Читать книгу Before Your Very Eyes - Alex George - Страница 10

Ah, Mondays.

Mondays mean different things to different people, but one thing that you can generally be sure of is that, whatever that meaning is, it is bound to be bad.

For Simon Teller, Mondays meant, amongst other bad things, long queues at the tube station. There was an almost tangible excitement on Monday mornings at Highbury and Islington station as the crowds of commuters waited in line for their weekly travel passes. Frustration and impatience simmered beneath the surface of their bland, just awake faces. One day somebody was going to crack, pull out a semi-automatic machine gun, and mow down the queues of waiting people. It was just a matter of time. In order to add a little spice to proceedings, on Monday mornings London Underground made sure to employ only their slowest and most unhelpful ticket sellers. The atmosphere of chaotic inefficiency contributed richly to the start of everyone’s week.

Simon arrived at the station at the usual time. He had not had a good start to the day. With his right hand bandaged up, he had had to shave with his left hand, and the operation had not been a success. When he had finished there were still several tufty outposts sprouting from peculiar places around his jaw, and his face was dappled with dark red pinpricks of blood. As a result, his face was now festooned with small squares of damp tissue.

His foot had also been itching terribly, and when he tried to get dressed (itself a complicated process with only one hand available) he discovered that the trousers he had worn the previous day were the only ones he owned which could accommodate his newly enlarged foot. The trousers were, however, unwearable: the remnants of Arabella’s moussaka and Sophy’s disastrous milk trick had dried into a brittle crust. Five minutes’ scrubbing established only that scrubbing was not going to help, and created an ominous dark patch over Simon’s groin. Trying not to think about it too much, Simon had pulled them on anyway and set off cautiously for the station.

The line for the ticket machine seemed even longer than usual. Simon shifted uncomfortably on his crutches. After a few moments, when there appeared to be no movement in the queue, he peered to see what was going on.

His heart sank. The queue was full of Novice Tubists.

Uninitiated users of the London Underground system were the bane of every Londoner’s life. Everything they did seemed designed to irritate their fellow passengers as much as possible. They stood on the left hand side of the escalators rather than on the right, creating chaos and congestion behind them. Coming up behind these people on the escalators, of course, Londoners never said anything. Instead they would just begin to sigh loudly. The second loudest noise on the Underground system after the sound of the trains shuttling in and out of stations was the sound of disgruntled Londoners sighing at people on escalators.

There was also a painful routine which every Novice Tubist would follow when they stood in front of the automatic ticket machine:

1 Look at ticket machine for several moments as if it is quite unlike anything you have ever seen before.

2 Scan the machine desperately for a clue as to where to begin. Above all, avoid eye contact with the small digital display which is patiently suggesting that first of all you should select your ticket type.

3 Finally decide, after about a minute and a half, to select your ticket type.

4 Engage in lengthy conversation about what sort of ticket type you require with your travelling companion.

5 Press ticket type you require.

6 Wait patiently in front of machine. Ignore sighs coming from the growing queue behind you.

7 Realize that you must then select destination. Look at machine in confusion, before realizing that the names are conveniently listed in alphabetical order.

8 Engage in lengthy conversation about what destination you require with your travelling companion.

9 Press appropriate destination button.

10 Realize that, as this is a commercial transaction, money must be tendered before the required ticket will be issued. Peer at screen and read how much is needed.

11 Frown.

12 Point at screen and ask your travelling companion whether that figure can possibly be right.

13 Assured that it is indeed correct, begin to look for purse or wallet, shaking head and muttering quietly to yourself.

14 Spend several minutes locating your purse/wallet.

15 Finally extract purse/wallet, during which time the machine has got bored of waiting and has reverted to ‘Select Ticket type’ position.

16 Fail to realize this.

17 Insert money. When nothing happens, after another lengthy consultation with your travelling companion, go back to Step 2.

18 Finally secure your ticket. Stand aside whilst your travelling companion begins at Step 1.

After twenty minutes or so, Simon finally got to the front of the queue. He had the exact change ready, and moved off smoothly after a few seconds, ticket in hand, half hoping for an appreciative round of applause from the passengers behind him. None came.

