White City Blue

  The girl has started to cry.

  And don’t start with the fucking waterworks. If you don’t want this job, I know about fifty people who do. Now get out of here.

  The girl picks up the box of shampoo bottles and staggers towards the door, still weeping. Tony shakes his head as if in disgust. Then snorts loudly, several times, a noise I know well. I can see his nostrils red and inflamed. It’s no excuse.

  I see his face from this hiding place, clearly, as if for the first time. I see that it is, in fact, not good-looking at all. It is violent, and ugly and stupid. I see that Tony is not a wind-up merchant, an expert at irony, the player of a game. Tony is nothing, a vacuum that has acquired a series of useful gestures.

  I turn away from the doorway and move back into the room. Stepping over the cushions, I hit the push bar on the emergency exit and go out into the street, where it is warm and still. A drunk wrapped in filthy rags sitting on the pavement lets out an enormous belch, then looks up at me and says, with perfect poise and politeness, I do beg your pardon.

  Only the other evening, I picked up Bertrand Russell and I said to him, ‘Well, Lord Russell, what’s it all about?’ And do you know, he couldn’t tell me. TAXI DRIVER TO T. S. ELIOT

  Chapter Nineteen: Taxi Driver

  I’m heading over to Nodge’s flat. If I phone, he definitely won’t speak to me. And Nodge is my last chance of taking something away from this mess.

  I’ve got a vague memory that he starts his taxi run out of Shepherd’s Bush at about ten a.m. It’s nine-thirty now, so I should be able to catch him. I’m walking along the Goldhawk Road, trying to steel myself. The fumes from the traffic smell like cigarette ash, sulphur, used fireworks.

  Then I see coming towards me a black cab with the light on. It’s one of those new, fancy ones. It has been painted with an ad for Neutrogena. I can just make out Nodge’s face behind the windscreen. He’s travelling fast, beyond the speed limit. It’s a shock to see him there. Oddly enough, I’ve hardly ever seen him in his cab. Off duty he always drives a Ford Escort. The cab changes his context, makes him seem smaller, sadder.

  I put two fingers in my mouth and give a loud whistle. At first I think he’s going to drive past, but he pulls over from the central stream of traffic and comes to a halt just in front of me. His light switches off. I walk up to the open front window. When he looks up, from his startled expression it was clear that he didn’t see my face. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. Then he turns and switches his light back on, and goes to drive off.

  Nodge!

  His hand hovers over the gear stick. When he speaks, it is very quietly and coldly.

  I’ve got to get over to the West End. I’m on a radio call. You want a ride, take a bus.

  But he doesn’t move his hand to meet the gear stick.

  Mind if I ride with you? I’ve got to go over there myself to see a property. It’s near Centre Point.

  This is a lie and Nodge knows it. Still he doesn’t move, so I go to open the front door.

  Can’t travel up front. I’m not insured for it, he says in the icy tone. Still he doesn’t look at me.

  Fine. I’ll just be a punter.

  I reach for the back door, but I hear a click as I touch the handle. It’s just been locked.

  Come on, Nodge. Please.

  Nodge sighs for a long moment. The moment hangs. Then he makes to drive off.

  I’m just a fare. You don’t have to switch on the intercom if you don’t want to talk to me. Anyway, if you turn me down, I’ll report you to the Hackney Carriage office. I know the form. You can’t refuse a legitimate fare. You could have your licence revoked.

  Nodge shakes his head, apparently with a mixture of disgust and resignation. Then there is a soft clunk as the door unbolts. I reach out and open the door and climb inside. There is a sign saying, ‘Thank you for not smoking’ and a small green fir tree air freshener. In the front, three empty packets of Craven A.

  The cab pulls out into traffic. The atmosphere is freezing.

  I shout into the intercom, Tottenham Court Road station please.

  There’s the faintest of nods but no reply.

  I shout again, Did you ever see that cartoon in Private Eye? The back of a taxi cab. It shows the driver turned round, giving it some mouth. And there’s a sign up in the back saying ‘Thank you for not disagreeing.’

