Clapham Lights (6 page)

‘It varies. Sometimes it’s all right, but you never know how it’s going to be from one day to the next. It’s just hard to plan to do anything because you never know how much money you’re going to be earning
each month. It all depends on who walks through the door.’

‘The market’s taken a hit recently, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes, I suppose it has thinking about it.’ Craig sips his beer and looks at Mark. ‘There aren’t any jobs going at your place are there?’ he asks timidly.

‘Jobs?’ Mark puffs out his cheeks, tilts his head back and exhales.

‘Yeah.’

‘For you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not sure really, mate. I could have a word in the post room.’

‘Mark, I’m not working in the post room.’

‘Why not? They get pretty well paid.’

‘Isn’t there anything else I could do?’

‘The problem is, mate, you’re not really qualified any more.’

‘What do you mean I’m not qualified? I’ve got a better degree than you.’

‘We’ve got the same degree.’

‘I got a 2.1, remember?’

‘Yeah, but I’ve got finance qualifications now.’

‘Since when?’

‘I’ve got two.’

‘What are they then?’

‘Just things I’ve been doing through work. Online mainly… and a couple of exams.’

‘How comes I’ve not seen you studying?’

‘I either do it at work or when I get home. You’re always back from work so late it’s no surprise you’ve never seen me. I’ll show you the
certificates
if you don’t believe me,’ Mark says.

‘No, no, I believe you, it’s OK.’

‘Anyway you haven’t got any relevant experience either.’

‘Nor had you when you started.’

‘Well, yes, but…’ Mark tops up Craig’s glass. ‘Look I’ll tell you what, I’ll have a word with my boss and if anything comes up I’ll
recommend
you, OK? I can’t do any more than that.’

‘Thanks. That’s all I’m asking for.’

‘No problem.’

Mark guzzles down the rest of his pint and burps quietly into his fist.
‘I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be at the London office for anyway,’ he says.

‘How come?’

‘I’m thinking of going abroad.’

‘When?’

‘In a year or so, perhaps.’

‘Oh, OK. I thought you were going to tell me you were moving out.’

‘No, not for a while. Don’t worry; I’ll give you plenty of notice.’ Mark pours himself another full pint. ‘My plan is to stay in London for the next year or two and then get a transfer to one of the other MenDax offices abroad.’

‘Where were you thinking?’

‘Well, preferably New York or my second choice would be Sydney, to help set up the new office there. I don’t want to go to Europe or the Middle East.’

‘Why not?’

‘I want to go somewhere they can speak my language and where there’ll be loads of fit women I can marry.’

‘If you want to marry more than one woman you’ll have to go to the Middle East.’

‘You know what I mean. Australian girls are all fit because they go to the beach every day so they have to keep in shape, and everyone says women in New York will sleep with anyone with an English accent.’

‘I’m sure they’d make an exception for you.’

‘Yes, ha ha.’ Mark yawns and scratches his chin. ‘It might all change but that’s the plan anyway. I’ll see where I am at the end of this year, but as long I’m earning more than a hundred grand, I’m content to stay with MenDax. If not, I’ll have to assess my options.’

‘
A hundred grand?
’ Craig says, his mouth hanging open.

‘That’s not that much mate, it’s actually less than I’m worth. For someone like me, at this stage in my career, I’ve got to be earning over a certain salary, it’s as simple as that. In fact, let me have a little bet with you. If I’m not earning over a hundred thousand by the end of the year, I’ll pay your rent in January.’

‘I’m not interested in betting, Mark.’

‘You haven’t got to give me anything. And I will pay it you know.’

‘Mark, I don’t care.’

‘Fair enough. But I’m still going to do it. It’ll give me a bit of extra motivation. What’s wrong with you anyway? You’ve been very boring recently.’

‘I’ve just been tired, mate. I’ve not exactly had a lot of time to have fun.’

The boys look on as a tall young man in an Imperial College Rowing Club hoody walks past.

‘Do you ever wish we were back at university?’ Craig asks.

‘No, definitely not. Do you?’

‘Umm, well, yes. When I’m at work I do.’

‘I don’t miss it
at all
.’

‘Not even being able to go and get smashed and get up whenever you want?’

‘I probably go out and get smashed more now. In fact I enjoy it more now because only the hardened drinkers stay out late.’

‘But don’t you miss being able to do pretty much whatever you wanted?’

‘I still do whatever I want.’

‘No you don’t. You’re contracted to turn up to work five days a week.’

‘Yeah, but I’d rather do that and have plenty of money than sit around all day doing nothing, worrying about how to pay for stuff.’

‘I thought your parents paid for everything?’

