The Day Tripper, page 4
“Open up, Mr. Dean,” the voice comes again. “There’s a good chap.”
I kick the clothes covering the floor to one side and hastily repack the chest of drawers. There’s a wad of fivers I found bundled in socks, together with sixty quid in coins. I shove the notes in my pants, the bag of coins into the guitar case.
“Afternoon!” the man says with mock bonhomie as I release the deadlock on my door.
“Hi,” I mumble, hanging on a clue as to how he knows me.
He scans the room. “Late in the year for spring cleaning.”
“What can I do for you?” I say, oddly assertive; the last of the sherry lapping my system is working wonders.
“That’s a laugh, old chap. Think we both know the answer to that.”
I catch myself staring at the guy accompanying him who towers in the doorway. Mute and disinterested, he’s damned near as tall and as wide as the threshold itself. A tattoo winds around his neck and reaches onto his cheek.
“My driver,” clarifies the man.
“Right,” I say, thinking better of asking why, if that’s the case, he doesn’t wait in the car.
“What have you got for me, then?”
“What should I have for you?”
“Don’t get smart with me.” He scratches at his short gray hair. The meathead driver looks at me for the first time.
“What do you want?”
“Do you think I own a portfolio of properties for the luxury of chasing scumbags like you for rent arrears?”
“I guess not.”
“You guess right, Mr. Dean.”
“What do I owe?”
“Didn’t we have this very conversation less than forty-eight hours ago?”
I shrug.
“Two hundred and sixty smackers.”
“Understood.”
“Three twenty-five including this week. Why not be ahead of the game for once in your miserable life?”
In different circumstances I’d laugh right now. How can he be charging that for this dump?
“What have you got for me?”
I squirm slightly, feel the reassuring presence of the notes nestling against my privates.
“Bugger all?” he says.
I look at the floor and nod. I understand so little, but something tells me I should be holding on to the little money I do have.
“What’s that? ‘I’m very sorry, Mr. Hopkin, but I’m a feckless shit and I still don’t have a pot to piss in.’ Well?”
Lip service seems the safest way right now. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hopkin. I’ll get it to you.” Why does him treating me like scum make me feel like I am scum? Why do I feel I should apologize for ending up here, when I’ve had no choice in it?
He grabs my guitar case and shoves it into me so hard I almost go over onto the bed. “Twenty-four hours,” he says.
“Got it.”
“Well, run along, then.” He glares at me, an outstretched arm directing me out of the room.
“Sorry, I...”
“Get out there. Make some dough. It’s already getting dark.”
“Yes, right.”
“Busk!” he hisses, spit airborne. “That’s what a busker does, isn’t it? When you can be arsed. Sing for tuppence ha’penny?”
“I’m on it,” I say, grabbing a puffer jacket and pair of health-hazard trainers from my unfamiliar floor-drobe.
“This time tomorrow,” Mr. Hopkin booms as I follow him and his stooped assistant down the impossibly narrow stairs. “Or you’ll be out on your ear. Mark my words, Mr. Dean.”
USE SOMEBODY
Seven tube stops and a short walk and I’m back at the river where Holly and I were last night. But it can’t have been last night, can it? Mist rolls over the black water. My breath plumes white into the sharp air. People scurry, heads pulled low into heavy coats.
When I was here with Holly, there were tables and umbrellas stretching from the wine bar’s glass frontage to the water’s edge. It’s an uncluttered tarmacked concourse now. The bar, whose name escapes me, is an expensive coffee shop today. I’m not sure why I spend so long inspecting the ground for evidence of the blood spilled here—I already know I’ll find none.
What the fuck have you done to me, Blake Benfield?
The thought of him, the shape of his name, stirs the sickness again.
Had you not caused me enough grief already?
I take a seat on a concrete bench and lean my guitar case between my legs, this familiar if battered object offering a hint of comfort. I pull out my pack of cigs—I bought them an hour ago from the shop below the hovel I woke up in. “Eight quid,” I mumble in disbelief.
I’m on my third when a kid sits down next to me.
“Not playing?” he asks, eyeing the guitar.
“Too cold,” I grunt, no desire for a conversation.
“Not like you, old cuz.” I turn and he winks at me. He’s slight, his legs and arms so spindly they look absurdly long. A wisp of hair darkens his top lip. “Grow a pair, man,” he says, grinning.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Ain’t that what you always say to me when I’m moaning about the weather?”
I look down at my stained, calloused hands. They appear to have held a million cigs, and played a lot of guitar. “You know me, yeah?” I struggle to read his expression; a flash of anger perhaps. Or hurt, maybe. “Has someone put you up to this?” I ask.
“Is this a bad day?” He loads the phrase, like I have a history of them. “It’s okay, man.”
“What’s my name?”
He jabs his tongue under his bottom lip, does a mental face at me. “What?”
I almost snigger at his show of disbelief; so blatant, so teenage. “My name.”
“You wanna know your own name, Alex Dean?”
