Might not even be the same person. Did you know him well, the person you say wasn’t a dick?
No.
Well then he might have been the dick that I’m talking about.
He wasn’t a dick, says Paula.
Paula sits at the table, the brown cardboard package in front of her. Jimmy has gone out for a drink. His parting words were, He was a dick by the way. With a little tug the serrated strip gives easily and Paula puts it to her face to sniff the new glue. The smell of cleverness. Hardback. Arab States: Mind and Narrative. The cover is a little austere, a blue which could be sea or sky. Ryan Kedrov-Hughes is in a bold, block typeface. On the back there’s a small picture of him, high contrast black and white. It’s reasonably flattering. Chapter One is preceded by three or four pages of maps, a bit daunting maybe, but a book like this is obviously going to make demands on you. Demanding and rewarding. It’s not really for the casual reader anyway.
She turns to the acknowledgements at the front. Yes, yes, yes, all the usual people are there, my editor, my colleague at here, my colleague at there, patience, forbearance, uh huh, uh huh, and then Sabina Kedrov, that must be his mother, that’s okay, and then it’s thanks to Fazia, for the breakfasts. Fazia for the breakfasts? That seems a bit trivial. Paula thinks of a taut woman cooking a breakfast wearing only a man’s white shirt. Assembling a breakfast, no splats of fat on that white shirt. Still, still. Breakfasts can be bought down any street. Fazia probably works somewhere he goes to, used to go to for his breakfast. He’s there with his laptop making a few notes, answering a few emails. Fazia’s an old lady who works in a Turkish cafe somewhere. So cool of Ryan Kedrov-Hughes to acknowledge in his book an old worker who prepared his meals.
Paula starts going to the cinema, mostly the one at the university. She sees a film set in Jerusalem about an orthodox butcher who falls in love with another man. It doesn’t end well and Paula finds herself crying a little. The discussion afterwards, chaired by a lecturer in international studies, is on the theme of ‘The Multiple Meanings of Urban Citizenship and Identities’. The woman next to Paula has a few comments to make on secular identity. After the final round of applause, Paula asks her if she has ever been to Jerusalem.
No, the woman says. Not in a long time.
Although she has lived in Belfast for many years now she did travel extensively when younger. She asks Paula if she has been to Jerusalem.
No, says Paula. But I’ve a friend who’s spent time there.
I see.
Yeah. You may well have heard of him. My friend. Ryan Kedrov-Hughes. He’s on the TV sometimes.
I’m terribly sorry but I haven’t, says the woman.
No? Paula says. Well I would thoroughly recommend his book, Arab States: Mind and Narrative. I’m two thirds of the way through it.
Yes, Ryan Kedrov-Hughes, says Paula.
She checks the email one more time and thinks again that the tone’s fine. But she still hovers over the send button. She is messaging to say that she will be attending the event on Friday in Newcastle upon Tyne. It’s a generic work address rather than a personal one, but it was all she could find online. It’s hard to know quite how to sign it off. She had tried at first your friend of yesteryear, Paula, but that sounded too twee and whimsical so she changed it to Paula McCrea (Pearson) QUB 88–91, which couldn’t be faulted on fact.
So exciting next day when an email comes back.
Paula: good to hear that you’ll be able to make it along to the event at Gosforth Library.
Best, Ryan.
Under the message there are links to two sites where the book is now available for purchase. It feels a little generic. No harm in making things a little less oblique at her end. She composes another one.
Yes: coming over from Belfast specially!
Slightly more effusive, but then that, Paula thinks, is the point. No further email comes from Ryan Kedrov-Hughes, but then he is probably ‘on the road’ by now.
She finishes work at lunchtime on the Friday and Ellie picks her up to take her to the airport.
Yeah, says Paula. Just one of those shopping trips, saw it in the paper.
I know, Dad told me.
So cheap, couldn’t believe it. That big shopping centre at Gateshead, there’s everything there.
Yeah. Dad said. Well, rather you than me.
Which is why I’m going and you’re not.
True, Ellie replies.
Maybe you and Dad can come around for something to eat on Sunday, she says. We want to chat over something.
Sure, says Paula. Why not? That would be nice. They have stopped at the lights. When it was raining and she was getting the cash out, the colours were so intense. Rain on a dull day makes everyone’s eyes so clear.
