Meatspace (23 page)

‘What’s up, dude?’ he asks.

I remember why I’m here and the cigarette in my hand, sending toxins into my brain is making me feel angry again. I drop his passport in his lap. I shake my head. He looks up at me and smiles with all the charm in the world. ‘Dude, where did you find this? I thought I had lost it.’

‘You stole my passport,’ I shout. ‘You left it in Aziz’s bed.’

‘No, I didn’t,’ Kitab 2 says, laughing and looking away from me, spluttering away the
j’accuse
with his lips.

‘You did,’ I say, feeling angrier. ‘You fucking did. Don’t deny it. I leave my passport in the kitchen drawer, with my bank statements. I also found my bank statement. In Aziz’s bed. Where you were sleeping. Not in the kitchen drawer where they belong. Why did you have it? What the fuck were you doing with it? Was stealing my online identity not enough? Seriously, Kitab, this is serious shit. I could report you. You stole my passport. What were you going to do with it? What the fuck were you going to do with it?’

‘I wanted to see what your date of birth was,’ he says, smiling. The cigarette burns in my hands. It doesn’t taste like it used to.

‘Kitab,’ I say, steel-like. ‘You’re really messing with my life right now …’

‘What life?’ he asks.

‘What does that mean?’ I say, pointing the cigarette at him, dropping a mound of ash between us. ‘What the fuck does that mean? You stole my passport because I have no life?’

‘Dude, calm down. I was just having a look. I was just trying to help. I wasn’t stealing it. I promise,’ Kitab 2 says, cocking his head like a puppy. Either he’s that cute or he knows he’s appealing to my sense of brotherly love.

‘Look,’ I say, sitting back down on the bench properly and looking at patients ambling by. ‘Between my dad and his stupid dates, and this girl I’m seeing, and writing, I’ve got no time for silly buggers.’ Kitab 2 sniggers at the word bugger. ‘So why are you doing this to me?’

‘I haven’t done anything to you,’ Kitab 2 says. ‘Nothing, dude. I’m just being there for you. You need me to help you have fun, right? We’ve had fun. I didn’t do anything. I just had your passport and statement. You have been so nice to me. You let me stay at your flat. You fed me non-veg pizza. You took me to university and made me end up in hospital because I was buying drugs. You. You are a cool dude, dude.’

‘Kitab, you’re going to have to stop fucking with my life,’ I say calmly. ‘Whatever you’re up to, stop it. I’ve been nice to you. I don’t appreciate being fucked with in this way.’

‘Dude, I’m in hospital because of you. You owe me. Please dude, you owe me.’

‘You’re here because you got beaten up.’

‘I’m here because you wouldn’t be my friend,’ he whines loudly, the declaration clear: this is the reason we’re at this place now. Because I wouldn’t be his friend online.

‘Why would I?’ I say, my voice rising.

‘You just click “accept” on Facebook. It’s easy. That’s easy.’

‘Kitab, man, you’re delusional.’ Neither of us say anything for a few seconds. ‘We’ve got nothing.’

‘But I like you. And I love London. And I love your life. I want your life, dude. I want to be like you. You have such a cool life. You live in London. You go out. You meet girls. It’s awesome.’

‘Yeah, and? You can go and do all that yourself, you know. You don’t need me.’

‘It’s easier to find a job and an apartment with a British passport,’ he finally says, quieter.

‘So, you were going to use me for a job? What? You were going to pretend to be me?’

‘Dude, you are not as cool as I thought.’

‘That’s not really the point is it?’

‘If you were cool, you wouldn’t have such a problem helping a friend.’

We fall into silence. I watch the cigarette burn in my hand. I don’t need another drag. My hand feels so comfortable. I don’t want to ruin the equilibrium with another drag.

‘Dude, why are you always quiet?’

I don’t answer him. I shrug with the barest of shoulders and stare at buses going past, men entering and leaving a sex shop opposite the road, and the shoes of passers-by.

‘Dude, you need to say what’s on your mind. I’ll tell you what’s on my mind. Here’s what I’m thinking. I like you. I want to be friends because we’re the same person. I want your life. But also, I think you’re rude. You wrote this book and now you think you’re a super cool man, but you’re not, dude. You’re just a moody rude dude. So maybe I feel like you don’t like me. But also that you don’t like anything. Except this Aziz. Are you in love with him? Dude, seriously, you’re a loser.’

I look at him and smile.

‘You nailed me in one,’ I say flatly.

‘Sorry, dude. Just wanted a reaction.’

