The Fly Guy

by Colum Sanson-Regan

  Food was less of a priority now, and dinner tended to be something he or Alison could throw together quickly before they went back to the sofa. Alison would tell Martin about the other people in the company, about their personalities and quirks and behaviours, about who she got on with and why she didn’t get on with others.

  Some nights Martin would take himself up to the writing room with a glass of wine and sit amongst the piles of paper, the pages on the walls around him covered in sketches, hand drawn maps and timelines with words or phrases circled and underlined, and he would open up his file and reread what he had sent to Noire.

  He had finally pressed Send. That was weeks ago. He’d received no reply. He hadn’t told Alison. He would stand with his back to his desk, looking out the window, toward the dark shapes of the hills beyond against the night sky. One night Alison came into the room and stood behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and putting her chin on his shoulder.

  “When will it be time?” she said. “It’s got to be time sometime.”

  Martin didn’t say anything. One of the papers stuck to the wall had a sketch of Henry. His hair was unruly as if he was in a strong wind, and he was wearing a suit jacket and jeans. His eyes were just black dots. He had stubble, little black pen marks all around his jaw and chin. The paper was curled at the edges. Martin guessed it was four years old. Older than the house they were standing in. He couldn’t remember drawing it. He thought it was like a police sketch of a missing person. People go missing all the time. Sometimes they are found, sometimes they are not.

  “Do you fancy going out for a drink?” Martin said.

  “Now? I’m ready for bed.”

  “I’m going to go out. I need to go out after that week. Isn’t that what working people do? Go out on a Friday and let their hair down? I’m going to catch the next train.”

  Twenty-five minutes later he was stepping into the train carriage. It was dark outside and the windows showed him sitting with his jacket buttoned right up to his chin and a winter hat pulled low over his brow. He sent a text to Ozzy, You working? Just before the train pulled in to the station he got a reply. Yes I am. Martin went straight to ICE.

  The queue was about fifty people long, so he walked to the front, but didn’t recognise the doorman. I guess it’s been a while since I’ve been here, he thought, as he walked back and stood last in line.

  The group in front of him were mixed boys and girls in their early twenties. They were laughing and shoving each other. A few of them had tried to pull a fast one on one of their friends, telling him that the club night was a gender bender night and that they were all going to turn up in drag, in the hope that he’d fall for it and be in a skirt and heels when they met up. He didn’t fall for it. All he had to do was check the venue website. The funny thing was though, that his Dad was a transvestite, so had it been a gender bender night he would have had a selection of outfits to choose from. That was why his Mum had left them when he was thirteen. There was more laughter in the group and some smart comments from the guys, like father like son, and one of the girls moved next to the guy and put her arm around him. The queue moved on. From behind him he could hear a conversation, Well I just hope Kyle isn’t in tonight, he always makes a cock of himself. Do you remember the time he took a shit in a glass?

  Across the road was another queue for another club, another line of people disappearing slowly through the dark doors, dressed for the hedonistic ceremony, a steady feed of young flesh into a mouth of the old city.

  When Martin finally got through the doors of ICE he went straight to the bar. He spotted Ozzy mixing cocktails at the far end and headed there. He squeezed past girls in tight tops and guys with their biceps and bulked chests straining against their thin t-shirts.

  Ozzy spotted him. He winked at him as he spun the mixer into the air and caught it as he spun a bottle in the other hand. There were whoops from the people at the bar as he threw ice into the air, stepped forward, and caught the ice in the glass behind his back. Martin knew that it would be a while before Ozzy would be finished with his performance and when he was he’d have a list of orders to get through and a crowd of people wanting more. His goatee had grown and was now even more groomed and waxed, like a Victorian magician. His bandana was a bright orange and his eyes and smile looked as mischievous as ever.

  Martin ordered a drink, a brandy and coke. The bar lady asked did he want a double and without hesitation he said yes. He handed his money over, took his glass and tried to find a place to put himself. He ended up against the back wall, at the far end of the bar. When Ozzy finally came to him, he was grinning broadly and carrying a tall frosted glass with a straw. He put it in front of Martin.