‘They weren’t paying for my drinks. At least they thought they weren’t. I’ve honestly never been more bored in my entire life than I was at uni. Nothing happened. Ever. I know it was a bit different for you because you had the football team and all your other mates but I didn’t have any of that. I think they make the drinks cheap in uni bars because alcohol’s the only thing stopping most students from topping themselves.’

‘That kid in halls in the first year did, didn’t he?’

‘He’d probably run out of money to get drunk and couldn’t see the point any more. I don’t blame him.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Mark says, shrugging. ‘I think people that miss being students are either lazy or scared of the real world, or a mixture of the two.’

‘Yeah, but I’m not lazy or scared of the real world; I just don’t like my job.’

‘That’s three reasons then. Anyone who spends their lives on a
university
campus is just trying to avoid life, and that’s impossible.’

‘But you can try different things and meet interesting people. You don’t have a boss breathing down your neck the whole time.’

‘Do you know how many interesting people I met at uni? None.’

‘I’m sorry I’m not more interesting,’ Craig says half-offended.

‘I don’t mean you, obviously. I mean other people. Everyone goes on about university this or university that, but I don’t understand it. If my only ambition was to do nothing apart from drink and sit watching DVDs all day then I’d probably miss it loads, but since we left I’ve never once thought “Oh I’d love to be a student again”. The only time I think about it is when I have a day off sick and I sit around the house on my own watching TV, and all that reminds me of is how fucking dull it was.’

‘You didn’t seem to dislike it that much at the time.’

‘True, but I never knew what it was like to have a good job.’

‘I still don’t.’ Craig looks up at the sky. ‘But at least we had some freedom, and the feeling we could do literally anything or go anywhere.’

‘Yes, but we never had enough money to do anything good. It’s not like we could have just hopped on a plane to Rio. You can have as much freedom as you like but without money it’s meaningless. You might as well be locked up. Anyway mate, enough of this depressing chat, have I told you I’m going on a date with a model this week?’

C
raig sits in his car with Kiss FM on and the windows shut. The dashboard display says that it’s 11.42 a.m. and 19°c. He is parked on the forecourt of a dilapidated Edwardian house next to a C-registration Vauxhall Cavalier which has both front wheels missing. Steps up from the pavement lead to a numberless front door. The building’s paintwork is peeling badly and iron bars cover the windows on all floors. There is a blue plaque on the wall marking the spot where a policeman was shot dead in 1981. The houses either side are both in the process of being demolished.

Craig reclines his seat and shuts his eyes. Seconds later there is a knock on the window. He panics and activates the central locking. On the other side of the glass is a skinny girl with spiky blonde hair. She has neon yellow sunglasses perched on her nose and is wearing a long vest with a silver skull printed down one side and short denim shorts.

‘Hello, are you Holly?’ Craig says, relaxing as he gets out of the car.

‘No, I’m Crystal,’ the girl says, ‘that’s Holly.’ She points at a tall girl with bright red hair, sucking on an orange lolly. She is dressed in skinny stonewashed jeans and a black and white striped t-shirt with red dots over it.

Craig waves. ‘I’m Craig,’ he says, locking the car and checking the boot. ‘Did you find your way here OK?’

‘We got a bit lost. It’s longer than five minutes from the tube.’

‘It all depends on which way you walk. If you take the short cut through the estate, it’s much quicker.’

He leads the girls up the crumbling steps and puts a key in the lock which is bent around the edges and surrounded by deep dents. The door sticks so he shoulder barges his way in. Post and flyers litter the hallway and an old BMX bike without a saddle rests up against the dirty wall. The place smells damp. Craig kicks the post into a pile and holds the
door open for the girls, who step tentatively inside.

‘Girls, I know what you’re thinking, but this place has just been bought by a new landlord and he hasn’t started work on the communal areas yet. All he’s done so far is the top two flats, but by the time he’s done, this whole place will look ace.’

Craig climbs the stairs. There are stains all over the landing carpet. He tries to turn a light on but it doesn’t work so he opens the roll blind covering the window at the end of the hallway. It kicks up dust into his face and makes him cough. The window provides an excellent view of a building site and a tower block and the windowsill is thick with dust and dead flies. He rolls the blind back down.

There is a dead mouse in front of flat 4. Craig manoeuvres it between his feet, shows the girls in and then kicks it behind a bin bag outside flat 3.

Inside, the flat has been refurbished to a basic standard. A narrow hallway divides it in two: on the right are the two identical unfurnished bedrooms painted magnolia with cheap laminate wood floors and ill-fitting sash windows with shutters. The rooms are no bigger than ten feet by eight. Craig describes them as ‘generous’.

The kitchen has, as Craig reads from the spec, ‘
Rear aspect sash window, Formica worktop with tiled splash backs, stainless steel sink and drainer unit with chrome mixer tap, four ring electric hob with extractor hood over with oven and grill under, space and plumbing for washing machine, wall mounted and low level storage units, fridge/freezer, ceiling lighting
.’

