The Spoiler

by Annalena McAfee

  Since then, in her bitterest moments, Tamara saw that their continuing optimism about the possibility of Ross reclaiming his life—ditching the drugs, regaining his old spark, starting a job, getting a decent flat—as self-delusion on an even grander scale than her brother’s. His spell in a psychiatric hospital was, Ross had said, using the language of the group-counselling sessions, a “wake-up call.” As was the hepatitis C he acquired from shared needles, and the HIV scare, and the methamphetamine-induced coma that he miraculously came round from. They were wake-up calls in the sense that he had woken up, and immediately gone out and scored again. In the recurrent cycle of relapse and recovery, Tamara and her mother had chosen to see recovery as Ross’s default position and the relapses as a harrowing deviation from the norm. In their desperation and naivety, they had seen the syringe as half empty, rather than half full.

  And still Tamara looked for signs of hope. But her brother’s phone call had not given much cause for that. The doorbell of Crystal’s flat was not working—a neutral indicator, Tamara decided—so she rattled the letterbox, which set off a frenzied barking and the scraping and skittering of animal claws on linoleum.

  “No, Rex. Sssh. Good boy,” said a croaky-voiced woman behind the door.

  Bolts were drawn back, and a haggard face framed by coarse ropes of hennaed hair peered out apprehensively. The intention was Pre-Raphaelite flower child, the effect Night of the Living Dead.

  “Oh, right. Tam. Come in. He’s expecting you.”

  Crystal’s hands, knuckle-dustered with silver rings, were gripping Rex’s collar as the dog—a Border collie with one unnerving blue eye—strained to leap at Tamara.

  “Don’t worry. He don’t mean nothing. He’s really friendly.” She yanked at the collar. “Down, Rex. Good boy.”

  Tamara sidled into the hall.

  “Really, he’s not a problem,” said Crystal, tugging at the dog as she closed the front door. “He’d only lick you to death.”

  Noting the strings of saliva swinging from Rex’s jaw, Tamara smiled and kept her distance.

  Crystal forced the dog into the kitchen, slammed the door on it and turned a key in the lock.

  “He’s learned how to open doors. He jumps up and bites the door handles,” she said, smiling with maternal pride.

  “Amazing.”

  The sitting room was in darkness, lit only by an orange lava lamp and the flickering light of a TV, tuned to a children’s cartoon show in which, against a soundtrack of flatulent trombones, scurrying strings, whistles and quacks, an assortment of farm animals were engaged in a high-speed chase. As Tamara’s eyes got used to the gloom she saw six silhouettes sitting on the floor in a circle, like Hollywood redskins in a pow-wow. One of them called out her name, and Tamara’s brother took shape before her eyes—the skinny body and gaunt urchin face—as he struggled to his feet to greet her with a hug.

  “Don’t get up,” Tamara said.

  She crouched to accept her brother’s kiss and sank to the floor, crossing her legs, to join him. The flat smelled damp and rancid. In the artificial twilight, she tried to assess Ross’s state. He was not shaking. He did not seem manic—no unstoppable monologues, no conspiracy tales, no tears or cackling laughter, so far. Nor was he catatonic. This was all good news. He seemed as comfortable and at ease in this squalid circle as she did at a good lunch in the Bubbles. She felt a sudden indignation; if Ross was okay, why had he dragged her all the way here, at the end of a working day, to hand over her hard-earned savings?

  Someone passed Tamara a joint, damp with spittle. She handed it straight to Ross, resolving to give him the money and leave the flat as soon as possible, without touching any surfaces, or using the toilet, or breathing too deeply. But she also knew that she should not produce her purse here, in this room, flashing banknotes in front of stoned strangers. She had to get Ross outside on his own.

  Crystal came in with a tray of cups.

  “Herb tea?”

  Tamara accepted a cracked mug bearing the slogan “Best Mum in the World”—a present from Crystal’s twins, who had been taken into care at the age of eight—and blew on the hot red liquid.

  “Rosehip,” Ross said helpfully. “Full of antioxidants. Boosts your autoimmune. Very balancing.”

