The Bricks That Built the Houses (24 page)

‘Yeah, go on then, mate,’ she says, ‘I’ll have the same.’

Joey grins, pleased. ‘She talks!’ He turns to the desk and makes a great show of pouring two glasses of brandy, two
cubes of ice in each, an inch of soda. A dash of bitters. Laborious display. Like a child putting a show on for his parents.

The bass from upstairs is troubling the foundations of the building. Harry gets the feeling any minute now the dance floor will come crashing through the ceiling and all the young pilled-up kids and hen-party work friends will come falling down on top of her. She sees it in her mind’s eye, hears their screams. Sees the shark gorging itself on mouthfuls of love handles while it suffocates. Joey hands her the glass, smiling like a paedo in a playground, and sits down opposite her again.

Harry nods her thanks, sips her drink. ‘You got the same gear?’ she asks Joey.

‘Oh yeah, lovely stuff. Premium quality. Better even.’

‘So, not the same then?’ Harry asks him, frowning.

‘Well . . .’ Joey rubs his thumbnail with his middle finger. ‘A different batch, but yeah, essentially the same stuff, it’s the same supplier.’

Harry nods. ‘And you have enough for me to take the usual? Did Pico tell you?’

‘Yep, no worries. That’s not gonna be a problem at all.’ Joey tries to cross his legs, can’t quite manage it in his tight suit. He takes a cigarette packet from his breast pocket, puts it on the tank between them. ‘Want one?’ he says.

Harry declines, takes one from her own packet, but does accept the lighter Joey offers. They sit and smoke.

Joey stands, walks over to the chest in the corner, opens it. Even in the dim room Harry can see that inside the chest is a
massive amount of coke.
Why did he just show me where his stash is?

‘You see, mate,’ Joey says. ‘No problem. One key, two, five, whatever you fucking fancy, not gonna be a problem at all.’

Joey waits for Harry to register how impressive his stash is. Harry says nothing. Does nothing. Joey feels a little hurt. He shakes it off.

He’s either a complete fucking idiot or he’s going to rob me and kill me
. Harry hopes Leon is not too far away.

‘Wanna taste then?’ Joey says. ‘Little taste?’ He hauls a heavy package from the chest, the size of a sleeping toddler. ‘Just to prove it’s the same stuff, know what I mean, taste from the package you’re gonna walk away with, right? Try before you buy, if you’re not fully satisfied blah blah blah.’

Joey smiles and he looks like a stroke victim, the smile grates against his face. Harry stays neutral, waiting for him to say something definite, to direct a clear question at her. Joey drops the package, heavily, on top of the tank, Harry worries that it’s going to break the glass and fall in and kill the fish. Nothing happens. It just sits there between them for a while.

Joey sniffs loudly, wipes his nose with the back of his hand. Shifts around in his seat. The leather squeaks. ‘There it goes again!’

‘Yep,’ Harry agrees.

‘Look, mate. Thing is,’ Joey says, ‘with Pico away, things have changed slightly.’ Harry finishes her cigarette, lets the ash fall on the floor, waits. ‘The price has doubled.’

Harry watches Joey smile at her. She sees it clearly now, at least. He wants to rob her.
Cheeky bastard
.

‘The gear’s much better quality than Pico’s ever was. It’s had to come down different routes. I’m an honest man, trying to make an honest living.’ He flashes his gravestone teeth, runs his fingers through his greasy hair, wipes his hand on his suit jacket. ‘You’re free to leave here and not take it, sweetheart, by all means, leave right now, I ain’t gonna stop you. It’s just you and me down here.’

Joey looks around, sniffs loudly again, holds a cigarette between his fingers but doesn’t light it. Looks at Harry, closely, leans towards her, shoulders squaring. ‘But you won’t find anything better out there, darlin’, and you know it and all.’ He pauses, serious now, twirling the unlit cigarette between the fingers of his right hand. ‘
This
stuff’ – he uses the cigarette to point to the sack of coke on the fish tank – ‘fresh off the boat this morning. No one ain’t laid a fucking finger on that cocaine since Bolivia.’ He waits for that to sink in. Pushes his crotch out a little, shifts his thighs on the leather. ‘The one thing I did hear when I was asking around is that you like to sell to the discerning user, the bigwigs, yeah? Happy to pay premium prices for premium gear? That’s right, ain’t it? In fact, men like them, the more expensive it is, the more they fucking enjoy it. Ain’t that how it goes with the CEOs?’