His journey down to the platform was less smooth, however. Simon had never attempted to use public transport on crutches before, and the ticket barriers, escalators and sheer weight of people all conspired to make it a dispiriting experience. As he hobbled forwards, he was aware that the usual flow of humanity was being hampered by his lumbering progress. To his humiliation he heard a chorus of sighs start up behind him, as ominous to him as a tribe of African huntsmen ululating before a kill. Simon’s face reddened with shame. He tried to move a little faster, and in doing so almost scythed down an old lady who was going even more slowly than he was.

Simon reached the platform just as a train was pulling out. He watched it go with mounting despair. The platform was still full of people, and the next train, announced the electric notice board, was not due to arrive for another six minutes. Simon looked worriedly at his watch. He was going to be late.

By the time the next train arrived, the platform was dangerously full. As the train doors opened, the waiting crowd shuffled forwards, poised for action. When the thin line of disembarking passengers had trickled dry, there was a sudden flurry of movement as everyone tried to climb on board at once. Simon was caught somewhere near the back of the throng, but with some judicious prodding with the ends of his crutches he managed to cajole the people immediately in front of him further into the carriage, leaving him just enough room to push himself in before the doors closed behind him.

Simon stood with his face pressed into a man’s back. His left cheek rubbed uncomfortably against the fabric of the man’s suit. The crutches poked painfully into his armpits. He twisted his neck as best he could and looked around. Next to him stood a man wearing dark glasses, who wore an over-sized pair of headphones and was nodding vigorously. It sounded as if he was linked up to a particularly noisy fax machine. In the nearest available seat sat a tired-looking woman dressed in washed-out leggings and a shrunken T-shirt which advertised her well-advanced pregnancy. The words ‘I’m with this Prat’ were emblazoned over her chest above a large arrow which pointed at her neighbour, a gumless old woman who was clinging on to a wicker shopping trolley, which she moved occasionally so that its corners prodded into the buttocks of the unfortunate commuters standing immediately in front of her, keeping them at bay.

At King’s Cross, a lot of people got out. Simon’s immobility made it difficult for him to avoid the oncoming rush of passengers as they poured off the train, and he nearly went down like a skittle under the onslaught.

When the train finally reached Victoria twenty minutes later, Simon positioned himself near the doors, and when they opened he allowed himself to be swept along in the maelstrom of human movement which surged towards the exit. He was jostled and shoved along the platform, prodded and pushed up the escalator, and was only finally left alone once he had struggled through the automatic ticket barrier, where he collapsed on to his crutches, exhausted. The other passengers streamed past him, up the stairs and into the new London morning.

After a few minutes a man in a guard’s uniform approached him.

‘You can’t stop there,’ said the guard.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Simon. ‘I’m just getting my breath back.’

‘All the same,’ said the guard, ‘you can’t stop there.’

Simon looked up at the man, breathing heavily as he did so. ‘I’ll only be a couple of minutes,’ he said. He gestured towards his crutches. ‘I’ve been having a bit of trouble with these things.’

The guard looked at the crutches, unimpressed. ‘I dare say,’ he replied. ‘But you can’t stop there.’

Simon looked at the guard in irritation. ‘Why on earth not?’ he asked.

‘You’re blocking the thoroughfare, see,’ answered the guard. ‘Interrupting the flow of passengers.’

‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Simon, ‘can’t you see I’m on crutches? Give me a break.’

‘Whatever,’ observed the guard philosophically. ‘You’re still going to have to move.’

‘Anyway,’ said Simon, ‘what flow of passengers? I’m well out of the way.’ He gestured towards the seething mass of grim-faced commuters who were swarming through the ticket machines. Simon had positioned himself to one side of the stampede.

‘Look,’ said the guard. ‘Rules are rules. You’re technically blocking a potential thoroughfare for passengers, right? And if you don’t move, pronto, I’ll have you arrested.’

‘Arrested?’ cried Simon. ‘What for? Being a cripple?’

‘Being a cripple in a potential thoroughfare for passengers,’ elaborated the guard.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ muttered Simon, and swivelled on his heel to go, just before remembering that his foot was bandaged up and therefore not best equipped for swivelling.

‘Are you all right?’ asked the guard a few moments later, as he bent down to help Simon up.

