I Came to Find a Girl (23 page)

It’s a mess. He’s falling apart?
The thought makes me smile.

Marcus Hedley and Flood are standing in the middle of the room with rubbish at their feet. “I’m excited about this,” Marcus says. “Is it ready to go?”

Flood squats down by a bank of four TV screens – two black box sets placed on top of two others. “Take a seat.”

It’s not immediately apparent where the seating is. “Oh, there it is.” Marcus lifts a pile of dust sheets from the retro leather sofa.

Across the four black screens words appear in white script: ‘WHEREVER I GO, WHATEVER I DO.’

The first screen plays a speeded-up version of Flood’s night-time filming around Nottingham, while the second screen is more colourful with a single pole dancer in pink-sequinned knickers twirling and gyrating round the thick metal pole as she shakes her hair extensions, feigning ecstasy. Things slow down in screen three, with a naked woman face down across a satin bedspread, the camera taking its time to linger over every dip, curve and crevice.

Is that me?
I clench my fists.
Don’t let it be.
Panic rises within me and I want to be sick but I also want to watch because I have to know everything.

The final screen shows a dark, damp alley. It’s all in greys, black and blue, with a continuous drip from faulty guttering.

The four screens are like a giant flickering Rubik’s cube.

Marcus sits forward in his seat. “I like the juxtapositions: the drab city streets, the neon of the girly bar, the naked body and then the wet alleyway. It makes you conjure stories in your head.”

More words fill the screens: ‘WHEREVER I GO, WHATEVER I DO, I THINK OF YOU.’

Marcus taps his chin and says, “I’d like more of a soundtrack. Music in a gallery always attracts attention. Source something moody and atmospheric.”

The video begins again. Flood stares at the screens.

“The girl on the bed – it’s not Pax, is it?” Marcus asks.

“No.”

“Pity – could we not suggest it might be? The press would be all over it. It’s just an idea, Jack.” Marcus notes Flood’s horrified expression. “You know since you hooked up with this Pax woman, well, you wouldn’t believe the heightened interest in your work. Enquiries have increased tenfold. Your association with her has established you as an absolute brand. You’re a household name. I can shift almost anything with your signature on it. It could be time to employ some help. You’re not going to be able to keep up with demand otherwise.”

The doorbell chimes, making Flood jump.

“It’s only the door,” Marcus says.

Flood kicks through the rubbish to the video-entry phone. “I’ll be right down.” He turns back to Marcus. “I have to sign for a package.” He exits the studio and quickly returns bearing a small brown parcel. He closes the door to the studio and rips it open; causing decayed brown flowers to fall amongst the refuse already on the floor.

“
What is that?
” Marcus asks.

Flood scowls, as he squats down and picks up a handful of brown petals.

He’s pissed off. I got to him – all the times I thought sending him stuff was silly and puerile, I needn’t have worried – it got to him.

“What is this?
”
Marcus asks.

Flood crushes the powdery flowers and rubs his hands together, making the flakes float to the floor. “Someone sends me stuff.”

“What do you mean?”

Flood sighs and shakes his head. “I’ve had impotence pills, incontinence pants and colostomy bags. I even had a salesman from Stannah Stairlifts show up.”

“Why would anyone go to so much trouble?” Marcus asks.

Flood wades through paper and detritus to the far window. He leans on the exposed brick wall. He looks tired.

“Have you upset someone? Do you have a stalker?”
 

Flood stares out the window towards lush green leaves.
 

“I suppose that’s the downside of being in the public eye; you start to attract unwanted attention. Not a jealous ex, is it?”

Flood shakes his head.

“Why rotting flowers?” Marcus asks. “What does it mean?”

A look passes over Flood’s face.
He knows why it’s brown flowers. He knows because he saw my show.

“I don’t know what to suggest,” Marcus says. “It’s unpleasant and yet juvenile. I wouldn’t pay much attention. Whoever it is will soon get bored of such silliness.”

No, not bored, I simply moved on.

Film cuts to Flood’s studio on what I assume must be another day. It is even more crammed with art materials and litter. There are stacks of brown paper packaged canvases by the wall, thirty or so pots of paint, discarded DVD cases, screwed-up paper and other debris strewn across the floor.

Marcus rubs his hands together. “What have you got for us, Jack?”