Joey smiles again, with his lips closed this time. He sticks his little finger in his ear, wiggles it around. Discovers a little
kernel of wax, digs for it, reaches it, pulls it out. ‘Excuse me,’ he says, looking at it, wiping it on his suit jacket.

Harry keeps her silence, sips her brandy soda.
This is actually the best brandy soda I’ve ever had in my life, I’ll give you that, you creepy fuck
.

Joey’s features are thick and cumbersome, his lips are like Cumberland sausages. His face is marked with deep acne scars. He wears crocodile-skin boots, he’s got fat thighs and skinny calves. He’s sweating at his temples, his crotch is pushed out towards Harry, his head is nodding slightly, balanced like a toffee apple on top of his weird, thin neck.

‘What d’you reckon then?’ he’s saying. ‘Coz I’ve been thinking all day about this, sweets, and the only way I can see us moving forward together, as I’ve already said, is by starting afresh. Me and you. Whole new game. Whole new pitch. New rules. New fucking balls, please. You know what I mean? Whole new arrangement.’

Harry watches, sips her drink. She swallows hard. Joey keeps talking.

‘Look,’ he says. ‘Cut to the chase – I’ll continue sourcing you the best coke money can buy, and you’ll pay me for my work. Simple as that. All it is, is it’s double what you paid Pico. Double bubble. Toil and trouble. And that’s non-negotiable.’ He takes a pen from his pocket and writes a figure on a scrap of paper, slides it across the top of the tank, raising his eyebrows as he does it. ‘Welcome to sample if you like, as I mentioned.’

He points to the pile of coke beside the figure. Harry doesn’t pick up the paper, she reaches for another cigarette. Lights it, smokes deeply. She watches Joey, the shark, the coke on the table, notices Leon’s presence against the wall behind the sofa Joey’s sitting on, hidden, breathing with the bass from upstairs.
Man’s a fucking joker
.
Got to give him that
.

‘Look, Joey,’ Harry says, calmly, like she’s tired of all this. ‘The price is fixed as far as I’m concerned. If you want to make your sale, we’ll make it now, at the price I’ve been paying since I began dealing with Pico, seven years ago. If you don’t want to make the sale at that price, I’m not interested.’

Joey’s eyes are bulging slightly; there is something, some shift, taking place in his face. He lets out a laugh, and it sounds like a car skidding. It goes on for a long time. Harry grits her teeth against it.

‘I like you!’ Joey says. ‘I like you, Harry. You’re a funny bitch.’ He laughs again. Stops abruptly. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘So here’s how we’re gonna do it, OK?’ His smile spreads like a rash across his face. ‘You’re gonna give me all the money you have on you, and then I’m gonna give you
half
a key. OK?’ Joey waits, thinks, bites his fingernails for a moment. ‘
Or
, what we could do is, you give me that suitcase, and I let you go without breaking all your bones.’ He shrugs, turns a bit of fingernail around in his mouth, spits it out. ‘We could do that if you want, you stupid little cunt.’ Joey looks her up and down. ‘When was the last time you went with a man, Harry?’
he says, his tone dropping deep into the back of his throat. ‘Funny that you work on your own, don’t you think? Being what you are.’

It hits Harry then, like a punch in the face from a passing stranger.
This
isn’t
the guy. This isn’t the guy I’m meant to be meeting. This is some fucking chancer. Could be fucking anyone
. Harry sits still and feels her stomach move. Wishes that they hadn’t come.
Now there’s only one fucking way left for this weird fucking night to go
. She closes her eyes briefly. She can feel a headache coming, a strain in the back of her eyeballs. She should be wearing her glasses, but she can’t get used to her face in them, and the idea of contact lenses freaks her out.
Wonder if Becky wears contact lenses
.

In the time it takes for these thoughts to go through her mind, for her cigarette to burn down a fraction of a millimetre, for her hand to move an inch closer to the briefcase by her feet, Leon has stepped from the wall, grabbed Joey in a choke-hold and is wrestling him to the floor.

