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Flamingoes in Orbit

Page 6

by Philip Ridley


  ‘You found one of Troy’s teeth.’

  Mr Kass nodded.

  ‘But why keep it?’ I asked.

  ‘Because . . . it’s . . . part of him.’

  ‘And you still . . . love him?’

  ‘I will always love him.’

  ‘But did you ever . . . ?’

  ‘See him again? No. And I stopped working at the Emporium a few months later to join the army. So I never saw Major Trusk again either. Or anyone to do with . . . that phase of my life.’ He smiled, then said brightly, ‘And it’s at this point that, were I Mr Charles Dickens, I would grab my quill pen and write “The End” across the bottom of the page with a satisfied flourish . . . Why’re you looking at me like that?’

  ‘How can you sound so . . . jolly all of a sudden?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware I was sounding “jolly”.’

  I stared at him for a few seconds. Then –

  ‘I think . . . I think I want to go to my room now, Mr Kass,’ I said. ‘Can we finish clearing the shed another time?’

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  That night, I kept thinking about Troy Flamingo being betrayed by Mr Kass, and the way Troy was beaten up. What was Troy thinking as he walked home afterwards? What did he say to his parents? He couldn’t have told them the truth. He must have said he’d been mugged. He wouldn’t have wanted to involve the police. Too many questions. Did he need to go to the hospital? Probably. But again – and for the same reason – he probably wouldn’t. I wondered if he tried to contact Lester again. And if Major Trusk ever told Lester that it had been Mr Kass – the Emporium’s very own ‘lucky mascot’ – who’d given him the tip off about Troy?

  The more I thought about it all, the more questions I had. I wish I’d stayed longer in the garden with Mr Kass and asked him things, but the way he reacted when the story was finished – so flip, so offhand, so, yes, ‘jolly’ – it had thrown me. Disturbed me. I just wanted to go somewhere quiet so I could sort out what I was thinking and feeling because . . . it wasn’t just the story of Troy that was on my mind. It was Mr Kass’s explanation about not actually serving in the shop down Cecil Court as well. Why didn’t he tell Mum he was an accountant in the first place? Why bother – if not actually lying – then giving her the impression – giving me the impression – he had been employed because of his experience as a bookseller? There’s nothing wrong in being an accountant. If anything, Mum would probably have been more impressed. And why didn’t he suggest that, if I wanted to visit him another day, he could meet outside the shop?

  When the sun came up, I was still brooding on all these questions and suspicions. I’d barely slept at all. If I had dropped off, it was only for a minute or two, as I was soon jolted awake by the image of Troy’s battered face.

  I lay there, twisting and turning, as if in a fever.

  Eventually, I heard Mr Kass open the door to his room. It was five o’clock. I heard him go to the bathroom. Thirty minutes later he went back to his room. At six o’clock Mum got up. Mr Kass and Mum would have breakfast together and leave at seven.

  I was not going to wait all day before I had a chance to speak to Mr Kass again.

  And I certainly wasn’t going to go stir crazy waiting for Lloyd to come back home.

  Like yesterday, I would do something.

  And I knew exactly what it was.

  I would follow Mr Kass. I would find out if his ‘accountant’ story was really true. And I would confront him with my lingering Troy Flamingo­ questions.

  I got dressed as quietly as I could, slipped into the bathroom while Mum and Mr Kass were washing up the breakfast things, then waited in my room. As soon as they left the house, I rushed downstairs, put my shoes on, then hotfooted it after them. They were just turning the corner at the bottom of the street. I followed, keeping a safe distance – about thirty or so yards – all the way down Old Bethnal Green Road, then (turning right) into Cambridge Heath Road. When they got to the tube station, Mum and Mr Kass waved each other goodbye, then Mum went down the tube while Mr Kass, as Mum had said, crossed the road heading for a bus stop. The one in Roman Road. Only he didn’t wait at the bus stop. He continued walking. He walked almost as far as the market, then went into a tiny café. I tucked myself behind a car on the opposite side of the road. Mr Kass sat at a corner table and, from the way he was laughing and joking with the waitress, was clearly a regular. He drank a cup of tea and ate (what looked like) a full English breakfast. After an hour or so he got up, paid his bill, and started to walk back down Roman Road. Or, should I say, ‘stroll’. He looked in every shop window, even when there was barely anything to see, or he stopped to straighten his tie, or buy a news­paper, or sit at various bus stops (without getting on any of the buses), until – eventually – he was almost back at Bethnal Green Tube, at which point he turned into Sceptre Road and headed for the library. He went into the building just as it was opening at nine o’clock. There was a bench nearby. I sat on it, keeping a watchful eye on the library’s entrance.

