The Folded Man (7 page)

Brian struggles with his flies. Eventually, he pulls himself free. Diagonal in the cubicle and fiddling an awful lot with his penis.

And Brian can't reach down to lift the seat, can he. So he just goes all over it.

Brian's piss is dark brown. That old liver packing up, he shouldn't wonder, though more likely that he's dehydrated. And the poor lighting come to that. But he never drinks enough water, does he. He knows because Diane tells him when she ruins his life every Thursday.

Our Brian, who's lodged in the cubicle all diagonal, pissing treacle, when others come in and see his empty chair. Others who think something terrible's gone off in the bogs.

Brian the centre of attention, again. This bloody useless bastard slouched on a plywood divider.

Face round the corner goes, Hello? You all right mate?

Brian's hot and faint. Still pissing. Shaking with the weight of himself, his meat wanting to give way at the ankle joint.

Fuck off! Brian says. Fuck off!

Mate –

Brian wriggles and frets and falls backwards into the chair, which flashes back into the sink and leaves Brian prone on the wet tiles, his nob hanging out, his head propped on the chair's edge.

Centre of bloody attention. And these blokes pick him up and put him away in his chair. Fold him in half and say, We simply came to collect you, sir. Meeting, we believe. Haven't you?

Like some good soldier never left behind.

 

Their host has a converted shipping container and that's where Brian goes. That's where he's taken by the men from the toilet. Through more double-doors and down corridors, round the outer curve of the auditorium and out the back.

He has sweaty hands and a leaden belly. Clanging up a ramp with a lot of unsettled feelings and a single thought:

Shit
.

Their host has a cigar on; his feet on the table. Pretending like he's a mobster, basically, in his pinstripes and his tan brogues. Reclining half-arsed in his Chesterfield. Worn-out fictions colouring new life on the moors. A relic of the 80s; of time-share and yellow Porsches. Coke and sinking pinks, every night; every bloody night.

Their host is a pretend mobster in a shipping container with flaking paint and creeping rust. Over the moors, the wrong side of Sheffield. A bad world going worse.

Their host is wreathed in smoke, sitting here among his papers and his pens. Beneath the low ceiling and a simple lamp shade. He lowers his glasses, flashes his peepers. Good to actually meet you, he says, watching Brian by the ramp. Brian who is sweaty and fat and ­yellow-fingered.

He coughs. My name is Ian.

I know, Brian says. Brian bluffing. He didn't know.

I'm Michael, Brian says. Pleasure.

I know, says Ian. Not bluffing. Eyeing what Brian has for legs.

So come in, come in, Ian says. Glad I caught you actually. Stuck out a little down front, didn't you; thought I'd introduce myself.

Brian nods. Brian seems all right with that. Even if he's still a bit wet from the toilet floor. A bit red and headachey.

Tea? I find all good things start with a decent brew.

I'm all right, Brian says. He can't help feeling that he's acting shifty.

How's about a Chai tea then?

I don't think so, ta.

It's really just spicy Horlicks, Ian says. You remember Horlicks, don't you? He says Horlicks without the H.

Brian nods.

Course. Weren't born yesterday.

Ian takes his feet from the table. Half as if to show off his good manners, half to prove something.

No, he says. None of us were.

Ian has boiling water on tap. A small unit at the far corner of his desk. Brian watches Ian pour himself a stout brew. Yorkshire Gold on the teabag. Stockpiled or something, because you can't buy that stuff now.

Ian studies Brian's fake war medals.

I remember the army, says Ian. All them bare walls, the pool room brawls.

Well, me too, says Brian.

Taught me how to spot liars, did the army. Spot liars and shoot wogs any road.

Brian nods. Tries hard not to wince.

Still. Got lucky, you getting out with that.

Should've seen the other guy, Brian says, the lies thick in his mouth.

RPG?

Something like that.

Well, all I can say is resentment's a good fuel.

You get your moments, Brian says.

Are you a nationalist, Michael?

Brian pulls a face, awkward –

Ian puts his hand up. Smiles.

