Glass (8 page)

11

Calling

I waited for the call from Blades, but it didn't come. I kept getting calls from people who lived miles away, who had heard how well I had treated poor Mrs Dorman, or had seen me in the paper and were pleased to see a good Christian at work in the neighbourhood. Those were the worst calls, the ones that implied that it wouldn't do to have one's windows washed by the ritually unclean.

And so, with nothing to get up for, I slept. We all sleep, but like my father, I do not believe in half-measures. Sometimes I would wake at 10 a.m. to find that my father and I had fallen asleep together in our dinner fifteen hours before. At least he could plead senility – I had no excuse. I would only wake up because my phone was ringing through to my dream. Another unknown number, another suburban semi-detached. To get a cold call was annoying enough, but to interrupt the unburnished beauty of a good dream was unforgivable.

I did try to call Blades. His phone rang, rang and rang. I wanted to leave a voicemail but it just kept ringing. I hung up.

About half an hour later, I got a text from him, just saying:

I'm busy don't ring again I'll call you

I went downstairs, disheartened, to heat dinner.
³⁸

Hours later, at the kitchen table, Dad prodded me awake and, wiping ‘chilli con carne' from his cheek, asked me:

‘Why aren't you out there working? You're not just going to give up again like last time are you? Sit around here all day playing on your computer?'

‘Calm down, Dad,' I said. ‘You're confused because you just woke up.'

‘You calm down! You ingrate!'

‘Dad—'

‘Don't “Dad” me!'

‘You've got a kidney bean in your nose.'

‘Don't change the subject. I want you out of the house and working tomorrow.'

I looked at the pink rashers of dawn streaked against the sky. I took up our plates.

‘Go to bed, Dad. Let's speak when we wake up.'

‘I mean it, Günter. I want you out there in the morning—' he looked out the window ‘—tomorrow morning. And pulling in a wage.' As if to emphasise his point, he put an index finger over one nostril and ejected the kidney bean.

I went upstairs and took a shower, watching the white fat of the chilli mince melt from my eyelashes and blur into the stream by my feet. I vowed never to tell anyone how many times I had slept face down in food. I wondered if it was possible to drown in chilli con carne. I thought about the way my mother had gone.

When I woke up later that morning, I decided I was ready to check my phone. I had many missed calls from many unknown numbers. Three were missed calls from Blades.
First new message. Received today at 9.30 a.m
. ‘Günter, hi, it's John here, John Blades. I'm going to send Frank over to get you, I've got a great job coming up in London, I've pinged the details across by email so you'll have it all there but we should meet mano-a–mano. I know you check your mail regularly so I'll send Frank now and you'll have a couple of hours to pack.' I looked out of my window. The heavyset man was standing outside my front door, reading a little book which he held open with one meaty hand. He was about halfway through the book.

I felt a familiar rush of excitement as I grabbed all my gear and stuffed a few bits and bobs into an overnight bag. I scribbled a note to my dad saying that I'd gone to London to work (here, perhaps spitefully, I underlined the word) and didn't know when I'd be back. I walked my bike round the side of the house and saw the heavyset man. He looked up from his book and bobbed his head appreciatively.

‘Frank?' I asked. He looked at me, neither confirming nor denying, and put his book in a large jacket pocket. Then he reached out and grabbed my bag with one hand and the bike with the other. I had decided to cycle everywhere from now on. London wasn't that big, really, and I could use the exercise. ‘Oh! One last thing.' I ran back inside and grabbed my new grappling hook, still in its box, and brought it out to the car. As I sank into the soft leather, I felt my nervousness sink into obscurity.
There is no need to worry now
, the seat seemed to say as it massaged me with the rhythms of the journey.
You are in safe hands.

Frank was humming along to an epic, swooping piece of classical music. I stared into the tinted glass. It could almost have been a sulphur-based smoked glass, but something told me it was photochromic, and reacted to how bright the day was. Very tasty. I chuckled to myself and saw Frank glance at me in the rear-view mirror. I decided that I would make him talk to me. Unless he spoke sign, in which case I wanted him to keep hold of the steering wheel. I looked at his eyes in the mirror. They were sunken and the surrounding veins had risen to the surface like dead fish.

