London and the South-East

by David Szalay

  He has stopped making the spliff, and is simply sitting on the couch, his spine a dejected curve, his white forearms resting on his white knees. The possibility of sleep seems to have been driven away by his dwelling on these things.

  He did not tell them, his six recruits, until Saturday afternoon that the move was on for tomorrow – today. He phoned them when he had finished with the tree, still out in the cold, dying garden, with wet sawdust on his shoes. His forehead was frosted with sweat. There was an excitement about it. He felt like Hannibal, or whatever his name is, in The A-Team – the one who loves it when a plan comes together. He had intended to phone them on his way home after seeing Eddy in the Cardinal, but at Jaw’s suggestion had waited until the weekend. As Eddy pointed out, if he told them on Thursday, some of them might not show up for work on Friday, which would have led to unnecessary suspicion. He licks the adhesive strip of the paper and, without finesse, rolls the joint. This done, he compacts its contents with the blunt point of a plastic chopstick kept specifically for the purpose, and twists the paper at the end. He snips off the resulting bow with a pair of nail scissors.

  Though he has been doing so sporadically all weekend, he has still not entirely sifted his memories of Friday night – the Pig’s birthday, and inevitably, under the circumstances, a strange occasion. Murray, in particular, had been grotesquely drunk. All afternoon in the Penderel’s Oak he had been drinking determinedly and, too far gone for anything else, he kept trying to start renditions of ‘Happy Birthday’. For a while people sang along, but eventually they just stopped joining in, and on the final occasion – perhaps the fifth – he found himself singing solo. Once he had started, it would have been more embarrassing to stop – that was obviously what he thought – but it was painful, unpleasant, to watch him press on alone, slurring and out of tune, in spite of the horror of the situation, which was visible in his eyes, though his mouth was still trying to smile.

  Later he vomited on the floor of the toilets in the Indian. Paul saw him suddenly white out, and stagger from the table. When he sat down again, he was a more normal colour. ‘That’s fucking disgusting,’ he said, not making eye contact with his curry. ‘Someone’s sicked up in the toilets. On the floor.’ Everyone must have known it was him. They had all, surely, seen the urgent way he staggered to his feet, felling his chair. But the Pig was still engrossed in his food, mopping out a metal bowl with a naan, and his wife Angel, who was almost as drunk as Murray, seemed to take what he said at face value, expressing voluble, almost hysterical disgust. Andy did not seem to hear, seemed to be thinking about something else. They had been in the restaurant – a small, old-style Indian, dark, with barely audible sitar music, and a heavy, soporific atmosphere – for a long time. It seemed like hours. They were practically the only people there, and their conversation, what little there was of it, could be effortlessly overheard by the two unoccupied waiters standing near the kitchen door. The obvious weary boredom of these waiters did nothing to enliven the atmosphere. When Murray announced that ‘someone’ had thrown up on the floor of the Gents, Paul saw them glance at each other. Then one of them went into the toilet. A moment later he emerged, looking shaken.

  Paul did not feel well himself. He felt bloated with beer and curry. No longer drunk, though not sober either. Quite downcast, in fact. To be there, at the end, with Murray and Andy, both of them oblivious to what was looming, was not what he had wanted. He wished that Murray was not so drunk. Why was Murray so drunk? There was something dark and miserable about his drunkenness. Andy, too, was strangely silent and withdrawn – smoking sullenly, he stared at the exit. And Paul was aware that he himself must have seemed preoccupied and morose. (It had appalled him how he had been unable, all morning in the office, to act normally – people had been asking him if he was okay.) Only the Pig and Angel seemed their ordinary selves. The Pig untalkative and indifferent, and Angel, wearing a pink T-shirt with Angel picked out in rhinestones, her face pockmarked, motor-mouthing on her own for minutes at a time. She had an American accent with a tangy Hispanic twist. The Pig had brought her back from the Philippines, and must – Paul thought, as she talked and talked – weigh several times more than her. What were those monstrous things he had seen on television? Elephant seals … The celebrations, the festivities, had begun hours before, in daylight, in the Penderel’s Oak, and she had been drinking vodka Red Bulls since noon – at one point flirting drunkenly with Andy, sitting in his lap, unbuttoning his shirt and putting her hand inside it. This was not unusual. Embarrassed, Andy tried to stop her, while the Pig looked on with apparent indifference.

