The Bullet Trick (19 page)

'Guten Morgen,' I nodded towards a poster of the younger brighter version of myself. The doorman looked at it blankly then returned his gaze to me. His eyes had taken on a deliberate vacancy. The smile was beginning to ache, but I’m a pro, I kept it strained in place and asked, 'Do you speak English?'

The doorman’s stare was cold. I fished out the bargain imprint German phrasebook I’d bought at Heathrow, but there was no entry for, I’m a conjurer performing here tonight; please let me in so I can do some preparation. I stepped next to the poster, pointing at it, then at myself, sure he was buggering me about but not willing to lose my temper.

'That’s me… Das ist…’ I pointed at the poster again. 'Ich bin…'

The doorman grunted and lifted the newspaper. Then something caught his attention, he straightened in his seat, smoothed back his hair and a small smile touched his lips. I followed his gaze and saw Ulla dismounting from her bicycle. She was wearing the same scuffed jeans she’d had on yesterday, but her hair was tied back in a neat ponytail and her shirt was clean. She looked like an advert for shampoo or sanitary towels or some other product that required a fresh, feminine, sporty beauty.

'Morgen.'

Her smile took in both of us, but I thought the doorman got the lion’s share of its warmth. He returned her greeting then said something indicating me. Ulla laughed and the two talked for a few minutes that seemed like an age, leaving me stranded beside the image of my more promising self. At last the guard buzzed open the main door and let us into the building. I gave him a cheery Danke as I passed, but the newspaper was already back in place, shielding his face from the light of the corridor.

Ulla’s smile seemed all used up but her voice was apologetic.

'Sorry, I should have given you a pass yesterday.'

'No problem, you got me through Check Point Charlie.' She gave me a sharp look and I cursed my stupidity. 'Sorry.'

There was a fork ahead in the corridor. Ulla hesitated, probably waiting to see what direction I chose so she could take the other.

'So you have everything you need?'

'More or less, but I could do with an intro to your chippy.'

She looked confused.

'My what?'

'The theatre joiner, carpenter, the man who makes the sets.'

Further down the hallway a door opened and Kolja stepped out. He stood silently watching us, dressed in his sweats again, his chest naked and shining. Ulla smiled and raised her hand in greeting. I muttered ‘Big poof’ under my breath and she turned to me.

'Pardon?'

'Nothing.'

She explained where to find the props department then walked off to greet Kolja. My eyes did an involuntary drop to her taut denim-clad rear. Whatever my trials, whatever my vicissitudes I always retained my aesthetic sense. It was a comfort of sorts. I looked up, saw the athlete watching me and raised my hand in a greeting I knew would go unanswered, then went in search of my quarry, wishing buffed-up krauts and a clumsiness with women was all I had to worry about.

The joiner had worked for a while in Newcastle and was keen to use his English. We discovered mutual acquaintances amongst the Newcastle theatre crowd, swapped experiences of brown ale, and then I explained what I wanted. He looked at my designs, asking a couple of questions, nodding to show he understood the answers and promised to have what I needed ready for the following week.

Sylvie was small and lithe, pretty, witty and clever. With her help I would build an act that would astonish this city. As for the other business, I couldn’t really believe it had anything to do with me. I’d stay here, work out my contract, and if there was any trouble I’d deal with it when it appeared.

Glasgow

I BENT MY empty can in two, scuttled it beneath the bench, then broke the seal on another and took a big swig. The Clyde was a still, battleship-grey, a shade lighter than the drear of the sky, a shade darker than the drab of the concrete. The only splash of colour came from the septic yellow label on an empty bottle of tonic wine rolled in the verge. There was an extra note to the dampness now. It would rain soon.

Dealing with trouble later was a stupid strategy. If anyone asked me now I’d say always meet trouble halfway. At least then you might have the advantage of surprise.

It had grown cold by the river. I wondered how people managed to stay alive sleeping under the bridges in the green damp. Did their skin give in to verdigris and decay, their bodies mistaking this preparation for the grave for the real thing?

Somewhere in the city a clock struck three. The four cans had hit home and the fifth might just get me near to where I wanted to be. My legs felt as leaden as the landscape. I got up and gave them a shake, trying to shift the stiffness, then started to wander back the way I had come, taking occasional pulls from my last can as I went.

The bundle of rags that was the old man I’d given the beer to still nestled at the foot of one of the wide stone pillars of the bridge. I hesitated, listening to see if I could hear any wisdom in his mumbles. But if he was saying anything it was lost in the rumble of early evening traffic from the road above.

Fuck listening. Confession was meant to be good for the soul and here was someone I could talk to without fear of judgement or retribution. I’d honour this old king of the road with a portion of my most precious worldly possession, my final can. I’d tell him what had brought me to this, and perhaps he’d share his decline with me.

I eased myself down towards his nest.

I’d be the new uncrowned prince of decay. He’d bequeath me his sores, his scabs and scaly skin, the lice that played amongst his beard. I’d learn what itching was. I’d be the itchiest itching tramp that ever frightened a schoolchild or tapped on a restaurant window. There was a strong smell beneath the bridge, but drink and cold are kind to the nasal passages; it didn’t bother me.

