Bright Young Things (5 page)

There’s some porn film playing on the TV. Next to the TV is a stack of VCRs, all recording the porn film. If you ask Tank he’ll tell you how he’s not into porn and disrespecting women, which is a load of shit. But still, the pirating gear isn’t his. It belongs to Wilf, the bloke from upstairs. The others start talking about the latest drug-bust on the house. Some of them were here on the day it took place so they’re comparing stories, like war veterans. Tank goes back into the kitchen.

On the TV screen a Japanese girl is taking her clothes off for a much older man. She looks about thirteen. All the girls in the room are deliberately not watching. ‘Mad’ Mike is looking, and Bryn, but that’s all. Bryn’s not embarrassed. This counts as work, for two reasons. Firstly, because it’s only a matter of time before he lets the
Sun
know about Wilf, and also, because Bryn is interested in pictures. It’s his job. And if the pictures move, he isn’t bothered.

He finishes skinning up his joint and sparks it up, passing it straight to a girl he’s never seen before. This is the way it always is. You come round Tank’s to score, and then you have to stay and have a spliff. If you didn’t, Tank would bitch to all the others who come round, and tell them how you’re rude or disrespectful or whatever that week’s word for cunt is. Tank would make an example of you and go on about how you only use him for his contacts, his cheap drugs and free entry to Uno’s on the seafront. Yeah, right. But you’ve still got to play the game.

‘Hey, Bryn,’ calls Tank from the kitchen.

The Japanese girl lies down on a small bed. The older man climbs on top of her.

‘What?’ Bryn calls back.

‘Come in here, mate. I’ve got something for you.’

‘Yeah, coming.’

He walks slowly into the kitchen. Tank’s got his big mirror out on the work surface. There’s a line of white powder on it and the remains of one that Tank’s obviously just done. He’s shaking his head a little, his Medusa hair snaking over his shoulders.

‘Nice,’ he splutters. ‘Top gear, mate.’

‘Charlie?’ says Bryn.

‘Here,’ Tank says, handing him a rolled up twenty.

‘Cheers,’ says Bryn. He hovers over the line, noting the way Tank has left it fat in the middle. He wants to smooth it out a bit, play with it, like you do. But that would be disrespectful. This is a gift. Aware that he owes Tank money, he says, ‘Are you sure?’

‘Fucking hell, man, it’s only a bit of charlie. Anyway, I’m road-testing it for Colombian Pete.’

Colombian Pete is from Birmingham.

‘Anyway,’ adds Tank, ‘we’re brothers, man. I know you appreciate this. You know the score. I wouldn’t get it out in
there
,’ he gestures towards the sitting room, ‘with all those vultures. That’s why they’re here. Sitting around waiting for free samples. That blonde bird’s been here for a week.’

Bryn leans down and snorts the line.

‘You fucked her then?’

Tank laughs. ‘Oral.’

Bryn laughs. ‘Yeah, mate.’

His throat is bitter with the taste of the powder. He recalls the time that Tank, wanting to impress Colombian Pete, stitched up Gilbert and put him in casualty. He’d come around uninvited and kept caning all Tank’s charlie, taking when it wasn’t offered, and so on. When Gilbert went for a piss, Tank set out a line of Ajax. When he came back he said he’d reserved it especially for him. That was the week before Tank became a Rastafarian.

By the time Bryn leaves it’s almost seven. He nips in the pub for a half and then round to his mum’s for a sandwich, which he can’t eat. She’s still on at him to get a proper job. He promises to check out all the job supplements she got him. Tells her they’re in the car.

At the Reggae Club, Bernie’s DJing, playing all his old dancehall tunes. Drum and bass hasn’t happened in Bernie’s world. It’s all straight Cutty Ranks and Daddy Freddy; no unnecessary remixes. Daddy Freddy’s singing ‘
We are the champions
’, and a couple of girls are trying to move their hips on the dancefloor but looking ridiculous, like they’ve barely graduated from the youth club. Bernie’s skinning up on one of his massive speakers. Bryn goes over and sorts him out with his weed and then leaves. All this shit does his head in.

