The Fly Guy (10 page)

“Well, how about that? Isn’t this black and white music? Is it?” he asks her.

Lucy tries to drag him to the dance floor.

“It’s remixes, come on dance, dance!”

He stays in his seat, shaking his head. “You go, you go. I can’t. I can’t dance. You go,” he says.

She downs her glass of wine and walks away from him. Gregor sees her step out of her inhibitions, sliding them off with a shrug of her shoulder. She moves away from the shadows of the club tables as Frank Sinatra starts to croon.
All of me, why not take all of me, can’t you see I’m no good without you
. A heavy dub drum beat kicks in and throbs throughout the club.

Lucy’s hips swing as she walks down the steps, away from the saints on the stained glass windows of the upper floor, down to where lights are spinning and bodies moving. Her diamond collar sparkles.
You took the part that once was my heart so why not take all of me
. The beat gets into her and she surrenders control. She dances wildly, twisting and grinding, pushing herself against the stone pillars of the club, running her hands over her breasts and twisting her hips, as she slides her back down the pillar and throws her head from side to side. Then she pushes herself back up, and her hips find the beat again. She holds her dress and whirls it like a flamenco dancer while the thud of the bass drum propels her across the dance floor. She knocks against couples and dancers, bouncing off them, her momentum unbroken.

The DJ in the pulpit mixes in another old classic with a drum and bass backbeat.
Now you say you’re lonely, you cried the whole night through
.

Gregor watches as men try to dance and flirt with her. Some of them try to keep pace with her, try to dance alongside her, but it is like trying to hold a whirlwind, like trying to catch lightning. Man after man approaches her, and each one resigns in a matter of minutes. Every now and then she glances back up the steps at where Gregor is sitting; she can see him in the shadows, sitting at the table with Spike, his drink in his hand watching her
.
Spike is talking to him.

“You’re still uptight. Everything okay?”

“I don’t think that Ali mentioning Rocky was a coincidence.”

“You think he’s in with Stranstec?”

“Stranstec is going to get as close as he can and Ali has been around for years. He’s bound to have dealt with him. Who’s to say they haven’t kept a connection? Stranstec knows how to work people. That’s how he works, he manipulates. He’s got people working for him that don’t even know it. He’s a clever bastard. Spike, I need you on Ali. It’s a critical time.”

“You got it. Ali doesn’t know the process though, does he?”

“No, but he did all the sourcing and the distribution channels. If he spills to Stranstec, there’s no need for him to know the process, he’ll just wait and bandit the distribution line. We’ll have done it all for him. Is that bag still safe?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Gregor hasn’t taken his eyes off Lucy all this time. She looks up at him now. She starts to crawl back up the stairs toward him, keeping her eyes locked with his, before she stands again and turns, running one hand through her hair and the other over her hip, going back down to the dance floor, giving herself back to the music.
Well you can cry me a river
. Gregor sips from his drink. Spike leans into his ear.

“She’s crazy man.”

Gregor nods.

“Yes. Beautiful and crazy.”

“If she’s like this now, imagine her on Spiral.”

***

Chapter Thirteen

It rained for weeks. From the window of the writing room Martin watched the puddles gather and grow. When she had got back from her parents’ boat house, Alison told Martin that she had been standing in front of the big glass wall when the clouds came over the horizon and the rain started to fall on the lake. She had never seen clouds like them, it was straight out of a painting or a CGI scene in a movie and then when the rain hit the big glass windows, it was like someone had suddenly thrown a bucket, and she knew that it was going to stay. The wind that followed seconds later shook the boat house and pushed waves across the lake.
The floor was moving,
she said,
the whole house was moving.
It was the first time that she really felt like she was in a boat. She realised there were no foundations beneath her.

Her parents were glad that she visited, and they both sent their love back to Martin. That was what she said to him, but Martin imagined her mother topping up her wine glass and her father refilling his pipe as she told them both how useless he was, how he still wasn’t earning any money.

