“After all, the cost,” he said, “The real cost of things — that’s what it all comes down to, Mr F, as I don’t need to tell you.”
Mr Scheiner was surprised by how well the man took it; Mr F hardly seemed to mind at all, but merely said (with his usual curtness) that he was sure the boy would be a great success, whichever part of the trade he ended up in.
Truth was, this news really didn’t seem that important. Mr F could hardly bring himself to imagine — never mind worry about — anything that was going to happen as far away as next Monday; at the moment, it was all he could do to think about the things which were strictly necessary.
When he gave the small roll of pound notes to Mrs Kesselman, he noticed how her face snapped as tightly shut as her handbag.
It was the Friday lunchtime when Mrs Kesselman actually took the girl away. As luck would have it, Mr F saw it happen. Christine was wearing her powder-blue coat, as if it were a special occasion, and had done her hair and face; Mrs Kesselman was walking her down the cobbles of the Lane as quickly as she could, jerking at her hand as if she was a child or doll. As he watched the two of them go, Mr F realised he’d never really noticed before quite how tiny the girl was; as he saw her being hustled out of sight, with whatever small part of himself that was left to have any feelings for anyone else, he felt sorry for her.
Mostly, however, he was already thinking about what was going to happen tomorrow in the upstairs workroom, which is where he had just arranged to meet the boy at eleven o’clock that Saturday evening.
seventeen
Of course, Mr F had already had quite a bit of time that week to consider the practical problem of where and when he was going to take collection of his payment. The flat was out of the question — the thought of catching sight of himself at work on the boy in the mirror at the foot of his bed was obviously intolerable — and the workroom seemed a much better bet all round. He had a key, and Skin Lane at eleven o’clock on a Saturday night would be as dead as the proverbial. He even thought he might get some sort of satisfaction from welcoming the boy back to the very spot where he’d first made his heart stop beating.
When it came to it, the actual conversation regarding the completion of their bargain had been brief — and he’d organised the moment well. He cornered Beauty on the landing outside the workroom right at the very end of the Friday morning tea-break, immediately after he’d been down and handed over the thirty-five pounds to Mrs Kesselman; that way, since their other colleagues were already coming back up the stairs, the boy had no time to argue. In fact, all he had time to say in response to the naming of the time and place was a slightly startled Alright, Mr F, which was good, because — as Mr F quietly pointed out to him as the footsteps got closer on the stairs — any trouble, and he was going straight back downstairs to get his thirty-five pounds back off Mrs Kesselman, and then what was Beauty going to do?
Desire, you see, can make you pretty blunt — and in fact ever since he’d heard himself pronouncing those two fateful words in St James’s church, Mr F had been living in a new and much simpler world. The twelve weeks he’d spent stumbling through a sweaty labyrinth of doubt and supposition suddenly seemed a long way behind him. He even found, to his surprise, that he rather liked the fact that the only questions he now had to answer were the straightforward ones of where, and when, and how much.
Don’t make the mistake of thinking, however, that just because his voice and manner are now so forthright, Mr F is at any kind of peace. If he appears calm, it is only the calm of the Thames as it slides past the granite piers of London Bridge at the height of the tide; beneath the surface, the full force of the river is clawing at the stone, seeking some crack or flaw. For instance, watch this man’s face as he lowers himself into the bath he takes after travelling home that hot and sweaty Friday evening. As he slowly lowers his body into the too-hot water, he flinches; he can’t help but think that the next person to see it like this will be the boy, and once again, he is ashamed of himself, ashamed of how old and tired his skin looks. He tries telling himself at least he’s only got the one scar — and let’s face it, after all he’s been through, he should be covered. Oh well, he thinks, they must all be on the inside.
Watch the way his mouth twists to one side as he allows himself to let slip that odd little half-laugh of his.
