Clapham Lights (7 page)

‘S
ee you later,’ Amy says, picking up her handbag and a pile of
documents
from her desk.

‘Where are you off to?’ Mark doesn’t look up from his computer.

‘I’m meeting Tom Carter from STA Shaw.’

‘It’s a bit late for a meeting isn’t it?’

‘We’re having dinner.’

Mark swivels round. ‘Dinner? What, so is it a meeting or a date?’

‘A meeting.’

‘How old is he?’

‘I’m not sure, thirty-five?’

‘Is he married?’

‘Why does it matter if he’s married?’

‘I don’t know. I’m going on a date tonight by the way,’ Mark adds.

‘That’s nice,’ Amy says patronisingly. ‘Enjoy yourself. I’ve got to rush, if anyone rings could you take a message and tell them I’ll get back to them in the morning, or get them to send me an email. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Mark waits for Amy to leave and leans back in his chair with his hands behind his head. He’s alone in the office. He types two more seven-digit numbers into a spreadsheet, adds a pie chart and saves it as
Potential_Invest_Yield_Forecast_Sweden_2011
in his ‘Forecasts’ folder.

Mark turns to look down onto Liverpool Street. A man in a bright yellow jacket is handing out copies of the
London Late
to the stream of commuters on their way into the station. It’s a blustery early-evening and most people are wearing jumpers or jackets.

Amy’s phone rings but Mark ignores it. He browses the BBC
Business
homepage and then searches ‘mendax waelth managment’ on Google. There are 21,243 results. He clicks on a link to the MenDax website but instantly closes it.

After staring out of the window for a few more minutes, Mark double-clicks on Krazy Golf from his list of favourites and logs in.

He gets to hole eighteen on level par but takes five strokes on the last after his ball falls down a mine shaft. He beats his mouse on the desk in frustration.

A new message from [email protected] appears in his
Outlook
inbox. The subject line is blank but there’s an attachment.
Thanks for the business card. Want to suck them do you? Well here they are.
Mark looks confused and clicks on the paperclip icon. A photograph pops up.

‘HUURRGGHH!’

It’s Harry Todd, naked, except for a copy of the
Sevenoaks Chronicle
leisure supplement which covers his genitals. He is reclining on a double bed with one arm outstretched and his right leg cocked. His stomach spills down over his groin and he is cupping an enormous hairy breast with his other hand. Next to him on the peach bedspread are his tinted glasses, some furry handcuffs and a book about the Battle of Britain.

Mark scrambles to close the photo. He deletes the email and then empties his deleted items. He shuts down the computer and stares at the black screen.

Chernobyl vodka bar is dark, even though it is still bright outside, and Mark is one of only three customers. He examines the drinks list whilst the three female bar staff - all wearing tight shirts embossed with the chain’s radioactive logo - talk amongst themselves.

He orders two pints of Glasnost and three caramel double vodkas. As the barmaid searches among the hundreds of bottles of spirits along the mirrored back wall, Mark checks his delicately sculpted hair and undoes another button of his sleek black shirt. It reveals pasty skin and sparse chest hair and he quickly does it back up.

Mark refuses the offer of a tray but after a failed attempt to carry all of the drinks, he downs one pint of Glasnost and necks one of the double shots, which makes him splutter.

He sits in a booth in the middle of a row parallel to the bar and reads the food menu. His finger lingers over the ‘St Petersburger’ but he puts it down and stares at the mural of Yuri Gagarin on the ceiling.

‘Hello,’ says a squat, muscular woman in a low-cut black top.

‘Hi,’ Mark says, half-ignoring her.

‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Can I sit down?’ the woman asks, her jaw flexing.

‘Sorry, I’m expecting somebody,’ Mark says bluntly.

‘Mark, it’s me. Claire.’ She points to her face which glows with fake tan and is covered in an uneven layer of shimmering blusher. She has short brown hair and a long fringe swept over the right side of her face, partially covering her eye.

‘Claire. I knew it was you,’ Mark bumbles. ‘I was joking. How are  you?’

‘Good thank you. How are you?’

‘Yeah, fine.’

She flattens her skirt over her powerful thighs and shuffles onto her seat. Her chest is solid muscle and a silver pendant dangles from her neck.

‘Have you been here long?’ she asks, looking at his two empty shot glasses and half-drunk pint.

‘I got here a bit early. I only live up the road. Did it take you long to get here?’

