‘No idea, Jackson. Not a fucking clue.’
‘Tell you what, Easton, watch this.’
The fresh-faced Jackson necked the rest of his beer and rolled the bottle towards Murray. His aim and timing were perfect so that, though Murray saw the bottle coming, he was already disengaging the headspin and his movements were momentarily unbalanced. As he tried to take most of his weight on his hands, his right foot, driven by a combination of gravity and the slowing rotation, hit the floor, landed square on the bottle and slid painfully away from the rest of his body. For an instant, it looked like he'd surely lost control and the ring around the dancefloor winced expectantly. But, somehow, he managed to adjust the position of his hips and thrust out his left leg and, as the song's final beat kicked, he landed in a perfect splits.
Murray sprang to his feet as the DJ changed style again, fading up more jittering acid, and the dancefloor soon filled around him. A lot of the girls were staring at him admiringly and a couple of blokes came up and clapped him on the shoulder and pushed their faces into his, their eyes wide and dilated. ‘Wicked, man! That was wicked!’ But Murray headed straight for the Imperial guys who lined up behind Jackson who puffed out his chest and nervously on his cigar.
Murray was heavy breathing and sweating profusely as he stood toe to toe with the joker. He lifted his T-shirt to wipe his face on the front and his lean belly rose and fell with each gasp of air.
‘What's your problem, china?’ Murray said. His voice was calm, coloured with nothing more than a hint of confusion.
‘No problem.’ He checked his boys had his back. ‘And if you think Jackson's got a problem, you've got another thing coming; know what I mean?’
Murray furrowed his brow. ‘Not really.’ He leaned forward until their foreheads almost touched; close enough for a head-butt, close enough to kiss.
Easton caught Jackson by the shoulder – ‘Come on. Let's blow this shithole’ – and Jackson allowed himself to be pulled away, feigning reluctance. He blew smoke in Murray's face and stubbed his cigar aggressively. As the Imperial posse walked away, he turned back and jabbed a finger, unable to resist a parting shot: ‘I'll see you. I' fucking see you.’
Approaching the exit, Easton nudged his mate and snarled, ‘Should have fucking had him’, and then immediately dropped his eyes when he bumped into an enormous, rough-looking character coming in. This was the kind of geezer for whom the phrase ‘brick shithouse’ was coined (albeit, presumably, behind his back) and his florid complexion and squashed features gave him a look of irreconcilable anger. The Guess shirt buttoned to his neck made his head look like an angry spot, ready to burst. He could have eaten the two posh kids for breakfast (and still had room for a full English) but his mind was elsewhere and he barely noticed them. Besides, they were already hurrying away, one of them grumbling angrily – ‘Jackson will see him again. You'd better fucking believe it.’
In fact, Easton and Jackson (if not the rest of them) did see Murray again, more than a decade later, although they didn't recognize him and the incident on the dancefloor was long forgotten. By then, Easton's name had morphed in various friends' mouths through nicknames like ‘Easter’ and ‘Egg’ and ‘Bald-As-An-Egg’ and ‘Baldy’ and, finally, to ‘Buzzard’. By then, Jackson's moniker had changed too, though, in his case, it was less a nickname than a title. Because he was, after all, ‘Big-In-Property’.
By the bar, Tom, Tariq and Karen had established a tentative camaraderie watching Murray's performance. They were drinking steadily and swapping stories about what would later become known as ‘Murray-fun’ (the singing cards in the library, for instance) when Karen suddenly froze. ‘Oh fuck!’ she said when she saw who'd just walked in.
‘What's that?’ Tom asked, still laughing.
‘Kush.’
As Kush sauntered towards them, the crowds seemed to part and Tom, looking up, took a first glance dislike to him. This was partly because of Murray's suspicions and partly because, in Tom's mind, he represented rivalry (though Karen would have been surprised to hear it). Mostly, though, it was because everything about Kush – his size and strut, his cocky charisma – suggested an overt masculinity that could have been bottled for sale (in licensed Soho establishments, say) and Tom knew he could never compete with that. Tariq, who'd heard nothing of Karen and Kush's relationship (not even the rumours), was trying to attract the barmaid's attention. Karen was looking at the floor and whispering, ‘Shit, shit, shit.’