‘Fine, thanks,’ muttered Simon. He grabbed his crutches. ‘Right. I’ll go. Thanks so much for all your help.’ He glared at the guard.

‘Quite all right,’ said the guard. ‘Mind how you go on those things.’ The guard nodded casually at Simon’s crutches before sauntering off into the melee of human bodies. Just before he was lost from view, he turned and called, ‘And if you’re still there in two minutes, I’ll call the Transport Police, OK?’ and gave a big thumbs-up sign.

Seething with self-righteous indignation, Simon arranged himself carefully on his crutches, and headed for the station stairs and the waiting summer sunshine.

As Simon made his faltering way towards the shop, a man leaned against a wall, watching him approach. When Simon came level with him, the man whipped a magazine out from behind his back.

‘Big Issue, sir?’ asked the man gruffly.

‘Do me a favour, Bob,’ said Simon. ‘Not today, all right? I’m late.’

‘Aw, come on, Simon,’ said the man. ‘I can always rely on you. And things have been slow over the weekend.’

Simon sighed. ‘God. All right. Hang on.’ He leaned his crutches against the wall, and, balancing on his good foot, delved into his pocket with his good hand.

‘What happened to you, then?’ asked the man as he watched.

‘Don’t ask,’ replied Simon. ‘I got farted at, as a result of which I fell over and hurt myself.’ He handed over a pound coin.

‘That’s disgusting,’ said the man, giving Simon a copy of the Big Issue. ‘You should sue. You have rights.’

‘What, the right not to be farted at?’

‘Yeah, something like that. You never know. You might get damages.’

Simon looked at Bob with exasperation. Bob had been selling the Big Issue on that particular spot for about a year now, and early on in his tenure he had spotted Simon for the easy sell that he was. Bob’s aggressive selling technique and shameless guilt-mongering had resulted in Simon being corralled into buying a copy of the magazine every day, despite the fact that new issues only came out once a week.

In addition to being an extremely effective salesman, Bob was also a devout Buddhist, or at least he claimed to be. His grasp of the religion was vague, to say the least, and Simon often got the feeling that he was making stuff up as he went along, mixing a smattering of the real thing with hippy mantras and anything else that popped into his head. Somewhat incongruously, Bob also possessed a ruthless materialist streak. His devotion to hard cash seemed to sit ill with his professed religious beliefs. Simon noticed that Bob was wearing a pair of extremely well-made and expensive shoes. He didn’t smoke and, being a Buddhist, never drank (he had once explained that drinking was in direct contravention of a holy edict issued by the Prophet Bud, which was ironic given that Bud had had a beer named after him).

‘I’m not really sure if I’d win any damages,’ said Simon.

‘You never know,’ said Bob.

‘I’m not that badly hurt, anyway,’ said Simon.

‘But it’s got to be worth a go, hasn’t it?’ persisted Bob. ‘I mean, you’re hobbling round on them bloody things.’ He pointed at the crutches. ‘That’s got to be worth a bit of moolah, surely?’

Simon shrugged.

Bob held up a finger. ‘The Prophet says: “Catch each stone flung at you along the road of life, for you never know when you may need those stones to build a wall.”’

Simon frowned. ‘Are you sure about that?’ he asked.

Bob looked affronted. ‘Absolutely. And building walls is the path to enlightenment.’

Simon tried to hide his scepticism about this unlikely and arguably confusing dictum – it would be disastrous, after all, if you unwittingly built the wall across the path to enlightenment. He looked at his watch. He needed to get to work. He was already late.

‘I have to go,’ he said.

‘Fair enough,’ said Bob. ‘Stay well. Preserve your karma.’ He made a peace sign.

‘Er, thanks. Preserve yours, too.’ Tucking his Big Issue into his trouser pocket, Simon hobbled off.

A few minutes later, Simon arrived in front of a shabby-looking shop. Large yellow letters proclaimed ‘STATION MAG C’ above the front door. In the middle of the window display, a toy rabbit flopped forlornly over the rim of a battered top hat. It was surrounded by wilting plumes of fake flowers, and tubes and boxes covered in metallic glitter. There were old black and white photographs of men in dinner suits chopping limbs off smiling, bikini-clad girls. The display had not changed for years, and it showed. Simon pushed the door open and went inside. Behind the glass counter stood Brian Station, the shop’s owner. He was a short man with badly dyed hair. He wore a bright and rather horrible waistcoat.

