Ashford?
What a clumsy word
So this was where his journey ended. This was where hed sunk his anchor. This was his port, his haven, his harbour. This was where he disembarked: a crummy job, an old shirt, his faithful Thermos (a leaving present from a favourite aunt). Two weeks rent paid up in advance
This
Ah yes
was his Brand New Start.
But only so long as he did Absolutely Nothing Wrong, Mate Dya hear?
Someone had to take custody of the two dogs, so Kane (having first glanced around him for any other likely candidatesbugger. Not a one) reluctantly agreed to shoulder the responsibility.
Once the ambulance had pulled off, he ushered them both inside. The big one was a little snappy, but they trotted into the narrow corridor gamely enough, turning at the foot of the stairs (leading up into Kanes first-floor section of the flat) and gazing over at him, expectantly, as if awaiting further instructions.
Kane tried to move past them and the larger one growled
Oh, really?
He tried again. This time it snarled, and the smaller one
The little shit
backed him up.
Right
Kane considered his options
The pound?
Pest control?
The butcher?
Ten seconds later, there was a knock at the door. He answered, still musing. It was Gaffar. He was holding a large, brown envelope (which hed discovered over by the wall) and a small, silver trainer. This her, he said, proffering the trainer politely, like a down-at-heel Buttons in Cinderella.
Pardon?
Kane really was quite exhausted.
These two items belong to your skinny whore, Gaffar reiterated. Ohyeah, Kane said, recognising Kellys distinctive footwear, and then (much to his horror) the brown envelope shed mentioned previously. Shit. This must be for Beede. Thanks
He took the two objects, tucked them under his arm, and was about to close the door (a symphony of growling promptly resuming behind him) when his conscience briefly pricked him and he paused. So dyou get a roasting? he asked abruptly. From your boss?
Eh?
Kane mimed the throwing of the Thermos and then pointed to the chipped window.
Ahhh, Gaffar just shrugged, resignedly.
The chop?
Kane made a chopping gesture.
No response.
He thought for a moment. The axe?
He made a dramatic slicing motion across his neck.
Gaffars eyebrows rose for a second, then he nodded. Yeah, Im screwed, but so what? Im beyond caring, man. He thinks Im a livewire,huh? A troublemaker? Well he can stick his stupid opinions up his own arse. The bottom line is, Ive had enough. Im through. And thats my decision. Im master of my own destiny, see? I dont care what he tells the damn authorities. He treats me like a slave, yeah? He pays like aa cuntyeah? I told him I could earn a better living out on the streets. I did that in Diyarbakir for an entire year. Lived like an animal, off my wits. Gaffar tapped the side of his head, meaningfully. Hes a fool. An imbecile. I could devour his brains in one sitting and still feel ravenous. He paused for a moment, breathing heavily. Youre right, he continued, vaingloriously, I should slaughter his entire family. Steal his money. Steal his car. Get the hell out of here
As he spoke, Gaffar made a series of rather fetching little stabbing motions with an imaginary blade. On the final one, he symbolically disembowelled a toddler, then snatched some keys, which the toddler (rather mysteriously) appeared to be clutching.
Kane was scowling now, struggling to keep up with him. Gaffar observed his confusion (let it ride for a few seconds), and then, Im just joking, he exploded, with a loud cackle, slapping Kane jovially on the shoulder, you big, fat, ugly American twat.
He continued to grin at Kane. Kane smiled brightly back. Correct me if Im wrong, he said, but I believe American twat, he drew a neat pair of speech marks in the air, is actually part of an international vocabulary a universal language which we all share.
Gaffar mused this over for a second, apparently unmoved. Wowwee, he finally murmured, dryly.
Kane sniggered (the man had balls, there was no getting round it). Youre funny, he said eventually, and you can take care of yourself. I respect that. Come on in. Ill dig you out a spare shirt. We can smoke some ganja. Some weed, huh? Then I must get some fucking zeds or Ill expire.
Okay.
Kane pulled the door wider. Gaffar slipped smoothly past him to a muted vibrato of snarling.
Just watch out for the Kane glanced over his shoulder, worriedly. Uh
FIVE
Beede never locked the door which separated his and Kanes living areas. To do so wouldve shown a complete lack of faith in his son (and, by default, in his own parenting abilities). This decision not to lock was primarily self-serving (Kanes feelings or probable lack of them barely entered into the equation). Beedes need to project himself as always open and accessible (a touching combination, say, of the old-fashioned Corner Shop with their lofty code of personal service and the modern, ruthless, all-nite Cash & Carry) was fundamental to his inalienable sense of the kind of father he wanted to be (or to appear to be, since in his mind these two notions were virtually interchangeable).
