Hemispheres (30 page)

Good to see you Yan. Fancy a game of cards?

Any time you like son. Any time at all.

Joe sits in the armchair, chainsmoking cheap German straights and tapping the ash into his empty can where it sizzles broodily.

Got to get out of this penguin suit, I say. Not my scene at all.

Shit, grumbles Joe, stamping at a cigarette nub which has leapt onto the carpet, searing a hole through the synthetic material.

Don’t worry Joe, says Fabián, shoulder-length hair falling over his eyes. The carpet is evil and deserves to be punished.

He laughs, bright and clear. I wander through to the kitchen at the back of the flat, black and white chessboard tiles on
the floor and a rickety formica table. There’s also an antique fridge, buzzing with the effort. I liberate a chilled can of
beer. Back in the living room I crack it open and gulp greedily.

All the suitcases are still here, I say. What do we do with them?

I light one of Joe’s cigarettes and inhale deeply. The cheap tobacco is stale and dry but my head is soon buzzing with the
hit.

I asked the taxi driver, drawls Horse Boy, crossing his legs. He said we do nothing. Wait. They will come to us.

He looks over at Joe, but Joe looks away.

They better hurry up, I say. I’m just about ready to go home. A little bit of hellraising here first, naturally. Anybody been
into the city centre?

Nah, coughs Joe. Thought we’d better lie low.

He seems on edge. I watch him while he fidgets and lights another cigarette, skin grey and rumpled in the harsh overhead light.

Yan, here’s to you, says Fabián, raising his beer can high above his head. The last of a bad bunch.

He comes in the morning with the new light spreading like a puddle of cold milk. Dogs bark sporadically somewhere outside.
I wake to a polite knocking on the outside door, scramble up from the sofa to flip the
latch open. And he steps through, pepper-and-salt hair and a rumpled leather jacket like somebody’s paunchy and jocular uncle.
Closes the door carefully behind him.

Guten Tag
gentlemen, says the uncle.

He goes through into the living room and stands, tapping his foot. Joe goes back into the bedroom and returns with the cases.
The uncle produces a carpet knife from his pocket and bends over the first one, sliding the knife into the lining and gutting
the case in one easy movement. Small plump bags of pure white powder spill from the hidden cavities like the roe squeezed
from a gutted fish. He repeats the process with all the cases, then packs all the fisheggs back into the first one, checking
carefully he’s left none behind.

Fünf Mensch
, he says, looking at the suitcases with a little concern.
Oder vier Mensch
. Five of you?

No, I tell him. He didn’t come. Bottle job.

You went over the top, says Joe.

The uncle shrugs. Then he smiles again, producing a bundle of notes from his pocket. Joe holds out his hand and takes the
money.

You can stay here, says the uncle. Two days, maybe three. To make arrangements. Then you go.

He hoists the full suitcase into one hand, breezes into the hall and then out through the front door. The door, left open,
swings gently on its hinges.

Close the door, says Joe, it’s starting to snow.

Fabián emerges from the innards of the flat, hair still tangled from sleep.

Starting to snow, he says with a slow smile, in more ways than one. He looks sideways at Joe Fish, who closes the door with
a gentle click.

Am I missing something gents? I ask.

Joe beams a thunderous look at Fabián, his face clotted. Horse Boy appears, blinking away sleep.

I think we should show Yan our nest, says Fabián, gently, and leads the way into the living room. Without artificial light
the room is cold
and bare. Blots of dark mildew bloom in the corners of the ceiling like sweat patches. Fabián pads over in his socks to the
sofa and lifts the foam seat. There, in the base, is a cluster of snow-white eggs. Horse Boy was incubating them last night,
when he was sprawled across the sofa. Fabián picks a couple up and prods them.

Pure nose candy, he says, then replaces them in the nest. Good street value.

Joe and Horse Boy are quiet, waiting for my reaction.

These are serious people, I say. Not a great idea to take the piss.

Fuck sake, growls Joe. How many bags were in those cases. Two hundred? Three? They aren’t going to miss these few. I didn’t
see him counting. We’re home and dry. The cattle drovers in the old days – they got paid handsomely, but they always took
a few fine fat cattle on the sly. We’re just keeping up the tradition. These little snow-white cows will fetch a good price
at market.