  When he bothered to eat, Ross was particular about his diet. It had to be organic, macrobiotic and additive-free. The only reading he seemed to do was ingredients lists on supermarket packaging, and he regarded the inclusion of chemical additives and preservatives as evidence of a pernicious state plot to pacify and destroy him. He did not seem to apply the same scrupulousness to all the unprovenanced dope, speed, crack and heroin he ingested. Tamara blew on the tea again, determined not to put the mug to her lips.

  The rest of the group were now in focus and, between lingering draws on the joint, Ross introduced them.

  “Tam, this is Baz. Baz, Tam.”

  A slack-jawed Goth with kohl-rimmed eyes nodded towards Tamara as effortfully as a narcoleptic roused from the pillow.

  Sal, a slight West Indian girl with cornrow hair, was more forthcoming.

  “All right, Tam?” she said, giving her a sleepy, welcoming smile.

  “Chiggy. This is my sister, Tam.”

  A trembling wino, his teeth a miniature Stonehenge, raised a bottle in salute. Goody, a Medusa-haired Rasta busy at a bong, squinted briefly in Tamara’s direction before returning to the job in hand. Tamara looked around the room, a broad smile masking her unease. At least there were no needles around. A tattered poster showing two dolphins leaping through turquoise waves was pinned above the electric fire. Next to a pack of tarot cards on a wicker table were photographs of grinning twins in impeccable school uniforms, and of a defiant teenage beauty, her blonde fairy tresses crowned by a daisy chain. Dawn. Crystal’s dead sister.

  Tamara flexed her foot. She was getting cramp. How did those yogis manage to meditate in this position? It was then, with a shiver of astonishment, that she saw him, on the far edge of the circle: handsome and healthy in a roomful of wrecks, razoring some powder on a CD case with the graceful dexterity of a sushi chef.

  “Tam, this is Dev.”

  For a moment, Tamara wondered whether she was hallucinating. Could you get stoned so quickly from secondary smoke inhalation? But no. It was him. Honor Tait’s lunch date and late-night visitor; her gigolo. And he had materialised here, right in front of Tamara, inches away, almost within touching distance. What a gift. And now the puzzle of the story resolved itself. It was suddenly clear; his taste for pricey mind-altering substances explained his sordid occupation. This pensioner’s plaything had a habit to subsidise. He bent his lovely head to the powder, his profile almost obscured by the tangle of curls as he poked a rolled banknote up one nostril and sealed the other with his index finger. Then he threw his head back, sniffed appreciatively and offered Tamara a line of cocaine.

  “No thanks. I had one before I came out,” she said.

  Ross gave her a quizzical look, then accepted the CD case himself.

  “Don’t mind her, Dev,” he said. “My sister’s a bit of a straight.”

  Tamara reddened. Just when Ross was on the brink of being useful for the first time in his life, he was trying to sabotage her, laughing at her and inviting others to laugh at her. She could have snorted a line for form’s sake, but she had so much work to do she could not afford to write off the evening, or the following morning. Not everyone was on permanent holiday. Okay, she wanted to say, so I’m straight. How else would I come up with the odd two hundred quid, see you’ve got enough to eat, bail you out when you’re in trouble? If this tip of a flat on this gruesome estate, and these tragic derelicts you call friends represent the nonstraight, “alternative” lifestyle, then give me the good old perpendicular any day.

  Another joint came round, this time from Sal. Tamara hesitated. She could manage a puff in the interests of social cohesion. She took a swift hit; it was strong stuff, skunk probably and, as she passed it to Ros
s, her irritation and anxiety began to dissolve. She flexed her legs, and her cramp was gone.

  Minutes passed and the joint was hers again. What was that music? The cartoon soundtrack seemed to have speeded up and there were new elements: percussion, like a thousand syncopated heartbeats, and a flute so high and pure it sounded like birdsong in paradise. Now she was listening attentively; the music seemed to incorporate all the magnificence and tragedy of human experience. And Crystal’s insanitary flat was, on closer examination, a place of genuine warmth, infused with a benign, roseate glow. How could she have missed it before? Exhilarated by a new sensory expansiveness, Tamara felt supremely in control.

