White City Blue

  He stops walking, looks up at me. I stop too.

  But it’s not your fault, Frankie. Although you must have got something out of it, I suppose. A feeling of power? I suppose there must have been an element of that. I don’t think you see me as a friend really. More a disciple, or maybe a pet. Yes, that’s it. A pet. Loyal little Colin. Woof woof. Woof woof.

  He’s really starting to bark like a dog now, and laughing at the same time. I start to protest, but Colin holds his hand up to stop me. He has begun walking again and I’m following half a pace behind. His voice has gone flat.

  It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter whether you agree or not. Not any more. Our relationship is different now. I see things more clearly, since they took Mum away. And before that, the thing at the golf course. That was weird – all your friends disappearing in one go, in an instant. It’s so strange – like you’ve been walking around with big black sunglasses on, so you can only see the shapes or shadows of things, but not the detail. Mum going, you all going, was like me taking the sunglasses off. I saw that you looked down on me. I saw that you thought you were better than me. I saw that you pitied me, and that that was a kind of… contempt.

  This is crap, Colin. You don’t know what you’re –

  But I don’t mind, he says brightly. It’s OK. Really it is. Is this the place?

  We’re standing at the big gates to an Anglican church which abuts the park. There is a board outside with its name – the Church of the Holy Innocents. Above this a mosaic in gold, blue and green showing a dove and what are presumably saints. The door is half open, and Colin begins to walk through. Above the interior entrance, two baby angels stick out, as if escaping from the woodwork.

  What’s the difference between a cherub and a seraph? says Colin.

  I think I’ve heard this one, I say.

  No. It’s not a joke. I just wanted to know.

  I nod, staring into the musty interior of the church. These places always depress me, with their air of lost, closed-in, finishing lives. I look in the vicar’s office. No one there. Then a little bun-haired secretary peers out.

  I’m sorry. Mr Blue?

  Yes.

  The Reverend had to pop out on an emergency for ten minutes. He’ll be right back. Would you mind waiting?

  No. Fine, I mutter, annoyed.

  What kind of emergency? What kind of emergency could a vicar possibly have, other than the big JC making a comeback? I just want to give the cunt some money.

  Colin has already gone into the church proper and I follow him, my voice already echoing around the high stone walls. We walk further into the church. I idly pick up the parish magazine and read the doggerel on the back cover:

  ‘Circle me Lord,

  keep protection near

  and danger afar.

  Circle me Lord,

  keep hope within

  keep doubt without.

  Circle me Lord,

  keep light near

  and darkness far.’

  I sling the pamphlet at Colin.

  Fucking profound that, eh, Col?

  Colin tries to catch it, but drops it.

  Inside, the church appears deserted. There’s an altar table with candles, a nave, parallel benches. It has that eerie, dead feeling that most churches have, at least the ones in Shepherd’s Bush. The sun has come out now and speckles of coloured light are forcing their way through the dirty windows. Some of it falls on to Colin’s face, making him appear a kind of ghostly yellow.

  There’s the usual church stuff – an altar, stained glass showing incomprehensible scenes from the Bible, uncomfortable seats. A small blue poster announces that £238.70 has been raised for the daffodil campaign. Terrific. There’s a picture of an old bloke in a caftan of some sort. I read the inscription underneath: ‘St Matthew. Patron Saint of Tax Collectors, Accountants and Security Guards’. I wonder if this is a joke, but decide that it can’t be, because it’s in proper golden italic script.

  I’m still feeling irritated by Colin’s speech, most particularly because I know it’s more than partly true. About my disdain for him. I want to get away now.

  I look for Colin and see that he has a match out and is lighting a votive candle, presumably for poor old Olive. I inspect the cushions on the long wooden benches. They are embroidered with slogans about peace and pictures of angels with harps, lutes and flutes. I notice the one nearest me.

  Fuck me. There’s a sheep with wings and a halo on this one.

  It’s the holy lamb of god, Frankie, says Colin quietly.

  Oh. Right, I grunt impatiently, then wait for something else to happen.

  I’m beginning to hope that the vicar will arrive soon. Anyone’s better company than this.

  Would you like to meet my new mate? says Colin.

  Sure. Next week maybe, I say, not meaning it.

  What about now? says Colin.

