Pretend We're Dead

by Mark Timlin

  Then I noticed a bloke clocking us from two tables down. He was tanned, with dark hair, about thirty-five, wearing a denim jacket with spangles above one pocket, and leather jeans. At this point I was nicely mellow and imagined he was a friend of Angela’s or Caspian’s or both. But every time I caught his eye he looked away and started to talk to his companion, a heavy-looking individual dressed in roadie gear of a western shirt and jeans. It didn’t bother me at first, but every time I looked over, spangled jacket was screwing me, and he didn’t look particularly friendly.

  Angela was rabbiting to some clothes horse, and as soon as she’d split, I touched my charge on the shoulder.

  ‘Yes, Nick,’ she said. ‘Sorry, am I neglecting you?’

  ‘No. Do you know that geezer?’

  ‘Who?’

  I didn’t look, but said, ‘Two tables down. Denim jacket, leather strides.’

  Angela peered past me and said, ‘Who?’

  Then I looked. But the ice cream and his mate had vanished, to be replaced by a blonde-haired dream in buckskins and her boyfriend dressed from top to toe in a red sparkly suit.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I’ve had too many of these,’ and tapped my glass. ‘Must be getting paranoid.’

  She smiled.

  ‘Anyhow, I’m off to the gents,’ I said.

  ‘Take this with you. It’ll cure your paranoia. Or make it worse,’ and she pressed a white paper wrap into my hand.

  ‘Thanks, Ange,’ I said, and left my seat and went back into the foyer to find the gents.

  Walking into the gents was like walking into Drugs ‘R’ Us. Everyone seemed to be cutting something out on every available flat surface. I pushed my way to the urinal and took a leak. A spare-looking individual in Oxfam chic with two-tone brown and white shoes stood next to me and said, ‘Got a blade, mate?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I replied.

  ‘Shit. Got a credit card?’

  I shook my head. ‘I bust my limit,’ I said. ‘And they cut it up.’

  ‘That’s the breaks,’ he said, zipped up and left.

  I did the same, then the door to one of the stalls opened and two Japanese came out, bowed to me and vanished through the door to the foyer. I went into the vacant stall, rescued Angela’s wrap from my pocket and opened it. There was about a gram and a half of white powder inside, nicely crushed with just a few rocks for contrast. I touched the pad of my little finger to the powder and licked off the residue. I got a good freeze straight away. I’d thought it was coke, but you never know. It’s some people’s idea of a joke to give you a line of skag just to see how you cope. I’d been lying when I said I had no credit card, and pulled my trusty Access out of my pocket, dug up a pile of cocaine with the edge and snorted it up. Instant rush. I took the other half for badness, closed the wrap, licked the credit card clean, and returned them both to my top pocket. I went outside and checked my nostrils in the mirror for traces. I was clean, but when I looked at my reflection I didn’t particularly like what I saw, and could hardly raise a smile.

  I went back to our table, and by the roar from inside the auditorium it sounded like The Virgin Mary had made an appearance. ‘Want to go in?’ I asked.

  ‘Not particularly,’ said Angela.

  ‘Well I am,’ said Caspian. ‘I want to see what horror the old bag’s wearing.’

  Not one of your designs, obviously, I thought. You bitch you.

  ‘Go on then, Cas,’ said Angela. ‘Nick and I will stay out here and get drunk.’

  Get, I thought? I’ve already got.

  Caspian got up and sashayed into the gig, and I gave Angela back her wrap of coke.

  ‘OK?’ she asked.

  ‘Primo.’

  ‘I’m going to the little girls’ room myself,’ she said. ‘Will you get me another drink?’

  ‘With pleasure,’ I said. And she got up and wiggled her skinny butt out of the room.

  I caught the waiter’s eye and he nodded without coming over, and called out our order for drinks to the barman. I sniffed the residue of coke up into my sinus, lit a Silk Cut, and wondered what Dawn was doing. I looked at my watch. It was well past midnight and inside the auditorium the joint was really jumping. I got up and went to the door and peered through. The stage was quite close, and The Virgin was making a sandwich with two almost naked black men, rubbing herself up and down them from neck to thigh while a vicious techno beat swirled out of the banks of speakers on either side of her.

  I wonder what the swordfish would make of that, I thought.

  By that time the waiter had delivered a fresh round of drinks, and I went back to the table again and sat down. As I did so, the door to the auditorium opened to allow a wave of noise and a huge geezer, dressed in the height of rock and roll chic, to enter. He was another roadie if ever I’d seen one. A brick-shithouse job wearing a dark blue cowboy shirt with embroidered pockets, pearl snaps for buttons, and two little metal arrows on the points of the long collars. With the shirt he wore tight blue jeans cinched in by a thick black leather belt with a silver longhorn head as a buckle. On his feet he wore very shiny, very tight looking, black high-heeled boots, and in his right hand he held a bottle of Old Gran’dad bourbon. He had a thick moustache, and long hair that hung below the brim of a straw cowboy hat. All in all, a sight for sore eyes.

