Meet Me Under the Westway

by Stephen Thompson

  ‘All right, Jem?’

  ‘No, Richard, I’m not. In fact, I’m really hacked off.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘This whole showcase business – it stinks.’

  Now everyone’s looking at me. I can feel their eyes burning into me like blowtorches.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Maybe you should address that question to Fatima.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, Fatima, you.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jem.’

  ‘Is that so? Well answer me this – have you or have you not been lobbying to get your play put on?’

  ‘Lobbying? Lobbying who?’

  ‘Hattie, that’s who.’

  ‘Hold on a sec,’ says April. ‘Hattie isn’t even one of the judges.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Jess. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be naive,’ I say. ‘Hattie’s an associate director at the main house. She has influence. And believe me, she stands to gain by using it.’

  ‘Gain what?’ asks Rajeev.

  ‘Richard can clear that one up.’

  ‘I can?’

  ‘Most certainly. Do you know yet who’s set to direct which piece?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell us if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I can’t remember, exactly, but I have it here.’

  He takes a piece of paper from the breast pocket of his tight denim shirt. While he unfolds it, I keep my eyes on Fatima. She has a defiant look on her face.

  ‘All the extracts,’ says Richard, ‘will be done by Jeremy. Susanne’s got Emily’s piece. And …’ he pauses. ‘Hattie will direct Fatima’s.’

  ‘Thank you. I rest my case.’

  ‘You’re talking rubbish, Jem,’ says Fatima. ‘Who told you all this stuff?’

  ‘My source is impeccable. That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘Piers is a liar.’

  ‘Who said anything about Piers?’

  ‘What do you take us for? We all know he’s your bum chum.’

  I laugh. ‘There’s only person in this room having a gay relationship with someone at the main house. And it isn’t me.’

  She stands up. ‘Fuck you, Jem. I don’t have to listen to this.’ She gathers up her stuff and breezes out.

  For a while no one speaks – or even moves. We might have been at a wake. I suppose we are in a way for, as of this moment, the group, as we know it, is dead. Richard pricks the silence. He says that, in light of my allegations, he has no choice but to bring the matter before Tom. There’ll obviously be some kind of internal investigation, which may, ultimately, result in the postponement of the showcase.

  This statement causes panic. Rajeev doesn’t see why the good should have to suffer for the bad although he doesn’t specify who’s who. April and Jess are more explicit in their criticism. They say my accusation is based on nothing more than sour grapes and that I should accept the decision of the judges with good grace. Much to my surprise, Emily rallies to my side. She believes what I say is true and thinks I should be applauded for exposing the nepotism upon which the Crucible is founded. I thank her for her support and leave. She catches up with me outside and insists on buying me a beer at the old men’s pub.

  For the next couple of hours, Emily listens while I have a good old moan. When I’ve run out of steam she says, ‘I’ve decided. I’m going to withdraw my play in support.’

  I tell her not to be silly but she’s adamant. ‘I must be guided by my conscience, Jem.’

  We leave the pub at closing time, slightly tipsy. I walk her to her bus stop. Minutes later, the 295 pulls up. As Emily is about to get on it I say, ‘Sorry about Edinburgh.’

  She gives me a lingering kiss then steps on to the bus and is gone.

  As soon as I get in, the phone starts ringing. When I pick up the receiver and discover who’s on the line, my heart sinks.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Rachel.’

  ‘Hello to you too, Jem.’

  ‘Sorry. I’ve just got in and I’m tired and I want to go to bed.’

  ‘I need to talk to you, Jem.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘It’s too important to discuss over the phone. I need to see you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Will you meet me? Yes or no?’

  I sigh heavily. ‘When’s good for you?’

  * * *

  The moment I walk into the Bed Bar I realise my error. Hana’s behind the counter and, upon seeing me, she gives me such a filthy look I almost turn and walk back out. I don’t because Evan is already there, snuggled into the corner of one of the L-shaped benches, sipping a pint of Hoegaarden. I ask him whether he fancies another, he says no and I go off to get myself a Guinness. Hana serves me without uttering a single word.