Would have been nice to be asked, I say. Seems like the decision was made before I got here.

Joe glowers, opens his mouth, closes it again. Then he speaks.

Well Yan. We made the decision in time-honoured fashion, best of three. And you lost all three. Paper wrapped stone. Stone
blunted scissors. Scissors cut paper.

Seems like my luck ran out, I say. I’m going to blow away some cobwebs. Might go for a poke around the city. Anyone coming?

They all look at their hands.

I’m going to butcher a little cow, says Fabián.

He delves into the sofa and emerges with one of the fat little bundles. Then he slits its belly with a carpet knife. Horse
Boy takes down a picture from the wall and hands it to him. It’s an uninspiring little print in a glass frame, the sun shining
over a woodland scene. Deer scampering through the trees. Fabián lays the picture across his knees, glass upwards. Uses the
knife to scoop out a wisp of powder and dumps it on the glass in a little mound. Then he dabs a finger in it and rubs it against
his gums.

Virgin snow, he says, and crosses himself, grinning lackadaisically. With the knife he marshals the powder into a zigzag line.

Money Joe, he says.

Joe hands him a wrap of notes and he bundles them up into a tube and hoovers up the line in one go. Tendrils of his black
hair buzz against the glass. He looks up, tears in his eyes, white powder and mucus round his nostrils, and gives a thumbs-up
sign. I hover at the door.

I’m off then.

Get some firewater in while you’re at it, says Horse Boy. Whisky whisky whisky. Whisky.

I take the U-Bahn down towards the city centre, come out into Roncalliplatz with the Christmas market in full swing. The
place is a coral reef of colour in the damp December city, music trickling into the cold and smoky air, stalls encrusted with
light. People sprawl past in large groups, mummified in padded layers of clothing. I’m still wearing that cheap shiny suit
and my hands and feet are feeling the cold. To warm up I buy a glass of
Glühwein
from a stall. A large swollen-faced woman hands me the drink.

Vielen Dank
, I say. She beams back.

Fröhliche Weihnachten.

I warm my hands on the glass and sip at the
Glühwein
, deep red fruit with a raw kick of alcohol. Cloves and nutmeg and cinnamon. Steam blooms from the surface. I’ll buy the lads
some cheap whisky later, but I’ll have to go careful. Me and Johnnie Walker are old pals.

See, I could just go home now. Take my share of the cash and split. Could be there today, in fact. Two-hour flight to London
and then the train home. Could be touching Kate’s skin tonight, that unbearable smoothness like coal ash.

Christ.

Why didn’t you?

Eh?

Why didn’t you just come home? This must have been December eighty-three, right?

Aye, I suppose so.

So it took you another two years, near enough.

Yeah.

You didn’t actually want to come back, did you? Not then. Like you said, it was easy. Could have been here the same day.

I blame Cologne Cathedral.

You what?

It’s like a huge black gothic beast squatting on the city. Like somebody’s plucked an ordinary cathedral by the shoulderblades
and stretched it upwards into the sky – exaggerated the vertical dimension until the two spires are brushing the winter cloudbase
and the hackles of the nave are bristling far above the city. And there I am sitting in the square beneath it and a great
bell starts tolling somewhere high beyond imagining, a deep sonorous boom born from the crags of fog and blackened stone.
It’s the same note as the Southern Ocean, the oracle of despair. And I stand up and thrust my hands in the pockets of that
thin jacket and there’s only one place I’m going. They can wait for their cheap whisky and you can wait for your old man.

Dark and still inside, lit by the faint glow of great windows where winter berries of stained glass spill in plump clusters.
My hollow footfall on the stone floor, and the deep bell baying from above.

I find myself before the Shrine of the Magi, where a golden reliquary hides some shabby-arse bones they claim are the three
kings. Yeah, those three kings – the real deal. Light spills across the intricate golden surface and it shifts and furrows
like a brow clenching and relaxing. There are jewels and intaglios set into the gold. A noseless face, a medusa in turquoise
and white, a carved garnet showing Theseus slaying the Minotaur. Somebody’s bones in there at any rate, mute and crumbling
in the quiet dark.