Real-time returns, the echoes of slow-motion roar in Harry’s head. She snaps herself out of it. Sees Joey and Leon fighting on the floor, too close to each other to land a blow. Leon untangles himself, stands and hauls Joey up with him and kicks him hard in the hip, the waist, and punches him four times, fast, in the face and then again in the chest. Joey is dazed, doesn’t know where to fall, his eyes are rolling, the punch to the chest was so hard there’s blood on his shirt. Leon keeps pummelling him. Harry watches, fascinated. Joey’s body
drops. He thrashes limply, rolls over, moaning like a distant train. Leon kicks him in the shoulder, in the legs, goes to swing one at his head.

‘Don’t,’ Harry says.

Leon looks back at Harry, who’s still sitting, motionless, on the sofa. ‘What?’ he says. ‘It ain’t worth doing nothing half-hearted.’

Harry sighs, gets up and moves without thinking; she heads to the stash, takes one of the massive packages and squeezes it into her briefcase. She leaves the rest, goes for the money. She stuffs bundles into the waistband of her trousers, the lining of her jacket. She packs money inside her shirt, under her fucking armpits. Joey is moaning on the floor. Face a mess, looking like a pattern in the carpet. Harry watches him, feeling sympathy for him, almost. Joey looks up at her, empty eyes searching for meaning.

Harry puts a cigarette between his lips, lights it for him, slaps him gently on the cheeks. ‘You’ll be OK,’ she says. ‘You’ll be fine, mate.’

She does her coat up, picks up her briefcase. Leon shakes his head at her, puts a finger to his lips and leads her towards the fire escape he’d seen earlier.

The cold of the night shocks them back to feeling. They say nothing, walk as fast as they can without running. Then it’s keys, car door, the squeak as it opens, the squeak as it closes. Leon’s in the front, Harry’s in the back. They pull away without turning the lights on, watching out for the
bullies. They get to the end of the road. Lights on, they cross the junction, left at the roundabout; they slide away into the night.

Leon’s eyes shine in the rear-view. He turns his head. Harry, body rigid, feels Leon turning, looks towards him, their eyes meet briefly. The hint of a smile. Leon looks back to the road. Both take a deep breath in, before crumpling under an all-consuming, childlike laughter that lays Harry flat on the back seat.

‘FUUUUUCCCCCKKKKK!’ Leon hits the steering wheel with the heel of his hands.

‘You’re a fucking nutcase, Leon.’ Harry lies across the seats, one leg up, knee bent, the other in the footwell. Catching her breath. She pulls herself back up. It’s a struggle; the remnants of laughter in her muscles make her weak.

‘He
was
trying to do us over, mate. Or hadn’t you fucking noticed?’

Harry rubs her face. After the laughter the reality hits her; nausea and adrenalin butt heads in her gut like raging bulls.

‘I shouldn’t have taken the money.’ Harry’s voice is low and haunted, full of dread. She hits the back of the seats with open palms.

Leon shakes his head. Speaks calmly. ‘You did what you had to do.’

‘This is gonna be trouble, Leon.’ A tightness in her throat, her tone rising. Anger coming in at the edges.

‘What do you wanna do? Go back? Put it all back?’ Leon watches her briefly in the rear-view.

The city swims out the windows, unchanged.

‘Fuck,’ Harry says, full of new fear. ‘Fuck fuck fuck fuck.’ But her excitement is washing and dressing, preparing itself to step out into the world; the cash packed tight inside her shirt, her jacket lining, down her waistband, these bundles of cash are real. She bends her head, closes her eyes. Counts to ten. Opens, smiling a strange smile.

‘FUCK OFF!’ she shouts, grabbing the back of Leon’s seat. ‘What we gonna do now, Leon?’ Her voice is cracking with emotion.

‘I don’t know, Harry,’ Leon replies, his voice steadier, but higher than usual. ‘I don’t have a fucking clue.’

TO THE VICTOR THE SPOILS

It’s five in the morning. The lights are on in Giuseppe’s. The blinds are drawn but the glow from the bulbs is creeping through the slats, slanting like jazzmen in zoot suits across the dark street.

Ron is sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, furthest from the door. Big head leant back against the wall, legs stretched out straight, crossed at the ankles. His hands are covering his face. One elbow leans on the table and keeps sliding away from him. He looks shaken by something, solid frame hollowed, even his usually perky belly is sinking towards the floor. Ron’s brown hair is messed up, sticking out from his head, parted awkwardly. He keeps running his hands through it and now it stands up tall like a breaking wave.

His brother, Rags, is sitting on the other side of the room, one foot up on the chair in front of him, making them both another drink. They are silent for a minute. Two.