So what do you think? says Ellie.
About what?
About what I’ve just said. About me and Meg getting a civil partnership.
Yes, sure, says Paula. Seems like a good idea. Why not?
Seems like a good idea? Well, okay, Mum, know what, you’re right: it is a good idea.
That’s good then, says Paula.
The plane is delayed but that allows her to have a couple of pre-flight drinks. She feels enigmatic, perched on a stool, drinking alone in the dimly lit bar area, looking slightly, who’s that guy, slightly Hopperesque. She takes out her book and realises that instead of lifting Ryan’s she’s brought a different one, Translating Dissent, which also has a blue cover. That’s very unfortunate but at the same time it’s an indicator of the range of her reading. She looks at a couple of pages, then puts it away again in favour of the drinks menu and its narrative of whiskey production in Ireland. The flight gets delayed again. Fog somewhere, apparently, holding everything up. Amazing that Jimmy could remember Ryan from Mick’s parties because she can’t.
On the plane she gets the window seat. When the flight attendant comes along the man with faded red hair sitting next to her orders a double gin and tonic. He says he needs it. He’s going over to a funeral of an old friend.
I hate graveyards, he says. Although I find myself in them increasingly.
Paula says to the flight attendant to make that a gin and tonic for her as well, although not a double.
There is an announcement about special offers on board that include underwater watches, chocolate and various beauty products, all costing substantially less than on the high street and only available for a limited period. Paula takes the inflight magazine to read more about the illuminating cream that has been brought to her attention. It seems very good and it’s not often that she treats herself to something like that. The flight attendant takes her credit card payment and the cream in its silver box is hers.
Good luck with that, the man with the faded red hair says.
Paula takes the Metro to the hotel which it says on the website is under independent ownership. It had been a toss-up between this hotel and a budget chain in the centre, but this one is nearer the venue for the book event. The blue carpet is stained and from the window she sees two bags of cement in a wheelbarrow down in the yard below. Paula didn’t even know you could still get candlewick bedspreads. Imagine bringing someone back here. Ryan Kedrov-Hughes is probably staying in a swish five star, but she hadn’t even clicked on the four star tab. Although he might well appreciate the frugality of this place, conspicuous consumption not being his thing. It’s great that there’s a minibar, something else that you don’t often see nowadays. She reaches for one of the cute little bottles of wine and opens a packet of nuts. Decline of the minibar: discuss.
Paula needs to get ready. It’s important to consider where best to sit at this thing. The front row is out for a start. Way too conspicuous. The front row might be reserved anyway for VIPs or people with disabilities. Depending on the size of the crowd, a good move might be to sit at the end of a row because that would ensure a degree of visibility. She should try to make a contribution or ask a question. Interesting perspective, Ryan Kedrov-Hughes might resp
ond. Or he breaks off from what he is saying: Sorry, but I’ve just noticed a very old and very dear friend of mine in the audience. Cue slight wave, then slight return of wave.
All those recent internet searches never turned up whether or not Ryan Kedrov-Hughes has a partner. On balance, he probably has, a UN interpreter say, quick and slinky. The candlewick bedspread has a nice feel. But what does it even mean nowadays really to say I have a partner? There are various permutations, gradations. It’s great to leave work and just jump on a plane. Dr Donnelly earns six times her pay but he can’t grasp how to work the computer, she’s shown him again and again, and then aren’t those locums so jumped-up? Working there the rest of her days, she knows it. She looks at the open door of the minibar. Might as well look forward to the leaving do at the La Mon, and even then it won’t be the restaurant, it’ll be the lounge menu. One of the locums saw Paula’s book beside the computer. The Middle East? Where’s that then? she said. Somewhere in between Ballyhackamore and Cregagh Estate? The others had a laugh at that, Amy repeating it just in case anyone didn’t hear it the first time. She would have looked humourless if she’d got annoyed.
You would rather do something else, Paula? You think you could have done something more? Who doesn’t think that? Is there a single soul? What is it, exactly, you’d rather do, that you think you were really so cut out for? Dunno. Dunno do you? Shrapnel from the barrel bomb slices through the nine-year-old’s soft arms so a big deal that someone feels they could do more than work down the health centre?
