Guest

by SJ Bradley

  ‘Naw. They got t’like it, didn’t they? Ah ended up with a waiting list six months long, just f’r fitted wardrobes.’

  ‘You should get into that.’ Outside, Kebby packed boxes into the van. Shoving things a little harder than was strictly necessary, and Samhain knew, even though he couldn’t see Kebby’s face, what sort of a mood he was in for having had to come upstairs looking for them. ‘Knocking bits of wood together – that’s your sort of thing, isn’t it?’

  Samhain passed up the box. ‘Frankie did most of the work in our old place.’ But he had the angle slightly wrong, and sent a set of easels tumbling down towards the gate.

  ‘You leave this to me.’ Kebby pulled the box away, crash-quick, and straightened everything out. ‘You’re better off inside – where you can’t cause any trouble.’

  ‘Is he going to be ok?’ Aiden asked. ‘Ah don’t want things getting broken.’

  Inside, Samhain grappled with a fake studio wall. It was nowhere near as heavy as it looked, and lifted away from the floor easily as a ballerina. The surprise lost his footing, and he stumbled back a couple of steps. ‘No. He’s fine. It’s me who’s on the wrong end of things today.’

  ‘Ah’d never been in an art college either, when ah started. Then the old Dean ordered a bit of furniture from me, and said, Aiden, you should come and teach at the college, these students could learn a lot from you. I said to her, Padrice, what are you talking about, ah’m no artist. And she said, well, ya just can’t stop it, can you? Carving all those little insects and mice on every bit of furniture you make. If that’s not art, ah don’t know what is.’

  Kebby swept past, and picked up three walls at once. ‘We need to keep moving,’ he said.

  ‘I thought you were outside.’

  ‘Well, I was. And then I came inside.’ Kebby grunted, angling his walls out of the doorway. ‘This is a three-man job. Peter should never have sent Simon off alone on that one-man-and-van job.’ He went out, still grumbling. ‘It’s a good job we’ve got the client here to help us, otherwise we’d struggle.’

  ‘So you haven’t even got an art degree?’

  ‘Ah have now. They wouldn’t let me teach if ah hadn’t.’ Aiden wasn’t even lifting his walls. He pushed them, still on their feet, towards the exit. ‘But ah started in the seventies, and things were different then. Not like it is now.’ He reached the doorway, and pushed his walls out into the corridor. They stuck on the carpet, and, drawing his breath, he started to try and wriggle them free. ‘Well, this was a stupid way to do it,’ he said.

  Kebby’s arm appeared. It reached for the edge, lifted the walls off and away and out of the door.

  Outside, the air was bright with the smell of warmed sugar and marmalade, from the jam factory downwind. ‘We need to get a move on,’ he said.

  14.

  The amount of things Astrid needed was staggering. Charley had sent a list, and it was a lot for a little person. Nappies, changing mat, spare clothes, baby bottles and tippy cups, a high chair, baby food and fruit juice, toys and books and bricks and puzzles: he’d had no idea, he realised, reeling, how much there was, and how much of it she had already done without him.

  He wanted to say sorry, and soon, he was going to get the chance to.

  ‘Card.’ It was the table-chested man with the thick beard. ‘There’s a computer free now, if you hurry up. Here’s your code – it’ll only work today. So, no point trying to use it to try and log in again tomorrow. Computer 14.’ He raised an arm at the bank of computers in the corner. ‘If you get stuck, just give me a shout and I’ll try to help.

  ‘Oh – also,’ he said. ‘There’s a note for you, from upstairs.’

  Fox-Eyes’ writing. Come up and see me, it said. Did you manage to find them?

  Samhain clicked around all of his usual websites. MySpace, Yahoo! Mail, Red and Black News:

  Call out for action in the G8!

  Join us for dissent and protest at next year’s G8, to be held in Seattle. We say NO to neoliberalism. NO to a world that benefits corporations and the wealthy. NO to global warming, global poverty, and NO to exploitation of the working classes.

  Contact us here if you are planning an affinity protest.

  Samhain looked, and was exhausted. Days in a camp. Beards and dogs. Going out with a rucksack packed with gaffer tape, goggles, and tools and scissors and market pens, all the things you’d need on a protest. Leaving your passport back at the meeting point in case you were arrested.

