The Dwarves of Death

by Jonathan Coe

  ‘Is she religious, this woman?’ I asked (meaning Mrs Gordon).

  ‘No, not especially.’ She saw what had prompted my question. ‘That’s mine.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were a Catholic.’

  ‘Well how could you? You’ve barely met me.’

  I sipped my tea, chastened, and said, ‘I went through a brief religious phase once. I used to go to communion every week. Apart from anything else, it’s still the only place you can get a drink first thing on a Sunday morning.’

  She didn’t laugh or even smile, and I felt that I had struck a wrong note.

  ‘What would you like to do this evening?’ she asked. ‘Shall we go out somewhere?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Anywhere you like.’

  We walked to a little Hungarian restaurant on the Kings Road. I tried putting my arm around her waist on the way, but could feel no encouragement, so I withdrew it at the first opportunity. Not that she asked me to or anything. It was just a sense I had.

  ‘What are your plans?’ she asked me, after we had ordered our food.

  ‘Pardon?’ It seemed an odd question.

  ‘What are you going to do? With all this music and everything. Where’s it going to lead?’

  ‘I don’t know, I hadn’t really thought. That’s not why I’m doing it.’

  ‘Why are you doing it?’

  ‘Well, you know… I’m only twenty-three, after all. I’ve just got to make myself known, play as often as possible – there’s no saying what might happen. I’ve got this friend, Tony, who used to teach me, and he thinks that I’ve got the potential – ’ I couldn’t think why I was telling her this, so I decided to stop. ‘Anyway, what about you? How much longer are you going to look after Mrs Gordon?’

  ‘What else can I do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Madeline paused, and then said another odd thing.

  ‘My parents think I’m an accountant.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘After I left university, I started to train as an accountant. That was where I met Piers – you know, the friend I was supposed to be seeing that night? But I got bored, so I gave it up. But I haven’t told my parents about it yet.’

  ‘When was this?’

  She frowned. ‘Nearly a year ago, now.’

  ‘Where are your parents?’

  ‘In America. Daddy works for this bank. They asked him to be an overseas manager.’

  ‘Don’t you miss them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘A brother. He’s in Japan somewhere.’

  ‘Do you miss him?’

  ‘No.’ She smiled, blandly. ‘We weren’t very close, my family. We travelled about all over the place. My parents went to Italy for a while and left us with relatives. They separated for a while and I lived in Ireland with my mother. It feels as though my father and I never spent more than a few months together.’

  ‘So when did he use to listen to “My Funny Valentine”?’

  The reference didn’t seem to register.

  ‘I’ve only had two phone calls from them in all the time they’ve been away. But every so often I write to them. That’s when Piers is useful.’

  ‘In what way?’ I asked. For some reason I already disliked this Piers character. (Well, forget ‘for some reason’. It was for the obvious reason.)

  ‘He still works for this accountancy firm, you see, and he can get me sheets of their headed notepaper. So I write to my parents on this notepaper and they still think I’m working as an accountant.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ I said. ‘Why do you have to lie to them?’

  ‘They’d be furious. They didn’t put me through university just so I could end up as a glorified nanny.’

  ‘My parents have never tried to stop me doing anything I wanted to do,’ I said. ‘They trust me.’ I hope this didn’t sound as pompous to her, then, as it does to me, now. But I could feel my mood deteriorating and I asked her another petulant question. ‘So you and Piers are pretty close, are you, one way and another?’

  ‘We’re just old friends, that’s all. I like him.’ She held up her wrist. ‘Look, he gave me this, once.’

  ‘What, the bruise?’

  ‘No, silly, the bracelet.’

  It was thin and elegant and looked as though it was made of solid gold and had cost him about five thousand pounds. I hated it.

  ‘Very nice,’ I said. I would have to find out when her birthday was and start putting money into a savings account.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘He’s not my boyfriend.’

  I thought that if my feelings were that obvious, I might as well press the point.

  ‘There’ve been… men in your life, have there?’

  ‘Not really,’ she said, seeming more bored than embarrassed by the question. ‘There was someone a couple of years ago, but it wasn’t very serious. We used to meet on Saturdays and go up to walk his dog on Hampstead Heath.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Rover, I think. This food’s a long time coming, isn’t it?’

  I always have this problem with restaurants. I know that the idea is to catch the waiter’s eye, or to make some kind of discreet gesture; there are some people (Chester would be one of them) who only have to make some lazy little movement with their right forefinger for a whole army of waiters to descend on them, dancing attendance. Me, I can get up and stand right in their path, waving my arms about like someone trying to flag down a speeding taxi, and they still manage to look right through me. I wouldn’t mind, but this disability seems to rub off on to whoever I’m dining with: so there we were, the only two customers in this bloody restaurant, with about fifteen waiters standing over by the till acting like the place hadn’t even opened yet.

  ‘I suppose I only liked him,’ Madeline said suddenly, ‘because he was a Catholic.’

  ‘It’s that important to you?’

  ‘It makes a difference.’

  ‘I’m not a Catholic.’

  ‘I know. I don’t mind.’

