Paul is leaning against the railings outside Camden Town station, holding his mobile phone before him as a votive offering. While he scans over the faces of the people leaving the station, his eyes flick back to the small green screen, checking that he isn't missing a call or a text message. He can see the power indicator showing that the phone will die any moment now.
Dressed head to toe in black, predominantly black denim, Paul is the guitarist in his band, Sonic Death Monkey. He got the name from High Fidelity and thinks it's a cool pop culture reference. In his fading black record bag, slung high over his shoulder, are most of this month's music magazines, including the NME with the crossword nearly finished. He needs to go home and check his copy of the new Scissor Sisters album in order to complete it.
His Walkman is clipped to a Jack Daniels emblazoned belt, playing a compilation tape he made last night which interspersed some of his band's own demos along with the indie usual suspects and some off-beat B-sides and vinyl-only tracks. He likes doing this because it makes him think that he is better than all those poor saps who miss out by only buying the album on CD. It's his possession of the rarer tracks which make him more of a muso, and therefore better. He is a fervent believer in rock hierarchy and ranks himself quite high within it.
The phone beeps twice in his hand and shuts itself off. Paul swears loudly. He's waiting for the singer in his band to arrive, as well as a guy that they're trying out as a keyboards player. Neither have shown up, and now he can't find out where they are. He resolves to wait a few more minutes, or at least until Radiohead's 'Polyethylene' has finished, before calling either of them. He put the band together a few years ago and they've been through so many line-up changes and changes in musical direction that they now bear a dim resemblance to their origins.
There are at least four proper demos, many more discarded songs and scratchy, unproduced recordings of gigs knocking around Paul's bedroom on cassette. His room is a shrine to Marshall, with wires, cables and headphones all waiting to trip up an unsuspecting visitor, such as his mum. Although he doesn't have much money, it all goes to Richer Sounds for more pedals, more effects boards and new strings. Equipment catalogues are his lads mags, and they lie, circled and biroed, across the floor.
Although the song hasn't finished, Paul goes up to the phone box. There's someone already there, but he looks as though he's about to hang up. Paul's glad that he'll get to hear the end of the track, despite the fact that he has heard it hundreds of times. Every time he listens, he hears something new. That's the beauty of music, he thinks. If only there wasn't so much waiting and calling and waiting again. The phone box occupant leaves and Paul goes in to call up his singer.
I've got an hour to kill before the interview, JP tells himself. He's glad that he took the time to call them to confirm the time, otherwise he would have been about two hours late. He passes some Goth guy as he leaves the phone box and lights a cigarette. What can I do for an hour? Damn, I shouldn't be smoking. Well, that's one thing to do: buy some chewing gum to hide the smoky smell.
JP has a room in a shared house just off Camden High Street and, since he got sacked two weeks ago, has been struggling to make the rent. He's borrowed money from almost everyone he knows and it still hasn't been enough. In order to borrow money from others, they must have the money in the first place, which most of them don't. He has joked with them that he needs to find richer friends, and they've all laughed. In his head, it isn't quite so funny.
He's been to the Music and Video Exchange and sold some of his limited edition CDs, but they didn't bring in as much as he thought they would. They're so stingy, there. He remembers his own advice: always take the exchange value, not the cash value. But he can hardly tell his landlord that instead of the rent, he has a forty quid tab at the Exchange. More's the pity.
His hair is clean and long, pulled back over his high forehead and tied up neatly in a ponytail with a black elastic band which passes for a scrunchy. He shaved yesterday but the stubble isn't too bad today, and JP thinks he can get away with it. He didn't bother to wear a tie, but is at least wearing a clean shirt, maroon with a button-down collar. It's what he calls his formal shirt. An hour to kill. He crosses the road and goes up to the newsagents past Inverness Street to get some chewing gum. This takes two minutes.
The interview is for a job in the Wetherspoon pub on Chalk Farm Road, although they have another pub by the Lock, which might need people as well. He wouldn't mind working there, because it's new and modern, and he's been in there before. Then he remembers what it was like and thinks again. I could hardly move, and the place was wall-to-wall townies, all Ben Sherman and New Look-ed up. He manages to overlook his own unjustified snobbery completely as he wonders whether he'll get a choice of where to work. At least the other one is a real ale pub, he thinks. I'd rather deal with the beardies than the slappers.
Stereotypes completed, he muses for a moment. If I get this job, then I'm going to treat myself. Time for a little window shopping. JP heads back down the street and into Virgin Megastore to see what new films are out, and to see if there is anything good in the sale. Before he starts to browse, however, his pessimistic side takes over. He goes up to the counter and asks for an job application form, which he then folds carefully and puts into his parka pocket. Just in case. He starts to browse, brushing against some dumb club blonde on the way to the Horror/Sci-Fi section.
Toni is tottering around Virgin Megastore on five inch heels, her tan fake leather boots sounding like horseshoes along the aisle. Hipster jeans with the legs rolled up above the bootline give off a vaguely piratical air, despite her – no kind way to put it – large bottom. Her pale blue and beige leather biker jacket has been artfully unzipped to the point where it emphasises her ample cleavage, itself shown off in a ripped V-neck Strokes T-shirt. The aviator shades which perch atop her expensively highlighted blonde hair complete this look.
Some hippie's bag knocks into her as she bends over to look at a DVD and she turns to see who it is. A scraggy-haired nobody. Her attention returns to the plot summary on the back of the packaging. She's not convinced and returns it to the rack. Toni is a living embodiment of the words 'puppy fat' and she doesn't particularly mind. She knows that if she wanted to exercise, then she could be slimmer, but she likes the curviness. True, her face is a little rounder than her idea of perfection, but if that means eating muesli and rabbit food for breakfast, lunch and dinner, then round is how she will stay.
She's in her last year at school and dreading her exams. The main way in which she prepares for her A levels and her choice of degree or future career is by shopping. Fortunately, her parents are well-off and give her a more than generous allowance, affording her a decent standard of living for an eighteen year old (she is one of the oldest in her year). She doesn't need to work and so she doesn't. Her main pursuits are taking the train from higher up the Northern line down to Camden Town, meeting her friends, drinking, clubbing and shopping. She is proficient at all these activities and would certainly pass them all to A level standard.
She gives up on the films section and wanders over to the Dance area, wondering whether the new Ministry compilation is out yet. Flicking through names both familiar and unknown, she makes her choice of albums based on the cover artwork rather than the sub-genre, artist, reputation or reviews. It's possible that some of the albums will eventually rest in her CD rack at home, unopened for months. She has an extensive music collection, but tires easily of any particular sound, moving immediately onto the next big thing instead. She thinks that one day, she might like to be a DJ, but this is mainly because she read an old interview with DJ Princess Julia and she sounded well cool.
Armed with her vinyl and CDs, and snagging some magazines from the rack, she clip-clop trots up to the counter to pay, and then heads out to Starbucks on Parkway to browse through pictures of DJs and dancing crowds, light-shows and vox pops. Paying for her large semi-skimmed vanilla latte, she looks around to find somewhere to sit. The only free place means sharing a table with some guy with a sketchbook. Looking at him critically, an experienced eye for a young girl, she decides that he's attractive, though could do with some work here and there, and moves over to sit with him.
"What are you drawing?" Laurent looks up at the girl who has just sat opposite him. His first instinct is to snap the sketchbook shut, but she doesn't seem to be critical, more genuinely interested. Without saying anything, he rotates the book around to face her. While she looks down upon his sketches, he quickly appraises her and decides that, although young, she seems nice enough. He stirs his black coffee idly while waiting for her to finish.
"Are they cartoons?" He nods his head, wondering how he can explain what he does. I suppose the easiest thing to say would be 'art student', but that doesn't quite cover it. His day job is as an art student, but he draws and submits cartoons to newspapers and draws sketches for bands and for t-shirts, making his money that way. He isn't French, but has decided that if he is to labour under the name Laurent even though he comes from Muswell Hill, then he is going to embrace the caf… culture and couture. His distressed leather jacket and dark brown polo neck over dark blue corduroys and scuffed Chelsea boots suggest some Gallic influence, though only very faintly.
He smiles at the girl and then turns the sketchbook back around to continue drawing. While brushing the thick pencil across the page, his eyes occasionally flicker up to see what she's doing, watching her read a magazine and sip her coffee. He isn't very good with women, never knowing what to say or where to start, blurting out phrases and gabbling sentences, forgetting to breathe or pausing mid-explanation. I prefer pictures to words, he thinks, I know where I am and what I do with them. He turns the page of his sketchbook and, starting afresh with darted glances across the table, begins quickly to rough out a sketch of the girl.
As the portrait begins to take shape, his pencil moves faster and faster across the heavy cream paper. This is when Laurent is happiest. He is nearly done with the sketch when his mobile phone chirps at him. He glances at it, and switches the alarm off. Applying a few last marks here and there, he initials the bottom of the page, carefully extracts it from the sketchbook and begins to pack away his pencilbox and book, leaving the page face down on the table, carefully placed to avoid any coffee spills or sugar granules.
"Excuse me?" he says, and the girl looks up from her magazine and he turns the page over. "Something for you. I did. I mean, I drew."
She looks at it and her eyes widen, a smile forming then broadening. As he stands and grabs his satchel, she motions with her hand for him to pause for a moment while she withdraws a small pen and a scrap of paper. She scribbles quickly, then hands him the paper. "Something for you."
Laurent smiles again, pockets the scrap and walks out of the coffee shop, heading towards the market. He has to meet one of the stallholders to talk about some new sketches for T-shirts and he doesn't want to be late. He waits until he is crossing the bridge to unfold the paper and read the small number and the words, "Call me. Toni. x." He replaces it in his pocket, stops and stands for a moment, looking out over the canal.
Amanda nearly walks straight into the guy in front of her who has stopped for no reason. She quickly adjusts her step and walks around him, looking back to see if he is a tourist, consulting a map or guide book. No, neither. Well, he's still an idiot. She shakes her head and continues walking on, slowing down to look around at the shop windows, vainly trying to find inspiration.
