Hanif Kureishi - Something to Tell You

I opened my eyes. Wolf had been looking at me. I got to my feet, not entirely sure where I was.

“But you must still sit down.”

His fists were clenched. But I was heading for the door, wherever that might be. God knows what Miriam had dropped into that joint. She liked a mixture of hash and grass and menthol tobacco, an unpredictable blend. Not only was I feeling paranoid, I seemed to be viewing Wolf down the wrong end of a telescope, an excellent way to shrink him.

He got up too, grasped me by the shoulders and pushed me down again. He drew his hand back, as if to strike me. He was easily more powerful than me, but not as angry. For a moment I thought I’d let him beat me up, as if that would be a solution.

“I haven’t finished with you,” he said, sitting in a chair opposite me. “There’s an odour that chases me in my dreams, dragging me into that dirty night. What do garages smell of? Oil, petrol, wood, rubber. I can see how angry you were with that father. You were trembling.”

“I was afraid.”

“You didn’t appear to be. We were there to give him a warning, and suddenly you had a knife. What are you going to do with that? I keep thinking. Only the business, surely? No one said anything about knives, not me, not Val. Where did you get that idea from? Why didn’t you ask us first?”

“I was a young fool. Friend, you should have taken care of me a bit. I was like your little brother, and you let me go ahead with a wild and stupid scheme.”

“Are you going to cry? Will you kiss my feet and beg forgiveness? What you did made me see-right in front of my eyes-a dying man. If we’d been caught, I’d have done a lot of time.” He went on, “Now you say you regret it. If you could take back that night, you would. But there’s one thing you have never said. One thing I want to hear you say.”

“What is that?”

He said, “That you got it wrong and deserved to be punished. You thought it was noble to save the girl. You should have gone to the police. You should have talked with her more. I don’t know what you should have done. You’re the person who is supposed to know what to do in such situations.”

He was still staring steadily at me. I said, “I didn’t know how to listen. I misunderstood Ajita. I acted too soon and stole her initiative. But what can we do?”

“This,” he said. “We could both apologise to the family. To the girl. So she knows what went on, so she can have-what’s that stupid word they use?-closure, yes. You think about that.”

I said, “I am not convinced that an apology will cause more good than harm.”

“I am,” he said. “You consider it and get back to me. Otherwise I’ve been thinking it’s something I should do myself-on your behalf.” He paused. “Got something to say?”

“Yes,” I said. “Unlike some famous procrastinators I could name, I took action and killed the man. You will only ever be a minor villain. What a shame you never did anything so brave or honourable. Any fucker can be innocent. I’m way ahead of you, man, and always will be. Have some fucking respect!”

“You’re mad.”

I got up. He got up. I went downstairs. He followed me. Wolf returned to work at the other end of the bar, and I stood with Bushy, who was passing over various items from inside his coat to some local characters. Wolf had turned up the music; I watched the naked grinders opening and closing their legs for the devoted regulars. Behind the stage, the different coloured lights Wolf had rigged up were pulsating. I ordered a double vodka and drank it quickly. I ordered another.

When Bushy was alone, I said, “What news of the Hand?”

He shrugged. “Lisa’s a socialist worker with a lot of people to visit. My guess is the Hand’s in one of their houses. What am I going to do-search everywhere for it?”

“Why should you?”

“Because I feel sorry for ’im, a good un, with that crazy daughter.”

I asked, “How’s the dreaming?”

“Dr. Shrinky, my friend, your advice has been on my mind. I nearly ready to come out. I been rehearsing at Miriam’s, in front of the kids. Your boy Rafi there one day thought I was deep and boom. Henry says I’m good enough for the Sootie. Miriam must have told you-it’s next week.”

“No, but she has now.”

“Made up your mind ’bout what you wanna wear?” I shrugged. Another customer approached Bushy, who looked across towards Wolf; he, in his turn, nodded cooperatively. Bushy said, “Wolfie’s not so bad after all. He’s just like us, on the hustle. He lets me sell what I like, as long as I give him a good bit.”

“I better go,” I said.

“See you at the Sootie, then,” said Bushy. “I’ll take you all there. Don’t be nervous.”

The walk home was further than I could cope with in one go, so I popped into the Bush Hall, a small ballroom next to the mosque on the Uxbridge Road where Rafi, as a child, had appeared in a carol service. I wanted to catch the end of M. Ward’s set. He was a sombre singer-songwriter Henry’s son had recommended, whose melancholic version of Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” never failed to move me. Ward was accompanied by a bass player, a girl drummer and another guitarist. The place was only three quarters full; I hadn’t had so much personal space at a concert in years.

I left, cheerful, after an exquisite version of Willie Dixon’s “Spoonful.”

I had too much to think about. I was anxious and not sleeping. I had said I would visit the Sootie, and it would be difficult to avoid; Miriam would insist. But there was no way I’d let her dress me.

At the end of the Shepherd’s Bush Road, going towards Olympia, was a circus shop where I took Rafi to buy his bling. Next door there was a sex shop, with dummies in the window clothed in what looked like 70s punk gear, now worn by the middle class at play, perversion as style. I went in and had a quick look around, but had no idea what was suitable dress for watching Bushy strum the banjo while others copulated.

I went outside. “Goddess, can you come with me?” I pleaded on the phone.

“It’s a strange request,” she said, between clients.

“You must have heard weirder. I’m a bit stuck here and a little embarrassed.”

“Oh, you poor dear. I’ll have to ask Madame. We can’t go behind her back.”

Madame seemed to think it was okay, as I was a “good, clean, respectable customer.” The Goddess, who would offer her body but not the intimacy of her name to anyone, met me by the tube station and we walked along to the shop. I guessed she was wearing her college clothes: jeans, a black polo-neck sweater, black boots.

Asking her to help was a good idea. She went straight to the black guy who ran the place and he showed her the gear. Knowing that I didn’t want anyone to see much of my body, and would only wear black and nothing too tight, she had me try on various items.

“Any silk or lace?”

“No thanks, Goddess. Think of me as a repressed Englishman.”

I posed around half-naked in a corner of the shop until I was well covered up in rubber and some sort of sticky plastic. Apart from my face, the only part of my body anyone would see would be my arms.

We were coming out of the shop with the stuff in anonymous bags when the Goddess touched my arm. I was saying I wished the clothes were rentable, as they were expensive and I was broke. She was laughing and telling me I’d like “the scene” and would want to return, “knowing your taste.”

She said, “Someone’s looking at you.”

“What?”

“Over there.” I assumed it was Wolf, the hellhound on my trail, clearly getting madder. It wouldn’t be long before the police picked him up, and then we’d both be done for. The Goddess said, “There she is.”