When We Were Rich

by Tim Lott

  I don’t know.

  Can it breathe fire?

  Maybe. I don’t think so.

  Suddenly loping from the back of the cage, eyes black and full of meaningless depth, comes the dragon. It pads silently towards them, then stops and fixes its gaze in their direction. It is about eight foot long, larger than Frankie had expected.

  Are you scared, China?

  That’s not a real dragon!

  Course it is. Read the sign.

  It’s too small. And it can’t breathe fire. It’s a rubbish dragon.

  That’s not very nice. You’re hurting its feelings.

  It can’t hear me. Can we go to the gift shop now?

  Don’t you owe me something?

  What?

  A kiss and a cuddle.

  They’re not real dragons!

  Frankie sighs, gives in and they start to make their way towards the shop by the Terrace Restaurant. China, waving her five-pound note in the air, a tiny flag of celebration, runs into the shop. Frankie waits outside, enjoying the sun on his face. He gives into temptation and switches on his phone.

  To his surprise and consternation, it shows twenty-one messages, eight of them from Veronica.

  When China emerges from the gift shop three minutes later, she finds her father sitting on a wooden bench, head down, staring at his feet, shaking softly.

  Daddy? she says, holding a stuffed toy penguin in her hands. Why are you crying?

  Frankie says nothing, does not move. China, stunned, stares at him, puts the down the toy, tries to calculate what to do.

  Then she comes behind him, puts a small hand on his back and begins to rub in circular motions.

  There, there Daddy, she says. There there.

  * * *

  Two weeks later

  Nodge and Frankie are walking through Shepherd’s Bush Market. The place is fundamentally unchanged since they were children. Cheap fish, cheap meat, cheap toys for kids who can’t afford the proper stuff, cheap perfume, knockdowns, past the sell-bys, counterfeits, back-of-a-lorry scatterlings. Dominating them all are fabric salesmen, great rolls of linen and wool and silk like upended tree trunks from a fantasy landscape. In fact the Goldhawk Road seems to be almost all fabric shops nowadays.

  What the fuck do they do with all this cloth? says Frankie. Got to be a front, doesn’t it?

  It is tremendously hot, although there are thunderheads in the distance. Frankie takes off his jacket. The armpits of his shirt are stained with a marsh of perspiration. He walks up to the middle-aged West Indian man wearing a plastic red, green and gold apron stained with fish guts.

  Alright, Carlton?

  All right, Frankie. The fishmonger waves a haddock at him. Want some fish?

  Not the shit you sell. I’d rather go down Tesco’s.

  Carlton laughs.

  This is fresh, mate.

  Fresh out the canal. Anyway. I don’t like haddock. Yellow fish ain’t natural.

  Frankie the Fib! The butcher opposite is speaking now, a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth, his body skinny, his face big and red. He has had his stall here since 1981, since Frankie was a teenager.

  Couple of pork chops, please, Dave.

  Dave, whistling to himself past the cigarette stub, tosses two chops aloft, lets them land, and starts to wrap them in greaseproof paper.

  Not those ones. Too small.

  Why’s his meat okay and my fish ain’t? shouts Carlton, mock-offended.

  Don’t take it personal, says Frankie. It’s just that your fish smells bad.

  Fish do smell bad, says Carlton.

  How about these? says Dave, holding up a couple of larger chops, blood lining the crease between meat and fat.

  They’ll do.

  On the house, says Dave.

  No, you’re all right, says Frankie, reaching for his wallet.

  I heard about Colin. Take the chops. A little gesture.

  He was Jewish though, says Frankie, reproachfully.

  Dave blushes.

  I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .

  Frankie laughs and points his finger at Dave like a pistol.

  Colin was about as Jewish as those pork chops are Jewish.

  Dave holds the chops up in salute and recognition of the wind-up.

  Got me.

  Frankie takes the chops and he and Nodge move on – through the battery stalls, the toy shops, the fruit and veg costers selling yams and plantains. He buys something for China – a Bratz doll – and orders a bacon sandwich. The woman selling, whose name Frankie can’t remember, puts the HP on in the way she knows he likes it, thick like jam.

