by Louise Kean
‘Have I ever tried what?’
‘Up hill gardening. Seriously, Cagney, it’s a valid question. I haven’t myself.’
‘Howard, you went to public school.’
‘No, now you see, that’s a myth. Didn’t see anything when I was there – no soggy biscuits, nothing. And my brothers swear the same thing. Could have done with the excitement, to be honest. So is that a no, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, it’s a no? Or yes, you have tried it? I mean, I’ve never seen you with a woman who’s not business and you don’t even enjoy those. It would explain things … and you’re in good shape, for an old bloke. And Christian, he’s like your only mate, apart from me and Iuan.’
‘Howard, you work for me, as does Iuan. You are not my friends.’
‘OK then, just Christian. I mean, you guys have known each other for years. Ever been any lingering looks, you know, a little bit of Boy’s Own sexual chemistry over a banana daiquiri? You can tell me. I won’t like leave my job or anything. I’m very PC.’
‘Permanently challenged?’
Howard body-pops with his arms and grins, and Cagney sighs for the twentieth time in an hour. They sit in silence as Cagney manoeuvres the BMW with understated speed around women drivers in Land Rovers, before putting his foot down.
‘It’s an eighty-pound fine for driving in the bus lane, Cag. You might want to pull over.’
‘You should have told me that before I changed lanes. I’ll take it out of your wages.’
‘Not again!’
After five minutes of blissful silence, Howard remembers the conversation they were having.
‘So?’
‘So you’re thinking of not talking for the rest of the journey?’
‘Good one, but no. So have you tried the man thing?’
Cagney exhales deeply, and stares out of the window as they sit in traffic. Finally he turns to Howard, who pants expectantly for a juicy answer.
‘No.’ And then, as Cagney thinks aloud, ‘But I bet it’s a lot easier.’
‘I very much doubt that!’ Howard grimaces, and then is momentarily diverted by a couple of teenage girls leaning on railings. Before Cagney can stop him, Howard winds down his window, and is shouting, ‘Is there grass on the wicket? Are you ready for cricket?’
‘Tosser!’ The girls make hand gestures at the car as the lights turn amber and Cagney steps on the accelerator.
Howard laughs heartily, as Cagney shakes his head.
‘What were we saying?’ Howard looks perplexed.
‘You were explaining the rules of metaphysics.’ Cagney reaches into the glove compartment with one hand, to pull out a file.
‘Come on, Cag, we’re bonding! You were saying you weren’t gay, but it must be easier if you are. More painful, though! Jesus! Can you imagine, I mean, up the shitter! My God, my eyes are actually watering!’
‘Howard, we have a job in ten minutes and it’s a fair bet that you don’t know what you’re doing. Take the file.’ Cagney thrusts it into Howard’s lap.
‘OK, one last thing and I’ll shut up. You don’t like boys, you don’t like girls – what do you like? Jesus, should I keep Jenson out of the office from now on?’
Jenson, Howard’s dog, is the smelliest, most overly affectionate, loudest animal Cagney has ever encountered. And it is the size of a Shetland pony.
‘Am I sexually attracted to women? Yes. Do I like them? No. Do I trust them? No. Do they possess any logic or reason? No. Do they cause anything but pain with their vanity and self-centred conceit? No. Do they just want to fuck with men’s minds and ruin our lives? Yes.’ Cagney turns to face Howard, who is grinning at him stupidly. ‘Have you been eating M&Ms again?’
‘This is so exciting.’ Cagney can barely make out Howard’s whisper.
‘Driving still gets you worked up, eh? You can stick your head out of the window if you want. Do it now, there’s a truck coming.’
‘No! You, and the fat-girl-gone-thin – at the dinner party. You are completely going to fall in love!’
‘Have you lost your mind?’
‘On the contrary, dear Cagney, it’s perfect. The bitter and cynical old private eye, the ugly duckling that’s become a swan – it’s all going to turn out brilliantly.’
‘I am not a private eye.’
‘In the movies you would be.’
‘Your daydreams are even more special when you keep them to yourself.’
