by Iain Banks
The houseboat was fine. Nothing had been disturbed, no horses’ heads in the bed, nothing. There was a tool box in the cupboard under the stairs; I’d rummaged around in it until I found a hammer, which I suggested we took with us in case we were attacked, but the guys just stood there and shook their heads in unison, like they’d been rehearsing. I put the hammer back.
We went for a pint and a light lunch, then set off for the East End in search of the site of the previous evening’s fun.
I found the place eventually. Haggersley Street, off Bow Road, which was where the chip shop and the cab firm were. It all looked very different in the fresh, pale light of an October afternoon. Just past the rail bridge, by the traffic lights, there was still window glass on the road. I took a handful.
We mooched warily around the cul-de-sac on the far side of the lights, where Haggersley Street ended in a dead end off Devons Road.
‘I think your birds have flown, chum,’ Phil said, kicking at an old lager can. ‘If they were ever here.’
‘Yeah, thanks, Phil; cheers,’ I said. Phil was, compared to Craig, rather more sceptical about my account of what had happened the night before. Probably because he had seen how drunk I was. And maybe because of the jacket.
We were in a place of old, crooked kerb stones, peeling tarmac laid over ancient cobbles, windscreen glass that crunched under foot like gravel, burnt-out and abandoned cars with rusted panels and sagging plastic trim, and – framing it all on three sides – tilted lengths of desultorily graffitied corrugated iron topped by rusting angle iron strung with thin strands of barbed wire, jagged strands of sharp, spaced knots decorated by the greyed-out tatters of ruined black bin-liners, fluttering in a damp wind like the prayer flags of a half-hearted monochrome hell.
Some of the corrugated iron sections were crude gates, all strung with ancient padlocks and grimy chains.
I took a stirrup-step up – Craig made me take my shoe off, which would have made running away interesting – and looked over the corrugated iron walls. Concrete aprons in front of abandoned-looking light industrial units. Freight containers. Sheds. Puddles. Piles of wooden pallets. Waste ground. Weeds. More puddles. There was nobody about; not even any guard dogs came bounding out to greet me. The rain was coming on again.
‘I hate this place utterly,’ said Phil.
‘Seen enough?’ Craig asked me.
‘I can feel my life-force draining out through my soles,’ Phil muttered.
‘Nobody wears grey socks any more, Ken.’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I said, tutting and detaching one sleeve from a snag in the barbed wire. ‘Let us to fuck get.’
‘That’s you off the German beer until your grammar gets back to normal, pal.’
I tried calling Ceel at least twice a day from a variety of phone boxes throughout central London.
I now knew her number by heart.
She never answered.
Instead, on the Thursday, just after I’d finished my show, a package arrived, by courier. The package was slim and light, like Celia herself, but I didn’t dare hope. I signed for it, opened it, and there, glory be, was a key card.
My mobile rang. Something inside me melted and went south for the winter.
From the mobile’s tiny speaker, Ceel’s voice said, ‘One Aldwych. Dome suite.’
‘Are you-?’ I started to ask, but the line had clicked off. I let my head drop.
My phone burred again.
‘What?’ Ceel said.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked, almost choking.
‘Yes,’ she said, sounding puzzled. ‘Of course.’
I smiled into the middle distance. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
I couldn’t fuck. I just wanted to cuddle. Fully clothed. Ceel seemed more confused than annoyed, but also more confused than sympathetic.
‘No, I didn’t get the taxi’s number,’ I said. ‘Who ever does?’
‘I do.’
‘Oh yeah? What was the number of the last taxi you-?’
‘Four four one seven.’
‘Oh, Ceel, you’re kidding.’
‘No. I used always to leave gloves, scarves, bags, umbrellas and so on in taxis. Strangely, it was always easier to remember the taxi’s number than to-’
‘All right, all right,’ I breathed.
‘Kenneth, don’t you want to take your clothes off?’
‘Aah…’
‘Or mine?’
‘Well, ah…’
‘I think we need drugs,’ Ceel said decisively. ‘Luckily I have contacts.’
She was right.
‘Do you know what John does when he is not with me, or away on one of his trips overseas?’
‘No.’
