David Szalay - London and the South-East

‘What happened to me …?’

‘And Murray and the others.’

‘Oh that !’ Paul’s eyes slide to the other side of the room, where they find some framed silhouette portraits on the striped wall. He shakes his head. ‘What a fuck-up, mate.’

‘Why? What happened?’

‘There was some plan … You know. Some bloke we used to know … Me and Murray. Anyway it all fucked up.’

Andy does not ask what this plan was, or why he was not included in it — he must know why. Even Dave Shelley made more deals than he did. He just nods, quickly, and says, ‘Yah …’

‘Yeah,’ Paul sighs.

‘How’s Murray?’

‘Murray? I’ve not seen him in a while, to be honest.’

‘You haven’t?’

Paul finishes his pint and says, ‘Let’s make that call.’

MARTIN LOOMS HUGE in Paul’s mind. He has seen him only once since Easter Day. On Saturday night, straight from his Eastbourne meeting, he turned into Lennox Road to see him leaving his — Paul’s — house. The tall shape was unmistakable, and it was too late to stop, too late to hide in the shadows. They met under one of the street lights, the one that shines in through the bedroom window. It was midnight. And thus ill-met by humming street light, they surveyed each other for a moment. Paul did not like to think of Martin in his house (though it would be his for only another month); he wished that he had turned into the street a minute later and been spared the knowledge of it. Especially with the flight bag on his shoulder, and the meeting with Watt still so fresh in his mind — he was worried that it would show up in his face somehow; a voice in his head was shouting out extracts from Watt’s instructions. He should say he’s from Morlam Garden Fruits … ‘All right, Martin?’ he said, shifting the flight bag on his shoulder; it was not heavy.

‘Hello, Paul. Been out?’

‘You know I have.’

For a moment, Martin dipped his head — hid his smile in inky shadow. ‘Somewhere nice, I hope?’

‘Yeah.’

His eyes moved inquisitively to the flight bag. ‘Been away?’

‘No.’

‘Oh. Well … Goodnight …’

Stopping at the payphone in the hallway of the Queensbury guest house, Paul fumbles in his pockets for the number. Andy waits, staring at the wallpaper. ‘Here it is,’ Paul mutters. Despite the pints, he is nervous. Memories of Andy’s hopelessness on the phone are flooding into his mind — he has already warned him that he will not be paid if he fails even to set up a meeting. He thrusts the handwritten script at him — the one he wrote in the Regency Tavern — and starts to say the number. It is the main number of the supermarket. Andy enters it into the phone, and then waits with a pound coin poised. Suddenly he presses the coin into the slot and says the first line of the script: ‘Oh hello. Could I speak to the fresh-produce manager please.’ Paul turns to the open door and sighs quietly. The memories sit like cold stones in his belly, memories of Andy fucking up. Memories of the sales floor. Of innumerable phone calls … He hears Andy say, ‘Oh hello, is that Mr Short?’ A tense pause. Is it? Is it Mr Short? How strange if it is — how strange that Andy should be talking to Martin . ‘Oh hello, Mr Short. My name’s Andrew Smith. I’m calling from Morlam Garden Fruits.’ Another pause. Paul has turned to Andy and is studying him intently — he has a finger in his left ear and is leaning in to the puffy wall. ‘Kent,’ he says. And then, ‘Strawb’rries mainly.’ The smile flickering on his full lips is something of a worry. It has a loose, twitchy quality, like he might start to laugh at any moment. His self-possession on the phone, however, seems to have improved. ‘Well, I was wondering if we could meet up and have a chat.’ Paul wrote that line. It sounds okay. It sounds fine. ‘Well, as soon as possible,’ Andy says. ‘Tonight?’ He shoots Paul a quick, questioning look. Emphatically, Paul indicates no . They need more time for preparation, and he has to go home and sleep all afternoon. Standing there in the narrow corridor, he is swimmy with fatigue. ‘No, unfortunately I can’t do tonight …’ Martin says something that seems to merit a laugh, and Andy says, ‘I know I did. How about tomorrow?’ Paul lights a cigarette and stares at the torn, balding blue carpet. ‘Yes, tomorrow afternoon’s fine. Five o’clock? That’s fine.’ Some people stop on the pavement outside. Paul turns away from them, turns to his reflection in the mirror-tiled wall. He looks like a jigsaw puzzle; where tiles have come unstuck, pieces of him are missing. Andy is saying, ‘I’m afraid I don’t know Brighton very well. So somewhere central, I suppose. There is one pub I know …’ This is another of Paul’s lines. ‘The Regency Tavern. Do you know it?’ Evidently, Martin does know it. Andy says, ‘Excellent. So I’ll see you there tomorrow at five. Excellent. Thank you, Mr Short.’ He is about to put the phone down, when he says, ‘Um. Oh. Yeah. It’s …’ And he looks at Paul with imploring eyes. Paul does not understand what he wants. What? Furiously, he mouths the word. Andy turns away, lowering his head. He says, ‘You can get me on …’ And then he says his own mobile number. ‘Excellent. See you tomorrow. Thanks. Thanks, Mr Short. Bye.’ Elated, he faces Paul. Who says, ‘Yeah, well done, mate.’

‘I had to give him my mobile number.’

‘That’s fine.’

‘Was that okay?’ Andy is trembling, alight, flushed with triumph. He laughs. ‘Was that okay?’

‘Yeah, it was okay. It was fine. Well done.’ Paul hands him his lighter. ‘But that was the easy bit.’ Lighting a cigarette, Andy nods. ‘Tomorrow’s the hard bit.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Tomorrow’s where you earn your money.’

‘Another drink?’ Andy says eagerly.

‘I can’t, mate. I’ve got to … I’ve got things to do.’

‘Yeah, why aren’t you at work?’ Andy says, holding out the lighter.

‘That’s where I’ve got to go now. And you’ve got to learn that .’ He points to the rolled-up A4 document in Andy’s left hand.

‘Yeah, yeah …’

‘I mean it! You’ve got to fucking know it.’

Andy nods. ‘Yup,’ he says. ‘Yah.’

‘I’ll see you later, yeah.’

‘What time?’

‘Tonight. I’ll see you in the pub at nine, all right? Regency Tavern.’

‘All right.’

Paul starts to leave. Then turning on the threshold, he says, ‘And don’t fuck around with the equipment. I’ll show you how to use it tonight.’

‘Okay.’

‘Learn that stuff.’

‘I will.’

‘I’m going to test you on it later.’

He leaves him loafing in the musty corridor smoking a Marlboro Light, and walks through Regency Square to the bus stop. The colour of the tall terraces varies from cream to biscuit, and in the middle the windy lawn — with its few bushes and spiky palms — slopes down to the traffic of King’s Road and the sea. Walking past hotels with the sun in his face, Paul squints. Gulls hop on the coarse grass. The surface of the sea is striped, like the paintwork in the Regency Tavern — white shining stripes, and dull dark ones. Out in the sea-stripes the West Pier still stands, an outline stubbornly holding its shape.

In the evening, Paul shuffles into the kitchen to prepare his porridge. His head feels heavy and throbs. His face is lumpen, inexpressive, like some naive mask fudged in grey clay. He is standing over the hob when he feels Heather’s presence. He does not look at her; he watches the porridge start to quiver.

She says, ‘Are you seeing someone, Paul?’ It is obvious from the way she says it that she is trying to empty the question of intensity. She does not succeed. He turns to her in surprise; she seems to think, however, that his expression is one of outrage and immediately stops smiling. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I know it’s none of my business.’