Kush was all smiles (untrustworthy ones, Tom was sure of it). ‘Wassup, Kaz? When you didn't come down tonight, I was, like, confused, you know? Figured I should get up here and check this university thing for myself, you get me? Figured I could give my girl a ride home.’
‘I told you,’ Karen began, her eyes fixed on her feet. ‘I told you I just wanted to stay here tonight. It's the last day of term. I told you I'd be back tomorrow.’
‘Yeah? You know what? I think I remember something about that. But you don't want to just hang round a bunch of students the whole time, know what I mean? Might start getting ideas above yourself.’
Tom was hovering ineffectually. He felt like he had to say something, to make his presence felt, but he didn't know what or how and in the end he just blurted, ‘Tom. I'm Tom. Tom.’
Kush looked at him, his smile fixed in place. ‘So?’ he said. And he turned back to Karen. ‘Let's go.’
Tariq rejoined the group holding a fresh pint. ‘Who's this?’ he asked breezily.
‘Kush,’ Tom said.
‘Karen's boyfriend? All right, mate.’
But Kush was now staring intently at Karen and didn't acknowledge him.
Karen was pleading: ‘I'm not leaving. Not tonight. Please.’
‘You're not going, are you?’ Tariq said. ‘The party's just kicking off.’
Kush was holding Karen's hand. It could have been a gesture of affection but, when Tom looked closely, he could see how he was pushing his thumb firmly into her knuckles and the discomfort on her face that flickered beneath the fear.
‘Please!’ Karen's voice was whispering urgency. ‘I'll be back tomorrow. You can stay too if you like but I want to be here. Just this once.’
‘We're out,’ Kush said and he made to pull her away but Karen tore her hand free.
‘I'm not leaving.’
‘Yeah,’ Kush said. ‘You are.’
For a moment, they confronted each other. Karen was biting on her top lip and her face looked drained. Kush's expression was unchanged; mild surprise mingling with arrogance and malicious, one-eyebrow amusement. Tom knew it was time for him to say something but his heart was racing and he couldn't even seem to move, fossilized in a bizarre, hunched posture with his hands clutching the denim of his jeans.
‘If Karen wants to stay, she can stay,’ Tariq said and Tom looked at him sharply. Even though he knew he wouldn't have got the words out himself, he still felt gazumped.
‘What's that?’ Kush turned lazily and straightened himself up, one shoulder then the other. To his credit, Tariq didn't flinch.
‘If Karen wants to stay, she can,’ Tariq said again. ‘It's got nothing to do with you.’
‘You telling me how to handle my business?’
‘No, mate. You can do what you want. And Karen can do what she wants.’
‘And that's what you figure? You figure you're a hard man, do you?’
‘Tariq!’ Karen snapped. ‘Just leave it.’
‘No,’ Tariq squared up to Kush. ‘He should leave it. In fact, he should just leave. All right, mate?’
‘Think you're a hard man?’ Kush started to laugh. ‘You fucking with me?’
His shoulders started to shake and he covered his mouth with a hand. Then his laughter seemed to get the better of him and he bent double and rested his hands on his knees. Slowly he straightened up and scratched his head thoughtfully. Then, suddenly, Tariq was sitting on his backside with blood streaming from the misshapen dough-ball where his nose had just been and Kush was
shaking out the punch from his knuckles and pulling Karen away with his free hand tight around her wrist.
Tom watched bewildered as Kush shoved his way through the crowd leading Karen behind and Tariq began to whimper. He shook his head. ‘You can't do that,’ he said quietly. Then louder, ‘You can't do that.’
When Murray arrived on the scene a couple of minutes later to investigate the ruckus, he was initially incredulous and then livid with Tom. Until he heard Murray's anger, Tom was feeling sheepish and inadequate but, given some verbals to react to, he began to get increasingly belligerent.
Murray had his hands under Tariq's armpits and was trying to help him to his feet. ‘What? You just let him drag her away, china? What kind of man are you?’
‘What did you expect me to do?’ Tom said.
‘What do you reckon? Stop him! There are two of you, Tariq gets smacked and you're, like, “Laters”. What's that about?’