It's a housewarming, and I need to find something appropriate but funny and personal. And cheap. But not too cheap. She pulls up outside a shop with a bright pink display in the window and retro 50s postcards. This could be it, she wonders. Well, it's worth a look. Amanda has been invited to her friend's housewarming party in Kentish Town tonight and has to get a present for the three girls who have recently moved in together. She wonders whether she can get them just one gift, or whether three small individual presents are better. She's going to go home beforehand to hand-make a card, because it's a lot more personal to do it that way.
She went to college with Lydia and although they lost contact for a few years, they met by coincidence at the Monarch a few months ago and exchanged telephone numbers. Since then, they've discovered that the few years apart hasn't dulled their friendship at all. She's met Lydia's friends (and new flatmates) Cassie and Emma, and they've been out on girly nights together once or twice. The trouble is that although she knows the other two reasonably well, she isn't one hundred percent sure what kind of gift to buy them. Oh well, one big present it is, then.
Browsing around the shop, there are plenty of options for Amanda to choose from. Fluffy dice, fluffy handcuffs, shot glasses with amusing slogans, 1950s style highball glasses, picture frames, wall clocks with Elvis or Marilyn Monroe as the hour hand. And while Amanda loves all this kitsch, she's not so sure that Emma and Cassie will be quite so keen. Leopardskin tissues? No. Rude fridge poetry? Possibly. An inflatable pink chair? Definitely not. She is partly shopping for them, and partly looking at things wondering if perhaps there is a small present she can buy herself, to reward her for shopping.
Amanda reminds herself that she has to text the address to Martin so that he has no excuse for not showing up. Lydia has been single for a while and although she's met some nice men, none of them have been quite right. Amanda thinks that Martin might be the one, and has invited him (while warning Lydia that a guest is coming along) in the hope that she will be able to do a little matchmaking between the two. Matchmaking, such a wonderful word for meddling. So non-judgmental.
She eventually finds some Martini glasses with some sort of spirit level bubble in the stem that moves up and down as you angle the glass. The glass is faintly tinted in different colours, so picks three faint pink ones and goes up to the counter. The guy behind the counter seems sullen and doesn't speak to her as she hands over the glasses, watches them be wrapped and then pays for them. It can't be that fun working here, Amanda thinks, but there's no need to take it out on me. As she takes the carrier bag and her change back, she puts the coins in her handbag zipper pocket and withdraws her mobile. There are no missed calls, but she remembers that she should text Martin. Matchmaker, matchmaker.
Yet another day in Julian's Boring Life. In the shop. Wishing I was at home. Wishing I hadn't had the second bottle of wine. Wishing I had got to bed before three. Wishing that I didn't have such a dull job in this rubbish shop with this rubbish stuff. Wishing I was paid decently. Wishing I had a boss who would actually turn up. Wishing there was someone else here to talk to. Wishing that the annoying kids would stop coming in when it's busy, trying to nick things. Wishing I actually cared whether they nicked things or not.
Julian is at a low, though if you remove the frown from his face and liven up his glazed look, you wouldn't notice. His short, light brown hair is waxed and styled, he is clean-shaven and dressed fashionably. He is tall, good-looking and lightly muscular. The girls who work in his local pub all fancy him but he hasn't noticed, even when they're flirting with an obviousness bordering on cannibalistic. When he's not behind the shop counter, he's generally sitting in the pub with the newspaper or a book or, on occasion, some friends, chatting and drinking. He's sociable, presentable, likeable and utterly depressed.
I need a challenge, he thinks. I need something to get me out of the rut and back into the race. Perhaps an evening course, or applying for a new job, or a holiday. Except that courses and holidays cost money, money that Julian doesn't have. He could apply for a new job, but working in a shop is all he knows and although he could learn more, he convinces himself that he doesn't have the time. He is encased in a little glass box, entirely of his own creation, where he can see out to the rest of the world and the opportunities stretching to the horizon, but can't break free to capture the chances, having persuaded himself that they are for other people.
Two girls walk up with some greetings cards. He flips them over and quickly adds up the total price. He knocks off a few quid because he wants to, and because there's no-one there to stop him, puts the cards in a bag and hands it over, collecting the money and tapping it into the till. They both smile and thank him. He nods his acknowledgement and returns to his former position, sitting on the stool, arms folded, eyes slowly dragging their way around the shop, between the display cases and the shelves, over the faces of the browsing clientele and then back again, a painstaking sweep.
One of the few things he likes about his job is the people-watching. It gives his day a thin veneer of endurability, being able to see all the different types of customer walk in, browse, perhaps buy and then wander out again. The styles and looks of Camden are many and varied, some dull, some outrageous, and at some point Julian sees them all. It's interesting to watch what they pick out, for themselves and for others, and sometimes funny. The six foot six Goth boy picking out Hello Kitty birthday cards, the punk with safety pins everywhere speaking in a BBC accent, the diminutive club kitten turning red when she hands over some risqué postcard. He checks his watch and there are over two more hours to go. He sighs.
What a nice guy, Mariko thinks. It's not as though it's a lot of money, but what a nice thing to do. Especially nice because it was so random and unnecessary. I wonder whether it was because he liked one of us. I bet it was Ayame, though. She's always the first one that people notice. Mariko is not jealous, nor lamenting, but rather facing facts. Although she is the older sister by two years, people always pay Ayame more attention. It's something she's used to, so it doesn't bother her as much as it did when they were both little children.
She and Ayame leave the shop and wander back towards the Tube station. They're only in Camden for a few hours doing some shopping before they head home and get ready to go out tonight in the West End. They prefer Camden to other places in London because there's always something to do or see and because of the music scene. Ayame loves Soho but Mariko isn't as keen, because there are all the seedy shops. She seems to ignore the dirt and grime of Camden when she argues this, but she fell in love with the colours and smells when she first visited. Nevertheless, tonight it was Ayame's turn to decide, so down to Charlotte Street they go, meeting up with Kichi and her new boyfriend.
As the two walk slowly past the shops and chatter, they glance inside and look at the clothes to see if there is anything they can get to wear tonight, and anything they can get that the other one won't wear. They are roughly the same build, though Mariko is slightly taller. She prefers darker colours and more intriguing patterns whereas Ayame is bright colours and short skirts all the way. They share a flat in Wood Green with their brother Haru, who works in something to do with the internet, they're not sure what. He rolls his eyes when he sees the outfits which Ayame wears, but Mariko has given up criticising her sister. It's not worth it, and she doesn't listen anyway. It's better to just let her get what she wants and stay close to her.
Mariko spots a small fitted-looking jacket in the shop across the street, so they both cross, weaving through the slow-moving traffic, and get a better look. It's dark green with barely a button or a zip and Ayame holds it up on the hanger against Mariko to see if it's even close to the right fit. They look at the price and Mariko isn't sure. Ayame gets her wallet out and hands Mariko a twenty-pound note, as if to convince her that this is the right choice. The note gets passed from hand to hand for a few moments as the older sister refuses and the younger refuses the refusal, then eventually Mariko keeps it and they take the jacket into the shop.
This is where her sister is in her element, Mariko remembers. Ayame is the negotiator par excellence, with the guile of a snake and the innocent look of an archangel. Batting her eyelashes at the shopkeeper, she haggles over the price of the jacket while Mariko hangs back, waiting. She could never do this herself, she needs Ayame there, who has no shame and is utterly unabashed about bartering away. After a few minutes, a price is agreed and Mariko steps forward, purse in hand to finalise the deal. Change and carrier bags are produced, and with much thanking on all sides, they leave the shop.
Arm in arm, the sisters continue their walk back to the station, with Ayame pointing out a girl walking into the Tasty Corner food bar. They giggle to each other, remembering a very drunk night when they both went there and ate, later to complain at exactly the same time about how ill they felt. The girl hears them giggle and turns around to look, but they have walked past by then. Mariko knows what she will do. She will buy Ayame a T-shirt from the market just by the Electric Ballroom. They have some great ones with cartoon characters on them, and if the colours are bright and bold enough, she can wear it tonight. She hugs her sister's arm closer into her.
Although it's afternoon, Caitlin is still hungover from last night at the Dublin Castle. Thank God she had today off work, otherwise she's not sure she would have managed to live, never mind get into work on time or do anything productive. She knows that she needs some stodgy food to try and get some protein and lining back into her stomach, and she looks around at the various pizza slices at Tasty Corner. She hears some high-pitched laughing and turns around, wondering if there is anything funny going on in the street. No, nothing. Back to the pizzas, even though they look a bit grim. Perhaps I'll just have a sandwich, she thinks. She starts walking towards the junction and towards Boots.
It was her friend Gavin's birthday last night, so they all met up at the Dublin and things got a little messy. She's proud and relieved that she can remember the entire evening, but not quite so proud that she ended up kissing Jake in full view of all the others. She knows it was because she was drunk, but she's not completely sure that Gary realises this.
Caitlin and Jake went out together for a few months, the predominant characteristic of that time being arguments and misunderstandings. To say that there had been a power struggle for dominance in their relationship was an understatement, with Jake not understanding why she needed to spend so much time with the girls, and Caitlin wondering why he couldn't just sod off and do something on his own for a change. Commitment, yes. Total dependence on her, no. They split up a few weeks ago and had seen each other a few times since then, always in a big group.
And now I've gone and pulled him. Shit. Knowing him, he thinks that this means we're back on. I'm going to have to have a talk to him. Even as she says this to herself, Caitlin knows it is pointless. All previous attempts at heart-to-heart conversation have invariably been drawn back to a discussion of their relative faults. Jake says I'm too open, I say he's too tightly-wound, so why would it work this time, she realises. The only way to do this, she concludes, is to get someone else to have a word with him and burst that little imaginary bubble in his head before he starts really thinking that they have kissed and made up. Kissed, yes. Made up, no.
She doesn't need to call any of his friends, because she knows where they'll be: in the pub, having an all-day breakfast fry-up with Gavin. And perhaps some beer will sort out her own hangover as well. Turning the corner into Inverness Street, she walks past the various stalls selling football shirts, fruit and veg, handbags and hats and turns into the newsagents to get a pack of cigarettes. When she walks out, she continues along the street to the pub on the corner and walks in.
