Dead Air Page 2

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because it’s the ordinary law-abiding people who go crazy and walk into primary schools and open fire on a class of kids; compared to that, crims use guns responsibly. To them a gun’s just a tool, and something they tend to use on other crims, I might add, not a gym full of under-eights.’

  ‘You said criminals should have guns; that’s a quote. I heard you.’

  ‘Well, if I did, I was just exaggerating for comic effect.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s anything-’

  ‘You probably missed the way we developed that,’ I told her. ‘We decided only extroverts and nutters should get guns, crims or not. Because it’s always the quiet ones that go mad. Ever noticed that? The shocked neighbours always say the same things: he was very quiet, he always kept himself to himself… So; guns for nutters only. Makes sense.’

  ‘You’re not even consistent; you used to argue everybody should have guns.’

  ‘Emma, I’m a professional contrarian. That’s my job. Anyway, I changed my mind. I realised I was on the same side as people who argued that the States and Israel were havens of peace and security because everybody was tooled up.’

  Emma snorted.

  ‘Well,’ I said, waggling the hand that wasn’t holding my drink, ‘the statistics aren’t that clear-cut. They have a lot of guns in Switzerland, too, and not much gun crime.’

  Emma watched her drink as she swirled it in her glass. ‘You wouldn’t last in the States,’ she muttered.

  ‘What?’ I said, mystified.

  ‘Somebody would shoot you.’

  ‘What?’ I laughed. ‘Nobody’s shot Howard Stern.’

  ‘I was thinking more of jealous husbands, boyfriends, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Ah.’ I knocked back my Scotch. ‘Now that’s a different argument entirely.’ I stood up. ‘Can I get you another drink?’

  In the long, gleaming gallery that was the kitchen, Faye was sweeping up a smashed glass from the slate floor. The caterers were unpacking more food from cool boxes. I squeezed through a group of people I vaguely knew via my pals in advertising, saying Hi and Hello and How are you?, smiling and patting, shaking offered hands.

  Kul was leaning against the puce-coloured SMEG fridge while a suit with a flushed face and holding a slim briefcase tapped him on the chest.

  ‘… us have to go to work this afternoon you know,’ the suit was saying. ‘We have meetings.’

  Kul shrugged. ‘I put on gigs, man. I work at weekends. This was the first day we could both manage.’

  ‘Well, okay, let you off this time,’ the flushed suit said, swaying. ‘But don’t let it happen again.’ He laughed loudly.

  ‘Ha ha,’ Kul said.

  ‘Yeah, don’t let it happen again,’ the suit repeated, heading for the front door. ‘Na; it was great. Great. Thanks. Thanks for the invite. Been brilliant. Hope you’re both very happy.’

  ‘Thanks for coming. Take care,’ Kul told him.

  ‘Yeah, thanks. Thanks.’ The suit bumped into somebody, spilling a drink. ‘Sorry, sorry.’ He lurched round to wave to Kul, who had already turned away and was headed for the loft’s main space. I poured myself some more Glen Generic then saw that somebody had brought a bottle of cask-strength Laphroaig, so abandoned my first glass and poured another of the Leapfrog and went to the fridge for some water.

  ‘Hey, Ken.’

  I closed the fridge door and saw Craig, official best pal (Scottish). Usual faintly diffident grin and sloppy-looking, thrown-on clothes; wee round glasses beneath a shaven head. When Craig still had visible hair it was black like mine; maybe a little curlier. We’ve both always had the same medium-slim build and since third year in High School I’ve been a couple of inches taller. We used to get mistaken for brothers, which both of us thought unfairly flattered the other. Our eyes are different; his are brown and mine are blue. Alongside Craig was his daughter Nikki, balanced on a pair of crutches. A few seconds were required to take in this vision.

  I hadn’t seen Nikki for over a year, when she was still at school, all gawky, awkward and blushing. Now she was as tall as her father and as beautiful as her mother. She had long glossy auburn hair half hiding a slim, pale face that just shone with youth and health.

  ‘Craig! Nikki!’ I said. ‘Kid, you look fabulous.’ I looked down at the freshly plastered leg hanging at an angle from her boot-legged jeans. ‘But you’ve broken your leg.’

  ‘Football,’ she said, shrugging as best she could. Craig and I hugged and slapped backs in full-on hail-fellow-Caledonian-well-met style. I embraced Nikki rather more tentatively. She sort of leaned into the cuddle and nodded against my cheek. She smelled of the open air, of somewhere fresh and perfect a long way from London.