‘Do you want to know?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘He goes caving.’
‘He does what?’
‘He goes caving. He spelunks. He descends into caverns under the ground. Mostly in England and Wales, but also abroad.’
‘That,’ I breathed, ‘is so not a gangster thing to do.’
We were lying on a giant circular table in one of the rooms in the Dome suite. The Dome itself, in fact, at the very top of the whole hotel. We had made it comfortable with sheets and pillows from the bedroom, two rooms away through the sitting area. The Dome room had numerous small, high windows that looked straight down Waterloo Bridge, part-way up the Aldwych and down most of Drury Lane. If we’d stood up we’d also have had a view to part of the Strand. There were twelve severe, formal-looking seats spaced round the giant table. Even all the soft accoutrements hadn’t made the solid surface all that comfortable. The bed would have been more forgiving, but this was how, and where, Ceel had wanted it.
‘Mobile phones do not work in caves,’ she said after a long time.
I thought. I thought twice, in fact. ‘Don’t suppose he goes scuba-diving, too, does he?’
‘Yes.’
I thought some more. ‘Why would he need that excuse?’
‘I don’t know. That is why I think perhaps it is not an excuse.’
There was silence for a while. Ceel cuddled up to me. She hadn’t quite managed to get the suite up to what she considered to be full operating temperature yet, so perhaps she was cold. I lay there, perspiring gently, and thought about what Craig had said, about love.
Some time passed, then she murmured into my shoulder, ‘You have my mobile number, don’t you?’
I closed my eyes. Holding her had never felt more precious. ‘Yes,’ I admitted.
She said nothing for a while, but I felt her give what might have been a small nod. ‘You have been careful,’ she said. ‘I appreciate that. I understand now why you were concerned. I’m touched. But please; be even more careful. You have the number committed to memory?’
‘I know it by heart.’
‘Remove it from your phone.’
‘All right.’
‘Thank you.’
‘This girl. Was she very beautiful?’
‘Very attractive, in a sort of obvious, blond way.’
Ceel was silent for a while. Then she said, ‘I feel jealous. I know I should not, but I do.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Me too.’
‘Well, I feel jealous of your husband.’
‘And yet there are times you and I meet up when the last person to make love to me was you.’
I thought. ‘I don’t know what’s the more pathetic,’ I said quietly. ‘The fact that that does actually make me feel a little better, or the fact that we are clutching at this straw in the first place. It’s not just about sex, Ceel. I mean that I’m jealous he gets to be with you more than I do, that you two can have something like a normal life together.’
‘It is not very normal. He is away so much.’
‘No, but you can walk across a street together, holding hands.’
Another pause. ‘He never holds my hand.’
‘You’re admitting you assaulted this woman, Mr McNutt
?’
‘It was self-defence, but yes.’
‘I see.’
‘Oh, shit,’ I breathed.
There was no comeback. Nobody was going to press charges, after all, and, of course, as I’d expected, the cops did nothing. At least nothing they ever told me about. They couldn’t even test Phil’s jacket for traces of rohypnol; a visiting friend had assumed the jacket in the bag was to be taken to a dry cleaners, and done just that.
Never mind. I’d fulfilled my part of the bargain and reported the incident to the police like a good little citizen.
‘Well, maybe, like, we should leak it to the press. Yuh?’
The speaker was Nina Boysert, Mouth Corp Group PR chief and Special Adviser to Sir Jamie, whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean. She didn’t say ‘Ya’, like Raine – sorry, ‘Raine’; hers was more of a ‘Yuh’.
Meant the same thing.
We all looked at her. This was her office, an even more spacious one than Station Manager Debbie’s. Not high up, but wide and deep and airy and with a pleasant view over Soho Square. Also present were Debbie, Phil and the Group’s chief in-house legal mind, Guy Boulen.
‘Ah, the police did say not to,’ Boulen pointed out. We’d covered this point about a minute ago. Boulen was an oddly rugged man to be a lawyer; about my age, tall and fit-looking and with a face that appeared wind-burnt. Strapping, would be the word; looked like he belonged halfway up a fell in the rain and cloud, manfully scrutinising a compass and leading a bunch of deprived kids on a character-building hike. Softly spoken, though; Home Counties accent.