That evening they had curled up together on the sofa and promised that they would pay more attention to each other. Alison suggested making goals that they would try to achieve before the end of the year. Martin agreed that this was a good idea. When she suggested that there might be areas of life he was not fulfilling by concentrating on his writing, he became defensive.
Until I get this, I don’t want anything else from life,
he said.
Well,
she replied,
there’s no harm in thinking what else there might be for you, but if you stay where you are, life can’t offer you anything. You’re not giving life a chance,
she said.

That talk was weeks ago and it still burned in his mind, through the days of rain, those words,
you’re not giving life a chance,
always there like the constant
tap-tap-tapping
on the window behind him as he sat at his desk.

When he wrote, all he wanted to write about was Lucy. Each paragraph made her more real, in each line she revealed more of herself for him. He would sit back in his chair and picture her just doing something mundane, perhaps eating, absentmindedly brushing crumbs over the edge of the table and looking out the double doors at the back garden. She would stare at the statue, the two bodies embracing and twisting together into the earth, before finishing her mouthful and getting the cloth and brush. He wanted to appear behind her now as she rubbed the cloth over the table and put his arms around her, press his lips to the curve of where her neck and shoulder meet, and feel her exhale slowly and then match his breathing to hers.

As the rain continued to fall, Martin rewrote and rewrote chapter after chapter. The walls of the room began to crowd with sketches in black pen, boxes with sentences and arrows pointing to circles with words inside. When he was not writing he would close his eyes and look on Lucy, watching her wander aimlessly and beautifully around Gregor’s house, being careful to not leave a mark, wiping any trace she left away.

He watched her take the books down from the shelves one at a time and read, the way she tucked her legs underneath her when she was on the couch, the way she licked the tips of her fingers before she turned the pages. She’d sit there for hours, in that curled up position on the big couch reading books about terrible and noble men.

Martin felt sometimes that he was losing sensation in his body, all he was using was his fingers and eyes. Occasionally he would rise from his seat to stamp his feet and walk around the small room, just to regain feeling in his legs.

One night as he stamped his feet, Alison said as she came up the stairs, “I’m going to the gym. Do you want to come?”

“No.”

“You could go in the pool while I’m in the gym.”

“No, I’ve got to keep going on this. Next time.”

Alison sighed “Okay,” and went into the bedroom. The door was not closed. Through the thin gap he saw her pull tight leggings up to her waist to where folds of flesh bulged and hung over the top. She put a t-shirt on, covering her pale plain body and then went downstairs. The door closed.

Each time Martin looked from the window of his writing room to the fields beyond the red brick estate, they were more flooded with brown water. One day he saw that two plastic bags had got into the thin rectangle of grass that was the back garden. He went outside to gather them up. The ground was soft and the mud moved beneath his feet as he walked. Getting to the end of the garden, his feet slid beneath him twice, and twice he ended up on his back. The mud stuck to him. The second bag had blown against the trunk of one of the trees against the back fence. Martin, soaking wet with his back and legs covered in mud, bent low and ducked under the branches to get the bag. Under the trees, the ground was dry and hard. In fact, this low space between the trees with the fence behind had been sheltered from the constant rain and stayed dry.

Crouched over, he turned around to face the house and sat down on this piece of dry earth, wondering how this one space had escaped the creeping water that was spreading everywhere he looked. With his knees against his chin, he looked back at the house. The branches from the trees dropped low in front of him and crossed over each other. He looked through the branches up to the window of his writing room. He imagined himself standing up there, looking out on the fields beyond the estate. I can’t be seen here, he thought. He stayed there for a while, holding the two plastic bags, watching the rain throw itself against the back of the house.

***

Chapter Fourteen

In the back of the private car on the way back to Gregor’s house that night, Gregor leans over and kisses Lucy. She kisses him back. His heavy breath rushes out as if he has been keeping it in since he first saw her. She puts her hands to his face and their mouths open wider. They grope each other as they kiss. She pulls at his belt and he says,
Not here, inside.
She whispers in his ear,
No, now
and takes his hand and pulls it under her skirt. He gets two, then three fingers inside her. Her mouth opens more and more and he sucks on her tongue. When the car stops outside the gates of the house, Gregor fumbles in his pocket for the remote control to unlock it, then thanks the driver as Lucy climbs out of the back seat with her skirt around her hips.