I feel an idiot and I can’t bring myself to quiz him further. If he is part of some elaborate hoax, surely it’ll become clear. “Sorry.”
“You’re James Dean’s cooler brother.”
“Right.”
“Isn’t that what you always say?” he asks.
“You know about James Dean?”
“Had to google him.”
I nod, no idea what he’s on about.
“Four sugars,” he says, placing a cardboard cup between us. “You sweet-toothed fool.”
“What is it?”
“Hot choccie, old cuz. What else?”
“For me?” I look at him again. Beneath his fluffy parka he’s wearing a red sweatshirt and drainpipe trousers—school uniform.
“Drink up.”
“That’s kind. Why’ve you...”
“Just let your old mate Jazz take care of you for once, yeah?”
“Jazz?”
“What?”
I shake my head, take a slurp. It’s divine. “You shouldn’t—”
“My turn, old cuz. Overdue really, innit? Saw you sitting here. Not gonna earn nothing with your guitar hiding in there.”
“I play here a lot?”
“What’s up with you today, man?”
How I wish I knew. “A bit all over the place, you know?”
He noisily slurps his hot drink. “You’ll be all right.” He says it so bouncily that I almost believe him. “Wanna talk about it?”
“I’m cool,” I lie. “So how often, would you say, do I...busk, here?”
“Most days, innit.”
“Right here?”
“Is this like some test of my observation skills or something? Might wanna make the questions a bit tougher.”
I stare into his kind eyes. “Look, mate... Jazz. I’ve had a hell of a twenty-four hours. Are you cool with just helping me out here?”
He nods, eager. “Most times you play here. Well, over there.” He points at a woman ten meters away handing out Christian Aid leaflets. “Till they move you on.” He grins like we’re sharing a joke. “Then you come right back here. This place, it’s special to you or something.”
“I said that?”
“Once or twice.” He snorts.
The hot chocolate warms me from the inside out and the steam beneath my nose smells of safety, of being in someone’s care. It’s enough, just briefly, for me to observe this present moment, pause the panic over what the hell’s going on. “Thank you,” I whisper to this generous young guy.
The dark is falling in now. A sheen of frost sparkles on untrodden ground. Sashes of Christmas lights glow on the opposite bank.
These people don’t look quite right. Hair too short. Clothes too tight. Where are the retired gents in the their suits and hats and overcoats? Everyone, even the schoolkids, have mobile phones, and they are tiny.
Since my last memory, since the fight, has time really passed?
What have I missed? What of Cambridge? What of Holly?
“You’re better than you think you are,” Jazz says from nowhere.
“Sorry?”
“I know about these days. When you, you know, can’t...busk. Can’t play.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re well good. Everyone thinks so. Think you have to be reminded sometimes.”
I smile. “That’s kind of you.”
He chuckles. “Like standing naked and letting people laugh at you.”
“I say that, yeah?”
“You know you do.”
“Sounds about right. Sounds bloody spot-on.” I finish my drink and reach for my body-temperature cash. “Let me pay you back, yeah?”
“You don’t owe me—”
“Get me next time,” I say, peeling off a fiver and hoping that covers it.
“You always say that.”
I rise to my feet, seized knees that are a fight to unfold.
“You should get going,” I say to Jazz, like a responsible adult might. “Catch your death out here.” I sound like a twat.
He stares blankly into the distance. “Yeah. Should be safe now.”
“Safe?”
He shrugs. “You know...”
I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile.
“Where you headed?” he asks.
“Now, there’s a question.” It’s been bugging me since I got here. Where do I go? Who do I see? Where do I find answers? I’m sure as hell not going back to that bedsit I woke up in. My parents’ place, my home, is half an hour’s bus ride from here. Maybe I should be checking myself into hospital, get to the bottom of what’s going on in my head. But I don’t feel compelled to do either of those things.
“You ever heard me talking about a girl called Holly?” I ask Jazz.
“Nah. She your girl?”
“I’ve never mentioned that name?”
“Don’t ring a bell, old cuz.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Why you talking to yourself?”
“Concentrating,” I mumble.
“Bit weird.”
“Poplar Avenue!” I snap, remembering what she wrote on the beer mat. “Thank Christ for that.” I’m grinning with relief.
“You all right, man?”
“Maybe I will be,” I tell him. “Any idea where’s best to get a cab round here?”
HARD TIMES
My hand shakes as I go for the doorbell. The last time I stood on this porch, this house was so inviting, as if it was asking me to join the party. Today it’s closed itself off to me, turned its back.
“Good evening,” a smartly dressed man with a Polish accent says.
A warm draft sweeps over me from the bright hallway and my chest collapses. I’d been trying to ignore the chance that this is no longer Holly’s family home.
“We don’t buy at the door. I’m sorry.” The man is softly spoken.
“Wrong house.” I hold up a palm in apology but can’t seem to walk away.
“Who are you looking for? Perhaps I can help?”
“Holly.” I feel foolish uttering her name.
“Holly Chan?”
“Yes! Yes! You know her?”