  “For you, on the house, try it out.”

  “What is it?” Martin asked picking up the glass and smelling it.

  “Something special I threw together.”

  “Well, okay then, cheers,” Martin said and took the straw in his mouth and sucked. His mouth was awash with a liquid that was cold, smooth, and dark. He could taste caramel and almond. Then the undercurrent of whiskey kicked in, rich and earthy. He thought of the weeds and nettles creeping over and through the new clean fences of New Acre. “Mmm, this is dangerous, I can tell.”

  “The ones that taste the best are always the most dangerous,” Ozzy said and slapped him on the back. “I see you’ve ditched the hermit in the cabin in the woods look. You’ve lost a bit of weight. Now it’s more of a …” he leaned back from the bar and cocked his head to the side, twisting his mouth and tugging at the end of his waxed ’stash. “More of a moderately successful mid-management with a pad in the city type, out on the town looking to make a love investment.”

  They laughed. Four men bundled to the bar and Ozzy snapped to attention.

  “Gentlemen! What can I get for you?”

  “What’s going to get us drunkest, fastest for cheapest?” said one, and the others all laughed. Ozzy shot a sideward glance and a raised eyebrow to Martin, who put the straw back in his mouth and looked down.

  Martin liked watching Ozzy work, how he spun the bottles, snapping them into position high above the glass when he was pouring. How he moved quickly and surely, with confidence and how he always stopped for a moment to gauge the customer’s reaction when they took their first taste of the cocktail he had prepared. Martin could tell when Ozzy fancied the girls he was serving from the way he leaned forward, one hand on the bar and his other hand behind him on his hip, or how he stroked his goatee as they ordered. He lined up a row of shot glasses for the group of men and poured.

  Martin could feel the noise and heat of the club getting into his skin. As he sipped at his drink he was sure it was unlocking something at the base of his skull, right where his spine stopped. It felt like a thick liquid was seeping forward, slowly filling up his head. He liked it. His straw made a rattling sound and he put his empty glass on the bar. When Ozzy came back his way, Martin winked and pushed the empty glass toward him. Ozzy smiled and went off to prepare another one.

  As the night wore on Martin stayed in his position at the end of the bar, drinking frosted glass after frosted glass and feeling his head fill up with thick slow-moving liquid. By the time Ozzy said he was going to take a break and go out back for a smoke, Martin felt unsteady on his feet. In the staff car park Ozzy rolled a cigarette and passed it to him. The night was cold and Martin clutched his coat around him as he puffed.

  “So, are you out for the night? You want to crash at mine? Do you have an agenda beyond drinking?” Ozzy asked as he rolled another cigarette.

  Martin threw his half-finished cigarette to the ground. It had started to make him feel ill. The smoke inside him had reacted with the heavy alcohol. He felt like a swamp.

  “No, I’ve got no plan. I guessed I’d get a taxi back, unless something happens worth sticking round for.”

  “Well I’m here till three and then I got to close the place down, so it’s going to be four before I can do anything cr
azy.”

  “I don’t think I’ll stick around till then, although I am enjoying those cocktails.”

  “Is Alison expecting you back?”

  “I guess so, we didn’t really talk about it.”

  Martin pushed his hands into his pockets and started gently kicking the wall. It was cold standing still. Ozzy puffed a big cloud of smoke into the air.

  “How are things with you guys? She got a ring on her finger yet?”

  “Ring? Fuck no.” He laughed for a second. Its sound was forced and it reverberated around them, like a dog bark. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Well isn’t that what she’s expecting? You to pop the question? When things last a certain time, that’s the next step, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t believe I’m getting relationship advice from you, of all people.”

  “No, no, I wouldn’t give advice, I’m just asking. I mean it’s just a matter of time right? A baby or a big white dress, that’s what they want.”

  “Ozzy, you should stick to mixing drinks and shagging skinny drunk girls.”