He goes down to the seafront and hangs around one of the arcades waiting for a bloke to show up. After that he goes in the White Horse, which has three fruit machines. Bryn sticks all Bernie’s money in one of them without really noticing what he’s doing. A girl he fucked a couple of weeks ago comes over. She’s wearing cheap perfume and a white T-shirt Bryn recognises; it’s his.

‘All right?’ she says, leaning against the fruit machine.

Bryn nods at her. He can see her mate sitting at the bar, watching. These girls always come in twos, he realises. A fat one and the one you fuck. He tries to remember what she was like, but he can’t. On the machine, he’s just got two cherries.

‘Remember me?’ she says. ‘My name’s Julie. We slept together.’

‘Yeah.’ He’s distracted by the possibility of a third cherry. ‘Give us a minute.’

‘OK. Do you want a drink?’

‘Yeah, if you’re buying.’

‘A pint of lager?’ She smiles, like she’s clever because she knows what he drinks.

‘Nah. Get us a vodka and lime.’

Her smile thins. ‘OK.’

He sticks his last quid in the machine and waits while Julie stands at the bar, trying to get served. Eventually she comes back with his green drink. He downs it in one and checks his watch.

‘I’ve got to go down the Reggae Club,’ he says.

‘Thought you’d just been there.’

‘Are you stalking me or something?’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. I had to see Cliff. Saw you walk in as I was going out.’

‘Cliff?’ The student dealer.

She nods. ‘Do you want to see what I got?’

‘You what?’ says Bryn, but it’s too late. She’s pulling a small white wrap out of her pocket and opening it. She places it on the fruit machine. The powder inside is baby-gro pink: speed. There’s not much there. Maybe a tenner’s worth.

‘Shit. Get that off there.’

She moves it on to the windowsill. Everyone can still see.

‘Do you want a dab?’ she offers.

Bryn stares at her. She’s got blonde hair with a couple of red streaks in it, and blue eyes. He still can’t remember what she was like. She’s about eighteen or nineteen. Maybe she’s a student. He can’t remember.

‘Put it away,’ he urges.

She scowls. ‘All right, keep your pants on. I’m just going to have a dab.’ In full view of the barman and just about anyone who’s looking, she licks her finger and presses it into the powder. Then she sticks it in her mouth, trying not to make a face with the bitterness. Bryn wonders if she’s trying to impress him. As far as he can remember, she wasn’t into powder a couple of weeks ago, just spliff.

‘I’m going to have to go in a minute,’ he says.

‘Where?’

‘The Reggae Club. I told you.’

‘I’ll walk over there with you if you want.’

‘What about your mate?’

‘She’ll be all right.’

Fat Girl smiles and winks at her friend as Bryn pulls on his jacket.

‘Why do you want to go to the Reggae Club if you’ve already been there?’ he asks.

‘Why do
you
?’

‘I’ve got to go and see Bernie. Who’ve you got to see?’

‘No one. I just want to have a little chat.’

He sighs. ‘Come on then.’

Outside, it’s started to rain.

All is not well at the Reggae Club. There’s been a bust, and everyone’s in the street outside, waiting for the police to go away.

Bernie’s kicking a stone across the road.

‘Fucking Babylon,’ he moans.

Bryn laughs. ‘Where’s your weed, mate?’

‘On the floor in there where I dropped it.’

‘You going back in to get it?’

‘Yeah. When this lot PISS OFF,’ he says, raising his voice as a policeman walks past. A police dog stops to sniff Julie and she strokes and pets it before the policeman calls it to heel.

‘Who’s this?’ asks Bernie.

‘Julie. Look, I’m going back down the seafront. It’s a bit dodgy here.’

‘Check you later then.’

Julie’s still hanging around.

‘Where are you going now?’ she asks, as they set off.

‘Seafront.’

‘Is this all you do?’

‘What?’

‘Walk backwards and forwards like this?’

Bryn looks at his feet. ‘Pretty much.’

