Nirvana Bites (9 page)

Gaia was sobbing now as she laid Saffy in the hole. We each took turns to fill the grave, hug Gaia and offer soothing words of condolence. Frank's were ‘Never mind, girl. You've still got more cats than there are in the rest of the street.'

Gaia gathered herself with great dignity. She sniffed, hawked and gobbed, a little trick she'd learned travelling in a country where they can't afford tissues, and anyway believe that nothing can be more disgusting than carrying your snot around in your pocket. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and then stood for a moment with her face to the sky, eyes closed.

At last she took a deep breath, opened her eyes and smiled beatifically.

‘Aaaaah,' she crooned, ‘the cleansing, healing powers of the grieving ritual. I'm starving. Let's eat.'

We had celebrated Saffy's life and mourned her passing. We ate, drank and smoked to her memory and got high on wine, lager, ganja and atmosphere. I love living here. Where else could you spend a midweek lunchtime at a really good feline wake?

Stan hovered on
the outskirts of our circle, unsure of his position and left out of any of the spontaneous cuddles that were doing the rounds. I felt a stab of guilty pleasure, remembering the effortless way he had frozen me and Ali out of
his
enchanted circle the previous day. Well this was
my
family. If he didn't like it, he could go and fuck himself.

Soothed and mellow, we got down to business. We needed to gather our disparate threads and weave them together, so we could work out who was threatening us. We had allowed ourselves to become fragmented and vulnerable. Our strength lay in our collectivity. We needed to concentrate on it and go on the offensive.

Mags told us about her certainty that the families of the black people who had died in custody were in no way involved. She was inclined to see the whole thing as directed by the cops – especially as one of the programmes Stan's team had been researching was on police corruption. That led on to a discussion of the relative evils of institutional racism versus individual racist thugs.

Robin reported that all seemed fine in Catherine Highshore's constituency, according to his Tory aficionado mother and this was borne out by Stan's conversation with Catherine on the phone. It looked like we could rule her out as the intended target. Robin also said that Nick had phoned late last night, saying that he was following up a lead in Soho and would be in touch. Robin thought he had sounded odd and refused to be reassured by the call, but the rest of us couldn't see any reason for concern.

Ali said he'd been making contact with various groups and individuals on the grounds that at some stage we might need to call on ‘some extra muscle', as he put it.

I was a little disappointed. We were willing. We were even enthusiastic. But we still had nothing concrete to work on. We filled the silence with more eating, drinking and smoking.

‘So that's it then,' I said, swallowing a mouthful of vegeburger.

‘Ahem.' Frank cleared his throat. ‘Like – er – I've been a bit busy too, y'know.'

We all looked up mid-chew, -swig or -drag. Frank drained his lager in a couple of gulps, crushed the can in his hand and chucked it on to the growing pile of debris. He looked shaky but defiant.

‘I've been checking out Koi Korner again.'

‘Frank,' I said. ‘You didn't have to…'

But Frank was into his stride now. ‘I went to see a mate and bought all his
Big Issues
off him. Then I set myself up on a pitch opposite the shop.'

‘What if you were recognised?' I protested, but he had that covered.

‘The only person who saw us the other day was that woman. I was down the street a bit and if she'd come out, I'd've seen her long before she saw me. Anyway, I looked different.'

I could see his point. Frank as
Big Issue
vendor was a lot more credible than Frank as prospective aquarium purchaser. Yet he'd got away with that at first.

‘So?' I asked. ‘Did you discover anything?'

‘Yeah,' he replied. ‘Like – it's a really weird fucking area, y'know? Sort of old and new and posh and rough all at the same time.'

Gaia laid a hand on Frank's arm. ‘That was really enterprising, Frank,' she said. ‘Brave too.'

We all murmured agreement and Frank grew several inches in stature. I hated to be the one to burst the bubble, but someone had to: ‘But did you actually find out anything about Koi Korner?' I asked.

‘No. Well, yeah. Maybe… I mean… I'm not sure,' Frank stumbled. ‘I mean…it was a bit odd. The only people I saw going in were, like, little groups of two or three blokes. Serious-looking. Like those guys who came in while we were there, Jen. They'd be in there half hour or so, then come out. Empty-handed.'