  Unfortunately, as he entered from the gig, Angela came back from the foyer, and our hero fastened his piggy eyes on her as she crossed the room in my direction.

  ‘Hey, honey,’ he called. ‘Hold on there.’ Yank. Predictable.

  Shit, I thought. Just my luck.

  The roadie weaved his way through the tables so that he could cut Angela off at the pass, and before she could get to me, he grabbed her upper arm with the hand not holding the bottle and said, ‘What’s the hurry, darlin’? Didn’t you hear your ol’ Babaloo callin’ ya?’

  Babaloo. Terrific, I thought, got up from my seat and moseyed on over to see good ol’ Babaloo.

  The hand that had hold of Angela’s arm was the size of a small York ham, and when I got close it was obvious that Babaloo was viciously drunk. Dangerously drunk. Even drunker than I was, and that was my only advantage. Otherwise it was all downhill. I stopped in front of Babaloo and looked up at him, about seven feet tall in his heels and that ridiculous cowboy hat. ‘Whoa, hoss,’ I said. ‘Unhand that maiden.’

  I don’t think Babaloo caught the intended irony of the remark as he peered down at me and said, ‘Fuck off, dude. Cain’t you see that the lady and me’s about to get acquainted?’

  ‘Nick…’ pleaded Angela, and I knew I was getting into a bad situation.

  ‘Babaloo,’ I said quietly. ‘If you don’t let go of her arm, you and me’s going to have to get acquainted ourselves, and that could end in a world of pain for one of us.’

  And by the look of things I had an idea which of us it might be.

  So did Babaloo. He looked down at me and laughed out loud, and his bourbon-laden breath almost singed my eyelashes off.

  By then I was getting tired of the whole deal. Swordfishes, dress designers, models, roadies, groupies, The Virgin Mary and all.

  ‘Your choice, boy,’ I said, and stamped as hard as I could, putting all my weight on the top of my foot and on to one of his shiny, tight, black, pointy boots, just where all his toes must have been squashed together at the front. Babaloo roared like a bear, dropped the bottle of bourbon on to the carpet where most of its contents gurgled into the thin pile, grabbed at his foot with both hands and began to hop around on his other leg. His eyes were full of tears of pain, and he bellowed that he was going to kill me.

  I punched him then. Right above the longhorn belt buckle where his shirt was tight across his belly. I hoped that there was more fat than muscle there, but I hoped wrong. My fist bounced off his hard abdomen like a gnat off a windowpane, and once again I knew
that I could be in serious trouble. Babaloo was still holding his injured foot, so I kicked him just below the knee of his good leg. A goal-scoring kick that dropped him to the floor. He hit the carpet like a mighty Redwood tree being felled, and I could have sworn I felt the building shake. Babaloo’s hat came off exposing a thatch of dishwater blond hair, and I kicked him again. This time in the head just to keep him on the floor. Unfair? Maybe. Ungentlemanly? Certainly. But from where I was standing the Marquess of Queensberry would have understood.

  Right then, the doors to the auditorium opened again and two more roadies came in. By the looks on their faces when they saw Babaloo spread all over the carpet, and me standing over him, they were mates of his. Shit, I thought. Just my bad luck. And then Angela came to the rescue. She popped open her evening bag, stuck in her hand and withdrew a switchblade knife. It was a very pretty knife too, with a banana-shaped, light wood handle with shiny brass rivets and action, which, when she touched it, released a six-inch length of sharp Sheffield steel with a vicious click. Angela knelt beside Babaloo’s prone figure, grabbed one of his ears and touched the blade to the top of it. ‘One more step and I’ll cut it off,’ she threatened.

  The two roadies froze.

  ‘Get back inside and stay there,’ said Angela.

  They did as they were told.

  She stood up, dropped the knife back into her bag, grabbed my hand and said, ‘We’d better get out of here before they come back with reinforcements.’

  I couldn’t have agreed more, and together we ran back into the foyer and out into the street.

  The fans had disappeared by then, and as I looked up and down Charing Cross Road for our car, I saw a flash of headlights, and our limo pulled out from where it had been parked and glided up to us. I opened the rear passenger door, Angela dived into the back, I followed, and the car moved off towards Oxford Street.

  ‘I didn’t know you carried a knife,’ I said.

  ‘You never know who you’re going to meet.’

  ‘That’s true. Like Babaloo f’rinstance?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I think he’s going to lose a few toenails, that boy,’ I remarked.

  ‘Thanks for saving me,’ she said.

  ‘And thanks for saving me. I thought my goose was cooked when that other pair arrived.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ she said.

  The limo ran down Oxford Street, then turned into Park Lane and headed for the river. We crossed Chelsea Bridge, and drove up Queenstown Road to Clapham Common and Angela’s flat.

  I walked her to the door. What a gent.

  ‘Want to come in?’ she asked. ‘I’ll make some coffee, and we can have a last brandy.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Although I was tempted.

  ‘Scared of the wife?’

  ‘Not really. Scared of myself more like.’