  He could stay home instead. Where it was comfortable. Where there were cushions, a duvet, a kettle. Where there was no danger of being arrested or sprayed with tear gas.

  But he wanted to do something. He closed the tab, and browsed over to the social club website.

  Cafe volunteers wanted!

  We always need people to help out in the cafe. Can you cook or wash up? Would you be willing to give a few hours every week to help run our vegan cafe? Get in touch!

  This was something he could do. Something useful, close to home, and without the element of danger.

  The entry was dated two months ago. He started typing an email:

  Stef,

  Are you still looking for volunteers for the cafe? Reckon I could do one evening a week. Is it still on a Tuesday? I’m not the best cook but I can do a not-bad punk stew. Also can wash up. Could you text me back? I’m working a lot at the moment and don’t get to check my emails all that often.

  Samhain

  Upstairs.

  She looked different today: pinched cheeks, slack striped dress, drooping on one side.

  ‘Sam!’ An exclamation given quietly, the most excited you were allowed to get in a library. Face brighter than a warm cake.

  ‘Hey, Alice,’ he said.

  ‘It’s been ages.’ She turned a little away from him, rummaging under the desk. Looking, he supposed, for the small key on the large fob that opened the door into the back. ‘How’d you get on? Aha!’ Lifting it, its teeth twinkling, she got out of her chair. ‘I was thinking about you,’ she said. ‘After that last CopWatch meeting. Wondering what you’d done afterwards.’

  She climbed from behind the desk as though competing in an obstacle race. Everything got in her way. The chair, the desks. The returns shelf, a metal trolley on wheels.

  ‘They should have been a bit more accommodating,’ she said. ‘People going to the meeting are bound to have issues. They’re supposed to be for anybody.’ Fox-Eyes was heading for the back of the room. The rack of leaflets, the concealed door. She already had her hand on it before he could stop her.

  ‘Hold on,’ he said.

  ‘I thought you might want to look some more stuff up,’ she said. Her hand dropped to her side.

  ‘Don’t need to.’ They were standing by the last desk in the room, which was empty. Highly polished wood, a copy of the day’s Daily Mail on a stick. The yellow-jacketed Council Vacancies booklet on the desktop beside it. ‘Let’s sit here.’

  He dropped his books on the desk. Covers with smiling babies, and titles like Development: A Parent’s Guide and Growing Up: What To Expect.

  ‘Are you taking a course?’ she asked.

  ‘No. These are for me.’

  ‘Huh.’ She seemed less certain now, sliding into the seat opposite. ‘What for?’

  ‘So I can look after my little girl,’ he said.

  ‘Huh.’ She spun the books around, glanced at their covers. ‘Didn’t know you had a daughter,’ she said. There seemed to be something uncomfortable about the bench on her side: she shuffled around on it, one side to another, one side to another, as though being poked.

  ‘Well, I do.’ Samhain took the books back, and straightened them into a pile. ‘Haven’t met her yet, but that’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your dad,’ she said. ‘That he passed away before you got chance to meet him.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Samhain levelled the corners of his books. ‘I don’t think we would have got along.’

/>   ‘You know, you could go back to CopWatch,’ she said. ‘Challenge their decision. Ask them to let you go to their meetings. They’re looking for people to help bring a case against the Met–’

  ‘No.’ Samhain was shaking his head.

  Behind them, a clearing throat. The accusatory rattling of a newspaper page being turned loudly, pointedly, signalling the act of being interrupted.

  Samhain whispered: ‘I don’t want to bring a case. I’ve got other stuff to think about.’ He said: ‘Thanks, though. You did everything you could.’ ‘Yeah, well,’ her cheeks burnished. ‘It’s wrong, what the police have done. To people like you and your mum.’

  ‘It did help,’ he said. ‘And I got to meet my brother, which I couldn’t have done otherwise.’

  ‘Really?’ she said. ‘Samhain, that’s great. Are you going to keep the contact going?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘He’s a total dick.’

  Silent giggles. Shoulders juddering like an old car trying to start. ‘Sam!’

