The Snakes

by Sadie Jones

  She took the train to Holloway, as if she were starting a good working day. Dust-spattered windows, chimneystacks, as if the last two weeks had not happened. For a moment, on the train, Alex wasn’t dead, and she and Dan were like they had been. No death. No Griff and Liv. No greed, forcing itself into the cracks. Just coming home from work, eating dinner, going out. Normal. She changed at King’s Cross, immensely relieved to be back in crowds where each person looked different, away from the tasteful narrowness of France. Joining the fast-moving people, she caught the Piccadilly line to Holloway Road, and went out into the exhaust-fume, take-away smell of home. She felt like a ghost, or that Paligny was the ghost. When you’re gone, and you look back, this will feel like a dream, Now he had gone, everything was; life caught between a dream and a nightmare.

  The building works above the practice had hardly moved on; the scaffolding was sunbaked now, not dripping. She ran down the basement steps.

  ‘Bea! Oh my God! What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m just back for a few days,’ she said.

  ‘OK, but what are you doing here?’

  ‘Can’t stay away,’ said Bea.

  Jen, Gita, Helen, Jeff. Their routine was interrupted, they loved it.

  ‘Do you mind if I just sit for a bit?’

  ‘Whatever you like. It’s brilliant to see you.’

  It was all exactly as she’d left it. She sat in the office, and watched the start of their day, and then the clients arriving. She felt like a ghost. If she could have joined the living, she would have done. She deflected their questions with questions of her own, and didn’t tell them about Alex. There was respite in being in a world where nobody knew.

  ‘I wish I could work,’ she said. ‘Anything for me to do?’

  ‘You’re mad.’

  At nine fifteen sessions started and she left. There was no excuse to stay.

  ‘See you in September –’

  ‘Goodbye, have fun –’

  She watched the bus that would take her home go by, and almost ran to catch it, so that she could let herself into the empty, unlet flat and hide there. She thought of going to the charity offices where she volunteered, but the team on the helpline might not appreciate her dropping by for no reason. If she called a friend, she would have to talk about herself. She walked north, up Holloway Road, to the Oxfam shop. She was in luck, Veena was there, and the tiny storeroom was in chaos.

  Veena was ridiculously happy to be helped. She made them both tea, and then Bea went into the back, with the donations.

  ‘I haven’t seen that crazy knife girl again,’ said Veena. ‘But I do wonder what happened to her.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘So, how have you been?’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ said Bea. ‘Fine.’

  Dan dressed and went downstairs. It was half past nine. Electricians were laying cables in the garden. Blessica made him breakfast. He ate it looking up at the chandelier, which was a cluster of long geometric lights, suspended from the hall ceiling hanging down through the void of the double-height space. Dan thought he knew his style, he considered himself someone with a developed aesthetic, but this house threw him off; he couldn’t tell how he felt about any of it. He’d studied Murano glass. Were the lights modern Murano? Were they resin? Could they be shell?

  ‘How do you clean those?’ he asked Blessica as she ran back down the stairs from answering the door. She just laughed.

  He googled three-bedroom houses in London, and marvelled that one of them would be his. One thousand eight hundred square feet, south-facing garden. Add to basket, he thought. Checkout. He heard a door slam, and footsteps, and Griff came down into the kitchen.

  ‘Dan,’ he said, ‘where’s St Beatrice?’

  ‘Gone to see her mates,’ said Dan.

  ‘The house is going to be overrun today. I’m going out.’

  The doorbell rang again. They heard Liv greet somebody in the hall.

  ‘Why don’t you come along?’ said Griff. ‘Take your son-in-law-to-work day.’

  ‘Work?’ said Dan, surprised.

  ‘Takes my mind off things,’ said Griff. ‘Coming?’

  ‘Do I need to change?’ asked Dan.

  ‘Would there be any point?’

  Ashir was out front in a Mercedes. Dan had never seen anything like the inside of it, a strange quilted world of headrests and armrests and footwell lighting. Fuck, he thought, as they pulled away. Griff didn’t bother speaking, bashing away at his iPad on the other side of the car.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Dan.

  ‘Wait and see.’

