by David Szalay
Andy is struggling to stand up from the bed. While he does this, Paul swings the old-fashioned British Airways flight bag from his shoulder. ‘This is the equipment,’ he says.
‘What equipment?’
‘Do you want to get a pint then?’
Having somehow succeeded in standing up, Andy does want to get a pint.
There is a pub more or less next door, the Regency Tavern – a few steps down the alley which eventually opens into the wide seafacing expanse of Regency Square. The interior is kitsch, the walls painted with wide vertical stripes – verdigris and pond green – and the light bulbs shaped like candle flames. Ormolu cherubim support mirrors and hold brass palm fronds in their babyish hands. Paul pays for the pints and they sit themselves down by a large frosted-glass window. It is only just eleven, and they are the only people in the pub. On the windowsill next to their table, an imitation stone urn overflows with white silk roses and lilies; the tabletop is painted to look like malachite. In these surroundings, Paul outlines what is to be done. When Andy laughs, he says, ‘Don’t fucking laugh. This is serious, mate.’
‘Why? Who is this bloke?’
‘Never mind. What does it matter?’ He presents him with Watt’s printed instructions, saying, ‘Study this. Learn it. You’ve got till tomorrow.’
Andy is smiling in a way that does not suggest he is taking the situation entirely seriously. He snickers at something in the instructions. ‘Where am I going to meet him?’ he says. Paul has been wondering about that. ‘Why not here? Here. You know where it is. You’ve got to phone him and fix it up.’
‘I’ve got to phone him?’
‘Of course. You. Of course. Andrew Smith, of Morlam Garden Fruits.’ He looks at his watch. ‘We’ll try him at twelve. What are you going to say?’
Andy smiles. ‘All right, mate. Wanna buy some fruit –’
‘Stop fucking about! This is serious.’
‘What do you want me to say then?’
Paul sighs, and takes a biro from his pocket. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘We’ll write something down.’
Over the second pint, he finds himself pressing Andy for PLP news. Who’s in, who’s out. Lawrence, it seems, has had a nervous breakdown, and Neil Mellor is now de facto director of sales. ‘How’s he doing?’ Andy does not have much to say on the subject. ‘He’s really stressed out,’ he says. ‘Shouts a lot. Kind of like Lawrence used to.’
‘Lawrence doesn’t shout?’
‘Not really.’
‘What does he do?’
‘I don’t know.’ Then: ‘He’s got an office.’ And finally: ‘I think he’s leaving soon.’
‘Is he?’
With a shy smile, Andy says, ‘What happened to you?’
‘What happened to me …?’
‘And Murray and the others.’
‘Oh that!’ Paul’s eyes slide to the other side of the room, where they find some framed silhouette portraits on the striped wall. He shakes his head. ‘What a fuck-up, mate.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘There was some plan … You know. Some bloke we used to know … Me and Murray. Anyway it all fucked up.’
Andy does not ask what this plan was, or why he was not included in it – he must know why. Even Dave Shelley made more deals than he did. He just nods, quickly, and says, ‘Yah …’
‘Yeah,’ Paul sighs.
‘How’s Murray?’
‘Murray? I’ve not seen him in a while, to be honest.’
‘You haven’t?’
Paul finishes his pint and says, ‘Let’s make that call.’
22
MARTIN LOOMS HUGE in Paul’s mind. He has seen him only once since Easter Day. On Saturday night, straight from his Eastbourne meeting, he turned into Lennox Road to see him leaving his – Paul’s – house. The tall shape was unmistakable, and it was too late to stop, too late to hide in the shadows. They met under one of the street lights, the one that shines in through the bedroom window. It was midnight. And thus ill-met by humming street light, they surveyed each other for a moment. Paul did not like to think of Martin in his house (though it would be his for only another month); he wished that he had turned into the street a minute later and been spared the knowledge of it. Especially with the flight bag on his shoulder, and the meeting with Watt still so fresh in his mind – he was worried that it would show up in his face somehow; a voice in his head was shouting out extracts from Watt’s instructions. He should say he’s from Morlam Garden Fruits … ‘All right, Martin?’ he said, shifting the flight bag on his shoulder; it was not heavy.
‘Hello, Paul. Been out?’
‘You know I have.’