‘What were you reading, Frank?'

‘A book.' He spoke softly from the throat, as if unwilling to make use of his huge lungs in a confined place.

‘What's the book about?'

He didn't reply, so I watched the countryside. It was all much of a muchness, fields of green and beige. We continued winding down a quite lovely stretch of the M3, which had been dug through a hillside where rare butterflies were once found. England held a very broad definition of progress.

‘My nan used to live in Salisbury,' Frank offered.

‘Oh yes?'

‘Yeah. She's dead now.'

‘Oh,' I said. ‘I'm sorry to hear that.'

‘Doesn't bother her, does it?' said Frank. ‘So you German or something?'

‘My mum was German, but I don't really know anything about it. The country, I mean, or the language.'

‘So you're not German?'

‘Well, I'm half German. Half Welsh, actually.'

‘Blades likes Germans. Probably why he hired you. In his book, Germans are the next best thing to a born and bred Englishman.'

‘Right.'

We watched more scenery pass. I declined to stop at the service station. I found them odd and disturbing places. I preferred not to think about who had developed them, or where their employees came from.

‘So where are we going?' I asked.

‘London,' he said.

‘Where in London?'

‘London Bridge.'

He swerved out of the way of a car in the fast lane, undertaking it at pace. I noticed that Frank had a habit of almost doubling the prevailing speed limit. The car was so silent inside that it was hard to believe the speedometer, although the blur of traffic outside suggested that it was accurate.

That, and the fact we arrived in London almost before we left Salisbury. I was glad, because the conversation wasn't exactly flowing. Just as I spotted the great spike of the Shard up ahead, we veered off the main road and down an alley, stopping in a concealed car park from which I could see the Thames and a warship that seemed to be lodged between two bridges. Frank got out and opened my door wordlessly, as he was wont, and led me out through a small path to the main promenade and then into a neat little bar which was sandwiched between two restaurant chains. Blades sat alone at a table by the window, enjoying an ale, watching the football. I suppose I had thought that, because we both cleaned windows, we must be similar people. But I am no lover of football. I was once shouted out of a pub during an international match because I asked what colour kit we were wearing.

Nevertheless, in the important spirit of camaraderie, I sat down and turned my head to the screen. After a few minutes someone kicked the ball at the wrong colour player and Blades slammed his fist on the table.

‘That's right, just hand it to him on a plate you silly black bastard.'

‘He is a silly … bastard, isn't he?' I said, shaking my head. ‘I was thinking that last game.' Was this too far? I hoped the bad player had been on the pitch last game.

‘Palace fan, are you?'

‘Well … I suppose I'll be watching the jubilee. Quite fond of them, really. Though I'd hardly call myself a Loyalist.'

‘How can you be when they play like such – THROUGH BALL, YOU – OUT LEFT – I SAID LEFT—' Blades threw his hands up in dismay. ‘Well they've given them the game. They don't know their arse from their elbow. Half of them don't even speak the same language. How are they supposed to work as a team if they don't speak any bloody English?' He turned away from the TV set as the waiter approached. ‘What can I get you? Scotch? You a Scotch man?'

I thought about Dad drinking whisky at the kitchen table and gradually shrivelling like a prune.

‘Just a water please.'

‘Sparkling,' said Blades.

‘I don't really drink sparkling water,' I said.

‘Really? It's a great palate cleanser. I always have a glass after sex. Keeps you fresh,' Blades said, checking a BlackBerry.

I considered this hypothetically, not knowing what anything was like after sex. I wondered if the world seemed different. The waiter brought a bottle. It hissed open and he poured about a quarter of a glass' worth, as if demonstrating a new kind of vessel to the uninitiated. I poured the rest of the water into the glass, as if I too was trying out this new vessel.

‘I'm going to cut to the chase, Günter. I want you to work for me.'

‘Okay.'

