” He lobbed a smoke bomb at the ground and scurried off behind what he believed to be an impenetrable cloud, seemingly unaware that he was still visible.
“Such a wanker,” said Krystal, her eyes fixed on the magician as the squirrel and the chicken ran after him.
“You and him were…?”
“Shut it.”
“Sorry,” said Danny as he tried to stifle a smile. “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
“That’s all you got, mate,” said Krystal, setting off across the park in the opposite direction to El Magnifico. “Two wrong feet.”
“So teach me how to dance!” shouted Danny.
Krystal kept walking. “Lesson one,” she said, spinning around and showing him the finger. “Learn to swivel.”
Danny sighed and stared at the mask in his hands.
“Looks like it’s just you and me,” he said, pulling it over his head and slotting a new disc into the CD player.
He was just about to press play when he heard a noise coming from the corner of the park where a cluster of trees formed a small wooded area. He looked over and saw three teenagers in school uniform. They were laughing and shouting at a smaller boy with blond hair who was walking a few paces ahead of them with his head down.
Danny didn’t recognize their voices, but he recognized the silence immediately.
* * *
“Where you going, Willy?” said Mark as Tony bounced an acorn off the back of Will’s head. “Oi! Willy! Willy Wanka! Looking for your boyfriend?”
Will picked up his pace as the three boys lingered on his heels.
“Oi, loser!” shouted Gavin. “He’s talking to you.”
“You know, I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to have an exposed Willy in public,” said Mark.
“I think you’re right, mate,” said Tony.
“Disgusting behavior, that,” said Gavin.
“Reckon we need to cover that thing up before somebody sees it,” said Mark.
Gavin snatched Will’s bag from his shoulder while Tony grabbed the hem of his coat and pulled it over his head.
“Much better,” said Mark.
Will squirmed beneath the coat that the others held over his face.
“Much,” said Tony.
“Still, I think we need to teach him a lesson,” said Mark. “Can’t have this sort of thing happening again, can we?”
“Yeah, school him, Mark,” said Gavin.
Mark drove his fist into Will’s stomach. Will wheezed and folded from the force of the punch.
“Again!” said Tony.
“You want another one?” said Mark, leaning close and whispering to Will through his coat. The fabric rustled as Will shook his head.
“I can’t hear you,” said Mark.
“I think he likes it,” said Gavin.
“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop,” said Mark. “Just say the word and I’ll leave you alone.”
Will said nothing, his body limp between Tony and Gavin, who held his arms to stop him from falling, or escaping.
“Go on,” said Mark. “I’ll give you three seconds. One.”
Will struggled, but the other boys held him firmly.
“Two. Just say stop and I’ll stop.”
Tony and Gavin tightened their grip as Will began to buck like a deer in a fence.
“Three,” said Mark. He drew back his fist, but before he could throw it, Danny came bursting through the bushes behind them. He charged at th
e boys, growling and flailing his arms around as if they might just believe that a real if not uncharacteristically energetic panda was on the loose. Believing themselves to be under attack by a furry creep in a mask, however, the boys promptly scarpered through the trees, Mark at the head of the pack and his goons close behind, while Will was left to slowly untangle himself.
“Thanks,” he said, emerging from his coat and straightening his uniform.
Danny nodded, his eyes fixed on the boys as he fought the urge to chase them down and shake his fist at them in a mildly threatening but ultimately pointless manner. It took a few seconds for the full magnitude of what had just happened to sink in before it finally dawned on him what he’d heard, or thought he’d heard, or hoped yet couldn’t believe he’d heard. He listened hard to the silence that followed, trying to salvage some scrap of Will’s voice, but all trace had gone except for whatever remained in his memory, which caused him to wonder if Will had actually spoken or whether he’d simply imagined it.
Turning to look at his son, Danny opened his mouth to say something, anything that might keep the conversation alive if only for a few more seconds, but even if he could find his voice, which he couldn’t, and even if he knew what to say, which he didn’t, Will had already gone.
CHAPTER 13
The Cross-Eyed Goat was the sort of pub where the music used to stop when a stranger walked in, until someone destroyed the jukebox with someone else’s head. It was the sort of pub with telephone numbers on the bathroom walls that people actually answered if you called them. Danny knew this because he’d dialed one shortly after Liz’s death, not to enquire about any of the grotty services that were scrawled in lipstick beside the number but because he was hideously drunk and just wanted somebody to talk to, even if that person turned out to be a twenty-year-old woman called Bernadette who sounded suspiciously like a forty-year-old man called Ian who worked part-time at the pizza shop down the road. The pub, which smelled like a pile of unwashed tea towels, was a second home to the various junkies, hooligans, alcoholics, and fugitives who could often be found propping up the bar or lurking in whatever corners had clear lines of sight to the door, and for some it was even a first home, like the girl who sometimes slept behind the fruit machine and kept her toothbrush in the bathroom. Still, despite its shortcomings, of which there were many, the Cross-Eyed Goat was cheap, it was close to home, and it did a surprisingly good curry on Thursdays.
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