Rupert Thomson - Dreams of Leaving

‘Nice,’ he said. And made as if to hand the pictures back.

‘No,’ Moses said, ‘they’re yours.’

Elliot blinked. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. They’re for you. Hang them in your office or something.’

‘How much?’

Moses smiled. ‘Nothing. I developed them myself.’

‘How about a drink then?’

‘Now you’re talking.’

‘What do you want?’

Moses knew the answer to that one. ‘Brandy,’ he said. ‘Remy, if you’ve got it.’

Of course he’d got it.

Moses bumped into Louise again on his way out. ‘I didn’t know Elliot was a friend of yours,’ she said.

‘He isn’t.’ Moses paused, smiling, by the door. ‘But I’ve got the feeling he will be.’

*

One night in January Moses was standing outside The Bunker. He couldn’t find his money. The air prickled with a fine drizzle. A chill wind rumpled the surfaces of puddles. There was nobody in the fish and chip shop across the road. London in winter.

Jackson waited while Moses ran through his pockets once again. Jackson was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. The wind seemed to be trying to untie the knots in his hair.

‘Moses? Hey! Moses!’

It was Elliot. He was dressed in a double-breasted suit of soft grey cloth. He looked warm and expensive, and his forehead shone like bronze. He had a problem, he said. His regular DJ for Wednesday night had called off sick. He needed a replacement. Strictly a one-off. There was twenty quid in it. Did Moses know anyone?

Moses poked a crushed Coke can with the toe of his shoe. ‘Funny you should say that. I worked as a DJ one summer. Up in Leicester. I’d be glad to help you out. And I could use the money.’ He kicked the can into the gutter.

‘You sure about that?’

Moses nodded. They shook on it.

Elliot turned to go into the club. ‘You coming in or what?’

‘In a minute. Got to find my money.’

‘It’s on me,’ Elliot said.

Jackson tugged on Moses’s shirt as they walked in. Teeth chattering, he whispered, ‘You never worked in a disco.’

‘What do you know standing there in a short-sleeved shirt on a night like this?’

‘It’s going to warm up later on,’ Jackson said. ‘A ridge of high pressure moving in from the west.’ But his lips had already turned blue, and his conviction was beginning to fade.

‘Later on?’ Moses said. ‘July or August, maybe.’

‘Anyway, what’s that got to do with whether you’ve worked in a disco before or not?’

‘You’re always wrong,’ Moses said. ‘That’s what.’

*

When Moses arrived at The Bunker on Wednesday night, Django pulled him to one side. Django had bushy orange sideburns and a boxer’s nose that turned left halfway down. He looked Scottish but claimed to be Italian, hundred per cent. But then he also claimed he didn’t beat his wife.

‘Listen, Mose,’ Django said, ‘how about doing us a favour?’

‘What favour?’

Django shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Just a couple of requests, that’s all.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah, and if you play them for me, maybe I’ll send a few double whiskies your way, you follow me?’

Moses studied the barman with new interest. ‘What requests?’

Django mentioned two Beatles songs.

‘What d’you want to hear them for?’

Django grinned. He looked very sly when he grinned. ‘Like I said, Mose. Double whiskies.’

‘How many?’

‘One for each request.’

Moses nodded. ‘See what I can do, Django.’

He walked over to the DJ’s booth and installed himself in front of the two turntables. He put on the headphones. Jackson had been wrong the other night, but not that wrong. Moses had only been a DJ once in his life, five years ago now, and he had already drunk a bottle of red wine that evening because he had only been a DJ once in his life. Nerves.

The buckles on Elliot’s shoes glinted gold as he moved across the dance-floor and into the corner of Moses’s eye.

‘How’s it going?’

Moses was casual, even though Elliot had surprised him. ‘It’s coming back to me,’ he said.

Elliot lifted and dropped his shoulders as if to adjust the fit of his jacket. ‘If you need me, I’ll be upstairs. All right, Isaac?’ He grinned and walked away.

‘Isaac,’ Moses muttered, ‘I’ll give him Isaac.’

Once he had mastered all the knobs and dials he began to enjoy himself. He played all his favourite music — The Sex Pistols, T. Rex, The Temptations, Iggy Pop, Françoise Hardy, Killing Joke, The Anti-Nowhere League, Aretha Franklin. He didn’t talk between tracks except for once when he said, ‘And here’s something you might remember from when you were very young,’ and put on ‘Practising for Childbirth’, an educational EP on the CBF label. One girl, who reminded Moses of a famous German actress — she wore a simple black dress and no shoes — actually danced to the syncopated gasps and sighs, her eyes closed, her hair a dark blonde waterfall, and yes, Moses had to agree, the record did have a certain obscure rhythm of its own. After that hypnotic solitary dance, Moses couldn’t stop looking at her. He tried to steer a smile towards her, but her eyes slid away and his smile sailed on into a sea of faces that weren’t hers. There was a man with her, of course. There always is.

At first, and out of longing, he had played Dusty Springfield’s ‘I Only Want To Be With You’. Then, with savage irony, he thought, he put on ‘Stand By Your Man’ by Tammy Wynette. He swayed miserably behind his Perspex shield.

Eddie came over. ‘What’s this shit you’re playing?’

‘Go away, Eddie.’

‘Jesus, you look strange, Moses.’

‘Leave me alone.’

‘You look like a dinosaur in a museum.’

‘Fuck off, Eddie. I’m working.’

‘Been a while, hasn’t it?’

‘Eddie,’ Moses said patiently, ‘fuck off before I kill you, all right?’

Eddie sauntered away, grinning. Django appeared.

‘You haven’t played any of my records yet,’ he complained.

Moses sighed. ‘Hey, Django,’ he said, ‘you see that girl over there in the black dress?’

Django had already noticed her.

‘She’s a German actress,’ Moses said. ‘Famous German actress.’

‘Yeah?’ Django looked impressed. Then suspicious. And, finally, sceptical. ‘You’re rat-arsed, you are.’

‘She’s beautiful, Django. I’m in love.’

‘I can understand that, Mose. So what’s the problem?’

‘She’s ignoring me.’

‘Want me to have a word with her?’

Moses examined Django for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No, it’s all right,’ he said. ‘Is there something wrong with me, do you think?’

Django looked Moses up and down. ‘Not that I can see. Apart from you being out of it, that is.’

‘I mean, I’m the DJ, Django.’

‘So?’

‘Well, I thought girls always fell for the DJ.’

‘Apparently not, Mose.’

Moses sighed again. He tried to forget about the German actress. The lights coloured his face an appropriate blue. ‘All right, Django. I’ll play your records now.

‘Cheers, Mose.’

During the next hour Moses played both the records twice and the drinks kept coming. He saw Django dancing with a girl, and the girl Django was dancing with wasn’t Django’s wife. Moses began to understand. The requests. The whisky-bribes. Crafty bugger. A Scotsman definitely. A Scotsman and a wife-beater. He wished the German actress would go. Her beauty was ruining his evening. His smiles reached out to where she stood. She didn’t notice. His smiles were like love-letters that get lost in the post.

Eddie came over again. ‘You’re making a fool of yourself.’