Glass Read online

  ‘Just a water please.’

  ‘Sparkling,’ said Blades.

  ‘I don’t really drink sparkling water,’ I said.

  ‘Really? It’s a great palate cleanser. I always have a glass after sex. Keeps you fresh,’ Blades said, checking a BlackBerry.

  I considered this hypothetically, not knowing what anything was like after sex. I wondered if the world seemed different. The waiter brought a bottle. It hissed open and he poured about a quarter of a glass’ worth, as if demonstrating a new kind of vessel to the uninitiated. I poured the rest of the water into the glass, as if I too was trying out this new vessel.

  ‘I’m going to cut to the chase, Günter. I want you to work for me.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I saw you slip up back at the Spinnaker Tower, but you kept a level head, and that’s the important thing. Don’t let it scare you off the idea of skyscrapers.’

  ‘I’d love to work on skyscrapers.’

  ‘The money’s good.’

  ‘I said I’d be happy to.’

  ‘I wasn’t listening. So what IRATA level do you have?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You know, rope access qualification. Level 3?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t have one.’

  ‘What?’ He bared his canines in surprise. ‘Then why in God’s name did you dangle off the Spinnaker Tower?’

  I faltered.

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose I wanted to see it clean. I like being out there, up high, the idea of … uh. Purity. I suppose.’

  He smiled, his canines protruding further, and held my gaze.

  ‘Purity?’

  ‘Well. Yes.’

  He made an amused noise at the back of his throat and seemed to relax.

  ‘Me too. So: we’d better get you enrolled on a course. You’ll start Monday. We have three weeks left and then, I think, things will get interesting.’

  His eyes drifted back to the game. Frank came tactfully to my side. No one else, including Blades, seemed to have noticed Frank’s arrival. He was a subtle creature, for one so heavyset.

  ‘Where now?’ he asked me as we got in the car.

  ‘I don’t know. Can you recommend somewhere to stay?’

  ‘Do I look like a phone?’

  I was struck by that British paralysis that occurs just after being the victim of rudeness. Presently, I decided to get out of the car.

  ‘I’m sure this area will do nicely,’ I said, opening the door. ‘I’ll pick up the rest of my things later.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ he replied. ‘Look, the hairy Aussie is staying down here on the left. Hostel California. Just keep your head screwed on. They’ll see you coming.’

  A few minutes later, I found myself staring at a peeling door tagged with artless graffiti. The buildings next to it were all single-storey, but this one teetered at three floors. Next to the front door stood two skips full of fermenting rubbish. I supposed it would probably be nicer once you got inside.

  I opted for the cheap twelve-bed dorm, since the same musty smell permeated the whole building, and took my belongings up the rotting wooden stairs. At the top, the landing was painted a sort of livid puce, and one door stood ajar, apparently no longer able to shut itself in the event of a fire. I pushed it open and made a beeline for a free bed. It was unmade, but then, all the beds were unmade.

  I looked around the bare room and saw a pile of duvets bundled up on one of the mattresses. I went over to pick one up and realised that it was rising and falling with the breathing of whoever was sleeping underneath it all. There was a shuffling, and Pete the Aussie Greek slid out from the bottom of the pile.

  ‘Give us a minute, mate? I’m cracking one out.’

  ‘Oh. Gosh, yes, of course.’

  I went and sat on my bed and started to unpack my things. A toothbrush, a glasses case, a few changes of clothes, my gear. I didn’t want to wait for Pete on my bed, so I decided to head back out. It was raining heavily now, but I had my cagoule on so I didn’t really mind. I went and bought a copy of Loot to look at the accommodation on offer. Anything would be better than the hostel. Much as I admired the internet, one could find a better quality of advertisement in a proper physical paper. It took a great deal more effort and expense to take an ad out, whereas on the internet you could just throw it up for free in two minutes.