The room lurches to one side when she rises from the bed. She pulls her dress, last worn at Anne’s funeral, out of her bag. Black and matte and severe looking possibly, but it’s not a party. Severe is alright because no one would want to look laugh-a-minute at an event of this kind. She’ll apply plenty of the illuminating cream. Nice smell, violets, like those sweets. Can you still get those sweets? The effect isn’t too radical so she applies more, concentrating on the eye area. Paula can’t believe how creased that new coat has got when it was folded so carefully. Perhaps she shouldn’t wear it but no. She wants to wear the trench coat with the belt. Steam’s what’s required. It’s an old trick. Creases just drop out with a bit of steam. In the bathroom Paula twists the shower dial around to the thick red line and sets it blasting, then turns on the bath taps, the sink taps. The coat she hangs from the shower rail. She can finish her drink and give it a few minutes to work.
Some other time then, Ryan Kedrov-Hughes said in the bar. And then there was silence. Nothing materialised, no funny story or pert little question. Maybe she looked at the configuration of ice in her drink, how it slowly moved, looked at a beermat. Said, probably time for me to be heading on. But then silence is articulate and what’s not said is felt not heard. She could see that now.
There’s knocking at the door. It’s a man from reception to say about the water. She’s running a lot of water. And, yes, she can hear the roar of the water and now the steam escaping from the room into the corridor. He says that it’s the other residents, they’re complaining because she is using all of the water. Would she please turn the taps off? And then he pushes past her into the room to turn off the taps. He says as he is going that they’re only a small hotel, so really madam, either shower or bath, one or the other.
But most of the creases have gone, although at the back that kick pleat is sticking out at a ridiculous angle. Belt the coat tight and it’s even worse. She’s a sack of potatoes tied around with string. She throws her shoulders back and puts one foot forward, shoves her hands in the pockets. Now that is not so bad. Cold war spy: low-ranking. All that steam will have negated the effect of the illuminating cream so she dabs on some more.
At reception she asks about where she needs to go. Oh yes, Regent Centre. That’s right. She remembers it once the woman says it. There’s a big stapler sitting on the table behind the reception desk.
Could I borrow that a minute? Paula asks.
She takes off the coat and staples the pleat at the back so that it sits in place.
Thanks, she says.
The air outside is cool and she is surprised that it is dark. But of course it’s dark. How could it not be dark? Translating Dissent weighs heavy in her bag. When she takes a seat on the train she lifts it out but with the movement the words are dancing on the page. The event will probably be starting soon, so maybe she should have left earlier. With the movement of the train and all those lines jumping and slipping she starts to feel sick, so she puts the book back in her bag. At least the journey won’t take long. Where’ll she go afterwards? Or where will they go afterwards? It could just be Ryan Kedrov-Hughes and her. No need to be presumptuous, but it is a possibility. There will be all sorts of places here, no doubt: members’ clubs, after-hours clubs and that kind of thing, all sorts of people there, people you wouldn’t have heard of, but plenty also who you would, like…
like
like
like
Jimmy Nail!
No, but who else? Come on. Wittgenstein lived in Newcastle at one point, she had been surprised to read that, Wittgenstein, but clearly he’s not available at this juncture, and what would she say if he was? Best he’s not really because what would she say? She tries to remember the points about Arab States that she could make, points on different things, subpoints, sub-subpoints, but nothing is staying in her head as things fly away around the carriage, up, down and out that one open window.
She comes out at Regent Centre to cubes of offices and a couple of illuminated logos and when she looks up there’s the blue glow of a line of computer monitors that no one has switched off. And what is that over there? A motorway? A dual carriageway? It’s starting to drizzle now so she turns up the collar of her coat, pulls the belt tighter. She never thought of bringing an umbrella and yet it would have made so much sense to bring an umbrella. Those boys on top of the bus shelter, they shout something, but is it to her or somebody else? She turns around but nobody’s there, nothing but a streetlamp that thrums like a pylon. Something like that could possibly explode. Never mind Wittgenstein, why didn’t she consider downloading a map? She could look at the Metro ticket to see what time it was a while ago when she got on the train but she doesn’t know where the ticket has gone to. One good thing though, the creases are going to be well and truly out of the coat because they won’t survive roaming around in the rain, but she would have thought there’d be a signpost somewhere. What’s the name of the place anyway?