‘You’re late,’ he said as Simon shut the door.

‘Hello, Brian,’ said Simon. ‘Sorry.’

‘What the fuck happened to you?’ asked Brian, as he looked at Simon’s bandages and crutches. ‘You look a mess.’

‘Slight accident over the weekend,’ explained Simon, who really didn’t want to have to explain the whole story again, particularly not to Brian, who he knew would be less than sympathetic.

Brian regarded Simon critically. He pointed at the bandage on Simon’s hand. ‘How the fuck are you going to be able to do anything with that bloody thing wrapped around your hand?’ he demanded. ‘You’ll be no use at all.’

Simon hadn’t thought about this. Brian was right: with his hand bound up he would be unable to demonstrate any tricks. ‘You’re right,’ he said.

‘Of course I’m bloody right,’ said Brian. ‘I’m always bloody right. Someone has to be.’ He looked resentfully at Simon, as if he suspected that he had done this on purpose. ‘Fuck,’ he said, after some moments’ thought.

‘I could just do the stock room stuff and accounts,’ said Simon.

‘But that means I’ll have to work in the shop,’ said Brian.

It had always struck Simon as odd that for someone who owned a magic shop, Brian hated to sell tricks. The problem was, on a more profound level, that Brian hated anything that involved contact with other people. He was the most misanthropic person Simon had ever met. It was possible, in view of this, that a career in the entertainment industry might have been ill-advised, but it was all a bit late now.

Brian was at least democratic about his dislike of his fellow men. He was hateful to everyone. Simon had long ago learned to speak to him only when strictly necessary, and never to dispute anything he said. Anybody who dared to enter into the argumentative fray with Brian always lost. An argument is a series of structured consequential statements or propositions leading to a logical conclusion, not a flat denial followed by a torrent of foul-mouthed and unanswerable abuse. On that analysis there were no arguments to win, only dignity to lose.

Things were worst during the summer months. Throughout the day the shop thronged with tourists, who paid no attention to the exotic magic effects which were on show in the display cases, but instead went straight for Brian’s impressive collection of fake breasts, stink bombs, and plastic spirals of dog shit. Business was good, but Brian resented being little more than a glorified joke shop, and this did little to improve his temper.

‘Dean!’ Brian shouted.

There was the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. Finally a short, rather fat man with red hair appeared from the back of the shop. He wore a T-shirt with a dragon on it and a dirty pair of jeans. ‘Yeah?’ said Dean.

‘Evel Knievel here has buggered up his hand,’ explained Brian, pointing at Simon, ‘so you and me are going to have to work extra hard today.’

Dean shrugged. ‘OK,’ he said.

‘And the next day,’ added Brian.

‘OK.’ Dean looked at Brian and Simon affably. There was a pause. Brian snorted in irritation. Dean annoyed Brian hugely. He meandered through life without worrying about other people very much. He lived in his own world, which, as far as Simon could tell, consisted principally of thrash heavy metal bands and billiard balls. Dean could perform acts of dexterity with his podgy hands that defied belief. He was a prodigiously gifted manipulator, a talent born through hard graft and the unshakeable belief that he never wanted to do anything else. Dean’s favourite items to manipulate were billiard balls. Once he had shyly shown Simon his collection. Some were made of wood, some of marble, some of ivory. Simon remembered staring at this extraordinary array, lost for words. It stood as testimony to the all-embracing intensity of Dean’s obsession. Ever since, Simon had felt an affinity with him: here was another man with a fixation which left him dislocated and detached from the ordinariness of modern life. Simon sought sanctuary in his jazz records, Dean in his beloved red balls. It was essentially the same escape route.

Dean’s ability to make things appear and vanish with his bare hands did not, unfortunately for him, correspond with his ability to interact socially with other people. His astonishing manipulative gifts were balanced by an apparently complete absence of charisma, personality, or luck, and this was why he was working in a magic shop near Victoria Station rather than playing to glittering audiences in Las Vegas, which was what his extraordinary talent probably deserved.