  I circled the only likely-looking place – a bachelor in a two-bed Hackney flat. The oddity of the advert caught my eye, requesting that applicants appear in person on a Friday. The man was looking for a live-in cleaner, rent free, male only. I would have to brace myself in case it was a den of iniquity. The problem was, I started the course on Monday. Two days did not seem like a very long time to find somewhere to stay, let alone live. I felt like a hermit crab between shells, and if the bailiffs came for Dad it would feel very much like they were stomping my safety shell underfoot.

  As I walked back to the hostel, my hand came upon the business card in my pocket. Lieve had told me she lived in London. Psychic and Medium. I decided that I would try to convince her, against her better judgment, to go on a date with me. It was easy, I told myself. I dialled the number before I could think too hard about what I was doing.

  ‘Lieve Toureaux.’

  ‘Hello! It’s Günter. I met you in Portsmouth. The window cleaner?’

  ‘Hi, Günter.’

  ‘I’m in London.’

  ‘Okay.’

  The line fuzzed.

  ‘I was just wondering if you were free, by any chance?’ I asked, wincing slightly.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course, sorry … Tonight?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh. Well that’s … Another time, perhaps.’

  ‘Meet me on Saturday at 8 p.m. My address is on the back of the card you’re probably holding. Bring wine.’

  ‘Brill. See you then.’

  I put the phone down in dismay. When had I last used the word brill? No one ever used that word. Brill?

  In the dorm, Pete was sitting up against his pillow texting, and we had been joined by one of the other occupants, a man with a threadbare suit and mild pneumonia who, it became obvious, was a permanent fixture. He had an office job near London Bridge but couldn’t afford a rental deposit. A Swiss backpacking couple joined us soon after that, apparently upset to have to be around the three of us, and then a young, silent man who spent his whole time doing press-ups. We made a motley company, to say the least, so I was glad when Pete suggested that we go out for a drink. On the way over there, he explained that there was an Irish-themed pub he liked visiting because it was where all the tourist girls drank.

  ‘I just tell ’em I’m Irish and halfa them don’t know any better. Bit of local chahm.’

  Pete came to life at the prospect of meeting ladies. His method was to walk up to them and say, ‘Hi, I’m Pete.’ It sounds simple now, but he did it with such confidence, as if they must have been dying to ask his name, and he was only doing them a common courtesy by introducing himself. Before I knew what was happening, we had installed ourselves with two backpackers called Brigitte and Kali, and Pete was buying us drinks. I asked Pete for a fruit cocktail with no alcohol, as it was a bit early for me, and the barman shouted ‘Virgin!’ in confirmation just as I went to sit down next to Kali. ‘One of these a virgin?’ he shouted again.

  ‘Yes!’ I hissed.

  Kali smiled at me.

  I couldn’t talk to women.

  I could when they were being people. But when they were being women, wearing sexy clothes and looking at me in the eye, I tended to seize up. Kali had already stopped paying me attention and had joined the conversation with the other two. I could practise speaking to women another time. When the opportunity arose. When I was settled. But ideally before my date on Saturday.

  After a little while, Brigitte and Kali decided to go to the toilet together – a phenomenon which I am yet to fully understand – and it was just me and Pete.

  �
��What happened to divide and rule, you dumb fuck?’ asked Pete.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You’re killing me out here.’

  I shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

  We sat without speaking for a little while, Pete bobbing his head to the disco song in the background, I trying to clear a clog in my straw, presumably caused by some chunk of fruit. I gave up after a little while and put down my glass.

  ‘So are you excited about working with Blades?’ I asked.

  Pete snorted derisively. ‘Wouldn’t trust that prick as far as I could shit him.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He leant forward. ‘Now, back in Oz, a guy might call me a wog, and I know he doesn’t mean any harm. But that fuck’n … Nazi.’ He shook his head. ‘He’s got a screw loose or summ’n. Right now I need the money, and when we’re done I’m goin’ home.’

  He couldn’t be that bad, I thought.

  Once Pete had gone to stay with both Brigitte and Kali, and I was lying in my mattress, which felt a little like a hammock made of springs, I thought about Blades. There was something disconcerting about him. But then, being disconcerting didn’t make you bad. I would take him as I found him. It was probably just a misunderstanding.

