“No, I don’t give a shit! I mean, it’s got nothing to do with me, has it? And she’s been going on and on about it, but I still don’t know what the fuck it was all about. Anyway, the other bird got Zoe once in the face but it ended up with her on the ground, face down, Zoe kneeling on her back whacking the back of her head with her own stiletto heel. There was blood, but I don’t think it was Zoe’s. I dragged her off and then we were pulled outside by the bouncers. Just as well, because from what I heard, she ended up being taken away in a fucking ambulance. Nah, man, the reason we’re not going to Alabama is because we got no hope of getting in if we’re with her.”
“Jesus. How did you hook up with her?”
“She used to come into the club with a guy, massive guy, looked like a boxer. Always lined up tequilas, like, six shots at a time between the two of them. I thought she was hot then. Then she started coming in without him. I asked her about it, she said they’d broken up. I said there must be a queue of guys waiting to take his place. I told her that her drink was on me, that she could get me back on my break. Half an hour later she was giving me head in the staff car park.”
“Holy shit, the life of a pirate.”
“Arrggh.” Ozzy growled and leaned forward conspiratorially. “That’s nothing mate. We’ve been going to a club. A sex club.”
“A what? Like a, a swingers club?”
Ozzy winked and smiled. “Oh yes,” he said. Zoe appeared.
“What happened to your face?” she said to Martin. “You look like you just saw your mama have a wank.”
“Em, I …”
Ozzy butted in, “I was telling him about the Sugar Club.”
“Ooh, I didn’t know you were that kind of friends! Bum chums are we?”
“No way, Marty is as into pussy as I am, babes.”
“Well there’s lots of that, and cock too, if you fancy trying it out. You look like you might, Martin. Eh? Go on, tell me I’m wrong.”
Martin took a sip from his cocktail. “Well, it would take a lot of these, I can tell you.”
They all laughed and drank some more.
The night started to loosen up. J.D.’s was getting full of girls in heels and guys with gelled hair. There was a queue outside the door, a steady stream coming in, all wanting to have a good time. The DJ was playing Motown remixes, and the beats were crisp and the bass and horns were pushing grooves, releasing regular movement into the air, which was making people move. Even if it was just a nodding of the head or the slight sway of the hips, no-one was standing still.
It was past ten and happy hour was over, but there were more drinks lined up on the bar than before. In this crowded space, in this big ground floor room in the city, there was a constant movement of fluid; the bar staff pouring and pouring and pouring, glasses filling up and emptying, people filling up and lining up for the toilets. In between they danced and laughed, moved around each other in group orbits.
Martin saw all around him the tight shirts and fake tans, the make-up and false eyelashes, the plays for attention, the back and to of friendships and unsaid wishes for something closer.
“How’s life at ICE?” he asked.
“Same as when you left. Billy is still a wanker, but you get on with it.”
“I don’t know how you work there,” Zoe said, “if he was my boss he’d be hanging by his balls by now.”
“Well, babes, he’s just a duty manager. Everyone wants so bad for him to fuck up, but he never puts a foot wrong. He thinks he’s so above the rest of us. If only being a bastard was a sackable offence. I’m sure everyone has complained about him at least once, but he’s hanging on in there.”
The more the club filled up the louder they had to talk, until within an hour Zoe was shouting in Martin’s ear. He had his head down, leaning into her and she was on her tiptoes with her hand on his shoulder. Martin had to close his eyes so he could concentrate on what she was saying, to keep the beats and swirling music out and to keep the words in, to stop them from disappearing as soon as they were spoken. It seemed like they were the only ones standing still, keeping their place in the club; around them the people danced and pushed past.
Every time Martin opened his eyes he was surrounded by people he hadn’t seen before, laughing and shouting at each other, making faces and exaggerating gestures. Martin couldn’t see Ozzy. He had started bantering with a group of lads and girls and been carried away with them in the tide of people and alcohol. He had by now probably hooked up with another cluster of revellers. Martin had stopped looking out for him a while ago. He was concentrating on what Zoe was shouting into his ear.