‘It’s OK, I suppose,’ Holly says, finishing her lolly. ‘Where’s the bin?’

Craig opens every cupboard door. ‘Err, don’t worry, I’ll take that,’ he says reaching for her stick and putting it in his pocket. ‘The kitchen’s all brand new.’

‘Is there going to be a washing machine put in?’ Crystal asks.

‘Yes, definitely. A washer and tumble dryer. That’s what the owner said when I spoke to him the other day. Of course the biggest advantage about this place is the fact that there’s no furniture. That’s means you can bring all your own stuff in and you haven’t got to have sofas or beds you don’t like.’

‘Who owns the house?’ Holly asks, taking off her sunglasses to reveal eyes covered in glittering make-up.

Craig walks over to the window. ‘The owner’s a great bloke.’ He pauses and looks down onto the street. A man wearing Adidas tracksuit
bottoms and a basketball vest runs past his car. ‘He’s a property
developer
and businessman but he used to be an athlete. I can’t remember his name but he comes from Brixton and he’s putting money back into the community. Urban regeneration projects…’

The girls follow Craig into the empty living room.

‘Just think of what a cracking room this would be when you get all of your stuff into it, girls. Big TV on the wall, stereo, and… and all those other things you’ve got. This would be great for a party, or just having your mates over. Are you girls working in London or students or…?’

‘We’re at the London College of Fashion,’ Crystal says.

‘Cool, I love fashion. And you’re both… fashionable, obviously.’

Holly leans against a wall and plays with her nose piercing. Crystal looks out at the estate opposite.

‘Have you got any questions?’ Craig asks.

‘Yes,’ Crystal says spinning to face him. ‘What’s the rent again?’

‘It’s three hundred pounds a week. And that’s a snip for around here, particularly for a flat as good as this. Although I could probably get it down to just over a thousand a month if you can move in straight away.’

Holly makes a note with an eyeliner pencil on the back of her hand. ‘What are the tube and bus links like?’

‘Brilliant. Brixton’s really central. It’s easy to get anywhere from here. There’s buses, the tube, overland train at Loughborough Junction just up the road. Where’s the London College of Fashion?’

‘Oxford Circus.’

‘That’s easy from here on the tube. Jump on the Victoria line at Brixton, change for the Northern line at Stockwell, then change for the, um, Central line and that goes to Oxford Circus.’

‘Or you could just stay on the Victoria line the whole way there,’ Holly says.

‘Um, yes, you could, you’re right. Another great thing about
Brixton
,’ Craig continues, ‘is the bars and clubs on your doorstep, and the late-night funky house places all the way up Coldblood Lane. There are also loads of great restaurants too: curry, Thai, Italian, Jamaican,
Moroccan
, Rwandan, and there’s a massive KFC and McDonald’s. It’s got pretty much everything you could want.’

Crystal is chewing gum and stands with her hands on her hips. ‘Isn’t it a bit, kind of like, dodgy around here though?’

‘I looked up Coldblood Lane on the internet and it said it was one of the most violent streets in the country,’ Holly adds.

‘I thought you’d ask about this,’ Craig says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and then back. ‘Most of the stuff on the internet is out of date. A few years ago this place was full of crack dealers and gangs of prostitutes but now it’s one of the safest areas in London. You can’t walk down the street without seeing an armed policeman or
hearing
a siren.’

‘How come it’s changed?’ Crystal asks.

‘It just has really. People have been doing stuff in the community and… and the police changed the law so you could deal on the streets and when they did that, there were less shootings.’

‘Is there a gun problem around here?’ Crystal asks.

‘No, not at all. There used to be, a bit, but virtually all the criminals are now in prison.’

‘Are we near the prison?’ Holly asks.

‘Yes, but living near a prison is very safe. All the criminals are in one place.’

‘Ummm. My pops was worried when I said we were coming to
Brixton
,’ Crystal says.

Craig looks concerned and says, ‘You can’t trust your parents’
opinions
. They wouldn’t like Brixton, but they probably don’t like clubbing either. Brixton’s a vibrant area for young people and families. If it was really dangerous nobody would bring their kids up here. The majority of people have proper jobs and live here because it’s cool. The important thing is to appreciate the local culture, like rap music and smoking weed and…. Chicken Cottage.’

Crystal starts giggling.

‘What’s funny?’

‘Aren’t you meant to be selling this place to us rather than making it sound scummy?’

‘I am selling it to you. I was just trying to give you some honest advice.’

‘Is it easy to buy weed around here?’ Crystal asks, twiddling the beads that hang over her boney chest.

‘Yes, massively. Dead easy.’

