Hanif Kureishi - Collected Stories

As soon as I could, I rang Ralph’s mobile from a phone box.

It was impossible for us to meet. He was ‘up to his neck in literature’. Unfortunately, the fool had already told me where he was.

Half an hour later, I pushed open the pub door and entered. I’m a sentimentalist and want always for there to be the quiet interminability of a London pub in the afternoon, rough men playing pool, others just sitting in near silence, smoking. I couldn’t see Ralph, but did notice a sign which said ‘Theatre and Toilets’. I tripped down some narrow stairs into an oppressive, dank-smelling room, painted black. There were old cinema seats and, in one corner, a box office the size of a cupboard. Pillars seemed to obstruct every clear view of the tiny stage. I saw from the posters that they were doing productions of The Glass Menagerie and Dorian Gray .

A woman hurried over, introducing herself as Florence O’Hara. She wanted to know how many tickets I wanted for The Glass Menagerie , in which she played the mother. Or did I want tickets for Hamlet , in which she played Gertrude? If I wanted to see them both, there was a special offer.

As she said this, I was surprised to see, sitting in the gloom, unshaven and in a big overcoat, a well-known actor, Robert Miles, who’d been in a film I’d written seven years ago. Before it began shooting, he and I had had tea together several times.

I looked at Florence more closely. I could recall Robert trying to get her a small part in the film. They’d been lovers, and were still connected in some way.

Had I not been inhabiting this wretched frame, Robert and I could, no doubt, have exchanged greetings and gossip. Instead, when he saw me looking at him, being both nervous and arrogant, he got up and walked out.

At the same time, Ralph emerged, in the costume of a Victorian gentleman or dandy, with a top hat in his hand. We shook hands, and I sat behind him in the theatre seats.

‘I haven’t got long,’ he said.

‘Nor me.’

‘There’s a show later. During the day, I’m working on a new play with Robert Miles. He’s trying his hand at directing. I’m working with the best now.’

Ralph was looking tired; his face seemed a little more lined than before.

He said, ‘I’m playing Dorian Gray as well. Florence is Sybil. I’m having the time of my life here.’ He glanced at me. ‘What’s wrong? What can I do for you now?’

I told Ralph that Matte had ‘recognised’ me, was a Newbody himself, required a body for his brother, and was in pursuit of mine. How could this not bother Ralph? After all, wasn’t he, the oretically, in a similar position?

‘You come to me with these problems, but what can I do about any of them?’

‘Ralph, anyone would recognise that, as with anything uniquely valuable — gold, a Picasso — bad people will be scrambling and killing for it. How could they not? But I can’t just remove this body as I could a necklace.’

‘At least, not yet,’ he said. Ralph was looking around agitatedly. ‘You stupid fool. Why have you come here? You might have led them to me. They could kidnap me while I’m on stage and strip me down to my brain.’

‘How would they know you’re a freak like me?’

‘Don’t fucking call me a freak! Only if you bloody well tell them. And I’m always afraid my maturity is going to give me away. What have you done to alert these people?’

By now, I was yelling, and I had big lungs.

‘If you think this isn’t going to be something that a lot of people are going to know about, you’re a fool.’

He leaned closer to me. ‘You get full-on, full-time security. Big guys around you all the time. That’s the price of a big new dick and fresh liver.’

‘How am I going to afford it?’

‘You’ll have to work.’

‘At what?’

‘What d’you think? You used to be a writer. You can start again, in another style. You could become … let’s say, a magical realist!’ I could see Florence in the dressing-room doorway, waving at him. ‘Imagine where I’ll be in ten years’ time, in fifteen, in twenty! How do you know I won’t be running one of the great theatres or opera houses of the world?’ I was sitting there with my head in my hands. ‘I didn’t tell you. I will now. Ophelia and I — the girl playing that part, of course — are getting married. I didn’t tell you this either: we have a child together. A few days old, and perfect. I was afraid for a while that it would be some kind of oddity.’

‘Well done.’

‘Are you going to see the show? Maybe it’s better you don’t hang around here, if you’re being chased.’

I indicated my body. ‘All I want’, I said, ‘is to be rid of this, to get out of this meat. I want to do it tonight, if possible.’ He was looking at me pityingly. ‘I guess I could find the hospital myself, but I’m in a hurry. What’s the address of the place you took me to?’

‘Up to you,’ he said, sceptically.

He told me the address. I wouldn’t forget it. He was glad to be rid of me.

I said, ‘Good luck with the show. I’ll come and see it in a few days’ time, with my wife. She and I are planning to spend a lot of time together.’

At the top of the stairs, I heard Florence’s voice behind me.

‘What name?’ she called.

‘What?’

‘What name for the tickets to the show?’

‘I’ll let you know.’

‘Don’t you even know your own name?’

Coming into the pub was a young woman with a baby in a sling. Ralph’s kid, I guessed. But I was in too much of a hurry to stop. There was a miserable cab office at the end of the street where, in my old frame, I had known the drivers and listened to their stories.

I told the cabbie to drive fast. As we went, I looked around continuously, staring into every car and face for potential murderers, thinking hard, convinced I was still being followed. Where I was going wasn’t far, but I had to be careful.

Not long after we’d left the city, I said, suddenly, to the driver, ‘Drop me off here.’

‘I thought you wanted —’

‘No, this is fine.’ We were approaching an area of low, recently built industrial buildings. ‘Listen,’ I said, holding up the last of my money, ‘give me the petrol can you keep in the back of the car. I’ve broken down near by, and I’m in a hurry.’

He agreed, and we went round to the boot of the car. He gave me the can and I wrapped it in a black plastic bag. I picked it up and headed for a pub I’d noticed. There, I had a couple of drinks and went into the toilet. I locked the cubicle door and stripped.

It took some time and I was careful and thorough. When I’d finished, and got back into my clothes, I left the pub and ran through the bleak streets towards the building, or ‘hospital’, I remembered. Soon, I was disoriented, but the address was right. The layout of the streets and the other buildings was the same. Then I saw it. The place had changed. It could have been years ago that I was there. The building I believed to be the ‘hospital’ was encircled by barbed wire; grass was poking up through the concrete. In the front, an abandoned filing cabinet was lying on its side. What sort of elaborate disguise was this?

I climbed the fence and pushed my way through the wire, which had been severed in several places. Nobody seemed bothered about security. The front door of the ‘hospital’ wasn’t even locked. However, it was getting dark. I tried the lights, but the electricity had been turned off. Bums had probably been sleeping there on rotten mattresses. The place also seemed to have been vandalised by local kids. I guessed that everything important had been taken away long before that. There were no bodies around, neither new nor old. I didn’t know what to do now but there was no reason to stay.