Charles Cumming - The hidden man

She was six foot and blonde, wearing a tight leather dress. Not Ben’s type: plastic and exercised. When she sat down she deliberately let her leg touch his.

‘Hi there, honey.’ An American accent, with breath that smelled of mints. ‘My name’s Raquel. Mind if I join you?’

Ben found himself nodding, but he was looking around the room. He didn’t want to appear rude, but needed to find a way of making the girl go away.

‘This your first time here, honey?’ she asked. Her skin looked tanned under the lights.

‘First time, yes.’

The legs of Ben’s chair caught on a piece of loose carpeting and he was forced to sit at an awkward angle.

‘You’re American,’ he stated obviously.

‘That’s right.’

Everything he could now invent to excuse himself from the conversation sounded like a lie. That he was waiting for friends. That he was happy just sitting alone. That he thought America was a terrific place and really misunderstood by most Europeans. It was like being drunk and trying to persuade someone you were sober. Finally Ben said, ‘I’m waiting for Macklin. For Thomas Macklin.’

And Raquel’s face lit up.

‘Oh, you’re waiting for Tom?’

At last.

‘You know him?’

‘Sure. Everyone knows Tom. Comes in here all the time.’

And again Ben felt her leg against his, a lighter touch this time, the soft enticement. Raquel was sliding her hand across his knee, saying, ‘So, you wanna little dance?’

‘No, no thanks. I’d prefer just to sit here. On my own. They’ll be here any minute…’

To Ben’s right, the black girl was now gorgeously topless, gripping the pole like a microphone, and nowhere for his eyes to fall. Suddenly Raquel was swaying into his lap, her breasts a silicone mould. He said, ‘Look, this isn’t such a good idea,’ but his voice lacked clarity and resonance. Her face was suddenly so close to his cheek that he could feel the heat of her skin against his own.

‘Naughty boy, Benjamin. Naughty boy.’

Macklin. Fuck.

Ben practically threw Raquel off his lap and was greeted by a startling spectacle: Thomas Macklin wearing an electric blue suit, flanked by two unidentified men in jacket and tie, his brother beside them, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

‘Hello there, Benny boy. Having yourself a good time?’ Macklin leaned over to shake his hand. ‘I see you’ve made Raquel’s acquaintance. How are you, sweetheart? Looking gorgeous as ever.’

Raquel kissed Macklin full on the lips and said ‘Hi, Tom’ with a white smile. Ben was hot with embarrassment as he rose awkwardly from his chair.

‘Brother, these are some of my colleagues from work.’ The grin on Mark’s face was still evident. ‘You know Tom, of course. And this is Vladimir Tamarov, a lawyer from Russia, and his associate, Juris Duchev, from Latvia. They’re helping us out with the Moscow thing, trying up some loose ends.’

Ben got a good look at them. Duchev was past forty, balding and squat, with tired, bloodshot eyes and skin the colour of pancake mix. He was wearing black flannel trousers and a Soviet-era woollen jacket that looked utterly out of place in the club. His expression was so hard and unkind he might never have smiled. Vladimir Tamarov also wore a look of absolute indifference to his surroundings. Tall and athletically built, he was dressed in what might have passed for Armani, with an expensive-looking watch visible on a thick, tanned wrist. His hair gleamed with oil, combed in swept-backstrands that ended in dry curls at the back of his neck.

‘Good to meet you,’ Ben told him, standing uncomfortably with his weight on one leg. It occurred to him that he was shaking hands with the men possibly responsible for his father’s death. Did Mark realize that? Had he thought this through?

‘Good to meet you also,’ Tamarov replied, ignoring a peroxide blonde who drifted past him wearing a black lace corset and thigh-high leather boots.

There were quickremarks now and drink orders, the group settling down at the table. Ben was conscious that he owed money to Raquel, but she seemed happy to remain at his side, her hand now confidently parked in Macklin’s lap. Tamarov sat on Ben’s right, his backto the wall, with Mark and Duchev beside one another at the other end of the table.

‘Where’s Philippe got to?’ Macklin asked, turning and looking back towards the entrance. His voice was loud and controlling, any civility erased by drink.

‘Went to the gents, I think,’ Mark said.

‘Taking his fucking time about it. So, how you been, Benny boy?’

‘Not too bad, Tommy boy,’ Ben replied, and was surprised to see Tamarov smiling as he removed his jacket.

‘You not like me calling you that?’ Macklin grabbed Ben’s shoulder and squeezed it hard. ‘Hey Keeno!’ Again he was shouting down the table. ‘Little brother here doesn’t like me calling him “Benny boy”. Now what do you think about that?’

Tamarov glanced at Ben, the unspoken solidarity of sober men, and raised his eyebrows in a way that suggested he was tired of Macklin’s behaviour, that he thought of him as foolish and embarrassing. Ben nodded back, and wondered if he had gained his trust.

‘I told ya,’ Mark replied, wearing the mask of work, the banter and the easy charm. ‘Ben don’t like to be messed around, Thomas. He’s the artist in the family, the thinker.’

‘Ah, you are the artist?’ Tamarov said, drawing Ben out of the exchange. His voice was low and matter-of-fact, a heavy accent.

‘That’s right.’

‘Mark tells me earlier you are painter, this is correct?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘I buy paintings, collect for my pleasure.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes.’

It was an early skirmish. Was Tamarov telling the truth? Drinks were being set down — champagne and vodka all round — and Ben concentrated on the swarm of bikinis and miniskirts now descending on the table. Mark shifted along so that a Thai girl with flowers in her hair could sit between him and Duchev. Duchev, looking like a coal miner who had wandered into the wrong party, grimaced as a thick-boned brunette tapped him on the shoulder and invited herself to sit down. They began speaking and Ben assumed that she was Latvian. Raquel then began massaging Macklin’s shoulders, saying how much she liked his suit and helping herself to champagne. He would have to speak to Tamarov.

‘So why do you do it, please?’ the Russian asked.

He had a very direct and concentrated manner, cold, striking eyes that could detect the flaw in a man.

‘Why do I do what?’

‘Painting. Why did you become artist?’

For the sake of the job, it seemed important to Ben to take care with his answer.

‘I do it because it’s the only thing I know how to do,’ he replied. ‘I can’t bank. I can’t farm. I can’t teach. But I can draw. And I have a need to do it, to get this stuff out of me.’

It was an answer he had employed many times before, but Ben now added to it by drumming his chest in a manner that he thought might appeal to a Russian. The music in the club was now very loud, the throb of a Latin salsa.

‘I see.’ Tamarov seemed unaffected by events around him: the laughter, the wisecracks, the two bored black girls near by, yawning into their mobile phones. ‘And how do you feel about the way art is going in this country?’ he said. ‘In England?’

‘You ask a lot of questions,’ Ben said, and regretted it. That wasn’t the way to win him round. Tamarov let him fall through an embarrassed silence, twisting ice in his glass. Forced into a quick reply, Ben said:

‘I think a lot of so-called modern art is bullshit. I’m trying to do something more lasting. More authentic.’