The Cutting Room (15 page)

of his face was unbloodied, my knuckles free of grazes. I

continued running my hands across the landscape of the quilt, over the mound of another body beside me in the bed.

There was a groan. `Jesus.’

The voice came from far away. It was a hundred years old.

The voice of a dying ancient muttering a last prayer. I nudged the body and the covers moved.

`Jesus Christ.’

`Rose??

‘Leave me alone, Rilke, I feel terrible.’

`Rose, I need to talk to you.’

`In the morning.’

She moved across the vast bed, away from me, but she

lifted her pillow and pounded it, once, twice, three times,

before settling down again.

`Rosie.’

`Don’t.’

`Come on, Rosie.’

Under the covers a cold foot connected with my shin.

`Call me that again and you’re on the floor where you

belong.’ Rose wriggled, pulling the quilt further over her

head, trying to regain the comfort of a moment before. It was no good. She moaned, beat her legs hard against the mattress, then rolled over and clicked on the bedside lamp. `I would

have thought you were in enough bloody trouble without

annoying me.’ Her hair was still half up, traces of the makeup applied so carefully the evening before still around her eyes.

She started to cough. `Pass me a cigarette.’

Rose sat for a moment with the cigarette in her mouth,

then shook her head slightly and lit up. I helped myself from her packet and tore away the filter.

`Oh, very macho.’

`I suppose so.’

`Quite the macho guy all round, aren’t we?’

`If you say so.’

`What on earth were you thinking of? Les and I had to

buckle you out of there. We were lucky to get a taxi, the state you were in. He’s furious.’

`I’ll make it okay with Leslie.’

`You’ll have some job.’

We sat for a while, smoking in silence. There was a bottle

of painkillers by the bed. I dry-swallowed three and passed

them to Rose.

`You’re only meant to take two.

`I’m a big boy.’

`And nothing exceeds like excess?

I ignored her.

`So are you going to tell me what that was all about?’

`Oh, I don’t know, Rose.’

`I think you owe Leslie and me some explanation. Not to

mention Leslie’s chums. Jesus, you were like a man possessed.

I’ve never seen you like that before. You frightened

me Rilke.’ She regarded me, eyes narrowed, through the

wispy spirals of smoke. Suddenly she smiled, clasping her

arms round her knees. `It did have its comical aspect, though.

All those squint wigs. Oh my God, the screams.’ She started

to laugh.

`Don’t. I feel bad enough. Don’t make it worse. They were

making a fool out of that girl. I couldn’t stand it any longer.’

`Rilke, she was the centre of attention and loving it. It was probably one of the best nights of her life and you ruined it with your carryon.’

`Aye, but she couldn’t see what they were doing to her.’

`So you decided to be the knight in shining armour.’

‘Something like that.’

`Well, that was a good idea, wasn’t it??

‘You’ve made your point.’

I opened the cabinet next to the bed and felt around a

jumble of bottles and tissues. For a second my fingers rested on the cold, ridged torpedo of a vibrator. They recoiled and found their prey. A cool, dimpled half-bottle of whisky

slipped behind a pile of paperback thrillers. I unscrewed

the lid and took a sip. It burnt. For a second I thought I might throw up, then it was down and I was feeling better.

`Oh, just help yourself. You shouldn’t go rooting around in

people’s cupboards, you might find more than you bargained

for.’

`Rose, you don’t know the half of it.’

She frowned, then held out her hand for the bottle and

raised it to her lips, screwing her face up as she swallowed.

`Euch. Kill or cure, right enough.’ She replaced the cap and shoved the bottle under the bed. I knew I’d not see it again. `I wonder about you sometimes. What’s it to you if they were

making fun of her? You think she’s not used to that? Any man who goes out dressed as a woman must be able to handle

himself. Things aren’t always as they appear, Rilke, you

should know that.’

I leant back in the bed. I wanted to ask Rose to hold me.

Just take me in her arms and keep me safe until night was

over. She stubbed out her cigarette.

`Well, you’ve given them something to talk about at their

next meeting. Christ, can you imagine? They’ll be talking

about that one for the next ten years.’

`Rose, I’m sorry.’

She touched my hand gently, then turned and switched off

the light.

`Never mind. You didn’t hurt anyone. Go to sleep. Things

are always better in the morning. Anyway, there’s a busy day ahead of us.’

I sat listening to her breathing grow slow and regular,

watching the orange tip of my cigarette, until the glow faded and there was nothing left but darkness.

Caveat Emptor

THERE WAS ACTIVITY AROUND the lift, antique dealers and

West End trendies crushing together, pushing it close to

capacity. I slipped through to the back stairs and began to

climb the three storeys to the saleroom, my leather soles

silent against the glittered concrete. Grumbled negotiations drifted down the stairwell. I leant back against the half-blue, half-white wall and peered through the curving, cobwebbed

banister to the-floor above. Four men hunched together on the dimly lit middle landing. I could make out two of them, one a bowed back in a black Crombie, the second short denimed

legs, worn fabric concertinaed at the knees. A protracted

division. Biros denting the catalogue in frustration. The presale conference of Jenson’s ring.

`Ach, no,’ a voice said, `how come I always get the fuzzy

end of the lollipop? Yous are doing what yous always do,

you’ve been shafting me for years.’

`And you’ve been moaning for years.’

`C’mon.’ A nasal whine not calculated to inspire sympathy,

though you might give in just to get the noise out of your

head. `I can sell that bookcase.’

`We can all sell that bookcase. I could sell a hundred plain bookcases. You got they three fireplaces last week. I had a boy desperate for a fireplace. An easy score, two hundred, no

problem, but it was your shot. Did you hear me moaning??