For a moment, Martin dipped his head – hid his smile in inky shadow. ‘Somewhere nice, I hope?’
‘Yeah.’
His eyes moved inquisitively to the flight bag. ‘Been away?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Well … Goodnight …’
Stopping at the payphone in the hallway of the Queensbury guest house, Paul fumbles in his pockets for the number. Andy waits, staring at the wallpaper. ‘Here it is,’ Paul mutters. Despite the pints, he is nervous. Memories of Andy’s hopelessness on the phone are flooding into his mind – he has already warned him that he will not be paid if he fails even to set up a meeting. He thrusts the handwritten script at him – the one he wrote in the Regency Tavern – and starts to say the number. It is the main number of the supermarket. Andy enters it into the phone, and then waits with a pound coin poised. Suddenly he presses the coin into the slot and says the first line of the script: ‘Oh hello. Could I speak to the fresh-produce manager please.’ Paul turns to the open door and sighs quietly. The memories sit like cold stones in his belly, memories of Andy fucking up. Memories of the sales floor. Of innumerable phone calls … He hears Andy say, ‘Oh hello, is that Mr Short?’ A tense pause. Is it? Is it Mr Short? How strange if it is – how strange that Andy should be talking to Martin. ‘Oh hello, Mr Short. My name’s Andrew Smith. I’m calling from Morlam Garden Fruits.’ Another pause. Paul has turned to Andy and is studying him intently – he has a finger in his left ear and is leaning in to the puffy wall. ‘Kent,’ he says. And then, ‘Strawb’rries mainly.’ The smile flickering on his full lips is something of a worry. It has a loose, twitchy quality, like he might start to laugh at any moment. His self-possession on the phone, however, seems to have improved. ‘Well, I was wondering if we could meet up and have a chat.’ Paul wrote that line. It sounds okay. It sounds fine. ‘Well, as soon as possible,’ Andy says. ‘Tonight?’ He shoots Paul a quick, questioning look. Emphatically, Paul indicates no. They need more time for preparation, and he has to go home and sleep all afternoon. Standing there in the narrow corridor, he is swimmy with fatigue. ‘No, unfortunately I can’t do tonight …’ Martin says something that seems to merit a laugh, and Andy says, ‘I know I did. How about tomorrow?’ Paul lights a cigarette and stares at the torn, balding blue carpet. ‘Yes, tomorrow afternoon’s fine. Five o’clock? That’s fine.’ Some people stop on the pavement outside. Paul turns away from them, turns to his reflection in the mirror-tiled wall. He looks like a jigsaw puzzle; where tiles have come unstuck, pieces of him are missing. Andy is saying, ‘I’m afraid I don’t know Brighton very well. So somewhere central, I suppose. There is one pub I know …’ This is another of Paul’s lines. ‘The Regency Tavern. Do you know it?’ Evidently, Martin does know it. Andy says, ‘Excellent. So I’ll see you there tomorrow at five. Excellent. Thank you, Mr Short.’ He is about to put the phone down, when he says, ‘Um. Oh. Yeah. It’s …’ And he looks at Paul with imploring eyes. Paul does not understand what he wants. What? Furiously, he mouths the word. Andy turns away, lowering his head. He says, ‘You can get me on …’ And then he says his own mobile number. ‘Excellent. See you tomorrow. Thanks. Thanks, Mr Short. Bye.’ Elated, he faces Paul. Who says, ‘Yeah, well done, mate.’
‘I had to give him my mobile number.’
‘That’s fine
.’
‘Was that okay?’ Andy is trembling, alight, flushed with triumph. He laughs. ‘Was that okay?’
‘Yeah, it was okay. It was fine. Well done.’ Paul hands him his lighter. ‘But that was the easy bit.’ Lighting a cigarette, Andy nods. ‘Tomorrow’s the hard bit.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Tomorrow’s where you earn your money.’
‘Another drink?’ Andy says eagerly.
‘I can’t, mate. I’ve got to … I’ve got things to do.’
‘Yeah, why aren’t you at work?’ Andy says, holding out the lighter.
‘That’s where I’ve got to go now. And you’ve got to learn that.’ He points to the rolled-up A4 document in Andy’s left hand.
‘Yeah, yeah …’
‘I mean it! You’ve got to fucking know it.’
