Nodding at Emily felt like butting an insubstantial opponent, though David had never butted anyone in his life. "Just wasn't expecting to see..."
"Not much to see at the present. Oh, the girl herself, you mean."
As David ventured into the shop Andrea asked him "What weren't you expecting?"
"I thought Emily had left us."
"She still has her notice to work off." Andrea wasn't alone in gazing at him. "Don't worry, she hasn't taken your job."
"I didn't think she had," David said, which failed to explain why Emily's presence troubled him. "I wasn't trying to get rid of you, Emily.
"I wouldn't ever have thought you were."
"While we're on the subject," Helen said, "maybe you wouldn't mind telling David we weren't trying to get rid of him."
"I should think we weren't. Who said we were?"
"I'm rather afraid David said you did."
"That isn't what I said at all." David hardly knew what his panic was making him say. "Anyway," he declared, "I was mistaken."
"Just so long as you know you were," Helen said.
Emily looked puzzled, and David could only pray with no audience in mind that she wouldn't seek an explanation. In the corridor behind the scenes the hanger jangled against the back of the locker, and the thin shrill sound might have been giving voice to his nerves. Surely now that he knew why he'd found Emily's presence threatening he ought to be able to stop feeling anxious, or was there another reason to be apprehensive? Suppose the Newless blog had told more of the truth than he wanted to recognise about his workmates, whatever they said to his face? It hadn't been too inaccurate about Cubbins and Payne, after all. Just the same, he didn't think this was the source of his foreboding, which distracted him so much that he almost forgot to retrieve the envelope from one capacious pocket. When he returned to the shop he couldn't tell whether the others had been discussing him. He took the photographs out of the envelope and flourished them at Andrea. "See, I remembered," he said and immediately felt there was something else that it was crucial to recall.
She watched him fasten the first of the photographs to the wall behind the counter. "I didn't realise you'd been to Switzerland."
"You know I was at Steph's last night. I didn't want to let you down again, so I borrowed these."
"I've no idea where you were, David, and no interest. Are you in any of the photographs!"
"We haven't been away together yet. She isn't in them either."
"The idea is to show where we've been. That means letting people see us there, not hiding. You can help in another way instead."
She stared at the Swiss image until he returned it to the envelope, and then he had to ask "What way?"
"Rex will be here to advise about the promotion, but you can represent us on the street. I'm sure we can expect you to do better out there than last time."
Was she really obliging him to work with her boyfriend? The silence of his colleagues felt close to palpable, the unspoken growing solid. He couldn't separate it from a sense of being spied upon, but whenever he glanced towards the street he was unable to locate a watcher. He was trying to concentrate on working at his terminal, though even this put him in mind of the Newless blog, when Bill said "Here's the man himself."
Rex was backing uphill outside the window, holding up his hands to ward off a threat. David's head began to throb as if the sight had set off an alarm inside his skull, and then he was confused to see Rex beckon the menace. He let out a breath when he saw that Rex was guiding a van. The Indian driver looked impatient with the guidance. As the van inched up the pedestrianised slope, words on its side came into view. It belonged to ALI AND ALEXI'S GLOBAL GRUB, apparently the WORLD'S BEST SITDOWN MEDITERRANEAN EUROPEAN ASIAN BUFFET RESTAURANT. David might have laughed on Stephanie's behalf, though not with much amusement, but managed to restrain himself even when Bill read out the slogan on the van. "More tastes than we've got a name for. Sounds a bit kinky to me.
Andrea stared at him before informing him "Rex created that and he's had no complaints."
There was silence while Bill struggled to rescind his grin. As the driver set about unloading the van and Rex bustled bulkily around him, still stockier for a quilted overcoat, David turned back to his computer. He was aware that Rex was helping the driver erect a pair of trestle tables outside the window—miming the action, at any rate. Hot plates came next, and as the driver loaded them with foods Rex trotted into the shop. "Who'll be outside with me?"
"I'm told I am."
"David, isn't it?" Rex said, glancing at the badge as if to make sure. "Better pin that on your coat so people know who you're meant to be."
The jangle of the hanger seemed to resound inside David's skull. He zipped up his jacket and poked the pin through the hole in the tag of the zipper, where the badge dealt his chest a peremptory tap with every step he took. It felt like an attempt to remind him what he still needed to remember. As he tramped back to the counter Rex said "Here's some slogans for you to say out there. Taste the world and a world of tastes."
"They don't really sell our business, do they?"
"If you've any better ideas I'm sure Andy will listen."
David waited for her to object to the name, but her only response was a curt cough. "How about..." he said, which simply revived how he'd felt when Darius Hall had badgered him for a title. As soon as a phrase fell together in his brain he said "Taste our holidays."
"I think that's better," Emily said and folded her hands over her rounded midriff.
"It'd bring me in," Bill said, and Helen added a nod.
"Say what you're comfortable with," Andrea said.
"Pipe up if you prefer his, Andy," Rex said. "You know I'm not bothered by competition. It's my meat and my bread and butter."