Inside she pulls him into the first room, sits on the dark wood table, and grabs his shirt, pulling him to her and kissing him. Then she puts her hands on his shoulders and pushes him down so that he is between her legs. She pulls the fabric of her panties to the side and then with two hands tears them from herself, moving herself right to the edge of the table. She takes his hair and pulls his face to her groin, stretching her legs out as she does. He puts his arms beneath her legs and lifts her up from her hips, her thighs are on his shoulders and he is holding her. She throws her head back and arches her spine as if in the grip of a seizure, and she sees behind her, upside down, the canvas of moving colour.

* * *

She wakes in Gregor’s bed. The room is bare; the walls are flat and have no decoration or pictures. The wardrobes are set into the walls and are a pale wood. There is one mirror, a single pane which doesn’t go as high as the ceiling or as low as the floor. Lucy and Gregor are underneath a light blanket. He has his back to her. She feels the collar still around her neck.

She leans upon one elbow and looks around the room. There is no bedside table, no chest of drawers, no sign of life other than the bunch of twisted and entwined clothes on the floor and the two of them in the bed. He turns over so that he is facing her. He rests his head on his arm. His chest is broad and covered in hair. She smiles at him. He is neither smiling nor frowning, his face is neutral. She moves closer to him. He lies flat and she moves down in the bed so that her head is resting on his shoulder, her cheek at his chest. She expects to be able to hear his heart, but cannot. They lie there awake together in silence until he suggests breakfast.

“Yes, I’d eat something,” she says. “Although I did eat a lot last night.”

“You danced a lot, too.”

“That was a fancy place we went to, before the club.”

“That’s one of my favourites.”

“It’s nice eating out.”

“Mmmm.”

“That club was good, too.”

“The Church. Yes.”

“Do you go there a lot?”

“No. I don’t usually go to clubs.”

“Why not?”

“It’s all decadent. The short skirts and high heels, women showing themselves off. It’s not the women that turn me off, it’s the groups of men looking for something to stick their dicks into. I bet you went to a lot of clubs with Archie.”

“Why did we go last night?”

“For you. You had to listen to us talking about business all night. I thought you might enjoy it.”

“Well I did. Thank you.”

“Did you know the songs the DJ played?”

“Of course. I mean, they were remixes, but I know the originals. Did you?”

“No.”

“Well, I guess if you don’t listen to music …”

“Hey, I hear music all the time, I just didn’t recognise those songs. I’ve never seen anyone dance like you.”

She smiles and leans up on her elbow to look down at him. “That’s that swing thing, baby.”

He turns over onto his front and folds his arms on his pillow, resting his head. She lies back down facing him. They smile.

“Tell me about that swing thing.”

“Well it’s a dance, you know. The music was for dancing. Not formal dancing, just a few steps and then a lot of shaking.”

“A lot of shaking? Not a very specific dance.”

“That’s just it. A dance where you can let go and do what you want. And when people get to do what they want, they dance crazy dancing.”

“Who danced it?”

“It started with the slaves bringing their rhythms. The rhythm, the dance, shaking it all up, letting it all out, that came from underneath, from the poor, from the ghettos, the shacks.”

He smiles. “Is that why you like it? It’s ghetto music? You a ghetto girl?”

She pushes him gently. “Don’t tease. I like it because it makes me dance. And that makes me feel … Do you ever dance?”

“No.”

“You don’t know how it feels. It sets you free. And you never hear swing music in clubs. How did you find that one?”

Gregor turns over again, onto his back and pulls her close.

“Spike. He knows where stuff happens. He’s always got his ear to the ground. I’ve never seen him dance though.”

They laugh. “That would be quite something, to see him rip up the dance floor.”

