Rupert Thomson: Dreams of Leaving

He became aware of the meter ticking away loudly behind him, ticking like a direct personal threat, as if, at any moment, it might blow his fragile memories to smithereens. Nostalgia was a luxury, it told him, and had to be paid for.

He scrambled back into the taxi, slammed the door behind him and, after one last glance at the abandoned orange building, continued on his journey.

*

The wind howled as it caught the edge of the building. The place smelt old already, stale, almost sweet, like a dying man’s breath. Moses turned back into the room. His time there, he now knew, was over and that saddened him, but he said nothing; Ridley would have little use for anything so sentimental, preoccupied, as he seemed to be, by thoughts of money and revenge.

They left the office and walked back down the stairs.

‘If I was you,’ Ridley shouted over his shoulder, ‘I’d get the fuck out of here before the pigs show up again.’

Moses murmured agreement.

‘Specially with your record,’ Ridley added.

‘Oh, you know about that?’

A remote smile crossed the mountainous landscape of Ridley’s face. ‘I reckon you’ve got a couple of days,’ he said when they reached the street. ‘Maximum.’

It was his world, this world of violence and debts, and he spoke with careless authority. He zipped his sleeveless quilted ski-jacket, shoved his hands in the pockets, and tipped his head skywards. The snow avoided it, frightened.

Moses shuffled his numb feet.

‘Hey, Ridley,’ he said suddenly, ‘there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Where’d you learn to whistle like that?’

Deep lines appeared at the corners of the bouncer’s eyes. It was like watching ice crack on a frozen lake. ‘My old man,’ he said.

‘Really?’

‘He was a brickie, a boxer, did a bit of everything. He was a magic whistler, always was. He could do about over a hundred different birds. Most of them I never even heard of. I used to copy him when I was a kid. One day he said to me he said, “It’s a good thing you’re learning to whistle.” “What you on about?” I said. “Well, you never know,” he said. “Might come in handy one day.” And he looked at me, real crafty, like. Couple of days later I asked my mum what he meant and she said he beat some ex-middleweight champion in a fight once by whistling at him.’

‘Seriously,’ he added, when he saw the smile forming on Moses’s face. ‘Apparently he beat him by whistling at him, very soft, between punches. Confused him, like.’

‘I don’t reckon you need much help when it comes to a fight, Ridley.’

‘No, well. Like my dad said. You never know, do you.’

Fifty yards away, on the other side of the road, Dino paused outside his shop to marvel at the sight of these two abnormally large men laughing. If laughter was 58p a pound like tomatoes, Dino was thinking, I could make a real killing there. And it would be nice selling laughter. A lot nicer than selling yoghurt or fish-fingers.

‘Well,’ Ridley said, ‘I’m going to get out of here.’

Moses nodded.

‘Good luck, Moses.’

‘You too, Ridley.’

Ridley lowered his arm across the road and stopped a cab.

After Ridley had left, Moses felt more alone than he had felt all day. But then he saw Dino waving at him from the other side of the road, two leeks in his chubby Greek fist.

‘Happy New Year, Moses,’ Dino pronounced it Maoses, as always.

Moses grinned and waved back. ‘Happy New Year, Dino.’

a Artificial Police Representative

RUPERT THOMSONis the author of eight highly acclaimed novels, of which Air and Fire and The Insult were shortlisted for the Writer’s Guild Fiction Prize and the Guardian Fiction Prize respectively. His most recent novel, Death of a Murderer , was shortlisted for the 2008 Costa Novel Award. His memoir This Party's Got to Stop was published in 2010.