Andy nods. ‘Yup,’ he says. ‘Yah.’
‘I’ll see you later, yeah.’
‘What time?’
‘Tonight. I’ll see you in the pub at nine, all right? Regency Tavern.’
‘All right.’
Paul starts to leave. Then turning on the threshold, he says, ‘And don’t fuck around with the equipment. I’ll show you how to use it tonight.’
‘Okay.’
‘Learn that stuff.’
‘I will.’
‘I’m going to test you on it later.’
He leaves him loafing in the musty corridor smoking a Marlboro Light, and walks through Regency Square to the bus stop. The colour of the tall terraces varies from cream to biscuit, and in the middle the windy lawn – with its few bushes and spiky palms – slopes down to the traffic of King’s Road and the sea. Walking past hotels with the sun in his face, Paul squints. Gulls hop on the coarse grass. The surface of the sea is striped, like the paintwork in the Regency Tavern – white shining stripes, and dull dark ones. Out in the sea-stripes the West Pier still stands, an outline stubbornly holding its shape.
In the evening, Paul shuffles into the kitchen to prepare his porridge. His head feels heavy and throbs. His face is lumpen, inexpressive, like some naive mask fudged in grey clay. He is standing over the hob when he feels Heather’s presence. He does not look at her; he watches the porridge start to quiver.
She says, ‘Are you seeing someone, Paul?’ It is obvious from the way she says it that she is trying to empty the question of intensity. She does not succeed. He turns to her in surprise; she seems to think, however, that his expression is one of outrage and immediately stops smiling. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I know it’s none of my business.’
For a few seconds he is speechless. ‘What if I am?’
‘I just … I mean if you don’t want to tell me …’
‘No, I’m not.’
She stares at him sceptically. ‘Okay.’
‘I’m not.’
‘So where do you go?’
‘I don’t ask where you go.’
‘You know where I go.’
‘No I don’t.’
‘I mean you know who I’m with.’
‘Where do you go?’
‘Look, Paul, I’m sorry,’ she says.
‘Why? I’m not “seeing someone”, Heather.’
She is not persuaded. She says, ‘M-hm,’ in a pointedly stony tone, and pours herself a huge glass of wine. Then she withdraws to the lounge and shuts the door. Of course, he thinks, taking the raisins from the cupboard, his going out on his nights off must mess up her own plans to some extent. Having to have Martin over here, with the kids upstairs, must be less fun than the bar of the Metropole, or his extravagant extension. Or his jacuzzi. Paul had remembered a few weeks earlier that Martin has a jacuzzi; it was installed last summer – a little winch lifting it from a flat-bed truck while Martin watched from the pavement, shielding his eyes, and half the curtains in the street twitched … Must be fun, he muses, stirring in the raisins, to fuck in a jacuzzi. He sighs listlessly, and starts to eat. Initially, the tone of Heather’s question had pissed him off; now her suspicions make him sad. Strings of light bulbs sway on the seafront. Yes, they make him sad. He is walking through Regency Square. In the twilight, the terraces look statelier – the square is lit like an expensive restaurant – with scores of softly lighted windows, and the entrances of the hotels illuminated. The scruffy lawn is lost in indistinct grey. The Regency Tavern, too, is illuminated; spotlit at the end of the mews like a national monument. The sign shows George IV in the high-collared handsomeness of his youth. Inside, the pub is lively. Andy is up on a high stool, nattering with the staff like a local. Seeing Paul, he smiles. ‘Right, mate,’ he says. The sloppiness of his smile, the fact that he says ‘Right, mate’ as if it were a single word, leave little doubt that he has been there for some time. ‘Wanna drink?’
‘Have you looked at that stuff?’ Paul says.
Unhesitatingly, Andy says, ‘No.’
‘You haven’t looked at it?’
‘S’all under control.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘S’under control.’
‘No it’s not under control.’
‘Yeah it is …’
‘I fucking knew this would happen.’
Andy looks puzzled. ‘What?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Oh.’ He leans unsteadily towards Paul. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘Look. It’s all worked out. All right? I’ll do it tomorrow morning. D’you wanna drink?’
‘No I don’t. This isn’t a fucking joke.’
‘What’s the problem? I’ll do it in the morning.’
‘You were supposed to do it today.’