And now, after his bath, watch him as he makes his tea and collects his Golden Virginia and prepares to sit out the night in his living-room chair. He doesn’t towel himself, or get dressed — he sits there naked and dripping under his dressing-gown. What does he care? There is no question of him sleeping — and he doesn’t want to. All he wants is for this night to be over and for the morning to have come. He lays out his tobacco and rolling papers next to the cup and saucer on the arm of the chair, but he doesn’t touch any of them. He simply sits, and stares, clenching and unclenching his fists. Occasionally, his head rocks forward, and then lurches back up again as he forces himself to stay awake; he doesn’t want to miss the moment when the first grey light begins to show through the crack in the living-room curtains. The flat is so quiet, he can hear the ticking of the kitchen clock. He looks down at his watch, and it stubbornly insists that the time is still only ten minutes to midnight; but then, ten minutes later, when he looks down at it a second time, he could swear that neither of the hands has moved. So he sits there and forces himself to stare straight at the wall, for what feels like at least an hour. Then he looks again, and sees that somewhere in his agony of waiting, in that thick, intolerable silence, with no bells sounding, midnight has indeed passed; it’s five minutes past twelve. He thinks to himself This is it then. It isn’t tomorrow; it’s today. He remembers the sound of the pile-drivers working on the foundations for the new bridge, and he thinks That’s it, isn’t it. You slug the stone again and again and eventually; the cracks start to appear. From then on, it’s only a matter of time. Only a matter of time till down it all comes. Stone by stone by stone.
Mr F, you see, is realising that he has never lived in the present tense before.
Imagine how the next few hours must feel for this man. Not able to stand sitting still in his chair a moment longer, he starts to walk up and down the hallway in his dressing-gown, swearing occasionally under his breath like a man with a fever. Have you ever seen a beast pace its cage — some desperate creature like the ones which so fascinated Mr F on his childhood visits to the zoo? That’s exactly how he paced his hallway carpet in the early hours of that dreadful morning, tracing a figure of eight into its pattern as if it was the gravel flooring of some barred and wired pen. All the classic signs were there; the dour, slow shaking of the captive’s head; the practised turn at the bars (or in this case, in front of the locked front door); the determined, ritual padding; the occasional pause to scent after something that the beast has never, in all its captive life, tasted, but which it can never stop pursuing in its mind. Except, of course, that Mr F is no beast; beasts can’t tell the time, and he has been given the exact hour of his release. He can almost hear it already, the sound of that key turning in the lock…
At exactly twenty past six, even though it is a Saturday and there is no actual need for him to stick to his weekday routine, he goes into the bathroom and begins to shave, with great care, and a steady hand. After all, today is a big day. He splashes his face and washes his hands, and then stands there in front of the washbasin mirror and anoints his hands with the lanolin lotion, wringing and wringing them until every drop has been absorbed. That accomplished, he moves into the bedroom and lays out his shirt, his tie and his brown worsted suit on the bed — just as he always does when he’s going to Skin Lane. He begins to get dressed.
Imagine being him, as he does up the buttons on his shirt, and then the ones on his trousers, and finds that half way through that latter job his fingers freeze, because he suddenly sees a picture of himself undoing them again in just a few hours’ time. When the time comes, will he be clumsy? The mirror on the wardrobe doo
r is inescapable; how could anyone ever want him? Want to kiss him? He turns his back on it and, fumbling with his flies, finally gets the buttons done up.
Imagine being him as he stands there, looking down at his bed now, at the smooth counterpane, and finds himself thinking about what it will be like to get Beauty’s tongue in his mouth at last; to get the skin on the back of his neck between his teeth. To find out how easily he actually bruises — because he knows he will have to force him. There will be no giving. Imagine how, as he bends down to knot the laces of his shoes even more tightly, all the blood rushes to his face.
You see, he is filled with such rage.
Now it is seven o’clock. Normally, he is out of the house by five past; but today, he knows that he still has another fifteen hours to go. Even though they don’t need it, he takes off his shoes again, and carries them into the kitchen, where he spreads a newspaper across the kitchen table and polishes and brushes and buffs them until they have never shone so bright. Not for nothing he did he watch his brothers getting ready to go out on all those distant Saturday nights, you see; at least he knows how to put on a proper show. Then, worrying that there will be a smell of boot-polish lingering on his hands, he removes his links and rolls up his sleeves and goes into the bathroom and scrubs them again. The water is almost scalding, and he works so hard on his hands that he almost takes the skin off. By eight o clock in the morning, he’s ready.