She can't see Gavin or any of the others on that side of the bar, so turns and walks into the other bar area, where she sees them all sitting at a large table at the back. The jukebox is blaring out a Johnny Cash song and she goes up to order her pint before sitting down with the others. There's only one bartender working and he's serving some guy on the other side of the bar who has that musiciany look about him. Well, what do you expect in this place? When she finally gets her drink, she goes over to the table, sits next to Gavin, steals a piece of his bacon and wonders how she's going to start her chat.
It's Nathan's fourth pint in two hours, and he reckons that's not bad going. Richie behind the bar knows what he drinks (how hard is it to remember the word 'Kronenbourg'?), so he doesn't even have to say the word any more. He just nods over at him, waits and then goes up to pay. Maybe there will be some banter, maybe not. If the place isn't too busy, and the landlord isn't in, Richie might come around the bar and play a quick game of pool with him. Either way, he has a copy of the Standard, some rolling tobacco and a pint, so things aren't going so badly.
Nathan has been a regular here for about a year and a half and likes the place mainly for two reasons: it isn't pretentious and occasionally he can borrow a pint from the bar staff until his next money comes in. Often, there's no specific date attached to that event, but they're patient enough. He does the odd job here and there, sometimes working for one of the stallholders for a few days in Camden or Portobello Road, some removals work, roadie work with some of the more successful bands that drink there, painting and decorating, those sorts of things. It's a fairly up and down life, but that's what he's made for.
He's dressed in Camden standard, with jeans and trainers below a Brazil T-shirt and a secondhand faded pinstripe jacket. He's lanky rather than tall and striking rather than handsome. It when you reach the eyes that the difference is noted: they are very clear and a very pale blue which appears to reflect any other colours around wherever Nathan is. Currently, they are reflecting his rapidly-diminishing pint, and he wonders what he's going to do.
He's supposed to be doing some work in a band, but he still hasn't heard from them. If that falls through, then he can ask around for work, but more than anything else, he just wants to sit back and drink. It's an uncomplicated life, without commitments, ties or anchors. There is a part of him which recognises that he should probably grow up and settle down, but he can't imagine what he would be like doing it. He likes the fact that when the mood takes him, he can go off and visit friends in Stockholm or Amsterdam at a moment's notice. He can get part-time work at festivals or, during the summer, on the south coast beaches. With a wife or a kid, he'd be stuck in some suit and office nightmare. He's seen others do it and wonder how they cope.
He was serious about a woman some years ago. They lived together for quite a while and things seemed to go well, until Nathan felt that she was getting too clingy and they were becoming domesticated. The situation didn't improve when she broke the news that she was pregnant. There was the decent thing to do and the wrong thing to do. He went to Europe for some months and odd-jobbed his way around the place, some time in Barcelona, some time in France, a few months in Holland, just until the whole thing blew over. He doesn't often think about Joanne or about the kid. He doesn't even know whether it's a boy or a girl. It's not my life, he tells himself, doing that. I'm not supposed to be a provider. I can barely take care of myself. She's better off out of it.
Before he can get too maudlin, an unusual state for him, his mobile phone rings. It brings him back to the present with a start and he looks around briefly, as though to check he is still in the pub. When he looks at the phone's display, he doesn't recognise the number. He presses the green button anyway.
Infantilism Colleagues are intensely irritating and never more so than when you are collaborating with them on a project where they think they are in charge. I have requested some information from someone supposedly senior to myself, information which is well overdue. He has told me he will send it soon, but right now he is "just formatting it". Upon being told that it's not that important (it's a list, for God's sake), he has informed that "well, actually, it is".
In true part-childish, part-I'm-top-dog fashion, I have told the other colleague on this project that it doesn't matter what damned formatting he applies, because it's a list going into my master list. I found myself using the following words about this incredibly tedious and petty subject:
"Well, the formatting won't stay, because it's going into my list, and my list's longer."
It's official. Work has made me regress back to my playground years. And even more annoyingly, I have been suckered into playing some petty little game, the kind I normally despise watching other work people play. Which in turn has made me realise that, in fact, I really need to change job. All of this introspection inspired by one overdue list.
But I bet that my dad is bigger than his dad, too.
How your mood changes
Upon standing outside your building, having a cigarette, when something falls from the sky and lands directly on your head, you will immediately think the worst.
And then wonder if anyone saw.
And then be relieved that it is some drops of water.
The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen – Deleted scenes #5
INT. An Antarctic base, in the Antarctic.
Gray: Mina.
Harker: Dorian.
Gray: Mina.
Harker: Dorian.
Gray: Mina.
Harker: Dorian.
Gray: Well, the scriptwriter did a great job on this.
Harker: You're supposed to be pining for our lost love, you moron.
Gray: Oh, right. Even though there is no sexual chemistry between us at all.
Harker: Yeah.
Gray: Okay.
Harker: But because you're bad, I now have to battle you.
Gray: Battle me?
Harker: With swords and knives.
Gray: Isn't that slightly pointless, as I'm immortal and you're already dead?
Harker: Yes, it's called 'delicious irony'.
Gray: Oh, a sort of climactic thingy?
Harker: That's it.
Gray: Let's play.
[They battle. With swords and knives]
Gray: This is going nowhere.
Harker: Just keep battling.
Gray: Even I'm bored, and I'm getting paid for this.
Harker: Battle, damn you.
[They continue to battle]
Gray: Bor-ing. Where are the others?
Harker: Mucking about in the rest of this badly disguised Antarctic-style evil hideaway.
Gray: Oh.
Harker: Why?
Gray: They didn't even say hello.
Harker: And?
Gray: Well, it is my hideaway too. It's a bit rude not to greet your host.
Harker: You're concerned with the manners of this?
Gray: Of course. If I have to be a foppish dandy, I might as well get into the part.
Harker: Do you want me to get them for you?
Gray: There's no point if they don't want to.
Harker: Stop sulking.
Gray: I'm not.
Harker: Yes, you are. Stop it.
Gray: Shan't. So there.
Harker: You're immortal, preserved in the fire of youthfulness and you're sulking because they didn't say hello.
Gray: Or get me a little present.
Harker: A present?
Gray: Just a little something, nothing too fancy. Perhaps a new cravat.
Harker: Sod this. Back to the battling.
[They again continue to battle]
Gray: Stop, stop, stop. You won't be able to kill me, you silly mare.
Harker: But there is a way to kill you.
Gray: Oh?
Harker: Bye-bye.
The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen – Deleted scenes #4
INT. Control room, the Nautilus.
Nemo: Gentlemen, welcome to the Nautilus, my ship and submarine.
Jekyll: Nice boat.
Nemo: Don't touch anything. And don't let Hyde out.
Gray: Otherwise it's Hyde and seek.
Skinner: That makes no sense.
Gray: Blame the scriptwriter, I didn't come up with this drivel.
Quatermain: This is what happens when you parachute new characters in.
Gray: Pardon?
Quatermain: Oh, nothing. So, Captain, are we in Venice yet?
Nemo: Nearly.
Quatermain. Okay, kids, here's the deal. The Fantom is going to blow up an international conference in Venice. We've got to stop him, save the world leaders, capture Fantom and ensure that his hi-tech weapons can't be sold off, thus averting world war. Got it?
Nemo: Yes.
Skinner: Yup.
Gray: Very well.
Harker: Indeed.
Jekyll: Got it.
Sawyer: Uh?
Quatermain: Oh, for god's sake, Sawyer, don't make me repeat it. Just say yes.
Sawyer: Yes.
Quatermain: Good.
Jekyll: What happens if we can't stop the bombs going off?
Gray: Then it's goodnight Vienna.
Jekyll: Venice. You mean Venice.
Gray. Yes, that's what I meant. Damn you, scriptwriter.
Jekyll: Just checking.
Harker: Mr Quatermain, how on earth are we to stop these bombs?
Quatermain: Good point. We'll need to locate them and defuse them. If they start going off and the buildings fall like dominoes, we'll need to take out a key building to stop the effect. That means fast driving and accurate shooting.
Skinner: Question.
Quatermain: Go ahead.
Skinner: Driving and shooting?
Quatermain: Yes.
Skinner: So what's the point of this being in the Victoria era?
Harker: And why do you need a vampire for that sort of thing?
Skinner: Being invisible's handy, but not exactly required for driving and shooting.
Sawyer: I'm all for the plan. Let's go, Mr Q.
Gray: Quieten down, blondie. I'd like to hear Mr Quatermain's answer.
Quatermain: Well, I know it doesn't sound particularly extraordinary, but trust me, it is.
Skinner: How?
Quatermain: It just is.
Skinner: You suck at this.
Quatermain: Excuse me?
Skinner: And Harker is supposed to be the leader anyway.
Harker: Thank you.
Quatermain: Look, I'm the leader, we're going to go driving and shooting, and that's that. Get to the damn car.
Gray: Oh, the car again.
Jekyll: Car, what car?
Nemo: My car, the Nemomobile.
Harker: Please stop calling it that.
Nemo: We are onboard the Nemosub, why can't it be a Nemomobile?
Gray: (aside) Holy rip-off, Batman.
Nemo: What?
Gray: Nothing.
Quatermain: So, let's go to the car, then.
Harker: And do ordinary things.
Quatermain: It can't be the League of Ordinary Gentlemen, that makes it 'log'.
Harker: And I'm not a gentleman, I'm a lady.
Quatermain: Come on, vampy, just go to the car.
Harker: All right, all right.
Jekyll: Do you want me or Mr Hyde?
Quatermain: Either's good.
Skinner: Does anyone mind if I go back to being invisible and then snoop around suspiciously?
Quatermain: No, go right ahead.
Skinner: Ta.
The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen – Deleted scenes #3
INT. Library, in the East End of London.
Gray: Hello, everyone, I'm Dorian Gray.
Quatermain: I'm Allan Quatermain.
Nemo: I'm Captain Nemo.
Harker: I'm Mrs Mina Harker.
Skinner: I'm the Invisible Man.