  He checks his watch. Three minutes to twelve. He faces over the direction of the White City Estate where he, Tony, Colin and Nodge grew up together. The noise and bustle is immense. He bolts down his bacon sandwich to finish it in time.

  You’re in a hurry, says the woman serving him.

  Twelve o’clock silence. Wouldn’t be respectful to do it with half a rasher of streaky bacon hanging out my cakehole.

  He finishes the sandwich, checks his watch again. The second hand climbs towards the twelve. He thinks again of Colin. They would come here sometimes together and buy sweets. Colin always bought Refreshers. Always.

  Frankie takes the ceremonial Refresher he has bought earlier from the newsagent on the corner out of his pocket, unwraps it and places it solemnly in his mouth.

  As twelve o’clock passes, a hush begins to take hold of the market. Like spreading mercury, it leaves gaps and spaces. Many people continue talking, oblivious to the dozens of people who, like Frankie, are standing stock still, staring at the ground or fixing their gaze on the sky.

  Frankie feels tears begin to rush down his cheeks. Nodge puts a hand on his arm.

  The silence is for two minutes, but thirty seconds on, the noise is still continuing – reduced but grating. Chatting, gossip, even laughter. He glares at a white teenage girl wearing a hoody who is laughing with her mate and puts his finger to his mouth to silence her. She holds up a finger and mouths at him to fuck off, then carries on giggling.

  Frankie bites his lip and continues facing the White City Estate, chewing gravely on the Refresher. He can see Carlton, standing still by his fish, looking down at the ground. Hamid, one of the fabric salesmen, likewise. Two women in hijabs. One of them, like Frankie, is weeping. But Dave the butcher is still selling his chops and steaks, his raw meat, and chatting merrily to the customers.

  He thinks of Colin, what was left of him.

  Meat, it’s all meat.

  Meat dressed up and walking around.

  It is like a semi-frozen tableau now, a paralysed version of the London he has always loved. The mixtures, the blaring noise, the colours, the sheer difference of one thing from the next. The cheerful rudeness, the mockery, the popping of bubbles of self-importance, always bringing down to earth, back to earth. Nothing too serious, no one too important.

  Except this. Except this.

  The two minutes ends and the scattered statues begin to move once more. The woman behind the breakfast counter, whose name Frankie still can’t remember, begins again her endless round of frying eggs and bacon, the frying she has done for the last twenty years, more or less every day, the chips, the ketchup, the watery grey coffee.

  Frankie walks back over to Dave.

  Alright, Dave?

  All right, Frankie.

  He holds out the chops to Dave.

  You can keep these.

  He drops the bloody plastic bag on the display counter. Then he walks off towards the Uxbridge Road, leaving the butcher looking confused, a faint anger brewing. Frankie wipes his face with the back of his hand, leaving stains on his Paul Smith linen suit. The dark clouds in the sky do not release their burden. The sun hammers on, relentless and unyielding.

  * * *

  There are twenty-three people at Colin’s funeral. Frankie counts them as the minister jabbers on, the same one who married Colin and Roxy, tall and stooping, in
sisting tediously on love and forgiveness. Frankie feels neither, only a swelling blackness that threatens to swallow him and spit out his bones.

  He sits next to Veronica, who has been staring at the floor since taking her pew. Nodge is on his other side. China is at home with Cordelia and Michael. Roxy is on the far side of Nodge, dressed in black taffeta.

  Did you see the reporters outside? whispers Frankie to Nodge.

  Vultures.

  I can see the headlines now. ‘7/7 Hero Who Saved Imam’s Wife Buried’.

  Never figured Colin as a hero.

  If you’re dead you’re always a hero, says Frankie. He was probably just too dumb to use the tourniquet on himself.

  The droning of the organ fills the small space with a sound like sour treacle. Colin’s coffin is up on a dais. It looks expensive, mahogany perhaps. Brass handles. Roxy chose it.

  Nice casket, says Nodge.

  She was never mean with Colin’s money, says Frankie, lowering his voice further so Roxy won’t hear.