‘What difference does it make? I’ll do it –’
‘You’re a fucking idiot, do you know that?’ This seems to hit a mark somewhere. Andy stops protesting. For a moment his eyes sink to the green carpet, its woven laurel wreaths and scallop shells. When they meet Paul’s a moment later they are obscurely distressed. He swallows. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ Paul says.
‘I’ll do it tomorrow –’
‘What are you doing? You’ve been here all afternoon, haven’t you?’ Andy shakes his head. ‘I’m not paying you to have a piss-up. You’re not here to have a fucking laugh –’
‘I know.’
‘I don’t think you do know. Why haven’t you done what I told you?’
‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ he says quietly.
‘This is serious. Do you understand? It’s not a fucking joke.’
‘Look, I’m sorry –’
‘You will be.’ Then he says, ‘All right. Let’s go.’
‘Where?’
‘You’re not staying here.’
‘Why not?’
‘What do you mean why not? I’m going to be round early tomorrow morning –’
‘What time?’
‘Eight.’
‘Eight?’
‘Eight. Tough shit. And I want to have a look at your suit.’
‘My suit …?’
‘Let’s go.’
‘Why d’you want to look at my suit?’ Andy says, turning to search for someone as Paul hustles him out into the mews. Paul has been worrying about Andy’s suit – he remembers the chalk-stripe of a metropolitan barrister or senior estate agent; not the sort of thing a shadowy provincial strawberry producer would be likely to wear.
They climb the narrow stairs of the guest house. Mrs Mulwray – the proprietress in her plywood booth – watches as they disappear into the depths of the convex mirror. They are standing outside the door of Andy’s room – the paintwork is orange with age – when he says, ‘Oh fuck.’
‘What?’
‘Forgot the key.’
‘Get it then.’
He crashes down the stairs. There is then some sort of delay and it is a couple of minutes until he plods up, out of breath and smiling.
‘What?’ Paul says. ‘What you smiling about?’
‘She says …’ Andy pants, ‘she says if you stay the night, you’ll have
to pay.’
‘What?’
‘If you stay the night,’ he says, sniggering, ‘if we spend the night together, you’ll have to pay.’
‘Open the door.’
The room looks even more threadbare than it did in daylight. ‘Where’s the suit?’ Paul says. Andy has taken the trouble to hang it in the wardrobe. He lifts it out, still in its carrier, and passes it to him. Then he sits down on the edge of the bed and starts making a spliff. Paul unzips the suit carrier, and pulls out part of the jacket. ‘You can’t wear this,’ he says.
‘Why not?’
‘It’s too smart.’
Andy smirks. ‘Sorry, mate.’
‘I’ll lend you mine.’
‘All right.’
‘I’ll bring it tomorrow morning.’
‘All right.’
Paul rezips the suit carrier and slings it onto the bed.
‘D’you want some of this?’ Andy is holding the nose of the newly made spliff, swinging it like a sachet of sugar. Paul sighs. Yes, he does want some of that. He is knotty with tensions, furious with worries. The prospect of putting some immediate space between himself and his situation is an enticing one. His face is stony, set, expressionless. ‘D’you wanna spark it?’ Andy says.
‘No,’ Paul murmurs, ‘go ahead.’ Andy sparks it. ‘So I’ll be here at eight.’
With his mouth open, holding the smoke in his lungs, Andy nods.
‘You better be up and ready to start.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He exhales, finally, in a long smoky wave.
‘I’m not joking.’
‘No, I know.’
He holds out the spliff. Paul takes it. While he smokes pensively for a minute or two, Andy flops onto the bed, and stares vacantly at the ceiling. Suddenly he stands up. His face, Paul notices, is as white as a cloud. His lips look purple. He mumbles something. Then he opens the door and leaves. A few minutes later – it seems like much longer – there is still no sign of him. The silence of the small room has a piercing, singing quality; and staring intently at the swirling velvet whorls of the counterpane, Paul finds himself forgetting that Andy is even in Brighton. That he even exists. Sometimes, vaguely, it occurs to him that he is downstairs, presumably vomiting in the mouldy bathroom. Such moments, however, swiftly pass – and as soon as they have passed he has no memory of them. For minutes at a time he forgets where he is himself, and why he is there