‘Why did you take my passport?’

‘You can get a new one, right? If I take your passport, I can stay in the UK and get work, dude. “We all look alike, right?” That’s the first line of your book. I can work here and it’ll all be cool. I never have to go back. Ever. It’s boring there with my dad. You don’t live with your dad. You don’t have to study all the time. You don’t have to go into a certain job. You have freedom. I have nothing. So I want to stay here.’

I never wanted to be the voice of brown England. I never wanted to be the Buddha of Suburbia for my generation.

‘Dude, your book is like
The Buddha of Suburbia
for our generation.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, absently.

‘So what if I borrowed your passport. I was going to photocopy it and take down all the details so I could apply for things. That’s cool, right? We’re brothers.’

‘We’re others.’

‘Brothers,’ he says. ‘Only 2 people in the world with our name. We all look alike, right? Dude, I’m sorry I said those words, did those things. I like you. I want to be like you. You’re cool. I lied. You are super cool. Dude, listen to me – you’re awesome, dude. Really awesome.’

More tolerable silence follows. A mutual respect based on a rapport finally found. I feel hypnotised and strangely comforted by his words. Like helping him is a natural thing. I smile. This guy’s a charmer.

‘Thanks,’ I mumble.

I ask if he wants anything. He says a beer. I go off to buy us teas. When I return, I sit down and we’re in silence. I feel sore about the passport thing but don’t want to bring it up again. It’s done with. I want for Kitab 2 to break the silence as he inevitably will do.

‘Are you on Tinder yet?’ Kitab 2 asks. I nod, because we’re friends now. ‘Let’s see if we can find a girl to visit me in my hospital bed,’ he says and giggles. ‘I need to get my dick wet, dude.’

‘No, man. That’s weird. Also, I don’t think they’ll let you bring girls in.’

‘If she’s close, I can pop out. No one would notice. I’m in a room full of 3 other Indians. We all look alike. Your words.’

‘I’m not going to do that.’

‘Okay, I understand. Can we at least look at who is on there right now?’

‘What if your nurse is on there?’

‘It’s better if I know, dude.’

I sidle next to Kitab 2 and load up Tinder on my phone. I press refresh and it updates all the girls geographically close to me. There are 15 girls.

‘Why have they all got their tongues out?’ Kitab 2 asks.

‘What do you mean?’

‘All these girls, they’re sticking their tongues out. It’s not sexy, dude. Maybe it’s because they’re all fat.’

‘That’s unfair,’ I say. ‘People get self-conscious when they have their photo taken. This is what they think we think is sexy, I guess.’

‘I’m not fussy, dude. I’m lost in a strange country, I’ve been beaten up and I’m a virgin.’

‘Well, let’s find you someone.’

We search through the 15 girls, but Kitab 2 doesn’t like any of them. He dismisses them as too fat, not blonde, too fat, piggy eyes, too fat, too young, too old, not blonde, hairy, too fat, too fat, not my type, Indian, black, and not blonde. I close my phone.

‘Sorry, man, them’s the breaks,’ I say. ‘It can’t be 100% accurate bikini-clad Playboy bunnies all the time.’

Kitab 2 looks at the ground. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I just thought …’ Another silence follows. ‘Do you do internet dating?’

‘I tried it once. I didn’t get anywhere. Aziz told me I should. He said it’s like a meat market for casual sex with ugly people or boring silent dates with quiet people who are funnier online than in real life. I didn’t meet anyone though.’

‘I should sign up,’ Kitab 2 says. ‘I don’t mind casual sex with ugly people, dude.’ He smiles. Kitab 2 draws in a big breath. ‘Dude, I want to go to a sex party,’ he says after stubbing out his cigarette.

‘Pardon?’ I ask.

‘A sex party. I want to go to one of those sex parties they have in London, where you wear masks and people have sex on round sofas with chubby blonde girls. I have seen it on the internet. When I was coming here, I looked up the local blue movies, dude. Britain loves swingers. And doggers. And sex parties. They’re all doing it. Everyone wears masks and you can stick it wherever you want. And the girls all sound like Ross’s wife from
Friends
. It’ll be cool, dude.’

‘Cool, man. Have fun.’

‘You have to take me. I do not know how to find one.’

Kitab 2 has mistaken me for a deviant. It’s hardly the decadent noughties anymore. Hasn’t everyone grown up and got cats? That’s the first sign of slowing down. Pets first, sensible job second, put all your homemade ‘art’ in storage third … then maybe accidentally have a kid as you hit your 40s. Modern city dwelling.

