Conman (24 page)

“Bit of a scene,” I shrugged. “We had friends over for dinner. I was sick, Jane … well let’s say our friends didn’t have to look too far for the fireworks.”

“You tell Jane anything about – ?”

I shook my head.

Andrew’s eyes wandered about the shop once again. They came
to rest on where the till wasn’t standing. He put his hand to the bare formica, almost involuntarily, shaking his head, fists flexing. “This is … ?”

“Used to be,” I said.

“God,” he sighed. The muscles in his jaw ground and bulged restlessly. “How did they … I mean, why you? Why did the bastards pick
you
?”

“Because I’m greedy.”

“Heyyy, come on, less of that. We both know that’s not –”

“They told me. Told me over and over. The mark is
greedy
. The mark is
stupid
. My
character
is one who is happy to make a dishonest buck fleecing fellows out of their heirlooms. I got what I deserved.”

“Neil –”

“I rip off the rude. I lunch with the likeable. Christopher and I have that in common.”

“Really?” Andrew blustered loudly, shoving his hands in his pockets like a dad. “So you’ve now got a completely different personality from when I knew you ten years ago, have you? The guy who did all those posters for Film Soc’ in his free time? Could have charged them, but didn’t? Who did that Fun Run for the Student Union with Jane and me? Who donated those comics to the Cats Protection League charity shop every month? Who –”

“People obviously change,” I said, angrily, slamming debt after debt into a pile.

“People don’t change.”

“What about you?” I said, deflecting the attention. “Look at
you
.”

“We’re not …” and he trailed off. I saw a frown scuttle across his features. “We’re not talking about me.”

“
Look
at you though. Mr Madison Avenue? Mr Bigshot?
Just over from New York.
What happened to
you
? You were on that Fun Run too, y’know. In a Bob Dylan T-shirt if I remember the photos. You had an acoustic guitar with a CND sticker on it for God’s sake.”

“That’s … Look, we’re getting off the –”

“Everybody changes.
I
became a greedy, lazy, selfish idiot who clearly got what he deserved and
you
somehow became a capitalist
pig riding roughshod over the little man.” I fished out a sheet, turning it over.

An unfinished letter.

“No,” Andrew said flatly.

“Maybe it’s genetic, like they say? Maybe I’m just my father’s son,” and waggled the letter with a flap. “And maybe it’s for the best? Maybe it was a lucky escape for Jane. Finding out at last who she’s really –”

“
NO!
” Andrew yelled, making me jump. His eyes blazed. “God!
Listen
to you! Taking
all
the responsibility from … These people are
scum.
The fucking scum of the
earth.
What, you think because they use their
cunning
instead of a
baseball
bat
this makes them heroes? That it makes the poor souls they rob more complicit? Man oh
man
.” Andrew threw his head back, fists tight.

“All right, all right. I know.” I lay my father’s letter on top of the pile of bills. “I’m just feeling –”

“When they use your weaknesses
against
you? When they twist your dreams, feed your basest, greediest human instincts and then blame
you
for what
you
did to your
self
? You think this makes them what?
Robin Hood
?”

“I didn’t say that. That’s not what I –”

“Come on Neil, snap
out
of it man,” Andrew shook his head. “Shall we release all the drug lords from prison too? I mean while we’re absolving blame? If it’s not
their
fault? Or a conman’s fault? Or an arms manufacturer’s? Remove everyone’s responsibility? So that it’s
us
, our fault for being tempted into their wares.
Our
fault?!”

Andrew was shouting now. Arms out, spinning, railing at the racks and frames. I got the feeling that somehow, in some way, this went deeper than the last ten days.

“Benno, look –”

“Oh they’re just trying to
make a living,
they’ll say,” Andrew sang, thick with sarcasm. “Just trying to … There are
other fucking ways to make a living!
” he yelled. “
Other
ways! That don’t leave my fucking friends bankrupt. That don’t take away people’s homes and families. Other … other ways,” he said, slowing down a little. He breathed deep, blinking, puffing.

“Are you … Hey, hey,” and I put down my tea. “I appreciate what you’re saying, what you’re doing here. I do.”