  Again Nodge shows no sign whatsoever of having heard me. I notice that the meter is running. Nodge is sitting firmly facing the traffic. All I can see are his eyes in the mirror which seem to hardly blink. I notice their colour, a solid chocolate brown. Oddly, I don’t think I could have told you what colour his eyes were until this moment.

  I lean over to open the glass panel that separates us, but it won’t budge. I knock on the glass with the tip of my door key. At first he ignores me, but eventually I make the noise irritating enough for him to have to respond.

  I hear an intercom crackle.

  It’s staying locked. I can hear you through the intercom if you’ve got something to say.

  Nodge is still looking right ahead at the road as he talks. He is driving fast. He’s already made Lancaster Gate in five minutes flat. I estimate that I’ve got about fifteen minutes to salvage something from this.

  I try to look and see where the intercom pick-up is so that I can make sure Nodge hears me, but can’t see anything. So I speak as loudly and plainly as I can over the engine noise.

  Do you remember that chase we had with the taxis? The first 14 August. Back in ’84.

  No answer.

  Weird that you should end up being a taxi driver. I would never have believed what happened to us all. I mean, me, an estate agent. I never wanted to be an estate agent. Yeah, 14 August 1984. Now that was a time, eh? That was a year.

  Nodge says something, barely above a mumble. It comes out in a distorted, solemn crackle. It takes me a moment to work out what the two words are.

  Things change.

  We cut in front of a silver Merc. The driver screams at us and shakes his fist. Nodge doesn’t respond. He keeps a steady pace. The meter ticks. I take a gulp of air, feel increasingly nervous.

  Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast.

  I have no idea where that came from. Nodge seems to tighten in his seat slightly.

  I give a shit-eating grin and shout, It’s from Romeo and Juliet.

  I realize immediately that this is the wrong thing to say. Nodge will take it as intellectual one-upmanship. The grin on my face seems cemented there. I see Nodge’s eyes blazing in the mirror. Then I hear his voice, loud and clear now.

  Shakespeare, eh? Here’s a bit of Shakespeare for you then, Frankie. Hamlet, Act IV, Scene 1. ‘A man may smile and smile and be a cunt.’ Now he turns in his seat, his face a stiff mask. I’m paraphrasing slightly, of course.

  I see him reaching to switch off the intercom. I answer back quickly, before his finger makes contact with the button.

  Was it true what you said at the golf game?

  I watch the back of Nodge’s head, which doesn’t move at all.

  About being, you know. Gay.

  I wonder after a while if the intercom somehow has been switched off, then I see him give a single but distinct nod. Although I know that this is the truth, even before I ask, I still feel vaguely shocked. I’ve got nothing against fruits, mind you. It’s none of my business where you put your todger. I just never thought Nodge…

  I stare intently at the back of his head as if I could, by concentrating, penetrate his thoughts. It’s Nodge who speaks first.

  Was it true what you said?

  What?

  About you and Veronica splitting up.

  Yeah.

  You’re an idiot. She was great.

  Yeah. I know.

  But I’m not really listening. I’m rerunning Nodge’s single nod, the amazing affirmation of the answer to my question, over and over in my mind.

  Why didn’t you say anything before? About being. You
know.

  He turns a corner round the back of the Bayswater Road, where he has navigated to avoid traffic. The taxi straightens up and I hear him say bitterly, A poo-jabber? A fairy?

  Yes. No. About being homosexual.

  The word sounds all wrong, too clinical, like I was a social worker or a slightly embarrassed policeman. I hear Nodge talking again.

  I’m the same as you, Frankie. I just want to fit in. Be liked.

  His voice through the intercom sounds thin, robotic. Despite the volume of the thing, I have to strain to hear him.

  Suddenly, he makes a sharp left turn that slams me against the side of the cab.

  Hoi! Careful.

  He doesn’t acknowledge me. Then he starts speaking again.

  Also, it’s against the rules. There’s rules, aren’t there? Big boys’ rules.

  I straighten myself up in my seat and wonder whether I should strap myself in.