  ‘You can’t have everything.’

  She was pretty when she smiled, the way her whole face opened.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘It didn’t totally work out, and I’d never say this to my mum, but I’m glad I got to know who he was. At least I’ve got a picture of him. To know his name.’

  She leaned back. ‘Well, that’s great, Sam. And if you ever want to find out anything more...’

  ‘I know where you are.’

  Sam got up, lifting his books, propping them under his arm.

  ‘Thank you, Alice. For all that you’ve done. I’ll see you.’

  He went downstairs, and got on his bike, and cycled all the way home, rain falling lightly on the backs of his hands.

  15.

  ‘Why do anarchists drink herbal tea?’

  Stef crouched, sandy hair wavy as spaghetti, wearing a jumper you could use to drain pasta.

  Click, click. Eyes level with the cooker knobs, one thumb on the ignition. ‘There’s a trick to this. In a minute, it’ll...’

  The nearest gas ring flared and spluttered. A bloom of fire exploded, clouding close to Stef’s eyebrows.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s it going. Did you hear the click?’ Stef stood, and opened the nearest cupboard. ‘You have to keep pressing and unpressing the ignition, then when you hear the click, turn the cooker knob about halfway up – but not too fast. That’s the only way to get the rings lit. It’s a bit temperamental, but you’ll soon get used to it.’

  ‘Is it because all proper tea is theft?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Stef inspected a bent tin of kidney beans.

  ‘Why anarchists drink herbal tea – is it because all proper tea is theft?’

  In response, a quizzical look. ‘Didn’t I tell you that one a minute ago?’ Stef felt around the worktop. ‘Tin opener. Tin opener.’

  Samhain took a scourer, and ran the tap over it. People left the cafe in a real mess. He’d only been here an hour, and already found spilled beer, sticky and dried, in cloudy brown patches all over the serving hatch side. It had taken him half an hour of scrubbing to get it up, and he’d had to throw the sponge away afterwards. ‘Back pocket,’ he said.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘The tin opener. It’s in your back pocket.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ Stef whipped it out, grinding its blunt teeth against the can top. ‘Now.’ He frowned over the top of his glasses. ‘Is this your first time making a bean burger?’

  ‘No.’ Open cupboard doors: Samhain took boxes and packets down, to wipe down the insides. They kept – and to him, this was the most impressive part – a whole cupboard full of herbs and spices, and eighteen different kinds of herbal tea.

  ‘You’ve made bean burgers from a packet, I expect.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is different. You may think you know how to make a bean burger. What’s that?’ Stef reached across, and plucked apart an old, dusty packet of star anise. ‘Look at the date on that. 1996. This should be in a museum.’ He flicked it into the bin. ‘Well, what I’m about to teach you today is going to blow your mind. Or something. You see, here, on gig nights, we never make burgers from packets, no. Today, Samhain, you are going to learn one of the best kept secrets of the club – how to make a Social Club Beanburger. It’s only ever made here, using a recipe closely guarded by a select group of anarchists, and only ever handed down through anarchist hands.’ Stef rustled through a plastic bag of new ingredients. ‘It’s also in the club cookbook, but whoever wrote it down made a mistake. They forgot to say...’ drawing out a bag of flour, of millet; beetroot, newly purple and fresh from the ground, still wearing wet soil on its skin: ‘...they forgot to mention the cabbage.’ Stef tossed the beetroot into the sink, rubbing the earth from his hands. ‘It’s better with it, but sometimes you have to manage your best without.’

  Samhain sliced potatoes for chips as the band arrived. Six of them, dirty-faced, with sleeping bags and banjos, came in looking as though they were trying to find their location on a map. The smell coming off them was something far stronger than you got from a week on the road: he watched them walk through the cafe with their bags and their cases, vests hanging loose from their shoulders, and tried hard not to slice his fingers.

  Frying onions gave off a hearty, caramelising smell. Pan clattering and hammering on the ring as Stef poked them with a spoon. ‘Wait until they’re lovely and brown,’ he said. ‘How are you getting on with them potatoes?’