‘Yes. But if you go in a shop like that, you're hardly going to come out with a fish in a carrier bag, are you?' said Robin.

‘That's true,' I replied. ‘On the other hand, it does sound a bit strange. And it's the only solid thing we've come up with. I think we need to pursue the fishing line a bit further.'

Everyone groaned at the pun, except Frank, who probably hadn't got it. Anyway, he was too busy looking pleased with himself.

I was destined to have another lousy night. I'd decided to allow Stan to continue sleeping in my bedroom, on the grounds that I would have the rest of the flat to myself once he was in bed. I'm a bit of a space junkie, and Stan's presence was knocking me off-balance.

By the fag end of the night, it seemed possible that there were three separate scenes going on – the harassment of Stan, the destruction at the BBC and the random acts of violence around Nirvana – and we had established a connection between them. But were we justified? What if they were totally unconnected? Or what if two of them were connected, but the third wasn't? Which two? Who? Why? Where? It was like that kids' game, Cluedo. ‘Dick Pierce with a staple gun in the production suite.' The only game I remember playing as a child with any clarity was hide-and-seek. Only it was never a game.

It was weird. I swear I had no more sleep than you get in a standard-length blink, yet I never heard anything untoward. The light was changing as I shrugged myself out of the sleeping bag and moved to the window. The greasy London dawn was made greyer by the grime on the glass. Heaving up the ancient sash and leaning out over the flaking paint of the sill, I took a few lungfuls of city air which felt almost clean at this time of the morning. I felt a need to focus on distant horizons, but the railway track was the furthest I could get. Still, it was better than factories and tower blocks. And the undergrowth and trees were clad in green shoots and fresh hope. I felt a bit better. You have to get what you can, where you can.

My gaze fell on Mrs V's shopfront with its metal shutters, next to the third house. I wondered if Gaia was OK. She would be curled up in a heap on her bed now, together with her remaining cats, in a big furry feline clump. My eyes moved down and along to where our trusty transit was parked on the kerb. At first I thought it was a trick of the light. You know those strange shadows cast by the dawn, where everything seems like shades of grey? Then, ‘Shit,' I breathed.

I pulled on my T-shirt and trainers and padded down the stairs and out of the door. As I came up to the transit, darting glances in both directions like a deer in a jungle clearing, I saw the full extent of the damage.

Someone had spilled bright red paint all over it. A vast quantity of bright red paint. They had poured it over the roof, from where it had oozed down, obliterating the windscreen and windows. It was still wet. It had a strange smell, too.

You might think what I did next was a bit odd, but I reasoned that they were hardly going to come back and sign their handiwork now, so I might as well go back to bed and tell the others later. So it was that I embarked on the best three hours' sleep I'd had in days.

I was warm. I was safe. I was in the cupboard. The place of punishment had been converted into a safe haven. So long as the door was open a crack… But someone was shouting at me. I Invading my space. Threatening me in my nest. Go away. Leave me alone. I'm not coming out. But they wouldn't take any notice.

‘Jen. Jenny. Wake up. Wake up, will you?' A hand gripped my shoulder. Shaking me.

‘No!' I screamed, lashing out with all four limbs – no easy feat when you're in a sleeping bag.

Jen. It's me. It's Mags. Something's happened.
Jenny.'

I opened my eyes and blinked furiously.

‘Wassup?' I mumbled through a mouthful of Styrofoam chips.

‘Someone's smothered the transit in blood.'

Blood??

It was Frank who seemed to be doing the indomitable chirpy bit for all of us. ‘Look on the bright side,' he said, sloshing another bucket of soapy water over the transit and rubbing at it with an old sponge. ‘It would be much harder to shift if it was paint.'

I was too distracted to laud his positive attitude. Two things were bugging me. Two very big things:

Robin said he had been at school with a guy who worked in a lab. He scraped a sample into an empty film canister and snapped it shut with a satisfied smirk.