  But, Nodge. I always thought you of all people believed in telling the truth. It’s what you always said anyway…

  Nodge throws us around another corner, this time in the opposite direction. Again, I go tumbling, this time catching my head on the empty ashtray that someone has left open on one of the doors. I think it has actually cut me, but I hardly notice the pain.

  What you say and what you think are different things. You should know that, Frankie.

  There is silence for a while. I feel a thin trickle of blood coming down the side of my face. We are heading down beyond the perimeter of Hyde Park now, running parallel to Oxford Street. I can see to the right Marble Arch blocked in by a sea of grunting, panting traffic. Nodge starts speaking again. I look in his rear-view mirror. This time, I notice that his eyes are almost, not quite, looking at me. It’s as if he’s trying, but he just can’t do it. Anyway, I can see now that instead of angry he seems misted up, far away.

  Anyway, it would have meant the end of everything. It did mean the end of everything. You, me, Colin, Tony, 14 August, everything. And pink ain’t the Rangers colours. No. I couldn’t tell anyone. Particularly not you.

  Why particularly not me?

  Taking another tiny back street to avoid the crush, Nodge throws the cab to the left, with even greater violence than before. This time, I hold on tight to the handle. I feel gravity pulling at me like a flying fist. Nodge is talking again. Static interferes with his voice, but I can make out, too clearly, what he is saying.

  You know when you slept with Ruth? She told me right away, you know. That’s why we split up. It wasn’t me that was dumped. I dumped her. I was so hurt. Frankie, you wouldn’t believe it. I trusted you. To do that to a friend.

  I feel a gobbet of shame, as real and actual as an ulcer, gather acidically in my stomach. I can’t think what to say. Lies are so fine, so lovely and harmless, until you get caught out. Then they transform into tiny, vicious, vengeful dragons.

  Nodge continues in the same brittle voice.

  But it’s not quite what you think it was. You see, it wasn’t that I was angry with you for sleeping with Ruth. Ruth and I were only ever friends, although she wanted much more. I couldn’t blame her really. Our sex life was pretty disastrous. I was just impressed by how grown up she seemed. I loved her sense of… certainty. And I’ve always been so uncertain, Frankie.

  I feel myself blink. There is blood in my eye. I’ve found the intercom now and speak right into it, but in a low, sorry voice.

  But I thought you… of all of us, you seemed to know exactly what you thought… I wanted to be like that…

  I don’t think the mike picks it up, though, because Nodge simply continues with hardly a pause.

  But the thing is, I was angry with Ruth for sleeping with you. Do you see what I’m getting at, Frankie?

  I look in the mirror. For the first time, the reflected chocolate brown eyes are looking right at the reflection of my eyes. We hold our one-step-removed gazes. I shake my head, bewildered.

  I wasn’t jealous for Ruth. I was jealous for you. I’ve wanted to… be more than your friend, ever since that night at your house. You remember. The Morning Glory.

  A large articulated lorry sounds an ear-splitting horn, then passes by. Nodge is saying, almost desperately, Say you remember, Frankie.

  It begins to dawn on me what Nodge is trying to say. Now I feel the sting of the cut on my forehead. There is a little bloodstain on my chest where it has dripped. Nodge’s eyes now seem to be desperate, pleading.

  I remember, I barely whisper.

  Nodge nods.

  And that’s the way it’s been. You think we’ve been close. We’ve always been close. But I’ve been much closer than you think.

  We are moving down past Great Portland Street now and join a short jam of traffic before the stop light. The halting of the cab draws everything in, makes it more intimate, like being trapped in a lift.

  But I know that that night didn’t mean to you what it meant to me. Did it, Frankie? Did it?

  He has actually turned to me now. I can hardly bear the look of faint, fading hope in his eyes. I suddenly recognize that look, recognize that it has always been there. Something in me hardens, toughens. When I speak, my voice is firm and decisive.

  No, Nodge. It didn’t. I remember it, but it wasn’t for me. I don’t… I’m not like that. It’s cool. But it’s not me. That was just a kids’ game to me. You understand what I’m saying?