I climb the tower right up to the parapet above the bell chamber
and stand in the wire cage which stops people jumping. The mesh is rusting in the mist, bleeding droplets of moisture, and
snow spins across blackened stone in tiny scribbles of interference. Down below, the city fades away into whiteness and that
broad three-humped railway bridge loops across the Rhine like a sea beast and disappears.

Out of the whiteness comes a high clear barking, an ill-tuned chatter of handbells, a clatter of black wings, and I’m surrounded
by jackdaws perched on the massive stone tracery with the blank drop beneath, perched on the blistered mesh of the cage itself.
Sleek black bodies glittering like coal and grey heads soft as spent ash.

Soft as Kate’s skin.

They cock their heads with these quizzical eyes, bright as brushed steel with a pinpoint of night, and they bounce from perch
to perch. And all the while they fling out metallic droplets of sound. A collective conversation, a vast mind churning over,
each bird a mischievous neuron firing its own crisp signal. They tolerate me while I stay still, those mobile eyes kind of
weighing me up for who I am. And just for a moment I am part of this covenant and it feels good. The yapping of a thousand
others on the thresholds of my soul.

Below us the bell begins to boom out the hour and the low frequency grates in my spine and the stones sing out in their bass
voices like an orthodox choir. And now the jackdaws fall away from the parapet and into snow-whirling whiteness, the beating
wings winding an acrid smoke trail down across the dim city and the dim Rhine and away into nothing.

And I want to go with them but the cage stops me, and now I’m alone again.

Later, I climb the stairwell towards the flat and think of the Magi. Dervishes of snow lash through the wooden slats, spin
and die. A full plastic bag wallows from my hand, the attenuated handle cutting into my fingers. Gold for the whisky. Cheap
and cheerful stuff for Horse Boy and Joe. Frankincense for
Glühwein
, spiced and heady. I can smell
it on my breath still. And myrrh? A bitter herb for anointing the dead. Well, two out of three ain’t bad.

The door of the flat is ajar, swinging off the latch. I can smell Middle Eastern cooking from the flat next door, cumin and
coriander.

Honey, I’m home, I shout, shouldering through the doorway. Beware geeks bearing gifts. I rattle the bag of bottles.

And then I bend and vomit a purple slick onto the greasy orange carpet. Because they’re in there. The noseless man, Medusa,
and the Minotaur. They’ve escaped from the shrine. And when I’ve seen what’s in the flat I run, and the bag of bottles is
shouting in my hand and in the stairwell there’s a sharp stink of urine, my own urine, where I have pissed myself with fear.
Snow still rattles in machinegun bursts through the wooden slats and there are wet footprints blooming behind me down the
stairs, following me as I run, in diminishing hoofmarks of black, and then in ghostly form all the way down to the U-Bahn
and along the tracks to the ancient city.

So I’m back on the edge of the fountain on Roncalliplatz and the icy water plays behind me. The cathedral is floodlit in winter
dark, twin spires looping into the giddy heavens. The bag of bottles is nestling against my legs and I reach down for one.
Twist off the cap and the sweet sickly fiery smell hits me.

Yes.

Raise it to my lips and drink, long, hard and deep.

Yes.

The level of the amber spirit descends the bottle and I come up for air. Strange how the floodlit cathedral is bending down
towards me. I drink again, feeling the chemical taste of the Scotch burn in my gullet. Water rising about my ankles, cold
and black and peaty. Must be coming from the river, from the black mud below the earliest levels of the city, below the U-Bahn.
Creeping up my calves, soaking simply through the cheap shiny fabric of the suit. Shudder as it climbs around my midriff,
my shoulders. Take a last suck of whisky. And then it swallows me in
blackness, and I’m drifting into the green depths, a plastic bag of bottles still knotted in my hand.

Whitby is a shitmagnet of a town, attracts more than its fair share of human flotsam. Maybe it’s the geography of the place,
stuck out on that far eastern bulge of Yorkshire behind miles of empty moorland. They used to exile people here, before they
invented Australia.

In summer it’s packed with trippers, cramming the narrow streets on the East Cliff, swarming up the steps to the abbey on
the headland. But at dusk they stream away to the car parks and the courtyards and alleys are bare and empty. It’s quiet in
winter too, wooden staithes looming above the harbour, gulls reverberating in the empty town.