Andrew looked up at me, eyes fixed, breathing slow. His fists opened and closed.

“Where’s this come from?” I said.

He looked at me a little longer.

“What aren’t you telling me? Why are you taking this so
personally
?”

“Because … just because we go back a long way.”

“We haven’t spoken in a decade,” I said. “You didn’t even turn up for graduation.”

Andrew stared at the floor.

“I wanted you as best man at the wedding, y’know? Tried to track you down? Did the card never arrive, or did you
get
the invite and not
want
to, or … ?”

He looked up at me.

“What
happened
? What’s this about, why are you so … ?”

“Because
look
at me,” Andrew spat. Something was simmering deep within my friend, beneath his appalling paisley neckwear. “I used to have … Bloody hell, I
did
have an acoustic guitar. I
did
have Billy Bragg badges on my blazer at school. You’re
right
, okay? I had the lot. A donkey jacket with a Red Wedge patch. Kinnock. Amnesty benefits. All that.
That
was me.
That
.”

“I know. I remember. Poetry too,” I said. “Power to the people.”

“Right. And now?” he shrugged sadly, picking at his suit.

I blinked. He had a point. If I hadn’t been there those years ago, witnessed it, the three of us baking the carrot cake and signing the petitions together, I would never have believed the Hackett poster-boy now propped up in front of me – Jermyn Street cufflinks at his wrists and a multi-million pound city
property-deal
in his attaché-case – was familiar with any poetry that wasn’t the sort to be sung boisterously at a rugby-club night out by
thick-necked
public-school bankers with beer glasses on their heads.

“So, what happened?” I said.

“It was a long time ago.”

“What
happened
?” I pushed. “When I last saw you, you were bloody President of Greenpeace. Andrew? It’s
me
. Chess in the halls, hanging my posters. All those talks. All that. What aren’t you telling me?”

Andrew sighed. He checked his watch and then looked at me,
seemingly searching my face for traces of the young man he once knew. He shook his head with a dry, sad chuckle.

“You got anything to drink? A bit stronger?”

“Another teabag?” I suggested.

“Forget it,” Andrew said. He furrowed his head, scratching his thick public-school thatch crossly. If a smile had been present a moment ago, it had now made excuses and got the fuck out of the way of things. “I had …” He moved around the shop slowly. “Everything was set. Planned, y’know?” he said. “I had it all sorted. You remember? Degree in geography, then it was a masters in oceanography.”

“Living on a trawler or something? Wasn’t that the plan?”

“Right,” Andrew nodded. “The big enviro-liberal. Helping. Doing my bit. Because that was what life was
about
. Cooperation. Socialism. Communal … I don’t know.
Responsibility
.”

“Right on,” I said, waving the obligatory ironic two fingers.

“I honestly believed then that the country, the world, would be a better place if we could all be a bit nicer to each other. Lend a helping hand. A few less rich p’raps, a few less poor – more of us all mucking in together somewhere in the middle. Everyone’s basically
good
. And up until it … it happened, I believed it. Truly. In here,” and he prodded his chest.

“
Happened
?”

“I was … I don’t know what you call it. Robbed. Burgled. Turned over.”

“
You
were? When was
this
?”

“One Christmas. Years ago. It was clever. I didn’t see it coming. They talked their way in. They
talked
like I knew them. There were doubts but … I let them in. I don’t know what I was thinking. Seeing the good in people I suppose. Didn’t think for a minute they’d …”

“God. And they took – ?”

“Oh everything. Everything that mattered. Without a second thought. No remorse. No hesitation. Turned, just like that. I pleaded but …”

I looked at him as the memory barged about his head. The anger curling his face. Breathing slow and loud.

“Did they … ?” I eased carefully. “I mean were you hurt? Did they – ?”

“They pretty much left me for dead.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Eventually, that is. While it was going
on
, they …” and he swallowed, tasting the memory. “It was violent. Childlike violence. That thoughtless, toddler,
battering
.”

“God, Andrew …”

“And
prolonged
. So they
told
me, anyway. I don’t know how long it
actually
took but it
felt
like months. I was just a wreck. Physically. Mentally. Psychiatrists tried …” but he didn’t finish, trailing into thought.