  It was quiet in the car, and Dan didn’t notice the traffic. They drove through Camden Town and past the British Museum, then crossed the river at Waterloo. Elephant and Castle, the Old Kent Road, and gradually, the streets became familiar.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked again.

  Griff smiled. ‘Your manor,’ he said.

  Dan peered out, through the tinted glass. Peckham High Street. Consort Road. The car felt more and more conspicuous, and it was surreal to glide through the streets of his childhood in the back of it, with people checking them as they went by. Ashir frowned at his satnav, lost in a maze of railway arches and dead ends.

  ‘Where you trying to get to, mate?’ asked Dan.

  ‘He’s all right,’ said Griff. ‘Aren’t you, Ash?’

  ‘All good,’ said Ashir.

  They cut around the back of the Peckham bus garage, made a big loop and turned onto Rye Lane.

  ‘Blimey, it is rough,’ said Griff. ‘Where is the damn place?’

  ‘Which place?’ asked Dan, but really, in his heart, he knew.

  ‘Copeland Park,’ said Griff. ‘The Bussey Building. It should be here. Ash?’

  Ashir shrugged.

  ‘It’s down there,’ said Dan. ‘You need to walk.’

  ‘Down that alley?’ said Griff. ‘Ash?’

  ‘I’ll stay here.’ Ashir stopped on a zigzag, putting on his hazard lights.

  They got out of the Mercedes.

  ‘Lead on,’ said Griff.

  There was no point asking questions. They passed Khan’s Bargains, as a train thundered across the railway bridge. Griff gazed about him like Captain Kirk after teleporting.

  ‘KFC,’ he said wonderingly, as he followed Dan into the covered walkway.

  ‘See it there?’ said Dan.

  The Bussey towered above them, huge and unadorned, and beyond it the cracked concrete and other buildings of Copeland Park; painted letters on the battered walls: CLF Art Cafe. Block A. Block B. Stairs. Rusted doors and spray paint, warehouse windows and distant beats.

  ‘I’ve only seen plans and pictures,’ said Griff. He peered into a stairwell. ‘I don’t particularly get what everyone sees in it, to be honest.’

  He was standing in front of a graffiti mural, the bright yellows and blues outshone and shrank him down to size. It was early in the day, still, but the weather was mild, and the food stalls were setting up. People were coming from their offices and shops on Rye Lane to eat, and there was a steady stream going in and out of the various spaces, and even some tourists. Nearby, a girl was stirring a sloppy curry in a huge wok over a gas flame, and the chargrill smoke of jerk pork drifted on the air from a barbecue across the cracked and weedy concrete.

  ‘They can’t do much business,’ said Griff, squinting into the darkness of the building. ‘You can’t see inside.’

  Dan shrugged. ‘Why are we here?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a project I’m involved with. I thought it might interest you.’

  They walked to a zinc trailer with an awning, serving coffee, and Dan bought them one each. Griff didn’t take the lid off his, it was just a prop. He continued to stare, like a Victorian explorer.

  ‘My degree show was here,’ said Dan. ‘Gallery over there.’

  ‘A gallery,’ repeated Griff.

  ‘Where I met Bea,’ said Dan.

  ‘Here?’ Griff look
ed at him, full in the face. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Bought her a drink up on the roof,’ said Dan, pointing.

  ‘Sentimental attachment,’ said Griff. ‘That’s nice.’ He put his untouched coffee on the ground, and flicked his fingertips together, to dust them off. ‘Here’s the thing –’

  ‘You’re developing the Bussey,’ said Dan quietly.

  It had to be said quietly, it was like swearing in church. Even whispering he had the feeling every head would turn, and people would stop in their business, and stare, in shock. It had been a twenty-year battle to save the Bussey from people like Griff. The place was an icon. It was untouchable.

  ‘You can’t,’ he said. ‘It’s protected.’

  Saving the Bussey was a story Dan had grown up with. Scheduled for demolition more than once, its preservation had been an unlikely triumph; south-east London’s haven for the cultural underground, constantly under threat, devotedly defended. Propped up by the EU and the GLA, the Bussey had artists’ spaces, club nights, movies on the roof and vinyl in the basement. Even when the EU money disappeared, preserved by law when Dan was still in his teens, it carried on. It never occurred to him it was vulnerable. He should have known. Preservation laws were no more than paper promises. London needed cash.

