Chapter 1
It was after eleven. He'd been up early. Working, or trying to work, but with no success. He read the story again, the cicadas chirping, a dog barking, its chain straining from the shadow to the sun. He spat, watched the saliva arch over the terrace and hang from the leaf of an olive tree. He opened the paper and read the headline once more.
“Bitch.” He said.
Of course he knew about it already. Had done for a week now. There had been phone calls. There had been offers, promises, grovelling even, and then threats, all to no avail. It was a problem emanating from personal enmity, of which in this business there was plenty. Investments were protected, no one could allow him to slide, there was too much involved, internationally, if he went, money would be lost. But it was his pride, which was hurting as well. It was what she was doing to him, what she knew she was damaging, that behind all the words, the earnest proselytising she was enjoying his exquisite torment. He imagined the kind of bloody mess he could make of her, what he would like to do, only day dreams, but the sweat on his lips gave it the salt of reality. He could remain aloof, but some reaction would be expected. That was an obligation. He felt a hand on his shoulder, he pushed it off.
“I’m burnt.” He said.
The hand lingered above his head, but did not ruffle his hair.
“Fucking burnt.”
“You want to go surfing?”
“No I don’t.”
“You don’t get out in the sun enough.”
“I don’t like it that much. I like rain, and grey days. I’m not a fucking Californian. I told you, I don’t like the fucking sun.”
“Why are you here then?”
“Because I like it here, it’s not just fucking sunshine is it? There’s more to Spain than the sunshine, ain’t you noticed?”
“Back then you liked the beach.”
“Back then? Back fucking when? Back in the day.” He looked up at her.
“Oh forget it Gavin.”
Back then. Holly and Gavin abused drugs and drinks together, she, straight off the Californian surf, laughing at his pink body on the beach. She joined his crowd, he’d brought his cousins on holiday with him, they were already drunk and raucous, their stringy bodies dashing in and out of the waves, more staid sunbathers questioned the claimed exclusivity of the beach with these lily white, tattooed English hooligans trying to do cart wheels in the water. Apart from his family there were a few artist friends and musicians sharing the picnic, cocaine and drink. When the rest of the crowd left for the beach house, they stayed up all night, in the morning she asked his name. Sitting with her back to him, playing with the braids in her hair. She played her part well he thought pretending she didn’t recognise him, he gave her a false name, and watched her back tense for a moment and then relax as she heard him laugh. Holly the surf siren. Back then. Fifteen years ago.
He’d taken everything he could, and it was so easy, he never quite believed it. He got up and walked over to the swimming pool. Until now, now began the backlash, when you hit a certain age, with younger ones coming up behind him, dismissing him, just as he dismissed his seniors in his own time. But he still held on to his position no one had dared attack him too openly, he was still powerful, the most powerful, but he sensed, they smelt a weakening, a lessening of his charisma, his presence, his exploits, his outrage and outrageous acts.
Holly wandered away from him, the stud in her belly button glimmered, her sarong wrapped by the wind around her buttocks as she turned. They stood at opposite sides of the pool.
“I got a class at 12.”
“Where? Who with? Not that mosaic shit again?”
“No with Douglas.”
“The ex-city hippy hammock weaver?”
“He’s great come on, he’s doing so well. You know he’s really got something going on in Gualchos, they love him up there. They’ve got so much respect for him. He left it all behind man.”
“Did he fuck. He likes his working class in blue overalls, preferably with a few goats and spouting bollocks. Give him one of his own oiks down there on the fucking coast eating McDonalds in replica Chelsea shirts and the cunt would run a mile.”
“What’s got into you today?”
“Oh you don’t know?”
“No.”
“That’s fucking wonderful that is isn’t it, she don’t know. You don’t know.”
“No, you want to do some yoga?”
“You are having a laugh.”
Holly walked away from the pool, away from him. She threw her arms up in the air, and he stood watching her back, he could have dived into the pool but he didn’t.
“Hey.” He shouted, but she ignored him, disappearing into a violet haze of Jacaranda.
Vim came out of the house, leaning on the terrace he began to talk to Gavin. Gavin shook his head in frustration.
“I can’t hear you, come down here you lazy cunt.”
“What’s up?”
“What do you mean what’s up you dozy bastard?”
“I mean with you. What’s up with you?” Vim lowered himself into a chair, his shaven head glistening, he rested his sandwich on one of the folds of his shirt.
“How can you eat that in this heat?”
“Marta did it.”
“Because you asked her.”
“That’s what she’s there for, cooking and that. Just a sandwich.” He waved it in front of Gavin who tried to swat it out of his brother’s hand.
“Get off it.”
“Where’s Bay Watch going?”