  His face is still caught in the light. He turns and takes a step towards me. That faint smile is back again, as if he’s in on a private joke.

  Now?

  Yes.

  What are you talking about? Is he here?

  Of course he’s here. He’s everywhere. My new friend is Jesus.

  I start to laugh, then stop dead when I look at Colin’s face. There is a horrible expression of rapture, of phoney contentment. I’ve seen it a dozen times when I’ve accidentally switched on Songs of Praise, watching amazed at the poor, dumb faces grinning absurdly, self-consciously, for the camera. Colin has that exact same expression, a dreadful mixture of piety, self-satisfaction and fear.

  You are taking the piss, I hope, I say desperately.

  Colin nods, acknowledging that this is exactly the reaction he has expected.

  I know it’s hard for you to understand. But you don’t know what it means to have a friend like Him. It’s like every day, someone you can rely on absolutely. Someone you can tell all your troubles to, someone who is always there for you. Someone who loves you. It’s a wonderful thing, Frankie. I know it’s going to be difficult for you to accept. I know it must be strange. But I know it’s the truth, I know God is guiding me. I know even more now, after you phoned and said you wanted to meet at the church. What else could that mean? The church, Frankie, the church. Are you saying that’s… what? A coincidence?

  I stand gawping at him. Colin is sat in one of the pews now, looking towards me, but not quite at me. Pointlessly, I answer him.

  Sure. A coincidence. Why not?

  But he’s still talking in this stupid, dim monotone, ignoring me.

  You know, Frankie, I’ve always felt… unhappy. Shy, I suppose. A misfit. I’ve never been able to tell you that. That’s the sort of stuff you can’t talk to your friends about. Anything real, I mean. That’s why I didn’t call anybody after Mum got taken away from me. Because I know it would just have embarrassed you. It’s not part of the game, is it? It’s not something you can have a beer over. Mum dying, slowly, going mad, losing everything. Your so-called friends are nowhere to be seen. And even if you had been there, you’d have just talked about the football results, or the latest gash, and how many orgasms you’d given them.

  I shuddered. The church was cold. All churches are cold, all year round. I wondered, stupidly, if they had air conditioning. I could still hear Colin talking. His voice was no longer flat but lilting now, suddenly as light as a chemical air freshener.

  But it’s OK. I love you all – Nodge, Tony, even you. I love you all, because someone loves me for the first time. And that makes it easy.

  I suddenly feel I’m in the middle of Colin’s favourite film, Invasion of the Body Snatchers. As if one of my closest friends has been taken over by aliens, as if he simply appears to be the same person.

  And lo, I say, you shall be changed in the twinkling of an eye.

  Colin is looking at the stained-glass windows in what I take to be an attempt to mimic awe and wonder. I suddenly feel sick – sick with shame, sick with having let Colin down, sick with th
e sight of his Pope-with-acne-scars act. I feel the church walls are closing in, that the high windows are sickening the light, that I have to get out of there as quickly as I can.

  I turn to Colin. I’m still trying to believe that this is a joke, that he hasn’t gone completely radio rental. I stare at Colin, noticing his little badge again. He doesn’t seem to be aware of me. I suddenly remember what that badge he’s wearing, ‘WWJD?’, means. I saw it in a feature in a magazine about American evangelists.

  It stands for ‘What Would Jesus Do?’ Somehow, this brings it home to me at last that this is absolutely not a wind-up, not a sick schoolboy joke. With that realization, it is as if I can feel all air leave me, so I am small, deflated. I sit down next to Colin, pat him gently on the back.

  Colin, if this is what you want, I’m… I’ve… I’m very happy for you.

  Colin, to my shock and surprise, turns fiercely to me.

  Your sins catch up with you. Do you know that? Your cheating and lies, your indifference, your selfishness, your hatred of women, your love of money. I’m saying this to you because I’m your friend, Frankie. He seizes my hand. The world is rotten. We’re all just filth.

  I try to pull my hand away but he’s holding it too tight.

  I hope you’ll be able to come towards the light one day, Frankie. I don’t want your sins to condemn you. I want you to be able to share this with me.

  I nod.

  Terrific, yeah, Colin. Maybe. We’ll talk about it. Jesus and that. I can see what you’re saying. It’s not really my… But you know. Whatever gets you through the night. We’ll have to have that beer, eh? Soon.