  She looked again at Ross and his friends, and saw that they were, each one of them, beautiful, even noble, in their individuality, sparkling eyed, humorous, philosophical and heroically flawed. And most beautiful of all—the old crone Tait had taste, she would give her that—was Dev, who was gazing directly at Tamara now under hooded eyes, as she was gazing at him, with naked ardour. He wanted her and she wanted him. It could not have been simpler.

  “Tam? Tam? You all right?”

  Ross’s concern touched her.

  “Of course. Look, I just wanted a quick word with you. On our own.”

  They went into the corridor and stood outside the kitchen. On the other side of the door, Rex was hurling himself at the handle in a yelping frenzy. Tamara’s elation began to drain away. She handed Ross the money.

  “Thanks, Tam. You’re brilliant. That’ll help sort out a few outgoings.”

  Tamara looked at him sceptically.

  “Just sort out your flat. Get back there. You and Crystal, you’re not good for each other. But I can’t keep doing this, Ross. Bailing you out. I really can’t.”

  “I know, Tam. I’m sorry. I’ll get myself a little job, pay you back, get myself straight.”

  That word again.

  He kissed her, and she flinched. In the full light of the hall her brother’s teeth looked cracked and rust-stained, his pitted skin had a yellow sheen, his hair was matted and his fingernails were black crescents of filth. His torn jeans were too big for him, falling in grubby folds over the tops of his soiled trainers, and the nauseating whiff of mould, she now realised, emanated not from Crystal’s flat but from Ross himself.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said.

  “Honest, Tam. That’s brilliant. I’ll pay you back. Anything. I know I owe you, big-time.”

  “Well, listen, maybe there’s one favour you might do for me. A work thing …”

  She kept it simple. She could not rely on her brother’s discretion, any more than she could rely on his honesty or self-discipline.

  “Work?” Her brother raised his eyebrow playfully. “Oh, right. You can call it whatever you like, sis. Secret’s safe with me.”

  “There’s no secret.” She bridled. “I just wanted to have a private word with him. Mutual advantage, sort of thing. Work-based, like I say.”

  “You sly devil, Tam.” He winked. “He’s more Crystal’s pal than mine. An old mate. Family stuff. But trust me, I’ll sort it.”

  Ross flashed his ruined teeth in an Artful Dodger smile.

  Tamara was feeling high again. She had taken another couple of pulls on a joint before Dev announced that he was leaving and Ross had suggested, a little too chirpily maybe, that he might give his little sister a lift. And here she was, sitting in the passenger seat of his van, thrillingly adjacent to a desirable man who also happened to hold the key to the biggest story of her career.

  “The tube all right for you?”

  His voice was as smooth and rich as a TV voiceover—an advert for a malted bedtime drink, perhaps.

  “Great.”

  She watched his hands—strong and sure, with delicate fingers—resting on the steering wheel, and found herself imagining them playing across her breasts. As he stared at the road, she slyly studied his profile, taking pleasure in its perfection: his nose straight and fine, with faintly flared nostrils; the slight jut of his upper lip inviting a kiss; his chin with its dusting of stubble, abrasive proof that he was all man, not some overgrown pretty boy.

  He glanced towards her, catching her stare.

  “How well do you know Crystal?” he asked.

  She turned her gaze to the road ahead.

  “Not that well … She’s more my brother’s—Ross’s—friend.”

  “Right.”

  “You?”

  “We go way back. Practically family.”

  His laugh was ironic. He must have known what an unlikely pair he and Crystal made; he heroically handsome and athletic, she a ghoulish wreck.

  He slowed to turn a sharp corner and, as he moved the gear stick, his hand brushed against her knee and Tamara experienced an enfeebling swell of pleasure.

  “Seems … hospitable. Crystal, I mean,” she said presently.

  He laughed.

  “Hospitable? You could say that …” He turned briefly to look at her. “You’re some kind of writer, aren’t you?”