‘I saw you slip up back at the Spinnaker Tower, but you kept a level head, and that's the important thing. Don't let it scare you off the idea of skyscrapers.'

‘I'd love to work on skyscrapers.'

‘The money's good.'

‘I said I'd be happy to.'

‘I wasn't listening. So what IRATA level do you have?'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘You know, rope access qualification. Level 3?'

‘Oh, I don't have one.'

‘What?' He bared his canines in surprise. ‘Then why in God's name did you dangle off the Spinnaker Tower?'

I faltered.

‘I don't know. I suppose I wanted to see it clean. I like being out there, up high, the idea of … uh. Purity. I suppose.'

He smiled, his canines protruding further, and held my gaze.

‘Purity?'

‘Well. Yes.'

He made an amused noise at the back of his throat and seemed to relax.

‘Me too. So: we'd better get you enrolled on a course. You'll start Monday. We have three weeks left and then, I think, things will get interesting.'

His eyes drifted back to the game. Frank came tactfully to my side. No one else, including Blades, seemed to have noticed Frank's arrival. He was a subtle creature, for one so heavyset.

‘Where now?' he asked me as we got in the car.

‘I don't know. Can you recommend somewhere to stay?'

‘Do I look like a phone?'

I was struck by that British paralysis that occurs just after being the victim of rudeness. Presently, I decided to get out of the car.

‘I'm sure this area will do nicely,' I said, opening the door. ‘I'll pick up the rest of my things later.'

‘All right, all right,' he replied. ‘Look, the hairy Aussie is staying down here on the left. Hostel California. Just keep your head screwed on. They'll see you coming.'

A few minutes later, I found myself staring at a peeling door tagged with artless graffiti. The buildings next to it were all single-storey, but this one teetered at three floors. Next to the front door stood two skips full of fermenting rubbish. I supposed it would probably be nicer once you got inside.

I opted for the cheap twelve-bed dorm, since the same musty smell permeated the whole building, and took my belongings up the rotting wooden stairs. At the top, the landing was painted a sort of livid puce, and one door stood ajar, apparently no longer able to shut itself in the event of a fire. I pushed it open and made a beeline for a free bed. It was unmade, but then, all the beds were unmade.

I looked around the bare room and saw a pile of duvets bundled up on one of the mattresses. I went over to pick one up and realised that it was rising and falling with the breathing of whoever was sleeping underneath it all. There was a shuffling, and Pete the Aussie Greek slid out from the bottom of the pile.

‘Give us a minute, mate? I'm cracking one out.'

‘Oh. Gosh, yes, of course.'

I went and sat on my bed and started to unpack my things. A toothbrush, a glasses case, a few changes of clothes, my gear. I didn't want to wait for Pete on my bed, so I decided to head back out. It was raining heavily now, but I had my cagoule on so I didn't really mind. I went and bought a copy of
Loot
to look at the accommodation on offer. Anything would be better than the hostel. Much as I admired the internet, one could find a better quality of advertisement in a proper physical paper. It took a great deal more effort and expense to take an ad out, whereas on the internet you could just throw it up for free in two minutes.

I circled the only likely-looking place – a bachelor in a two-bed Hackney flat. The oddity of the advert caught my eye, requesting that applicants appear in person on a Friday. The man was looking for a live-in cleaner, rent free, male only. I would have to brace myself in case it was a den of iniquity. The problem was, I started the course on Monday. Two days did not seem like a very long time to find somewhere to stay, let alone live. I felt like a hermit crab between shells, and if the bailiffs came for Dad it would feel very much like they were stomping my safety shell underfoot.

As I walked back to the hostel, my hand came upon the business card in my pocket. Lieve had told me she lived in London.
Psychic and Medium.
I decided that I would try to convince her, against her better judgment, to go on a date with me. It was easy, I told myself. I dialled the number before I could think too hard about what I was doing.

‘Lieve Toureaux.'

‘Hello! It's Günter. I met you in Portsmouth. The window cleaner?'

‘Hi, Günter.'

‘I'm in London.'

‘Okay.'