The Bricks That Built the Houses (28 page)

‘He would take measured amounts of this snake venom, and, like, cook it up with some kind of solution, I forget now what it was, and he would, erm, inject it. You know. Mainline. In the video he’s, like, “Fucking hell – it BURNS, you know, it BURNS,” but he went to the doctor’s, and turns out . . .’ Dale chops up two fat lines on the lid of the toilet seat. Thick as your middle finger. Long as a cigarette.
Fuck
, thinks Pete. ‘Turns out he’s got the respiratory system of an eighteen-year-old. Fit as you like, all his insides, tip-top. And he’s an average guy – doesn’t smoke or anything, but he drinks, and he don’t do that much exercise. So he reckons it’s the venom that’s done it.’ Dale looks over his shoulder at Pete. Pete nods, impressed. ‘Put thirty years on his heart.’

They sniff it up. One after the other, crouched down, knees an inch from the toilet floor. Sniff and hold.

Back at the table things seem much brighter already. Dale gets the next round. Whiskies first. Then the lager.

‘Want a dab of MDMA?’ Dale asks.

‘Why not?’ Pete says. ‘It’s Wednesday.’

Dale glances around, satisfied that no one is looking, he cradles a wrap of MDMA in the palm of his hand. They lick their little fingers, each scoop a glistening beige clump of dirt into their mouths, rub the crystals into their gums. Pete shudders, sticks his tongue out in disgust, grabs his drink and swills it around his mouth, frowning, trying to escape the taste. Dale doesn’t register any response.

‘You got a missus then, have you?’ Dale asks him.

‘Yep.’ Pete smashes a gulp of beer down. ‘I do, yep.’

‘Wedding bells yet?’

‘Fuck me, no.’

‘Why not? If I had a girlfriend I’d marry her straight away.’ Dale has a habit of pointing aggressively, even when he’s saying something essentially quite sweet. ‘Don’t you love her?’ Dale has not yet managed to meet a girl he can trust enough to fall in love with. It’s the one thing about his life that bothers him.

‘Course I do,’ Pete says, a little drunk, the coke loosening his lips. Dale is sitting, legs miles apart, one hand on his knee, the other hand palm down on the table. Taking up as much
space as he possibly can. Pete is more contained. Skinny and tall and hunched down, slouching against the wall. Knees touching the underside of the table top. ‘I do,’ he says, ‘I do. I do love her.’

‘Course you do, mate.’ Dale nods. Kindly. Understanding.

‘I just, things are just . . .’ Pete picks a beer mat up. Rips it into shreds, places the shreds neatly in a pile. Dale waits for him to continue, studying him. ‘Not good. You know what I mean? Not cool.’ This is the first time Pete has spoken to anyone apart from Becky about his troubles with her. He doesn’t know how to put it into words that aren’t hers. He struggles to find his own take on it.

Mitch is still singing away. Dale crosses his legs so his ankle rests on his knee, examines his bootlace. Satisfied, he drops his massive foot back to the floor.

‘We’re fighting all the time. We fight
all
the fucking time,’ Pete says angrily. Exasperated.

‘What about?’

‘I don’t know.’ Pete waves his hand in front of his face, shrugs it off like it’s nothing really.

Back in the cubicle, fast and slow at the same time. More present than before, and further away, Pete shrinks into the corner while Dale takes up the rest of the space.

‘It’s her job,’ he says. ‘Her job causes a lot of beef.’

‘Got a lot of work stress, has she?’ Dale asks, crouching and flattening the wrap out, cutting a piece off the main
clump with the edge of his card. Dragging it off the wrap and onto the toilet lid. ‘Not switching off properly?’ he asks.

‘No. Not that.’ Pete puts his hands in his pockets, leans his head back against the cubicle wall. ‘It’s not her. It’s
me
. I can’t stand her fucking job.’

Dale looks at him, registers the remark. Looks back at the coke, reaches round with his note like an aardvark. Sniff. And hold. Head back.
That’s the ticket
.

‘Why?’ Dale asks, holding his breath, head tilted back, not wanting to drop a crumb, looking searchingly at Pete.

Pete crouches. He reaches the note to the end of the line, scans the ceramic surface for anything missed. Sniff. And hold. And up. He blinks, brushing down his trousers. He stands in front of Dale, an inch apart in the cubicle. He doesn’t know how to say it. Dale watches him patiently. Pete looks at his shoes. ‘She’s a masseuse.’

Dale sticks his bottom lip out in surprise. Scratches his head. ‘A masseuse?’

‘Yeah, you know,’ Pete says, raising his eyebrows. ‘A
masseuse
.’

‘Oh right,’ Dale says nodding. ‘A prostitute?’