  I haven’t seen Evan since the opening night of The Scullery. I can tell that he knows about the showcase and that he’s embarrassed for me. He was certain I’d win one of the two full-length slots, had talked about it as though it were a formality. The possibility of my being beaten by Fatima seemed absurd to him. Now that it’s happened, I wonder how he’ll broach the subject.

  I get him to tell me his news first. Unsurprisingly, it’s all about his play. It occurs to me that neither of us has much going on in our lives besides our writing. It’s not, as we like to think, out of devotion to the literary life – we’re just a couple of sad individuals.

  Things have moved on with Roswell’s Babies. Casting is almost complete and a time-slot has been allocated for a six-week run.

  ‘You must be pleased,’ I say.

  ‘Relieved, more like.’

  ‘Don’t be such a drama queen. It can’t have been all that bad.’

  ‘You have no idea, Jem.’

  He sips his Hoegaarden, his arm wobbling as he lifts the gigantic glass to his lips. I take the opportunity to see what Hana’s doing. There’s quite a throng at the bar now and I can barely make her out between all the bodies. Good. Hopefully I can sneak out later without her spotting me.

  ‘They want another one,’ says Evan.

  ‘Who wants another one of what?’

  ‘Upper Street. They want to commission me to do a second play.’

  ‘Really? How much are they offering?’

  ‘Three. But Melanie thinks she can get four.’

  Four grand. Four thousand pounds. For doing something you love. It seems almost incredible.

  ‘It’s a big improvement. They only gave me two for Roswell.’

  ‘Only two, you say. My-oh-my. How mean of them.’ I shake my head. There was a time when he’d have paid them to put his play on. How quickly we forget.

  ‘I’m not taking it,’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The commission.’

  ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘I can’t, Jem. It sounds silly but I just can’t.’

  I know he means what he says but I don’t suppose I’ll ever understand the thinking behind it. To me he’s just being dumb but then what do I know? As the old saying goes, ‘Never judge a man till you’ve walked two moons in his moccasins.’

  ‘So what are you planning on doing with yourself?’ I ask.

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Will you carry on writing?’

  ‘Of course. But I want to have a break from it. I might take a year off to travel. I’d like to see something of the world, get out of London.’

  ‘Where would you go?’

  ‘Some of those countries I visited as a child, maybe. I hardly remember them and what memories I do have are quite negative. But still I have a strong desire to revisit them. Don’t ask me why.’

  I know exactly why. It appeals to his tragic side.

  ‘I might just join you, the way things are at the moment.’

  I hadn’t meant it as a segue but that’s how Evan uses it.

  ‘Heard about the showcase,’ he says. ‘Bad luck.’

  ‘Luck’s got nothing to do w
ith it.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  I tell him about Fatima’s scheming and about my bust-up with her at the CCTV.

  ‘Damn!’ he says. ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Ambitious?’

  ‘Clearly.’ A quick sip of his pint, followed by, ‘So what’s going to happen now?’

  ‘Don’t know. Don’t care.’ And I really don’t. The issue no longer rouses me to anger. Once I’d discovered the truth from Piers, I immediately assumed the moral high ground. From that position I’m indifferent.

  After a lengthy silence, Evan says, ‘How are things working out with you and Sarah?’

  ‘They’re not. To be honest, I’m more worried about what’s happening between me and Rachel.’

  He furrows his brow, momentarily confused. ‘When did she come back into the equation?’

  ‘She’s never really been out of it – not totally.’

  He asks me to elaborate and I tell him about Rachel’s phone call. ‘I don’t know what could be so important that she couldn’t discuss it over the phone.’

  Evan regards me coolly. ‘When did you two last have sex?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When did…’

  ‘I heard what you said. How is it relevant?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Well, if you must know, it was not long after we split up.’

  He looks surprised. ‘Kept that quiet, didn’t you? Not that it’s any of my business. Did you use contraception?’