David couldn't help wondering what Newless would think of all this—the petty hostilities, the unadmitted alliances, the grotesque pinched triviality of the entire confrontation. Presumably Andrea meant to terminate it as well as exhibit her authority by saying "I think it's time for you to go to work, David."
Rex held the door open just long enough to make David hurry to it. The driver set out stacks of paper plates inscribed with the name of the eatery and embraced Rex before driving uphill. Passers-by were glancing at the tables, and David swung his upturned hand towards the food. "Taste our holidays."
"You want to speak up a bit more," Rex advised him not nearly quietly enough.
"Taste our holidays." Raising his voice gained David a nod of approval that he tried not to find condescending. At least he'd enticed several customers, who loaded plates with a dinner's worth of food. "We can send you where those come from," he said.
"They do good nosh at Ali's," a diner assured him.
"No, I mean the countries," David said, but she and her fellow gluttons were on their way downhill. "Taste our holidays," he called and saw Rex shake his head along with an equally imperative finger. "What's wrong now?"
"Take it to your public. Just let them have a taste that'll leave them hungry for the rest you've got for them."
David had a sense that someone was watching with more than ordinary interest—that Rex's behaviour was attracting a kind of attention Rex wouldn't like. "Here," Rex said too much in the manner of a summons, and spent time artfully arranging items on the quarters of a paper plate—seekh kebabs, dim sum, chorizo in wine, Greek village sausages that only the name tag in front of the hot plate distinguished from frankfurters. "You need to make a veggie selection," he said.
David put together a plateful of onion bhajis and halloumi cheese, along with patatas bravas and Chinese spring onion pancakes. He was making to offer it to the public when Rex said "You've got two hands, haven't you? Give the people the whole package."
"And what will you be doing?"
"I'm just here to optimise the campaign. Its your identity that counts."
"Which one is that?" David said and was uneasy that he had.
"You're the man with the
badge," Rex said and scrutinised David's face. "Say if you want me to take over. Better ask Andy first, though."
"I had the impression she'll do as you tell her."
"Yes, but we're talking about you, Davey. You had your chance, and it sounds like you never found your inner man."
At least taking the second plate let David turn away from the pale smug pudgy face under its calculatedly unkempt shock of red hair, and from his impulse to punch it softer still. He found he was searching the crowd in the street, and was unnerved to feel he might be inviting someone, but could see nobody who lived up to his nervousness. As he held up the flimsy plates, the edges of which had begun to flutter in the wind, he felt like a figure wielding a pair of scales—a caricature of justice. "Taste our holidays," he called and saw someone veer towards him.
He might have welcomed the approach if he hadn't recognised the sharp face taut with purpose, the greying hair that trailed various lengths over the tweed collar. "Still shouting in the street?" Len Kinnear said.
"I seem to whenever you're about." David's panic was back, and gave him little chance to think. "Taste our holidays," he said somewhere between calling out and quoting.
"Hope you didn't spend much time thinking that up."
"Not too much, but why are you saying that?"
"You're wasting yourself. Do a day job if you've got to pay the rent but keep your words out of it. They're for telling the truth with."
"I wonder how you think David could do his job without them," Rex said.
"You're the chef, are you?" Kinnear hardly seemed to want to know.
"I'm a partner in Merseyside Publicity Solutions." Not much less haughtily Rex added "But I'd be proud to be the chef."
"I'm guessing he's a client of yours." Before Rex could do more than protrude his lips Kinnear said "All I'm saying is you should hear David when he gets mad. You'd think he was a different man."
"Just not a better one," David said.
"Don't deny yourself, mate. David Botham," Kinnear said as if David needed to be reminded who he was. "I'll be looking for your name. You've got too much inside you not to let it out."
David felt the plates he was holding quiver in the wind. Now he could have imagined he was a silent comedian poised to hurl the plates in Kinnear's face—anything to shut him up, except that hardly would. "You don't know me at all," he protested.
"I know a writer when I see them. I've met a few that tried to say they weren't. It's like being mad. If you say you're not that means you are." As David struggled against feeling trapped by the notion Kinnear said "What was that title of yours again?"
"It wasn't mine." In case this didn't fend the danger off David said "I don't remember."
"Well, it was a good one. Anyone that comes up with a title like that, they're a writer. If I think of it I'll let you know."
"Don't try," David called after him and was afraid he'd said too much. Might Kinnear wonder why he was anxious to prevent him from remembering the title? Suppose he recollected it and looked it up online? If he read the entry about Frank Cubbins he was bound to blame it on David—the entry and perhaps more than that. David was watching him recede uphill—he was willing Kinnear to decide the title wasn't worth the effort, any more than David was—when he glimpsed someone following the bookseller.
He'd barely distinguished the figure when it vanished, only to reappear for a moment further uphill. It seemed not to be using the crowd for concealment so much as borrowing visibility from the gaps between the people. Apart from the impression of a pursuer, David could make out very little. He couldn't be sure of the figure's build—it might have been as chubby as an overgrown infant or wiry enough to suggest it had no need for food—and it appeared to have nothing he would call a colour. He was reminded of the way sunlight faded the covers of books, except that the pallor looked more reminiscent of the moonlight that had seized him in the field the night he'd invoked Newless. The follower dodged into view again, keeping its distance from Kinnear while matching his pace. David thought of shouting to the bookseller, but he was too far away. He'd taken a step after Kinnear when he became aware of holding the paper plates. "I need to speak to him," he said and thrust the plates at Rex.
