Kate Tempest - The Bricks that Built the Houses

Rags nods. Adds the soda water. Looks at the finished drinks, studies them. Happy, he nods at his brother to take his glass, takes his silver sniffing straw from his inside pocket, and leans over the table to have his line.

Ron blinks and swallows. Shakes his head a few times. Can feel the edges coming back to his vision. He smiles. ‘Here I am,’ he says.

‘Back in the room?’ Rags dabs the crumbs with the pad of his thumb and rubs them into his gums.

‘Yes, after a short hiatus, I am officially back in the room,’ Ron says. He keeps his hands on his thighs and jumps his knees up and down in a furious tremor.

‘Good,’ Rags says, raising his glass. ‘Welcome. You were missed.’ He sips theatrically.

‘Rags?’ Ron stops his knees.

‘Yes.’ Rags looks at him.

‘Tell me what happened?’ Ron keeps his eyes levelled at his brother.

His brother looks into them. ‘You’re sure you want to know?’

‘I feel ready.’ Ron nods.

‘OK, mate.’ Rags takes another sip and winces, pleasured by the lemon. ‘OK. Well.’ He waits. Leans back and looks up at the ceiling. Purses his lips. ‘Well,’ he says again. ‘We got robbed.’

Ron looks at him, waiting for more. Rags looks back at him. Shrugs without moving his shoulders, shrugs with his eyes.

‘I know that,’ Ron says, leaning towards him. ‘I’ve known that for the last four hours since you got me out of my bed and dragged me down here. But what I’m saying is. ’ Ron leans back again into his chair, rolls his neck from side to side, wonders about what exactly it is he’s saying, remembers. ‘I’m ready to know what happened. I’m ready for you to tell me exactly what happened. I’m ready to listen. My anxieties are under control.’

Ron reaches for the cigarettes by Rags’ elbow. Rags pushes them towards him, passes him the lighter with his other hand.

‘OK,’ he says. He rubs his face with the palm of his hand. Wipes his nose. Nods. ‘So. I’m there, at this fucking club in the unwashed armpit of south London. As you know. This Paradise, it’s called. And I’m waiting to meet this Harry that Pico’s told me is coming down.’

‘Why were you there, Rags, and not somewhere you knew?’ Ron asks quietly.

Rags is annoyed at the interjection, he was just getting into it. ‘I don’t know, Ron. Because that’s where I was told to go.’

‘I’m being serious. Why there?’ Ron turns it over in his head. He can’t work it out. Rags reaches for Ron’s cigarette, takes it off him, smokes it, doesn’t give it back. ‘Whose club is it?’ Ron asks him.

‘Mate of mine,’ Rags says.

‘Trust him?’ Ron pushes him.

‘Trust her unequivocally.’

‘You’re sure?’ Ron pushes his forehead towards him.

‘Yes,’ Rags replies. ‘Her name’s Lucy. We go back.’

‘Lucy what?’

‘Trust me.’ Rags holds up an extended finger, points at his brother. ‘She had nothing to do with this.’

Ron points at Rags’ pointing finger. ‘Why did she let you use her bar, though? I’m just thinking out loud here.’

‘Look.’ Rags takes hold of his brother’s hand and pushes it slowly down until it lies flat on the table. ‘She’s got loads of security there, she runs this illegal fighting thing out the back.’

‘What kind of fighting thing?’

‘All kinds,’ he says. ‘Animals, kids, men, women. Sometimes all four.’

‘Jesus.’ Ron narrows his eyes.

‘It’s a weird fucking place, I can tell you. But it’s safe. You know, one thing about it is, it’s fucking safe.’ Rags draws his lips into a line, shrugs.

‘Not that safe though, was it, Rags? Tonight, I mean, for us.’ Ron looks at him disapprovingly.

Rags bristles. ‘Do you want me to tell you what happened, or what?’

‘I’m not saying anything.’ Ron spreads his arms. Innocent.

‘You are, you keep interrupting.’

‘I don’t.’

‘You just did.’ Rags stares at his brother, indignant.

‘Alright, from now on, I’m saying nothing,’ Ron offers, smiling sweetly. Rags eyes him warily. ‘I want to know, I’m ready to hear. What the fuck went on?’

Rags stares at him. Looking for something. Satisfied, he pushes his legs down into the seat, rubs the back of his neck. Begins again. ‘So,’ he says, ‘I’m there, at the bar, it’s packed.’

‘On a Tuesday? Packed?’

‘What did we just say you were going to do?’ Rags throws one hand towards his brother, palm upwards.

‘What?’ Ron hunches his shoulders up, rocks back in his chair and crosses his arms. ‘Packed on a Tuesday ?’

‘Ron.’ Rags unknowingly mimics his brother’s pose, leans back in his chair, crosses his arms. ‘Bars like this are packed every night. Cheap booze, cheap drugs, cheap music, cheap sex. People aren’t in bed at ten p.m. these days, mate. There is no early nights no more, there’s only the drudgery of work and the fleeting fucking joy of a gobful of dancing powder and a stranger’s sweaty genitals.’ Rags stares hard at his brother. Angry.

Ron holds a finger up to his lips. ‘Not another word from me. Sorry.’

Rags hesitates, searches for his place in the story. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘There’s this guy that works there, Joey he’s called.’ He pauses, waits for the interjection, receives none, continues. ‘He’s got a right chip on his shoulder. He works for Lucy but he gets treated like an arsehole by everyone, because, by all accounts, he is an absolute arsehole. Full of himself, but with nothing going for him. Now, early in the day, around three or four in the afternoon, I’ve got a fucking shitload of gear to transport, so Lucy’s sent one of her kids over, school uniform and that, and I’ve put him in the car and we’ve driven round to Paradise. School run, you know? Very low key. So we get there, all fine, and I load the gear into the club. And I’ve got a lot on me. The plan was, we were going to proposition this girl, this Harry, she comes vouched for by Pico, right? So I was going to say, like, look, love, take all this, we don’t know how long Pico’s away for, just take this on tick, it’s got to be a few keys, and then settle up with Pico incrementally. Through Ange.’

‘Who’s Ange?’ The interruption is spontaneous, genuine.

Rags angers, but relents. ‘You know Ange.’

‘Pico’s wife?’ Ron asks him.

‘Yeah.’ Rags nods.

‘I thought her name was Cherub?’

‘ He calls her “cherub”, but her name’s Ange.’ Rags watches his brother open his mouth wide and hold his cheeks. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Are you fucking joking?’ Ron says. Burying his head.

‘What?’ Rags asks him.

‘ I’ve been calling her Cherub. Ever since I met her, I thought that’s what her fucking name was.’ Ron hits himself on the back of the head.

‘Well, you’re an idiot, Ronny,’ Rags tells him.

Ron starts laughing. ‘I’ve called her Cherub about three hundred times. I’ve never once called her Ange.’

Rags waits for him to stop laughing. ‘You quite finished?’ he asks.

Ron nods, stops laughing.

‘So, this little weasel-bollocks, Joey, lets me into the basement. Lucy’s asked him to show me around kind of thing. He’s got the keys, that’s about all he’s trusted with. Dogsbody type, right? Opens up the venue and sets up the chairs, things like that. So, he’s taken me down to this basement they’ve got there, weird fucking room. Shark in a tank. The lot.’

‘Right.’ Ron nods.

‘Lucy’s into all sorts,’ Rags explains.

‘Fishing?’

‘Probably,’ Rags says. ‘So this Joey guy’s let me in the basement.’