  ‘Heard you’re about to start at Oxford, yeah?’ I said, shaking my head as I looked at her. She was nodding.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she said, then, ‘Yeah, just a water or something,’ to her dad.

  ‘Chinese, wasn’t it?’ I asked.

  ‘Yup.’ She nodded.

  ‘Brilliant. Good for you. You can teach me how to swear in Mandarin.’

  She giggled, suddenly, briefly a child again. ‘Only if you promise to do it on air. Uncle.’

  I sucked air through my teeth. ‘Favour; don’t call me Uncle, okay? Make an old man happy while we’re together and pretend you just might be a trophy waif I’ve picked up.’

  ‘Ken!’ She kicked out at me with one crutch.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, rubbing my shin. ‘I’ve a reputation to keep up. Or down-hold. Whatever.’

  ‘You’re terrible!’

  ‘Come on,’ I said, offering my arm. ‘Let’s get you a seat. Craig; we’re through here,’ I told him. He waved. Nikki nodded me to go ahead of her. ‘Hobble this way,’ I said and pushed through the pack of people towards the main space while Nikki clumped after me. I looked at her again as we got clear of the kitchen crowd, and sighed. ‘Oh dear, Nikki.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You are going to break so many hearts at Oxford, youngster. ’

  ‘Organs, rather than bones. Good idea.’

  ‘Mm-hmm. Football, you said?’

  ‘Girls do play it nowadays, you know.’

  ‘Golly, you don’t say. Don’t you find the long skirts get in the way? Ow! Will you stop doing that?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘What position?’

  ‘Striker; I was scythed down in the penalty box. On a hat-trick, too.’

  ‘Disgraceful.’

  ‘Nikki, Nikki; here. Oh, Nikki!’ Emma had jumped up. She hugged her daughter tightly, eyes closed. I hovered for a bit, but there was no room on the sofa once they’d got settled, and Emma seemed to be deliberately ignoring me. I waved to Nikki and wandered off. Time for another line or two, and/or one more quick session on Kul’s PlayStation 2 (if that last bit makes me sound like some kid whose parents won’t or can’t buy him a games machine of his own, I have to plead half guilty to the childishness charge; I did have a PS2 of my own but I got annoyed at it one drunken night back in the summer and threw it overboard. I live on a houseboat so I can do that sort of thing).

  A drink or two later, a couple of lines and various conversations to the better, I was standing on the terrace again, admiring the view and breathing in the fresh autumnal air. With Jo gone I felt a sense of freedom and even opportunity and promise, the afternoon and evening stretching ahead invitingly. I had a couple of Evo 8s with me and pondered taking one. Loved up for the rest of the day. This would mean, though, that I’d be out of synch with Jo, assuming we reconnected before the day was over. With Addicta involved, probably we wouldn’t, but then you never knew.

  An arm slipped round my waist. A body against mine, a kiss on my cheek and a voice purring, ‘Herr-lerrr.’

  ‘Amy. Well, hello indeed.’

  Amy was a friend. One of Jo’s friends, originally, though I suspected she and I got on better these days than she and Jo, who seemed to have cooled towards her. Amy wa
s nearly my height; she had fine, shoulder-length dark-blond hair with a natural curl. She also had very long legs and a figure. There was something slightly time-warped about Amy altogether; she was actually younger than Jo by a year but she dressed and acted five or ten years older. PA to a lobbying firm.

  ‘You look well, Ken.’ Amy leaned back against the parapet, arms along the stone. She wore pearls, a blue blouse, a mid-length skirt and a long jacket; court shoes.

  ‘And you look delectable as ever,’ I told her, smiling. Amy and I met up for lunch every now and again. We’d been flirting and joking about having a torrid affair for a year or so but we both knew it wasn’t going to happen. Well, probably. It was Amy I’d been on the phone to earlier when we’d got cut off.

  She smiled slowly and looked around. ‘Jo here?’

  ‘Was. Had to go. Work.’

  ‘Was it her Addictive Band lot again?’

  ‘The same.’

  She held a glass of white wine and took a delicate sip. ‘What was the wedding like?’ The wind produced a tiny gust, moving her hair across her face. She blew it away.

  ‘Don’t know,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t make it; show to do.’