  ‘Let’s walk,’ said Griff.

  They moved away from the people, towards parked cars and lock-ups, and Griff talked. Still in its early stages, the Bussey Development Project would soon reach consultation, and then it would be public knowledge. The residents would fight.

  ‘Fight? They’ll go mental,’ said Dan.

  ‘It’s a two-billion-pound development,’ said Griff. ‘It will happen. This whole area will be transformed.’

  ‘Into what?’

  ‘Luxury residential, retail and leisure park,’ said Griff. ‘The money’s Malaysian, but a British company will be the face of it. Nobody wants to see a row of Malaysians in all the pictures. They want British companies, British businessmen. You know, shaking hands over a cement mixer or whatever.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘No, obviously not me. That would be a disaster, with my profile. No, no, no, it’ll be a local developer.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘They’re putting one together now. And they’ll need grass-roots support. PR, basically. Persuade the shopkeepers and whoever that they’ll be better off.’

  Dan stopped looking at him. He watched the people going about, setting up stalls, carrying materials in and out of the warehouse doors. A guy was unloading paintings from the back of his car. Griff was still talking.

  ‘Obviously they’ll be better off. It’ll bring the whole area up. But people are arseholes. We’ll need to draw them in. Sponsored events. Street parties. Give them the feeling the development is part of the community.’

  ‘The feeling?’

  ‘Kids. Balloons and what have you,’ said Griff. ‘Someone like you could be invaluable.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Get the locals onside, take my point?’

  Dan took his point completely. Like Muslims on the beat in Bradford, like a black cop at Carnival.

  ‘I’ve got no experience in PR,’ he said.

  ‘Not an issue,’ said Griff. ‘It’s my call, I’m a significant stakeholder. Anyway, it’s a doddle. Any moron can do PR. Not that you’re a moron. Half my friends’ posh-totty daughters go into PR.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Maybe you are a moron. Do I have to explain?’ said Griff. ‘You’re married to Bea.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Look, what are you, an artist? That’s a rumour so far unproved. I’ve got no idea if you have any talent whatsoever, and frankly, it doesn’t matter. It’s time to grow up.’

  ‘What would I tell Bea?’

  ‘You won’t be working for me,’ said Griff, ‘you’ll be working for Copeland Park Development Project. CPDP. Catchy.’

  Dan looked down at the ground. ‘Listen, it’s nice of you,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not nice.’

  There was silence. Silence from Griff was unusual enough to get Dan’s attention. He looked up at him.

  ‘I had two boys,’ said Griff. ‘I’ve lost one of them. My daughter doesn’t want to know me. Ed is fine, I don’t worry about him, but Alex was –’ He stopped, words stopped by pain. ‘My daughter has told me many times she won’t take my money. Told me outright. Even when I’m dead. Did you know that? Not the trust I’ve made for her. Nothing. Do you know what that’s like? The world is drowning in shit and my daughter won’t get on the lifeboat.’

  Dan’s pity was laced with excitement, his excitement dignified by sympathy. ‘You don’t need to worry,’ he said. ‘She’s changed her mind.’

  Suddenly, he had Griff’s attention. He shouldn’t have said it. He should have waited.

  ‘Changed her mind?’

  Dan tried to think of a way to say it and not sound greedy. Don’t worry, old man, when you’re dead I’ll have your riches.

  ‘Bea’s decided – I mean – she wants to ask you about her trust fund.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘She wants access, to –’ He couldn’t say money. ‘Some capital.’

  ‘Bea?’ said Griff. ‘Are you joking? You are absolutely fucking joking. How on earth did you manage that?’

  Dan gave an awkward laugh. ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Griff. His look held both respect and insult. ‘What has St Beatrice agreed to?’

  ‘We’re going to buy a house.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We’re not sure yet. There are nice houses in Dalston,’ said Dan.

  ‘Why Dalston? We’ve got a dozen standing empty much more central.’

  ‘We can get three or four beds in Dalston for under two million,’ said Dan.