‘Cag, honestly, mate, it always happens that way. It’s destiny. Just remember me when you need a godfather for your first son.’
‘Howard, read the file, look at the photo, remember her name …’
‘Fine, fight fate if you want to, but it’s going to happen. Some sweet misunderstood young thing, some soft lovely vision of innocence and purity, and you saved a child’s life together! She’s going to melt your heart, Cagney, just remember where you heard it first, and then give me a pay rise.’
‘What’s her name?’
Howard opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
‘The job – what’s her name?’
‘Bugger!’ Howard starts skim-reading the file, and Cagney smiles slightly to himself.
He knows what life has in store for him. He’s been around the block and back again, parked, and put money in the meter. No young girl is going to turn his eye these days, no soft something with breasts that bounce as if conducted by his own personal baton. The fight has gone out of him.
Cagney sits in the BMW, eyes fixed on his rear-view mirror. She is due to show any time. A red door opens in a two-million-pound house ten feet behind his bumper, and a twentysomething wire frame of designer labels and sunglasses emerges, swinging a bag full of credit cards paid for by a husband who is a little more suspicious than he used to be, a little less of a fool.
She is a blonde, a blonde to distract a Catholic priest from his altar boys. Cagney sighs, tired, focused, bored. As she struts towards her convertible, her skinny hips swing so hard he listens out for the sound of bones slapping. Cagney spots a twentysomething guy walking towards her reading his newspaper too high, not paying attention to where he is going. Cagney punches a number quickly into his phone, and the collision comes as the blonde, Jessica, reaches into her bag for her mobile. Cagney punches his phone again, and the ringing stops. They are smiling now, laughing, the guy is on the pavement picking up the contents of Jessica’s bag. Cagney watches in his mirror as she dusts herself off. The guy dabs at the coffee he has been carrying, which drenches his polo shirt – you can see his chest through it. Jessica points towards her door, and the guy follows her up the steps. The door closes behind them both, and Cagney moves. Howard’s not one for subtlety.
The BMW bleeps locked as he walks towards the red door, camera tucked in his pocket. The wind whistles past him as he pulls the collar of his charcoal wool overcoat up around his ears, a man walking fast from A to B on one of the last days of September, nothing to see here. The temperature has dropped fifteen degrees overnight. He ducks down the side of the house and nobody notices.
Twenty minutes later Cagney sits back in the driving seat, watching the red door in his rear-view mirror. Howard emerges, and jogs down the steps of the house, turning to wave goodbye to the hand, arm, naked shoulder at the closing door. He saunters down the road and slips into Cagney’s blind spot, before the passenger door rips open and the wind stabs into the car.
‘Wow!’
‘I don’t want to know.’
‘She was like, really professional. I’d say that girl’s got some kind of paid experience, if you know what I’m saying. My sweet Lord.’
Howard whistles, impressed, in the passenger seat, as Cagney pulls the car out.
‘Can I put the radio on?’
‘Have I ever said yes before?’
‘No, but –’
‘There’s your answer.’
‘But I need to relax, Cagney. I’ve got the afterglow! Have you got a cigarette?’
‘Yes.�
�
‘Can I have one?’
‘Have I ever said yes before?’
‘Honestly, Cag, been taking those social pills again?’
Cagney waits at the crossroads for a people carrier packed with kids to pull out in front of him.
‘That was a good one, though, Cagney. I’ll give you that one for free. I mean obviously not, Cagney – I still need to get paid – but figuratively speaking, I’d give you that one for free. If I could afford it.’
Howard gives up with a look of frustration as Cagney ignores him, concentrating on the road. They sit in silence, but for the steady hum of suburban London as they pass at fifty miles an hour. The sun shines unexpectedly as Cagney steers the BMW west along Chiswick High Road. Old leaves on the trees swing delicately above their heads, like twenty-pound notes as they flutter in the breeze.
‘Are we driving straight back to the office, Cag?’
‘You can walk if you like.’
‘No, I meant can we stop off at the supermarket first, if I’m quick?’
‘Have I ever stopped for you before?’
‘No’
‘Do you just really like hearing me say it?’