"What do you want me to do about it?"
"Whatever you think you ought to do for Andrea." Since Rex hadn't taken the plates, David planted them on the nearest table. "This can't wait," he declared and dashed uphill.
He was dismayed to find he'd lost sight of Kinnear. His skull felt as brittle as ice by the time he located the bookseller almost at the top of the street. Did someone else flicker into view between two people on the pavement lower down? All at once venturing closer felt like a threat of meeting face to face. It wasn't as though David had any reason to care much about the bookseller. If he didn't try to prevent the man from coming to harm he would be responsible for it, and how could he bear himself then? He saw Kinnear turn a corner onto the main road and sprinted after him.
He was afraid to hear a screech of brakes or the thump of metal against flesh. When he reached the corner he let out the little breath he had. The bookseller was waiting at the traffic lights, and nobody appeared to be near him. "Mr Kinnear," David shouted. "Len. Len Kinnear."
Kinnear met him with an expectant look. "Go on then, what was it? Remind me and I'll kick myself?"
"I'm not telling you the title. I mean, it's still gone out of my head. It isn't why I'm here."
Why exactly was he? Recalling how he'd tried to warn Norville and the street preacher seemed to leave him even less to say. Or was something else stealing his words in a bid to render him powerless? The lights halted the traffic, and as he crossed with Kinnear to the bombed church David had a sense that the thief of his speech was among the pedestrians who passed him on their way downhill—no, not among them but behind each of them in turn. "What were you in such a rush to tell me, then?" Kinnear said.
David could only speak as much of the truth as he was able to utter. "I want you to stay away from where I work."
Kinnear halted at the foot of the steps to the church, inside which bedraggled pigeons were fluttering up through the hole where the roof used to be. "It's on the way to my shop, pal."
"I'm saying don't come in. Don't come anywhere near me again. I'm never going to write, and you trying to convince me otherwise drives me mad."
"Don't you want people to know what you're like?"
"It isn't worth knowing. You can't have much taste if you think it is."
He was hoping to offend Kinnear, but the man looked vindicated. "I've had writers say worse than that till they empowered themselves and embraced what they are."
"I've got nothing to embrace except my girlfriend."
"See, right there you're talking like a writer. Why don't you give All Write another shot. Maybe being with other writers will set you off. We've even got a vacancy just now. Remember you met—"
"I don't want anything to do with your group." Either David's desperation lent him eloquence or his rage did. "I don't want to be associated with anyone like them or the stuff they write," he said. "No publisher worth anything would touch it, and that's why they have to publish it themselves. All you're doing is deluding them that it's anything but rubbish. They ought to be ashamed of it, not cluttering the world up with stuff nobody with any sense would buy. It isn't even worth space on the internet. You should be ashamed of encouraging them."
Kinnear's mouth had hung open during most of this. "Have you finished?" he said.
"If you've heard me at last I have."
"Don't worry, I've got no doubts about you. You're a writer." As David searched for more words Kinnear said "Just not the kind we want to support. The kind that thinks they're better than the rest of us."
"I don't think I'm a better writer at all," David protested, but that wouldn't help. "I just think I've got to be better than the trash you have in your shop."
"You've got what you wanted." Kinnear gazed with sad contempt at him. "You'
ll not be hearing from any of us again," he said. "Specially not Frank, and all he wanted was to help."
David was afraid that could be an accusation, but as Kinnear turned to cross the road to We're Still Left he saw it had only been a parting shot. Why did he no longer feel nervous on Kinnear's behalf? At some point his sense of a threatening presence had faded, and now it was gone. Somehow this seemed to promise that Kinnear wouldn't stumble on the Newless blog, unless the hope was founded on that notion. As David made to head back to work he felt more than equal to confronting Rex and whoever else might need it. Then a thought overtook him at last, and he wavered, almost falling on the cracked steps of the defunct church.
He might have ensured that Kinnear wouldn't find the blog, but Emily already had. Indeed, David had shown it to her. That was why the sight of her had kept reviving his panic. He couldn't let the blog cause her harm, whatever might happen to him. He started as a blackened pigeon flapped up from the gaping church into the grey deserted sky, and then he found a reason to grow calmer. However he'd achieved it in Kinnear's case, he seemed to have gained some control over events. "Don't touch Emily," he whispered, staring at the hollow church. "Don't even go anywhere near her. She's to be left alone."
TWENTY-NINE
"Cunts."
I thought that would catch the attention of the girls behind the bookshop counter. One of them looks like the cover of a novel, the kind that's droll about romance so that the reader needn't own up to feeling too much and just intelligent enough not to threaten any of its audience. I hope to see her makeup crack—her face has spent quite a stretch in front of a mirror—but her features set into even more of a mask while the humour deserts it, turning it dull. "Excuse me?" she demands.
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