  Frankie can’t stop staring at the coffin. Suddenly he has a scratchy film of Colin and himself as children flickering inside his head. Playing table football. Kicking cans in the park. Colin’s face, scaring Frankie with the openness of his love. With his worship. The love between them then, so long forgotten. But suddenly, here resurrected.

  Now Colin in that fucking box.

  Frankie begins to cry, for the lost child that became the lost adult, the scraps of whom are inside the casket. He suddenly sees himself in the box lying next to Colin then pushes the image urgently away. He feels Nodge’s hand on his back, gently circling. His tears have started Roxy off.

  Now Nodge turns to Roxy.

  I know you loved him, says Nodge.

  I didn’t, says Roxy. Well, that is to say, I did. But I only found out that I did after he got blown up. Anyway. That’s not why I’m crying, says Roxy, choking the words out between sobs.

  Why?

  I’m ashamed, Nodge, she says, between gobbets of tears.

  Why on earth would you be ashamed?

  Her weeping simply intensifies.

  It doesn’t matter now, I suppose, says Nodge.

  Now Roxy brings her weeping under control, turns to Nodge and whispers in his ear.

  I know you think I’m just a money-grubbing bitch and I was really, sort of. But in the end I loved him. He was just so helpless. You couldn’t stop yourself.

  So why are you ashamed?

  Her voice drops to an almost inaudible level.

  Because it was my fault.

  Nodge is about to ask her to explain, but she turns away, as the vicar, monotoned, polished and insincere, reaches the end of the first part of the ceremony, leaving a flat silence. Frankie, meanwhile, hasn’t really heard him, is lost in his thoughts. He then becomes conscious of the vicar inviting people up to the wooden podium, those who wish to make tributes. Frankie has a short speech prepared, but before he can stand, a bulky man pushes past the small congregation down the aisle and makes his way unsteadily up onto the dais and stands behind the lectern.

  Frankie is bewildered. Then he recognizes the figure.

  Tony Diamonte.

  Tony is shaky on his feet. He sways and nearly falls, then steadies himself. He nods towards the coffin.

  Lovely piece of timber there, he says. Classy. You wouldn’t think he would need a full-size one, would you? Given that he had no fucking legs at the end. Hold on, yes, come to think of it he did still have one. That explains it.

  He is theatrically drunk. The vicar stands up as if to usher him away from the podium, but Tony gives him a deadly look that makes him anxiously retreat further into the wings.

  Frankie covers his face with the spread of his fingers. Veronica stares at the floor.

  Who the fuck is that? says Roxy.

  Déjà vu, says Frankie to Veronica.

  Veronica says nothing. She has gone very pale.

  Yeh, it really is a lovely box. Not really Colin, though. Not his style. Colin would be better off with one made out cornflake packets. Do you know, Colin, all his life, only ate cornflakes? Never muesli. Never granola. God forbid. Never Honey Nut Loops. Always cornflakes. Morning, noon and night. Kellogg’s Cornflakes, no other brand would do. He could tell the difference, believe me. With exactly one spoon of sugar. Dessert spoon, I mean.

  He casts his gaze blearily around the congregation.

  He was the same with everything, was Colin. Would only drink Hofmeister lager. Broke his heart when they stopped doing it. Would only eat Walkers cheese and onion crisps. His underpants, they were always from Marks & Spencer. Even though Marks & Spencer have been shit for years, he would still buy his pants there. He really hated things to change.

  He nods, then looks up and behind him at a portrait of Christ depicted in the stained-glass window.

  Things have changed now, though, haven’t they, Colin? Big time. Though they won’t be changing any more. That should be right up your street.

  Frankie, unable to stand the mortification any more, hisses at him.

  Tony. Give it a rest. Have some respect.

  Tony looks at him and points a shaky finger in his direction.

  That’s his friend, Frankie Blue, who’s just having a pop at me there. For saying what I think. For being honest instead of the shit sandwich that’s usually served up at these gaffs.

  Tony looks threateningly in the direction of the vicar, who is standing ten foot to his right, alternately wringing his hands and adjusting and readjusting his spectacles.

  Tony takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and blows his nose.