  ‘What you might do?’

  I nodded.

  ‘No one would ever know.’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘A man of honour?’

  ‘Not really,’ I said again.

  ‘We could have fun. The night is still young.’

  ‘I’m sure we could.’

  Angela studied my face in the light from a streetlamp. ‘She’s a lucky woman,’ she said.

  ‘There’s a lot who’d disagree.’

  ‘Not me, Nick.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So it’s goodnight?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Have you got my number?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Do you want it?’

  ‘A few months ago I would have died for it.’

  ‘But not now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘At least you’re honest.’

  ‘I try to be.’

  ‘Well if you’re ever in the area, you know where I am.’

  ‘I do,’ I said.

  ‘Go on then, go home.’

  I kissed her on the cheek, turned and went back to the limo. As I got in the back I looked at her front door, and she was still standing on the step, looking like a lost child. I waved, but she didn’t wave back.

  The chauffeur dropped me off at my place about one-thirty, and as I got out of the car I saw a thin line of dim light where the curtains in my flat hadn’t been drawn properly.

  ‘Looks like the missus is waiting up for you,’ said the limo driver as I gave him a fifty for a tip. Not my money, remember.

  ‘Looks like it,’ I agreed.

  ‘Well good luck, and thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ I told him. ‘I’m glad you weren’t having a piss when we came out.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Long story.’

  ‘I’ll catch it next time.’

  ‘If there is one, you will.’

  ‘I see Angela all the time.’

  ‘Aren’t you the lucky one.’

  ‘Could’ve done yourself a bit of good there tonight. If you don’t mind me saying,’ he added.

  ‘Not in the least. But like you say, the missus is waiting. Night.’

  ‘Night,’ he said, and I walked to the front door fishing my keys out as I went.

  The missus was indeed waiting for me. Sitting at the table wearing her black silk dressing gown.

  And very attractive she looked too. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.

  ‘It went.’

  ‘How was Angela?’ She pulled a face as she said her name.

  ‘She was fine. She saved my bacon as a matter of fact.’

  ‘How?’

  And I told her. The whole story. Right until I dropped Angela off at her flat. Everything.

  ‘Did you want to go inside with her?’ Dawn asked.

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

  ‘But did you want to?’ she pressed.

  ‘It crossed my mind.’

  ‘Why?’

  I shrugged. ‘She’s a very attractive girl.’

  ‘And she carries a knife.’

  ‘There is that.’

  ‘It turned you on that she was armed?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It did as it happens. But I didn’t go in with her. And I won’t go in with anyone else. Ever.’

  ‘Ever’s a long time.’

  ‘Not long enough for me to change my mind.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because of you.’

  ‘And she said I was lucky?’

  I nodded.

  ‘She might be right.’

  ‘I think I’m the lucky one,’ I said. And I did.

  ‘Perhaps you are,’ said Dawn. ‘And perhaps you’re going to get luckier.’

  ‘How come?’

  She drew the skirt of her dressing gown back over her legs. She was wearing black stockings, and she drew something from the top of the right one. It was a flick knife. Black and evil-looking. She touched the button on the handle, and the long, thin blade leapt into view.

  ‘Jesus,’ I said.

  ‘Women who can take care of themselves turn you on, do they?’ she asked. ‘How about this?’

  ‘Where the fuck did you get that?’

  ‘Tracey got it from a German punter years ago. I’ve had it since I started working with you.’

  ‘And why were you carrying it in your stocking top tonight of all nights?’

  ‘In case you came back smelling of sex or some strange soap that isn’t in our bathroom, I’d’ve skinned the pair of you.’

  And do you know I believed every word.

  ‘Your trust in me is touching,’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t come up river on a waterlily leaf last week, Nick. I know men.’

  ‘Do you want to smell me now?’

  ‘What would I smell?’
/>   ‘Fear probably. Well, do you want to?’

  ‘I want to do something with you, that’s for sure.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come to bed and I’ll show you.’

  So I did.

  18

  I woke up with a king-sized hangover. Wine, champagne, cocaine and whiskey sours are not a good mixture. I felt as if a hundred little men in spiked running shoes were taking part in a marathon inside my cranium. Dawn saved the day. She was already up, and when she heard me moaning she thrust a cup of coffee and two aspirins under my nose.

  ‘Feeling good, darling?’ she said.

  I shook my head and immediately regretted it. ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Serves you right for leaving me behind when you go out.’

  ‘What difference would you have made?’ I asked. Rather truculently as it goes.

  ‘I could have got as drunk as you, and we could have stayed in bed together all day, nursing our heads.’

  ‘Can’t we… ?’ I ventured. Hangovers always make me horny.

  ‘Oh no. We’ve got work to do. I video’d that show last night.’

  I’d forgotten all about it. ‘How was it?’ I asked.

  ‘It wasn’t NYPD Blue.’

  ‘Was it Mission Impossible?’

  ‘You can see for yourself when you get up. And wait ’til you catch the name of the church. You’ll love it.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Wait and see.’

  ‘What time is it?’