To boil it all down (which might take a while there was plenty of old meat, hard lessons and human frailty in this particular broth), Beede was wildly cynical about the functions of paternity.
Was it Freud or Sophocles (Beede sometimes wondered) who first came up with the theory that all any little boy ever really wanted was to kill the father (strictly in the symbolic sense, of course)? Whoever ultimately took the credit for it (Ah, he could see them both now, queuing up at the Paradisical Counter of Philosophical Legitimacy: Sophocles slightly forward, a picture of genial equanimity; Freud, further back, but still scaring the living shit out of everybody), Beede definitely thought that they were on to something.
Although in Kanes particular case, his sheer indifference to his father (wasnt indifference a kind of murder, anyway? A death of care? Of interest?) was so strong, so marked, that to raise his hand against him even figuratively wouldve demanded just a tad too much energy. For Kane to actually get angry with Beede? Seriously? To take him on? To lose his rag?! You might as well ask a tropical fish to murder a robin (it simply wasnt feasible. It couldnt happen).
In bald truth, Beedes studious attempts to present himself as unfailingly approachable to his son were all just so much baloney. He actively avoided him consciously, unconsciously at almost every available opportunity. But by being so unremittingly there for him (in the formal sense, at least) he cleverly thwacked the leaden ball of familial responsibility squarely back into Kanes court again (Kane was still young. He could take the burden. And it might actually be good for him to feel like something was wrong or lacking or missing like hed unintentionally fucked up in some way).
When it came to his door (its locking or otherwise), Beede honestly felt like he had nothing to hide. He almost believed himself transparent (like one of those minuscule but fascinating single-cell creatures which loves to hang around in pools of stagnant water), so certain was he of his own moral probity.
Of course everybody has something a little private about them (and Beede was no exception), but his firm apprehension was that once you started hiding things once you got all sneaky and furtive you automatically gave potential intruders the impetus to start hunting seriously. And that, he felt, would be a most unwelcome eventuality.
Visitors were rare, anyway. Kane was usually working (or partying) or crashed out. He didnt deal from home (oh come on). And nobody who knew Beede properly would ever consider turning up uninvited (he was a busy man. An impromptu impulse was pretty much on a par in his eyes with spitting or extreme flatulence).
Even Kane kept his distance. Beede had the only kitchen in the property (open-plan the wall had come down in 1971; his last ever concession to what he liked to call the modern malaise of interior renovation), but Kane didnt cook, so that wasnt a problem (he had a kettle and a microwave gathering dust on his landing). Beede had a shower and a toilet (so spartan in aspect that they resembled something dreamed up by an over-zealous BBC props department for a gruelling drama about a Japanese prisoner of war camp) while Kane had a bath (which he absolutely luxuriated in), a toilet and a bidet. If they ever met or spoke, it was usually in the hallway, or at an appointed hour, at a preferred table, in a nearby cafe.
Imagine Beedes surprise, then, on returning home (after his protracted interlude with Isidore), to discover two recalcitrant curs snarling on the stairway, Kane fast asleep on his sofa (a saucer containing several cigarette stubs balanced precariously on the arm; Beede quickly removed it, with a tut), and a shirtless Kurd (with a blood-stained hanky tied clumsily around the fleshy area just below his elbow) sitting quietly upon an adjacent chair.
The washing machine was half-way through its cycle. The Kurd was peacefully occupied in playing some kind of dice game on Beedes reading table (all of his books now piled up, neatly, on the floor nearby). He was throwing two dice from a Tupperware beaker (the beaker into which Beede liked to drain off excess meat-fat from his roasting dish. It had a lid, usually, to keep the contents airtight. Beede had no idea where that lid had got to. The beaker had served him faithfully in this lone capacity since 1983. It mustve been in a state of severe trauma).
Good afternoon, Beede said, quickly disposing of the tarnished saucer and then dumping his bag down on the kitchen counter. The Kurd nodded briskly, picked up a pencil (Beedes pencil) and scribbled some figures on to a piece of paper (the back of Beedes water bill). Beede scowled. While he knew that it was unfair of him to blame the Kurd for Kanes apparent breach, he immediately took against him. Im Daniel Beede, he said curtly, and this is my home. Gaffar Celik, the Kurd muttered, barely even glancing up, and this is not my home; a fact Im sure youll soon be only too keen to acquaint me with, eh?