  One hour passed . . . two . . . three, and I was beginning to wonder if Mr Kass had slipped out without me seeing him when— There he was! He walked – briskly this time – down the path to the main road. He crossed at the traffic lights and went into another café. Again, he sat in a corner seat and, again, he laughed and joked with the person serving. He ordered a meal (I couldn’t see what it was) and ate it in his usual thoughtful and methodical fashion. When that was finished he ordered a dessert (something with custard on top) and, if anything, ate that even more meticulously. He waited a long time before paying the bill – reading the newspaper and, from what I could tell, doing the crossword – then he said goodbye to everyone in the café and walked out onto the main road again. I tucked myself behind a delivery truck. Mr Kass glanced at his watch, and I glanced at mine (it was just coming on for three o’clock), then he crossed at another set of traffic lights, walked a little way down Cambridge Heath Road, then went into the Bethnal Green Museum of Childhood.

  Mum and Dad used to bring me to the museum a lot when I was younger. It’s full of (as its name suggests) old toys, old prams, and everything about the history of ‘growing up’. I debated whether to wait outside – as I had done with the library – but couldn’t for the life of me remember if there was another exit, so – not wanting to take the risk (and knowing the museum was much larger than the library, with many more places to conceal myself) – I decided to go inside.

  I caught sight of Mr Kass almost at once. He was looking at a cabinet of old dolls’ houses on the ground floor. I concealed myself behind a rack of postcards at the Information Desk, wishing I wasn’t wearing such an obviously ‘me’ T-shirt, and that I’d been wearing a baseball cap – or anything! – to obscure my face a little. But perhaps, seeing how engrossed Mr Kass was in the objects he was looking at, my fears were unwarranted. He seemed totally oblivious to anything going on around him. He moved from the dolls’ houses, to the teddy bears, to the puppet theatres, then up some stairs to the first floor where he studied the prams and pushchairs even more intensely, as if they were part of a crime scene and he was there to gather evidence. Slowly, he moved over to the high chairs . . . then the collection of Victorian Punch and Judy shows . . . board games, both antique and contemporary, then up another flight of stairs to the third floor. I took a different flight up – on the other side of the museum – so I could watch from a safe distance.

  The third floor contained the museum’s pièce de résistance. It was an old toy theatre, but the word ‘toy’ was very misleading. The theatre was the size of my bedroom, with life-size puppets, and backdrops painted with such detail and vivid colour they could be from a Hollywood movie. I remember my dad telling me it had been made for the children of Marie Antoinette, the ill-fated Queen of France. The puppets were all dressed in magnificently brocaded clothes from that period and had extravagant pompadour hairstyles and exquisitely placed beauty spots. There was no denying the theatre’s exquisite s
plendour but, whenever I saw it, I couldn’t help gazing into the puppets’ glass eyes, trying to detect a glimmer of the approaching guillotine –

  Mr Kass was staring at me!

  I didn’t move.

  He didn’t move.

  Then –

  He took a step in my direction.

  I rushed down the stairs and out of the building. I didn’t want to talk to him now. Not like this. I’d imagined confronting him, on my terms, when I was ready. Not being caught out following him. I crossed to the other side of the road, then looked behind me. Mr Kass was in pursuit. I walked – fast, but not running – down Cambridge Heath Road. Mr Kass continued to follow me. At one point I thought I heard him call my name, but I wasn’t sure. I turned into Old Bethnal Green Road, heading for home. Mr Kass was gaining ground. I didn’t want to burst into a full run. Such a blatant display of alarm would only make me look guilty. Guilty of what? I had gone to the museum to pass the time. That’s all. I was shocked – yes, shocked! – to discover Mr Kass there. After all, he’d assured us all he was at work. Embarrassed at catching him in such a blatant deception – and not knowing how to deal with it – I decided to avoid confrontation and leave the museum. Yes. That’s it. It was all his fault. I’ve done nothing wrong! Nothing!