  It had been a long, smoky, beery afternoon, and Paul had not been in the mood for it. He had worked his way joylessly through the pints and a whole pack of B&H, occasionally trying to make conversation with the Pig, who showed no sign of nervousness or sentimentality in view of the fact that this was, as he must have known, the last day. The only time a melancholy note entered his voice was when he murmured, staring after his wife as she minced to the Ladies, ‘She used to have an arse like a little boy.’ He then told the story – which they had all already heard – of how, when she had been out visiting her family in the Philippines, he had sent her a photo of himself being fellated by her, which her father, a devout Catholic, had found. He had no way of knowing that the man in the photo was Mortished – only a central tranche of his doughy Caucasian body was shown – but even if he had known, it is unlikely to have made a difference. When he threw her out of the house (seeing her emerge from the Ladies, the Pig wraps the story up quickly, in a low voice) she returned to London, and fellated him in the toilets of the arrivals lounge at Heathrow, as she had promised she would if he met her at the airport. Andy laughed heartily and said, ‘Excellent,’ as though he had never heard the story before. Paul merely smiled.

  Whenever he saw Michaela’s little ski-jump nose – and he often turned his head to look for it – he experienced a surge of sentiment, triste and soggy. It saddened him that he would not see her any more. Sometimes it seemed to undermine the whole point of the move. It was already dark outside when he found himself facing her – he was buying a round, having to half shout to make himself heard. And he found himself telling her that he was moving on – it was madness, madness, Lawrence was in the pub – telling her that he was moving on and up, and inviting her to join him for a drink at Number One Aldwych. ‘We should go for a drink sometime, Michaela,’ he was saying, trying to sound as if the idea had suddenly occurred to him, sorting through the coins in the palm of his hand. She laughed – a slightly forced, uneasy laugh. ‘What about the bar at Number One Aldwych? I hear that’s quite nice.’

  ‘Yeah, I hear it is.’ Her eyes were on the filling pint pot. ‘Quite pricey, though, isn’t it?’

  He shrugged, as if to say, ‘What of it?’ And she laughed again – exactly the same slightly forced, uneasy laugh. ‘Well?’ He was not joking. She turned and stretched her key out to spring the till (the key was attached to the waist of her skirt with a tight flex like that of a phone’s handset) and as she did so she dropped one of the coins. She stooped, and Paul saw a narrow ellipse of ivory skin open between her black skirt and white blouse. She seemed to be able to feel his eyes on it, and put her hand over it for a second, until she stood up. She passed him his change with a short smile, and immediately started to serve someone else. Did she not understand? he thought, manoeuvring his way through the Friday-night mob. Did she not understand that this was it?

  Unless – he thought later, in the dripping peace of the Gents – unless of course it was not it. Unless he returned next week, even in the new year, pulling up in a taxi outside, entering the pub in a pinstriped suit and ordering a bottle of champagne – they keep a single bottle of Dom Perignon, he has noticed, in the window-fronted fridge under the till … He would be transformed then – that transformation the whole point of the move he was making – a new Paul to present to her, to take her away from this unpleasant place. And he smiled and washed
his hands.

  Only when they left the pub, at about eight thirty, in search of a restaurant, did the meagreness of the party become apparent. While they were still in the Penderel’s Oak, and especially after five o’clock, various people had attached themselves, temporarily as it turned out, to the occasion – Simona, Neil, some members of the Pig’s team whose names Paul did not know, even Lawrence – giving the impression that there would be a sizeable group going on to the meal. In the end there were only five of them. They waited for a few minutes on the pavement in front of the pub, as if expecting others to follow, but when it became obvious that this was not going to happen – Andy went in to hurry them up, and came out, still alone, shrugging and shaking his head – they wandered off. The Pig and Angel walked ahead, Paul following with Murray and Andy – forced until the very end, he thought, to live out a hypocritical show of mateyness. It was exactly what he had not wanted. They walked in silence – and Murray, Paul felt, was pointedly ignoring him. So much so that he wondered whether he knew something – had someone told him what was going to happen? Had Michaela said something? It had been stupid – so stupid – to tell her. For whatever reason, something seemed to have changed that day, because since the sharp exchange in the smoking room, the past two weeks had been more or less normal. ‘Where the fuck are we going?’ Paul muttered. Neither Murray nor Andy made any reply. They were trudging up Gray’s Inn Road, trailing Angel and the Pig. Murray did not look well – though he strode with drunken assurance, his world was disconcertingly fluid. Andy was smoking a spliff, which he passed first to Murray, whose face turned noticeably paler with each inhalation, and then to Paul. The traffic poured past. Ahead of them, the others had stopped, and were waiting at the cola-coloured glass front of an isolated curry house.