‘Will I lose this place?’ Ron asks his brother. Voice thick with drink.

‘I don’t think so,’ Rags tells him gently.

Rags is taller than his brother and better-looking. Broad brow, straight nose, shining dark-green eyes. The stubble of a hard night starting to bristle, badger-like, across his jaw. His chin juts pleasantly. He watches his brother with the same harrowing love he has always watched him with. He has always felt the desperation to improve Ron’s life, and the misery that comes from not being able to protect anyone from themselves.

‘I
will
lose it.’ Ron is on the brink of tears, voice rising to a whine. ‘Pico will come down like a ton of bricks on everyone, and I’m going to lose this place. My lifeline. He’s going to take it from me.’ His voice collapses. His face falls further into his hands.

‘Not going to happen, mate,’ Rags says. ‘If you’d just let me tell you what went on, then you’d see.’

‘I DON’T WANT TO KNOW,’ Ron shouts, words wet in his mouth. ‘I don’t want to know what happened. I can see the end and it’s coming and it’s now, and I don’t want to fucking KNOW. So don’t fucking even think about telling me.’

‘Fair enough,’ Rags says simply, fully aware that it’s not about trying to calm his brother down. Better to just wait for him to calm himself. He gets up and walks to the sink where a bag of ice sits in cold water. He puts two cubes in each glass and returns to his seat. Ron is breathing loudly with his nose
crushed against his hands. Rags pours two large gins, enjoys the way the ice crackles.

‘Got any gear on you, Rags?’ Ron says from beneath his hands.

‘Not for you, you don’t do it any more.’ Rags speaks to the gins.

‘I’m drunk,’ Ron proclaims tragically. His elbow slips away, he brings it back to where he wants it.

‘So what?’ Rags begins juicing a lemon into a glass with a fork.

‘I can’t stay awake any more unless I have a line,’ Ron says, explaining it carefully, like an important clue in a puzzling mystery. ‘If I don’t have a line I’m going to fall asleep.’

‘You’re all talk.’ Rags holds the lemon-juice glass up to his face and searches for pips with a narrowed eye.

‘You won’t be saying that when I vomit all over the floor and you have to clear it up because I’ve passed out.’ Ron’s elbow slips away from him again, his armpit falls flat against the table. He leaves it there, defeated.

‘You really want one?’ Rags finds two pips, and levers them out with his fork.

‘Don’t make me fucking beg.’

Rags looks at him. ‘Alright,’ he says, ‘here y’are then.’ He takes a hard wrap out of his jeans pocket and goes to throw it at Ron.

‘Don’t throw it,’ Ron says from behind his hands, without looking. ‘Stand up and bring it over.’

‘You stand up and come and get it,’ Rags says to him, turning his attention to the bag of brown sugar beside the glasses.

‘I can’t,’ Ron says. ‘Don’t make me do that.’ Ron is still hiding his face, pushing the comforting darkness of his hands against his spinning eyes. ‘I’m your little brother,’ he slurs delicately. ‘Protect me.’

‘There you go, invoking blood, only when you need a favour.’ Rags measures an exact teaspoonful of sugar and adds it to the cocktail.

‘When else should you invoke it?’ Ron asks him.

‘Every day of your miserable life, Ronald Shogovitch. Either that, or never at all,’ he tells him, stirring furiously. Smiling at the effort.

Ron takes a deep breath and pulls his hands away from his face and sits there, exposed suddenly, blinking. He closes his eyes, opens them slowly, testing the waters. Gradually, moaning, he gets to his feet and walks over to sit opposite his brother. With clumsy, heavy hands he goes about cutting the gack into thick, messy lines. Rags says nothing, keeps his attention fixed firmly on the gin fizzes.

At last, Ron sniffs his line and coughs and sits back and waits for his vision to sharpen up. He thinks he sees a shadow cross the threshold of the window. ‘Is the door locked, yeah?’ he asks.

Rags nods. Adds the soda water. Looks at the finished drinks, studies them. Happy, he nods at his brother to take his glass, takes his silver sniffing straw from his inside pocket, and leans over the table to have his line.

Ron blinks and swallows. Shakes his head a few times. Can feel the edges coming back to his vision. He smiles. ‘Here I am,’ he says.

‘Back in the room?’ Rags dabs the crumbs with the pad of his thumb and rubs them into his gums.

‘Yes, after a short hiatus, I am officially back in the room,’ Ron says. He keeps his hands on his thighs and jumps his knees up and down in a furious tremor.

