The Last Kings of Sark (17 page)

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Beni called them ‘the kids'. He didn't have his own. ‘No bother. World's got to have some only fathers, too.' Sofi sat with him when it was quiet. She'd ask him if he wanted a massage, and after the first time, he'd always say no. On YouTube, he played her Seu Jorge, and it made her nose sting. He couldn't believe she hadn't ever listened to the Beatles properly. He played her every album – ‘It's like someone's having a yank on your heart. Is it like that for you? Take all of it in. Take it into your head. How amazing to have that in your head' – and called it the ‘invasion of Poland'. When she was late and he was there before her, Beni would sing ‘She wakes up, she makes up,' and stop before he got to the high bit.

Beni had been paper-thin when he was younger. He only ever showed them one photo. His shirt still didn't fit him right. He had a centre-parting and his hair fountained in an M, but those who saw it – Sofi was one of them – said he could have had any girl in the world.

The trouble was, no one ever got paid properly. The moneyman was Alessio, a dark grey Italian who ran the whole business from the midnight restaurant. You went to see him down in the kitchens. His office was by the big fridges, but it was always sweaty, because there was so much at stake. Alessio didn't know any of their names and whenever he spoke to Sofi, he always said, ‘
Et alors,
Marie…' even though Marie was black.

Everyone had their ways. The Nordics would storm in there, blond hair like torches, citing law textbooks, and the South Africans would get angry, although they calmed down easily, believing Alessio when he said he'd pay double if they waited a week. Arthur the Cornish boy wasn't used to fighting. He was too English about money. He asked for his apologetically, and apologized again when Alessio said there wasn't any.

Sofi didn't fare much better. She came back from the big fridges once, crying. The walk back was uphill, into the cold, and her cheeks looked like they'd been scrubbed with a Brillo pad.

‘Beni, it's not fucking funny any more,' she said. She took a chip off his plate and held it to warm her fingers. ‘It's all smiling and Seu Jorge and tequila here. All I eat are these fucking
fatty
chips, and I've got to pay my rent tomorrow and I can't.' She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her fur coat. Someone else's fur coat. All they wore were hand-me-downs.

‘I thought you lived with your uncle.'

‘Twice-removed.'

‘Well, what did Alessio say?'

‘“No.”'

‘And what did you say?'

‘I left and came here.'

‘Why didn't you rob him? What happened to you, kid?'

‘You beat me down.' Sofi felt tears start to heat her eyes but then said, ‘You big
wanker,
' which somehow made both of them laugh.

‘Look,' Beni said, and he looked left, then right, like he was crossing the road. This was a tic he had: he patted at his chest as if smoothing down an invisible tie, left hand, right hand, left again.

‘Look,' he said, ‘look at me. I promise. On my honour, kid. I promise you'll get your money. Tomorrow.' When he promised like that, his eyes went slightly dewy. Sofi said ‘OK', and ‘yes, fine', and agreed to fetch him the ketchup.

She sat back down next to him, shook her fringe from her eyes and Beni put on the Beatles again.

‘
You
only give me your funny paper,' she said.

Beni lifted the salt-shaker high above the chips so it snowed inside as well as out.

He has it all in his hands, Sofi thought. Older people always do. The weather, the whether, they have it all in their hands.

Death in Montmartre

A phone rings. It is half tucked under Jude's head, a small dark pillow. She thinks the noise is her alarm. She tries to turn it off; she answers the call instead.

‘I know it's early,' a boy's voice. ‘It's too early, isn't it?'

Jude presses speakerphone so she doesn't have to sit up. The voice is muffled by the mattress: ‘Shit, you were sleeping, weren't you? I woke you up, didn't I?'

‘No…' Unconvincing. She has one eye open. She swallows. Cigarettes, gravel.

‘It is three to be fair. But it's Sunday, it's early. I tried to wait. I waited. But I just needed to speak to someone.'

‘Are you OK?'

‘Speak to you. Anyone would have done, but you, I wanted to speak to you, really.'

‘You're OK, though?' she asks.

‘Yeah. Yes. Well … yeah.' There's a pause. A long one. ‘I've got the dead thing.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘It's fine. It's not a big deal. You know, when you're sure you've died. You get that, right? It's normal. Paranoia, we all get it. It's a normal thing.'