Sawyer: I'm Tom Sawyer.
Quatermain: Back up there, pretty boy. Who are you?
Sawyer: Agent Tom Sawyer of the US Secret Service.
Quatermain: What are you doing here?
Sawyer: I'm here to help.
Quatermain: No, what are doing in the film?
Sawyer: Oh, I'm the token Yank, so we can sell this in the States.
Quatermain: What?
Sawyer: Box office, Mr Q. Just roll with it.
Gray: Well, I think it's ridiculous to just parachute a new League member in without so much as a 'by your leave'.
Harker: Like you can talk.
Gray: What?
Harker: You're not in the graphic novels, either.
Skinner: So what's he doing here?
Harker: He's a former lover and a current nemesis, dummy.
Skinner: Oh. What exactly are you, Gray?
Gray: I'm complicated.
Skinner: Like Avril?
Gray: No. Suffice to say that a little bit of reading Oscar Wilde might not go astray. Dorian Gray? Picture? Attic? Ringing bells yet?
Skinner: I only saw the Stephen Fry film.
Harker: Disappointing, wasn't it?
Skinner: Yeah, a bit.
Quatermain: Shut up. We're all here now. We should go to Paris and pick up the last member.
Fantom: I'm afraid not, Mister Quatermain.
Quatermain: What the … ?
Fantom: It is I, the Fantom. The man whom your League has assembled to stop.
Skinner: Shouldn't that be 'The man for whom the League has assembled to stop'?
Gray: No, no. 'The man why the League has stopped for assembly'.
Skinner: That makes no sense.
Gray: I know. I'm just screwing with you.
Harker: Oh hush down, Dorian.
Fantom: Anyway, I'm the one you've gotta stop.
Quatermain: Why do you have such a stupid accent?
Fantom: It's better than your 'Russian' one.
Quatermain: Piss off.
Fantom: Oh, oh. I'm so scared. You have a choice, though. Join me or die.
Quatermain: We'll never join your evil cabal, Fantom.
Skinner: Hang on, hang on. At least let me think about it.
Quatermain: Shut up, Skinner.
Fantom: Then you will die. Men with automatic guns, start firing them, aiming please for the League's soft, soft heads.
[Gun battle, Fantom escapes]
Quatermain: Goody, we've won. Is anyone hurt?
Gray: I'm immortal, you idiot.
Skinner: Still invisible.
Harker: Still a vampire.
Nemo: I'm good at kung fu.
Quatermain: Yeah, I'd been meaning to ask. How come you're good at that?
Harker: What does that have to do with being a pir … I mean, adventurer?
Nemo: Well, it was either kung fu or the 100 metres breaststroke.
Quatermain: Fair enough. Sawyer?
Sawyer: Oh yeah, still here. With a gun.
Harker: That's your "extraordinary" gift.
Sawyer: Yeah, I know. It's a bit crap.
Skinner: Yes. Yes it is.
Quatermain: Right then, to Paris.
The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen – Deleted scenes #2
INT. Library, deep beneath London.
Quatermain: And who are you?
M: My underlings call me 'Sir'. My superiors call me 'M'.
Quatermain: M?
M: Yes. M.
Quatermain: That's bloody clever, you know.
M: Thanks.
Quatermain: 'Cause I used to be Bond, and I had to keep reporting to a guy called M.
M: Yes, the casting director did a bang-up job on that one.
Quatermain: Very good.
[Pause]
M: Anyway, Mr Quatermain, we need you to …
Quatermain: Skip it, I know the rest. Unique people, world in danger, la la la. Where are the others?
M: I see one arriving at the moment.
Nemo: Good afternoon. I am Captain Nemo.
Quatermain: I didn't think anyone could find you.
Nemo: Yes, it is quite difficult finding Nemo.
M: Not really, it just won an Oscar. Boom boom.
Quatermain: What?
Nemo: What?
M: You see it's a play on words. Finding Nemo is a Pixar film, and Captain Nemo has just been … never mind.
Quatermain: I understood you to be a pirate, Captain.
M: Like Jack Sparrow.
Quatermain: What?
M: Er, never mind.
Nemo: I prefer a less provocative term. Perhaps the more PC version is: ethically-challenged.
Quatermain: Really?
M: I believe some other members of the league are late.
Skinner: Good afternoon, gentlemen.
Quatermain: (looking around) What the hell?
M: May I introduce Rodney Skinner.
Skinner: Also known as the Invisible Man.
M: Like that film with Chevy Chase. Or the newer Kevin Bacon one.
Nemo: What?
M: Don't worry. I'll order it on DVD.
Skinner: (puts on his coat) Yes, I stole some invisible formula, turned invisible and then couldn't stop being invisible.
Quatermain: Okay, I get it. No need to go on.
Skinner: So what's Quatermain doing here, M?
M: Well, he's your principal, Skinner. Like the Simpsons.
Quatermain: What?
Nemo: What?
Skinner: What?
M: Oh, for fu … but here is our last member.
Harker: Good afternoon, gentlemen. I'll be the eye candy from here on in.
M: Gentlemen, Mrs Mina Harker.
Skinner: Rawr.
Quatermain: A woman?
Harker: Well done. You have a keen eye, sir.
M: And remember everyone, don't drop blood about the place otherwise things could get a little bit Interview with the Vampire.
Skinner: What?
M: You know, Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, Christian Slater, the girl from Spiderman.
Nemo: What?
M: Forget it.
Quatermain: Then the League is assembled.
M: Not quite. You still have two more members to recruit. One can be found in Paris, the other is resident in London.
Quatermain: Let's get going then.
Nemo: No hurry, Mr Quatermain. My car's parked outside.
Quatermain: Car?
Nemo: Yes, the Nemomobile. It's based on the old Ford Anglia, but I've made some upgrades. Fluffy dice, that sort of thing.
M: Take care in case you encounter the man we suspect is behind all this evil, the Fantom.
Quatermain: Don't worry, we will.
M: Godspeed, gentlemen. And at all costs, avoid the Fantom menace. You see what I did there? Eh? Eh?
Quatermain: Goodbye, M.
The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen – Deleted scenes #1
INT. Gentlemen's club, Kenya.
Reed: Do I have the honour of addressing Mr Allan Quatermain?
Quatermain: Why not?
Reed: Sir, I am Sanderson Reed of Her Britannic Majesty's Foreign Service.
Quatermain: Okay.
Reed: Sir, the Empire is imperilled. Nation is striking against nation. We fear it may end in war.
Quatermain: Yup.
Reed: A World War.
Quatermain: Got it.
Reed: We need you to recruit and lead a team of unique individuals to combat this threat.
Quatermain: Sure.
Reed: What?
Quatermain: I said, "Sure"
Reed: Oh.
[Pause]
Reed: I thought it would be a lot harder than that.
Quatermain: Nah, I'll do it.
Reed: Are you certain?
Quatermain: Sounds interesting enough.
Reed: But didn't your son die on the last mission you undertook for the Empire?
Quatermain: Yes, yes he did.
Reed: And you're not bitter about that at all?
Quatermain: To tell the truth, I never really liked the annoying brat anyway.
Reed: Oh.
[Pause]
Reed: It's going to be quite dangerous, you know.
Quatermain: Not a problem.
Reed: I mean really, really dangerous.
Quatermain: Look, do you want me to do it or not?
Reed: Of course.
Quatermain: So let's go.
Reed: Well, I was told that you wouldn't accept.
Quatermain: But I have.
Reed: I know, it's really quite confusing.
Quatermain: Look, lad, don't get your bowler in a twist. Let's get out of here and save the Empire.
Reed: I'm not sure I want to any more.
Quatermain: Come again?
Reed: The only point of me being here is to convince you, and if you're already convinced then … that makes me redundant, really.
Quatermain: Look, nation is striking against nation.
Reed: (sniffles) I know.
Quatermain: It could end in a World War.
Reed: (sniffles) Mmm-hmm.
Quatermain: Don't you love the Empire?
Reed: (sniffles) 'Spose.
Quatermain: So let's get back to dear old Blighty and save the world.
Reed: (sniffles) Promise?
Quatermain: Promise.
Reed: (wipes nose) All right then.
Quatermain: Now, Reed, shall we go.
Reed: Oh, you're supposed to remember to pack for an English summer.
Quatermain: What?
Reed: It's supposed to be funny. It means it's pissing down.
Quatermain: What a surprise.
8.00pm
Rumbling tummy. What's good for a rumbling tummy? Ah yes, red wine. Mmm, red wine. Watch Meet The Parents. Phone rings. Phone ignored.
9.00pm
Maybe not mmm, red wine. Continue watching Meet The Parents. Ben Stiller. He funny man. Robert De Niro. He scary man. Other cast. They rubbish. Special features. Rubbish too.
10.00pm
Watch Mystery Men. Ben Stiller. He funny man. More red wine. William H. Macy. He funny too. Many funny people. Tummy starting to get drunk. Rest of Mark following tummy's lead.
11.00pm
Continue watching Mystery Men. Feel hungry. Consider snack. Consider cigarette. Snack. Cigarette. Light cigarette. Lungs wonder if possible to declare independence from rest of Mark. Drink more red wine.
Midnight
Switch to Oscars coverage. Laugh at silly dresses. Laugh at silly presenters. Wonder if any more red wine left. Remember second bottle. Light another cigarette. Lungs fill out passport application form.
1.00am
Wake up from red carpet attention fatigue. Spill some red wine on carpet. Freak out momentarily. Try to clean it up. Remember flatmate not back for few more days. Ignore stain. Billy Crystal. He funny man. Argue with TiVo. TiVo wins.
2.00am
Tim Robbins. Well done. Tummy pain gone. Replaced with slightly blurry vision. Ignore blurry vision. More cigarettes. More wine. Mmm. Lungs applying for Australian nationality.
3.00am
Crikey. Many geeky men get small statues. Hobbits. Hahahahaha. Oops, nearly spilled more wine. Criminal waste. Bad Mark. Lungs rallying other organs in rebellious alliance. Liver joins up.
