London Fields (12 page)

But he wasn't about to stray. He was straight arrow. Divagation, errancy – to Guy this spelt humiliation. It would be disastrous, and inexpiable. No second chances. She'd kill him. The girl in the Black Cross with the extraordinary mouth – he would never see her again. Good, good. The flu, the malaria she had given him would be gone in a week. The thought of his life with an absence where Hope now stood (or wearily reclined) was enough to make him stop dead in the street and shake his hair with his hands raised and clawlike. He walked on, steadily. He would never stray.

'I mean – that's life,' said the young man. 'You can't argue with it. It's just one of them things.' He paused, and without fully straightening his body leaned forward and spat through the open door into the street. 'Okay,' he resumed. 'I got into a fight, I came out the wrong side of it, and that's life. No complaints. Fair enough. That's life.'

Guy sipped his tomato juice and stole the odd glance over his broadsheet. Good God: so
that's
life. The young man continued his tale. The two girls he told it to listened in postures of mild sympathy.

'I was out of order. Got taught a lesson.' He shrugged. 'That's it.'

Conversationally, philosophically, and often pausing to hawk blood into the street, the young man explained how this very recent altercation had cost him a broken nose and cheekbone and the loss of nearly all his top teeth. Guy folded his newspaper and stared at the ceiling. The rapidity of change. Anyone in Guy's circle who sustained equivalent damage would have to go to Switzerland for a year or two and get completely remade. And here was this wreck, back in the pub the very next morning, with his pint and his tabloid, his ruined face, and the occasional
phthook
!
through the open doors. Already he had changed the subject and was talking about the weather, the price of beer. The two girls thought no less of him for it, particularly the scarred brunette; if he was lucky, and assuming he had one, he might get to take her home. Life goes on. And this
was
life, it really was, uncared for, and taking no care of itself.

Keith came in, causing the usual low pub murmur. He saw Guy and pointed a finger at him, then wagged his thumb backwards, indicating John Dark: John Dark, the corrupt policeman – the bent copper, the tarnished badge, the iffy filth. Dark was short and well-scrubbed, of that no-hair-but-good-teeth mould of man, and a horrid-jumper expert. He was the only regular in the Black Cross who looked at Guy with critical inquiry, as if he (Guy) really should know better. Dark's own position was ambiguous. He had a certain standing; but nearly everyone treated him with theatrical contempt. Especially Keith . . . Guy inferred that Keith would be with him in a minute. And sure enough, after a few words with Fucker about the Cavalier (Fucker being the pub car-expert), Keith came over and leant forward seriously on Guy's table.

'You know that skirt who was in here? Nicola?'

'Yes, I know who you mean.'

'She wants you to . . .' Keith looked around unhappily. With impatience he acknowledged the salutes and greetings of Norvis, Dean, Thelonius, Curtly, Truth, Netharius, Shakespeare, Bogdan, Maciek, and the two Zbigs. 'We can't talk here,' he said, and suggested they repair to the Golgotha, his drinking club, and discuss things over a quiet glass of
porno,
the drink he always drank there (a Trinidadian liqueur). 'It's a matter of some delicacy.'

Guy hesitated. He had been to Keith's drinking club once before. The Golgotha, while no more private than the Black Cross, and no less noisy, was certainly darker. Then he found himself saying, 'Why not come back to my place?'

Keith hesitated. It occurred to Guy that the offer might seem offensive, since it was an invitation that Keith could never return. A one-way offer, unreturnable. But Keith glanced at the pub clock and said cannily, 'Good one.'

They moved together through the activity of the Portobello Road, Guy tall and questing in the sun, Keith stockier, squarer, his hands bunched in his jacket pockets, his flared trousers tapered and throttled by the low-flying wind, his rolled tabloid under his arm, like a telescope. Out on the street they couldn't talk about Nicola Six because that's what they were going back to Guy's place to talk about. As they turned into a quieter avenue their own silence grew louder. Guy chose a subject which had often helped him out in the past.

'Are you going to the match?'

Both men supported Queens Park Rangers, the local team, and for years had been shuffling off to Loftus Road on Saturday afternoons. In fact they might have come across each other earlier, but this had never been likely: Guy stood in the terraces, with his pie and Bovril, whereas Keith was always to be found with his flask in the stands.