“But you’re okay
now
?”

Andrew took a silent moment. I saw a bitter, hateful smile dance across his face and then he looked at me. And he laughed.

“
Now
?”

It was nearing midday and Andrew and I were on a second cuppa, camped out in the chilly back office. The portable heater clanked and groaned noisily like a petulant teenager on a family holiday.

“And what, you’re saying that was what changed you? Your direction?”

“Changed everything,” Andrew said, sipping his mug with a slurp and stretching his back. “How could it not? That was that. When I eventually recovered, was able to think. Sit up. Feed myself. It was still there. The …” Andrew searched for the word for his pain. “Anger. I couldn’t focus. For weeks. The shock of it. For ages I found myself collapsing. Just sitting down on the floor,
wherever
I was. On pavements. In roads. Shaking.
Rage
. That people could be so … so …”

“Bad?” I said.

“
Bad
, right. Just so blatantly, cold-heartedly … It opened my eyes, I tell you. Made me grow up. I must have aged a decade. Everything I believed, everything I thought. About human nature, about my so called fellow man. It just fell away. Leaving a … a dark hole. A dark hole where liberal, friendly
trust
used to be.”

“Because of your attackers.”

“Who took my plans to care about the world and beat them to death. Beat everything good in me to death,” Andrew said, lip
curled, chin on his chest. A face shadowed and haunted by these ghosts. He plucked at his shirt sleeves spitefully. “All this? Cufflinks and … Madison bloody Avenue? This is them. This is what they left me with. Business. Dog-eat-dog. The big deal. Sixty hours a week screwing the other guy because you know he’d be screwing you. It was the only thing that made sense after that.
Jesus
,” he spat suddenly, grabbing at his ugly tie, yanking it, pulling it, the knot tightening. Over his face, over his head, hard, caught, before throwing it to the dusty floor. I watched him sit, chest heaving for a moment, eyes hard and glassy.

“I’ve never forgotten,” Andrew said. “They’ve never let me forget. And I’ll never stop hating them either. Because they turned me into
this
. They –” and the words caught in his throat for a moment. He let out a long slow breath, picking up his mug and staring into it. “Because they took everything. Everything. My trust, my soul. Tore them right out of my chest and replaced them with fucking hate.”

“But …” I began. Andrew looked up. I got the impression from his face that if there were ‘buts’ to be considered he’d already given them a thorough drubbing and seen them off with smarting
backsides
. But hell,
years ago
? It needed saying.

“This was years ago?” I said, shrugging a bit, palms aloft, trying to suggest forgiving-forgetting-and-moving-on with my eyebrows. Andrew blinked at me and smiled a small smile.

“
I know,
” he said. “I know. A
long time,
right? Time’s the great
healer,
isn’t that what they say? But
one day
Neil.
One day.
Not soon. But give it a while,” and he pointed a finger at me, narrowing his eyes. “You’ll discover what
I’ve
come to learn about our old friend Father Time.” He spat the words, dribbling a little onto his shirt. “The
great healer
? Ha. Time is the greatest get-out clause for any bastard in the fucking
world
.”

“Get out – ?”

“You’ll see.
Yooou’ll
see. You add enough
time
to any
wrong-doing
– a con, an affair, a robbery – and you’ll find while you sleep, all blame just
jumps the fence.
Just like that,” and he clicked his fingers three times. “Jumps. The. Fence. You wake up one day and suddenly now it’s
you. You
who’s in the wrong.
You
who’s the bad guy. All pity vanishes. Suddenly you’re labelled
childish
. Immature.
Obsessive. Hung-up.
Move on, man. What’s the matter with you? It was a long-time-ago man. Lighten up, get over it,
” Andrew said. “The bad guys? The
actual crooks
? Hell, no one can remember their names. They’re off. Scot free, screwing some other poor blighter. Leaving you to sit alone being pitied by your few remaining friends.” Andrew glugged the dregs of his cold tea and slammed down the cup, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Which is why I
won’t
let it happen to you.”

I looked across at my old friend as he got up, tugging his red book from his back pocket and giving it a waggle.