4.00am
Much ceremony. Something in room beeping. Can't see where it is. Perhaps more wine help. Oh. No. More wine not help. Beeping stop. Hope not important. Jonathan Ross. He rubbish.
5.00am
Well done, thingy for getting thingy Oscar. No more wine. In house. At all. Bed. Set phone alarm for Horrible Loud setting at Stupid O'Clock time. Collapse in bed.
5.01am
Get up. Turn off TV. Turn off lights. Lock front door. Extinguish cigarette. Hope duvet not burned. Recollapse in bed.
5.10am
Get up. Get undressed. Collapse Take 3.
8.30am
Get up. Slap mobile phone. Alarm off. Late. Panic. Owwwww. Lungs exact revenge. Stupid Oscars.
Bottle-burnt
Across the walls there are photographs mainly of sports teams. The London Irish team of the early 1930s is faded and hangs next to a street scene of how Lancaster Gate looked in the late 1890s. The wall is mottled and shows signs of flood damage, the faux Etruscan beige peeling in the corners to show builders' markings on the stone beneath.
Incongruously, in the middle of the ceiling, is a white plastic fire alarm, circular with little red lights blinking frantically. It emits a shrill noise, slicing through the upper air of the room. Two wires are connected to it, snaking back to the nearest wooden beam and then along the beam's spine and down to the ground for electricity. They don't look subtle, nor perhaps are they meant to be.
Along the shelves cutting across one wall, silver trophy cups and brass tankards rest gleaming, smelling of Brasso. Old Pernod bottles with candles in their necks stand abandoned next to fading rosettes and miniatures of agrarian equipment which look like torture devices. There are books lined up in one corner, dark-covered, bought by the box-load from car boot sales or rural antiques fairs, with self-help advice from the 50s or nautical tales of derring-do from the days when Britannia ruled the waves and plucky midshipmen saved the day.
By the fireplace, where the three bar gas warmth has replaced logs and kindling, the carpet has rucked up, exposing dull piping, the brute grey blunt against red and green intricate patterning along the floor. The woven coverings on the stool cushions match nothing else in the room, their worn buttons exposing years of wear, with burn marks and dark patches to show their care. Their legs are dark wood, each chip and graze letting out the different layers of colour underneath, a changing history of fashions and fads under the clean gleaming black gloss of today. Bubble and crackles are clues to their experiences.
A plant sits in the corner alone, its outstretching leaves and fronds grasping for company. It seems out of place and uncared for. The pebbles in the dish underneath the pot have stuck together and look dusty. There is little light thrown on the token greenery, as the lampshades are angled away towards the table and stools, one unprotected bulb casting its wattage against the bevelled windows, throwing unreal shadow shapes onto the pavement outside.
The windows in turn angle light onto commemorative mirrors with frosted lettering, golden ribbons or multicoloured toucans, rainbows from opaque prisms. The curtains by the main window are heavy and bottle-green, with silverfish crawling among the frayed stitching down to the low window mantel. Tied back with off-cut material, they hang from wooden curtain rings which once were expensive, ordered from John Spedan Lewis himself, and paid for in instalments.
As I remember this room, it will remain this way. Despite the curling, licking orange flames, golden yellow sparks and red flashes rampaging along, seen through cracked, smoke-broken glass from across a street where sirens perforate the suburban leafy canopy and early purple blossom falls singed to the concrete earth.
The LondonMark X Guide
(Sponsored by Smitten – the blog that's tough for guests to access)
Firstly, congratulations for choosing LMXG. Well done, you lovely, shiny person, you. Assuming that your cheque or postal order for £49.99 has already been sent to me (made payable to LondonMark Cayman Islands Number Three Account), we can all proceed.
You've had a date. It went well, you didn't spill wine all over your companion, you didn't accidentally kill the waiter or severely maim the maitre d', you sparkled with your witty conversation and amusing anecdotes. The coffee came and went, as did the bill, and you went on to a small bar you know for more drinks and some flirty chat. Cocktails have been delicious and you've had a wonderful, magical evening.
Excellent.
And now you're back at your place with your companion, for the stated reason of "a cup of coffee". Do they really want coffee? Do they have to be up for work at an ungodly hour tomorrow? Did you remember to switch your Power Rangers duvet cover for the black satin one? Is your 'Snoopy Wuvs Me' mug full of Vicodin still on your bedside table? (Gents: are all the, ahem, cough, you know, bongo, ahem, magazines safely hidden?) (Ladies: are all the grey Asda pants and bras still in a heap in the middle of the room?) It's time to prepare for lift-off.
And with the LMXG, we can solve all your problems. Simply follow the options you are most likely to take and, based on actual science, LMXG can predict (with a 0.078% margin of error) the precise chances of you getting – rawr, hubba hubba, aieee – lucky.
Question 1. You are male. Your female companion asks where the bathroom is. Do you:
Sigh, turn down the volume on the Deep Space Nine rerun and point vaguely at the door.
Sigh, put the razor blade back on the mirror and point vaguely at the door.
Panic, remembering the state in which you left the bathroom.
Rise and show her the way precisely, then go to the kitchen to make coffee.
Question 2. You are female. Your male companion has stated that "any music is fine with him". Do you:
Scream "Just pick a CD, you spineless wimp".
Take this as a good sign to put on Alanis Morissette's 'You Oughta Know'.
Ask him to get his arse over there, pick a CD and alphabetise the lot while he's there.
Select something modern, upbeat but not something that will dominate the conversation.
Question 3. You are male. Your female companion has asked how you take your coffee. Do you:
Shrug and raise your hands to make the W of 'Whatever'.
Give her precise instructions on cream and sugar amounts, including which direction to stir the cup.
Respond "Black and strong. Like my men."
Tell her how you take your coffee.
Question 4. You are female. Your male companion has just said he likes his coffee like he likes his men. Do you:
Tell him to get the hell out of your apartment and stop leading vulnerable girls on.
Think he's really funny, and hope he has plenty more good jokes like that.
Roll your eyes and recommend Sense Of Humour Replacement Therapy.
Half-laugh and mock slap him playfully.
Question 5. You are male. Your female companion has suggested you get more 'comfortable'. Do you:
Immediately change into a really old T-shirt and boxers and watch Champions League Weekly.
Immediately change into your Winnie-the-Pooh pyjamas and ask her for a bedtime story.
Strip naked and begin a tribal rain dance.
Lower the lights, kick off your shoes, light a candle and move closer to your companion.
Question 6. You are female. Your male companion has suggested you get more 'comfortable'. Do you:
Work out what this means. You're pretty comfortable now, thanks.
Get what this means. You don't go that far on a first date, thanks.
Get what this means. Help him strip and join in his tribal rain dance.
Kick off your shoes and move closer to your companion.
Question 7. You are male. You want to move things from the living room to the bedroom. Do you:
Say "Me Tarzan. You Jane" and carry her struggling body into the bedroom.
Knock her unconscious and carry her prone body into the bedroom.
Say "Look, are we going to do this or what?"
Whisper the suggestion in her ear.
Question 8. You are female. Your male companion can't undo your bra. Do you:
Wonder what the hell he's doing; you're not wearing one.
Wonder what the hell he's doing; there's only one clasp.
Wonder what the hell he's doing; oxyacetylene torches can't be good for the skin.
Help him.
Question 9. You are male. Your female companion can't work out your button fly. Do you:
Wonder what the hell she's doing: it's a zip fly.
Wonder what the hell she's doing: you undid them in the restaurant.
Wonder what the hell she's doing, but sort of quite like it anyway.
Help her.
Question 10. You are female. Your male companion is licking your neck and he appears to think it's working. Do you:
Wonder why you didn't just buy a dog for the licking and a sex toy for the rest.
Pray that he doesn't give you a love bite, because you're seeing your real boyfriend tomorrow.
Slap him and ask if this is his first time.
Gently but purposely guide his tongue elsewhere.
Question 11. You are male. It's the condom moment. Do you:
Fumble, mumble and generally make a right arse of yourself.
Try to make a joke of it. And fail.
Blow into it to make it a balloon, in an attempt to lighten the mood.
Be suave, smooth and recognise that you're both worldly people.
Question 12. You are female. It's the condom moment. Do you:
Take the opportunity to work out exactly how overweight he is.
Feel incredibly awkward while he spends five minutes opening the damn thing.
Wonder how you always end up with the clowns.
Be calm, patient and recognise that you're both worldly people.
Question 13. You are male. You are having sex with your companion. What are you thinking?
My knees really hurt now.
Ann Widdecombe, Ann Widdecombe, come on, three more minutes, please.
That headboard could do with a new varnish.
ohmigodyesssssss
Question 14. You are female. You are having sex with your companion. What are you thinking?
Did I return that book to the library?
If he doesn't move that elbow right now, I'm going to stave his head in with a brick.
I cannot feel a thing.
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Question 15. You are male. Your companion asks if you would like to try something different. Do you:
Answer: "God yes, I'd love a sandwich."
Nod your head while attempting to regain your breath and stop yourself turning blue.
Bring out the Gimp mask.
Ask what kind of different they are thinking about.
Question 16. You are female. Your companion asks if you would like to try something different. Do you:
Wake up.
Answer: "What, like actual sex?"
Become afraid. Very afraid.
Ask what kind of different they are thinking about.
Question 17. You are male. Climax has been reached. Do you:
Fall asleep instantly.
Marvel at how good it is when someone else is there.
Kick her out of the apartment, the hussy.
Make sure that she has climaxed too.
Question 18. You are female. Your companion has rolled over and is panting like a German shepherd dog after a time trial. Do you:
Wake up.
Ask him when he'll be ready to begin.
Wonder what time your real boyfriend will be home.
Offer him a cigarette, glass of water or oxygen mask.
Question 19. You are male. You and your companion are laying in bed. Do you:
Compliment her on her technique, saying "You must be a pro".
Idly wonder who would win a fight between Captain Sisko and Captain Kirk.
Grin, giggle and start texting all your friends.
Begin pre-flight checks to start all over again.
Question 20. You are female. Your companion has fallen asleep. Do you:
Remember that you did return the book to the library, but you still owe some films to the video store.