‘No, it’s only two stops on the train from Balham.’

‘You live in Balham? Oh yeah, I remember you saying now.’ His tone is flat and he keeps looking away.

‘I remember you trying to invite yourself back there on Saturday night,’ she says, smiling.

‘Yeah, I was very pissed.’

‘It was funny. I don’t think I’ve ever been chatted up in a kebab house before.’

Mark takes the drinks menu.

‘I love Clapham,’ Claire says. ‘There’s always something going on, it’s really fun.’

‘Yeah it’s all right. But you get a lot of twats around here as well. Do you want a drink? I’ll get them.’

‘Oh, could I have a cocktail?’

Mark drinks his last shot, shudders, and places the sixth empty back on the wooden wheel.

‘I
love
Russian Roulettes,’ Claire says. ‘Let’s do another one.’

‘No, no I can’t. I’ve got to be at work early in the morning.’

‘Lightweight. Finish your pint. I’m one ahead of you now. My rugby team would drink you under the table.’ Claire glugs her beer and bangs the glass down on the table. ‘You never told me what you do, Mark.’

‘My job? Finance - in the City. I’m an investor relations chief
executive
. I…’ He doesn’t elaborate. ‘How about you?’

‘I’m a PA at Mutual Equitable, the insurance company.’

‘Really,’ Mark says, uninterested. ‘How long have you been there?’

Claire rolls her eyes. ‘Too long. Since I moved to London, in 1990.’

‘1990?
Eighteen years
?’

‘I
am
thirty-nine, Mark.’

‘Thirty-nine?
’ he says in disbelief. ‘You don’t look that old.’

‘Thanks, I’ll take that as a compliment. I did tell you this the other night.’

‘Did you?’ he mutters, checking his watch.

Claire takes her mobile from her Fitness First rucksack and reads a text. ‘It’s my son.’

‘You’ve got a kid as well? Is he with a babysitter?’

‘Babysitter?’ Claire says, laughing. ‘He’s a bit old for that. He’s at university.’

‘What?’ Mark says, his face contorting.

It’s quarter past ten and Chernobyl is now full of young professionals either wearing suits or distressed jeans and t-shirts.

Claire leans in and licks her lips. ‘Why don’t we finish these and then head back to yours?’

‘Umm, it’s still early. Let’s have another drink. I’ll get table service,’ Mark says, drunkenly looking around for a waitress.

The music goes up several decibels and Mark drums his fingers on the table.

‘Who are all those men?’ Claire says, scanning the murals on the walls.

‘That bloke above the bar in the cap is Lenin,’ Mark says. ‘He was President of Russia during the First World War. The guy with the
moustache
is Stalin,’ he says pointing to the man in military uniform painted over the fire exit. ‘The bloke with the grey afro and beard is Karl Marx. He invented communism and wanted everyone to be poor. And the bloke
with the long hair and long beard, next to the toilets, is Rasputin. He was King of Russia in eighteen ninety-something, but they killed him, because they wanted to get rid of the royal family.’

‘You’re so clever. Did you do history at uni?’

‘No. I did business. I know all that from GCSE.’

Claire looks over to the toilets. ‘Rasputin looks scary.’

‘He was. He killed loads of people. He had a massive cock as well. I’ve seen it on the internet.’

‘I hope he’s not the only one,’ she says, reaching under the table.

Mark flinches. ‘No, he’s not,’ he says, grabbing Claire’s hand as she claws at his trousers.

Mark pays the taxi driver and thumps the entry system’s keypad. The gate won’t open so he gives up and buzzes the flat. Craig lets them in.

‘This place is amazing,’ Claire says as they cross the car park.

‘Suusssssshhhhh! Keep your voice down.’ Mark leans on her to keep himself upright.

They get out of the lift at the sixth floor.

‘I thought you said you lived in a penthouse?’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Mark whispers. ‘It is a penthouse.’

‘But it’s not on the whole top floor.’

‘Yes it is. Now, wait here,’ he says pointing behind a pillar in the corridor. ‘When I give you the sign, come in.’

‘What? Why?’ Claire asks, unzipping her knee-high boots.

‘Just wait here.’

Mark lets himself in after trying three different keys. Craig is on the sofa in his dressing gown reading Chris Ryan’s
Zero Option.

‘You’re hammered aren’t you?’ Craig says.