Howard sighs, and starts to rap quietly, as Cagney winces almost imperceptibly. But the rapping needs to be stopped, and Cagney has something on his mind.
‘You’re not supposed to have sex with them, Howard, you know that. I could lose my licence.’
‘Cagney, I’m shocked. I did no such thing!’
‘I was taking the photos! Do you think I just point the camera in the general direction, then cover my eyes in case I see anything bad? I have to look, Howard. Believe me, it doesn’t fill me with fun, but I have to. And I saw you.’
‘What you saw, boss, was nothing more than a little harmless fellatio. The little fella was out before I could stop her, and I was scared to interrupt her flow. I have what I think is a very reasonable fear of teeth, in that area. Did you get any good ones?’
‘What?’
‘Photos.’
‘I got enough.’
‘Can you get a second set? I’d like one for my wallet.’
‘No more sex, no more blow jobs. A kiss is all we need. Stop pissing about. I’m not your pimp.’
Cagney swings the car off the South Circular past the Gardens’ wall.
‘Is Iuan in today?’
‘If he’s not he’s sacked. And that truck better have moved as well.’
Cagney indicates left towards the station. The truck has indeed gone.
Christian stands outside Screen Queen admiring his handiwork. The life-size Dolly is front and centre, surrounded by the Buddhas and garlands. It looks as if a gay bomb has exploded in the window. Cagney swings the car down an alley, parks, and turns off the engine.
‘Come on, Cagney, you have to at least admit that it was a good one – the coffee, the paper – it was seamless!’ Howard jumps out of the car. Cagney walks back up the alley towards the late morning bustle of Kew village, and Howard strolls behind him.
‘It was heavy-handed, and obvious, and you’ve used it six times in the last month. Every time you ask me what I think, and every time I tell you the same thing. If she had half a brain she would have seen it for the set-up that it was. Luckily for us, Jessica is as stupid as she looks.’ Cagney doesn’t glance back, but talks into the wind, as Howard strains to hear.
‘I use it because it works. It’s bloody perfect, you miserable old bugger. Besides, you only ever give me the stupid ones, anyway.’
‘Like attracts like. I don’t fight that golden rule.’
‘You wouldn’t have liked her, Cagney – too modern for your blackened old heart. She was quite worldly, for a nineteen-year-old, if you know what I’m saying. It’s going to take a real angel to get to your soft centre.’
‘As I said, like attracts like.’
Cagney doesn’t follow Howard through the agency door but heads instead towards the front of the video shop, where Christian is standing with two very old Kew men in 1940s suits, who are smiling at the window with him. Cagney stops and listens a few feet away, as Christian effervesces.
‘You see, it’s the juxtaposition of East and West. It’s the Buddha, the Eastern idol, and Dolly, the Western idol. Plus you get your second rental for half price – it’s art meet commercialism. It’s the Zeitgeist, don’t you think?’ Christian turns towards the two octogenarians, with their tweed jackets and moustaches, for a response.
‘I flew a Zeitgeist in ’43, I think … You know it costs me over forty pounds to fill up the Daimler at Sainsbury’s now? Shocking. The world’s gone to hell.’
The three of them stand and nod, before one of the old men starts coughing furiously. The other ignores him, common as it is to see his sidekick fighting for breath, expecting him to drop dead any day.
‘Are you married?’ the non-cougher enquires of Christian.
‘No.’ Christian is bewitched by the window, and answers absent-mindedly, slowly shaking his head.
‘Any plans?’
Christian turns to face him, and registers the question. ‘I’m homosexual.’ Christian pronounces every syllable in the word slowly.
‘Ah yes, you did tell me that. Mind like a sieve these days. I remember now.’
The coughing old man has stopped, and addresses his friend. ‘Albert, this is the queer fellow. God, man, your mind has gone.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘It must be hard.’ Christian smiles and nods sympathetically. ‘Well, lovely chatting but I have to get on, Albert, William.’ Christian nods sweetly at them both.
‘Absolutely. Cheerio.’ The old pair turn in slow motion and inch away, as Albert barks loudly, ‘Damn shame.’