Nudge him until he wakes up, asking "Sorry, did I wake you?"
Silently collect your clothes, dress and leave immediately, while erasing his number from your phone.
Fall asleep too.
Now, the more observant among you will noticed that predominantly (d) answers are better than any other choices. But, using a complex points scoring system where (a) answers score 1.71 points, (b) answers score 4.25, (c) answers score 6.88 and (d) answers score 9.63, tot up your scores and enter them into the comments box below. Through the magic of real LondonMark science (the science that likes to say 'crikey'), you'll see how highly you rate on the LMXG scale.
He said, she said
Standing in the airy, chromed and glass-plated atrium of their building, Coraline and Andrew are talking quietly, their heads turning periodically to register people as friend or foe. This is what Coraline is doing, at least. Andrew is turning his head to register some of the girls from the third floor and the view between the hem of a skirt and the beginning of shoes. Quick flashes of the eyes, flickering from one to the other, then back to Coraline.
"Cause you know Ingrid had the key to all the personnel files."
"Ingrid?"
"That temp last year. South African girl."
"Oh yeah."
Andrew has no idea who Ingrid is.
"And she saw everyone's salaries, even Kristina's."
"She saw our salaries?"
"Yeah."
Andrew hopes that she hadn't looked at his CV because it was, according the friend who read over it for him, "total bollocks". His brother thought it was hilarious when he found out that Andrew had even lied about his age.
"How do you know?"
"Because I was there, and she told me."
"How much does Kristina make, then?"
"Well, Ingrid was looking through the files and apparently, Kristina's on about seventy."
"Seventy? Christ almighty."
Seventy thousand pounds, not including annual bonus. Roughly three and a bit times more than Andrew makes. As his eyes roll around, trying to calculate the exact number of times that Kristina trumps him, he spots a diminutive brunette from Client Audit Services crossing to the lifts. He tries to catch her eye and fails.
"And she was rated as a nine at her last review."
"A nine? Who the hell gave her a nine? Even if the scoring was out of a hundred, not ten, she doesn't deserve a nine."
"Well, Kristina is in charge of all the review forms, so …"
"So …"
"I wouldn't put it past her to, you know, touch up the numbers a bit."
Andrew desperately wants to believe this, but somehow can't.
"Come on, she's not going to forge her own bloody review, is she?"
"Are you asking or telling me?"
"Do you think she needs to? She's already making loads more than any of the rest of us."
"I wonder why."
Coraline has a cunning look on her face, Andrew thinks. They have worked together for the past two years and they know each other fairly well, though at times only in stereotype. Coralie: lives in Hertfordshire in a small flat with two dogs. Not bad looking in an M&S kind of way. Useless with anything electronic. Devoted to nature programmes on TV. Andrew: lives in a shared house in Clapham with friends from university. Likes very loud dance music, cartoon character ties, banana milkshakes. Dislikes his job, his clients and the Northern line.
"There's sod all we can do about it."
"Isn't she due for retirement soon?"
"Yeah, I think she's retiring early."
"If I was being paid that much, I wouldn't turn up here for a second longer than I had to."
He wonders whether to break the news and decides that, as they are sharing the confessional, he might as well.
"I'm leaving."
"Leaving what?"
"Leaving the department."
"But not leaving the company?"
"No. I don't have enough spine to do that, but I've got to get out of the department."
"Where are you going?"
Andrew just points, thumbing over in the direction of the Media Markets room.
"Oh."
"Yeah, I know it's a bit sudden, but it's not as though I'm going anywhere anyway. Besides, Kristina would be quite happy to just let me rot here."
"I suppose. When do you go?"
"It's not settled yet, but hopefully just after financial year end."
"Well, we'll have a big do for you."
"No need, I'll still be here."
And I'd better get something decent as a leaving present and not more sodding vouchers, Andrew thinks. Something loud from Paul Smith, maybe.
"Well, that's another success story for the escape committee. The way we're going, they'll be no-one left by Christmas."
"Probably."
"Okay, well, I'll see you upstairs then. I'm just nipping out for a fag."
"Right. See you up there."
Andrew starts for the lifts and just manages to nip through the closing doors. Coraline walks out through the atrium and onto the street.
9th Street V
The streetlamp flickers on and off with a disturbing regularity, as though it has been especially designed to do that. It claims the distinction that it is one of the few lamps on the street which is actually working at all, and so a flicker is better than nothing. It provides the effect on bypassers that they are walking in some stop-motion world, intermittent glimpses at a film, or a cartoon book where the pages are being turned so rapidly that it looks as though people are moving. If there were any people out on the streets, at least.
There is one, and he is not moving. Dresket is standing, steadily waiting. The rain stopped a few minutes ago and he is glad for small mercies. His wide-brimmed soft fedora has become soaked through the incessant drizzle, and he has recently discovered that there is a small hole in his left shoe which has let some of the rainwater in to dampen his sock. He shuffles from foot to foot, trying to avoid stepping in any of the collected pools of water. Although the camber of the street drags rain down to the sewers, some of the grilles are blocked with garbage, leaving the water to rise and spill over onto the pavement.
Whenever he pauses to think about the city, he always imagines the buildings in the rain, as though the city fathers had built the streets and the houses and the offices so they would only seem to belong that way. The sun hasn't shone through to the streets for so long now that the grey masonry matches the dull permanence of the sky, creating a peerless match between the two. Things are even in the rain, Dresket knows. All are equal when walking or standing or fighting or running under a fusillade of droplets, unceasing for hours. It's a great leveller.
He is low-level, someone who works for a man who works for someone else. He doesn't carry a weapon, he doesn't carry ID, he doesn't even carry a Metroway pass. He isn't anonymous because that would serve no purpose. He isn't like the hired goons in bad gangster movies because life isn't like that, life won't let him get away with the ineptitude and bungling which Hollywood loves so much. He's not too smart but he isn't dumb either. He had a tough childhood, but so do most of the people in the city, so that doesn't make him special.
What makes him special is that he doesn't stand out.
An average man in an average suit on an average street. Doing the normal things at the normal times with dull brown eyes and a weary look. He shuffles his feet again, waggling his foot to try and keep further water from seeping into his shoe. The only place he has to be is here and the only thing he has to do is wait.
He glances along the street to see if anything is approaching. Nothing is moving, and the quietness is only punctuated by the crisp, almost icy smell in the air now the rain has stopped. Although no amount of rain can wash away the grime of this neglect, the sharpness in the air feels as though it should cut his nostrils. He closes his eyes for a moment to take in a lungful of this new air, like drinking a cold glass of water on a hot summery day.
He opens his eyes at a snap when he hears the sound of a car approaching. It slows down as it nears him, coming to a complete stop with the passenger window directly by him. As he leans in towards it, the window is wound down.
"Alphece."
"Dresket."
"Did you deliver it?"
"Yes."
"Did he say anything? Anything about me?"
"No."
"Did he give you anything?"
"Yes. A box."
"Let me see."
Alphece passes the small wooden box across to him, and taking it in his hands, he turns it around and over several times before opening it. He gives a small sigh, then redoes the clasps and returns it to her waiting palm, his hands wrapped around both the box and her hand.
"You're taking it to Pelbman?"
"Yes."
"And Tu… the boy said nothing?"
"No."
His eyes mist slightly and his hands tense then relax.
"Speed you on your way."
Dresket releases his soft grip, the hands hesitating for a moment before lowering them to his sides. One arm raises and he leans further into the car, bringing the back of his hand softly along the lock of blonde hair which has fallen down onto Alphece's cheek, before tucking it back behind her ear. She looks up at him for a moment, then begins to wind up the window. He steps back onto the pavement and matches her gaze until the car begins to pull out and drive away.
He crosses the road and starts down a side street. He can't remember exactly how long it is since he last saw Tughban, and he can't remember what either of them said when they spoke. He remembers his face, the room, his son's raised voice, the light and the dank muskiness, but not what they said. Now they are both go-betweens, only connected by car journeys and other people's secrets. He is only a few streets away from where he met the car but already the clouds have begun to spit down upon him again. Things are even in the rain.
9th Street IV
She lays the flowers down gently upon the black marble, placing them one by one, side by side. She crumples the light lavender paper in her hand and drops it into her shoulder bag. As she stands to one side of the headstone, Yembin puts her gloves back on and claps her hands together to warm them up. Wrapping her raincoat around her more tightly than before, she pauses, head bowed, then straightens up and walks away slowly, not looking back.
Her sister Nelifue died three years ago today, and this is Yembin's third pilgrimage to the Wrokey Park Cemetery. Each year the sky is ashen grey, the wind blows across and through the overgrown ivy and long grass, and the blackbirds look over the lichen-specked stones as custodians of those who have passed. The pebbles on the pathways between the various lots crunch underfoot at the weight of each step. Pieces of paper flap on the notice sign at the end of the row.
Yembin walks out of the main cemetery gates, headed towards the nearest Metroway station, fumbling in her bag to find some soft cloth she can use to clean her thumb-smudged spectacles. Crossing the street, she reads the street signs slowly to make sure that she is going in the right direction, remembering the zig-zag of streets that can take her to the station more quickly. She passes a drunk man sleeping in the transit shelter half-way up one street and walks softly and carefully past him, so as not to wake or confront.
Along the street, she notes the tall, thin houses bunched together, their curtains drawn and the lights muted behind thick fabrics. She recalls her childhood home to be like one of these, hiding behind curtains while her sisters hunted her in hide-and-seek. Polished wooden floors which they could slide across in their socks, the static of the material crackling in their hands when they had picked themselves up. Pristine pastel-coloured walls which showed up every stain from what their mother called "pawprints".
The oldest of the three girls, Yembin was a second mother to Nelifue, the youngest. The middle daughter, Swalica, had been a classic middle child, ignored and ignorable. Nelifue was the apple of everyone's eye, the darling of the family, while Yembin was left to tie others' shoelaces, wipe snotty noses and look across the street both ways. The responsibility bore well on her shoulders, for the other two grew to love her for her efforts and not resent her for her control.