“Hammock weaving.”
“With that muppet?”
“Douglas.”
“Whatever.” Vim chewed on his sandwich, “Not the same as English bacon is it? Got more fat and that.”
“Well get down to Gibraltar you lazy fucker.”
“I ain’t knocking it.”
“Oh no?”
“You know what I mean, Spanish food in general ain’t the same I mean I like to experiment.”
“Oh yes where do you eat Vim, when you get off your arse?”
“Like I’m saying their food ain’t the same, don’t know what they do with them Big Macs, but it don’t taste like it does at home, more salad in them or something like that.”
Gavin threw his arms up in exasperation. His watch caught the sun and glinted momentarily.
“You want that? Tag Hauer?”
Vim looked at him in surprise.
“No here you have it Vim.”
“Straight up?”
Gavin took the watch from his wrist and tossed it in his brother’s lap.
“Thanks.”
“That’s all right , I’ll go and get another one this afternoon.”
“All right then.”
“What you doing today?”
“I might go down the club, have a round with Charlie.”
“Oh that’s nice yes. A round with Charlie.”
“He likes you he does. He admires you; he’d like to meet you.”
Gavin nodded.
“He’s all right, he told me this story about this geezer, artist right, world famous he was, anyway he’s sitting in this restaurant and this mug’s lost so this…”
“Picasso.”
“Hold on that’s it, this mug only asks Picasso the way, and Picasso draws him a map and that, and the mug says…”
“Can you sign it?” Gavin interrupted
“Yes. Cause if he signs it, you know what I mean, it’s worth a lot, he won’t do it see?”
“I fucking heard that story Vim. Got any new ideas? Because that’s what we need, a new idea.” Gavin jumped into the pool. When he got out Vim was still there. Doing nothing, apart from picking at his feet. He took a towel and sat back down having dried himself off a little.
“You’re supposed to be having a break taking it easy, chilling out?”
“Forty year old men don’t fucking chill out.”
“What has got into you? You miserable cunt?”
Gavin threw the newspaper at Vim. “Read that you donkey.”
Vim picked it up and scoured the back pages. “Ain’t nothing here.”
“Not the football, the fucking arts page.”
“Perhaps the biggest surprise of The Shock Art! Biennial has been the non admittance of Brit-Art’s most influential artist Gavin Stamp. There has been little comment from his Finca in Andalusia. And a similar lack of response from the curator of the show Adrianna Skirk. The show opens on the 24th of April next year. Fuck me.”
Chapter 2.
You might have found Harry anywhere. In this pub for instance. The Dunned Scrivener on Commercial Road, famous as a rookery of rag trade shops and Bangladeshi cafés. A brute of a road, constant traffic, beneath which the ringing of alarms dwindled away, ignored. On the door was a fluorescent poster declaring - work boots and high heels welcome, an ironic riposte to the nearby city pubs. A jostling, busy boozer on a Friday night. The yellowed light gave them all a patina of reckless shame, the smoke billowed from their mouths like so many ghosts of jokes.
He was, drinking, quite hopelessly caught in this tiny cavern of alcohol. Stuck on the beer sodden carpet. The customers around him were mostly labourers, lowly clerks, and a small group of thieves. A real London stew, the hapless, the helpless, and the criminal.
He was lonely, the bar maid changed from plain to passably attractive the longer he drank and stared at her. She was well used to this phenomenon as she added to the spell by pulling him another pint.
“Why don’t you have a couple of these? Brighten you up.”
He looked up at the man who was now standing at his shoulder, breathing a heavy fug of cigarette, cod and chips, the vinegar was in his eyes, reddened, the last truly soft part of him.
“Why don’t you fuck off, better still why don’t I?”
With that Harry heaved himself up from the bar and pushed past the man. He walked down Commercial Road, littered with large cardboard boxes; he took the underground from Aldgate East to Farringdon. The city workers were gone, sandwich shops closed, pubs moderately full, it being the better side of midweek.
The front door was ajar, he kicked it shut angrily, Mrs Green shot her head around the corner, from her ground floor flat, his ever vigilant neighbour.
“It weren’t open were it? She hissed
“Yes it was.”
“McClain, I tell you, that council’s got to do something about him. I can’t stand much more of it, I leave him notes and he don’t read them, he’s got glasses I seen them.”
“Oh yeah?”
“What do we want with the likes of him?” She stabbed her index finger accusingly.
“He’s a dirty old man. He just brought another one in. You don’t do nothing about it do you?”
“What do you want me to do?” Asked Harry wearily.
“Have a word, warn him you’re the law ain’t you?”
“It’s up to him what he does in his own home.”