‘Did I buy bread?’ William replies.
Cagney walks towards Christian, trying to think of a positive thing to say about the window. Howard was right about something for the first time in years: Christian is Cagney’s only friend, and much as he’d like to, he shouldn’t alienate everybody. He needs a plus one.
‘It’s … colourful.’
‘It’s one of my best.’
‘Don’t they bother you?’ Cagney gestures towards the old boys, slowly moving away at snail’s pace, still shouting at each other.
‘Goodness no, they’re thoroughly harmless, and bloody charming. I’m not a fool, Cagney. They are eighty; you went to prison in their day.’
‘If you say so.’
Christian carries on staring at his window, and addresses Cagney without looking at him. ‘Cagney, I’d be spending my time at Her Majesty’s pleasure if we’d stopped moving on fifty years ago, and you just have to put up with people asking how you are, and telling you that you drink too much, which you do. So fair’s fair, Cagney. I think you can handle it.’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘The truck’s gone.’ Christian nods in the direction of Cagney’s door.
‘Right.’ Cagney straightens up and walks away.
‘Cagney,’ Christian calls out to him, and Cagney shouts, ‘Yes?’ without turning round. ‘You are allowed to stop and talk. I wasn’t hurrying you along.’
‘Right,’ Cagney shouts again over his shoulder, as he pushes the door open, and flies up the stairs two at a time.
Kew is where Cagney has chosen to hide for all these years. Tucked away from the bustle of London life, yet still close enough for the work the city brings. It is a sanctuary. It was his saviour, in a way. Living in the centre of the city had driven him down and into himself, behind a locked door and a bottle. He doesn’t know what it is that keeps him in the village, but it is safe, it is home, for the next three months at least; for the last ten years. And the blossom on the trees lifts his heart a little, and he can stride through the Gardens and be alone in a matter of minutes, and relax without prying eyes. Something about Kew and its implied intimacy, without actually having to be intimate, has kept him going.
Upstairs in the office Howard is doubled up with laughter, su
pported by a solitary filing cabinet to stop him from falling, while Iuan, dressed in a fluorescent orange tracksuit, pretends to choke in Cagney’s chair.
‘Is that seat taken?’ Cagney strides around the desk and stands expectantly by the side of Iuan, who eventually moves, grudgingly. When he stands up you can see that Iuan is six feet three, with short, spiked auburn hair, and a long face that draws horse jokes from his friends. His nose and ears are a little too large, his mouth a little too wide. He looks like a caricature of a better-looking self, his features stretched just out of attractiveness.
‘What was the funny?’ Cagney asks as he sits down and instinctively reaches for his drink drawer, hand on the knob, before he remembers he has company, reaching instead for his ever-ready nuts.
Howard explains. ‘Iuan just saw a man choking on a piece of garlic bread in the pub – show Cagney the impression, it’s classic.’
Iuan resumes the faux choking, clutching at his throat in mock alarm, but is cut short.
‘That’s charming. Is that why the ambulance is parked outside?’
‘It is. I was on my way out when it happened. I didn’t catch the ending.’ Iuan’s accent is soft, and still clearly rings of the Valleys. The tone of his voice can confuse the unpractised listener, who may concentrate on the lyrical sounds he makes, and not the words he utters. It is widely accepted as the reason that he manages to have sex with as many women as he does. By the time they actually register what he is saying, it is invariably too late.
‘So you don’t know if he died or not?’ Cagney asks, flicking through a file.
‘No, I had to get back here. Knew you were on your way back, didn’t I.’
‘Ah, the integrity.’ Cagney slams the file shut and looks up at them both. ‘Someone needs to get this morning’s photos developed, Howard, and somebody else needs to phone in this week’s ads, Iuan.’
‘Shall I do the photos?’ Howard offers.
‘That would seem to be the plan.’
Scooping up the camera from the desk, he bounces out of the door.
Iuan reaches inside the filing cabinet for a sheet of paper containing a list of phone numbers. ‘The same as last week, is it?’ Iuan runs his eye over the list.