People talk about killing time, but you can’t.
Imagine what this man must have gone through, getting through the remaining fourteen or fifteen hours of that long August day, with his kitchen clock counting every unforgiving second of them out loud. God knows how he did it; but he did. Imagine being him, at nine o’clock that evening, sitting on the foot of his bed again, still fully dressed, his hair combed and his jacket on, staring at himself in his mirror, his reddened face framed against a bedroom wall stained with a strange, ruby light (he’s kept the curtains closed all day). He is so angry, he has had to sit down; but he doesn’t know with whom.
If you find that you can’t quite imagine what this forty-seven-year-old is feeling as he sits there at the foot of his single bed, then that is probably exactly right: he cannot imagine what he is feeling either. He tries; as he stares at himself, and at the empty counterpane on the bed behind him, he tries to picture what is about to happen to him — to play spectator to something that he has never seen. As you watch him confront himself in that mirror, look over his shoulder, try and remember very exactly what you did with the last stranger you took into your bed. Then think what you would have done, and what you would have felt, if you had known nothing. Nothing. If you are old, imagine youth; if you are young, imagine age. Imagine your body becoming that of a stranger. Imagine the sensation of it being not yours, as you discover what it feels like to do this, or to have this happen to you, for the very first time. Imagine it happening with sickening slowness, or with shocking speed, that discovery.
And then imagine knowing it has come too late.
That’s how he feels.
While you’re at it, lift yourself up, and now imagine the hands of all the clocks of all the churches, banks and head offices of the City of London moving silently and steadily towards the allotted hour of this fateful rendezvous; eleven o’clock. Do you see? There is nothing you — or he — can do can stop them. In the empty upstairs workroom of Number Four Skin Lane, imagine the beasts of the silent menagerie hanging head- and claws-down from their rails in the ceiling, all waiting; all waiting impatiently for some passing prince or huntsman to come and cut them open and give them a second life. Imagine thunderclouds parting, so that a giant summer moon can stare down wall-eyed at the city, touching all of its statues and memorials into shadowy animation. On Dowgate Hill, imagine the wrought-iron serpents on the gates of Dyers Hall starting to slither head down through their iron acanthus leaves, out across the pavement, eager to entangle your unwary ankles; above the doorway of Skinners Hall, watch the little heraldic gilded fox get up on its hind-legs and start dancing with malevolent, lunatic glee. And now, watch as the great silver wyverns on the roof of Leadenhall Market themselves smell carrion and begin, finally, to stir. As they come clambering down, watch how their barbed metal tongues stretch, and flicker; that is how they detect the stench of their next meal, you see. It is a law of nature that a dream carried for too long inside you must, eventually, begin to rot.
eighteen
When Mr F got to Peckham Rye Station, the entrance hall and ticket office were both deserted. Eventually, he tapped on the thick greenish glass of the ticket-office window, and a small, neatly-dressed clerk appeared as if from nowhere, fresh-faced and apparently quite unconcerned to be working so late. Mr F thought that he knew all the staff at the station, but this young man was a stranger.
“Good evening sir,” said the clerk, “And where are you travelling to?”
Of course, Mr F gave the simple answer (“London Bridge,” he said, “Thank you.”) but as he reached into his pocket to find the correct change he couldn’t help but think that tonight, the thousand and first time he has made this journey, he actually had no idea at all where it was taking him. Perhaps that’s what I should have said, he thought, rummaging in his pocket: “At this time of night, young man, I have absolutely no idea” He wondered what the clerk would have made of that. As it was, all the young man said, in an oddly kind voice, considering the enquiry was so routine, was
“Single?”
“Yes,” said Mr F, looking at him more closely, “Yes, I suppose so.”