  Max texted me: you dead yet? where you staying?

  I replied: five star, can you believe it! I have my own jacuzzi!

  I hoped that rats liked eating cockroaches.

  Before I knew I’d fallen asleep it was the middle of the night and the businessman was coughing in the bunk above. I was still wearing my clothes and glasses. I undressed clumsily and put my glasses on the floor by my bed. I don’t remember what I dreamed, but I awoke with a sense of melancholy. There was something beautiful buried deep in my imagination that I had lost when I opened my eyes. I wondered whether Dad would be asleep by now, or whether he’d be drinking at the kitchen table, trying to make himself as tired as possible so he could sleep through the next day. Though I tried to pretend it was a symptom of laziness, I knew he slept out of the exhaustion of grief, and also to escape himself, because in his eyes, life had amounted to less than a good dream.

  12

  Wolf and Cork

  It was one of those cold, damp mornings that follows heavy rain, and I pulled my windproof cagoule about me as I exited London Fields station and started in the direction of the flat. People were pushing prams; groups of hooded men hunched in doorways. A lot of people seemed to be cycling here, perhaps because the tube didn’t service the area. Despite the name of the rail station, it seemed completely different to the London I knew. People were dressed as if for an Edwardian carnival, with bright lipstick, furs, strongmen moustaches and horizontally striped vests abounding. I tried to check my map, but I had no data, so my blue dot had turned grey and was still hovering around the station. I flagged down a passer-by whose woolly hat, sleeves and trousers were all rolled up. His T-shirt sported a printed simulacrum of a double-breasted cardigan, and he was wearing a four-finger ring or knuckle-duster on his right hand which said TAWT.

  ‘What’s up, feller?’ he asked, sniffing sharply.

  ‘I’m just trying to find this block of flats.’ I showed him the red drawing pin on my phone map.

  ‘Oh, easy squeezy, feller.’ He pointed behind him. ‘You wanna go down Mare Street and pop a right on Paragon.’

  ‘That’s very helpful, thank you.’

  ‘No worries, feller. Love that working-class hero thing you’ve got going on by the way. Très prole.’

  He ran off for a few paces before splaying his legs and lifting his toes, rolling away on his wheeled trainers.

  I was beginning to worry that I might not fit in here as I ascended the stairs. But the flat was seven floors up, which I took as a good omen. When I got to the plain white door, there was no letterbox, no knocker and no doorbell. There was only an old hole for a deadlock and a thin metal rod propped up against a plain brown doormat. Several months’ worth of unopened letters sat outside in a scattered pile. I knocked on the door, which gave a muffled thud, but to no avail. I cast around. I needed to find a new home and I was buggered if I was going to turn away now.

  After about half an hour of knocking and looking for alternative entrances, a neighbour came out of her house with a big hemp bag full of laundry. When she saw me, she gave a nod of recognition and came over. She picked up the white rod, threaded it through the deadlock, and stuck her tongue out as she jiggled the rod around. I heard an old-fashioned doorbell sound from within. She replaced the rod and chuckled.

  ‘You’ll have to indulge him. He’s a bit—’ she tapped herself on the temple. ‘Nice though,’ she said, as if I might take offence. Before anyone could answer the doorbell, she scuttled off with her laundry bag.

  The door swung violently open, and I was confronted by a haggard and hairy face, with eyes protruding so far that I thought they might escape their host. He stared at me for a second. Then he receded into the flat, past a second front door, which had a doorbell with scratch marks around it. The whole of this antechamber was upholstered with cork board, including the doors. I felt like I might be entering a wine bottle.

  Past the second door, I entered into a relatively normal kitchen cum living room. There were no windows, but there was a bright lamp in the corner which shone light on an ivy plant that was growing up one side of the fridge. On the fridge were hundreds of tourist magnets, decrying CYPRUS: the birthplace of Aphrodite or mi otra isla es IBIZA. I couldn’t imagine the man who had opened the door ever going anywhere that he might tan, and strongly suspected that the magnets had originated with the previous owner of the fridge, but they did add a nice homely touch. Some of the furniture was paint-stained, there were empty bottles everywhere and the regular routes of the room’s occupant were mapped out in geometries of dust. On one side of the room was a vast bookshelf filled with hardbound volumes in various languages. A flotilla of Post-it notes bobbed between pages, under the breeze of a wall-mounted fan.