They were gradually getting pushed closer and closer together until now their bodies were against each other, his arm around her waist and her face was against his neck, and as he listened to her he could feel the vibration of the heavy dub beats travelling through her body. She was telling him about her last relationship.
“He totally did one on me. One year. He was always telling me how much he loved me. He bought me things and told me how much he loved me. One year. Then I got pregnant.”
Martin shouted back, “Did you want that? I mean, were you happy?”
“When I was a teenager I had cysts on my ovaries. They told me I could never have kids. So it was like a miracle. But one I hadn’t wished for, I had accepted the no kids thing. It took me fucking ages to work out, you know? But I decided that it must be fucking destiny or something. This might be the only guy who could ever give me kids. It’s now or never. And when I made that decision then I really wanted to go ahead with it. Full blast. It didn’t matter if I was ready or not, life happens, you know? I mean, fuck it, it’s a baby. It’s a life inside me. One I never thought I would have. So that’s that. Then he turns around and says he doesn’t want me to do it. So it’s like, the child or him. I mean fucking hell, you know? So he talks me out of the baby, promises me all sorts, all about our life together, what we’ll do, the stuff we’ll be able to do and have if there isn’t a baby in the way. On the Sunday—the abortion is booked for the Tuesday—on the Sunday I check his phone.”
“Why did you check his phone?”
“A feeling. He had been on the phone a lot, texting a lot; I just had a look through his messages when he was in the shower. It only took a minute before I found a whole bunch of messages. Two girls. Two other fucking girls he was fucking. Two.”
Martin opened his eyes to look at Zoe. Her face was so close to his now that when he turned his head her nose was touching his cheek. He couldn’t focus on her she was so close. He leaned back and looked her straight in the face. His neck was sore from bending down to listen. She really was much shorter than he was. Her eyes were welling with tears.
All of a sudden he could see her as a fifteen year old, cheated on for the first time by an older boyfriend. A boyfriend who had told her he loved her, that she was the most special girl in the world, that she was the only light in his dark sky. He could see her as a six year old whose teary-eyed mother had explained, as the back door shut and the car engine started outside, that no matter what happened between Mommy and Daddy they both still loved her.
He took a swig of beer from his bottle and saw Ozzy in the middle of the room, surrounded by a circle of guys. He was leaning back with his arms triumphantly aloft and his mouth wide open and one of the guys in the group was holding a jug of blue neon liquid above his face, tilting it slowly as the group began to cheer. Martin leaned down to Zoe again, putting his lips close to her ear, breathing in her sweet perfume and acidic hair spray. On her shoulder there were tattoos of bird silhouettes flying in a V formation.
“Shit. What did you do?”
“I went fucking ballistic. I wanted to rip his balls off.”
“I mean what did you do about the abortion?”
“I went through with it.”
“Fucking hell.”
“I know. Fucking hell.”
“What did Ozzy say when you told him all this?”
�
��Who? Ozzy?”
“Yeah, I bet he offered to track the guy down and do one on him or something.”
“Ozzy? I haven’t told Ozzy any of this. He doesn’t care about shit like this.”
“Really?”
“Ozzy is hot but he doesn’t have much else going on beyond what’s in his pants.”
“I’m a writer.”
“So what?”
“Oh. Well, writers have … they, em, feel differently, you know, insight.”
“You’re still a man. Go on then, what’s your insight?”
“Well, you shouldn’t have checked the fucking phone.”
With that Ozzy appeared behind Zoe, grabbing her round her waist. His goatee and ’stash were wet. His white t-shirt was stained blue around the collar. His bandana had disappeared and his dark hair was slicked back away from his forehead. He leaned down so his chin was on her shoulder and started singing along with the song that was being pumped into the air around them while pulling stupid faces and trying to lick Zoe’s cheek. Zoe started laughing and turned around to him, taking his face in her hands.