“You’re a friend of Holly’s?”
“Does she...live here...still?”
“I’m Mr. Chan’s PA. Perhaps you’d like to speak with him?”
“Holly’s father?”
“He’s on a call right now. Would you like to wait?”
“Sure. Yes. Please. I mean, he doesn’t know me or anything...”
The guy smiles and opens the front door all the way. “He’s a nice guy. He won’t mind, not if it’s about Holly.”
He struts through the house like it’s a catwalk, and I have to hurry to keep up. My heart jumps out of rhythm as we pass a portrait of Holly on the wall. She’s in a mortarboard and gown, flanked by a parent on each side. “Graduation,” I mumble. “Fucksake.” I was with her yesterday. She was two years away from getting her degree.
“Five minutes, maybe,” the guy says, guiding me to a leather sofa just off the vast kitchen. A log fire simmers and snaps in a grate next to me, and I offer my numb hands to the heat.
“You’re very kind. Thank you.”
On a sideboard across the room I spy a silver tray of decanters, cut crystal glittering under spotlights: whiskey, Cognac, Madeira, by the looks. The thirst assaults me. Need like I’ve barely known.
“Can I get you anything while you wait?” the PA asks. “A drink, maybe?”
“Well...”
“Tea? Coffee? Water?”
I am stony still as he hangs on an answer.
“Glass of wine, even?”
“Go on, then. Why not.”
“Red? White?”
“You choose. Whatever’s easiest.”
Among the modern art pieces lining the walls, Holly’s early life is well-documented: photo-calls at Disneyland, a caricature by a Paris street artist, her tending to a litter of stripy kittens, late teens and hiking up a rain-drenched mountainside. I’ve been scrutinizing the gallery and feeling a curious melancholy that I didn’t know her as a child, when I hear hushed voices in the hallway. I upend my wineglass, savor the last drips. A thick red served warm, it deserved better than the two gulps I sank it in.
“Hello, hello?” a voice sings from across the room, jolly with a stateside twang.
I turn around. The likeness to Holly is unmissable, even if he is shorter than her and old enough to be her granddad. For a second he oozes style: crisp white shirt, hands slouched in pockets, Beatle boots pointing my way. But then his soft features twist and tense. His easy gaze becomes a glare. He straightens like there’s an electric current through him.
I walk toward him, right hand outstretched. “Sorry to drop in like—”
“What the hell?”
“I was hoping I might—”
He jerks backward. “Stop!” he yells. “Stop right there!”
“Sorry, I—”
The color has drained from his cheeks. “Stefan!” he shouts. “Stefan. Here now, please!”
His PA appears like he’s been beamed into the kitchen.
“Why did you let this man in my house?”
“I think I don’t know this gentleman,” Stefan says.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “I think maybe you’ve confused me with someone. I’m not here to make trouble.”
Mr. Chan shakes his head at his PA. “This is Alex Dean!”
Stefan’s hand reflexes to his mouth in shock. “I’m so sorry,” he tells his boss. “Please. I didn’t know it was him.”
“How many times?” Holly’s father says to me. He’s edging backward with every step I take toward him. “How many times do we have to go through this?”
“I’ve never met you before. Not in my life.”
“You need help, Alex.”
“I just came to see Holly. That’s all. Not here to cause grief.”
He shakes his head. “Stefan, please?”
“I must ask you to leave,” the PA says, too polite to be assertive.
“Why?” I snap. “Tell me why.”
“Go!” Holly’s father shouts, a rigid finger directing me back the way I came.
“I just need to see Holly,” I whine. “Please. Just tell me where she is. I need her so badly right now.”
“Leave!”
“Please, sir? I need to know where she is. And then I’ll be gone.”
“Call the police, Stefan.”
“The police?” I say.
“Do I really have to remind you?” Holly’s father hisses. “The injunction still stands, Alex. You set foot near me or my family, you get arrested.”
Stefan talks hurriedly into a minuscule mobile phone.
“Why are you being like this?” I snap.
“They’re sending a car,” Stefan says, an admonishing glare fired my way.
“Your choice,” Holly’s father says.
“I mean no harm.”
“You’re prepared to risk yet another run-in with the law, are you?”
“Another?” I shake my head at him. “You’ve got me wrong.”
He’s silent, arms crossed.
“Holly wouldn’t let you treat me like this,” I tell him.
“How dare you!”
“Please?” I beg. I’m in his space now, and he’s reversing, hyperalert. “Me and her, we’re close. She talks about you. How you named her after Buddy Holly. I play his songs for her. Please, Mr. Chan. I’m not what you think.”
“Never come here again,” he says, marching toward me now, eyes wide and wild.
“This is crazy.” Some instinct makes me back away from him, lets him frog-march me to the front door. Stefan swings it open, standing to attention like a hotel bellboy. There’s a distant police siren. This is West London; surely it’s not for me.
The porch steps are slippery with ice as I turn back. “Tell your daughter I came by. Please, Mr. Chan.”