  ‘To keep the books from dust,’ said the haggard man. His voice was gravelly, with a hint of an accent that I couldn’t place. ‘You are here about the room?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Günter. Pleased to meet you.’

  He bared his yellow teeth. It was a smile which I felt was designed to affront, and yet I found myself reassured. There was an honesty there which was missing in the more charming smile of, say, Blades. It was a smile that said, ‘I am forcing you to take me as I am.’ And I was inexplicably touched that he had invited me in before he knew who I was.

  ‘This is my contact room. As you can see, there are all of the things which you would expect in a house: a fridge, a sofa, a toilet.’ There was indeed a urinal hanging casually from the wall, which had been graffitied with the name R Mutt 1917. ‘My retirement fund,’ he said mercurially.

  He led me through to a second room, which was also lined floor to ceiling with cork board. There was no light but for a small gas lamp. Pillows were plumped up in the bed, which was moulded into the negative of a sitting man, and leaves of paper were strewn about the room. The air was thick and cloying. I suspected that the room had not been cleaned for a long time.

  ‘This is where I write for six days a week. Fridays are my days of contact. I come out for other things, such as placing orders for books or washing myself.’ There were a number of fish skeletons on plates around the room, which must have been contributing to the unusual pungency. ‘You will not come in here, except perhaps on Fridays.’

  We went back to the first room.

  ‘What are you writing?’ I asked.

  ‘For many years I have been writing a guide to living. An essential guide. Nothing extraneous. But it is difficult,’ he said sadly. ‘Life obscures my effort.’ He stroked the cork board on the wall fondly, as one might a beloved pet. ‘I must have silence for my writing. I must not have any sign of our frivolous modernity in my room – it would be too distracting. I must not hear planes or traffic. Above all, there must be darkness. Darkness is the fri
end of thought. We are no more than animals, you see. We must be in darkness to awake our animal instincts for danger and preservation, to awaken our desire to see and not be seen.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you?’ he asked, searching my watering eyes. At such proximity, his halitosis was like a punch in the nose.

  ‘You don’t like being distracted,’ I summarised.

  ‘It is very pleasant to be distracted, but one cannot capture life while living it. It is like trying to understand the oceans while you are drowning.’

  I’d have thought drowning would be the most efficient way to become better acquainted with the sea, but I let it go. He moved off to another room and I followed.

  In the third room, there was a large window. There were no furnishings except for a plain white futon. The window was open and the sun glided in like a paper aeroplane to rest on the plain wooden floor. The lamp shade was a paper globe, similar to traditional Japanese lights.

  ‘I have fitted this room in the manner of a normal capitalist IKEA customer,’ he said proudly. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘It’s very nice.’

  ‘Good. Then you must move in today. Otherwise next Friday.’ He handed me two keys. ‘This one is for the front door, and this is for the front door.’ He smiled at me again.

  ‘I didn’t catch your name,’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t give it,’ he said. ‘Every person calls me the Steppenwolf. It is a little joke we have. You do not know to what I refer?’

  ‘Is it because you look a bit like a wolf?’

  ‘Do you not read the great German novelists? Or our philosophers? Schopenhauer, perhaps? Kant?’

  ‘No, I don’t really read many books, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You are German, though? Verstehen sie deutsch?’

  ‘Um,’ I said.

  He laughed.

  ‘Go and get your things. If you must contact me, I have a telephone, although I have disabled the bell, so I must guess if it is ringing.’

  He ushered me out the door, and I found myself back out on the street without his number, his real name, or any details of the tenancy. I knew I didn’t want to spend another night in the hostel, so I supposed I would just have to check out and hope for the best.