  ‘Ah-hah. Ken, do you have any drugs?’

  ‘Some coke; couple of Es.’

  ‘Think I might have some of the Charlie? I don’t know why. Just feel like it.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Do you ever get that?’

  ‘Every day with a “Y” in it.’

  There were a couple of children at the party and at least two print journalists I didn’t trust, so we found a room off the loft’s only corridor. It had been Faye’s office but now it was full of packing cases, ready for the move.

  Back on the terrace a little later, the two of us talking up a storm, she picked up the part-eaten apple still lying on the parapet, twirling it in her hand.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I told her. ‘It’s one of ours.’

  She threw it to me. It looked pretty unappetising, all brown around where I’d taken my single bite out of it. I leaned on the brickwork and held it over the drop to the car park. Amy leaned beside me. I let the apple go. It tumbled very slowly, almost disappearing.

  It hit the asphalt and exploded in a highly satisfactory manner, all little lumps of whiteness bursting out across the dark surface.

  ‘Excellent!’ Amy clapped her hands. We looked at each other, our chins just off the brick parapet. I felt, suddenly, like I was a schoolboy again.

  ‘Hey,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let’s drop more stuff.’

  ‘That’s just what I was thinking.’

  ‘I know.’

  Which is how it came to pass that we ended up chucking what seemed like half the contents of Faye and Kul’s loft over the parapet. We started with more fruit. ‘They’ve got far too much food in anyway,’ Amy said as we loaded up on oranges, bananas, a melon and more apples.

  We stared at the asphalt a hundred feet below. ‘That was disappointing.’

  ‘Was a bit, wasn’t it?’ I said, looking down at the squishy mess produced by a couple of oranges. ‘I don’t think citrus fruits are the way to go. They just don’t fragment in a satisfying manner.’

  ‘Or bananas.’

  ‘Agreed. Let’s go back to apples.’

  ‘Then the melon. That might be good.’

  ‘Yes. I have high hopes for the melon.’

  ‘Let’s do two apples at once; one each.’

  ‘Good idea. On three. One, two, three… Oh yes. Very good.’

  ‘Well synchronised. Let’s do four this time. Two each.’

  ‘We’ve only got three apples.’

  ‘I’ll get another one. No dropping the melon while I’m gone.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘Ere, wot are you two up to?’

  ‘Ed; hi. Hope you don’t mind. Dropping fruit onto the car park. S’okay; nowhere near your car.’

  ‘Fucking ell, mate, I hope not. Only got it last week. Cost me seventy grand.’ Ed was my official best pal (English). Slight of build with a face that always reminded me of a black Mark E. Smith; hard and soft at the same time, the phizog of a pliable bantam-weight bruiser. Club DJ; sort of in-demand guy does two gigs a night and catches a helicopter in between. The Porsche probably constituted a week’s wages.

  ‘It’s a beautiful car,’ I told him. ‘But yellow?’

  ‘That’s a fuckin traditional Porsche colour, that is.’

  ‘Traditional? How can yellow be traditional? Blue, or green; those are traditional colours. Even red, but not yellow. Yellow is traditional for JCBs and Tonka toys. Even lime green at a pinch; Kawasakis. But not yellow.’

  ‘Wot a load of shit,’ Ed laughed. ‘Wot are you on?’

  ‘Hi, Ed,’ Amy said, returning with another apple. ‘Here.’

  ‘Thanks. Fibre,’ I said to Ed, holding the apple up to him. ‘I’m on lots of fibre.’

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Read-hey,’ I said indignantly, ‘there’s a bite out of this apple.’

  Amy nodded. ‘Ya. Somebody was eating it.’

  I looked at her. ‘What are you loik?’ I said in my best Dublin accent.

  She just shrugged and got ready with her two apples, poised to drop. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Ready,’ I said.

  ‘Wot you doin this for?’ Ed asked as we let the apples go. ‘Eh? Ken?’ Ed said, while Amy and I concentrated on the fruit falling to its doom. ‘What’s the-?’ The apples duly splattered. ‘Aow, yeah!’ Ed said.

  ‘See?’

  ‘That’s why,’ I said.

  ‘Cool, man.’

  ‘Melon?’ said Amy.

  ‘Melon, definitely,’ I agreed, hefting it.

  ‘Let me!’ said Ed. ‘I want to drop the melon!’ Amy and I exchanged looks. ‘Come on!’ said Ed. ‘I haven’t got to drop nuffink yet.’