  Paul looked at his watch. It was quarter to eleven. They had been in the dead, velvet interior of the Indian for nearly two hours. Having finished, the Pig slowly reached into the pocket of his suit jacket, which was slung over the back of his chair, and withdrew his cigarettes. He opened the pack and extracted one, and then reached into the other pocket of his jacket for his lighter. Unhurriedly, he lit the cigarette, and savoured the grey smoke. ‘Should we go then?’ Paul said, twitchy with impatience. The sitar music, though almost inaudible – or perhaps for that reason – had long been playing havoc with his fragile nerves. The Pig shook his head, and said, ‘We can’t.’ And there was something about the way he said it – the immovable grim finality – that took Paul to the edge of panic. ‘What do you mean, we can’t?’

  ‘We’ve got to wait for Jaw.’

  ‘Eddy Jaw? Is coming here?’

  ‘Yeah,’ the Pig said.

  Andy seemed to be falling asleep. Murray, too, was vacant – inscrutable with post-emetic exhaustion. Even Angel had stopped.

  ‘When?’ Paul said, moving in his seat. He had, he noticed, lit a cigarette.

  ‘He said about eleven.’

  The waiter started to go round the table, piling up plates and metal balti dishes in the crook of his arm. The Pig ordered another pint of lager, and another vodka and Coke for Angel. The waiter nodded humbly. ‘And then what?’ Paul said.

  ‘And then what? What do you mean?’

  ‘Have you got any plans for later?’

  The Pig just shrugged. No doubt there would be a taxi. Eddy might have some coke. There might be pole dancing. A dark, airless, deafening club. Murray was staring with bloodshot eyes at the shadowy right angle where the floor carpet met the wall carpet, as if wanting to lie down there and sleep. ‘I might go, mate,’ Paul said. ‘I’ve got to get back. You know.’ Again the Pig shrugged. ‘Whatever,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, I’m gonna go.’

  ‘You gonna leave some money then?’

  ‘Of course.’ Paul took out his wallet. ‘How much is it going to be? Let’s just split it. Could we have the bill please?’ he called, with some urgency, to the waiter loitering by the kitchen door, who nodded and disappeared somewhere. For a few minutes, they waited in silence.

  ‘You don’t want to stay and see Jaw?’ the Pig said.

  Paul looked at him irritably. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not interested in seeing Eddy Jaw?’

  ‘I’ve got to go, Dave.’

  ‘All right.’

  Then, a minute later, the Pig went on, ‘It’s just that you’ve not seen him in a while, I don’t think. And who knows when you might have a chance to see him again.’

  Why are you doing this? Paul thought. He stared at him – stared for a few moments into his mild blue eyes, trying to understand. He must surely have known that Paul would see Eddy on Monday, that he would be seeing him every day for the foreseeable future. Was this an act, then, played for the benefit of Murray? Or Andy, half asleep, his head fallen forward, his eyes taking in the grease-stained, rice-scattered tablecloth? It occurred to Paul that the Pig might not know that he too had been approached by Eddy Jaw. Whether he knew or not, he must suspect it – and there was something strange, knowing, not entirely innocent, about the way he had mentioned him. ‘I saw him a few weeks ago,’ Paul said.

  ‘Oh, did you? Fair enough.’

  The waiter approached with the lager and vodka-Coke.

  ‘The bill, please,’ Paul said firmly. He had a pressing sense of hurry, did not want to be there when Eddy arrived.

  ‘Where’d you see him?’ the Pig asked.

  ‘Where did I see him? I saw him in the Penderel’s Oak. I think you were there, weren’t you?’

  ‘When was this?’ Murray said.