Flood, his complexion grey, is tidying sketches away in a folder.

“Nicholas has taken time out to come and see your new work, Jack. He’s come over especially.”

Nicholas Drake is by the breakfast bar in the only patch of clear floor. “It’s good of you to let me drop by,” he says.

Flood doesn’t look up. “Nothing’s ready,” he says.

“Oh, come on, Jack, you always have something to show.” Marcus sifts through a pile of sketches heaped on the floor. “These are interesting – they’re like storyboards.” He studies a large sheet broken up into panels.

“It’s not ready.” Flood takes the paper from Marcus, but he moves too quickly and knocks his hip on a table laden with paints. He’s in pain and unsteady on his feet. Marcus reaches out to lend his support.

“You seem a little off today, Jack.”

“Nothing is ready.”

Drake interjects: “I understand that it’s work in progress. The thing is that you whet my appetite that time before when I came over.”

Marcus looks surprised. “You’ve been here before?”

Flood grips the back of the calico-covered chair. He looks grey and nauseous.

“Are you all right?” Drake asks.

Flood nods but too much – it’s unconvincing and he looks a mess, dressed in paint-splattered, low-slung jeans and a threadbare jumper. He rubs at his eyes. “I’m not sleeping.” He grips the back of the chair.

“It doesn’t normally affect you like this. Is there anything I should know? Jack never sleeps,” Marcus tells Drake. “You wouldn’t believe how many of my artists work strange hours.”

“I guess creativity is not a nine-to-five occupation,” Drake says.

“There are plenty of artists who only work by daylight,” Flood says. “Painters want the natural light.”

“You know, I would love to see your latest work,” Drake says.

Flood stands up shakily. “Bear with me.”
 

Camera cuts to post-viewing. Drake and Marcus are sitting on the retro leather sofa.

Drake nods his head. “I can honestly say, I didn’t see that coming.”

“You never cease to amaze me, Jack,” Marcus says. “Jack? Where are you?”

Drake is preoccupied as he surveys a pile of prints and sketches.

Marcus seizes the moment. “What do you think, Nicholas?”

Drake looks sharply at Marcus. “It’s got my name on it.”

Marcus nods. “You can rest assured, that if anyone gets it, it’ll be you.”

“What are you saying? Is this a money issue?”

“Jack’s not keen to sell at the moment. He’s too attached to it. I’ll talk to him.” Marcus looks around. “Where has he got to?”

Off camera, there is rapping at a door (the bedroom or bathroom? It’s unclear).

“Jack, are you okay in there?” A scuffle can be heard.

When Marcus returns, he is frowning. “I’m not going to get any joy today,” he says. “Give me a few days, Nicholas, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Is Jack all right?”

“He’s a little fragile at the moment, a few personal issues, he’ll come through.”

“Well, I hope so,” Drake says. “I’d best be off. You’ll let me know.”

“I’ll let you know.” They shake hands and Drake leaves.

Flood reappears. He traverses the studio, kicks at the rubbish, and flops down into the calico-covered chair.

“What is it, Jack, what’s bothering you?” Marcus asks.

“There’s something I’ve seen that I need to react to in a sort of semi-public conversation through art, if you like.”

“Very well.” Marcus pats Flood’s back. “You’ll find a way, and it’ll be magnificent, I’m sure.”

Flood forces himself out of the chair and starts to rifle through the rubbish.

“What are you looking for?”

“My Bible – have you seen it?”

“You’re not still doing all that nonsense?” Marcus makes a face. “It’s time I went. I won’t watch that.” He lets himself out, shaking his head as he goes, while Flood continues to scrabble through the chaos.

Thirty-six

The house was a tip: cigarette butts from a long-forgotten party were buried within the shag-pile on the stairs, and dirty crockery filled the kitchen. I wanted my deposit back – fat chance, unless I cleared up. I’d need some boxes.
Try the corner shop
.

Everyone had left apart from me. My folks would arrive later on as they had further to come. There was no reason to stay any longer. We had received our results a couple of days before, pinned up on the noticeboard outside Mike Manners’ office.

I’d walked down with Kelly. “Good luck,” I said as we approached.

“Yeah, good luck.”

It took a moment before we both registered.

“A 2:2,” Kelly said.

“Same,” I said, ‘and after all that work.”