‘Yuh, but, like, they’ve got their job to do and we’ve got ours, right? We have to think what’s best for the Group.’ Nina was business-suit posh; long, not inelegant face, perfect teeth and silky skin; black hair, bobbed. Deep voice. She’d been head-hunted for the Mouth Corp from an internationally renowned management consultancy firm. Still under thirty.
‘May I call you Nina?’ I asked her with a smile.
‘Ah, yuh. Yuh, sure.’
‘Ms Boysert,’ I said, not smiling. ‘My life might be in danger. I’m not entirely sure from what you’ve been saying whether you’ve fully grasped that fact. I’m asking for help from my professional colleagues, and from the firm that employs me. Now-’
It was the ‘Now’ that did it. Phil jumped in after that.
Of course what I’d wanted to say was, Listen, bitch, fuck the Group, fuck the shareholders and fuck Sir Jamie, too; I was the one being bundled off into the depths of the East End in the middle of the night to have fuck knows what done to me, let’s focus on what’s best for me… but I’d reined myself in and come out with a little speech that I thought was far more polite, even with the sarky and probably unnecessary bit at the start about not using the woman’s first name.
‘I think Phil’s right,’ Boulen said, to whatever Phil had said (I’d kind of missed it, still glaring at Ms Corporate Good). ‘This is a legal matter and we have to take our lead from the police.’
‘Yuh, but I’m thinking, like, what about the publicity? I mean, this would be quite big news, yuh? I’m seeing the front page of the Standard; Top DJ’s Death Threat Hell. And a photograph, of course. Something like that, yuh? I mean, that’s big. We can’t ignore that; you almost can’t buy that.’
There was an awkward silence.
I said, ‘Are you for fucking real?’
‘Look, Ken!’ Phil said quickly, rising and clapping me on the shoulder. ‘You’ve had a tough couple of days; you don’t really need to be here. I can look after things. Why don’t I meet you in the Bough, half an hour, say? Yeah?’ He waggled his eyebrows at me. Guy Boulen was nodding fractionally, his expression somewhere between a grin and a grimace. Debbie was looking at the floor.
‘What a splendid idea.’ I got up, looked round them. ‘Excuse me.’
As I got to the door I heard a deep female voice say, ‘Was it something one of us said, yuh?’
‘Well done,’ Phil said, clinking glasses in the Groucho that evening. We were in the wee nook with the blue plaque, up in the snooker level. ‘You told the police what happened and, to my utter astonishment, you didn’t tell Nina Boysert exactly what you think of her. Proud of you.’
‘Thank you so fucking much. Do I get a badge or something? ’
‘I’m having a special commemorative medal struck tomorrow. ’
‘Did she shut the fuck up about leaking the story eventually or did you just throw her out the fucking window?’
‘That would be Option A there.’ Phil nodded. ‘Though it did take Boulen and I threatening to resign if she insisted on going ahead. I did also somewhat talk up your acquaintanceship with Sir Jamie; she might have got the impression that if anything happened you didn’t like, you’d take it up with the Dear Owner the next time you’re playing polo together.’
I shook my head, drank. ‘I bet she leaks it anyway.’
‘I don’t know.’ Phil thought. ‘Wouldn’t like to hazard a guess. But I wouldn’t be at all surprised. I’ve never met anybody who thought quite so much like a spreadsheet.’
‘Well, never mind. Fuck it. Fuck her.’
‘Hmm. Well, after you.’
‘Hey, look, Phil, can I stay at your place tonight?’
‘Jo’s away again, is she?’
‘Yeah. I hate sleeping alone on the boat.’
‘Well, no, you can’t. Sorry.’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘No.’
‘I’m vulnerable! Don’t abandon me!’
‘Stay with Craig.’
‘He’s got Nikki staying for the weekend.’
‘So?’
‘They don’t want me there.’
‘So get a hotel.’
‘I don’t want me there. I…’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Let me stay at yours, Phil. Come on. Please.’
‘No. You’re probably safe now; they know you’ll be wary.’
‘I’m trying to be fucking wary! That’s why I’m asking you to let me stay with you.’