‘Are you sure this friend of yours will agree to analyse it – no questions asked?' I wanted to know.

Robin nodded. ‘Oh yes,' he said. ‘He won't want his uptight socialite wife to find out what he got up to in the dorms with Rogering Roger. And by the way, he's not my friend.'

‘Bloody hell,' I snorted. ‘Evidently not.'

I felt a teensy bit better then.

Mind you, that was before we found the swastikas spray-painted under the bridge.

9

STAN HAD THE
shakes. I'd like to think it was guilt, but the truth is, he was terrified. I left him slumped on my cushions, staring at daytime TV, with a bottle of brandy at his elbow. I told him I'd be gone about two or three hours. I doubted if he'd move. I had an appointment, and no amount of blood, guts and Nazi thugs were going to prevent me keeping it.

I strode down the street with my head held high, on the grounds that you're less likely to be a target if you look tough. Which is true up to a point, but could also be construed as utter bollocks, of course. If you're being hunted by a gang of vicious psychopaths, a denim jacket and a longer-than-usual stride are hardly likely to deter them. Which is why I also carried a plant spray filled with bleach and a small carved boat from Mozambique in a rucksack slung over one shoulder. The boat concealed a blade, so rusty and blunt you could have cut more efficiently with a set of false teeth, but it made me feel better. Minutely.

I jumped on a bus to New Cross. I was going to see my old friend, Cathy. She lived in a second floor council flat which doubled as a down-market Gothic brothel. Cathy was expecting me. It's never wise to call round her place unannounced. She opened the door and hugged me to her implants. Then she took a step back and gazed at me.

‘Jen. It's great to see you. Come in.'

Cathy is a big-boned woman, statuesque, with long blond hair. She was wearing black leggings and a voluminous T-shirt: just your average working-class woman in her mid-forties. She looked good for her age though. She puts it down to job satisfaction. ‘Being a dominatrix is not like being any ordinary prozzy, y'know, darlin,' she'd told me once. ‘It's a vocation.'

‘Not working today?' I asked as I followed her down the hallway.

‘Gotta coupla clients later, but the mornin's all yours, love.'

We entered a room painted matt black. Heavy velvet drapes blocked out all but the subtlest hint of daylight. You could have processed film in there, if it wasn't for the dozens of candles which festooned every surface. The ceiling billowed with swathes of dark silken fabric. A worse fire hazard I have yet to see. The furnishing consisted of vast velvet floor cushions and a wide-screen TV. And this was just Cathy's front room. I'd never seen her bedroom. Maybe it was all pink satin flounces and crocheted dollies, but I doubt it.

Cathy went to make tea and I busied myself gazing at the photos lining the walls. Grainy black and white images in black frames. Each was a part of the body, enlarged many times over so as to be almost unrecognisable. You could stare for ages before thinking, Oh, it's a nipple, or Can that really be a scrotum?

Cathy walked back in carrying two steaming mugs and we arranged ourselves on the cushions. We chatted for a while about business, the weather, nosy neighbours and other inanities before getting to the crucial stuff.

‘Cut the shit, Jen. You've come for something specific. Spit it out.'

‘I have come about something specific. But I wouldn't want anyone to know I was asking.'

‘Darling. I didn't get where I am today by being loose-tongued.'

‘Tell me, have you ever been stumped for a sexual innuendo?'

‘Mmmmm. Never,' she crooned. ‘Sex is everywhere and in everything. Now what did you want to know?'

What I wanted to know was anything at all about Stan. Especially anything recent that I might have missed out on. I didn't go into details about what was going on and Cathy asked no questions. Nor did I tell her I knew Stan's identity in the straight world. I could tell she was anxious, and I was very grateful for her willing co-operation. There are not many people who would be prepared to give and ask nothing in return. Cathy's special.

‘Right. Stapled Stan,' she said. ‘Well, I suppose you know he's a double swinger, if you know what I mean.'

I did know what she meant. She meant Stan liked both men and women and could also switch happily between dominant and submissive roles. Nothing if not adaptable, was our Stan. I asked Cathy if she had noticed him hanging out with anyone in particular recently.