‘OK.'

‘But I haven't. If I'm talking to you, that means I haven't. Right?'

‘You sound very alive.'

‘You want to go back to sleep, don't you?'

‘Maybe. For a bit. You're not dead, though. I don't think you're dead. Promise.'

‘Thanks.' He slows down. ‘Thank you. Appreciate it.' They are both silent for a second. ‘I watched the news. It had changed. I mean, there was loads of
new
news. If you were dead, the news wouldn't change, would it?'

‘You're alive.'

‘Thanks.'

‘You
are
alive.'

‘OK.'

They say bye. Jude pushes her phone under the blanket, presses her eyes into the proper pillow, and tries to trace her steps back to sleep.

She does not make it. Black plastic shakes and rings again. She answers, phone still under the cover.

‘Can I come over?' he says. ‘I know I'm being mad but I just want to be sure. Can we walk? I want to walk. You should wake up anyway. It's three in the afternoon. Let's walk. Is it OK if I come over?'

She doesn't like to be alone either on days like this, so she says yes. He talks more slowly in real life than he does on the phone. It's the time pressure, the cost, the fact the other person can't see you.

He doesn't live far away, so she tells him to walk slowly. She wants to wash her hair. Head over sink: that has to be slow too. She didn't use to get hangovers quite like this. Only a summer or two ago they came with vague happiness, headachey euphoria, surprise. Now, it is less of a surprise. She folds back one panel of the blind; the sun is searing. Even though it's late, she puts on music for the morning – Chet Baker, maybe. Something jazzy. She still has to brush her teeth and put on makeup before he gets here, cover-stick the cracks.

She has a doorbell, but he knocks, eight times. She kicks last night's clothes under the sofa and opens the door; they kiss.

‘You look nice,' he says. That's how he says hello.

‘Liar.'

He shrugs. ‘You look fine though. Normal.' He looks over her shoulder, at himself in the mirror. He presses at the skin underneath his eyes. His eyes are blue, his hair Tabasco red. It's a striking look, however much sleep he hasn't had. ‘This is what I mean. This is the whole thing. After nights like that, I don't know how to feel. We could have died. We always could have died. Sometimes I think we
should
have died. So I think I have – I'm sure I have. But,' he touches her, then touches his own chest, ‘we're still here. So maybe we should feel
immortal?
I just can't work it out. You're not listening, are you?'

Jude's been putting on big earrings, to compensate for feeling poisoned. ‘I'm kind of…' (talking slowly because she's doing mascara now and has to tense her mouth) ‘… halfway in between. Half dead, half alive. Undead.' (Mascara done.) ‘Stop touching my things.
No,
don't sit down. Stop looking around. Stop. I know it's untidy. Stop looking. Stand up. Up. Come on, come on, we're leaving.'

She ushers him out of her front door with flat palms, grabbing sunglasses, leaving the music, deciding not to take a jacket.

‘Sun's bright, isn't it?' he says when they are out on the street. ‘Almost too bright. Heavenly, you could say.' He has his hands up to his eyes. ‘That was another thing. How
heavenly
it was when I woke up. Do you get it? Like we might be in heaven.'

‘We're not dead.'

‘Look at the clouds though. I mean it.
Heavenly.
'

‘You're doing that thing where you italicize with your voice.' It was annoying when he did it. ‘It doesn't suit you. This one?' It's not the nicest café on the street, but if they sit down he might stop talking about the sky.

Jude had known this boy, Seb, since St Andrews. The same halls in first year; a shared bathroom. The date at the Thai restaurant; the email when she was on Sark. She hadn't replied until she found out that he, too, ahead of her, was here in Paris. But they had become friends, and good ones, now they were both English people away from home.

The waiter sweeps by, polishing their table in a single circle. She wants Coke, he wants coffee.

‘Are you sure you don't want decaf?' Jude says.

‘Yes, I'm sure.'

‘Just that you're already very intense today. You're going very fast, Rooks.' Seb's name, in Paris, has become Rookie. From
rouquin,
the French for redhead.

‘Decaf's carcinogenic.'