  I looked at her full in the face for as long as I thought good manners would allow. She was without doubt the most beautiful woman I had ever dated. Oh, Stacey was pretty, there’s no denying that: but Madeline was in a different class altogether. It occurred to me, from the way she was dressed, from the way her hair was done, from the way she was made up, that she must have spent hours preparing for this evening, and I felt suddenly ashamed of my shabby work clothes and my sloppy assumption that I could just turn up at her house, without making any special effort, and expect the whole occasion to go swimmingly. A swirl of feelings, compounded of desire and incipient affection and a wish to apologize, swept over me and it was all I could do to refrain from leaning across the table and kissing her long and gently on the mouth.

  When the time came to kiss her good night, in the lamplit doorway of that unbelievable mansion, I was determined to do the job properly. I don’t know what expectations I had arrived with, exactly, that night. Somewhere at the back of my mind I had probably believed that I would end up sleeping with her, but there was no sense of frustration or anti-climax when I realized that this wouldn’t happen, tonight or even for some time to come. I was happy, for now, to cup her cheeks between my palms, to feel her face tilt expectantly towards me, to plant my open mouth against hers, to sense a tiny yielding, and then to whisper ‘Good night, Madeline’ and hear her murmur in reply. As I walked back towards the tube station, I felt that no satisfaction could be more complete.

  Perhaps I would have been less happy if I had known that on this first date, Madeline and I had come as physically close as we would ever come; that we would never surpass that kiss – wouldn’t even equal it, more often that not. Except once. Except for an evening when we had eaten somewhere near the Aldwych, the Waldorf or some other place that I couldn’t really afford, and we walked down to the Thames, and she slid her hand into mine, and one minute we were sta
nding looking at the water and then the next she had put her arms around me and suddenly we were kissing with a passion which baffled and astonished me, her tongue crushing against mine, her mouth biting into my lips until it was me, after all, who had to withdraw and look away. She never explained those moments to me and after I had seen her on to her train, I staggered home across Waterloo Bridge like a drunken man, reeling with shock and pleasure, my head and body throbbing with excitement.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t have another?’ somebody asked.

  It was Chester, standing over me as I sat at the piano.

  I closed the lid.

  ‘Why not?’ I said, and followed him to the bar.

  Just as Chester was paying for my drink, a tall, angular, sallow young man rushed in and grabbed him by the shoulder. He had restless eyes and a shock of black hair, greased back and centre-parted, and he seemed very agitated. Chester registered surprise and, I thought, even a little anger on seeing him.

  ‘Paisley? What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve got to talk to you, Chess. I need to have a word.’ He didn’t look at Chester as he said this, but kept staring restlessly around him, as though he thought he was being followed or something.

  ‘Not now, Paisley, for God’s sake. Can’t you see I’m busy?’

  ‘I just need a quick word. Five minutes.’

  ‘I told you not to come and find me here, didn’t I?’

  ‘Five minutes, Chester.’ He put his hand on his shoulder and started clawing it until Chester pushed him away.

  ‘Piss off, can’t you? I’ll come and find you later.’

  ‘Look, you don’t understand. I don’t just want a word. I need a word. I need, Chester, I need.’

  He was looking into his eyes by now; but still his gaze was unsteady, darting uncontrollably.

  Chester paused for a moment, tight-lipped, and then said, ‘Christ, you’re a pin-head, Paisley. You’re a real fucking Christmas turkey. Come on, and make it quick. Excuse us a minute, Bill.’

  They disappeared in the direction of the exit; or it could have been the Gents, I’m not sure. I was left standing alone at the bar. Just me, and Karla, drying glasses.

  ‘Who was that?’ I asked her.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve seen him here before once or twice. I told you Chester knew a fairly strange crowd.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t think you really know him very well, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know him at all.’

  ‘You find out quite a lot about your customers, working behind a bar. In bits and pieces. I know all the regulars, now. Sometimes even when I’m not working I just stand at the window and watch them coming and going.’

  ‘What window?’

  ‘I live right opposite here, above the video shop. I can see everything that goes on at this place.’

  ‘What is there to see?’

  ‘You never know, do you?’ She smiled again, and it was almost as if she was talking to herself. ‘You never know who you’re going to see.’

  I could make no sense of this remark, so I used it as an excuse to change the subject.

  ‘I’d love to hear you sing. Seriously. Maybe we could come in here one morning before opening time, and use the piano.’

  She shook her head, laughing. ‘That’s the worst chat-up line I’ve ever heard in my life.’

  I was indignant.

  ‘It wasn’t a chat-up line. Listen, I’ve got a girlfriend, you know. I’m not trying to chat you up.’

  She took me more seriously once I’d told her that, but still all she’d say was, ‘I said I used to sing, that’s all. And I don’t think you’d like my voice very much.’

  Chester reappeared, looking breathless and apologetic.

  ‘Sorry about that, Bill. Did you get your drink?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ I gestured at the other members of the band, who seemed to be in various stages of clinical depression. ‘Do you think it’s worth carrying on with this?’

  He looked at his watch. ‘No, we’re wasting our time. See how the recording goes on Tuesday, eh? Maybe things’ll look up when you’ve got a decent demo under your belts.’

