Kate Tempest - The Bricks that Built the Houses

Without being seen, Leon is standing now too, holding the wall. He sees the man opening a door he hadn’t noticed on the other side of the bar. He moves through the crowd and finds the door with his toe just in time to stop it closing. He holds it, breathes, checks for the muscle, three by the fire escape, two by the bar, another by the dance floor talking to a girl. Three more to his left. He walks through the door and presses his back against the wall, so cold it feels damp. Stairs going down; there’s a basement room beneath him. He hears their footsteps, Harry’s voice saying, ‘OK, no problem.’

The other guy’s voice. ‘Now, Pico’s gonna be away for a little while, as you know. It’s good to make acquaintance face to face. I hear you’ve been a loyal customer, and I respect that, but, the thing is, we don’t know each other, do we? Not met you, have I? So, I suppose it’s only natural that we start from the beginning.’

Harry steps off the last stair and onto the tiled floor of the basement. There is a large, low fish tank stretching out across the room, lit up brightly inside, with purple-neon under-lighting. A baby shark swims amongst plastic shipwrecks, pieces of coral and various tropical fish. Either side of the tank are two long white-leather sofas and a couple of smaller black-leather armchairs. Pico would hate this place .

Pico was an extremely stylish, flamboyant Peruvian man with impeccable taste, a charismatic wife named Angela, four beautiful kids, and a penchant for butterfly collecting. He and Ange had a good name for themselves in interior design; he was freelance, and she worked as a consultant at the biggest company in London. Together, they had collaborated on half the renovated stores on New Bond Street. He was subtle about his dealing — he sourced the best gear and sold only to a few trusted people. Pico wouldn’t be seen dead in a place like this . The hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

There’s a massive pile of powder on top of the fish tank, a rolled-up fifty, a small razor blade for cutting lines. Harry looks around, a poster on the wall of Marilyn Monroe in her underwear listening to a song on a record player. No light apart from the light coming from the fish tank. There’s a desk, a safe, an empty shelving unit and a chest in the corner.

‘Please.’ Joey indicates the sofa. ‘Be my guest, sit yourself down, make yourself comfy.’

Harry feels a prickling sensation in the back of her legs. Who the fuck is this guy? With this trashy club and all that muscle out there and a fucking baby shark in a fish tank? She sits down, feeling uncomfortable, keeping her face absolutely still.

‘So, I heard that you move a good deal of gear?’

Harry says nothing, waits for the next part of the sentence; Joey finds the silence a little intimidating. Can’t help but break it.

‘But, thing is, mate, I been asking around, and no one I’ve spoke to seems to have even heard of you. Eh?’ He waits again, but Harry doesn’t speak. Harry watches him, legs crossed on the white-leather sofa. Not moving. Joey clears his throat, looks away from Harry’s eyes, continues. ‘No one seems to know a thing about you. They can’t tell me nothing.’ Harry stares at him, the shark moves through the water of the tank. ‘So, I want to know more. Basically.’ Joey puts his hands on his kneecaps, leans forwards. ‘Who the fuck is Harry and how are you moving all that gear and nobody knows who you are? Are you a policewoman, Harry?’ Harry says nothing. ‘Are you working for the Russians, Harry?’ Still Harry says nothing. Joey raises his arms, shows his palms, shakes his head. Brings his hands back down to his knees, leans even further off his seat. ‘Are you a deaf mute, Harry?’ Harry stays quiet. She watches the water. The light. The skin on the smaller fish. ‘OK, mate, OK. Poker face. I’ve heard the fucking song.’ Joey lights a cigarette. ‘You’re a private person, I can see that, like to keep yourself to yourself, do you? That’s all well and good, I can respect that.’ He smokes, leans back into the sofa, shiny suit squeaking on the leather as he slips down. His eyes jump to Harry’s. ‘That weren’t a fart,’ he says, ‘it was the leather.’ Harry says nothing, keeps watching, but offers a smile of understanding. Joey gathers himself. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I just wanted to know a little about you before we start doing business, you know what I mean? And it’s looking like Pico might be away for a year or so, so we better get used to one another, wouldn’t you say? Mate?’ Harry waits. What is he trying to say to me? ‘Would you like a drink, Harry?’ Joey stands up, suit trousers riding up between his thighs. He walks to the desk. On top are a few bottles, beneath is a little beer fridge. ‘I got vodka, bourbon, beers, what you gonna have? I’m drinking brandy.’

Harry tells herself to snap out of it. That really what’s happening is that this flashy guy who works in a shitty bar, which he obviously imagines to be some classy fucking joint because he’s got no taste, is some kind of relative of Pico’s, some husband of some niece or whatever, some mate of a mate with great expectations, who is desperate to be a big shot, so Pico’s let him handle things for a couple of months till he gets out, thinking what harm can he do. And he doesn’t mean to be putting the creeps on her, he’s just a weird, washed-up little man with a chip on his shoulder. Harry breathes deep. But she can’t shake the feeling, the discomfort, the tension in her ankles, the movement of the shark through that fucking tank.

‘Yeah, go on then, mate,’ she says, ‘I’ll have the same.’

Joey grins, pleased. ‘She talks!’ He turns to the desk and makes a great show of pouring two glasses of brandy, two cubes of ice in each, an inch of soda. A dash of bitters. Laborious display. Like a child putting a show on for his parents.

The bass from upstairs is troubling the foundations of the building. Harry gets the feeling any minute now the dance floor will come crashing through the ceiling and all the young pilled-up kids and hen-party work friends will come falling down on top of her. She sees it in her mind’s eye, hears their screams. Sees the shark gorging itself on mouthfuls of love handles while it suffocates. Joey hands her the glass, smiling like a paedo in a playground, and sits down opposite her again.

Harry nods her thanks, sips her drink. ‘You got the same gear?’ she asks Joey.

‘Oh yeah, lovely stuff. Premium quality. Better even.’

‘So, not the same then?’ Harry asks him, frowning.

‘Well. ’ Joey rubs his thumbnail with his middle finger. ‘A different batch, but yeah, essentially the same stuff, it’s the same supplier.’

Harry nods. ‘And you have enough for me to take the usual? Did Pico tell you?’

‘Yep, no worries. That’s not gonna be a problem at all.’ Joey tries to cross his legs, can’t quite manage it in his tight suit. He takes a cigarette packet from his breast pocket, puts it on the tank between them. ‘Want one?’ he says.

Harry declines, takes one from her own packet, but does accept the lighter Joey offers. They sit and smoke.

Joey stands, walks over to the chest in the corner, opens it. Even in the dim room Harry can see that inside the chest is a massive amount of coke. Why did he just show me where his stash is?

‘You see, mate,’ Joey says. ‘No problem. One key, two, five, whatever you fucking fancy, not gonna be a problem at all.’

Joey waits for Harry to register how impressive his stash is. Harry says nothing. Does nothing. Joey feels a little hurt. He shakes it off.

He’s either a complete fucking idiot or he’s going to rob me and kill me . Harry hopes Leon is not too far away.