Pete buries his head in his hands. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No. No. No.’ Dale raises a finger, points at him, eyebrows raised, questioning him. ‘No,’ Pete says again. ‘It’s different. She doesn’t sleep with them. At least, she says she doesn’t.’

‘What does she do with them then?’

‘Like, a massage, full body or whatever, I don’t know the exact fucking technique. Swedish or shiatsu or whatever. All I know is it all ends happily, know what I mean?’

‘But no more than that?’

‘No. And they can’t touch her. There’s all kinds of rules. She rubs them down and then, you know, wanks them off.’

Dale puts his hands on his hips, looks up towards the flickering light bulb. ‘Tough one, mate,’ he says. ‘Tough one, that.’

Sweat prickles at his temples, shivers skate across the back of his neck, Pete sits down at the table, tells himself to act natural.

‘I can’t help it, mate,’ he says. ‘I’m worried.’

‘Of course you’re worried.’ Dale’s large mouth opens and swallows half a pint.

‘Well, she tells me it’s not a big deal, says I can trust her, and she loves me and that.’

‘Do you trust her?’ Dale wriggles his nose about, opens and closes his mouth.

‘Yeah,’ Pete says, flicking his hair out of his eyes. Sitting up straight.

‘Well, not being funny, mate,’ Dale says, ‘but obviously you don’t.’

It smacks Pete in the face, brings him down like a breaking wave. ‘How is that obvious?’ he asks timidly.

‘Because, mate, if you trusted her, it wouldn’t be a problem, would it?’ Dale opens the hole in his face and the rest of his
pint disappears down it. He shrugs at Pete as he swallows. Beer froth clings to his top lip. Shining. ‘You think she’s fucking them?’ Dale whispers it; a conspiracy.

Pete’s head rests in his hands, elbows on the table top. He rubs the back of his head, looks up. ‘Do you?’ His jealousy is staggering towards them, thumbs in its belt loops, screaming.

Back at the bar now, they’re ordering rums.

‘And a couple black sambucas. And two more pints, please.’

They stand close, down the sambuca shots. Wince happily.

They sit down at their table and look out at the people.

‘I like it in here,’ Dale says.

Mitch is singing Chuck Berry.

The old men at the bar are jiggling their hips and the women with the purple wine smiles are throwing their arms around and shaking their knees. Dale nods his head to the beat, Pete watches him.

‘I’VE GOT IT!’ he shouts over the music. Everything feels louder than it felt an hour ago.

‘WHAT?’ Dale shouts back.

‘CAN I TRUST YOU, DALE?’ Pete’s voice is urgent, his eyes are shining.

‘YEAH. COURSE YOU CAN, MATE.’ Dale grins at his new friend, nodding.

‘I FEEL LIKE I CAN,’ Pete tells him.

Dale points at him. Winks. ‘GOOD!’ he shouts. ‘YOU CAN TRUST ME.’

‘IT’S PERFECT.’ Pete sees it play out in the space between their pints. Watches the table top, excited.

‘WHAT IS IT?’ Dale leans in like a dog leaning out a car window, tongue to the wind.

‘
YOU
COULD BOOK IN WITH HER, COULDN’T YOU?’ Pete shouts.

The music stops, the people applaud. Mitch beams. Pushes his belly out. Hands on the small of his back, letting his guitar hang by its strap.

‘ME?’ Dale’s voice is suddenly huge in the quiet room. Awkward, they look around and huddle closer. ‘What do you mean?’ Dale is entranced.

‘It’s perfect!’ Pete is overwhelmed. ‘She don’t know you,’ he says, eyes darting left and right. ‘She knows all my other mates. And I can’t trust them anyway.’ He looks at Dale, who is grinning madly.

‘What would I have to do?’ Their eyes burn brightly together.

‘I’ll pay,’ Pete says. ‘I’ll give you some money, so you can get a room somewhere. Book in with her, she comes to you.’ Dale nods. Smiling, wet-mouthed. ‘She gives you a massage and that, and then you tell me what happens. OK?’

‘You want me to try it on with her?’ Dale asks, voice low, serious. ‘Try and get, like, a full service?’

Pete thinks about it, considers it, looks at his friend, his caring confidant. ‘Yeah,’ he says gravely.

‘You sure?’ Dale asks him. ‘I mean, I will do that, if you want me to.’

Pete is stunned by this man’s generosity, his comradeship. ‘Just to put my mind at ease.’ He is serious and thoughtful. ‘I know she won’t do it. I know I can trust her. I just need to be sure. That’s all.’

They nod at each other. Pete flicks his hair out of his eyes.

‘Yeah,’ Dale says. ‘Wow. Alright. Yeah.’

‘Look, here’s her card, OK? Take it.’ Pete has a business card of Becky’s he stole from her room. He keeps it in his wallet, a little vicious reminder that he looks at when he hates himself. On the card is a close-up photo of her naked back and hips and in the bottom-right corner the name
Jade
and a phone number.