It's all right, he says. But come with me a moment, will you? Got something to show you.

 

Ian rolls Brian along his neat lawns. There's a gravel path, but he cuts it out, nodding to the odd group of men they pass. The grass is anyhow short enough for a comfortable ride.

Like my house, Michael?

Very impressive, says Brian.

Makes a superb fairway, you have to say.

I can't – don't play golf.

Never supposed you did. But it's home, aye.

Soon they reach an old bandstand, open and ramped at one edge of the hexagon. Ian pushes Brian up and on to the decking – whitewashed and remarkably clean. In the centre of the bandstand, there's a pond, under-lit with gentle blue bulbs and looking tidy also. It looks deep. A small stone cherub, penis in hand, circulates silver water. A filter buzzes in the corner.

They sit at the edge, Brian leaning forward, Ian taking a bench.

Oranges, whites, silvers, foot-long and flowing, crowd together and break the water's surface. The fish with gawping mouths and slow eyes.

Keep forever, these lot will, says Ian.

They're – they're very nice, says Brian.

Could watch them all day, Ian says. Man needs his pursuits, doesn't he? If it in't women any road. Had these boys ten year already. Camera up there to watch on cooler days, shall we say. Plus roof keeps birds out, doesn't it.

Brian nods.

Planned a lot out here, says Ian. See these as my panel. Don't answer back, do they? Simple living for simple ­beings. And we all know manners maketh man.

Brian nods again; smiles thinly as Ian chuckles at himself. He spots a thick black koi, possibly the only in there.

Shame we don't have it easy like these.

Mm, says Brian.

Course, in winter, deep winter, you wonder if they'll survive under ice. Haven't let me down yet though. But what's interesting, right, is their temperature depends on temperature outside. Clever, that. Right bloody cunning. Means they get through cold months by doing bare minimum.

Right, says Brian.

Our country works same way.

I don't really –

Michael, Michael, listen. In these colder months, years, we're just getting by. But imagine what we could do if we all rubbed up against each other. Got all heated up for a bit of graft.

Ian puts out his hands, draws an imaginary line from one edge of his land to the other.

Hard work. That's what it's all about.

 

Back in the container, the electric heater's on.

Ian waves his men out and sits back in the Chesterfield, opening a top drawer. He pulls out an envelope – a dirty, dog-eared envelope. He slits its neck and opens it wide. Shakes out the contents: photos in black and white.

Ian says, Roll yourself a bit closer, will you Michael?

Soon Ian has spread the photos right across his desk. He takes a moment to neaten the edges so they're straight and parallel.

Have a scan of these, he says.

Brian cops a look. Brian recognises the scenes. Everybody would, and everyone does. The same scenes they burnt into your brain for year on year after the fact.

Deansgate after the fall. Before the column of light. The way they wanted this to be iconic. A bigger event than the IRA managed in '96. The ironies and the pratfalls. The government who caused it. A government who decried it.

This is the day I became nationalist, says Ian. The day forty-seven bastard floors fell onto GMEX were same day I woke up. All of us here like sleeping giants back when.

Brian nods. Brian gets that. Knows it was the start of something in more ways than many.

More than Oldham, 2001. Bradford, 2001. Moss Side, 1981.

More than The National Front. The English Defence League. The Red National Front. The lads on Strangeways roof. Rangers on tour, 2009.

Here's a storyboard for the riots. The war in pictures. The end of waiting; the start of acting. The prologue.

Are you a nationalist, Michael? Ian repeats. Is that why you snuck into my conference? To help our cause?

Brian shakes his head, then nods. Says, I don't know. Says, I don't get what you're after –

Just a question, isn't it?

Mam said you love this country in spite of this country.

The walls buckling, tightening, choking.

What's that? You're mumbling.

I said, Mam said you love this country in spite of this country.

Well then, goes Ian. She were wise, your mam. Might be on to something. But me, I were there, on Deansgate. There to see. Were standing there with our kid, just seven he were. Me, well, like me now but younger. Outside where Harrod's used to be. Remember everyone round me, don't I. Coppers over the road. Bloke rolling a fag. And a bunch of Muzzers – pram with their dad. Twin buggy, two more for the cause or what?