'They're away today,' said Keith through his cigarette. 'United, innit. I was there
last
week.'

'West Ham. Any good?’

Some of the light went out in Keith's blue eyes as he said, 'During the first half the Hammers probed down the left flank. Revelling in the space, the speed of Sylvester Drayon was always going to pose problems for the home side's number two. With scant minutes remaining before the half-time whistle, the black winger cut in on the left back and delivered a searching cross, converted by Lee Fredge, the East London striker, with inch-perfect precision. After the interval Rangers' fortunes revived as they exploited their superiority in the air. Bobby Bondavich's men offered stout resistance and the question remained: could the Blues translate the pressure they were exerting into goals? In the seventy-fourth minute Keith Spare produced a pass that split the visitors' defence, and Dustin Housely rammed the equalizer home. A draw looked the most likely result until a disputed penalty decision broke the deadlock five minutes from the final whistle. Keith Spare made no mistake from the spot. Thus the Shepherd's Bush team ran out surprise 2–1 winners over the . . . over the outfit whose theme tune is "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles".'

Keith's belated sigh of effort reminded Guy of the sound that Marmaduke would occasionally emit, after a rare success with some taxing formulation like
more chips
or
knife mine.
Guy said, The new boy in midfield, Neil . . . ? Did he do all right?'

'Noel Frizzle. He justified his selection,' said Keith coldly.

They walked on. Guy had of course been friendly with people like Keith before: in the City. But the people like Keith in the City wore £1,000 suits and platinum wrist-watches and sported uranium credit cards; at weekends they sailed yachts or donned red coats and mounted horses and went chasing after some rabbit or weasel; they collected wines (at lunch they crooned over their Pomerols and Gevrey-Chambertains) and modern first editions (you often heard them talking about what
New Year Letter
or
Stamboul Train
might nowadays fetch). They weren't poor, like Keith. Keith had his fistfuls of fivers, his furled tenners and folded fifties; but Keith was poor. His whole person said it. And this was why Guy honoured him and pitied him and admired him and envied him (and, he sometimes thought, even vaguely
fancied
him): because he was poor.

'Here we are,' said Guy.

He assumed his wife would be out or sleeping. She had been Out, and would soon be sleeping, but Hope was right there in the hall when Guy showed Keith Talent into the house. It went quite well, considering, Guy thought. When he introduced them, Hope put considerable energy into dissimulating her astonishment and contempt. And Keith confined himself to an honest nod (and a not-so-honest smile); he didn't look at all uneasy until Hope said that Lady Barnaby was downstairs, saying goodbye to Marmaduke before gallivanting off to Yugoslavia.

'If you got company . . ." said Keith, edging back towards the door.

From below came a harsh shout of childish triumph, followed by an unforced scream. Lady Barnaby sprinted up the stairs and appeared holding her forehead in one hand and her spectacles in the other. Urgently Guy moved forward, but Lady Barnaby seemed to recover very quickly.

'Perfectly all right. Perfectly all right,' she said.

'If you're sure? Oh, Melissa, I'd like you to meet Keith Talent. A friend of mine.'

Keith did now appear to be quite overwhelmed by the occasion. Perhaps, it's the title, thought Guy. It's a good thing he doesn't know about mine.

Lady Barnaby blinked up gratefully, raised her glasses to her eyes, and slowly nodded towards the hatstand.

'Oh my God,' said Guy. 'This is awful. Did Marmaduke do that? How? You simply must let us pay for them. Not with his fingers, surely.'

A nanny now stood at the top of the stairs. Resignedly she explained what had happened. Lady Barnaby had come ill-advisedly close to the highchair to feast her eyes on the boy. Marmaduke had cobwebbed both lenses with a skilful stab of the sugar-tongs.

'Have you got another pair?' asked Guy. 'Whoops! Darling, I think perhaps you ought to see Melissa home.'

In the drawing-room Keith asked for brandy, and was given one. He drank that, and asked for another. Guy, with whom alcohol did not always agree, poured himself a derisory Tío Pepe. They sat down facing each other on broad sofas. Guy felt that his instinct had been sound. Good to hear this in your own house: there could be little harm in it now.

'It's like this,' said Keith, and hunkered that little bit closer. 'I went round there, okay? See if I could help her out with anything. I do that. It's like a sideline. Nice place she got. And I thought, in addition . . .' Keith tailed off fondly. 'Well, you know what I'm like.'