Martin headed for the bar. Behind the bar there was a mirror, and he saw himself among the line of faces. He did look more scruffy than any of them, like he had walked in looking for a different bar, or got confused with what night it was. Club night? I thought it was Wild West. He bought another three bottles and when he found his way back through the dancing shouting mass of people, Ozzy took his and said, “Nice one mate. Down these and we’ll head to the club. Whatcha reckon?”
Martin looked at them both. Zoe didn’t make eye contact, just pushed her face into Ozzy’s sweaty t-shirt. Ozzy gave a wink and a smile and took a swig from his beer bottle. When he smiled his brow creased and deep lines shot out from the corners of his eyes. Martin saw him for a moment as an old man, making lewd comments to younger men about the busty woman at the shop counter, nudging them into uneasy assent with his elbow in their ribs.
Martin drank from his bottle and looked around. Besides Ozzy and Zoe, he had no connection with anyone else in this densely packed room of revellers. And how much did he know about Ozzy? They had known each other for a few years; he was the only person besides Alison that Martin could call a good friend. And yet within a few hours of meeting Zoe he had found out more about her than he knew about Ozzy in years of friendship. Or maybe there just wasn’t that much to know about Ozzy. Well, he hadn’t thought that he was the kind of guy who would go a swingers club. So, who knew? Not me, thought Martin. Well, he doesn’t really know me. Maybe we don’t know each other at all.
“Yeah sure,” he said, “might as well see what it’s all about.”
Outside looking for a taxi, Martin could see the tide of alcohol had come in and the city street was flooded with bunches of people clinging to each other, laughing, shouting, guys with red eyes and shirts undone, girls stumbling in heels, police standing by, and ambulances lined up at the end of the road. It was still pretty early too, only turned midnight.
“How far is it?” he asked as a taxi pulled up alongside them.
“Really not far,” Ozzy said and climbed into the back seat with Zoe, leaving Martin to get in the front. Ozzy told the driver an address and they were off. Within minutes the taxi had stopped and Ozzy was telling the driver to wait, that they would be back in a minute, Martin would sit with him.
“Just gonna get changed mate,” Ozzy said, as he and Zoe slipped out of the back seat.
“Am I—” Martin started, but the door shut before he could finish his question. The taxi driver sat mute, staring ahead, and Martin fished around in his head for things to say. It didn’t seem natural, the two of them sitting next to each other silently, looking straight ahead at a road that wasn’t moving.
Martin turned in his seat. The driver looked Indian, with tight greying hair, thin strips of grey stubble straps holding a thick straight beard, like an extension of his chin. His upper lip had no hair. The grey of his hair and beard spread into his face and his dark skin had an eerie pallor. His eyes had a yellow tinge. Maybe it was just the light, but to Martin he looked like a zombie from a Bollywood movie. He wasn’t moving. It was hard to put an age on him but Martin guessed he had died some time in his early sixties.
“Hey. The chances are,” Martin said, “that you and I will never meet again. I hardly ever come into the city these days, and there are thousands of taxis, right?” The driver didn’t turn his head, just looked sideways at him. Martin couldn’t read his expression. Besides his eyes, nothing in his face or body had changed. He continued. “Now Ozzy won’t be long getting changed, he’ll just throw a t-shirt on, so while it’s just you and me, you can tell me. You don’t have to go into detail, but what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? What’s the thing you’ve done that you’re most ashamed of?”
The driver shifted his gaze back to out of the windscreen. He didn’t make a sound.
“There must be something, just one thing, that when you think about it, it tears you up inside, something you wish you didn’t have to carry around. I won’t tell a soul, it won’t go beyond this moment. Tell me, go on.” Besides the sound of traffic passing, Martin couldn’t hear a thing, not even the sound of the driver’s breathing. He straightened up in his seat, once again looking out of the windscreen.
“Okay, I won’t even look at you, just go ahead and let it out. Honestly now, I won’t tell a soul.” The silence and stillness continued until the back door opened and Ozzy got back in the car.