  Nodge is nodding, fiercely. I catch his eye again. The glimmer has gone. His eyes look flat, unreflective. I look up and see that we’re at Tottenham Court Road station. Centre Point looms above us. Suddenly he pulls the cab over, with the roar of New Oxford Street traffic outside.

  We’re here. That’ll be nine pounds fifty, he says briskly.

  I don’t move. Neither does Nodge. Then he turns round and there is a click. He pulls the glass screen back. His face is framed in the window, round, older than I thought it was. He looks at me for a moment, searches my face, then smiles, a kind, open smile that I remember so clearly from all those days at school, a smile I thought he had lost altogether.

  Then he says softly, Still friends, Frankie?

  I smile back and reach to open the door of the cab.

  Still friends, Jon.

  I get out and stand next to the now open window of the front door. He puts his hand through the window and I hold it, first with one hand, then with both of them. We stay like that for what seems a long time. Then Nodge lets go, pulls back and rearranges himself briskly behind the wheel. I automatically reach for my wallet.

  This one’s on me, he says.

  Not hearing him through the intercom makes his voice sound very different. It’s richer, fuller. It’s like hearing the real Nodge, for the first time.

  Thanks, I say.

  There is a long pause.

  You going to the game on Saturday? he says.

  I don’t know.

  I scratch my birthmark, feel its slight contour.

  I’ve got a spare ticket anyway, if you want to…

  I smile.

  Great. Come on you Rs, eh?

  Yeah. Superhoooops.

  A mobile cement mixer has pulled up opposite us and traffic has slowed to one stream. Now Nodge’s cab is blocking the road. The car behind us is honking loudly. Nodge turns around and out of his window.

  All right, for Christ’s sake! Give me a moment! He turns back to me, and goes to switch his yellow light on. Mind how you go, Frankie.

  Mind how you go, Jon.

  Nodge drives off into the almost stationary traffic, his yellow light gleaming in the half-darkness of the overcast day.

  Chapter Twenty: Frankie’s New Game: 14 August 1999

  I’m sitting, alone, naked, on my bed. It is seven a.m. I am staring at the backs of my hands. I can see the blue of the veins like still snakes beneath the skin. There are nests of wrinkles and whorls.

  Outside my window, the sky is absolutely blue, fading at the horizon to milk, and the street is quiet apart from the soft buzz of a
single, bothering wasp. I put a hand up and feel the friction of stubble on my face.

  I rise and walk to the mirror. It is freestanding, full-length, placed so that the daylight is behind it. I find this the most flattering. Sometimes I will tour every mirror in the house until I find the one that gives the best impression.

  I stretch myself and stare at my reflection. My body is still good, compact, a V tapering from shoulders to waist, but around my hips there are the beginnings of small pads of fat. There is the start of a varicose vein knotting at the back of one of my calf muscles.

  My uncircumcised cock hangs in front of a medium-sized pair of balls. It seems self-pitying, grief-stricken.

  A bush of pale hair shoots out from the stem of the cock like a small, harmless explosion. My legs fork out at either side, stocky, a little too stout. I balance on the arch of my feet, shift the weight about so that I sway slightly, as if propelled by the breeze.

  A packet of muscle, fat, bone, water, memory, shit, hair, feeling, loss, rage, hope. Sometimes I think I’m Superman, sometimes I think I’m nothing. But I’m neither. I’m just a bloke, among millions of other blokes. Not more, not less.

  I’m stupid, I’m clever, I try, I fail, I succeed, I stumble, I’m pushed and teased by luck. I’m meat, I’m a ghost.

  I stare and stare. My face stares back. Watery eyes, blue on the outside, flecked with a halo of broken brown on the inside. Pale skin interrupted by tiny rogue blood vessels, filament fine. Nose slightly skewed to the right, a small mole rising on the bridge. Full lips, the mouth a little too narrow. Heavy lids. I look tired. My hair, just cut, stands on end like a coxcomb. Terrifyingly, from my ears, more new and tiny tufts of wild bristle that make me think of my father.