‘No.’ Mark almost walks into the wall on his way into the kitchen. ‘Cheers for letting me in.’

He drinks Tropicana straight from the carton, hiding behind the fridge door.

‘Where have you been anyway?’ Craig asks. ‘You’re wearing your pulling shirt. Have you been on a date?’

‘No. Work do at Chernobyl. Someone’s birthday.’

‘Cheers for the invite.’

‘It was work people only. You wouldn’t have liked it. Shouldn’t you
be getting to bed? It’s quite late,’ Mark says, chewing a mouthful of wholemeal bread.

‘I want to finish this chapter.’

‘But that means I can’t watch TV.’

‘Can’t you go to your room?’

‘Can’t you go to
your
room?’

Mark turns the TV on.

‘OK, I’ll go if you’re going to be a twat,’ Craig says, huffing. He slams the book shut. ‘See you in the morning. Drink plenty of water.’

Mark waits until Craig’s bedroom door closes and creeps out to Claire.

‘I’ve been out here ages. What are you doing?’ she asks.

‘I had to get rid of my mate. Please be quiet,’ he says, focussing on the tattoo of barbed wire around her left bicep.

Mark locks the front door as quietly as he can, which isn’t quietly at all, and pushes Claire into his room. He kicks a pile of wet towels under his bed and dims the lights.

‘Nice place,’ Claire says. ‘Can I turn the TV on?’

‘No!’ He grabs the remote control out of her hands. ‘I’m just going to get ready for bed,’ he says, gesturing towards the en suite. ‘Make
yourself
comfortable.’

Claire sits on the unmade bed and sucks on a mint from her purse. After waiting five minutes, she sneaks out into the moonlit living room. The fridge is humming and she follows the sound and flicks on the kitchen lights.

‘Who are you?’ Craig says, shocked, as he wanders in. He’s wearing pyjama bottoms and holding an empty mug.

‘I’m Claire. I’m with Mark. You must be Craig,’ she says eying his nimble body.

Craig stares at her and grins. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was here. You surprised me.’

‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

‘That’s OK.

‘So, you’re Mark’s flatmate?’

‘Yes,’ Craig says, making a lemon cordial.

‘And you run your own property company now, Mark was saying.’

‘Err, not exactly.’

Mark has been in the bathroom almost twenty minutes and Claire is back sitting on the bed.

‘I thought you might have gone,’ he says, poking his head around the door before re-emerging still in his clothes. ‘I couldn’t hear you.’ He has started to sober up.

‘No. I was waiting. I went to get a drink. I met your flatmate.’

‘Why did you do that? I told you to stay here.’

‘I was thirsty. He said he doesn’t run a property company.’

‘He’s just being modest, ignore him.’

‘Come here,’ Claire says, patting the space beside her on the bed.

Mark sits down cautiously and she forces herself on him, holding his head in a tight grip and kissing him violently. He tumbles back onto the duvet and she pulls her skirt up to her waist and straddles him. Mark lets out a grunt as she brings her full weight down on him and forces her chest into his face.

‘Please, please get off me,’ he begs. ‘I’m going to be sick.’

Mark thrusts with his legs and flips Claire sideways. She topples over and he hauls himself out from under her and runs into the en suite.

‘Like to play rough do you? I’ll be waiting for you big boy,’ she says in a husky voice, unzipping her skirt.

Mark leans over the toilet bowl gasping for breath and then washes his sweaty face in the sink. There is no sound from the bedroom.

He opens the bathroom door to see Claire standing naked on the bed, flexing her triceps. She has her name tattooed in gothic script on her abdomen.

‘Claire, fucking hell, what are you-’

‘Come on, Mark, strip for me,’ she says leaping towards him. ‘I want your body.’ She yanks at his belt, managing to undo it as he tries to fend her off.

‘No, no, please don’t hurt me.’

Claire drops to her knees and wrestles him to the floor, knocking over a pile of DVDs as she tugs at his trousers. ‘I love a fighter.’

‘Please, get off!’

Mark twists onto his front and gets his right foot trapped under the chest of drawers. She gets both hands around his belt and wrenches his trousers and boxer shorts down as he thrashes about on the floor.

‘Fucking get off!’

‘Come on, show me what you’ve got,’ she growls, her face and chest slamming against Mark’s lower back.

‘Arrrrrrgh! Arrrrrrgh! Get off me! CRAIG, HELP ME!!’