“Congratulations.” Mike Manners came up behind us. We turned and looked at him nonplussed. “Aren’t you pleased?” he asked.

“It’s crap,” Kelly said.

“I’m sorry you feel like that.” He smiled weakly, as he shifted from foot to foot. “The show went well, don’t you think? We sold quite a few pieces and there’s still London, you might get lucky down there.”

“I doubt it,” Kelly said. We walked away and sat on the steps by the exit. “I can’t believe Beth got a first,” Kelly said.

“I know, bloody typical. And after all that hard work...”

Kelly got out her phone. “I’m gonna call my mum. I want to leave tomorrow.”

“Oh no, stay for the weekend – at least?”

I didn’t want it to end. I had nothing to go on to, or rather back to, and wanted to remain in Nottingham as long as I could but Kelly was having none of it.

The following day, we all helped Kelly and her mum load up the family car with three years’ worth of accumulated possessions and waved goodbye to Kelly Wiseman, BA Honours, who no longer wanted to be an artist.

It felt strange without her. We’d shared the top floor for two years. I entered her vacated room and sat on the floor in a pool of light, enjoying the warmth on my skin. She’d left her pine shelves. I guessed she wasn’t planning on needing anything so cheap in future. There were a couple of postcards from art galleries – a Picasso line drawing of a minotaur and a sunny but smudgy painting of two figures – one playing pan pipes while the other stared mesmerised by his own reflection. I peeled it off the wall and turned it over: ‘Ken Kiff,
Echo and Narcissus, Sequence 81
1977’.
I like that.
 

Kelly had also left a poster of Louise Bourgeois’ giant metal spider Blu-Tacked to the chimney breast. Essence of Kelly was still in the room. It was hard to believe she’d gone; but gone she had, and soon the others left too: loading up their parents’ cars while Spencer had Graham come round with a van.

No one cleared up though. The kitchen sink and worktops were piled high with unwashed crockery and the bin was overflowing with rotting debris. Did no one else care about the deposit or were they all wise to the likelihood our fat, slimy, money-grabbing landlord wouldn’t pay back a penny whatever?

Ever the naïve optimist, I walked to the corner shop to get some cardboard boxes in order to clean up. I squinted in the sunlight. I didn’t have my sunglasses, and neither did the albino girl with over-curled hair who sat on the wall at the crossroads. I tried not to look, but she fascinated me, sitting there in hot, shiny black clothes on a day like that.

“No cardboard boxes,” the gruff shopkeeper said. “We have bin liners.”

Of course he does. He can charge for those.

As I walked out, the guy in the third-floor flat next to the shop made his usual ‘psst’ sound. I kept walking, tucking the bin liners under my arm – I didn’t want him to see what I’d bought. I didn’t want him to know anything about me.

Back at the crossroads, the albino was still there, sitting on the wall, kicking her feet out. I sneaked another glance. Her jacket and miniskirt looked like PVC, as though she’d already been wrapped in bin liners.

In the kitchen, I tipped all the crap into one of the black sacks. Plate after plate of mouldy chicken bones and the shortest cigarette butts possible. The plates went in too. They weren’t worth saving, though I doubted the thin, poor-quality sack would be strong enough to hold them.

Slug’s room was the only one left locked – probably a good thing. I imagined piles of porn, that nasty brown polyester sleeping bag and the lingering stench of his maggot feet.

I need a shower.
I was so lethargic, hung-over, I suppose.

I stripped and climbed in behind the mildewed plastic curtain and thought about the night before. We’d gone to Zoo: Spencer, Tamzin, Graham and me.

Zoo, a huge club on two floors, wasn’t as busy as usual, as so many people had already left. One of Tamzin’s exes was there though. James – a handsome but dull law student was straight over, making a play for her. Tam didn’t seem to mind, though she kept making faces whenever he wasn’t looking.

I sat drinking and talking with the others, and more friends joined us but somehow Spencer and I splintered off. He knew I was leaving the following day, as was he (though he was only moving a matter of streets away).

“What are you planning to do next?” he asked.

I wished I could say I was staying. “I’ve got to go home, but I plan to move to London as soon as I can. What about you?”

“I’ve got a place with Graham, off Forest Road.”

“What about the college show in London? Will you go?”

He shook his head. “I’m through with the whole college thing.”