It all started as a joke. Just another art school irony.

Emily’s standing in the flat in Battersea, looking at her reflection. She is tall, thin and pretty. But not tall enough to be a model, not thin enough to get the attention she’s always wanted (she gave up anorexia a couple of years ago, but she misses it now), and not quite pretty enough to attract Lenny, the MA student she has coveted for two years. Emily wonders what he’s doing right now. She doesn’t even have an address for him.

Emily is a graduate; a bright young thing. She has no ties, no responsibilities and no commitments. Some people would bask in the freedom, but it makes Emily nervous. She’s going nowhere. She’s been out of college for almost three months and no one’s approached her about a job. She’s filled in form after form at graduate fairs – nothing. And she was stupid enough to think she would be headhunted a week after finishing. What a joke. But here’s the real joke: Emily, in a short black cocktail dress and high heels, wearing red lipstick and false eyelashes. And this is the girl who only shops at Diesel and Slam City Skates.

When her flatmate Lucy suggested joining the escort agency, Emily had laughed and made some crack about it being the biggest ex-art student cliché. Lucy had pointed out that since they’d been at St Martin’s they were a cliché anyway, thanks to Jarvis Cocker. Emily had seen her point. So they’d gone to see a woman called Tina, who had examined them and written their names on little Rolodex cards, on which Lucy had seen her add:
gay, publishing, ART
. That was a couple of weeks ago.

Last night Lucy accompanied an elderly investment banker to the launch of his ex-wife’s kiss-and-tell novel. He’d turned out to be very camp and undemanding, and Lucy had earned £200 just for standing next to him, looking pretty. Emily is hoping for something similar tonight.

She leaves the house at seven and cabs it over the river to Chelsea. David is already sitting in the small wine bar when she arrives. She gives him the once-over: mid-thirties, dark hair, dark eyes. Clean. She looks for a wedding ring. There isn’t one. He briefs her on the night ahead. She hears the words: Annabel, party, drinks, canapés and dancing.

‘Cool,’ she says.

‘Have you done this before?’

‘Oh yes,’ she lies.

The party is taking place a couple of streets away. David and Emily walk there. He’s obviously thinking about holding her hand, and it feels awkward, like a first date. He asks her about herself, and she tells him as little as possible. He speaks slowly to her, as if she’s having trouble understanding him. Emily grits her teeth and smiles, just thinking about the money. Why should she care what he thinks of her? And why would he assume she’s educated? Well,
duh
. The accent could give it away, but David’s not that bright himself. It turns out he’s some sort of sales rep, selling new-age books for some unknown publishing house in the South-West. Emily laughs when he tells her. She likes the idea of combining hard-sell with woo-woo.

The problem with David being in publishing is that Emily knows half the people at the party. She’s lucky her sister, a publicist at Penguin, isn’t there. Even Annabel turns out to be the girlfriend of Lucy’s brother’s best friend. Jesus. London’s so big, but the world is so very small. Emily drinks a lot without meaning to and mingles like a pro. David hovers around the edges of the party, not quite taking the plunge, and Emily regrets the fact that she’s paid to be here with him. True, it adds a certain
frisson
to the evening, but ultimately it’s boring having to do what you’re told. The only fun she has is wondering what they would all say if they knew what she was really doing here.

A couple of hours later she and David are standing in the lobby of a hotel. The night has gone well, but David doesn’t want to leave it there.

‘I don’t really know how to say this,’ he begins.

‘Say what?’

‘You must have been in this situation before.’

‘What situation?’

‘Well, here we are, we’ve had a fantastic night and I was wondering . . .’ He grins coyly and looks at the floor. ‘Do you do any, um, extras?’

Emily smiles. ‘You’re not in a massage parlour.’

‘OK, then.’ He drops his voice. ‘Well, how much extra for a fuck?’

Most girls would like to think that at this point they would smile politely and explain that their body isn’t for sale. How hard would that be? Emily’s already earned £200 just for being this guy’s date. Which of course leads her to speculate: just how much
could
she charge for a fuck?