'Hello, pal, how’re you doing?' The bundle of rags lay motionless, but I could see the electric aureole of grey hair escaping the blanket. 'There’s a wee sip of lager here if you want it.' It was still cold, but the pillar gave a bit of shelter from the wind. Outside it started to rain. 'This is a rare spot you’ve found yourself.' The old man was silent. 'Not feeling like a blether? Aye well, that’s fair enough.' I got down from my haunches and sat on the ground with my knees pulled up to my chest. 'Do you mind if I share your wee space just for the now?' I took another sip of lager. If he was asleep it meant I didn’t have to share. 'Just tell me if you do and I’ll piss right off.' I thought perhaps he shifted, but maybe it was just a stray breeze finding its way beneath the shelter, ruffling at his hair. 'You’re me.' I sought for the words to explain what I meant. 'You are the way I’m heading. But just ’cos you’re me disnae mean I’m you.' I took another sip from the can. 'You had your own road here I guess. I hope it wasn’t as bad as mine.' I laughed. 'Jesus Christ, man, I could tell you a story.'

The rain picked up a little outside. It was warmer under the bridge than I’d expected. It was true; these old jakies knew a thing or two. The can was almost empty. I’d have to move soon, walk back up to the real world of cars and traffic, find myself a pub and grab a final pint or two. Yes it was a damn sight cosier down here out of the wind and the rain. I closed my eyes. It wasn’t such a bad place to stop for a while. I listened to the whirling cackles of the seagulls and the even rumble of the traffic. My last thought was that I could almost be beside the sea. Then I shut my eyes and gave myself up to the warmth and the black.

It was a white light that woke me. A pure searing cocaine white that peeled open my eyelids then forced them shut. There was a man behind the beam. His voice was stern, but there was a weary quality to it that made me think the sternness was an act.

'Come on, you know you can’t sleep there.'

I shrank back, shielding my face with my hands, like a disgraced businessman trying to hide from the camera flashes of the press. Behind the bright light I could make out the figure of a policeman. My specs were skewed across my face. I straightened them and whispered, 'Montgomery?'

But that was a nonsense. He hadn’t worn a uniform and anyway he wasn’t as big as the man that was reaching towards me and rattling my arm in a shake.

'Come on, rise and shine.'

I tried to get to my feet but my legs were locked. The policeman dipped his torch and I levered myself onto my hands and knees, trying to remember how to work my limbs. I was beginning to recall where I was. There was a bitter taste in my mouth and an explosion of bright spots behind my eyes.

'Look at the state of you.'

For the first time I noticed the second policeman to my left. He reached over and prodded my companion with his torch. It was a gentle businesslike prod. The old man remained motionless, his wild halo of hair the only part of him visible above the blanket.

'Give old Leonardo a shove will you.'

The smell was strong now, a mix of shit, urine, decay and something else, a rusty iron scent I almost recognised. I pushed down the nausea in my chest, leaned over and shook my companion softly by the shoulder.

'Come on, pal, I think it’s time to move on.'

I thought the old man stirred, but then he started to slip slowly, oh so slowly sideways. I reached out to steady him, felt a wetness soaking the rough weave of his blanket, felt him slump against me in a sickening softening lurch.

I said, 'Are you OK?'

Then the torches caught him in the centre of their beams, and I saw the face that rested on my shoulder, a John the Baptist head, bearded and bloody, mouth lolling open, sweet sticky redness glazing his frozen face. The whole petrified tableau framed in the white light.

I scrambled to my feet and felt a hard grip on my arm, helping me rise out of the filth. The policeman wasn’t acting anymore. His words were caught in a sigh that was pure anger.

'Jesus fuck! What in Christ’s name have you done?'

The police doctor who examined me was quick and businesslike. He prescribed a hot drink and pronounced me fit for interview. My clothes were put into plastic bags and I was issued with a white jumpsuit. I knew enough from the movies to ask for a solicitor and no one tried to talk me out of it. The cell was cold. I took the blanket off the bunk and draped it over my shoulders, then a wave of nausea hit me and I bent over the toilet. The orange police tea came up in a quick warm flush of liquid, followed by a painful gagging that only managed to cough up a thin streak of yellow bile. I’d corrupted the crime scene with the rest of my stomach contents when I realised what I’d been sleeping next to.

I rolled back onto the bed clutching the jaggy brown blanket around me, not caring who else might have sweated into its coarse weave. I was shivering now. I pulled my knees up to my chest; the damp of the river still seemed to cling to me. I rubbed the blanket between my fingers. It had an animal smell, the odour of all the men who had been shut in here. I tried not to think about the noise the door had made as it closed, the turn of the key in the lock. Would it square accounts to do penance for a crime I hadn’t committed in lieu of one that I had? I could feel sleep coming to claim me. How could I doze while I was at the centre of a murder? It was my last coherent thought before darkness claimed me. But then, the same thought had been in my head every night all of these long months.

I woke to the sound of the key turning the tumblers in the lock. Someone had set up a workshop in my head, but beneath the hammering in my skull and the filth of my own body I felt sharper than I had all night. I wondered what time it was. I’d handed in my watch at the front desk and the neon-lit cell gave no hint of how long had passed. The door opened and a concrete-faced policeman half-entered the room. 'Here’s your solicitor, Wilson. Are you going to behave for her?' I swung myself upright on the bunk and nodded my head. 'See that you do.'

He turned and said something to the person standing behind him, then withdrew still holding the door open.