‘No.’
‘Please.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I have a friend staying.’
‘What, the compulsively tidy jacket-cleaner?’
‘What about Ed?’
‘He’s away.’
‘Oh. Forgot to tell you; those Winsome people rang again, just before we left.’
‘The Breaking News company?’
‘Yes. The thing with this Holocaust denial bloke is back on. Second or third week in December, though that’s still tentative. ’
‘Tentative. Really. Right. But don’t go changing the subject. Come on; let me stay over. You’ll never know I’m there.’
‘No. Stay in a hotel, or go back to the boat.’
‘Look, man, I’m fucking frightened, don’t you understand?’
‘You have to face it sometime.’
‘I don’t want to fucking face it! I want to fucking live!’
‘Even so.’
‘I’m thinking about asking Ed to get me a gun.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’
Six. LONDON EYE
‘Nah, mate. Sorry, no.’
‘Ed! Come on!’
‘Na. Now, that’s wrong, Ken. You shouldn’t even have asked me. Let’s forget you did. Look at the view instead.’
I sighed and leaned back against the curve of glass. We were on the London Eye, riding one of the big, bulbous cars on its grand forty-minute rotation through the air. We were about two-thirds of the way round now, slowly descending. It was a bright end-of-November day and the air was clear. Most of Ed’s extended family were here, laughing and pointing and generally having a fun time. Ed had reserved the car for us. The blazered attendant and I were the only white people on board.
I’d become quite worried on the way up; it had suddenly struck me that the Eye would be a perfect terrorist target. The supporting legs stretched out behind it �
�� looking, I thought, a lot like the marching hammers in The Wall – splaying down to the ground by the side of the old GLC building… they and their supporting wires and cables suddenly appeared terribly vulnerable. Jesus, I’d thought; a big enough bomb there, blowing the whole structure forward to fall into the river just a bridge away from Westminster… but we were on the way down now, my atypical paranoia subsiding along with the gradually flattening view. Downriver, the tall white support towers of the new works on the Hungerford Bridge seemed to echo the architecture of the Eye itself.
Ed had just come back from DJing in Japan and this was the first chance I’d had to catch up with him. It had taken a good twenty-five minutes – and the passing of the best of the view at the top of the circle – for me to get him alone.
‘Would you get me a gun if I was black?’
‘Wot?’ Ed said loudly, incredulous. A few of his family turned and looked at us. I guess we’d made it obvious this was meant to be a private word. He lowered his voice. ‘Listen to youself, man. Ken! I mean, fuckin ell.’
I shook my head, patted his forearm and sat forward, my head in my hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, sighing. ‘I’m sorry, Ed. That was, that was truly, truly shit. I…’
‘Look, mate, I can see you’re really shaken up wif this. Don’t blame you.’ Ed leaned down so that he was level with me and he could say even more quietly, ‘But a shooter is not going to solve your problems. It’ll just add to them. Plob’ly.’
‘It’s only for self-defence,’ I said lamely. But I’d given up. I knew I wasn’t going to convince him. Worse, I knew he was probably right.
‘Yeah, that’s what they all say, chummy.’
‘You’re not denying you know people who could get me one though, are you?’
‘Course not. But come on, Ken,’ Ed said. He gestured at the mass of people in the car. ‘Look at this lot.’ I looked at them. They were a colourful, happy, mostly female bunch, all bright dresses and laughter and flashing smiles. You’d rarely see so many smiles in the one place these days. At least not without a bottle of pills. Ed’s mother saw me looking at her and waved, her smile as wide as the view of London. I returned the wave, and could not help but smile back at her. I was well in her good books because I’d remembered to tell her as we boarded the car that her hair looked wonderful. I mean, it did look good, but it wasn’t the sort of thing I’d usually comment on because, well, I’m a man… but Ed had given me the tip years ago that, with black women in particular, complimenting them on their hair was a bigger step into their affections than anything else he could think of, certainly than anything else he could think of that was free. At the time I’d told him this was appallingly cynical and accused him of belonging to that vast and mostly black movement: Sexists Against Racism, but of course I’d used it ruthlessly ever since.