‘Aye, cut it out. This takes longer every week. That

bookcase has got yuppie written all over it, anyway. We’ll

run them up to two hundred more than we could sell it for

and they’ll walk away thinking they’ve got a bargain. We’ll all lose out and Rose Bowery gets double commission. I tell you, she should put us on a retainer.’

`Interesting idea that, Jenson.’ The man in the Crombie

turned towards me, mushroom face blanching. `Something I

should know about?

A ring is an illegal and ancient association of dealers who

trade in the same class of goods. Its one objective is to keep prices low. The ring gathers before the sale, forming a circle.

Each individual takes a turn of standing to the left of the ring’s chief, in this case Jenson. They declare which lots they are interested in and the price they are willing to pay. After the sale the ring meet again for their own auction, the knock.

Here the difference between the estimated and realised price is divvied up. Each man declaring what cut of the difference he will take, then being reimbursed by the purchaser. In theory, a member of the ring could make money by simply turning up

and declaring an interest, though I wouldn’t advise it. The

ring also discourages newcomers, banding together, bidding

them up, making sure those outside the brotherhood pay top

price and beyond.

Jenson’s ring had run for years. A sour and unlawful guild, organising who got what, uniting against outsiders. They held us to ransom. If we exposed them, they might boycott us,

stop buying and more importantly stop running things

through the auction house. We couldn’t afford to lose them.

I loathed them, needed them and took every opportunity to

needle them.

Jenson was looking down the stairs towards me. Short in

his long coat, white hair trimmed, neat, well-shaven, the

midget undertaker. He was tough but I’d made sure he never

knew how we stood. All queers are unstable - who knows

when I might turn?

He blustered, `Mr Rilke. We were just discussing the

amount of furniture we put through Bowery. You should put

us on commission.’

`Do you think so, Mr Jenson? Perhaps I’ll look into that.

It’s been a while since I went over the furniture records, took a note of who bought what.’

`Just a joke, Rilke. A wee gag. Time hangs heavy after

you’ve viewed.’

The others were moving away from him, their main

business done, anyway. I gave them the professional smile.

`Well, gents, the safe will be starting soon. I’m sure we

must be in breach of some regulation all gathered together on this wee landing. There’s wine and sandwiches in the saleroom.

Go on through and help yourselves.’

They went ahead of me, the dark hallway illuminated for a

moment as they opened the door to the sales floor. Warm

wine at eleven thirty in the morning. I made a note to myself to run the bookcase sky-high against the chandelier.

In the saleroom viewing was in its closing stages. I made my way towards the rostrum, nodding at those I recognised, but

not stopping to talk, making a mental note of who was in the room, marrying them to lots I thought they might chase.

There is no dress code in the salerooms. Here the rich mix

with the poor, and who can tell them apart? The man

checking pictures, one by one, against the scribbles in his

notebook. The jacket of his grey polyester suit bears the

brown-edged melts of fag burns. His trousers droop at the

hem. A grubby soul, not worth a second glance, but he may

reach into his inside pocket and draw out a thousand in cash. A hundred pounds for a new suit -you could buy a decent painting, for that, reframe and sell it on for three more. The guy in the tweed jacket, smart as paint, leaning against the pillar, talking on his mobile, who is he talking to? A contact in the States? Hank, I’ve got something here you’re going to cream over. Or his bank manager? Mr Menzies, I know I’ve been sailing close to the wind, but if you could see your way to honouring these three cheques I’ll ensure the, funds are with you by the end of the week.

Empty this crowd into the street and no one would guess what they’re about - a large chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous is the closest you might get. They jostle between the trestle tables and furniture, marking their catalogues with codes of their own

devising, scribbled hieroglyphs, top-secret formulae to wealth.

Over every auction house doorway should be placed the

legend Buyer, Beware. You can lose your redundancy in the

salerooms as sure as you can lose it in the bookies. Over on the love seat, a new recruit, fresh into early retirement with his Miller’s Guides around him, his new chums, so friendly,

solicitous. In all his years in the office he never met such nice men. Clever, too: they know a lot, and are generous with it.

They tip him on what to buy. Scene one in the aged rake’s

progress: The Rake comes into his inheritance. And I do nothing to stop the fleecing of this good man straight, straight from his

everyday job, salaried security and into the hands of the

players. Should I lean over the podium and whisper,

Run, sir,

Run for the hills.

You are fair game to us,

And we will take you,

And shake you,

Till the last penny has

Rolled

From your pockets.

Why? Sitting there tipsy on earlymorning wine, his

catalogue conscientiously marked. The blind man at the card

game. Ready to buy, to pit himself against the ragtaggle

gypsy crowd that we are, and we, the seasoned crew, ready to take hun. Him thinking he’s found Easy Street.

If you are old enough to sign a cheque, you are old

enough to bid. Mad? Never mind, you and your money will

find a welcome here. Drunk? Ach, aren’t we all at some

time? Have another glass and let me steady your hand while

you sign. We are not prejudiced. Whatever your creed,

whatever your affliction, roll up, roll up and buy.

The furniture ring had congregated by the door, a nonchalant knot. But the runes had fallen wrong for Jepson’s men. At the other side of the room, poised like the visiting team they

were, the Irish boyos. Fresh over on the Cat with their empty Lutons, ready and waiting. The Irish band with their harsh

voices, their humourless wit and thin, veiled hints of the ‘RA.

Big men, farmers’ sons, fed yellow bile in place of milk.

Jenson could ring all he liked. Their loot could breach any

corral of his making. The best was going back to the Old

Country with them.

Rose settled at my right side, watching the room. Her eyes

scanned the crowd, looking for ticks and trades ready to tally the bids. When it comes to money, Rose’s mental arithmetic

is spot-on every time. The evening may see her prone before

midnight, but while the sale is on she will ride the crowd.

She leant towards me. `See who’s here?’ I nodded without