“So it’s alright with you then? He can bring who he wants in here, and them unnatural acts just above me head, I got pictures of my grandchildren hanging on them walls.”
McClain had met a young man at the bus stop, a young man who innocently became engaged in conversation with the elderly West Indian, McClain then invited him back to his flat. The young man felt a little honoured to be going home with a West Indian, he had never been to the house of a West Indian.
McClain had made tea, and tentatively suggested a nip of something stronger and when this was rejected politely he asked if they might have a game of darts. A board hung on the opposite side to the sofa above the television. The young man although slightly nervous agreed. McClain then added a little rum to the tea and handed it to the young man. He drank it retching slightly. He felt a little reassured when he saw a photograph of a young man and woman in what was obviously a wedding photograph, McClain jutted his finger at the picture. “My wife. Passed away now fifteen years.”
“Do you have children?”
“No I got no children, them children got no father.”
They played a desultory game of darts for a quarter of an hour and then McClain seemingly a little exhausted fell back on to the sofa.
“Are you all right?” The young man asked.
“Yes, yes, just bring me that little bottle will you on the shelf there, that’s the one. Would you just put the television set on, I believe there is a video show already in it, you sit yourself down and watch the film a while.”
“I should go.” But he sat on the narrow sofa, the men’s thighs touching.
“No you can watch a little of the movie, you like the movies, the films. Young fellow like you.”
“Well ok for a little while, but my girlfriend is waiting for me.”
“Oh your girlfriend oh yes I see, I’m sure she wouldn’t begrudge you spending a little time with me. That’s correct, pass me the remote control, there. Now give me the bottle thank you.”
The picture on the television stretched and then the image consolidated into a coherent picture, the young man felt the older man’s hand on his thigh.
“Have a little sniff.”
The young man watched the first gasps of anal sex, and the man’s hands were at his flies. McClain’s other hand waved the bottle under his nose. The young man swept the old man’s hand off his crotch, but it crawled back, and the neck of the small bottle was at his nostrils. The young man tried to move a little, naive, not wishing to cause offence whilst trying to extricate himself from this feeble molestation.
“I don’t like this, please take your hand off.”
He tried again to get the young man to sniff the bottle, but he refused, McClain felt the other man’s flaccid penis, as soft as his own, the sounds from the television were stark and metallic. The young man got up, he was scared but polite.
“I have to go, I’m sorry I can’t stay here.”
“Come on you like the porno, don’t you?”
But the young man was scared, heading for the door; he looked like he might scream. He thought they might have a nice afternoon together, but it wasn’t to be.
McClain looked up at him mournfully, “Then I shall come downstairs with you, otherwise you’ll be locked in, Mrs Green is very security conscious, happily for the rest of us.” They walked down the narrow twisting stairwell together and sure enough in the hall Mrs Green was waiting.
“My friend has to go now.” He patted the boy on the shoulder, he was pale.
“Well how nice to have met you love. Be seeing you again I hope?” The young man wan and frightened said nothing just left hurriedly on the release of the dead lock.
“And I’m just going for some chocolate fingers Mrs Green.” Said McClain and followed the young man into the street.
And now he returned he saw Harry and Mrs Green sure she had been gossiping, he bent his head down ready to pass them. He didn’t like Harry knowing his business. He pushed on upstairs but Harry was behind him.
“Mr McClain.”
“Yes?”
Harry stopped at the top of the stairs. “Mrs Green was chatting with me. You want to watch it.” Harry nodded downstairs; McClain opened his mouth as if to protest. Harry unlocked his door and walked into his flat saying no more.
“Watch what?”
“You know what I mean.”
“That’s no business of hers who the devil she think she is?”
Harry shrugged his shoulders and opened his door.
“She got no business talking bout me, you got no business neither, I got my privacy, you understand what I’m saying to you?”
“Yes.”
Harry smiled wearily and closed the door gently on Mr McClain.
Chapter 3
He took a taxi to the hotel where the meeting was to be held. Gavin had taken a sedative, was trying to be calm. He was sweating and the car’s air conditioning was bothering him, but the heat was worse. He hadn’t wanted Holly to drive him; he didn’t want to drive, Vim couldn’t be trusted so here he was in a cab.
The money was in the bank he knew, he kept repeating that, no matter what, the money was in the bank. But he was obsessed with neurotic disaster fantasies, what if the bank crashed? Investments went down, short selling, things like that; he didn’t know what, his brokers worked for him, but what if they were all a bunch of shysters? What if he put it all in gold? Would it be safer? What if he dug a hole and buried it in Epping forest?