‘Good,’ Rags says, raising his glass. ‘Welcome. You were missed.’ He sips theatrically.

‘Rags?’ Ron stops his knees.

‘Yes.’ Rags looks at him.

‘Tell me what happened?’ Ron keeps his eyes levelled at his brother.

His brother looks into them. ‘You’re sure you want to know?’

‘I feel ready.’ Ron nods.

‘OK, mate.’ Rags takes another sip and winces, pleasured by the lemon. ‘OK. Well.’ He waits. Leans back and looks up at the ceiling. Purses his lips. ‘Well,’ he says again. ‘We got robbed.’

Ron looks at him, waiting for more. Rags looks back at him. Shrugs without moving his shoulders, shrugs with his eyes.

‘I know that,’ Ron says, leaning towards him. ‘I’ve known that for the last four hours since you got me out of my bed and dragged me down here. But what I’m saying is . . .’ Ron leans back again into his chair, rolls his neck from side to side, wonders about what exactly it is he’s saying, remembers. ‘I’m ready to
know what happened. I’m ready for you to tell me exactly what happened. I’m ready to listen. My anxieties are under control.’

Ron reaches for the cigarettes by Rags’ elbow. Rags pushes them towards him, passes him the lighter with his other hand.

‘OK,’ he says. He rubs his face with the palm of his hand. Wipes his nose. Nods. ‘So. I’m there, at this fucking club in the unwashed armpit of south London. As you know. This Paradise, it’s called. And I’m waiting to meet this Harry that Pico’s told me is coming down.’

‘Why were you there, Rags, and not somewhere you knew?’ Ron asks quietly.

Rags is annoyed at the interjection, he was just getting into it. ‘I don’t know, Ron. Because that’s where I was told to go.’

‘I’m being serious. Why there?’ Ron turns it over in his head. He can’t work it out. Rags reaches for Ron’s cigarette, takes it off him, smokes it, doesn’t give it back. ‘Whose club is it?’ Ron asks him.

‘Mate of mine,’ Rags says.

‘Trust him?’ Ron pushes him.

‘Trust
her
unequivocally.’

‘You’re sure?’ Ron pushes his forehead towards him.

‘Yes,’ Rags replies. ‘Her name’s Lucy. We go back.’

‘Lucy what?’

‘Trust me.’ Rags holds up an extended finger, points at his brother. ‘She had nothing to do with this.’

Ron points at Rags’ pointing finger. ‘Why did she let you use her bar, though? I’m just thinking out loud here.’

‘Look.’ Rags takes hold of his brother’s hand and pushes it slowly down until it lies flat on the table. ‘She’s got loads of security there, she runs this illegal fighting thing out the back.’

‘What kind of fighting thing?’

‘All kinds,’ he says. ‘Animals, kids, men, women. Sometimes all four.’

‘Jesus.’ Ron narrows his eyes.

‘It’s a weird fucking place, I can tell you. But it’s safe. You know, one thing about it is, it’s fucking safe.’ Rags draws his lips into a line, shrugs.

‘Not that safe though, was it, Rags? Tonight, I mean, for us.’ Ron looks at him disapprovingly.

Rags bristles. ‘Do you want me to tell you what happened, or what?’

‘I’m not saying anything.’ Ron spreads his arms. Innocent.

‘You are, you keep interrupting.’

‘I don’t.’

‘You just did.’ Rags stares at his brother, indignant.

‘Alright, from now on, I’m saying nothing,’ Ron offers, smiling sweetly. Rags eyes him warily. ‘I want to know, I’m ready to hear. What the fuck went on?’

Rags stares at him. Looking for something. Satisfied, he pushes his legs down into the seat, rubs the back of his neck. Begins again. ‘So,’ he says, ‘I’m there, at the bar, it’s packed.’

‘On a Tuesday? Packed?’

‘What did we
just
say you were going to do?’ Rags throws one hand towards his brother, palm upwards.

‘What?’ Ron hunches his shoulders up, rocks back in his chair and crosses his arms. ‘Packed on a
Tuesday
?’

‘Ron.’ Rags unknowingly mimics his brother’s pose, leans back in his chair, crosses his arms. ‘Bars like this are packed
every
night. Cheap booze, cheap drugs, cheap music, cheap sex. People aren’t in bed at ten p.m. these days, mate. There is no early nights no more, there’s only the drudgery of work and the fleeting fucking joy of a gobful of dancing powder and a stranger’s sweaty genitals.’ Rags stares hard at his brother. Angry.