There’s a building that seems to have people going in and out, and closer there’s a sign that says Welcome. Doesn’t seem like… seems an odd… but quick clicking steps take Paula to the door. Inside there’s echoing blue and that smell, it’s so familiar… she knows what it is but she can’t quite place it. I’m here for the event, Paula says to the man and woman behind the glass who are wearing identical blue tops. Okay, the man says and then turns to the woman to say that this lady here is here for the event. Here for the event, what event? What event, love? the woman asks. And the man says, What’s the event? It’s the thing. The thing! The thing, you know the thing I’m talking about. Arab States! Arab States: Mind and Narrative. Arab States, the woman says. What’s that? United Arab Emirates? Emirates Stadium? Is that what you mean? No, not a stadium, I’m not talking about a stadium, it’s Arab States by Ryan Kedrov-Hughes. He’s talking about his book and I’m meant to be there.
The woman’s shaking her head, doing a big doleful face. Don’t know. And the man’s shouting over to somebody in a room out the back, anybody ever heard of what’s his name, sweetheart? Ryan. Kedrov. Hughes. Dum de. Dum de. Dum. What it is, is chlorine, that’s the smell, funny the way she didn’t know and then all of a… whoosh… how could you possibly not have known? Whoosh… The smell never came out of the costumes or the towels and the spectators’ gallery was all clammy echo. Ellie was all of a piece but the other kids they were sleek, they could dive. Nice to watch the other kids, how they glided through the water, she would ra
ther have watched the other kids. Another man in blue comes along and he’s saying that he’s never heard of him, this Ryan guy. I don’t reckon you’re in the right place love, I don’t reckon you’re in the right spot at all. This isn’t where you want. And then she asks: What is this place, is this place a swimming pool?
This is the Gosforth Pool and Fitness Centre, he says.
Where is it you’re looking for, love?
Where is it you’re looking for, love?
Love, what is it you’re looking for?
It’s the library I need, I’m looking for the library, I need to get there pretty quick. The red hand jerks on the clock behind him. Well, okay, and he looks at the others, okay, we understand now, so you’re not so very far off, if it’s Gosforth Library you want, it’s Gosforth Library, is it, love? He gets a notepad, spiral, and he draws on it, a tree or a drainpipe, with a rollerball, and the ink dries, goes from shiny to flat. The paper’s as white as Jimmy’s skin, black writing of the tattoo.
Look, maybe, do you want me to phone somebody? Phone somebody? Like who? I don’t know, he says. I don’t need you to phone anybody, I just need to get to the library, so thank you very much indeed but no need to be phoning anyone, absolutely not necessary for any phone calls. Love, are you really alright? really alright? Not sure that we shouldn’t be phoning somebody, you know. At least phone you a taxi. But you said I’m not far off, not far off the library, do I need a taxi? Taxi would only be ten minutes, take a seat, over there, we’ll get you a taxi. No, I can’t wait around, I’m already late, but thank you very much indeed, much appreciated, much appreciated.
The page he gave her, she turns it different ways under the streetlamp that sounds louder now. It makes sense, that way, or maybe it doesn’t… the rectangle must be the swimming pool but the arrow points towards it. A cluster of cars at the far end of that bare road, so Paula tightens her belt and heads in their direction.
A couple of bluebottles have got trapped in the lighting box behind the big neon menu that runs above the counter. All night they’ll be buzzing, batting against the plastic, decreasingly frantic. But it’ll take them until tomorrow to die. Karim Assif looks at the clock. Outside it’s raining again. Quiet now, but it’ll be busy before too long. He doesn’t like it here, he should never have come, Karim Assif. They had talked it up better than it is. White sky never gives you a break. He thinks instead of the sign, Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada, and he thinks of 24-hour everything: strip clubs, shows, showgirls, the tables, the machines, sunshine non-stop. But he’s here. Why are they not back from the cash and carry yet? There was a woman in earlier, big silver alien face, didn’t know where she was. Fallen over, cut her leg, crying. Didn’t know where she was. He’d pointed in the direction of the station. When he came out from the back she’d gone. Fountains at the Bellagio look cool. The actual fucking volcano at the Mirage. Flies keep on buzzing.
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