  ‘I’d better get back. The buses are completely fucked today, it’ll probably take me hours.’

  ‘You live over Rotherhithe way, don’t you? I can give you a lift.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got to see someone over there, about four o’clock. No problem.’

  So it was that I found myself sitting for the first time in Chester’s little orange Marina, speeding past the Angel and down through the City and out across London Bridge. And it was then, also for the first time, that he raised the subject of Paisley, and Paisley’s band The Unfortunates – the band of which Chester was also the manager.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about them, you see. Listening to their tapes, that sort of thing. The thing is, they need a keyboard player.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You know, a real musician. To fill out the sound a bit. They’ve got real style, this band, they could really go somewhere, but musically they… well, they need a bit of help.’

  I paused long enough for him to perform a particularly agonizing gear change.

  ‘Is this in the nature of a… proposition?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, you could say that. That’s very well put, William. A proposition. Exactly.’

  ‘Well, I…’

  ‘You probably want to think about it.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I would.’

  ‘Fine.’

  He took me to within half a mile of the flat and then pulled up at a junction. He seemed worried that he was going to be late for his appointment.

  ‘I’ll drop you here, if you don’t mind. This bloke, he gets a bit mad if you keep him waiting.’

  ‘A bit mad?’

  ‘Yes, you know. A little bit nasty.’ And before I had time to wonder what he might have meant, he had straightened his cap and was driving off. The last thing he said to me, as he wound up the window, was: ‘Think about it.’

  Interlude

  Panic on the streets of London…

  I wonder to myself

  Could life ever be sane again?

  MORRISSEY,

  Panic

  So I thought about it. That is, I thought a lot about Chester, and about Paisley, and the strange encounter I had half-witnessed in the pub that afternoon. I thought about it over the next week, and I thought about it on that dreadful Saturday night, as I ran through the back streets of Islington, each step taking me further and further away from Paisley’s smashed and lifeless body.

  I must have run for about ten minutes without stopping. Perhaps that doesn’t sound like very much, but for someone like me, who hasn’t taken any proper exercise for years – not since I was at school – believe me, it was quite an achievement. I tried to keep some sort of sense of direction at first, but soon I found myself in totally unfamiliar territory. Looking now at the A–Z, I think I must have started off by heading west, towards Camden, but then a series of leftish turns must have taken me in the King’s Cross direction. The first place I can remember stopping was a bus-shelter, and the first thing I can remember doing was forcing myself to think: forcing myself to look at the situation I was in and imagine how it would seem to an outsider.

  I had been spotted at the scene of the crime. I had been seen by two policemen, emerging from the house where Paisley had been murdered. And instead of trying to explain myself, I had turned around and run, thereby immediately drawing suspicion on to myself. Well, perhaps when they caught up with me – which I was convinced they would – I could account for that, saying that I was in a state of shock and I didn’t stop to think about what I was doing or how it would look. One or two other circumstances were in my favour: at least there wasn’t a murder weapon with my fingerprints on it, for instance.

  As for the killing itself, I was just about in a fit state to realize that there were two possible explanations. Either somebody, for s
ome reason, had wanted to get rid of Paisley, or, more likely, they had mistaken him for someone else – the mysterious ‘landlord’ of the house where they all lived. Who was he, though? The only person who knew him, it seemed, was Chester himself, and he had been very unforthcoming about his identity. Deliberately unforthcoming, perhaps? Karla had told me that Chester had some strange friends. She had also pointed out to me that I didn’t really know him very well. Had I been a little too trusting with our friendly, resourceful, enigmatic manager? What sort of hold did he have over Paisley that could give rise to a scene like the one I had witnessed in the pub that Sunday afternoon? Maybe Chester himself was the owner of their house – maybe he was the one the telephone callers kept asking for, under a succession of different names. Or perhaps I was on completely the wrong track: was Paisley the real target of the attack, and if so, could it have been Chester himself who was behind it?

  As I sat in the shelter I saw that there was a bus approaching, and suddenly I decided to get on to it. There was no way the police could have issued a description of me yet, so it wasn’t as if any of the passengers would recognize me. All the same, I paid my fare in cash, rather than showing the driver my travelcard with the passport photo on it. I jumped on without even looking at the front of the bus and without any idea of where it was going to take me. The important thing was that it took me away from here as soon as possible. I sat on the bottom deck, near the back, and willed the bus to move.

  And then, of course, panting up to the bus-stop came the bane of every journey – the passenger who gets on at the last minute and doesn’t have the faintest idea where he wants to go. Usually a tourist who can’t speak much English and has decided to use the driver as a combination of policeman, street map, bus timetable and change machine. So the bus is stuck there for what seems like a million years while he names some street in Greenwich or Richmond where he wants to go, and the bus driver has to get out his A–Z and explain to him which stop to get off at and which bus he’ll have to catch next, and then the bloke tries to find his fare and he only has a twenty-pound note or ninety-five pence in Japanese yen and the driver has to fish the change out of his back trouser pocket and you could have travelled to Glasgow and back on an inter-city sleeper by the time the bus starts moving again.