  “Well, now that you mention skinny drunk girls, did you see the two in the denim shorts? One brunette, one blonde?” and he continued to talk about the chances of getting them both into bed. Martin laughed along but couldn’t help feeling discomforted by what Ozzy had said about Alison. He started to feel the cold of the night get under his skin. By the time they went back inside his teeth had started chattering.

  When he resumed his position at the bar he realised how drunk he was. Ozzy asked him did he want another and he said yes.

  As he was waiting he thought again about Alison. What did she want of him? They had been out for a meal during the week, to celebrate Martin’s job. They didn’t go to the usual Italian place, they came right into the city, to a place called Twin70. Alison had been told about it in the office. Martin told her how much she meant to him, how appreciative he was of everything she’d done for them. All this time he’d been working on the book it had seemed like she’d been the one providing everything. At least he had something of his own now, the job. He had somewhere of his own, the printing room. The book was nearly done, he would be done soon. He didn’t tell her he hadn’t written anything in months.

  The young guy from the queue with the transvestite dad appeared at the bar. The girl who had put her arm around him was there, too. As they waited for their drinks they kissed. Martin heard her say something about him trying her clothes on if he wanted. The guy’s hands moved down her back and clutched her bum. She moved even closer to him as he reached lower and put his fingers to the edge of her short skirt. She reached behind and took his hand and moved it round the front. As they kissed more passionately, she massaged his groin and his hand disappeared up her skirt.

  Ozzy clunked two bottles down on the bar in front of them and coughed loudly. They broke off and the guy paid for the drinks before they moved away from the bar and against the back wall next to Martin. They resumed kissing. Now that they were next to him instead of in front of him Martin couldn’t see exactly what was going on but he could hear the girl’s breath and high pitched squeaks get more intense. He turned away so his back was to them.

  Ozzy slid another frosted glass in front of him and said, “Don’t get too close.” Another girl came to the bar next to him with some friends and was saying, “So, I’m never going to go to Madrid again, not after that, he wasn’t exactly a good ad for the tourist board,” and they all laughed. One of the group looked like Zoe, but Zoe if her parents had stayed together and she had stayed at school and she had met somebody who loved her, even for a while. Maybe it was. Behind the group of girls two guys were trying to talk above the sound of the club, shouting at each other.

  “Heart attack,” one was shouting.

  “Catheter?” the other shouted back.

  “Heart attack.”

  “Panther? That’s how he died?”

  “Heart attack.”

  “Yeah, cat attack, weird, panther, wow.”

  “Panther?”

  “What?”

  The moaning beside him was getting louder. The group of girls were lining up their drinks on the bar. Zoe looked so pretty as she waited for hers to be poured, and so happy to be with her friends. Martin picked up his glass and felt the room warp as he sucked and sucked on the straw. He leaned over to the group and said, “So what happened in Madrid?”

  The girl who had been telling the story said, “What? What’s that?”

  “Well, I used to live there, in Madrid, I have contacts, you know, I might know him.”

  The girl shot a look to her friends and said to him, “Not likely,” and turned away. The rest of the group angled themselves away from him, too, and one of them gestured to the other side of the bar. As they gathered up their drinks, Martin saw a tattoo on Zoe’s shoulder, bird silhouettes flying in a V formation. He leaned over again, stretching so that his face appeared over her shoulder and he said, “Who are your friends?”

  She flinched and said, “What?”

  “Are you going to be hanging around with them all night?”

  She didn’t even look at him again, just moved away, joining with the group as they moved away, slipping through the gaps between bodies in the crowded club. Martin was left leaning into space for a moment, but in seconds the space had filled with others, and he disappeared again.