  ‘Rachel’s on the pill.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘I think so. I mean she always used it when we were together.’

  Evan gives me a look of sheer pity. Then, like a gumshoe, he presents me with the clues to Rachel’s possible crime. He says it’s not inconceivable that she might have stopped taking the pill when she and I split up and, whilst it’s sometimes difficult for a woman to fall pregnant immediately after coming off the pill, it’s not impossible. I look at him agog.

  ‘When did you become an expert on female reproduction?’

  He rolls his eyes at my nitpicking. ‘The point is you may have been had.’ He drains his glass and says, ‘Another Guinness?’

  I nod distractedly and he goes off to the bar.

  As soon as he’s gone, my thoughts crowd in on me. The idea that Rachel might have used me to conceive seems despicable. I refuse to believe that she, or any other woman, could ever stoop so low. It’s the kind of thing that might provoke a man to murder.

  Evan returns to find me in a state of complete panic.

  ‘I can’t be a dad. I don’t want to be a dad. I refuse!’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘Oh, Evan, what am I going to do? It’s the end. The end, I tell you.’

  ‘The end of what?’

  ‘Of everything. My freedom, my dreams. My youth!’ I bury my head in my hands, groaning.

  ‘Look, would you calm down? We don’t know for sure she’s pregnant.’

  ‘Oh, come on. She must be. It’s obvious. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it. It makes perfect sense. What a bitch.’ I sip my Guinness. It’s as bitter as bile. ‘Don’t just sit there, Evan. Do something. Gimme some advice. What should I do?’

  ‘Just talk to her.’

  ‘That’s it? That’s the best you can come up with?’

  ‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’

  ‘Oh, forget it. Just forget it.’

  I sit there hunched over my Guinness, furious. At one point, I notice Hana giving me the evil eye. I stare her down, cursing her in my mind. Who the fuck you looking at, you big-titted minga? She shakes her head at me then busies herself wiping down the bar.

  * * *

  For the next few days, I devote my energies to earning some money. I call a few of my temping agencies and one of them gets me a week’s work delivering books to the housebound. It proves a useful distraction from my worries and I regret when it eventually comes to an end. After that, I don’t know what to do with myself. I completely shun Evan and Ollie, refusing to return their calls, preferring to mope around the flat instead. My every thought is about my becoming a dad. I start obsessing over it. I have nightmares about it. No matter what I do, I can’t get it out of my mind. It’s as if I’m being conspired against. Suddenly, everywhere I look, everywhere I go, I see fathers with their children. They’re all the over the place. The streets of London are overrun with them. There are thousands! And they all look as miserable as hell.

  Now and then, lest I go out of my mind with worry, I try to analyse the thing calmly and rationally. Fatherhood. It can’t be all that bad. At the end of the day, what’s so terrifying about it? Apart from the obvious drawbacks – my total lack of money, my irresponsibility, my desperation to cling on to my freedom – I don’t see why I couldn’t make a decent fist of it. How difficult can it be to raise a child? What are the qualities required? Do I possess them? Am I, in the final analysis, up to the job? Once I start thinking about it, I realise I hold some very strong views on the rights and wrongs of bringing up children. Girls, I’ve always thought, need to be instilled with as much confidence as possible, especially if they’re ugly, while boys should be discouraged from all forms of machismo. That means no sport. No son of mine would ever kick a football in my presence. With his mates, yes, but, with me, he could expect more relaxing pursuits, mental stimulation as opposed to physical. I’d want to shape his mind, not his body. If he showed signs of intelligence, fantastic, I’d nurture it and try to make him believe he can be whatever he wants to be. If, on the other hand, he happened to be thick, I’d have no choice but to disown him.

  * * *

  Finsbury Park on a Sunday afternoon. Even the sentence is depressing. Only Rachel could have chosen such a badland as a meeting place. How she loves to slum it. I’ve hardly left the train station when I see two blokes having a punch-up. A few minutes later, an old hag solicits me for sex. She follows me half way up the road, pawing and pulling at my clothes, and eventually I have to bawl her out.