Dean had accepted his lot without rancour. He got on with his own life without bothering others too much, and he expected others to do the same to him. Brian, however, was reluctant to do this. Jealous of Dean’s ability, Brian tormented him mercilessly. The more Dean failed to respond, the harder Brian tried to provoke a reaction.

Brian was now in full flow.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Sure you don’t mind working on the shop floor all day while Hop-Along here dosses about doing nothing?’

‘Nah,’ said Dean equably. ‘S’all right.’

‘Well I bloody mind,’ said Brian.

‘I won’t be doing nothing,’ protested Simon. ‘I’ll do all the accounts and stuff.’

‘Heaven preserve us,’ muttered Brian.

‘Look,’ said Simon, ‘if you prefer, I’ll stay out front. I’d rather. I just won’t be able to actually perform any tricks. But Dean’s better at that sort of thing anyway.’

‘All right,’ said Brian. ‘You do that.’ Simon breathed a sigh of relief. The three of them had established a precarious means of working together harmoniously, the central tenet of which was that Simon and Dean kept as far away from Brian for as long as possible.

At half past nine they opened the doors and immediately the shop was invaded by a scrum of chattering teenagers. They crowded around the counter demanding to be shown fake cigarettes and pepper sweets. Brian quickly disappeared behind the velvet curtain at the back of the shop, muttering darkly to himself.

Later that morning, as Simon and Dean sipped mugs of tea in companionable silence, the bell over the front door rang. Both men turned to face the new customer, a young woman in jeans and a white shirt, dark glasses thrust up into her hair and a heavy-looking bag slung over her shoulder. She glanced an unseeing smile towards the counter and then began to inspect the display cabinets with interest. While she did so, both Simon and Dean watched her curiously. It was unusual to see women in the shop unless they were wives or mothers patiently indulging their husbands or sons. Magic seemed to be a largely male hobby. Simon had always supposed this was because the magician alone knows the secret of the trick he is performing. On the basis that knowledge is power, the magician is therefore more powerful than his audience. Power, of course, is an aphrodisiac, so the logical conclusion was that men did tricks because it made them horny.

The woman, though, seemed to be too interested in the contents of the display cases to be shopping for somebody else. Simon hid behind his mug of tea, eyeing her appraisingly over its brim. As she looked, her button nose wiggled slightly. Simon noted with approval how her bottom fitted snugly into her jeans. Her hair was blonde and cut just above shoulder length in what Simon guessed was a deliberately messy way. Her face was delicately put together, and was pretty, rather than beautiful.

Finally the woman completed her tour of the shop and approached the counter with a pleasant smile. ‘So,’ she said, ‘have you guys finished staring at my butt yet?’

Simon almost choked on his tea. ‘I, er, what?’ he spluttered. Dean wisely said nothing, although he continued to stare.

The woman cocked her head to one side. ‘Come on. I saw you. You were checking me out.’ She spoke with an American accent.

Dean still stood, immobile, his mouth hanging slightly open, and so Simon felt obliged to answer. He realized that something urbane and sophisticated was needed to defuse the situation, make the customer feel more relaxed.

‘No we weren’t,’ he said.

‘Yes you were,’ said the woman in a matter-of-fact way. ‘So.’ She slapped her behind like a cow-girl. ‘What do you think?’ Simon realized that so far he had not had the best of the exchange. He decided to ignore the question.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Sorry if you thought we were, er, doing that. We weren’t, obviously. It’s just that it’s quite unusual for us to have lady customers.’

‘Well,’ replied the woman, ‘here I am, a lady customer. Are you going to be able to serve me, now that you’ve got over the shock of seeing me in your shop?’

Simon nodded dumbly.

‘Good.’ The woman put her bag down on the counter. ‘My name is Alex Petrie,’ she said. ‘I’m working at a restaurant near here for a few weeks.’ She vaguely waved a hand behind her. ‘They’re doing a series of close-up magic promotions. You know the sort of thing – I wander around the tables cutting up people’s credit cards, pulling coins out of the soup, that sort of thing.’

‘Right,’ said Simon, surprised. She was a professional.