  ‘That’s the test,’ Amy said, sternly. ‘You have to bring something worth dropping to the party, or it’s no entry.’

  I nodded. ‘You haven’t been initiated.’

  ‘I’ll get sumfing!’ Ed started towards the apartment, then stopped. ‘Old on; let’s see the melon go first.’

  I held it out over the drop with both hands and then let it go.

  Amy whooped and we high-fived. ‘Outstanding!’

  ‘Fucking yeah, man!’

  ‘Fine sport.’

  ‘We need more fruit.’

  ‘I’ll find some, I’ll find some.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky.’

  ‘Yeah, something of a short-fall situation on the fruit front.’

  ‘I’ll find sumfing else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I dunno; rubbish, junk.’

  ‘Have you seen this place? Their living-room’s like an operating theatre; they don’t have junk.’

  ‘They’re movin, man. They must have stuff they’re frowin out.’

  ‘Good point. See what you can find.’

  ‘Let’s all see what we can find.’

  ‘Even better.’

  ‘What’s going on out here?’ Kul asked.

  ‘The very man!’ I said. Kul had a bit of a sheen on him; looked a little glassy-eyed. It never did take much to get him drunk. ‘Kul; you must have loads of stuff you were going to throw out, haven’t you?’

  ‘Umm, well…’

  Most of the people at the party were taking turns to throw things over the parapet. For a dedicatedly minimalist couple, Faye and Kul had a surprising amount of stuff they weren’t going to miss when they quit the loft: quite a lot of old kitchen bits and pieces, like bowls, plates, jars, a broken juicer, a defunct Thermos flask, some outdated goblets, a bilious green fondue set… then a handful of ornaments they’d been given by Faye’s parents, which they’d never liked or ever displayed but had kept in case the old couple ever came to visit (the ornaments were, like Faye’s parents, pretty hideous), followed by bigger stuff as Faye and Kul got into it and people started to cam-cord what was happen
ing: an old hi-fi system, a bust TV, a misbehaving radio, and bottles; lots of bottles.

  ‘Me fuckin car!’ Ed wailed as half a dozen carefully released wine bottles plummeted to their destruction. A big cheer went up as they shattered, more or less simultaneously.

  ‘The wreckage is going nowhere near the damn car, Ed,’ I told him.

  ‘You can’t be fuckin sure, man. What about me tyres? Those are fuckin brand new tyres. They cost a bleedin fortune. Plob’ly.’

  ‘Bean bags?’ Amy laughed as one of Kul’s promoter chums heaved through the crowd clutching two of the things over his head like giant brown scrotums.

  ‘You have – you ever had bean bags?’ I said to Kul.

  He shrugged. ‘Promise you won’t tell.’

  ‘What’s the point?’ somebody shouted. ‘They’re not going to shatter.’

  ‘Now,’ the promoter chum said (he meant ‘No’, but, like Ed, he was from Sarf Landin). ‘But I was finking that if you, like, dropped eavier stuff on top of them…’

  ‘Brilliant!’ I yelled, deeply impressed at such forethought.

  ‘Kul?’ Faye said, laughing but sounding a little unsure. ‘I thought you liked that chair.’

  ‘Yeah, well, not that much,’ Kul said. ‘Give me a hand here…’

  We got the big metal and wood chair up onto the parapet, a whole bunch of us positioned it where it looked like it would drop onto one or both of the bean bags, then we let it go.

  Very big cheer for the chair; direct hit on one of the bean bags resulting in an explosive spray of white polystyrene beads splashing out across the now fabulously wreckage-strewn car park like a giant snowy feather pointing towards the chain-link fence.

  ‘Hey, if we dropped this fish tank, would the fish experience weightlessness? I mean, like, double weightlessness? Just kidding.’

  ‘Faye, do you want this old table?’

  ‘I found more bottles!’

  Faye looked at Kul, her eyes wide. She clicked her fingers. ‘That case of awful Cava my uncle got cheap from Tesco! Remember?’

  Kul took her face in his hands and kissed her. ‘Knew it would come in useful for something. You certainly can’t drink the stuff.’ He set off towards the interior. An unsteady stream of bottles of various sizes whistled to the asphalt, each getting a small cheer as it hit. People were calling out marks for technical merit and artistic achievement.