‘Yes, but you're … getting to me. It's like the marbles in the jam jar.'

He's rubbing where a beard might be.

‘When I was a kid,' she goes on, ‘school took us to the swimming pool. We put marbles in a jam jar and shook them under water. You could hear it all the way over in the deep end. It was supposed to teach us about sound waves. Don't know why, but it made me feel nauseous. Ill for days. Really.'

‘I'm making you feel sick?'

‘Not in a bad way. It's just a bit abrasive.' She strokes his arm, and when that's not enough, she leans out of her seat and puts her lips to his temple. Recently, she's got better at touching people. ‘In a nice way.'

She's also, recently, become a more committed smoker. She used to call herself a ‘token toker', and steal drags only in the dark. But a friend – this friend – got annoyed and told her to buy her own. Her packet of cigarettes is on the table now, perched on top of her wallet. He's had his eye on it for quite a while.

‘Just look at it,' Rookie says, ‘I mean, it's ridiculous. It says, massive on the side, FUMER TUE. It fucking kills you. And it admits it. In capitals. FUMER TUE – foomay too – right on the packet.'

‘Do you want one?'

‘Yeah.' He flicks open the top. ‘You've only got three left. Are you sure? Sure-sure? Thanks. That's not the point, though. It's ridiculous what we do to ourselves.'

They light up, three of four hands cupping the lighter to shield it from the wind. The drinks arrive. Rookie asks for an extra sugar, so he can put three in. He drinks his coffee almost in one go, and then scrapes the syrupy sludge up with his spoon.

‘Don't', she says, ‘your teeth,' tapping her own. Three sugars; he will go mad. Madder. But if anything, the coffee slows him down.

He rests his head on her shoulder. ‘Been thinking about life, you know. Life and death.'

‘I know. You called me.'

‘I don't want to die. I really don't want to die. In fact, I'm
desperate
to live – I mean, live-live – and then I make all these shitty decisions.' He sits up. ‘Beer. Do you want a beer? We should get beers.'

‘Carpe diem.'

‘Carpe diem. It kills me.'

‘It always makes me laugh. I knew these Czech boys once. One of them used to fancy my friend, and whenever we went out, he used to say “Come Sofroniska, we have Carpe Diem”.'

‘Is that supposed to be Czech? Sounds Bangladeshi.'

‘He said it all the time. I remember thinking: seize the day right there? Who does he think he is? One day I said it wasn't polite. Turned out he thought it was Carpe DM – like Carpe Deep and Meaningful.'

Jude looks at Rookie, trying to catch him in the cup of her smile, but he's not hearing the story right. ‘Carpe Deep and Meaningful,' she says, ‘it's funny.'

‘You don't think about death like I do. I think about it every day.'

So does she. She's young too, of course she thinks about death every day. She turns over the bill, thin white paper in a battered burgundy dish, and says she'll pay.

Before they climb the hill, they stop for supplies at a shop that never shuts.

‘Here,' Rookie says, emerging with a blue plastic bag. ‘Beer. Also bought you biscuits. Out of date. Only fifty pee –' (he puts two in his mouth) ‘ – centimes. You know what I mean. Bit soft. Not bad. Here, go for it.'

She cracks her beer, licks its lip then her own. ‘I don't eat biscuits,' she says and after saying it takes one, but eats it slowly, a bite every three steps, sucked till soft. They are walking up to the Sacré-Cœur, a Sunday pilgrimage.

They reach a plateau in the path and stop by a pink house. ‘It's famous,' he says, then ‘Biscuit,' dipping into the blue bag. He starts eating, but breathes in too hard mid-chew. A spluttering sound. ‘My back! Hit my back – I'm choking.'

She puts her hand on his arm instead. ‘Just drink. You're fine, fatty.'

He's not fat, he is fine. He says something about nearly dying and they carry on, schlepping up the hill in out-of-sync zigzags.

They have a bench they always go to in a small square, slightly Spanish looking, just next to the Dalí museum. Actually, there are two benches, but drinking men, boot-polish dark, usually take one or the other. Today they take the left: foreheads ploughed, forearms baked, trousers starched with dirt.

Rookie looks at the men, and then looks down.

‘Got to start dressing better.'