Lights go off first, black-out right down road. Like a corridor. Whole street shakes. No screams either, not like you'd think. And it went down fast – sand castles in the sea I thought, have thought since. Like sand. And then the dust. Ha! Rolls like a bastard when it's that hot, son. You felt shockwave, sure, but heat on your face. Deansgate were a tunnel, and all this dust flies at us. For us. Screams now and people running, people running with arms off, grey faces with dripping features. The copper's fucking screaming that we do one, running himself. The kid with rolling baccy's on his arse, head in hands.

But thing was, when that building came down, the noisiest thing you ever heard, I saw something. Every­thing's gone to shit, right? And yet I saw that paki with kids shout something. God is great, he said. And he smiled – he's smiling. So when the dust comes over us, coughing, grey, coughing bits of people you realise ­later, I go for him. Feel for his face and take my chances. Twat him between eyes. Bop him on the sweet spot. He goes down and I'm stamping on his head like grapes in ­barrels.

Jesus, says Brian. That's –

Seen buildings levelled, have you? Well this was a ­levelling. Only shame is footage we got came off security grid.

Brian doesn't know what to think.

Ian laughs. Points at Brian's meat.

I'm surprised you're surprised, he says. Weren't Tinkerbell who did that to you, were it?

Brian shrugs.

Plus we've always been a racist lot, our country. Dirty words, dirty thoughts. Fearing the unknown, whatever they say. You sit next to a mud on the train back in the days before, and you're half thinking he's going blow you out the fucking window. Difference now is, we've got balls to say it. Aren't dirty thoughts when they're out for all to see. Not after what they did. What they do. ­Riots, whatever else. Nothing unknown about that shower of bastards.

Media that, though –

Don't give me that, Michael. I'm just asking where your head falls at night. How you dream. Fighting your long wars out in that place that took your leg, or back here, with the people who care about your country and where it's gone. Where it's going.

I –

Ian stands up. Slams his hands on the table and leans, leers. You bloody nothing, he shouts. I'll ask you one more bastard time. Are you, Michael, a nationalist? Is that why you're taping my conference? Bribing my door staff with that skinny runt you brought up here with you? Or are you having me on?

The voice falters. Brian's. He hears himself cracking up.

I love this country in spite of this country, he tells Ian –

Ian smiles. Teeth out. Teeth white. Ian sits down.

Ian says, Good job
an' all. Because it is men like us who form
that bulge out to sea. Because soon that sea will
deliver her progeny, and the enemy will find out whether
all these rumours about the Anglo-Saxons are true. Men
like us – like them back in that room – are the
foot-soldiers. Me and you, we are the wave, rushing
inland to save all. Because, Michael, they're winning the
war in the maternity wards, and we'll make sure
we win on streets. Crusaders, all of us. Sons of
Albion – all of us. And we'll drive out these
craven forces. We'll build a good future for our
lads and lasses. Crosses and not crescents.

Crosses not crescents, Brian breathes, his ears roaring. Thinking of the Cat Flap and the girls who lie there. Their pigtails and their fingernails. Of Diane and her care. Of Tariq in his taxi.

Of the riots over whatever the riots were over.

Man like you'll help spread the message, says Ian. Show our country what real men think of this government and the trouble it's lumped us with. 'Cause everybody likes to be part of something, don't they? People we know, well they'll fix you up. The man the government stole a leg from. The man our resistance gave a leg back to.

Brian looking down. Thinking. Torn between vomiting hard and the guilty attraction of it.

Thinking, Where's Noah bloody got to?

Ian flames his cigar. Pulls half a centimetre in and blows a stormcloud back out.

Now then. Business. Who's that rat you're with?

Brian fidgets and forgets his lines. Can't remember the name Noah gave himself.

He's a friend, Brian says. Looks out for me.

Seems interested in our business, says notepad of his. Not one of these silly hacks – not an activist, is he?

Just a good pal. Like I said.