  Colin suddenly lets go of my hand, looks back at me dolefully, as if I were an errant schoolboy and he a wise and knowing headmaster. He doesn’t speak though. I keep gabbling.

  Look, mind how you go. I’ll give you a call, eh? This is great, Colin. I’m very happy for you, though. Later, eh? Later.

  But of course there will be no later, I think to myself as the daylight hits me from the portico of the church. Now I know I’ve lost Colin more completely than I ever could have before. Beyond argument, beyond apology, beyond a couple of beers. I practically run back to my car, the sound of insane seagulls screeching in my ears.

  Chapter Eighteen: Diamond Geezers

  I’ve just turned up at Tony’s shop in North Kensington. It’s a men’s haircutters called Diamond Geezers. He’s got another one, for women, in Islington called Girls Best Friend – as in Diamonds Are A.

  Me and Tony have got to make it up, because I don’t hold out much hope for Nodge. Tony’s well known as an arsehole, but he’s a good guy underneath. He’s just a wind-up merchant. If he wasn’t OK, why would we have stayed friends this long?

  I have rarely visited either of Tony’s shops. He likes to fence off areas of his life – work, women, friends, family. They’re all compartmentalized, carefully sectioned. It enables him to keep control, I suppose. I don’t think he’ll much like me turning up unannounced, but I don’t want to phone him in case he simply hangs up on me. It’s been known.

  It’s Friday afternoon. The shop looks good – a mosaic floor with an arrangement of glass tiles in the middle depicting a giant diamond, original Belmont Apollo chairs, with the black leather trim and polished chrome tail end. A few paintings by local artists, some good, most not. And a lot of mirrors, even for a hairdresser’s. Tony has loved mirrors ever since he was a teenager. He used to keep a mirror compact in his back pocket at school, which would have had the rest of the kids taking the mick out of him, had they not been scared of him.

  There are four cutters in the room, all male, all white. A young, shy Mediterranean looking girl is sweeping the floor vigorously. Behind the cash till, there is a large, studio-shot, extremely flattering picture of Tony. On a pinboard nearby, there are informal snapshots of him with minor celebs at anonymous parties – B-list singers, up-and-coming actors, fly-on-the-wall documentary makers.

  One of the cutters – a rather overweight and surly-looking man wearing a white T-shirt with the word FUCT printed on it – ambles over to me. The shop is empty of customers, despite the fact that Tony always used tell me how you had to book a week in advance to get an appointment. I feel my wallet bulked in my pocket and wonder if maybe the competition from Tony wasn’t actually nearly as tough as I’d always imagined it to be.

  The fat man musters a professional smile and a rather curt Yeah?

  He looks at me like he was doing me a big favour being prepared to cut my hair. No wonder the shop is deserted. I attempt a return smile, equally fake.

  Is Tony here?

  Who?

  Tony. Diamond Tony.

  Oh. Did you want an appointment?

  He’s moving his frame slowly to the loud beat of some anonymously horrible Speed Garage record. His whole demeanour is one of boredom. I answer patiently, as if speaking to a moron.

  No, I don’t want an appointment. I’ve come to see Tony. He’s a personal friend of mine.

  Mmm-hmmm. Tony has a lot of friends.

  Apparently, I say, looking around the empty shop. The music is giving me a headache. Is it all right if I wait?

  The man shrugs. The little Mediterranean girls shuffles past his planted feet, but he doesn’t move to accommodate her. She seems flushed and bothered and obscurely worried. The noise from the sound system suddenly rises another few notches.

  Mind if I wait somewhere a bit quieter?

  The fat man looks surprised, but squints at me with studied indifference.

  You’re a mate of his then?

  That’s right. Frankie Blue.

  Frankie Blue.

  The man looks puzzled, then his face lights up slightly. He shouts across to another of the cutters, who is sitting with his head back in one of the chairs, eyes closed, nodding to the music.

  Hey, Donny! Guess who this is.

  The man called Donny turns round slowly in the swivelling chair and opens his eyes very gradually. He raises an eyebrow.

  This is Frank the Fib! I am right, aren’t I? Frankie Blue. Frank the Fib.

  Donny nods slightly and raises a hand in acknowledgement, then closes his eyes again and resumes the slow movement of his body.