“She’ll be down in a second.” Sure enough, Ozzy had just put another t-shirt on, but also his black leather jacket and a new red bandana. The smell of fresh aftershave circulated around the stale air of the taxi. Martin turned around in his seat.
“Are you sure this is cool, me coming with you guys?”
“It’ll be fine. You should check it out if you’ve never been. I mean, once we’re in, you won’t hang out with us, you can do your own thing. We usually split up anyway.”
“Really? How does that, em, well, don’t you get jealous?”
“She was the one who introduced me to it. She was a free spirit from the start, so who am I to try and change her? But the first few times, yeah, I thought I should, you know, hang around with her, but it soon became obvious I’d be better off finding my own fuck. That way there’s no jealousy, because I’m too busy to think about her. Thing is, when we get back afterwards we always have a crazy time ourselves. It’s like fuel; the feeling lasts for days.”
Martin glanced at the driver. He still hadn’t moved a muscle or shown any sign that he was hearing what was being said. Zoe was approaching the car. She had changed into a short skirt and heels, with the same netted top. Her legs were pale and rather shapeless, her calves were stocky, and her knees and ankles were thick. She carried a little backpack over her shoulder. She had put more eye make-up on, black lines around her eyes and her lips were a bright red. As she opened the door Ozzy gave another address to the driver who nodded, pressed his fare button and pulled out onto the road. In the back Zoe leaned into Ozzy, working her hands under his jacket and hugging him, and he kissed the top of her head. Martin watched the numbers of the fare go up and up, and the street lights approach and pass like the same frame of film repeated.
***
Chapter Ten
Henry’s phone rings. It wakes him. The sun is shining a line down the bed through the curtains and it blinds him as he sits up. The sheets cling to his skin, the thin material rising with him off the mattress then peeling slowly away from his sweaty back as he leans forward and reaches down to the end of the bed. He can hear the phone vibrate somewhere on the ground, rattling on the bare boards. His head throbs and he closes his eyes as his hands feel around in the tangle of clothes at the end of the bed. Pockets, loose change, crushed cigarette packet, wallet, phone. He opens his eyes to look at the display. Unknown number. He answers.
“Hello? Hello, is this Mr. Bloomburg?”
“Speaking.”
“Mr. Bloomburg the detective?”
“Speaking.”
“I’d like to hire you.”
Henry closes his eyes again. Well, she doesn’t sound upset, this isn’t spur of the moment, she’s thought about it. I bet it’s a follow job. She sounds tired, like it’s the end of the day.
“Okay, well, what does it involve?”
“I want you to follow my husband.”
“Do you think he’s having an affair?”
“I know he is.”
“Well Mrs. …”
“Call me Maya.”
Maya, not a common name. Maya, the illusion. Henry has an image of her. Dark complexion, thick black hair, brown eyes.
“Well, Maya, I will be in my office in, eh, fifteen minutes if you want to call back then and well, I can take some details and tell you what I do.”
“Fifteen minutes? Did I disturb you, Mr. Bloomburg?”
“Is that okay for you, or do you want to call later?”
“I’ll call in fifteen minutes, thank you.”
“Okay, talk then.”
Henry flops back onto his bed with his phone still in his hand and pulls the cover over his head. Ten minutes. Ten minutes more.
The pounding of the digger on the road outside starts. A hydraulic arm, arched like a steel insect on the skin of the city, jabbing the street. Henry counts the impacts. Fifteen. Then a rest. Other sounds drift into focus, and symphonise the dull drone of the city, before the machine attacks again, and they scatter. Over and over again. The digger has been outside his apartment for what seems like weeks. It’s moved a few feet. No, he’s not going to be able to rest. He gets out of the bed and pulls off the sweat-covered sheets.
In the small dingy kitchen the window looks out to a brick wall opposite. Henry pulls up the window, letting the humid air of the alley into his narrow kitchen. He pulls out sheets from the washer/dryer and puts the others in. He goes back into the dark bedroom with the one solid bar of daylight cutting across the bed and puts the clean sheets on. The mattress is still damp with sweat.
The Fly Guy Page 8