‘Can you leave me and Hols to talk for a couple of minutes?’

Craig goes into the kitchen and sits up on the worktop swinging his legs. The girls are laughing in the next room. They call him back in.

‘What do you think then, girls?’

‘It’s not bad,’ Holly says, her smile revealing crooked front teeth.

‘I could get you a top deal. I could even talk to your parents to put their minds at rest if you’re worried about them.’

‘We’re interested,’ Crystal says, ‘but we’d like you to do something for us first.’

Craig’s eyes widen. ‘Yeah, sure, anything.’

The girls hold hands.

‘We know it’s a bit cheeky, but could you buy some weed for us?’ Holly asks, fluttering her eyelashes.

Craig looks a little deflated and his tone becomes more serious. ‘If I buy you some weed, will you definitely move in?’

The girls check each other. ‘It depends how much you can get us,’ Crystal says sauntering up to Craig and turning over the end of his tie to reveal a Burton label.

‘How much money have you got?’ he asks.

‘Eighty quid between us. How much could we get for that?’ she asks, taking a step back.

‘Umm, quite a lot. About a pound.’

‘A pound?’ Holly says. ‘Don’t you mean an ounce?’

‘Yeah, sorry, an ounce. I don’t smoke much weed any more. The price has gone up a lot recently. And if I do this, you’ll definitely one hundred per cent take this place? No backing out?’

Craig stops on double-yellow lines outside the Ritzy cinema and tells the girls to wait in the car. He puts on his aviators and crosses the road, stepping between two women pushing buggies loaded with Iceland bags in the direction of St Matthew’s Church.

Brixton is warm and bustling but the air is thick with exhaust fumes as roadworks have caused the traffic to clog at the bottom of Brixton Hill. A line of buses to Streatham and Thornton Heath wait at the lights.

Craig stands at the crossroads outside KFC for several minutes watching people pass by. An old man with long dreadlocks and huge felt hat in the colours of the Jamaican flag is preaching about Jesus. Nothing happens. Then Craig follows the flow down to the tube past a busy Woolworths
and JD Sports, where he stops to look at trainers.

Outside the cavernous entrance to the underground, a woman with a toned stomach is handing out flyers promoting yoga classes and down on the concourse, police are manning a metal detector that all commuters have to pass through on their way out.

Craig walks into Jammers, a record shop opposite the tube. He’s the only customer. He hums along to the Sean Paul track that is being
broadcast
to the street and pretends to be looking at Chaka Demus and Pliers CDs. Behind the counter, a white Rastafarian is thumbing through a box of old vinyl.

‘If there’s anything you’re looking for mate, give us a shout,’ he says over the music.

‘Um, there is actually.’ Craig approaches the counter and pauses. ‘Do you where can I buy some weed?’ he asks uneasily.

‘Are you taking the piss?’

Craig sprints out of the shop up towards McDonald’s, dodging pedestrians and weaving in and out of barriers where the pavement is being dug up. He glances up at the clock on Brixton Town Hall. He’s been almost twenty minutes.

He crosses back over the road and stands outside KFC again,
looking
desperate. Holly and Crystal are watching him from the car and beads of sweat have formed on his top lip. A traffic warden is having a cigarette outside the cinema, staring directly at Craig’s Mini and making notes on her electronic pad. ‘Bollocks,’ he says to himself.

A black man in a New York Yankees baseball cap sidles up to him. ‘Weed, coke, crack?’ he says nonchalantly in a West Indian accent. He’s covered in gold jewellery.

‘Yeah,’ Craig mumbles.

The dealer points Craig up Coldblood Lane and they stop in the shade of a public phone box outside a Wetherspoons’ pub.

‘What daya want?’ he asks.

‘Weed,’ Craig says, his legs shaking.

‘How much?’

‘A pound.’

The dealer laughs. ‘Man, you crazy?’

‘An ounce. Sorry. How much is that?’

‘A ton.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You fuckin’ serious man? A hundred quid.’

‘I’ve only got eighty.’

The dealer sticks his hand inside his tracksuit top and then suddenly grabs Craig by the wrist, twisting his arm behind his back and slamming his face against the phone box, splitting his lip.

‘ARRRRRRGH, ARRRRRRGH,’ Craig cries. A group of
schoolboys
stop to watch and three old blokes have gathered at the pub window. The dealer snaps Craig into handcuffs, shoves him in the back and two other plain-clothes policemen surround him and force him to his knees.

‘You are being arrested for the attempted purchase of a prohibited substance,’ the undercover officer says, dropping the accent. ‘You have the right to remain silent, but it may harm your defence if you do not say when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Do you
understand
?’

‘But I wasn’t! I wasn’t!!’ Craig pleads, a thin trail of blood trickling from his mouth.