But Guy did not know what Keith was like. He waited.

'You know,' said Keith, 'I thought she might want seeing to.'

'The flat?'

'No. Her.'

'How do you mean?'

'Christ.' Keith elucidated the point.

'And?' said Guy nauseously.

'Well it's hard to tell, you know, with some birds. She's funny. An enigma innit – you know the type. Half the time she's coming on dead tasty. And I mean
sorely
in need of it. And then, you know, suddenly it's Lady Muck.'

'So – nothing happened.'

Keith considered. At least one nice memory seemed to tickle his nose. But he said, 'Nah. Fuck all, really. And, I'm taking my leave and, as I say, she asks about you. Wants you to phone her like. Says she requires your help.'

'What about?'

'Don't ask me, mate.' He looked around the room and back again. 'Maybe she likes her own sort. I mean I'm nothing, am I. I'm
just a cunt.
'

It was hard to know how to react, because Keith was smiling. Throughout he had been smiling, when he wasn't coughing.
'Oh, come on, Keith!' said Guy palely.

The door opened. Hope stood there inexorably. 'I'm going to bed. Kenneth,' she said, 'would you put that cigarette out please? I took her back and she's calmer now. She's a little worried about going to Yugoslavia with only one set of glasses. Her boiler sounds terrible. It's lucky she's deaf. I was glad to get out of the house. If you use the kitchen I want everything cleared away. Without trace.'

'Birds,' said Keith when Hope had gone. He was taking a last few draws of his cigarette, one hand cupped under the long coal, as Guy searched for an ashtray. 'Can't live with them, can't live without them. Tell you what. Your wife's a cracker. And that kid of yours ain't bad neither. Either,' said Keith.

Duplicity consumed time. Even deciding to have nothing to do with duplicity was time-consuming. After Keith left, to run a local errand, Guy spent an hour deciding not to call Nicola Six. The urge to call her felt innocent, but how could it be? He wasn't about to run upstairs and share the experience with his wife. A pity in a way, he mused, as he paced the room, since all he wanted was the gratification, the indulgence of curiosity. Sheer curiosity. But curiosity was still the stuff that killed the cat.

At four o'clock, leaving Hope asleep and Marmaduke safely cordoned by nannies, Guy popped out to make a telephone call. He imagined it would take about ten minutes of his time, to find out whether there was anything he could reasonably do for this unfortunate girl – why, there was a telephone box at the very junction of Lansdowne Crescent and Ladbroke Grove . . . There was no one in the telephone box. But there was no telephone in it either. There was no trace of a telephone in it. And there was no hint or vestige of a telephone in the next half-dozen he tried. These little glass ruins seemed only to serve as urinals, as shelters from the rain, and as job-centre clearing-houses for freelance prostitutes and their clients. In widening circles Guy strayed, from one savaged
pissoir
to another. He hadn't used a telephone box in years, if indeed he had ever used one. He didn't know what had happened to them and to vandalism – though a serious glance at the streetpeople who glanced at him so mirthfully, as he rummaged behind the dark glass or stood there shaking his head with his hands on his hips, might have told Guy that vandalism had left telephone boxes far behind. Vandalism had moved on to the human form. People now treated
themselves
like telephone boxes, ripping out the innards and throwing them away, and plastering their surfaces with sex-signs and graffiti. . .

By now feeling thoroughly foolish, Guy queued for the use of a telephone in the General Post Office in Queensway. On a floor that smelled and felt to the foot like a wet railway platform, Guy queued with the bitter petitioners of the city, all of whom seemed to be clutching rentbooks, summonses, orders of distraint. It was time for Guy's turn. His hands were shaking. That number: easy to remember, impossible to forget. She answered, to his horror, and well knew who he was – 'Ah, yes'. She thanked him for calling, with some formality, and asked if they could meet. When, following Keith's course (and Nicola's silence), he suggested her apartment, she murmured demurringly about her 'reputation', which reassured Guy, as did her accent, whose faint foreignness now seemed not French so much as something more East European and intellectual. . . Another silence ensued, one that deducted twenty pence from Guy's original investment of fifty. The park, tomorrow? Sunday, by the Serpentine. And she gave him instructions and thanks.