She had not seen Swalica since the funeral. Swalica had behaved as though she was deficient in some way for allowing Nelifue to die; a dereliction of duty or an unforgiveable lapse in responsibility. To say there was a rift was both understating and dramatising the simplicity that meant the two living sisters did not speak.
Yembin has twisted and turned along the city map and is about to cross the road when a green sports car screams past her. She jumps back in surprise and stands shakily for a moment, watching the car disappear along the street. Shaking her head and wondering how she had not heard the car beforehand, she crosses the now silent, now dead road and resumes her walk to North/Hayldan. In a moment of weakness, she stops by a phone kiosk, wondering whether she should call. Searching her coat pockets for telephone tokens, she finds only a few coins, and walks on.
Periodically, taps of guilt struck at Yembin and she would attempt to call her sister. The telephone would never be answered. There was no way to know that she had the right telephone number, and there was no way that Swalica could screen the call to avoid her, yet no-one picks up. Yembin hopes even for the acknowledgement that she has the wrong number, or to hear her sister slam down the phone when she recognises the voice. The constant ringing tone, however, is no answer at all.
Climbing up the steps to the side of the Metroway station, Yembin fancies that she hears a sound like a car backfiring, a sudden shocked stop sound to pierce the quiet of the neighbourhood. Pausing on the stairs, she hears nothing else and so continues to walk up to buy her transit ticket. Feeding the coins into the machine slowly, she checks her purse to see how much money she has remaining. She walks onto the correct platform, finds a seat and arranges herself carefully in it, the loop of her shoulder bag pressed between her back and the seat.
It is no less windy or cold on the platform and though Yembin feels that she wants to cry, she can't. There is no-one else waiting for the train, on either side of the tracks, and so no-one to see her break down, lose control, rage at the world, scream at the injustice, sob with self-pity. Yembin does none of this. She sits, shielding her bag, holding her ticket between hands whose fingers are interlocked, and waits for the train to take her out of here.
9th Street III
As he hears the noise of the trash cans falling into each other, Ghuryel looks out of the bathroom window but can't make out the shape of the dark animal scampering away. He turns back to the mirror and rubs his thumb across the underside of his chin, feeling for patches of stubble which his old razor has missed. Time for a new blade, he thinks.
He runs the blade over his chin one more time, against the grain, and is duly rewarded with some specks of blood appearing. One cut releases a tiny raindrop of blood down into the scum-stained sink. Ghuryel winces, wipes his face roughly with a ripped square of toilet paper, then tightens the knot of his tie up against his unbuttoned collar. He stares back at himself for one more moment.
He leaves the bathroom and, walking through a small hallway, checks the carriage clock balancing precariously on old telephone directories in the corner of the living room. He takes his suit jacket from the back of a chair, puts it on arm by arm, brushes non-existent fluff from the lapels, then picks up various chattels from the table and distributes them among the jacket pockets.
Billfold, pocketcomb, switchblade, keys, breath mints. A stack of loose change goes into his trouser pocket, the smaller value coins left to one side to be put into the electricity meter jar. A little way across the table lies a small snub-nosed revolver with several .32 calibre bullets strewn next to it. Ghuryel walks towards the bullets but the telephone rings and he stops. He feels he is being watched and so moves quietly to the phone, lifts the receiver then replaces it. He takes a quick step and pulls the telephone cord out of the wall socket.
In the next room is a small canvas bag with various tools both inside and protruding through the worn leather handles. Searching through the screwdrivers, hammers, calipers and other instruments, Ghuryel withdraws a small file and walks back to the main room. He is about to sit down when a gust of wind blows through from the bathroom window, causing the living room window to slam shut, in turn knocking over a small photograph frame.
Ghuryel curses under his breath as he goes over the broken glass and begins to collect it up into the palm of his right hand. As he turns over the back of the frame, he looks at the black and white photo inside with eyes wide, behaving as though he has never seen it before. Placing the shards of glass back on the floor, he rises, holding the photograph with the tips of his fingers, careful not to smudge or crease it.
Returning to the table, he sets the photo aside and takes up the file in one hand and a single bullet in the other. Although the file is wide and awkward to handle, the side edge is incredibly thin. Using this, Ghuryel begins to file around the circumference of the bullet, carving a narrow thin waistband around the small projectile. He does not file deeply, but just enough to make a belt around the metal. When finished, he places it carefully back on the table next to the Detective Special.
Completed, he picks up a second bullet and performs the same routine, this time carving two lines around the metal. Ready again, he picks up a third, this time to carve three lines around it. The three bullets stand next to each other on the chipped veneer of the wood, next to the Colt, next to the small black and white photograph. Ghuryel returns the file to the toolbag and puts the bag away.
Satisfied that all has been cleared away in this room, he looks through the other rooms and makes rudimentary cleaning motions. A picture is straightened here. A cushion is tweaked there. All is in order, yet still untidy. He turns his attention to the table and removes everything bar the gun, bullets and photo.
He loads the Colt slowly, placing each of the three bullets in the cylinder with care and deliberation. When loaded, he takes the gun and the photo with him and walks out to the fire escape at the end of the corridor outside his apartment. Climbing through the window, he walks along until he comes level with his own bathroom window. Standing on the rusty, weather-worn metal, he looks at the photo and turns it over to see the time and the date written in looping handwriting, the ink now brown and faded.
Ghuryel gently kisses the photo, a small tear snaking down his cheek, then raises the gun to his head and fires. The photo, with small splatters of blood across it, twists and turns in the wind as it swivels and falls to the ground below.
9th Street II
As Meugrel passes the window on his way to the kitchen, he sees a car waiting outside the building opposite. They don't see many cars on their street, as it isn't a very safe place to leave anything valuable. The apartment below was broken into twice in the past month and two months ago he came home with his wife Crijsa to find their own home ransacked. Although some of the jewellery had been taken from Crijsa's dresser, nothing much else was stolen.
Five years ago, Meugrel decided that the odd job life was no longer for him. He had run errands, taken day-to-day courier work, worked cash in hand, done whatever needed doing for whoever needed it done. He had started to step out with a young girl and had realised that he needed a bit of solidity, an anchor for himself. With no qualifications other than a cleanly pressed suit, fair wavy hair and a smile which showed off his white but slightly crooked teeth, he presented himself at the offices of the City Metroway to apply for a position, any position with them.
Impressed by his enthusiasm and his suit, the Metroway director offered him a job working as an attendant at the North/Hayldan station, a position Meugrel immediately accepted. He went out that night with Crijsa to a central bar and proudly informed her that he was now a 'railwayman'. She smiled and wondered whether this would mean they could move in together. Several pay cheques later, they did. Meugrel proposed to her, and they married in a small ceremony downtown. For their honeymoon, Metroway presented them with rail passes to wherever they wanted. The passes, with their unlimited expiry, still lie in one of their bureau drawers.
While Meugrel worked his way up to become the stationmaster at North/Hayldan, Crijsa stayed in, as the master of the station that was their home. With small touches, and inexpensive flourishes, she transformed their poky fourth floor apartment into a more hospitable place and one which was suitable, if she only dared whisper it, for them both and maybe even a little addition.
On days of stress, Meugrel would return and they would argue about whether it was fit and proper to have a child. On days of calm and peace, they would lie on the sofa with the lights off, listening to records; Meugrel would think of the baseball, Crijsa would think of children's names.
Five years on, and the days still follow the same patterns.
The most perfect time of the day for Crijsa is in the early evening. As the days and nights are so dark, she sits by the table in the hallway, looking at the lights from her lamps. Each year for her birthday, Meugrel comes home with a box wrapped in brightly coloured papers, blues and yellows, greens and reds. He places it on the hallway table and calls her through while he takes off his hat and overcoat. She comes through, looks at the box and inevitably squeals as she throws her hands around his neck, kissing him, then grabbing the box and taking it through to the main room. Each year she thinks that this is the year he'll forget. Each year she wonders and hopes about what he has bought.
Each year, he buys her a Tiffany lamp. The first year, it was a small lamp, bought from a second-hand junk shop past Caldrewn station run by the brother-in-law of one of his train drivers. The year after, an even smaller lamp, but more expensive, ordered by post from a antiques man he had seen in the newspaper. The delivery alone had cost a pretty penny. The third year brought a bigger lamp, no more costly but with brighter shades and more intricate work around the edges of the glass. Last year's present was the big lamp, the one which sits by the window with the four lilies intertwining at the top, their leaves rolling down and matched by the carving work at the base.
This year's present was a return to the very first year. Meugrel had spent weeks scouring the papers and second-hand stores to find it and, at the last minute, it appeared. It was the sister lamp to the very first one he had bought her, identical as twins. When she opened the box and saw it, she had cried and hugged him again and again. She had taken him through to the main room and they put the lamp on the low table and gazed at it while she played with his fingers in her hand. Brother and sister lamp now sit next to each other on the hallway table, waiting for the annual arrival of another member of their family.
As he passes her in the kitchen, they both hear a noise from the alleyway by their building. Crijsa glances up at him and they both grin at each other, because they know precisely what they are both thinking. Cats. Stray cats. A window nearby bangs closed in a gust of wind. Meugrel brings the broad plates through to the table and they sit down to eat. They hear a car start up and pause, looking into each other's eyes, until the whine of the engine has died into the distance, the tyres screeching away into silence.
9th Street I
Although the sky had been dark for days, the streets of the City were awash with illumination from the flickering halogen bulbs of street lights, shop fronts and cars. Careering through the intermittent pools of light on roads slick with rain and leaked engine oil, the car slid slightly when turning into 9th Street. Dimming the headlights and slowing down to a less unreasonable speed, the battered dark green Jensen Interceptor approached the thin corner building on Hayldan and pulled in outside the main doorway.
A tall, thin woman gets out from the passenger side, adjusts her coat, closes the door and walks slowly up the steps into the building's atrium. A weasel-faced man stays behind the steering wheel, lights up a cigarette and lowers his window to flick the ash that has hardly yet formed into the street, to burn down and hiss in the rain puddles. In the back seat of the car, another woman sits staring through the windshield into the distance, occasionally glancing down at her wristwatch.