Now thee buyers were getting shaky about him. One bad exhibition and prices had dropped, another failure and perhaps that would finish him, it had happened before. Too much money at stake, got to keep the naked emperor clothed now. His Rochdale Miniskirt had been sold for half a million at Sudby’s, way under the original asking price.
The phone calls had started then. A collector from Maimi, making enquiries, soft gentle voiced anxieties about Gavin’s next project, when and how and what? Was he aware of the fall in price of the Rochdale Miniskirt? He had tried hard not to lose his temper, stayed calm, the man from Miami was polite, but ignorant, he wanted to say to him. “You ignorant cunt you bought anti-art, art that rejected art, art that laughed at value of any sort, and now you’re worried about it’s fucking value, or lack of, you fat fucking pimp arsed yank.” But he didn’t of course.
He swore under his breath, the driver was chewing gum and listening to flamenco pop on the radio, a luminous virgin swung from the mirror, interlaced with a feathery dream catcher.
He felt sick and almost asked the driver to stop so he could get out. The car was snarled up in traffic, hire cars and tourists, lurching forward, and then stopping suddenly, the driver was bad. He tapped a beat on his side of the dashboard; the driver glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Gavin popped another pill, his throat was dry, he had to gulp hard to swallow the thing. He felt like punching something, but he didn’t. He looked outside, along the sea front, people, sun burnt, piercings and tattoos, pint wielding youths and the smell of roast dinners in 40 degrees of heat.
He was relieved when they then left the main drag and began to climb, up away from the coast. Driving past small narrow shaded streets, where he occasionally glimpsed a person sitting on a chair in the shade. The taxi took him through the gates of the hotel, and parked by several golf buggies.
His heart beat faster when he saw Ralph’s back, bent slightly over the bar reading the Express. He felt uneasy; Ralph was wearing a pink Burberry polo shirt and blue slacks, his gold Rolex weighed heavy on his wrist. Ralph was drinking a gin and tonic. He moved over slightly to allow Gavin to sit down on the stool next to him.
“Thanks for coming over.” Said Gavin.
“Always a pleasure, looking at a property as it happens just down the coast. Get away from this.” He pointed at a headline in the Express about immigration. Gavin ordered a beer. He drank.
“You look into that investment I told you about?” Ralph asked.
“Yes, didn’t do anything with it but thanks anyway.”
“How’s Holly?”
“She’s all right.” Gavin sighed.
“So what’s up?”
“I got to get back to work.”
“I thought you was doing ok.”
“I am. I was, I mean, there’s a big fuck off exhibition being put on by The Tite and the curator, how shall I put this?”
“I don’t know what?”
“She’s fucked me good and proper, I’m not in it. It’s major, it’s important; it’s a fucking problem Ralph.”
“But you got enough muscle to get in there haven’t you?”
Gavin smiled and thought about Adriana Skirk, Cheltenham Ladies College, Oxford, and Harvard, curator, art historian, and Italian cookbook writer.
“She won’t have it. Got to think of something else. She don’t like me never has.”
“What about the press?”
“They’re out to get me, saying I haven’t done nothing decent since 98, there’s no help there, no I’m fucked.” He finished his beer and ordered another. “Fucked.”
“Unless you come up with something new?”
Gavin nodded.
They were now joined by more people at the bar, golfers, salmon skinned from the sun, tight lipped.
“Unless we come up with something.” Said Gavin, “You’ll get your usual cut. What do you think?” He was scratching his head, he couldn’t settle on the bar stool, he stood up, sat down again, stood up again, a few people were looking at him, perhaps they recognised him, he didn’t know, didn’t care.
“Always happy to do business with you Gavin.”
“What d’you think then, come on, what’s your analysis?” Repeated Gavin.
Ralph hummed, a little too dramatically Gavin thought. He was in no hurry to give him an idea, a piece of inspiration.
“I’ll have to think about it, but it’ll cost you.”
Gavin regretted having shown how worried he really was, fidgeting, he tried to sit still to calm his nerves. But it was too late now. The price had risen that instant, would continue to do so, Ralph didn’t miss opportunities, but then he had supplied some of Gavin’s greatest work, with his technical skill, and imagination.
“We need a real headline grabber, we’ve got to get you into that show, somehow, make a stir there. We’ll get you in, don’t worry, just take it easy, you’ll give yourself an ulcer if you carry on like this, don’t let them get you on the windup. Look at you, fucking hell mate calm down. It’s all going to be fine. Give me a couple of days. You want another drink? Have another drink, my shout. Relax you silly bastard.” He tossed back the remains of his drink.
“Ok. Go on then. Is Muriel here?”
“Yes she’s by the pool, you want to see her?” There was a slight change of tone, a glimmer of something in Ralph’s eye.
“No, you’re alright, just say hello.”