“It’d have to be some big dance floor.”

They laugh again. She gives him a squeeze and a kiss on the chest. She listens for any sounds from the road, or birds outside. There is nothing. She puts her head on his chest. Nothing. This must be the quietest place she’s been.

“Did Archie ever take you out?” he asks.

“Yeah there were some clubs we went to. None as nice as that one though. All house music, and everyone popping pills. We’d go out to eat sometimes. He took me to the Kasamet a few times.”

“The Kasamet? The curry house on Richmond?”

“Yeah, it was good, big portions I remember.”

“That place was closed down about six months ago.”

“I knew it had closed. Do you know why?”

“It was run by a family I used to have dealings with. They had issues with their meat.”

Lucy pushes herself away from him and looks in his face.

“What do you mean?”

“They didn’t want to go through the usual channels. Finding ways to cut corners, I guess it was a business decision. A bad one.”

“So where did their meat come from?”

“Well, probably
abattoir
scraps, but it was the gangs running the meat, that’s what stopped the business.”

Gregor leans to her and strokes her hair gently then kisses her. Then he breaks off and looks into her eyes.

“How did we end up talking business again?” He kisses her again then rolls over, pulls the cover back and stands up.

“I’m going to get some coffee on the go.”

He walks to the wardrobe door and steps into a walk-in closet, disappearing.

She gets a sudden flash in her mind. An image of a scene that Archie once described to her after the Kasamet had closed. The owner, an Indian man, had been found tied to chair, his head bent back so that his eyes were focused on the ceiling, with a huge saucepan sticking out of his mouth, its handle rammed down his throat. Archie had said that he had been like that for days before they found him. It is as if he is in the room now, in front of her, swollen neck, flies buzzing over his face, feeding on his open eyes, crawling down the sticky handle and disappearing into his mouth. Lucy lets him sit there, lifting her head from the pillow, as the image gets more solid she takes in every detail.

She asks, “How long have you known Spike?”

The question rings round the room for second before Gregor steps back out. He is wearing a white dressing gown. He looks at Lucy lying in the bed, half covered with the sheet, her bleach blonde hair tussled, one of her breasts exposed, her pale arm reaching to the edge. As he walks past the bed toward the door he stops in front of the mirror. His torso is lean and muscular, his hair is sticking up at angles, ruffled.

“Why?” he asks.

“Do you trust him?”

“Why?”

“There’s something about him. Maybe it’s just the way he was looking at me.”

He turns to face Lucy.

“The way he was looking at you?”

“I don’t know, it’s probably nothing.”

“I’ve known him a while. You’ve just met him. He’s a big guy, not always easy to read. Yes, I trust him. Unless there’s something else you’re not telling me?”

“No, no. It’s nothing, just me. It’s probably nothing.”

“It’s nothing.”

He leans down to kiss her again. She sits up and puts her arms around his neck.

“Hey there’s no rush is there? Come back to bed.”

“Business.”

Gregor leaves the room. Lucy gets up and takes her clothes, untangling them from his, and goes to the bathroom. She steps into the shower. The warm water against her face feels good and she stays there for a long time. When she comes out, she wraps a towel around herself and opens the door. The steam dissipates in the landing and she tries Gregor’s bedroom door. It’s locked again. She can hear him talking downstairs. She moves quietly halfway down the stairs until she can hear what he’s saying.

“Who have you got covering him? I’ll send you a recent photograph. Well, if Ali meets him at all, I have to know immediately. And then … yes. Yes, that’ll be the end of Ali.”

Gregor listens to whoever is on the other end, Lucy takes another step, then freezes as she hears Gregor shout into the phone. It is the first time she has heard him angry and the intensity of it sends tremors of fear through her. “I DON’T CARE WHAT CARDS ALI IS HOLDING, IF HE’S WITH STRANSTEC, I’M HITTING HIM!” She moves quickly back upstairs and into her room. She closes the door and leans against it. The girl on the edge of tears looks at her from the canvas.

***