  I turned into my street, walked up to my house and opened the front door. I was halfway up the stairs, heading for my bedroom, when Mr Kass came into the house behind me.

  I spun round and yelled, ‘Why are you following me?’

  ‘Me following you?!’

  ‘Yes! I decided to visit the museum and – ’

  ‘Stop it! I’m too old to play games!’

  ‘I’m not playing games!’

  ‘You were following me! Do you think I’m bloody blind? Good God, I’ve been followed by better people than you, young man, and I’ve always spotted them too. And they didn’t have the stupidity to wear a shirt I’ve seen them in before! You idiot! You fool! What were you thinking? What were you hoping to find out?’

  ‘To see if what you said about Cecil Court was true!’

  ‘Well, it must be quite clear to you now it wasn’t.’

  ‘Then why did you bloody lie?’

  ‘It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t a total lie.’

  ‘Oh, don’t start making fucking excuses again.’

  ‘It’s not an excuse. I did have a job there. And I was serving in the bookshop too. I worked there for two months.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  ‘Because I was . . . asked to leave.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I refuse to be questioned like this.’

  ‘Then you won’t mind if I tell Mum you spend all bloody day wandering around and – ’

  ‘I thought we were friends!’

  ‘Yeah! So did I!’

  ‘Very well. You want to know. I’ll tell you. And this isn’t something I’m going to elaborate into a story. It’s just the facts. You understand? The facts! Twenty years ago I fell in love with a man. His name was Rafe Kater. We opened a bookshop. We were happy. We were discreet. That’s what “good” homosexuals are supposed to be, right? “Discreet”. Don’t draw attention to yourself. And if you do draw attention, then you deserve all you get. And for many years Rafe and I drew no attention to ourselves whatsoever. But then Rafe made friends with one of our regular customers. A young man with a passion for Sherlock Holmes. Rafe liked Sherlock Holmes too. Rafe gave the young man gifts. A copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles. A biography of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I told Rafe to stay away from the young man in question. Why? Because I knew the young man for what he was. A seducer. A lothario. A male Jezebel. Rafe wouldn’t listen. He was too beguiled by the young man’s innocent smile and baby blue eyes. One night, while I was upstairs preparing our evening meal, Rafe – downstairs – asked the young man to stay in the shop after it had closed. And that’s when the young man struck. He flattered and flirted with Rafe. He flattered and flirted until my poor Rafe lost all self-control and responded as any red-blooded man would. He started to kiss the young man – ’

  ‘I don’t want to hear this!’ I rushed up the rest of the stairs.

  ‘You have to hear it!’ Mr Kass followed me. ‘But, having achieved his conquest, the young man now regretted it. He panicked. He ran from the bookshop. He ran all the way to the police. He told them that Rafe had forced himself on him. Rafe was arrested­. The police threatened to arrest me too. They searched the bookshop as if it had been set as up a front for homosexual seduction. Rafe was put on trial. He was sent to jail. Rafe’s name – and the reason for his custodial sentence – was in the local newspaper. Along with his address. Our bookshop.’

  ‘Shut up!’ I opened my bedroom door.

  ‘No! You will hear this! The local community, who always seemed to like Kass & Kater so much, suddenly developed a virulent dislike to the bookshop. And to me.’

  I went to slam the door in Mr Kass’s face. ‘Fuck off!’

  Mr Kass put his foot in the door. He pushed the door open. He came into my room. ‘One weekend I was visiting Rafe in prison.’

  ‘Get out!’

  ‘They’d sent him to Buckley Hall. Manchester. Eight hours by train.’

  ‘Get out of my room!’

  ‘When I got back the bookshop had been burnt to the ground. Faulty electrics, the police said. But they couldn’t say it without a smirk. They knew what had happened. They probably instigated the mob to torch the building in the first bloody place.’

