Rupert Thomson - Dreams of Leaving

‘Can I see you about something?’ Moses asked.

‘It’s all right, Ridley,’ Elliot said. Then, to Moses, ‘I’ve fired Belsen. This is his replacement, Ridley. Ridley, meet Moses.’

Ridley nodded.

Moses did likewise, glad to get out of shaking hands. He had already taken a look at Ridley’s hands. They were chipped and grazed and scarred, and every scar told the story of someone else’s pain.

‘What’s he doing here?’ he whispered, as he climbed the stairs behind Elliot.

Elliot looked cryptic. ‘We’ve been getting phone-calls. That’s what he’s doing here.’

‘A kind of receptionist?’ Moses ventured.

Elliot didn’t laugh. ‘You could say that.’

He sat down in his red chair, propped his feet on the desk, and lit a cigarette. He didn’t usually come in on Mondays, but Moses had seen the white Mercedes float into the mist below his window. Signs of stress littered the office: screwed-up paper on the floor, an almost empty bottle of brandy by the phone, a crowd of Dunhill butts wedged upright in the ashtray like people in a Hong Kong swimming-pool.

‘What are these phone-calls then?’ Moses asked.

Elliot flicked ash, ran his tongue along his teeth; for a moment, Moses thought he wasn’t going to answer. ‘Bad phone-calls,’ he said eventually. ‘Old ghosts from the past, you know?’

‘I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.’

‘Yeah, well,’ and Elliot allowed himself a wry grin, ‘these ones I believe in.’

Moses crossed the room and fitted his cigarette into the ashtray. On his way back to the sofa his foot caught a pool-cue that had been resting against the wall. The cue clattered to the floor.

A door opened somewhere downstairs.

‘Everything all right up there, Mr Frazer?’ The voice was huge and violent and had tattoos all over it.

Moses stooped, clipped the cue into its wooden wall-rack, and stood back.

‘Everything’s fine,’ Elliot called out. He looked across at Moses and almost grinned for the first time that evening. ‘That’s what he’s doing here,’ he said.

He stood up, stretched, strolled over to the pool-table. ‘James Ridley. He was a wrestler for a while. Had to stop. Killed someone, apparently.’

‘I believe that,’ Moses said.

‘They used to call him The Human Mangle.’ Elliot bounced the white ball on his palm, then sent it rolling up the table. ‘He used to sort of tear people apart and scatter the pieces around. That’s what I heard. Fancy a game?’

Moses began to set the balls up. ‘Could be you’ve got the right man for the job, Elliot.’

‘Yeah, could be.’ Elliot emptied the remains of the brandy into two tumblers. ‘You were going to ask me something.’

Moses broke first and put a stripe down. As he played he told Elliot about Gloria: who she’d worked with, where she’d sung, and so on.

Elliot interrupted him. ‘I know what’s coming.’

‘Well?’ Moses said. ‘Could it be arranged, do you think?’

‘Leave it with me.’

When Moses walked downstairs an hour later he heard whistling. Clear repeating notes that seemed to reach from the past and expect no reply. Like a prehistoric bird, perhaps. Something exotic, no longer alive. He passed Ridley on the way out.

‘That whistling,’ he said. ‘Did you hear it?’

Ridley tilted the great rock of his face at Moses. ‘Yeah. It was me.’

His words weighed more than other people’s. Boulders crashing down a mountain-side. Moses in their path.

Moses framed a silent oh and hurried away. Ridley could whistle like the ghost of a bird long since extinct and tear people into pieces as if they were paper. Ridley was dangerous. Very dangerous.

Definitely the right man for the job.

*

Moses woke to the sound of cheerful men delivering beer. He loved the clanking the metal barrels made as they rolled across the cobbled yard below. Sometimes the men whistled (tuneless whistling, nothing like Ridley’s), sometimes they cracked jokes. This morning he could hear them swearing at each other. Short pungent phrases rose into the air like the smell of fresh bread.

From his bed he could see his new red telephone, installed by Elliot ‘for security reasons’, and the previous night he had received his first incoming call. From Gloria, appropriately enough. She had invited him to a drinks party at her parents’ place in Hampstead. Seven o’clock, she said. It was a long time since he had been to a drinks party (and he had never been to a drinks party in Hampstead), so he was looking forward to the evening.

He eased out of bed and leaned on the windowsill. The north side of the building stood in cool shadow. In the distance the Houses of Parliament lay wrapped in a blue haze like presents that were no fun because you could guess what was inside. It was going to be a hot day. One of those days when the city smells of dusty vegetation, when the roads glitter with the chrome and glass of passing cars, when businessmen sling their jackets casually over their shoulders and secretaries lie on the grass in public parks. He moved towards the kitchen. He lit the gas and put the kettle on. Then he walked into the bathroom. A warm breeze drifted through the open window, tickled the hair under his arms, dropped a cellophane wrapper on the floor. He smeared his face with shaving-foam and reached for a razor.

And it was then that the pigeon landed on the window-ledge.

It immediately began to strut up and down as if it owned the place. Maybe it had once. Maybe it was one of the pigeons he had thrown out in April. Or maybe it was some kind of tourist pigeon who had got wind of that event and flown down from Trafalgar Square to do a bit of sightseeing. A snarl twisted his foam-bearded face. He put down the razor and picked up a bar of soap. He flung it at the pigeon. The soap grew wings and flew out of the window. The pigeon seemed to smile. Conspiracy of pigeon and soap.

‘Bird,’ he shouted. ‘Bird, I need you.’

But Bird was probably far away. Sometimes he disappeared for weeks at a time. He was a free agent, no strings attached. He knew the city from rooftop to sewer, he knew its ins and outs, its ups and downs, he knew its fire-escapes, its skylights, its manholes. He stalked flocks of scavengers on the mud banks of the river, he raided the plush dustbins of Kensington and Chelsea, he slept in the warm air-vents of the West End. He would return with his ear torn and bleeding or a seagull’s wing wedged between his blunt jaws, and Moses loved him for his nonchalance, his self-sufficiency. Yes, Bird was probably far, far away. Moses would have to deal with this alone.

He reached for the scrubbing-brush. Took careful aim. Let fly.

An explosion, a splash. The pigeon nodded, chuckled, casually took wing. A triangle of glass lay on the floor, reflecting the window it had once belonged to. The scrubbing-brush floated serenely in the toilet-bowl.

Moses examined the window. Only one pane broken. Well, he muttered to himself, at least it’s summer, and began to sweep up the glass. He wondered whether he could get Jackson to invent some kind of pigeon deterrent, something that would blast the fuck out of them once and for all. He smiled as he finished shaving, dreaming of pigeon carnage.

The kettle boiled and he poured the water into his cracked brown pot. While he waited for the tea to brew, he went over to the phone. It was around ten. If he phoned Vince now, he might just catch him before he got out of his head. Vince didn’t waste much time. Especially at weekends. He dialled the number. Somebody groaned at the other end.

‘Vince,’ Moses cried. ‘It’s a beautiful day.’

‘You bastard.’

Moses smiled. Even Vince’s language seemed benign this morning.