  So, says the fat man, scrutinizing me in a new, not altogether pleasant fashion, you’re Frank the Fib. Tony’s told us all about you.

  Only nice stuff, I hope.

  The man doesn’t respond at all. Instead he indicates a small single door to the rear of the shop.

  You can wait in the staff room if you like. There’s a TV in there. Tony should be here any time now. He’s usually late, though. I expect you know that.

  Yeah, I know that.

  I walk through a small anteroom where there’s a sink and a tiny cupboard with a toilet in it, then through to a room about 10 by 10 covered in large floor cushions. There’s damp pushing up from the bottoms of the walls. On the back wall, there’s an emergency fire exit with a push bar. Against one wall, there’s a desk and a chair. The desk is covered with a mess of papers.

  I sit down and try to watch TV for a while, but it’s the usual daytime cack. After a while, I check my watch. I’ve been here twenty minutes. No one has offered me a coffee, no one has come into the room. I switch the TV off. The hideous beat is still penetrating through from the front of the shop. I can see that the shop is still empty.

  I wander over to the desk and begin fiddling with the papers, just for something to do. There are brochures for hair products, a page-a-day diary, a copy of FHM, a few utility bills. There’s a small hand-mirror. I notice a few grains of white powder on it. I rub the powder on to my fingers, then my fingers on to my gums. After a few minutes they begin to go numb.

  There’s a half-drunk cup of coffee, three pens, Post-it notes, a full packet of cigarettes and an empty ashtray, a few letters. One is from a local pizza delivery firm, another a flyer from someone who calls himself the Loft Ladder King.

  I have always had a weakness for snooping
. Doubtless it’s one of the reasons I ended up as an estate agent, spending my working life digging around in other people’s homes and lives. I’ve lost about three girlfriends so far by reading their diaries. Believe me, I don’t recommend it. The things they write are terrible. Like I say, the truth is overrated.

  Bored with the surface of the desk, I start to idly pull at the drawers. Mostly they are full of junk – Sellotape, loose paper, drawing pins – but the bottom one has a lock on it. I pull on it. To my surprise, it opens. Inside, there are two plain buff envelopes.

  I glance through to the shop. Now one of the cutters is actually cutting hair, though I notice that it is actually the hair of another stylist, the fat man with the FUCT T-shirt. The girl, amazingly, is still sweeping the floor. She must have been at it for nearly three-quarters of an hour.

  I take out one of the envelopes. Inside, there is a small plastic bag filled with what looks like about a heaped tablespoon of rocky yellowy-white powder. I pull open the bag and again touch a dusting of powder to my gums. Sure enough, it’s coke – about five grand’s worth, I would guess. I hurriedly put it back in the envelope, trying to arrange it as carefully as I can to be where it was before.

  I look in the other envelope. It is simply a letter, clearly an official one. I think for a moment that it is a parking ticket, but then I see that the headed notepaper is from a County Court. Then I read the first line of the text.

  INSOLVENCY PROCEEDINGS IN THE CASE OF ANTHONY DIAMONTE, TRADING AS DIAMOND GEEZERS, AND ANTHONY DIAMONTE LTD, TRADING AS GIRLS BEST FRIEND.

  CASE SET FOR 17 SEPTEMBER 1998

  Suddenly I hear the music cut off and a voice boom out from the shop. Panicking, I shove the letter back in the envelope, the envelope back in the drawer, and close it. The voice is bellowing. I recognize it now as Tony’s. I peer through into the shop. Tony, at his full height, is standing above the shop junior, the little Mediterranean girl, who is gripping her broom so tight the knuckles show white. She is about fifteen. She is clearly terrified.

  You’re FUCKING USELESS. Do me a favour next time. DON’T TRY AND THINK. Just do what you’re fucking well told. If I ask you to get some Paul Mitchell Aloe and the supplies shop haven’t got any, then FUCKING come and tell someone who’s got a brain. What the fuck am I going to do with twenty-five bottles of FUCKING Acme ALOE SHIT from the fucking Paki shop. And I need Paul Mitchell stuff NOW, not in ten minutes, not in half an hour. NOW. Now fuck off back to the Handy Gandhi, and get them to give you your money back, not that they will, since they are fucking Pakis. Not a fucking credit note, the MONEY. And if they won’t, it can come out of your fucking wages, you useless little Dago cunt.