Dale takes it. ‘I’ll do it, mate, I’ll help you out. We’ll put your mind at rest.’ They both look at the card in Dale’s enormous hand. Dale tucks it into his top pocket, taps it a couple of times.

‘Can you get these, mate? I’m out of cash.’ Pete can’t look up from the floor.

Dale swings his hefty arm around Pete’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about that, mate,’ he says, going into his pocket and slipping a twenty off a folded wedge and handing it to the barman.

They take their drinks and their change and Dale winks at a woman he’d been talking to as they head back to the toilet to rack up another line.

‘Think you’re in there, mate,’ Pete tells him.

‘You think so?’ Dale asks, looking back over his shoulder to catch her watching him.

‘She likes you.’ Pete digs him in the ribs with his elbow.

‘I always had a thing for the older ladies,’ Dale says.

‘I think she used to be a dinner lady at my school.’ Pete turns and pushes the toilet doors open with his shoulder.

‘Sexy.’ Dale takes one more look back at the bar before following Pete into the cubicle. ‘Wonder if she’s still got her hairnet.’

Mitch is on his last number. ‘Sweet Caroline’. He holds the mic out for the crowd to do the chorus. Dale and Pete are arm in arm, giving it all they’ve got.

‘“SWWEEET CARRROLLLIIINE.”’ Wild applause follows the end of the song.

‘Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen, you’ve been a wonderful crowd,’ Mitch says, deadpan. The couples are starting to leave. A big man waves goodbye to his pals and walks ahead of his girlfriend to the door.

She’s wearing a lovely bright blue coat and stops to kiss Mitch goodbye. ‘Well done, darling, it was great,’ she says.

‘Thanks very much, Michelle.’

She gets to the door where her boyfriend’s waiting for her. He opens it, is about to go through it but then steps out the way to let her go first, holding it open for her.

There’s a comedy bicycle horn taped up behind the bar. The barman honks it twice.

‘Waheyy, well done, Terry,’ he says. Honk Honk. Terry raises his eyebrows and dips his head at the barman and leaves, smiling, after his girlfriend.

‘See you later, boys!’ the barman shouts to all the old men getting up from their stools. He honks his horn a few more times as they put their hats on and head off into the night.

Dale and Pete stumble towards the main road. Concentrate at the bus stop, working out routes home.

‘That was banging,’ Dale says.

‘Smashed it, yeah.’ Pete shakes his hand. Sniffing, desperate to swallow, mouth too dry. Feels like he’s got a pip in his throat. A few pips. When he was young, a boy at school told him if you eat an apple core an apple tree grows in your belly and branches stick out of your ears.

‘I’ll see you again soon, mate,’ he says, flagging the bus down. It pulls up in front of them.

‘Oh yeah. Go safely now,’ Dale says as Pete climbs into the bus.

‘Easy then mate.’ The doors close and the bus pulls away. Pete gives Dale a little wave out the bus window. More like a salute, then he sits down, head moving forwards, body moving
backwards. He stares out into the night and counts the lamp posts to keep himself from vomiting.

He gets off the bus in New Cross, walks towards Lewisham Way, turns left, under the railway bridge and down through the park by the flats and up the hill. He sees his house at the end of the road. He lets himself in using the same keys he’s had for ten years. His dad’s asleep upstairs. The lights are on in the front room and an empty wine bottle mopes on the coffee table next to a pile of papers and two boxes of half-eaten cold curry and rice. He picks the rubbish up, turns the lights off and heads to the kitchen. He hears the mice scatter as he approaches. He throws the food and the bottle away, takes a beer from the fridge and goes upstairs to his room.

He sits down on the chair by his desk, takes out his sketchbook and starts drawing. Just lines and shapes; the same cartoonish character always appears when he puts pen to paper. A long, haunted face, hood up over a wrinkled brow, troubled, wonky eyes staring out. He writes his tag a few times, bores and lets his pen go. He sees it fall and settle into stillness. It strikes him as very beautiful. He drops his forehead onto the desk in tribute but it doesn’t feel as good as he thought it might.

He sits on the floor and wrenches his socks off. Wriggles out of his jeans at last. Stands again and gets his beer and looks at the pictures on his wall. Photographs of mates he hasn’t seen all year. Sitting at a rave together, grinning out from their
hoods. Skinny, dark-eyed boys and girls, faces full of bass. The girls in lurid neon, the boys in baggy black and blue. The cocaine is charging around in the space behind his forehead. A sudden pain stabs itself across his chest. He holds his heart and breathes until it passes.
Would I be happier without her?
He finishes his beer, lies down under his covers without brushing his teeth. Closes his eyes and watches the changing shapes of his brain.