David Szalay - London and the South-East

‘How are things going?’

‘Yeah. For you, I mean. Getting the deals in?’

Andy shrugs. ‘Some.’

‘Yeah?’

He seems unwilling to say more.

Why are you still working there? Paul thinks. He wonders whether to put this question to him; he even wonders whether to make an impassioned speech, urging him to leave sales and start something else while he still has time, to wake up, to shake off the sedations, to stop and think, to save himself from the sort of life that he is sleepwalking into.

Instead he says, ‘What’s it like working for Tony?’

‘It’s all right.’

They leave the pub, and for a few moments loiter in the mews. ‘I’ve got to go, mate,’ Paul says. He is not happy about leaving Andy on his own in a town full of temptations, but he is exhausted. He keeps yawning. ‘All right,’ Andy says. Wearing Paul’s suit, he has his own luggage with him as well as the flight bag. ‘This Short character,’ Paul says, yawning. ‘He’s very tall. And he doesn’t drink.’ Andy nods. Paul looks at his watch. ‘You’ve got four hours. If I was you, I’d dump that stuff at the station. It’s not far.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Get a paper or something.’

‘Yeah.’

‘No more drinking.’ Andy smiles. ‘Why are you smiling?’ The smile vanishes. ‘Look, mate, if you can’t go four hours without a drink —’

‘I was joking.’

‘And no more of that.’ Paul makes a smoking motion. He feels that there must be more to say. Nothing occurs to him. ‘All right. Phone me when you’re done.’

‘Okay.’

‘And good luck, yeah.’

‘Yeah. Which way’s the station?’

‘That way.’ Paul points to the far side of Russell Square. ‘Turn left and just keep going. There’s signs.’

‘All right. Cheers, mate. See you later.’

‘Yeah.’

For a few moments, with misgivings, Paul watches him totter off past the peeling guest houses. In that shapeless blue suit, it might be himself that he is watching. He has an uneasy feeling that he ought to have done more. He is too sleepy, however, for this thought to trouble him much. He will sleep. Whatever his omissions, it is too late to mend them now — a state of things which imports a sort of peace — and he will sleep through the event itself. And he turns and wanders off through Regency Square, with the sea wind in his tired face.

IN A LONG series of hallucinations on the edge of sleep, he has lived through it many times. Has seen Martin and Andy meet in the green-striped interior of the Regency Tavern … Strawberries, flight bags … Light bulbs in the form of candle flames, orange and flickering … Each time, though, something essential seemed to be missing; whenever his puzzled head poked for a moment into the oxygen of wakefulness he wondered, in particular, whether the upshot was success or failure. Once, he threw off the sweaty duvet and left the house — was walking through streets, making for somewhere with an overwhelming sense of purpose … Once, more prosaically, he was in the kitchen, preparing his porridge. Often he experienced the moment when his mobile — unusually stationed upstairs — would startle him. Whenever this happened, he never managed to find it in time. It seemed to be hidden under mountains of stuff, or lost in a room at the far end of the house. He staggered down passageways pointing to infinity. And always with the panicky sense that the phone’s next iteration would be its last.

When finally it does start to vibrate and twitter, his searching hand thrashes on the side table like a little bull in a china shop, and his sticky mouth struggles to form the word hello.

‘Urluh,’ he says. A sort of tinnitus is howling in his head. ‘Ndy?’

‘It’s Roy Watt here.’

‘Oh.’ Paul sighs, and lying on his back says, ‘All right?’

‘What’s happening?’ Watt says urgently. They spoke yesterday evening, when Paul told him that the meeting with Martin had been set up.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did he see him?’

‘He’s seeing him now.’ Paul shuts his eyes. The TV is muttering under the floor. ‘What time is it?’

‘Six.’

‘I should be hearing from him soon.’

‘Can’t you call him?’

‘Not really.’

‘Why not?’

‘What if he’s still with Martin? He’ll call me as soon as he’s done.’

‘And you’ll call me.’

‘Yeah.’

‘As soon as you hear from him.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’ll be waiting for your call.’

‘Okay.’

Paul drops the phone and turns away from the window. A wave of sweat shimmers over his whole skin. He farts. Then the phone starts again. It is Andy.

‘Mate?’ Andy says.

‘Yeah.’ Paul opens his eyes and sits up painfully. ‘What happened?’

‘Look, I’m sorry about this, mate.’ Andy sounds nervous.

‘Sorry about what? What happened?’

‘Look.’ There is a long silence. ‘I.’

‘You what? What happened? ’

At first Andy tries to hide the fact that he is laughing — he hawks ostentatiously and holds the phone away from his face. Paul listens without emotion. ‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Andy says when he is able to speak again. ‘I was just … Everything’s fine.’

‘Everything’s fine?’

‘Yah.’

Surprised at his own lack of surprise, Paul leans over to the pack of Marlboro Lights on Heather’s side of the bed. Extending his fingers like Adam on the Sistine ceiling, he is just able to pick it up. He lights one, holding the phone to his ear with a round shoulder while Andy talks excitedly. When he has finished, Paul tells him to wait in the Regency Tavern. Then he phones Watt and passes on the news. Then he stands up — still smudged with exhaustion — and tugs on his clothes. He is working later; his first shift since Friday.

Descending the stairs, quivering slightly, he is surprised to hear strange voices in the lounge. A young man in a suit steps into the hall. ‘All right?’ he says.

‘All right …’

‘Your wife let us in.’

‘Did she?’

The young man offers no explanation for his presence; Paul presumes that he is an estate agent, one of Norris Jones’s people. Presently, he is followed out of the lounge by some other people, a man and a woman. They nod timidly in Paul’s direction, and are ushered into the kitchen. Heather is in there — Paul hears the woman say, ‘Sorry about this,’ and Heather says, ‘That’s all right.’

‘Lovely garden.’ The estate agent.

‘Um, when’s it available?’ the man says, a few moments later. The agent asks Heather when she is moving out, and she says, ‘A month. Just under.’

‘There you go.’

In the hall, overhearing this, with the agent’s sharp sandalwood scent in his nostrils, Paul puts on his jacket. Without looking at him, the viewing party leave the kitchen and start up the stairs to inspect the bedrooms. Several times, he has been woken in the middle of the afternoon by a knot of such people whispering in the doorway.

Andy seems disappointed that Paul is not up for some sort of impromptu stag weekend. He offers to fund it himself with the two hundred pounds that he has paid him. Paul, however, sticks to a single half of lager — he did not even want that, and only agreed to it because Andy looked so spaniel-like and sad. Then he tells him not to be a stranger, and leaves him in the Regency Tavern, remembering on the bus back to Hove that he is still wearing his suit and shoes. He sends him a text message saying that he will pick them up next time he is in London. Then he dumps the flight bag in Lennox Road, puts on his uniform, and hurries to work. In the morning, he is supposed to leave the flight bag in a left-luggage locker at the station. Watt says he will transfer the money when he has seen the tape; first however, exhausted though he is, Paul wants to watch it himself. So with a microwaved shepherd’s pie, still in his uniform, he sits down on the sofa in front of the TV.