Hanif Kureishi: Collected Stories

‘Yeah.’

‘Course. I bet you have a pretty nice life, all in all. Plays, travel, posh friends. The police aren’t looking for you, are they?’

‘Not like they are for you, Turner.’

‘No. That’s right.’

‘Turner’s looking at fifteen. Isn’t that right, man?’

‘Yeah,’ said Turner. ‘Sometimes twenty. I’m looking at —’ He noticed Jimmy suppressing a giggle and turned to see Roy smirking. He said, ‘I’m looking at a lot of shit. Now, Mister Roy, if you know so fucking much I’ll try and think if there’s something I need to ask you, while I’m here.’

Jimmy said to Roy, ‘Are you ready for Mr Turner’s questions?’

Roy tapped his razor blade on the table and organised the powder into thick lines. He and Jimmy hunched over to inhale. Turner sat down at last and pointed at the envelopes.

‘How many of them d’you want?’

‘Three.’

‘How many?’

‘Three, I said.’

‘Fuck.’ Turner banged his fist on the table. ‘Slags.’

Roy said, ‘You want a piece of pie?’

‘That I could go for.’

Roy cut a piece of Clara’s cherry pie and gave it to Turner. Turner took two large bites and it was inside him. Roy cut another piece. This time Turner leaned back in his chair, raised his arm and hurled it across the kitchen as if he were trying to smash it through the wall. The dog thrashed after it like a shoal of piranhas. It was an aged creature and its eating was slobbery and breathless. The second it had finished, the dog ran back to Turner’s feet and planted itself there, waiting for more.

Turner said to Roy, ‘Three, did you say?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So I have come some considerable miles at your instant command for fuck-all. You know,’ he said sarcastically, ‘I’m looking at eighteen.’

‘In that case four. All right. Four g’s. Might as well, eh, Jimmy?’

Turner slapped the dog. ‘You’ll get another go in a minute,’ he told it. He looked at Jimmy. ‘What about ten?’

‘Go for it,’ said Jimmy to Roy. ‘We’ll be all right tomorrow. Ten should see us through.’

‘Smart,’ said Turner. ‘Planning ahead.’

‘Ten?’ Roy said. ‘No way. I don’t think you should hustle people.’

Turner’s voice became shrill. ‘You saying I hustle you?’

Roy hesitated. ‘I mean by that … it’s not a good business idea.’

Turner raised his voice. ‘I’m doing this to pay off my brother’s debts. My brother who was killed by scum. It’s all for him.’

‘Quite right,’ murmured Jimmy.

‘Hey, I’ve got a fucking question for you,’ Turner said. ‘Little Roy.’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you know how to love life?’

Jimmy and Roy looked at one another.

Turner said, ‘That’s stumped you, right? I’m saying here, is it a skill? Or a talent? Who can acquire it?’ He was settling into his rap. ‘I deal to the stars, you know.’

‘Most of them introduced to you by me,’ Roy murmured.

‘And they the unhappiest people I seen.’

‘It’s still a difficult question,’ said Roy.

He looked at Turner, who was so edgy and complicated it was hard to think of him as a child. But you could always see the light of childhood in Jimmy, he was luminous with curiosity.

‘But a good one,’ said Jimmy.

‘You’re pleased with that one,’ Roy said to Turner.

‘Yeah, I am.’ Turner looked at Jimmy. ‘You’re right. It’s a difficult question.’

Roy put his hand in his jeans pocket and dragged out a wad of £20 notes.

‘Hallo,’ Turner said.

‘Jesus,’ said Jimmy.

‘What?’ Roy said.

‘I’ll take a tenner off,’ Turner said. ‘As we’re friends — if you buy six.’

‘I told you, not six,’ said Roy, counting the money. There was plenty of it, but he thumbed through it rapidly.

Turner reached out to take the whole wad and held it in his fist, looking down at the dog as his foot played on its stomach.

‘Hey,’ Roy said and turned to Jimmy who was laughing.

‘What?’ said Turner, crumpling the money in his hand. Roy pulled the cherry pie towards him and cut a slice. His hand was shaking now. ‘You are in a state,’ Turner said. He took the mobile phone out of his pocket and turned it off.

‘Am I?’ Roy said. ‘What are you going to do with that money?’

Turner got up and took a step towards Roy. ‘Answer the fucking question!’

Roy put up his hands. ‘I can’t.’

Turner pushed three small envelopes towards Jimmy, put all the money in his pocket, yanked away his drug bag, and, pursued by the dog, charged to the door. Roy ran to the window and watched the Rolls take off down the street.

‘You wanker,’ he said to Jimmy. ‘You fucking wanker.’

‘Me?’

‘Christ. We should have done something.’

‘Like what?’

‘Where’s the knife! You should have stuck it in the bastard’s fucking throat! That pig’s run off with my money!’

‘Thing is, you can’t trust them proles, man. Sit down.’

‘I can’t!’

‘Here’s the knife. Go after him then.’

‘Fuck, fuck!’

‘This will calm you down,’ said Jimmy.

They started into the stuff straight away and there was no going back. Roy attempted to put one gram aside for Munday but Jimmy said, why worry, they could get more later. Roy didn’t ask him where from.

Roy was glad to see Upton go. He’d be glad, too, to see the end of the chaos that Jimmy had brought with him.

‘What are your plans?’ he asked. ‘I mean, what are you going to be doing in the next few days?’

Jimmy shook his head. He knew what Roy was on about, but ignored him, as Roy sat there thinking that if he was capable of love he had to love all of Jimmy now, at this moment.

It was imperative, though, that he clear his mind for Munday. The drug got him moving. He fetched a jersey and clean socks for Jimmy, thrust Jimmy’s old clothes into a plastic bag, and, holding them at arm’s length, pushed them deep into the rubbish. He showered, got changed, opened the windows and prepared coffee.

*

It was only when Munday, who was ten years younger than him and Jimmy and far taller, came through the door, that Roy realised how spaced he and Jimmy were. Fortunately Clara had said she’d be out that evening. Munday, who had just got off the plane, wanted to relax and talk.

Roy forced his concentration as Munday explained his latest good news. His business, for which Roy had made many music videos, was in the process of being sold to a conglomerate. Munday would be able to make more films and with bigger budgets. He would be managing director and rich.

‘Excellent,’ said Roy.

‘In some ways,’ Munday said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Let’s have another drink.’

‘Yes, we must celebrate.’ Roy got up. ‘I won’t be a moment.’

At the door he heard Jimmy say, ‘You might be interested to hear that I myself have attempted a bit of writing in my time …’

It was that ‘I myself ’ that got him out.

Roy went to buy champagne. He was hurrying around the block. Powerful forces were keeping him from his house. His body ached and fluttered with anxiety; he had Aids at least, and, without a doubt, cancer. A heart attack was imminent. On the verge of panic, he feared he might run yelling into the road but was, at that moment, unable to take another step. He couldn’t, though, stay where he was, for fear he might lie down and weep. In a pub he ordered a half but took only two sips. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, but he didn’t want to go home.

Munday and Jimmy were sitting head to head. Jimmy was telling him a ‘scenario’ for a film about a famous ageing film director and a drifting young couple who visit him, to pay homage. After they’ve eaten with him, praised his percipience and vision, admired his awards and heard his Brando stories, they enquire if there is anything they can do for him. The director says he wants to witness the passion of their love-making, hear their conversation, see their bodies, hear their cries and look at them sleeping. The girl and her earnest young man co-operate until … They become his secretaries; they take him prisoner; maybe they murder him. Jimmy couldn’t remember the rest. It was written down somewhere.