‘It wasn't like that,’ Tom said. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. This was deeply unfair. ‘I mean, where were you?’
Murray was shaking his head as he manoeuvred Tariq's arm over his shoulder and supported him towards the exit. ‘No, no, no, china. Don't try to lay this on me. I didn't see Kush come in, did I? I didn't even know he was here.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I'm taking him to casualty aren't I? Get his nose set.’
‘I'll come too.’
‘What for?’
‘I'll go after them, then.’
‘Karen and Kush?’ Murray was talking over his shoulder. ‘What? You think you're going to play the superhero now, china? Bit late for that.’
Tom watched Murray and his patient head out of the door. The other students at the bar had left a respectful space around him, marked out like the silhouette of a body at a crime scene, and, despite the music, the chatter had subsided to a murmur. But now that the victim had left the building, the partygoers began to encroach again and soon they barely noticed Tom standing in their midst; motionless in the ebb and flow of people.
Tom's mind was nineteen to the dozen, a whirlpool of emotions that rose and sank: guilt, regret, anger, impotence, hatred, the unfairness of it all; these and other sensations span in his head before being sucked back under. His breathing was short and urgent and his heart was pounding. He didn't know what he was going to do but he knew he had to do something and he began to stumble towards the exit.
It took him less than five minutes to get to Karen's hall of residence but it was time enough for the sudden churn of feelings to have subsided a little and they now bubbled gently beneath the chilly breeze of fear. But he wasn't going to turn back. He knew Karen lived on the second floor and he double-timed the steps. He doubted there was any real hurry – whatever had happened would have happened by now, wouldn't it? – but he knew that he was more likely to bottle out with every passing second.
He turned into the corridor and checked the board of names on the wall. Karen Miller: 208. That made her third from the end on the left. For a moment, Tom just stood there and listened. He knew that a lot of the students had already left for the summer and he heard no sounds of life. He couldn't hear anything.
His footsteps were loud on the linoleum; lingering sticky sounds that spooked him. As he passed 206, he could see that Karen's door was ajar and his breath caught in his throat like a jacket on a nail. His pace slowed a little but he kept moving. He didn't know whether to make noise, to announce his arrival, or try to sneak up. His ears were pinned back but he still couldn't distinguish anything beyond the ‘shlick, shlick’ of his trainers. He decided to call out – ‘Hello. Karen? Anybody there?’ – and he tapped his knuckles gently on the door.
He found Karen sitting on her bed. She glanced up at him. Her expression wasn't what he expected. There was no sign of tears and no scars of a beating. If anything, her manner was cold, detached, almost bored. Only when she lifted her legs on to the bed did her face betray her as it contorted in a wince and her hand gingerly rubbed her belly.
He looked around the room. It was wrecked. In one corner, the chipboard wardrobe (belonging to the college) had been reduced to little more than firewood and Karen's clothes were strewn everywhere; some ripped, others blackened, apparently half-burned. The floor was littered with shards of glass from pictures and photographs and a mirror whose frame now stared blindly upwards from the floor. Tom didn't know what to say so he said, ‘What happened?’
Karen tried to laugh. There was that wince again. ‘I chucked Kush. He chucked everything else.’
‘Right,’ Tom said. He sat on the end of the bed. ‘It'll be all right.’
‘Yeah? You don't know Kush.’ Her voice was suddenly faltering. Tom knew she wanted to say more but the words wouldn't come. She settled for, ‘I've got to go home, you see.’
‘Right,’ Tom said and then, impulsively, ‘Come and stay with me.’
Karen smiled and he felt a little stupid. ‘What for?’
‘I don't know. Just to get away. I mean, if you want to. Just until things settle down a bit. For as long as you want. I can, you know, look after you.’
‘Yeah?’ She nodded. The smile was gone. ‘Tom Dare.’ She sounded like she was trying out the words for the first time, trying them on for size. ‘Maybe you are a superhero after all.’ Now, at last, a single tear welled in the corner of her right eye and began to trickle slowly down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away but Tom wished she would because it made him feel uncomfortable. She sniffed. ‘Would you…’ she began. ‘You can hold me if you like.’
‘Sure.’