  I’m glad to see Rachel is on time. She’s standing by the park’s main gates with a newspaper under her arm, dressed in her favourite tan leather coat. She looks like a secret agent. We greet each other with a curt ‘Hello.’ and a peck on the cheek. She wants to go for a coffee but I suggest we take a stroll around the park. It’s a bright, warm day (for September) and, since sunlight has a positive effect on me, I’m keen to remain outdoors. Besides, cafes are full of eavesdroppers.

  We go and sit on a bench, which is flecked here and there with pigeon droppings. For once, in a complete role reversal, it’s me who wants to skip the small talk.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Why do you assume there’s a problem?’

  Just then a strong wind blows up, sending her hair all over her face. I watch her struggle to bring the strands under control, most of which she pins behind her ears.

  ‘Look, Rachel, I haven’t come all this way to arse around. If you’ve got something to say, then out with it – otherwise…’

  ‘I’ve got chlamydia.’

  I stare at her, confused. ‘Come again.’

  She sighs. When she speaks again, her voice is louder and distinctly edgier. ‘I said I’ve got chlamydia.’

  It’s all I can do stifle my laughter. So you’re not pregnant after all. You’ve only got the clap. What a relief!

  ‘And why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Thanks for your sympathy, Jem. Appreciate it.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that how it sounded. I was simply trying to find out what your motive was for telling me.’

  ‘I would have thought that was obvious.’

  ‘I hope you’re not blaming me.’

  She takes a few moments to order her thoughts, clearly determined not to get into an argument.

  ‘No, Jem, I’m not blaming you. The fact is I might have had this thing for years without knowing it. If so, I only hope I haven’t done any lasting damage. A
nyway, that’s for me to worry about. I’m telling you all this because there’s a good chance I might have given it to you, in which case you need to get yourself checked out. And, if you’ve had unprotected sex with anyone else recently, they need to get themselves checked out as well.’

  This last remark sets me to thinking about Hana and Sarah. Both had insisted on using condoms, despite my protestations.

  As though she had been reading my mind, Rachel says,

  ‘You must start taking precautions, Jem. It’s too dangerous out there.’

  ‘Look, Rachel…’

  ‘It’s OK. I’m not having a go, I’m just saying. No one ever thinks it’s going to happen to them. And it’s not only disease I’m talking about. You could end up making some poor girl pregnant. I mean, can you imagine it – you, a dad?’ She laughs at the thought, from the belly, as though the idea of my being a father were the funniest thing in the world.

  ‘Well, thanks for telling me but I can’t imagine there’s anything wrong.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure, Jem. Like I said, you could well have this thing and not show any symptoms. That’s the nature of this particular beast, I’m afraid. So, take my advice and get yourself checked out. The good news is that it’s easily treated.’ To my astonishment, she looks at her watch. ‘Well, I should go.’

  ‘Go? Go where?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  My jaw drops. ‘Well, excuse me for breathing.’

  She stands up, forcing me to do likewise. ‘Goodbye, Jem. We probably won’t see each other again so you look after yourself and I hope all your dreams come true.’ She kisses me on the cheek and strides away without so much as a backward glance, her newspaper tucked under her arm, her leather coat billowing about her muscly calves.

  I remain rooted to the spot, shaking my head in disbelief. So that’s it? That’s how it ends? The two of us in a park, talking about sexually transmitted diseases?

  I’ve only been in a dose clinic once before – as a teenager, after contracting crabs – and, as I sit here waiting for my name to be called, the memory of that time comes flooding back to me in vivid, depressing detail. Then, as now, I was forced to sit in a cramped waiting room with six or seven other disease-ridden blokes, the shame and embarrassment writ large on our faces, flicking impatiently through the old magazines while occasionally casting furtive glances at my watch. And the silence! I might have been awaiting execution.