‘I’ve come over from New York especially for this gig,’ she said. ‘And I want some new stuff.’

Simon and Dean beamed.

Half an hour later, Alex Petrie had spent a lot of money.

As Dean rang up the purchases on the till, Alex Petrie smiled at Simon. ‘I must say,’ she said, ‘you two do a good sales routine.’

‘Thanks,’ said Simon.

‘I like the way you do the talking and the little guy actually does the tricks.’

Simon raised his bandaged hand. ‘Talking is about all I can do at the moment.’

‘You do it pretty well.’ She looked at Simon. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘this might seem forward of me, but this is the first time I’ve been to London, and I don’t know anybody here. I gather that there’s some good stuff to see. So I was wondering, if you’re free, if you wouldn’t mind taking some time to show me around a little.’

Simon stared back at her, speechless.

Dean bustled up with the credit card slip. ‘Sign there,’ he instructed, jabbing a stubby finger at the dotted line at the bottom of the slip of paper. Alex Petrie did so.

Once Dean had gone back to the till she returned her attention to Simon, who was still staring at her mutely. She looked at him questioningly for a moment, and then picked up her bags. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Forget it. You’ve probably got some uptight English girlfriend, right? Sorry I asked.’ She turned to leave.

Simon was jolted out of his silent reverie. ‘No, no, actually I don’t. Have a girlfriend, that is.’

Alex Petrie turned back towards Simon. ‘I only asked you to show me around, for Christ’s sake. It’s not as if I asked you to have sex with me.’

‘Sorry?’ said Simon.

She leaned over the counter and hissed in Simon’s ear. ‘You probably imagine all American women think Englishmen are cute, don’t you?’

‘No, absolutely not, look, um,’ said Simon. ‘You’re wrong. That’s not what I think at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. Sorry about not saying anything straight away, but it was just that I was slightly –’

‘What is it with you English people?’ demanded Alex Petrie angrily. ‘You’re all so stuck up.’

Simon made a last effort as she turned to leave. ‘Look, I’d love to show –’

‘Forget it.’ With a dismissive wave of her hand she pushed open the shop door and stormed out on to the street.

Simon and Dean looked at each other for a moment.

‘Blimey,’ said Dean.

‘Shut up,’ said Simon.

The rest of the day passed quickly. There was a constant stream of customers and so Simon did not have time to consider the episode with Alex Petrie in much detail, which was probably no bad thing.

At half past five Simon locked the front door and twisted the small cardboard sign to read ‘Closed’. As he hobbled back to the counter, Dean began to cash up.

‘I’m glad that’s over,’ said Simon. His foot had begun to itch horribly again beneath the bandage. Dean did not reply. His head was bent over the cash register. Simon sighed. He knew better than to try and engage Dean in conversation while he was trying to add up.

Brian came out from behind the velvet curtain. ‘All right, boys?’ he asked. ‘Good day?’

Still Dean said nothing. He leaned fractionally closer to the pad of paper he was scribbling numbers on. ‘Pretty busy,’ reported Simon.

Brian grunted in satisfaction. ‘Excellent.’

Simon glanced over towards Dean, who was now bending so low over the counter that it looked as if his pencil was stuck half-way up his nose.

‘Anyway,’ said Brian. ‘I’ve got some good news for you. You’re going to be getting some help for a while. It’s my turn to look after Vick again while her mother goes on holiday with her bastard boyfriend. So she’ll be here for the next few weeks to help you out.’

Dean’s body jolted as the lead in his pencil snapped. Simon stared at the floor. Vick was Brian’s teenage daughter. Her presence was capable of extinguishing good cheer like a fire blanket over a small flame. Brian always made her work whenever her mother went off on holiday, and this did not put her in the best of moods. This of course was precisely the point. After a few weeks of working in the shop, Vick was in such an atrocious mood (even by her standards) that she would make life insufferable for her mother when she came back from her holiday. (Brian’s divorce, some years earlier, had been an acrimonious affair. His ex-wife had invested heavily in the nastiest legal advice she could afford, and Brian had been left with only the shop – which his ex-wife had not wanted – and very little else. They had also fought bitterly about who was to have custody of their daughter, but that battle, at least, Brian had won: Vick lived with her mother.)