Ron holds a finger up to his lips. ‘Not another word from me. Sorry.’

Rags hesitates, searches for his place in the story. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘There’s this guy that works there, Joey he’s called.’ He pauses, waits for the interjection, receives none, continues. ‘He’s got a right chip on his shoulder. He works for Lucy but he gets treated like an arsehole by everyone, because, by all accounts, he is an absolute arsehole. Full of himself, but with nothing going for him. Now, early in the day, around three or four in the afternoon, I’ve got a fucking shitload of gear to transport, so Lucy’s sent one of her kids over, school uniform and that, and I’ve put him in the car and we’ve driven round to Paradise. School run, you know? Very low key. So we get there, all fine, and I load the gear into the club. And I’ve got a
lot
on me. The plan was, we were going to proposition this girl, this Harry, she comes vouched for by Pico, right? So I was going to say, like, look, love, take
all
this, we don’t know how long Pico’s away
for, just take this on tick, it’s got to be a few keys, and then settle up with Pico incrementally. Through Ange.’

‘Who’s Ange?’ The interruption is spontaneous, genuine.

Rags angers, but relents. ‘You know Ange.’

‘Pico’s wife?’ Ron asks him.

‘Yeah.’ Rags nods.

‘I thought her name was Cherub?’

‘
He
calls her “cherub”, but her name’s Ange.’ Rags watches his brother open his mouth wide and hold his cheeks. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Are you fucking joking?’ Ron says. Burying his head.

‘What?’ Rags asks him.

‘
I’ve
been calling her Cherub. Ever since I met her, I thought that’s what her fucking name was.’ Ron hits himself on the back of the head.

‘Well, you’re an idiot, Ronny,’ Rags tells him.

Ron starts laughing. ‘I’ve called her Cherub about three hundred times. I’ve never once called her Ange.’

Rags waits for him to stop laughing. ‘You quite finished?’ he asks.

Ron nods, stops laughing.

‘So, this little weasel-bollocks, Joey, lets me into the basement. Lucy’s asked him to show me around kind of thing. He’s got the keys, that’s about all he’s trusted with. Dogsbody type, right? Opens up the venue and sets up the chairs, things like that. So, he’s taken me down to this basement they’ve got there, weird fucking room. Shark in a tank. The lot.’

‘Right.’ Ron nods.

‘Lucy’s into all sorts,’ Rags explains.

‘Fishing?’

‘Probably,’ Rags says. ‘So this Joey guy’s let me in the basement.’

‘With the shark?’

‘That’s right, and I think he’s left me to it, but he’s obviously hidden somewhere and watched me dump the stash. I’ve left a load of money down there too, just what I had on me from the day, just to get it somewhere safe. There’s a fucking ton of security everywhere. I’m thinking, stupidly, this is all
fine
. Anyway, I’ve got a couple of bits to take care of. I tell Lucy I’m off for a couple hours, she puts a guy on the door of the basement. I head off, run a couple of errands, have dinner. Come back about eleven. You with me?’

‘Fine. I’m with you.’

‘OK. So, Joey lets me into the basement, I see everything’s all present and correct, just where I left it. He’s asked me what time I’m expecting this Harry to show up and if I know what she looks like. I say after midnight sometime, half past, she’s going to be on her own, and that’s all I know. Then he’s escorted me to this booth above the dance floor and he’s told me to wait there and that he’ll bring her over to me. So I’ve waited an hour or so. More maybe. I’m alright, I’m having a drink. People-watching.’

‘You like that,’ Ron says, enjoying the story.

‘I do,’ Rags agrees.

‘What next?’

‘Well.’ Rags takes a sip. ‘Eventually I think fuck this, what the fuck’s going on? I go and have a look for Joey and I can’t find him, he’s not at the bar, not on the dance floor, and the basement door’s locked.’

‘Can’t get in.’

‘Can’t get in. Exactly. So, I ask one of the Arnies moping around if he can get me another key because the guy who’s meant to be looking after me has gone AWOL.
Fine
, says the guy,
no worries, come with me
. So we faff around for half an hour getting the key off someone, then we faff around getting lost in all these weird basement corridors, and then
eventually
we get to the actual room we wanna be in. Open the door.’