He shuffled down the bed and hugged her awkwardly, her face buried in his chest. They sat like that for a while. At one point, Tom thought she'd started to sob (though he couldn't be sure) and he squeezed her a little. She drew a sharp breath. ‘Not too tight,’ she said.
12
Infidelity as love
Emma has splashed her face from the basin and she's looking in the mirror. Her expression seems caught in momentary surprise. She feels like she barely recognizes the person staring back at her. Perhaps it's because she looks healthier than she has for, what, nine months? Since Tommy was born anyway. There is a flush to her complexion and is it her imagination or can she really detect a fullness in her cheeks? She presses a thumb to her face and when she takes it away it leaves a pale mark, like sunburn does. She cups her breasts gently in her hands and points them at the mirror. She's sure there's more substance to them. They still sag, of course, and her nipples are at twenty past eight, pointing at her feet, but what's a mum to expect? She knew her breasts would swell when she stopped feeding but that was more than a month ago. So now? It seems a bit weird. She lifts them and presses them together. With the right bra I'd have a decent cleavage, she thinks.
Her gaze traces the shadow of her ribs to the jagged outline of her hips. A little healthier or not, she still thinks her pelvic girdle looks like the backend of a bony cow from a news report on some or other drought. Her pubic hair is coarse, thick on her inner thighs and dense in a line to her belly-button. She used to wax and trim it but she hasn't bothered in ages. She remembers that someone's just seen this unappealing undergrowth and she suddenly feels a mixture of embarrassment and bizarre elation and she starts to giggle. She covers her mouth with her hand. She tastes a familiar moisture on the tip of her index finger and she glances down at her chest. Christ. A tear of milk wells and dribbles from her right nipple. She remembers him taking her breasts in his mouth when she straddled him. Did he taste it? Now she's laughing. What's with this sudden burst of fecundity? Jesus Christ.
The doctors hadn't been able to explain the way she dropped weight. She'd seen all kinds of specialists and the best they came up with was, ‘Your body's not absorbing nutrition properly. Everything you eat's just passing right through you.’
‘Why?’
None of them had an answer to that and she'd discovered that the higher rungs of the NHS food chain only heightened the verbos
ity of the replies. Her GP offered an honest ‘I don't know’ but the knighted consultant blustered, ‘To be frank, Mrs Khan, we are as yet unable to ascertain the exact causes of the vicissitudes of your case.’
Emma can't stop smiling. She raises her eyebrows and her forehead barely wrinkles at all. She flattens a palm to it and the skin feels soft and giving. Perhaps it's the sex that has made her look and feel so well. After all it was the first time in more than a year. Sex as nutrition? What would the doctors have to say about that? And it hadn't even been much good. Imagine how chubby she'd look if she'd had a proper seeing to, the kind that Tariq used to give her before they were married.
She feels the muscles of her abdomen contract with a stifled laugh and the spasm expels a dollop of semen down her thighs. She reaches for the loo roll and mops it efficiently. The smell of the stuff is familiar but she's surprised by its strength. Has it been such a long time that she's forgotten or is this a particularly potent batch? She winces at her use of the word ‘potent’. Better not be, she thinks.
She drops the pad of tissue paper into the toilet and flushes it away but the stench lingers around her. It's a combination of things: fish fingers and marzipan and a hint of old coins. But most of all it smells fetid, like an ignored fridge. She finds it somehow sobering that the ingredients of humanity should smell as rotten as the dustbins outside the fried-chicken place on Latchmere Road. Tommy came from stuff like this, she thinks. Stuff like this.
She looks up at the mirror again and finds her expression locked in a parody of prudish distaste, the kind of face she pulls when unblocking the sink. She deliberately cracks it into a smile and she thinks how white her teeth look, how her lips are moist and her eyes sparkling.
As the hiss of the cistern subsides, she is called from the other room: ‘Em? I think he might be awake.’ Her ears immediately prick up to hear the sounds from the baby monitor positioned by the bed. She wonders what the time is. Surely his afternoon nap should last for another hour yet. She can hear her son's gurgling and a plaintive cry and then another. She holds her breath for a moment. Then nothing. Then a contented chewing noise and some sniffles. Just a bad dream but not enough to wake him.
The London Pigeon Wars Page 15