  Colin used to worship Frankie. Didn’t he, Frankie? Tony gives a grotesque pout. He thought you were his bestest friend.

  Tony laughs bitterly.

  You sold him out, though, didn’t you? We all sold him out. Even his new best friend, Jesus, sold him out in the end.

  He gestures towards the stained-glass window. There is absolute silence. A cloud passes over Tony’s face, or perhaps a clearing of clouds, recognition of something within. Then he fixes the congregation with his blurry, red-eyed gaze again.

  I used to bully Colin. Before he kicked it. I mean, obviously before he kicked it. Obviously. Wouldn’t be much point now.

  He begins to cry. Great heaving sobs. The vicar takes the opportunity to try and lead Tony away from the podium, but Tony roughly pushes him away. The sobs go on for what seem like minutes. Finally Tony speaks again. He turns to the coffin.

  I just wanted to say, I’m sorry, Colin. I’m so, so sorry, mate. I never did anything but treat you like a muppet. But you were . . .

  He stops, stares at the vaulted roof, as if searching for words there.

  . . . You were Colin. Weren’t you? Colin Burden.

  The vicar is desperately consulting with some kind of church officer who has appeared stage left, no doubt wondering if it’s worth causing a scene by trying to remove Tony forcibly from the lectern. But Tony is big. Making an even worse scene than the one that is going on now seems untenable.

  Tony takes his eyes from the gabled roof and faces the congregation again.

  I mean, let’s face it, shall we? Colin was a boring little turd. But he never hurt anyone. Never. He was just struggling, like we’re all struggling. To be someone. To matter. To have someone give a shit about you, one way or the other.

  There is a glass of water on the lectern and Tony takes a long swig from it

  That’s better. I also want to say something about the people who blew him up. I mean, I know the vicar said we must forgive our enemies. But I just wanted to say this.

  He takes a hip flask out of his pocket and swigs from that as well.

  That’s a load of shit.

  Now he takes a grubby and crumpled piece of newspaper out of his pocket and reads from it.

  Mohammad Sidique Khan, Edgware Road bomber. Shehzad Tanweer, Aldgate bomber. Hasib Mir Hussain, Tavistock Square bomber. Oh, hold on, here it is. This is the geezer.
Germaine Lindsay. Nineteen years old. Russell Square bomber. We’re all about forgiving him, is that right, Rev?

  He looks over to the vicar, cowering at the end of the dais, who says nothing.

  That’s them alright. The fab four. They’ll be in heaven now, shagging virgins and that. A hundred each they get. With wide lovely eyes. That’s what it says in the Qu’ran. ‘Wide lovely eyes’.

  He takes another swig from the hip flask.

  Anyway. I want to say this. I don’t care what your religion is. I don’t care what your faith is. I don’t care who your god is, or if you feel you should wear a beard, or pray to Mecca or Barney the fucking dinosaur, I don’t care, I really don’t give a monkey’s.

  He screws up the piece of paper and flicks it at the stained-glass window. It bounces off Jesus’s left foot, just below the stigma.

  Because when it comes down to it, when all’s said and done, they’re just a bunch of cunts.

  That’s enough! says the vicar, finally marching across to the lectern. This is a house of God!

  Tony, instead of resisting this time, meekly allows himself to be led away, mumbling distinctly enough for Frankie, Nodge and Roxy to hear him.

  Thank you for your time. Sorry if I’ve embarrassed anyone. Sorry. Sorry.

  Led by the church officer, he makes his way down from the lectern and is swiftly marched along the aisle and out of the church.

  There is stillness for about five seconds, then the vicar comes and stands at front of the congregation again.

  Well, he says.

  He cannot quite look at the gathering. Instead, he goes straight into his speech.

  Let us commend our brother, Colin Burden, to the mercy of God. I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. We therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life.

  The organ begins to sound. A purple curtain slowly closes around the coffin to conceal it from sight.

  From the back, people slowly begin to file out of the chapel.

  More entertaining than I expected, says Frankie to no one in particular.

  * * *

  There’s a ring on Nodge’s doorbell. He opens it to see Owen standing there huddled and lost in a coat two sizes too big for him.