  The bodies and reaching limbs and jerky heads were all anxious to get to the bar, where Ozzy was still spinning bottles and juggling glasses. Martin straightened up and turned to the bar. Ozzy caught his eye and held his hand like a gun and shot it at him. Martin sucked on the straw until the ice rattled again, and slid the empty glass across the bar. Ozzy winked and soon it was full again. As Ozzy put the full glass in front of him he said, “I see you haven’t lost your touch with the ladies,” and then he was at it again, straightening to attention and taking orders, dutifully facilitating the indulgence that the club encouraged, with every pour pushing the clientele closer to the brink, and doing it with charm.

  It was before three when Martin leaned over the bar to Ozzy and announced he was going to go. Ozzy broke off from talking to the blonde in the denim shorts and straightened up. “Are you sure, mate? You’re welcome to hang if you want.” Martin declined with a wave of his hand and a bow of his head and made his way to the door, bumping into people as he went. When he got outside he put his hands in his pockets and his head down and started to walk. He walked away from the clubs and the late bars and hailed a taxi. One stopped and he climbed into the back and asked, “Do you know the Sugar Club?”

  The driver said, “Up on Church Way?” Martin agreed and they were off. It was warm in the taxi. The driver had the radio on, a voice in a language Martin didn’t understand. Martin felt comforted by the rhythm of the speech, it wasn’t rushed, it didn’t sound dramatic, it felt like it skipped along with the slow rhythm of a nursery rhyme. He was sure that if he knew what the voice was talking about it would soothe him, reassure him.

  Then they were taking the turning at the boarded-up pub on the corner and then they were there, and Martin was paying the driver and standing in front of the door. There was the five-point star. Martin heard the taxi pull away and stood for a moment more.

  He turned and started to walk away. He got to the corner and stood in front of the boarded-up window of the pub. There was graffiti on the wood. Judy’s a slag. Don’t run from the gun. Southerners take it up the ass. A stencil of a tiger on top of a turntable with Roar Records written underneath it. Call me for a good time with a number. He put his hand in his pocket and touched himself.

  He turned back and walked back to the Sugar Club door. He knocked. It was opened by the bat-eared bouncer. Martin smiled and said, Hi. The bouncer said, No single males after eleven thirty, and closed the door. Martin knocked again. When it opened he started to say, I’m just looking for—but the bouncer said, I’m not going to tell you again to fuck off, you’re not coming in. Fuck off, and close
d the door again.

  Martin stood alone and cold on the pavement. He put his hand back in his pocket and squeezed. He walked the other way, away from the abandoned pub. In the back of his mind was the idea of finding another way in. He thought of all the people in the nightclub, all of the connections being made. He thought of the club with Andre and Cassandra, and all of the shaking of hands and exchanging of cards. He needed to make contact, some kind of contact.

  He ended up walking and walking, further and further into housing estates, across roads with cars parked tail to tail on either side, past shops with shutters down and lights that flickered and shone on an unmoving street. He didn’t see anyone. How am I the only one moving? he thought. He passed parks and basketball courts and school gates and fences and driveways and flats and houses and terraces.

  Ahead of him he saw a figure cross the road. The figure wore a long black coat, and walked in high heels. At a crossroads ahead, it turned left. Martin picked up his pace and when he got to the junction looked to the left, and there was the figure, closer now but still walking away. A wind came rushing up the road. It blew strong into his face and blew the long hair of the figure into the air for a moment. Martin faced the wind and followed the long dark coat and thin heels clicking on the pavement. The figure glanced over its shoulder and then started to run. Martin took his hands from his pockets and started to run, too. The figure stopped at a parked car and opened it, then climbed in and started the engine. The lights shone straight at Martin, and as it drove past him, he put his hands back in his pockets, and ducked his head into his chest. He felt an ache deep inside his stomach. Then the car was gone and the streets were quiet again.

  He walked and walked until he could hear the sound of gulls above the roofs. The sharp calls reverberated around the buildings around him. They were like sudden spontaneous utterances of truth breaking through the weary city. If only he could understand them. He walked closer to the calls and they were overtaken by the sound of engines passing, each one an aggressive crescendo then a trail of noise, fading with a disappointed whine. He came to the main road and lifted his hand until a taxi stopped.