‘Neither do I, Kitab. I don’t know what sort of guy you think I am but I’m not a “sex party” man. I can barely look at myself in the mirror let alone prance about in just my penis, thrusting it into any orifice that takes my fancy.’

‘Oh,’ Kitab 2 says. ‘This is disappointing. I have made it my personal odyssey to have sex with a British woman. And where better than a party where everyone is doing it? And if it ends up on the internet, I can have a mask on my face but I will know it’s me.’

I point at his pants area. ‘I’m surprised you’re so proud.’

‘I saw one of your Twitter followers is a lady who organises sex parties. Her name is @partyorifices. Tweet her and ask.’

‘Mate, I have over 2000 followers. I’m not going to tweet someone I don’t know and ask them to invite me to a sex party,’ I say, folding my arms. ‘That’s not cool. I don’t want to do that on my account. Everyone already thinks I’m a sexpest.’

‘On September 4th, she tweeted to you that she loved your work and you were welcome to come to one of her parties anytime,’ Kitab 2 says, leaning towards me.

‘Right …’

‘You don’t remember.’

‘Not really. I probably thought it was spam. Mate, I’m not doing this.’

‘I can make life very difficult for you,’ Kitab 2 says, mirroring my folded arms.

I think about it and shake my head emphatically. ‘No, you can’t, Kitab. Seriously … I’ve half a mind to report you to the police. Or email your dad. I found him on the Bangalore University website. I bet he’d be troubled to know that you weren’t spending his money how you told him you would.’

I can play hardball too, I think. Not very successfully admittedly, but in this game of wits, we’re both twits.

‘I set up a webcam in your bedroom, dude. I got some video of you jerking off. I can put it on YouTube.’

‘No, you haven’t.’

‘No, I haven’t. You’re right. I don’t want to blackmail you, dude. I just want a favour. A favour, please … ’

‘A favour aside from letting you stay at my place, eat my food, helping you with stuff?’

‘A final favour. I’m going to go home, I think.’

‘Home meaning where?’ I ask.

‘I am going back to India next week. Going to say there was problems with my visa, and I’ll reapply next year. I just want this trip to end with a beautiful time. Come on, I will leave you alone. I promise. You go back to your life and I go back to mine.’

‘You said you didn’t have a return journey.’

‘I do. I changed my ticket. I used your credit card to pay the £100 extra.’

‘You did what?’ I say. ‘Fuck’s sake, Kitab. That’s dark. You’re paying me that back. When you get back, I don’t care how you get the money. But you’re fucking paying me back.’ He nods, embarrassed. I make a mental note to start checking my credit card bill once in a while.

‘Come on, take me …’

‘I don’t know, man. It’s not my thing …’

‘My mum’s dead and I don’t know anyone in the city and I’m alone … take me … My final wish to you.’

I get up and leave him there. I drop the cigarette on the ground. I’ve taken one puff.

aZiZWILLKILLYOU episode 12 Aziz vs Guns
[posted 15 September, 14:02]

Teddy Baker pulled the train driver down below the dashboard because he was slow to comprehend the situation. The screams from the platform and the screams and bangs from the passengers in the train didn’t alert him to the fact that we were being shot at. And just when the train cleared the station and geared into speed, the stupid baby started crying. Teddy Baker thrust it at me. I took it and looked down at it. It was a fat white baby.

#Azizhatesyourkids

I shushed the pink big-ass baby by bobbing it gently against my sweating Lycra chest.

‘You are a heavy fucking thing … yes you are … yes you are … you heavy little thing.’

‘Teddy, what do you make of this?’ Bob asked. Teddy Baker was driving the train while the train driver composed a text.

‘We saw some fucking action, eh boys?’

‘Yeah, Teddy. We saw some action.’

‘It’s the Aziz effect,’ I told them. They needed to recognise that I am Aziz, bringer of chaos and party-hard fun.

I am Samson. No, I am Hercules.

The rush that I was feeling holding this gangster’s baby and fleeing from a gunfight dressed as a motherfucking superhero was like nature’s Viagra. Shitbirds, I suggest you try it.

Then there was the unmistakable sound of another gunshot.

BANG.

Like that. BANG. Just BANG. No announcement. It wasn’t like a movie, so there was no trumpet stab and no building of tension. It was just matter-of-fact, a bullet was fired.

We all ducked and that caused Teddy Baker to wrench the accelerator then pull it back too far before Bob stopped the train. We were in a tunnel. The lights shone out into nothing.