  ‘Three, four weeks ago. I can’t remember exactly.’

  ‘Jaw was in the Penderel’s?’ The situation, Paul felt, was suddenly threatening. He thought he sensed some sort of understanding between Murray and the Pig, and told himself not to be paranoid. He was under stress. Exhausted. Irritable. Not sober. ‘You know he was,’ he said to Murray. ‘I saw you talking to him.’

  Murray shook his head. ‘I don’t remember. When?’

  ‘It was the day you had that bust-up with Marlon.’

  Murray did not like this being mentioned – especially as Andy, though semi-conscious, seemed to smile. Murray smiled himself, in a pained, nervous way. ‘Yeah, well … I was fucking pissed that night,’ he said. ‘I don’t remember much about it.’

  ‘There’s not much to remember. Jaw was there and you spoke to him. That’s all.’

  The waiter set the folded bill down in front of him, on a saucer with several mints. ‘Thanks,’ Paul said, pleased to be able to change the subject without seeming overly keen to. ‘So, the damage …’

  ‘He’s here,’ the Pig said grimly.

  Paul, who was sitting with his back to the entrance, turned and saw a large figure, who had just entered, being accosted by one of the waiters, and asked if he wanted a table. He heard Eddy’s loud voice saying, ‘No, I’m here to meet some people.’ The waiter stepped aside, and Eddy advanced over the noiseless carpet into the shadows of the interior, making for their table, which was now the only one to be occupied. ‘This is a bit fucking miserable,’ he said, smiling widely. ‘All right, everyone? Happy birthday, Dave.’ The Pig nodded in acknowledgement of this, and Eddy made a great show of kissing Angel’s hand, while she tittered. Then he turned to Paul. ‘All right, Rainey? Last time I saw you, you were so pissed you could hardly stand up. You were leaning against the wall of a fucking toilet drooling down your front. I hope it was drool.’

  ‘All right, Eddy?’ Paul said. ‘How you keeping?’

  ‘Very well. And you?’

  ‘Yeah, not bad …’ Eddy was not listening to him. He had placed a large hand on Murray’s suited shoulder and was saying, in a way that suggested he hadn’t seen him for years, ‘Murray Dundee – how the fuck are you?’

  Murray, who had always been intimidated by Eddy Jaw, seemed unwilling to look him in the eye, and said, ‘Yeah, I’m well, Eddy. Well. Not bad. And you?’

  ‘I just said. I’m very well.’ He extended
a hand to Andy. ‘I’m Eddy,’ he said. ‘Which of these losers do you work for?’

  Andy shook his hand, and then pointed at Paul, saying, ‘That one.’

  And everyone laughed.

  In the sombre rose of the Christmas-tree light, the hour approaching four, Paul sparks the spliff he has made. He had left, hurried out of there, said he had to get the last train. And the others – Murray, Andy, Eddy, the Pig and Angel – the others had piled into a black cab on the Gray’s Inn Road. The goodbyes had thus been rushed. And they were all the wrong way round. With Eddy, who he would see on Monday, it was a sincere ‘Yeah, good to see you, mate, hope to see you again sometime, stay in touch’. And with Andy and Murray, who he might well never see again, ‘See you Monday, lads.’

  ‘See you, Paul,’ Murray had shouted, as he entered the taxi. His voice was insouciant – why would it not be? Then, however, from the back of the cab, through the window as the others were getting in, he had shot Paul a strange look. Several times over the weekend Paul has revisited that look. And as the inhaled smoke starts to soften and seduce the part of his mind that has been so intransigently resisting sleep, he does so again. At first it seemed straightforwardly accusatory. Angry. Then he thought that there might have been sorrow in it too. And, most strangely – he has been thinking about it all weekend – unless he is mistaken, a trace of pity. It lasted only a moment. Then the shivering taxi was gone, and he walked alone down to Chancery Lane. To part like that was sad. To part like that from a friend … What did that say about him? He shied away from the question. Anyway, he and Murray were not really friends. Not really. Still, to part like that was sad. And it occurred to him that there were, perhaps, people who had proper friendships – not ones that were provisional, insubstantial, illusory – and who would not do what he had done not because they had such friendships, but had such friendships because they would not do what he had done. He was feeling quite depressed.