  I heard a car outside. I looked out of the window. Lloyd was back.

  I heard Mr Kass saying, ‘Luckily, I had some money put aside. So I was not immediately destitute. I did not have to sleep on the streets. But getting a job in the book trade proved difficult. Everyone in the business, of course, knew about Rafe’s arrest. And if Rafe was an “indiscreet” homosexual, then surely I must be “indiscreet” too.’

  ‘My friend’s back,’ I said, pushing past him. ‘I’m going to see him! Excuse me!’

  I went downstairs.

  Mr Kass followed. ‘Bookshops were – are! – nervous about employing me. Why? Because nearly every bookshop has at least one closet homosexual. Proximity to me might rip their closet wide open. Best not to employ me. Or, if – by fluke! – I had already been employed, best to “let me go”. That’s what happened at the bookshop down Cecil Court. But I will find another job. I always have. If not in a bookshop, then somewhere else. Please don’t tell your mother about – ’

  ‘You want me to lie to my own mum?!’ I was at the bottom of the stairs now. I looked up at him. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Not telling someone something is not the same as lying.’

  ‘It is! My dad didn’t tell Mum he was seeing someone else. That was lying, right? Right?’

  ‘But this is not the same as your – ’

  ‘It is the same! It is! It is!’

  Mr Kass came down the stairs.

  He stood in front of me.

  ‘Please! Listen to me!’ He took a deep breath. Then spoke softly, urgently. ‘All my life . . . it hasn’t been easy. When I was in the army. That friend I mentioned. The one who liked poetry. There were rumours about us. We were court-martialed and – ’

  ‘A sob story plucked out of thin air. How convenient.’

  ‘It’s true!’

  ‘Is it? Is anything you’ve told me true, Mr Kass? Being chucked out of the army. The friend from the bookshop? Troy Flamingo? Perhaps it’s all a pack of fucking lies.’

  ‘Oh, no. No. Every word I’ve told you is – ’

  I heard Mum’s footsteps approaching the house.

  Mr Kass heard them too.

  We stood in silence, staring at each other.

  Mum’s key went into the lock.

  The door opened and –

  ‘Oh! You’re home early today, Mr Kass,’ Mum said, stepping into the house. Then she looked at me, then back at Mr Kass, then back at me again. ‘Is . . . is something wrong?’

&nb
sp; I pointed at Mr Kass. ‘Ask him.’

  I went next door and rang Lloyd’s doorbell.

  Val answered. There was a bruise on her cheek.

  I knew what had caused it. I’d seen bruises like that before. Dagger had hit her.

  She said, ‘If you want Lloyd, he’s not here.’

  ‘But . . . you’ve only just got back!’ I said.

  ‘He phoned Zoe and rushed out to meet her.’

  ‘Zoe? You mean Mack’s sister?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why’s he rushing to meet her?’

  ‘It’s what you do when you’ve got a girlfriend.’

  ‘Girlfriend?!’

  ‘He must have told you.’

  ‘Oh . . . yes. Of course. See you later.’

  His girlfriend! His girlfriend! And he rushes off to meet her – after two days away! – before even saying so much as hello to me.

  I was determined to catch Lloyd before he got to Mack’s estate. Or should I refer to it as Zoe’s estate now? He couldn’t have got much of a head start. And he wouldn’t be walking as fast as me. Running as fast as me.

  I was breathless by the time I caught sight of him.

  ‘LLOYD!’ I called.

  He turned round.

  I rushed to him. ‘What . . . what . . . ?’ I gasped.

  He said, ‘Jesus, mate! You are out of condition. You need to get in the gym and – ’

  ‘Zoe’s . . . your . . . girlfriend . . . ?!’

  ‘You’ve spoken to Mum.’

  ‘Why . . . didn’t you . . . tell me – ?’

  ‘It’s only just happened, mate. Well, yesterday. Over the phone. Me and Zoe have been . . . you know. Flirting and stuff. And we’ve snogged once or twice.’

  ‘You’ve snogged!’

 

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