  ‘Perfect.’ The last of the boys went through the gig room door, tote bag in hand, guitar leads trailing from the zipper. Samhain laid raw potato carefully in strips on kitchen roll, sprinkling them in a glittering snowfall of salt. ‘Stef, do you ever miss touring?’

  ‘What?’

  Pushing glasses back up his nose, glancing at the closing door to the other room.

  The smash of cymbals falling, a shouted curse. The door opened and two of the band came out again, eyes blackened and heads hanging, hands empty. ‘Did you bring the guitars in yet?’ one said to the other.

  ‘Still in the van – and the bass cab,’ said the other. ‘Pete better not leave it all to us this time.’

  His companion rolled his eyes, scurrying after.

  ‘Miss it?’ Stef nodded at the two lads. ‘No way. I like sleeping in my own bed too much.’ He grinned. ‘Are you thinking of leaving us already?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ The smell of the onions was making him hungry, and Samhain found that he didn’t much mind.

  He noticed he was humming.

  Lemmers came in, carrying a big plastic box full of microphones and DI boxes.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, putting it down on the serving hatch.

  ‘Hello.’ Samhain was grating carrots, a whole bag of them, like Stef had told him to.

  ‘Well.’ The box lid loose on one side; Lemmers tried to squeeze it closed. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while. Are you volunteering in the cafe now?’

  Lemmers fiddled with switches and knobs, turning things on, off, up, down. Adjusting levels on a rack mount that wasn’t even plugged in.

  ‘Seems that way. This is my first time.’ Samhain put the bowl to one side, and rubbed knives and forks clean and dry with a towel. ‘We’ll have to see whether they’ll have me back a second time.’

  He seemed very interested in the knobs, staring at them even while Samhain shredded the carrots, even while he put two wooden spoons into the salad bowl to turn the leaves. ‘I bet they will,’ he said. ‘People are always needed in the cafe.’

  ‘Lemmers.’ Samhain laid knives and forks down in the cutlery tray. ‘I’m sorry I ruined the tour.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Lemmers hesitated, tipping one corner of the box up, then the other. ‘I don’t think anybody really blamed you. We all knew you were going through some... you know. Nobody minded.’

  ‘But what about Ned – wasn’t he...?’

  ‘Oh yeah, Ned. We had to take him to Dutch A&E at four in the morning. That wasn’
t great. His girlfriend went mental – she wanted him to go straight home, but he stayed. Not that he could play anything for the rest of the tour, not with all the stitches. Still...’ Lemmers picked up his box. ‘It got him out of carrying anything heavy for the rest of the way around.’

  ‘And Romey?’

  ‘What about Romey?’

  ‘Wasn’t he pissed off?’

  ‘Ah, no.’ Lemmers grinned. ‘Romey forgot about the whole thing after a couple more drinks. I think he was just glad to be out of the house. Good to see you again, man.’

  Later, Samhain cleaned the cooker. Washed every mug, put all of the spoons and forks and everything else away, ready for the next person to come and mess it all up again before he was next in.

  It was late. The band were still banging and scraping away in the gig room, making their noise over the speakers, even though half the audience had already left. They had gone yawning, or running to catch their last bus.

  Samhain was packing his bag when the text came through.

  So how come ur cooking now? U never used 2 do that wen we were 2getha!

  Charley.

  He switched the cooker off at the wall, and turned the lights off in the kitchen. Left the damp tea towel hanging over the oven door handle.

  He texted back: I must have changed! He added: Stefan taught me.

  Closed the door, pulled the latch over the serving window. Called out: ‘Night, Rawlplug,’ to the barman.

  ‘Night.’

  Charley replied when he was around the back of the club. Outside in the dark, unchaining his bike from the rack.

  U can come Sunday pm 2 meet Astrid if u like. We’ll be at my mum’s. Come @2.

  He texted back: I’ll be there.

  He wondered whether her boyfriend would be there too. She’d got this guy called Tom, somebody she’d apparently met through work, or so he’d heard. People said he was a great guy. Very clean, very straight up. Tidy clothes and short back and sides. Looked ordinary, but he was anything but. Samhain knew this, because he’d been asking around about Tom for a couple of weeks, and nobody had a bad word to say about him.