  “Sort of. A bit. Here and there.” She hoped he didn’t detect the tremor in her voice. “How do you know?”

  “Ross—your brother—mentioned it. He’s proud of you, isn’t he?”

  She felt an inconvenient tug of guilt.

  “How about you?” she asked. “What do you do?”

  He ran a hand through his hair.

  “Me? I’m a clairvoyant.” He grinned.

  “Really?” Tamara smiled back. “So what’s the future got in store for me, then?”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “Mmm. I see a journey ahead. A long tunnel, dark, all the way to Hornsey.”

  He was wearing some kind of exotic scent, a sweet, aromatic oil that was beginning to make her eyes smart.

  “You’re good!” she said. “Except there isn’t a tube station in Hornsey. You must be channelling Turnpike Lane.”

  “That’s it!” he said. “I overreached myself. There will be a tube station in Hornsey—in a couple of decades. Mark my words.”

  She laughed and looked out at the empty streets, playing for time.

  “Tell me, Dev, what’s your last name? Where are you from?”

  “So many questions!” he mocked her lightly. “My name is Dev, just the one name, and I’m from everywhere and nowhere.”

  “Just Dev?”

  “I used to have two names, like everyone else. But when I started on The Path, I jettisoned everything I didn’t need. A second name was just one more worthless material possession. Dev is Sanskrit. It means ‘follower of God.’ That’s good enough for me.”

  “Right,” Tamara said. “One name, one syllable.”

  “I like to leave a light footprint on the planet.”

  Was he teasing her? They had pulled up outside the tube station. Time was short.

  “Can you make a good living as a clairvoyant?”

  “I work as a healer, too.”

  “Healing? In what way?” she asked.

  He leaned towards her and lowered his voice.

  “In every way.”

  “You mean like the laying-on-of-hands stuff?”

  He cupped his hands and held them towards her, smiling.

  “Yeah. I’ve got healing hands.”

  “So, what do you do with them?”

  She had stepped into a minefield of innuendo. But if he had noticed, he let it pass.

  “Aura massage, crystals, prismpuncture, spirit painting, psychic surgery …”

  Aura massage! An unpleasant vision loomed of Honor Tait lying naked, a withered peat-bog mummy, awaiting the ministrations of Dev and his healing hands.

  “Prismpuncture?”

  “You know acupuncture? It’s like that, only instead of needles we use colours.”

  Tamara strained to picture it. She had a horror of needles—unlike Ross—and, though acupuncture had been recommended as a hangover cure, she had always avoided it.

  “Colours?”

  “Speci
ally treated glass vials of pure colour. You apply them to the pressure points. So, you’ve got kidney problems? I hold a vial of red in the second quartile of your lower back. The energy radiates the blood.”

  Was her story about to shrivel away? Could this be the service Honor Tait was paying for in the restaurant? OLD WOMAN CONSULTS HIPPIE QUACK would not make an arresting headline. But Tamara could not imagine Tait having much time for alternative therapies of any sort. And it would not explain the kiss, or the cash-stuffed envelope.

  He continued: “Or you’re feeling jaded? I apply yellow to the third meridian just below your throat. We get fantastic results. And it’s completely noninvasive.”

  “Where do you do all this?”

  “Clapton.”

  Not so far, then.

  “I hold surgeries at my flat,” he continued. “Workshops, too—past lives, inner voices, angelology, life coaching.”

  Life coaching. Was that it? She tried to imagine Honor Tait sitting attentively while this seductive huckster dispensed advice on her life, or what was left of it. Then again, Tamara thought, looking across at Dev, she could do with some life coaching herself. That and the gentle application of some healing hands.

  “Wow. Brilliant,” she said. “In fact, I’m a pretty spiritual person myself.”

  “You know, I could tell. Straight away.”

  He glanced at his watch then reached in his pocket to pull out a business card. It was grey and grainy, as if made from compressed oatmeal, and the words, “Dev—Master Prismpuncture practitioner (RCPP—First Class). Aura Massage,” were printed in heavy gothic script.

  He took out a fountain pen and wrote down a phone number in violet ink.