  ‘That’s nothing,’ said Griff. ‘Dalston is still a shithole, but it’s coming up.’

  ‘I shouldn’t talk about it, without her,’ said Dan. ‘It’s not my – I mean, it’s not my money.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ said Griff. ‘You don’t have any, do you? Perhaps if she’s agreed to that, she won’t kick up about this.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Dan, who very much doubted Bea’s flexibility would stretch to his doing public relations for a property developer.

  ‘Well,’ said Griff again. ‘What a turn-up. I didn’t think anything could surprise me. St Beatrice of the Trust Fund –’ He laughed.

  Dan didn’t respond.

  ‘Right then,’ said Griff. ‘Is there anything more to see?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘No,’ said Dan.

  ‘You’re right. I’ve seen it,’ said Griff. ‘I just wanted to get out of the house. I often think the British Empire was built by men just getting out of the fucking house. Shall we go? Couple of stops to make.’

  ‘No, you go on,’ said Dan.

  Griff frowned. ‘Do you understand what I’m offering you? I’m offering you a career.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dan. ‘I know. I need some time to think.’

  ‘All right. Walk back to the car with me,’ said Griff.

  His father-in-law was scared to walk through Peckham alone, in the middle of the day. Taking a smug pleasure in his discomfort, Dan walked him back across Copeland Park, past the Bussey, and through the covered alley, to Ashir, waiting in the Mercedes.

  When the car had gone he felt relieved, as if, like a costume, the heaviness of disguise was lifted from his shoulders. He was home. He hadn’t felt at home when Griff was there. It had been like seeing it through glass. Now it struck him. He walked back to the place where the alley ended, and stood for a while, with the sounds of the streets and planes overhead, and the distant trains, and metal doors, the levels all mixed into the specific soundtrack of his past. Inside the huge brick building somebody banged a snare drum and a fast beat started, then stopped with a kick-boom to the bass. He watched some people
going into the basement, to find the vinyl and comic books. He must have spent months of his life down there, sifting through boxes – when he was younger, trying to nick stuff; when he was older, helping out. He felt a helpless, disarmed love, and sadness. He walked out into the sunshine, looking at the scrappy random reality of it, being itself. It was a little breathing space for small endeavours. Of course it would go. Everything went. Like Battersea Power Station before it, a place like that was marked for destruction. If not now, sometime. There would always be someone waiting to take anywhere that had been left behind, and turn it into money. There was no point in being sentimental. He leaned against a wall and watched the people going by, and the girl cooking the curry in the wok. She’d been joined by a friend who had propped up a sign saying ‘vegan’. She smiled at Dan. He didn’t like white girls with braids. It was just a place, like any place; people buying and selling stuff, it wasn’t holy, it wasn’t pure, just shrunken, weaker versions of Griff. Small-time commercialism or big-time, there wasn’t a difference. It was all bullshit. Vegan food. Yoga studios and craft beer. Galleries for local artists who couldn’t get their work shown in the real world. The Bussey had given him that, but it had not been a beginning, just a spotlight on his insignificance. Jesus. Luxury flats were too good for it. Luxury flats and that flagrant market-stall holder’s call: 30 per cent affordable housing! That would never get built, for a start. They’d swap it out to another development, trade it or delay it, or cry poor when it came to building. It didn’t make any difference which side you were on, it was all just bullshit. But he had met Bea there.

  He put his hands in his pockets and walked away, out into the noise of Rye Lane, towards the station. He was very aware of the way he was walking, as he went across the road. He couldn’t help noticing how much he’d adapted his walk over the years, and wondering when it had happened. These days, he walked like an estate agent. He could feel it. A commuter’s walk. His legs trundling along while his body stayed stiff above the hip, with his arms and hands disconnected, ready to take out his phone, not checking the street for the faces of friends. He walked his commuter’s walk down the street that had been home, but wasn’t now. He tried to close his heart to it, but his memory was triggered by the smells of fresh meat and fridges coming out of the mini-markets, and the stacks of breadfruit, scarred and leathery, and mop heads, and shelves of hairdressing. The past struck him hard, like being catapulted back through his life. He was nearly crying when he got to the station and he didn’t even know why.