As Alphece walks through the atrium towards the old-fashioned elevator, she glances quickly at the faux-marble columns and the stains expanding across the ceiling, the rust water marks spreading like a spider's web. She checks her pockets to make sure all is well. Inside the elevator, she presses the button for the third floor, each button marked with Roman numerals, and drags the outer door closed. The elevator moves up.
Vaereta looks at her wristwatch again, noting the scratches on the glass face and the broken hand on the date wheel. Lifting her left hand to her ear, she listens intently to the ticking of the second hand as it sweeps around the circle. Carefully, she tugs her French cuff across the watch to rest on the very edge of her wrist, straightening the burnished silver link which holds it together.
The end of the cigarette seems certain to burn the tips of Bherei's fingers, but he throws it across the road just before the burning orange embers can make contact with flesh. He winds up his window and starts to play with the keyring by the ignition. Looking across the street at the Tiffany lamp in the fourth floor window, he squints to see shapes moving behind the thick, yellowed net curtains. Abruptly, a window bangs closed in the adjacent building and the clatter of a trash can toppling over can be heard from the alleyway behind. Bherei moves around in his seat to look back at the steps.
Walking through the maroon-painted walls of the third floor, turning left then right through the rabbit warren of corridors with their cheap carpet underfoot, Alphece silently acknowledges all the door numbers, looking for apartment 24B. A gloved hand reaches up to brush back her matted blonde hair over her ear and then down to the neckline, before tugging up the back of her collar. The window at the end of the corridor has been shattered in the grimy top right corner and blows a thin reedy note of wind along the passageway. She stops at a door and knocks twice, her knuckles making the sound ripple against the wall.
The door is opened by a small boy, perhaps ten or eleven years old. He looks up at his visitor and then turns his back on her, returning to within the apartment. Tughban has lived in 24B all his life but only recently on his own. Alphece walks into the apartment, closes the door and follows him into the main room where he has lain down on a divan in utter disrepair. Springs and stuffing expose themselves from every corner of the piece and escaped parts lie underneath in chaotic patterns.
Alphece brings out a small string-wrapped package from her overcoat and hands it to the child. He looks up at her uncertainly, then accepts it. While he struggles to untie the string, she steps tentatively through the home debris and gazes at dusty, cracked pictures on the walls, fragmented porcelain plates and objects on shelves and the discoloured metals of cutlery across the room. Tughban removes the string, unwraps the overlapping squares of newspaper carefully and then smiles. She turns to see him rewrapping the newspaper and retying the string. He moves from his makeshift bed into another room, motioning for her to remain.
He returns to the room to see Alphece staring out of the window and down at the car. There is only one car on the street, and she can dimly make out Bherei's hands on the steering wheel through the streaky windshield three floors below. Tughban offers her a small wooden box, with elephants carved into the lid, which she takes from him with both hands then places in her pocket.
He walks her to the front door, ushers her through into the corridor, brings his hands together with index fingers pointing at her, dips his hands, then closes the door. She remains staring at the closed door, arms by her sides, for a few moments before retracing her steps towards the elevator.
As she pushes forward the front passenger seat to get out, Vaereta looks at her watch again. She climbs out of the car and begins to start up the steps only to see Alphece walk through the door towards her. She arches one eyebrow and turns to resume her place in the back of the car. Alphece gets in the car and taps the dashboard for Bherei to begin moving. Looking up, she sees Tughban watching the car pull away, turn around in the street and drive off.
As they pass underneath the elevated railway, Alphece hands the box over her shoulder to Vaereta, who handles it with reverence. She undoes both the brass clasps and, running her fingernail across the engravings, opens it. Inside, there is a key resting in soft material, along with a small folded tickertape of paper. Vaereta smiles, closes the box and hands it back to Alphece.
Champion
I was privileged to attend the recent World Chess Championships in London, where the current World Champion, Pyotr Victorov, was due to play his challenger from Georgia, Valeriy Andreyev, in a round of 24 games. The rules were simple: whoever ended up with more points won. Other than that, anything goes.
Andreyev went into the finals as the underdog, though his status changed somewhat when large sums of money were placed on him to win the Championship by a small cartel at the Ladbrokes on Walthamstow High Street. Claiming to have had a tip off from "the stable boy", this group of gamblers wagered some £12,500 at odds of 12-7 that Andreyev would successfully claim the title.
Their spokesman later claimed that "Me, Billy, Ron and Smasher reckon that Val's got a better chance with the Tarrasch Variation of the French Defence than anything what Victorov can come up with, innit". Ladbrokes declined to comment other than to state that they were continuing to give odds on anything from chess, Elvis and the existence of life on other planets to more esoteric and amusing bets, such as football, horses or greyhounds.
Victorov's preparations for the finals had not gone smoothly. Being far from fluent in English, his arrival in the town of London, Alabama was considered a partly understandable mistake, but delayed the start of the games for several days. When he arrived in London, England, after an arduous journey in which the pilot suffered a mild heart attack and severe indigestion, the champion seemed upbeat, grimacing at the cameras and displaying his middle finger to the many cheering onlookers.
At a lock-up garage in Mile End, the two grandmasters faced each other in front of a crowd of literally tens of people, all waving banknotes and tugging eagerly at the ropes of the ring. In a uncustomary development for modern chess, the matches were all to be played in the centre of a 1950s-style Lonsdale boxing ring. The organisers had brought Diamond Del from Essex to the venue especially for his experience of such big name events and he was to be both the MC and the arbiter.
The undercard before the first game comprised two potential masters of the game. Alexei Svetlin from the Ukraine was renowned for the speed at which he played, as well as his precision during the end game phase and his preference for the Ruy Lopez opening. Ricky Tatton from Haringey was primarily known for being a nifty light welterweight with a good left jab but often wayward footwork. It was, needless to say, a whitewash.
I had settled in my seat with a warm can of Skol and my notebook when a wave of excitement rushed along the chipped brickwork of the lock-up. Victorov had stormed out and Andreyev had secured the title without having to lift a piece. The Georgian was borne aloft on the shoulders of the bouncers and led into the dingy, ill-lit street for celebratory brandies all round at The Old Denmark.
It was only several rounds later that I found out from Tony, who had 'borrowed' the lock-up, exactly why the now ex-champion had left. Victorov had been enraged to find that Diamond Del's Hasbro 'Attack of the Clones' chess set was missing one of the pawns shaped like Jango Fett. He had then left in what could only be described as "a right hump".
Shop
Across the road and up the steps there is a small shop. There are eight steps to climb and handrails on either side to help you. Take exactly seven paces – my paces – forward and you will be at the door of the shop. When you open the door, a little brass bell will ring to let the shopkeeper know you've arrived.
He is a middle-aged Asian man, always dressed in slacks and a garish jumper. He wears glasses and the lenses are quite thick. The shop is named after a famous Greek or Roman hero, but the lettering has faded over the years, so you can't read it. The interior is a grubby beige and shelves made from cheap wood are struggling under the weight of display boxes and presentation cases.
This shop sells porcelain figurines, chocolates, newspapers, postcards, cigarettes and dreams.
It's close to where I lived four years ago and if I find myself in the area, I generally pop inside to say hello to the shopkeeper. He calls me Mister Mark and I call him Mister Rishan, because I don't know his first name. He instinctively reaches for a pack of cigarettes when I walk in because he knows the brand I smoke and why I've come.
Once or twice, I've bought chocolates from him, as a gift or an apology, and I've even bought the odd postcard, to write silly messages and send them to friends who complain that they never receive anything in the mail. I have bought several newspapers but, to date, I have not purchased any of the small porcelain animal figurines.
I bought a dream, once.
When I had received my cigarettes and chosen my newspaper, I enquired about why the sign outside the shop claimed that he sold dreams. He told me that the sign was correct and that he did indeed sell dreams. I asked how much they were. He claimed that the price varied depending on what I wanted. I asked for a happy dream. He said that they were quite common and therefore not too expensive, adding (in a half-whispered aside) that it was the sex dreams for which he could charge top prices. I reassured him that one happy dream would suit me fine. I paid for the dream, the cigarettes and the newspaper and he went back into a room behind the shop.
Five minutes or so later, he emerged with a small cream-coloured box which he handed to me.
"Place this beneath your pillow when you sleep tonight and you will dream of happiness."
"What's in the box?"
"Your dream."
"It's an awfully small box."
"But, Mister Mark, you will have an marvellously big, happy dream."
I thanked him and left the shop, wondering about the extent to which I had just been conned. Clever man, I thought, getting gullible optimists like myself to pay up for what was definitely a small box and most probably an empty one. I went back home and continued with my work.
That evening, as I climbed into bed and dragged the sheets up to my chin, I remembered the small box which was sitting on the desk in my study room. Well, I thought, I may be gullible but what harm can it do? I got up and fetched the box, returned to my room and put it underneath my pillow. After laying back down, reading for a few minutes before my eyes started to drop, and switching off the light, I fell asleep.
And I dreamed. And dreamed of such wonderful things and people that I cannot begin to express them. When I awoke, I felt refreshed like never before, happy like never before and completely at peace. As the day went on, though, I began to forget some of the details of my dream, some of the people I had met and the places I had visited and seen.
I went back to the shop to get more cigarettes and to see Mr Rishan so that I could thank him for the dream. As I walked in, and the little brass bell rang, he looked up at me and smiled.
"Sleep well, Mister Mark?"
"Very well, thank you, Mister Rishan."
"I am glad to hear that."
"I have a few questions, though."
"I'm sure you have. But I have no answers."
"None at all?"
"Only what you see on the sign outside."
The sign outside still reads: Porcelain Figurines. Chocolates. Newspapers. Postcards. Cigarettes. Dreams.
25 things
i was born in 1977 and lived in mill hill until the tender age of 17, whereupon I went up to oxford for my degree. two years of varying success later, i left (degreeless) and wandered the tide of mediocre jobs while living in, variously, new marston, brixton, finsbury park, camden town, notting hill and greenwich village. i'm six foot tall, thin, i wear glasses, i work in an office, i drink in nyc and i live in hope.