“ One and three then, thank you, sir. “
As he slid the correct money under the window, Mr F almost laughed; Single? Too bloody right mate, he thought.
“There we go, sir. Have a good night.”
“Thank you. I will.”
The young man behind the glass disappeared back to wherever he’d come from, and Mr F slipped his ticket into his trouser pocket.
All the way up the stairs to the platform, it was so quiet that all he could hear was the sound of his own footsteps. A good night… he thought; And to you, sonny. He wondered why he hadn’t asked the young man for a return… It just seemed the right thing to do at the time. He supposed getting back home was something he’d have to worry about later. Worry about after.
It felt odd, to be wearing his suit by moonlight, and to be standing out there on the platform exactly where he always stood, but with no one else about — because the platform, like the rest of the station, was completely empty. The moon was almost full, and making everything that ought to have been familiar, strange. It was as if the edges of everything — the empty benches, the platform clock, the sign for the gentlemen’s lavatory — were being picked out against a slightly more heavily inked background than usual. As if each one was more distinct — more itself. And it was the same with the sounds; London is never silent, but late on a summer’s night it does sometimes get quiet enough for the odd shriek or scream of laughter rising from a nearby street to be distinct, and surprising. This was one of those nights, and Mr F, as he stood there on the empty, silvered platform, watching for the lights of the train to appear round the bend of Denmark Hill, was aware of everything.
Everything.
He’d calculated which train he needed exactly, of course. The twenty minutes past ten; fourteen minutes to get to London Bridge, then fifteen minutes to walk to Skin Lane (without hurrying; it was still warm, even at this time of night), leaving him a full ten minutes to get himself ready.
The clock-face at the end of the platform clicked its way round to eighteen minutes past, and the train came round the darkened hill.
Good.
No turning back now…
The carriage (the second carriage, same as always) was almost empty too. A young man and his girl were sitting right at the far end, and opposite the seat Mr F chose, one fat middle-aged man, with his tie at half mast. His face was unshaven and his chin dropped heavily down on his chest —
he was deeply, fully asleep. Mr F watched the city slide past the windows. Queen’s Road; South Bermondsey — the young man and his girl got off there. Where were they going? he wondered. Home? Their home? There was no one else left in the carriage but him and his soundly sleeping companion. His night was over, you could tell that. Look at the way he was letting himself go, slumping down in his seat like that. Mouth open. Too tired to care. Empty.
When he got off at London Bridge, the great polished expanse of floor between the barriers and the station entrance, normally so crowded and scribbled over, was as bare as a blank sheet of paper. All but two of the windows in the ticket office were dark, and only a very few tired, late travellers were making their way out of the station to cross the bridge. Some of the placards wired to the front of the kiosk for newspapers still held Friday night’s headlines, and everything had that very particular feeling only the City has at night — that sense of the whole place having been mysteriously and completely evacuated. Outside, the streets were almost bare of traffic; a single figure up ahead of him crossed the road at will. Two traffic-lights winked from red to green, unheeded. As he left the station, the warm wind from the river touched his face, and without thinking he looked up, as he always did, at the stopped clock on the ruined façade.
When he looked at it each morning, Mr F had always just thought Oh, still ten minutes to twelve; but tonight, something about this familiar sight too seemed strange. The clock-face seemed bigger, and whiter, than it ever had before. Perhaps it was the moonlight making it look like that, he thought; making it shimmer slightly — making it almost too big, and too white. Then, for the first time in his life, it occurred to him that the stopped black hands (ink-black; jet-black) were actually telling him the time. Ten minutes to midnight, he thought; that’s it. He smiled gently to himself. How could you? he thought, still staring up at the hands of the clock, at their shadows, etched in soot on the pale white clock-face; How could you have walked past that every day for thirty-three years, and never seen the proper time? He knew there was no point in looking down at his wristwatch to see which one of the two timepieces was right. It wasn’t twenty-five to eleven on a Saturday night at all; it was ten minutes to midnight.
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